BOOK STOKE 
 
 HO PACIFIC A VXffU* 
 MMACM,
 
 ANNIE DEANE
 
 ANNIEDEANE 
 
 AW&ysideVfeed 
 
 NewYork 
 'Brent^no's 
 
 A A A. A A
 
 Press ofT. J. Little & Co. 
 
 Aster Place, New York
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I WHERE THE WEED GREW 7 
 
 II ALAS ! 12 
 
 III "GOOD-BYE!" 19 
 
 IV " I MUST HOLD MY TONGUE" 25 
 
 V JIM'S MOTHER 31 
 
 VI " I DON'T KNOW " 35 
 
 VII "!N THE DEAD, UNHAPPY NIGHT" .... 41 
 
 VIII THE MAN WHO WAS NOT A GENTLEMAN ... 56 
 
 IX LONDON . 66 
 
 X "L. A. LE QUESNE" 75 
 
 XI THE CURATE OF ST. SAVIOUR'S . .. . . .82 
 
 XII " GOD BLESS IT!" . 97 
 
 XIII "WHAT is THIS PLACE?" 102 
 
 XIV "ONE OF THE HOPELESS SORT" 112 
 
 XV "I'LL CALL HIM THAT, OR NOTHING AT ALL" . 117 
 
 XVI "BUT IF THAT WOMAN COULD LIVE TO SHOW SHE 
 
 WASN'T RUINED?" 123 
 
 XVII THE FIRST FOUR YEARS 135 
 
 XVIII THE SHADOW ON THE TURF 142 
 
 XIX "You HAVE AN ELDER SISTER?" .... 152
 
 Contents 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XX "LINDSAY LE QUESNE, THE FAMOUS TENOR" . 163 
 
 XXI "Mv CRIME'S THE WORST TO HUMAN VIEW" . 177 
 
 XXII " THE BEST VOICE OF THE LOT "... 191 
 
 XXIII LIN STARTS LIFE ON His OWN ACCOUNT . . 202 
 
 XXIV BACK AGAIN AT No. 19 214 
 
 XXV ANNIE HAS HER OWN WAY 218 
 
 XXVI LIN HAS His 228 
 
 XXVII " MR. WARRENER " ...... 235 
 
 XXVIII "!N A KINGDOM BY THE SEA" .... 243 
 
 XXIX " GIVING PLACE UNTO THE NEW "... 247 
 
 XXX "MY MOTHER MR. LE QUESNE" . . . 262 
 
 XXXI LIN MAKES A PROMISE . . . . . 274 
 
 XXXII "WILL You COME WITH ME?" . . . .282 
 
 XXXIII "To MAKE THE PUNISHMENT FIT THE CRIME" . 294 
 
 XXXIV "I WILL REPAY" 301 
 
 XXXV FOR OLD ACQUAINTANCE' SAKE . . . .310 
 
 XXXVI " AFTER LONG YEARS " 320 
 
 XXXVII DESERTED 336 
 
 XXXVIII "ON A LONG AND DISTANT JOURNEY" . . 356 
 
 XXXIX THE Two THAT ARE LEFT 367
 
 ANNIE DEANE
 
 ANNIE DEANE. 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 WHERE THE WEED GREW 
 
 " SURELY there must be some little good in a man when a 
 pretty bit of landscape and a fine day are sufficient to make 
 him glad that he is alive ? " 
 
 The question was addressed to himself by a young fellow of 
 one-and-twenty, or thereabouts, who stood on the outskirts of a 
 Berkshire wood as a royal August day was drawing to a 
 close. 
 
 To the right of him, to the left of him, pine trees ; under- 
 foot a thick carpet of dry pine needles, shed year after year, 
 and still left undisturbed. He sent them flying now with a 
 vigorous shuffle of his foot, thus sending up to the soft air a 
 delicious aromatic scent. 
 
 He walked on a few paces, stopped to look about him, grew 
 too lazy even for that, and flinging himself full length on the 
 brown carpet, soliloquised afresh, this time Byronically. 
 Byron usually finds favour in the eyes of youth, if only for his 
 magnificent disdain of control. 
 
 ' Oh ! that the desert were my dwelling-place, 
 With one fair spirit for my minister." 
 
 " Well, now, I wonder if he ever tried it ? He tried most 
 things. I don't think the desert would be any improvement 
 upon this wood. Less shady, less safe, and a deuced sight 
 hotter ! Besides, the civilised dinner-table may be dispensed 
 with now and then, but I should not care to do away with it 
 altogether. Neither would the 'one fair spirit,' if I know 
 anything. All the women I have known have been mindful of 
 
 7
 
 8 Bnnic 2>eane 
 
 their creature comforts, and very unpleasant if they were not 
 forthcoming at the usual hour. Whew-w ! I'm very thirsty." 
 
 The low sun piercing the trees fell on our soliloquist a trifle 
 fiercely ; he retreated, and lay down afresh among the bracken. 
 Not a sound anywhere but the sigh of a rising breeze and the 
 slow coo of a wood-pigeon overhead where the branches met. 
 
 " Could anything be lovelier ? " he inquired tranquilly. 
 "Who the dickens wants anything but peace and fine 
 weather?" 
 
 Apparently he wanted something, for in a few minutes he 
 had scrambled to his feet. Even a philosopher may not 
 disdain hunger, and he was very hungry ; so he made for the 
 sunny grass-path to his left. He would go on to the village 
 and get him a dinner or a tea, or both together, for he was not 
 fastidious. 
 
 At the end of the path was a narrow, deep-rutted road. 
 The village might lie to the right or to the left, but this the 
 wayfarer was inhospitably left to find out for himself. 
 
 He stood to consider ; the matter was urgent, and he did 
 not wish to waste time by taking the wrong road. 
 
 Just then a voice broke the golden stillness, a young voice, 
 shrill and querulous : 
 
 "No, Tommy, I can't let you carry this. It's full, and 
 you'll slop it over. It's no use ; I shan't, so there ! " 
 
 He turned sharply for the voice was behind him and saw a 
 girl holding a milk-can out of reach of a male youngster, who 
 was frantically pulling at her arm. Finding this useless, he 
 turned savage, and began to kick her. 
 
 11 Don't, Tommy ! " she cried ; " don't 1 Oh, you cruel little 
 beast 1 I'll tell your mother. Oh, what pests children 
 are!" 
 
 " Now, sir, leave off kicking there, will you ? You young 
 savage ! By George, you can hurt at that game ! " 
 
 The boy started, then stood sulkily still. The girl started 
 too, and being red with pain could not have been said to blush. 
 She dried her eyes with her print apron, and regarded her 
 rescuer with admiring gratitude. Too awkward to thank him, 
 she made him a little curtsey, and prepared to pass. He 
 stopped her. 
 
 " Is it milk you have there ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 "Been far for it?" 
 
 " No, sir, only to Farmer Smith's, sir, the other side o' the 
 wood."
 
 tbe TKHeefc (Brew 9 
 
 " If I were to drink what you have there, could you get some 
 more ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, sir, easy." , 
 
 He held out his hand, and she gave him the can. It was a 
 big can. The girl's eyes were big too, and blue. As the 
 young fellow prepared to drink, he felt like laughing. Repress- 
 ing this inclination, he drank, looking at the girl all the time 
 over the edge of the can, while she looked at him. When he 
 had satisfied his thirst, he leisurely took out his handkerchief 
 and wiped his moustache. 
 
 The girl dropped her eyes and laughed. 
 
 " What's the matter ? " 
 
 She did not answer, only reddened furiously. 
 
 "What's the matter? " repeated he, with the laughter in his 
 eyes that he forbade his mouth. " I want to know what you 
 laughed at." 
 
 " Please, sir, I can't tell you." 
 
 " That's awkward, because I should like to know. Can you 
 tell me how old you are ? " 
 
 " Seventeen, sir." 
 
 He made a wry face, suggestive of scepticism, and Tommy 
 showed signs of animation. 
 
 u That you ain't," said he. " You wus on'y sixteen " 
 
 Here Tommy received a sisterly "cuff," and lapsed into 
 silence. 
 
 " Come, what did you laugh at ? Me ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir, but please I can't tell you, and are you going to 
 drink all that milk ? Becos' there wus a pint an' a half, an' it 
 wus threepence." 
 
 "Well, tell me why you laughed, and I will give you a 
 shilling." 
 
 Here Tommy showed renewed signs of animation. 
 
 " Go on," said he, in a stage whisper, " tell 'im." 
 
 " It wusn't nothink," stammered the girl. " I on'y thought 
 as I wouldn't like to drink out o' that can after you'd dipped 
 your whiskers in it." 
 
 He threw back his head and shouted with laughter. 
 
 " I am sorry you object to my moustache," said he, when he 
 had regained his composure, " because, do you know, I should 
 rather like to kiss you." 
 
 She was nothing but a baby, he thought, in careless amuse- 
 ment, and her sunburnt face reminded him of the peaches at 
 home. He honestly meant her no insult, as he gently very 
 gently went close to her and lifted her chin. She coloured
 
 io Hnnie JDeane 
 
 ruby-red, and dropped her eyes, but did not repulse 
 him. 
 
 " Come now, I saved you a kicking. Surely that is worth a 
 kiss ? " 
 
 She stood, trembling a little, his warm hand under her chin. 
 
 " It was worth one, now ; was it not ? " 
 
 " Y yes," said she inaudibly. 
 
 " Then you must pay." Saying which he lifted his straw hat 
 and bent his head. 
 
 She did not kiss him, but she permitted him to kiss her. 
 He did so lightly enough, first on one cheek, then on the 
 other, then on her pretty childish mouth. This performance 
 over, he felt a bit embarrassed, nodded a friendly good-night to 
 her, and threw himself down again among the bracken. The 
 girl went back to the farm to get her can replenished. 
 
 u Let's go back 'long the road," said Tommy. 
 
 " No, I'm goin' back the way we come." 
 
 Of course, it was not singular that she should again encounter 
 her new acquaintance. She would have been greatly dis- 
 appointed had she not done so. He, having recovered from 
 his embarrassment, thought he might ask her a few questions 
 concerning the village and the chances of accommodation at 
 the village inn. 
 
 Having given him what information she could, she still 
 seemed disinclined to go homeward with her milk, although 
 Tommy reminded her of her duty by periodical and vicious 
 movements of his elbow. She merely edged away from the 
 child, and regarding her new acquaintance with admiration, 
 waited patiently in the hope of his having something more 
 to say. He, lying on his back in the bracken, and relieved 
 from the pangs of hunger by a pint and a half of milk, was 
 comfortable, and unwilling to snub the girl by sending her 
 away. Besides, she was a picture in her way ; everything was 
 picturesque as seen in that red flood of sunlight everything but 
 Tommy. The young man on his back found himself looking 
 about for the metaphorical equivalent of a wet brush wherewith 
 to paint Tommy out. Tommy, however, remained, silent 
 indeed, but obstructive. Finding the situation grow embar- 
 rassing, the young fellow rose to his feet and leaned against a 
 tree. 
 
 ' You come for milk every night ? " 
 
 Yes, sir." 
 
 ' Do you always bring what's his name Tommy ? M 
 
 Ignorant as she was, the woman-instinct in her showed her
 
 TWlbere tbe TKHee& (Brew 
 
 the meaning of that dryly-spoken question. Also, the look 
 which accompanied it was of a significant character. 
 
 " No ; sometimes I comes alone." 
 
 " Ah ! I see. About the same time, I suppose ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir, near about seven." 
 
 " And always the same way ? " He was taking his departure 
 now, walking backwards, leisurely. 
 
 " Oh, yes, 'cept when I goes by the road." 
 
 He nodded, with his eyes looking straight into hers, and his 
 eyebrows very expressive eyebrows lifted. Then he turned 
 on his heel and sauntered off, laughing to himself as he went. 
 
 " Jove ! how alike they are ! " he thought contemptuously. 
 " She's nothing but a kid; and she's as ignorant as a baby, but 
 I'll bet she looks out for me every night for the rest of the 
 summer. ' Whistle and I'll come to ye, my lad ! ' I don't 
 know that it is even necessary to whistle. What pretty eyes 
 she has ! I think I never saw such blue eyes with such black 
 pupils like a big drop of ink ! Just for a lark I will stay over 
 to-morrow, to see if she comes." 
 
 The girl herself went hurriedly home with the milk, She 
 had hitherto been a good girl and truthful, but to-night she 
 went into the first shop she passed, and there changed her 
 shilling that she might be able to buy Tommy's silence 
 concerning the stranger. 
 
 " Not as it matters if he told," thought she, " but mother 'd 
 be sure to say I hadn't ought to 'a spoke to 'im, an' she'd stop 
 me goin' for the milk. I believes as he meant he'd be there 
 to-morrow. P'r'aps he didn't, but I shall go, an' I shan't take 
 Tommy."
 
 CHAPTER II 
 ALAS! 
 
 SHE went, and she did not take Tommy. Her new acquaint- 
 ance watched from behind a tree to convince himself that she 
 really came to look for him. There was little doubt of that, so 
 he emerged from his hiding-place, a trifle sorry for having come. 
 Still, being there, he found it necessary to say something, so he 
 set the girl talking about herself. She told him that her name 
 was Annie Deane, that her father was Dan'l Deane, and worked 
 on Squire Godden's farm, that she was the eldest of ten 
 children, and that the baby was three months old. She said 
 again that she was seventeen seventeen her last birthday, and 
 as Tommy was not there to contradict her, the statement was 
 allowed to pass. 
 
 Having told what little there was to tell, she relapsed into 
 silence a silence which would have been insupportable but 
 for the dumb eloquence of the blue eyes with the " big drop of 
 ink in the middle." Something in the young man's heart 
 responded to that dumb eloquence. Also, his own eyes had 
 a little to say, and, the girl stumbling a bit over the pine roots 
 and brambles, he put his arm through hers to steady her. In 
 the absence of a chaperon, or the fear of Mrs. Grundy, 
 intercourse between two youthful people of this sort is prone 
 to swift development. 
 
 Annie got the milk, had it carried through the wood for 
 her, stayed long enough talking, afterwards, to let the sun go 
 down, and to make her mother wonder what had become of 
 her, but not long enough to elicit any mention of the next day. 
 
 " I'll be through here agen to-morrow," said she, with a sort 
 of timid recklessness. 
 
 He watched her glowing face and laughed. 
 
 " Oh, heaven knows where I shall be to-morrow," he said 
 lightly ; " miles away, probably." 
 
 But the next day found him in the same place, and the 
 next evening found him talking to Annie Deane. Why, he 
 could not have told you, could not have told himself. To 
 
 12
 
 Bias 13 
 
 begin with, he honestly meant no harm. He was idle] he 
 had two or three weeks to kill somehow, because he was 
 waiting for a chum with whom he was going abroad ; he was 
 supposed to be on the tramp a favourite holiday occupation 
 of his and he had come to a sudden and unexpected stand- 
 still. This was all he knew. A girl's blue eyes, and a want 
 of moral courage kept him at a standstill. Every ensuing day 
 found him in earnest contemplation of departure ; every even- 
 ing found him strolling through the wood, waiting for Annie 
 Deane. Not that he cared two straws about the girl, which 
 made things all the worse. In fact, he cared for very little, 
 having hitherto found little worth caring for. Even his 
 opinions were at present unformed, hazy. His only religion 
 had been Self, and a very comfortable religion he had found it 
 It may be that Annie Deane had some attraction for him on 
 the score of being his first disciple. 
 
 Also, she interested him because there seemed to be more in 
 her than he succeeded in drawing out. She looked intelligent, 
 but her speech did not confirm her look, being for the most 
 part slow and diffident. The childish pertness which had 
 amused him at first disappeared as they saw more of each 
 other, leaving her quiet, but as the young fellow thought 
 affectionate ; which was amusing, if a little tiresome. 
 
 His standard of womanhood was low. He lifted his hat to 
 a woman, or opened a door for her just as he removed the 
 hat upon entering a house, or said "Thank you" for any 
 service rendered him. Custom demanded these courtesies, 
 and "use is second nature," but reverence in the one case 
 was as absent as gratitude in the other. He saw no reason 
 to reverence women. Even Annie Deane showed him that 
 Evil was the feminine instinct, and not Good. Here was 
 a girl, brought up in seclusion, taught nothing but right, who 
 yet took to wrong " as a young duck to water " ; who at the 
 first sign of a beckoning hand, followed it, caring nothing that 
 it beckoned her in the opposite direction to the one she had 
 soberly taken all her life. The young cynic feit something 
 like a pang of disappointment or regret as this fresh example 
 confirmed his theory, which showed that deep down in him, 
 somewhere, was the germ of a nobler faith. 
 
 "Why do you come here to meet me?" he asked Annie, 
 when these clandestine meetings had been going on for more 
 than a week.
 
 M Bnnie Bcanc 
 
 They were sauntering through the wood, she with the 
 milk-can which served as a blind. 
 
 " You ast' me to," responded she promptly. 
 
 " I don't think I did quite." 
 
 " Well, you said as you might be here." 
 
 " Did I ? I don't remember." 
 
 " I do." 
 
 " I say, Annie, you must be used to this sort of thing." 
 
 "What sort o' thing?" 
 
 " To meeting fellows here." 
 
 " That I'm not ! " she said, with injured vehemence. 
 
 " Has a man ever asked you to meet him here before ? " 
 
 " Not a man a boy have." 
 
 " What boy ? " 
 
 "Jim Drake's boy." 
 
 "Who is Jim Drake?" 
 
 "The blacksmith." 
 
 " Did you meet young Drake ? " 
 
 " Not me ! " with a pout and a toss of the head. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Becos' I didn't want to." 
 
 " Oh ! then I may take it that you do want to meet me ? " 
 
 Annie hung her head. 
 
 " Perhaps," said she, instinct teaching her to avoid absolute 
 confession. 
 
 Her companion's hand slid through her arm, and his head 
 bent towards hers. 
 
 " Do you know that it is wrong to meet me ? " 
 
 She considered. "We don't do nothink wrong," she said 
 slowly. 
 
 " Then you think it is right? " 
 
 She coloured and did not answer. 
 
 " You tell your mother, of course ? " 
 
 " No, I don't" 
 
 " Why ? " 
 
 " Becos' she'd stop me cominV 
 
 " Exactly ; so you see you do know it is wrong." 
 
 "Then you shouldn't ast me to come," said she, rather 
 grievously. 
 
 " That is one to you. Well, Annie, we must allow that it is 
 wrong for you to meet a man you know nothing about." 
 
 She stopped, and turned the big blue eyes on him, eagerly. 
 11 You could tell me who you are, an' then I'd know." 
 
 He laughed, and drew her on.
 
 Bias t 15 
 
 " What is your private impression of me ? For what do you 
 take me ? " 
 
 A long, long pause. 
 
 " Come, now, for what do you take me ? " 
 
 " I I takes you for gentry." 
 
 The answer tickled him so much that he stood still and 
 shouted with laughter. 
 
 "I am afraid that is a doubtful compliment. You mean 
 you take me for a gentleman. Why ? " 
 
 " Becos' you looks like them as stays at Lord Kennarven's 
 for the shootin'." 
 
 " Thank you. Well, I must set you straight if you think I 
 am a ' lord.' I am not even connected with one, as far as I 
 know. And, Annie, 1-o-j-d spells ' lord.' " 
 
 " I knows that." 
 
 He winced at the superfluous " s." " But you make it ' lard.' 
 Say it after me." 
 
 She said it correctly. 
 
 " Don't forget that, will you ? " 
 
 She shook her head, and never did forget it She said the 
 word correctly to the end of her life. 
 
 " I think I should like to teach you English, Annie, but at 
 present it is much more necessary for somebody to teach me 
 Italian." 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 " I can't tell you now. It would take too long." 
 
 "No, it wouldn't" 
 
 " Very well. Italian is the language of the people of Italy. 
 Are you any the wiser ? " 
 
 She shook her head. "Why should you want to learn that?" 
 
 " I really could not make you understand." 
 
 " But who are you ? Do tell me." 
 
 " You are a very woman, and curious. I have told you I 
 am not ' gentry.' " 
 
 " But I don't believe you." 
 
 11 1 am sorry. Will you believe me when I say that I have 
 to earn my living ? " 
 
 " Go along with you ! " said the girl pettishly. " You're 
 pokin' fun." 
 
 " I am not. I have to earn my living just as surely as has 
 your father." 
 
 " That ain't true. Why, your hands is like any lady's." 
 
 " Rather brown for a lady's just now, Annie. Still, I do 
 not expect to earn my living with my hands. Providence
 
 16 Hnnie H)eane 
 
 settled my ' calling ' without any trouble to me gave me, so 
 the wise people say, a fortune. I carry it about with me." 
 
 The girl opened her eyes in astonishment. " What 1 
 money ? " said she. " Ain't you afraid o' losin' it ? * 
 
 "Not money. Of that have I very little." 
 
 " Then what is it ? Oh, ain't you a tease ! n 
 
 " Look at me, and see if you can find out, 1 * 
 
 She looked at him in all seriousness. 
 
 "Tisn't your face," said she thoughtfully, in some way 
 connecting him with the old rhyme, at which he burst out 
 laughing. 
 
 " Why, no, that is certain," said he. 
 
 " Tho* I don't know but what " and here she stopped, her 
 very expressive eyes filling in the sentence. 
 
 " Though I am not altogether bad-looking ? Is that what 
 you mean ? " 
 
 " Not at all bad-looking," said she heartily. " I thinks you're 
 very nice." 
 
 " Write me down middling. I am not so good-looking for 
 a man as you are for a girl : but certain it is that I must not 
 rely upon my beauty to keep me. No, my fortune is not in 
 my face. It is a very delicate and touchy fortune, I can tell 
 you. Why, even a bad cold could make a beggar of me ! " 
 
 " Now you are pokin' fun," said she, with tears in her eyes, 
 "and you won't tell me nothink." 
 
 " Nothing, Annie ; believe me there is no 'k ' in 'nothing.' 
 If you cannot take my word for that, please get one of your 
 little brother's spelling-books and look." 
 
 She was standing with her back to him, wiping her eyes. 
 
 " I say, don't cry. Here's the last tree. You go and get 
 the milk. I shall go on now. Good-night." 
 
 " Oh, I'll be back in a minute," cried she hastily, " I am not 
 cryin'. It's something in my eye. You'll come back, won't 
 you ? " 
 
 He laughed, and waited for her. 
 
 Midway through the wood they thought they heard someone 
 coming, so plunged among the bracken and tangle, out of 
 sight. 
 
 " Sit down," whispered he, " behind that tree. That's right. 
 If anyone sees me, you are invisible. What's the matter ? " 
 
 " I've got a thorn in my thumb." 
 
 He took her hand, and carefully drew the thorn out. While 
 he was doing this, Annie was trying to make out some 
 hieroglyphic signs on his sleeve links.
 
 Bias! 17 
 
 " Oh ! " said she suddenly, in great delight. 
 
 " What's up now ! " said he, busy with the thorn. 
 
 " I've found somethink out." 
 
 " I wish you would leave something out, Annie. I mean 
 that fearful ' k ' ! ' Thing,' my dear child, ends with a *g.' " 
 
 " Oh, bother that ! Your name begins with a ' L.' " (He 
 groaned.) " Now, don't it ? " 
 
 " Perhaps it do" said he resignedly. " This is infectious. 
 When I return to civilisation I shall have to invest in a Lindley 
 Murray. All my recollections of him are getting mixed." 
 
 Annie was busy with the links. 
 
 " There's two L's ! " said she excitedly, " one upside down, 
 an' there's one 'A,' besides two little letters done different. 
 Your name can't be all that." 
 
 " No. You are no nearer my name than you were before. 
 These links are Chinese ! " 
 
 She looked immensely disappointed. "Then your name 
 don't begin with { L'?" 
 
 He did not satisfy her. 
 
 " Never mind my name," said he briskly ; " it could do you 
 no good to know that. Look here : after to-morrow I must be 
 off. I will come tomorrow, just to bring you a keepsake 
 and say 'good-bye.' Good-night, little girl, and trot off 
 home." 
 
 She went home, met him again the next night, had her 
 keepsake; but the "good-bye" was somehow further de- 
 layed ; and evening after evening, as the level sun-rays pierced 
 the dark shafts of the pines, they reddened the figures of the 
 man and the girl moving dreamily side by side as through an 
 enchanted land. Verily, to the girl it was enchanted. For 
 the most part silent, she began to understand that there was 
 something in her which might have spoken had culture shaped 
 it to utterance. Familiarity with her new companion did not 
 bring with it the usual contempt. She could only deplore her 
 own inferiority only wonder at the condescension of this 
 being from another sphere ! To think that he should trouble 
 to shed the light of his countenance upon her ! She ceased 
 to remember how long she had basked in that light, ceased to 
 ask herself what she should do when the light was withdrawn. 
 Thought of herself as compared with him she had none ; care 
 for herself as separate from him she had none. To be with 
 him, to be something to him, no matter what ; to watch him 
 dumbly, as a dog watches; to love him dumbly as a dog loves; 
 to feel that the very life, that solemn God-given life of her, 
 
 B
 
 is Bnnfe H>eane 
 
 was his to cherish or to trample on as he chose. Oh ! it was 
 pitiful, but it was all grim reality to Annie Deane. 
 
 And he ? He knew it, he could not help knowing it, and 
 he held all women so lightly I 
 
 Thus, day by day, they two, the girl of sixteen and the boy 
 of one-and-twenty, drifted nearer and nearer to the brink of a 
 precipice, which to a woman means ruin. Not all at once. 
 At first unconsciously, then fearfully, then foolhardily, until 
 with a leap and a gasp one of them was over /
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 " GOOD-BYE 1 " 
 
 A FEW days more, and Annie Deane's enchanted land was 
 common earth again. 
 
 "This will never do," said the magician to himself one 
 evening as he went by the old way to the old meeting-place. 
 " The thought of it is growing to be something like a night- 
 mare. I never dreamed of having a thing like this to answer 
 for. I would give my head to undo it. It is ba vile 
 ghastly ! It admits of no excuse ; it is indefensible." 
 
 The more he thought of the girl, the more irritable he grew. 
 She had lain a damping hand upon his brilliant prospects, had 
 started him handicapped by putting him on bad terms with 
 himself. He could only marvel that he had ever given her 
 the opportunity. He did not know for whom he had the 
 greater contempt for her or for himself. 
 
 " If I had ever been a cad of this description !" he thought 
 as he went along, " I could understand it ; but I have not. I 
 may not have been more than a negative virtue, but I have 
 never been a vice." 
 
 Alone as he was, the blood mounted to his very hair. His 
 own words kept ringing in his ears : " It admits of no defence; 
 it admits of no excuse." He went a little farther, and told 
 himself that the man who could do a thing like this was not a 
 man, he was a coward and a cad ! 
 
 The words as applied to himself stirred all the manhood in 
 him. He writhed at them, trying to beat them off. Oh, great 
 Heaven ! What could he do to get his manhood back ; to 
 once more stand well with himself; to steadily look himself 
 in the face ? Defence or apology being out of the question, 
 what remained ? Reparation ? 
 
 He paused, leaning against a tree. His agony of mind was 
 so great that the beads of perspiration broke out upon his 
 forehead. 
 
 " What shall I do ? " he muttered. " Shall I keep my self- 
 respect at the expense of my future ? Shall I ? What does 
 
 19
 
 to Bnnie Deane 
 
 that mean ? Let me look this fairly in the face. There are 
 two roads open to me only two. I must desert her, or I must 
 marry her. Marry her? Put her arms about my neck for 
 ever ? Take her everywhere ; leave her nowhere ? Be 
 chained to her night and day ? God ! what a weight and what 
 a fetter ! And what a fool I should be to take it on ! What 
 is there in the girl to repay me for such an enormous sacrifice ? 
 Nothing. 1 couldn't afford to educate her; no, nor to keep 
 her mere body and soul together. I have not enough to keep 
 myself, to say nothing of a wife ! And such a wife ! I couldn't 
 stand her for six months ; and in a very little longer than that 
 she would discover that she couldn't stand me. I should have 
 ruined my own chance of happiness and hers too. No, I 
 cannot marry her. It would be simply a huge sacrifice for 
 nothing. I must get away as quietly as possible. I will see 
 the girl no more after to-night. I swear it ! If there had been 
 an ounce of resolution in me, I should have left a month ago. 
 She could not trace me if she tried, for she does not even know 
 my name. Pshaw ! as if she would try. She will be too 
 anxious to keep things quiet. She says that blacksmith's lad 
 wants to marry her. Well, let him. She is worth nothing 
 better. Any other man will do as well as I; and if not, I 
 cannot help it. For / can't marry her I'd as soon be shot." 
 
 He looked up suddenly with a nervous start. Annie stood 
 within a couple of yards of him, regarding him with anxiety. 
 
 "What's the matter?" she said, going close and touching 
 his hand with her cheek. "You looks as if you wusn't well." 
 
 " I'm very well," he said, shrinking a little from the wistful 
 eyes. " I have walked fast, and I am hot." 
 
 " Why did you walk fast ? " 
 
 " Because I was in a hurry. I will walk to the edge of the 
 wood with you, but I shall not be able to stay to-night" 
 
 "Not a little while?" 
 
 "Well, a very little while. You see, I imnt get away by 
 the train which passes here about half-past s. jven, and it is 
 nearly seven now." 
 
 " Where are you goin' ? " 
 
 "Some distance up the line; and I say, Annie, I'm I'm 
 off to-morrow, for for good." 
 
 The hand which rested on his arm suddenly clutched it 
 hard. 
 
 " Oh ! you don't mean it ? n 
 
 " I do, Annie, I do really. Now, don't be a simpleton. I 
 have told you from the first I should have to go. Don't try
 
 to make yourself believe that there was ever any doubt about 
 that." 
 
 "Yes; but you can't go and leave me," she burst out 
 piteously, "not right away, where I'd never see you a gen ? 
 You couldn't do that. Whatever would I do ? " 
 
 "Why, what did you do before? My dear little girl, did 
 you think we were going to meet here every night for ever ? " 
 
 She released his arm, and, stumbling forward to a tree, 
 leaned against it, for she was dizzy and faint. 
 
 Her divinity had threatened to leave her before; but 
 to-night something in his tone and manner told her he meant 
 to carry the long-deferred threat into execution. She saw 
 that he had done with her. She gave herself a minute or two 
 to recover her breath, then she went up to him. Twisting her 
 hands in the collar of his coat she looked up into his face, 
 while all the youth died out of her own, and her lips stiffened 
 and twitched, but uttered no word nor sound. 
 
 He tried to get away. 
 
 "Come, what is it?" he said, in affected surprise. "For 
 Heaven's sake don't make a fuss. I shall come back again 
 some day, I daresay, but we can't go on meeting in this wood 
 for ever. In fact, I ought to have been away a week ago, and 
 the sooner I go the better for bpth of us." 
 
 She tried to answer him, but could say nothing ; could only 
 cling to him in dumb despair. 
 
 He glanced at her once, and then looked steadily away, for 
 he thought her eyes would haunt him painfully for ever. Of 
 course, he could not hold out ; he was moved by compassion 
 to take her in his arms and hold her there until the colour had 
 returned to her face. It was of no use, he thought impatiently ; 
 if he must be brutal, he could not be verbally brutal ; he must 
 get away and write. 
 
 " Now, little girl, listen to me. I have my way to make in 
 the world what you call my living to get and I cannot stay 
 any longer idling about ; go I must. But it is just possible 
 that I may stay over to-morrow. If I do not, I will find a way 
 of letting you know. Oh, never mind how ; I will manage it. 
 If you don't see me to-morrow night, you look about under 
 this tree for a letter this tree here, with the big dead branch. 
 You won't be likely to mistake it." 
 
 " Yes, but if you left the letter you'd have to bring it. I 
 could come an' meet you any time. If I brought the baby 
 mother wouldn't think nothink, not even if 'twas in the 
 morninV
 
 22 Himte H>eane 
 
 "It would not be in the morning. It may not even be 
 to-morrow at all. But I promise to write to you and to send 
 you something. Remember this tree, and look here for your 
 letter. Oh, you want a photograph, don't you? Well, you 
 shall have one. There, be a good girl and let me go. If I 
 miss this train it will put me to a lot of trouble. My dear 
 girl, don't look like that. There, I have given you enough 
 kisses to last you your life. Good-night." 
 
 She let him go at last. She did not speak, because she 
 could not. The uselessness of speech came home to her 
 with a force which alone was sufficient to paralyse her tongue. 
 All she could say would tell this man nothing but what he 
 already knew. If he knowing could go and leave her, then 
 all the speech in the world could avail her nothing. And so 
 she let him go without a word or cry. She stepped out to the 
 turf path to watch him as he went, and moved her head 
 mechanically when he turned at the vanishing point to smile 
 and raise his hat ; but she did not smile in answer. 
 
 And in truth life for Annie Deane just then was not a 
 smiling matter. 
 
 t 
 
 The next night, at the same time, she went hurriedly, 
 fearfully, through a driving misty rain to the tree with the 
 big, dead branch, making straight for it, tearing her thin skirt 
 with the brambles, and caring nothing that her feet were 
 soaking wet through contact with the long, coarse grass. 
 
 She beat down the thorny sprays whereon the berries were 
 turning faintly red, then searched with frantic haste in the 
 forest of moss and bracken which surrounded the tree. Her 
 heart stood still with mingled hope and dread, and so very 
 unskilfully did she search that she trod upon her letter before 
 she saw it. She bent and picked it up that big stiff letter 
 while her face turned grey, and something within her seemed 
 to sink down, down to bottomless depths. 
 
 Then she broke open the envelope and took out the 
 contents a cabinet-sized photograph, a short letter written 
 very plainly in a large, round hand, and a five-pound Bank of 
 England note. Annie looked at the portrait stupidly. 
 
 "You ain't comin' never no more," she said to it in piteous 
 reproach. "I knowed that last night. What do the letter 
 matter ? A letter can't do nothing for me." 
 
 She turned her back to the driving rain and read :
 
 " MY DEAR ANNIE, You see I could not come to-night, and 
 it is of no use keeping you up with false hopes, so I tell you 
 that you must not think of seeing me any more. In a day or 
 two I shall be far away from here, far away from England even 
 over the sea. As far as you are concerned, I shall be as a 
 man who is dead. I put it to you like this because I do not 
 know in what other way to show you what I mean, and I must 
 show you somehow. I have been thinking of your sweetheart, 
 the blacksmith, who, by your own account, is an honest fellow, 
 and very fond of you. You told me that he wanted to marry 
 you, but that your parents thought you too young. They 
 would not hold out if they could see that you were willing to 
 marry him. Now, Annie, suppose I beg you to let him have 
 his way, and to do it at once? It would be the very best 
 thing for you, perhaps the only thing which could save you 
 from endless trouble. I beg of you to understand this, and to 
 remember that it is really the one safe road open to you. The 
 paper I have pinned to this is a bank-note. Take it to any 
 large shop when you are in a town and you will get five pounds 
 for it. Take care of it, because you may want a little money 
 some day. Don't be stupid enough to let anyone know you 
 have it, just hide it until you see what use it is best to make of 
 it. Above all, open your eyes to the truth of what I say, and 
 understand that you have to do two things. The first is to 
 forget me as soon as possible, and the other to marry young 
 Drake. When you have done that, not a single living soul will 
 be able to say one word against you. Keep this letter until you 
 thoroughly understand it, but as soon as you do and the 
 sooner the better destroy it." 
 
 She did not look as if she understood at all ; she looked 
 rather as if all understanding were crushed out of her. Once 
 or twice she took her head between her hands as if that were 
 necessary to keep her upright, and once she burst out 
 plaintively, like a child who suddenly realises that it is lost : 
 
 " What will I do ? Whatever will I do ? " 
 
 To that question she found no answer, and the rain blowing 
 freshly in upon her reminded her that her milk-can was empty, 
 and that she would be wet through before she reached the 
 farm ; so she unfastened the hooks of her poor, shapeless gown, 
 put the portrait, letter, and money in her bosom, refastened 
 her bodice, then went her way for the milk, still saying 
 plaintively to herself: 
 
 What will I do ? Oh ! whatever will I do ? "
 
 24 Hnnle 2>eane 
 
 Not one coherent idea shaped itself in her mind. She 
 did not resent the brutality of that terrible letter she carried 
 did not perhaps quite comprehend U yet. The only sense 
 present with her was the sense of loss, which makes the present 
 and the future alike a blank, and yet a blank which is keenly 
 charged with pain. So all the wretched, abandoned child 
 could do was to stumble through the rain on her familiar errand, 
 and to stumble home again, hugging that shameful letter to 
 her heart, and asking of everything merciful in earth and 
 heaven, " What would she do ? Oh ! whatever would she do ? " 
 
 There was one person who had appreciated the brutality of 
 that letter, who had even exaggerated it, if that were possible. 
 That person was the man who wrote it. He had writhed at 
 every word, like a worm that is severed by the gardener's 
 spade. He had brutalised it purposely, because he had felt 
 that the girl's mental hide was tough, and only to be penetrated 
 by such coarse speech as that to which she was accustomed. 
 Therefore he must be coarse ; must make himself intelligible 
 at any cost. He did it at the cost of his self-respect, and when 
 he went stealthily through the haunted ways to throw that letter 
 among the bracken and the brambles, he was absolutely afraid 
 afraid of the whispering voices of the solemn wood, of the 
 cold touch of the misty rain, of an awful wraith whose silent 
 footfall went in front of him, stopping sometimes and com- 
 pelling him to stop ; for he went in company with the ghost of 
 his own manhood, and the thought of that cruel note and that 
 pitiful bit of money flung down there under the tree was 
 to him what the thought of the slain is to the slayer.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 "I MUST HOLD MY TONGUE" 
 
 THE autumn winds went sighing through the woods of Royal 
 Berkshire ; the children had gone on their last blackberrying, 
 and coming home with half-filled cans, had announced that 
 blackberries were over for that year. Another layer of fallen 
 pine-needles crackled softly under foot, and the bracken was 
 yellow and sere. 
 
 Annie Deane went homeward with her milk-can as usual ; 
 but she chose the road now, and as she walked she hung her 
 head, looking neither to the right nor the left, only lifting her 
 eyes in a shrinking, startled way if by chance some stranger 
 passed her. 
 
 One afternoon towards the end of November she had 
 company on her homeward way. A sturdy, dark-faced lad 
 carried the milk, and looked down from time to time at the 
 girl by his side. 
 
 " You're quiet, Annie," said he, when he had listened to his 
 own footsteps for a quarter of a mile or so. " Haven't ye 
 nothun to say ? " 
 
 " I s'pose not, else I'd 'a said it," returned she, neither 
 sharply nor sadly, but in a tone between the two. 
 
 "You have said it," said young Drake, laughing. 
 
 What 'ave I said ? " 
 
 " Why, nothun." 
 
 " Oh ! " her lips curved in a mirthless smile " you've bin 
 drinkin' vinegar." 
 
 " So 'ave you, by yer temper, seem'ly. If we can't get on 
 better'n this it wouldn't be no good of us settin' up on our own 
 account, would it ? We've fell out a goodish bit lately." 
 
 " I don't know as we've fell out." 
 
 " Well, p'r'aps it haven't come to that ; but you've bin so off- 
 'anded, you've sort o' shunted me. I've kep' on to faather 
 about gettin' married till he've come to thinkin' about livin' in 
 that 'ouse up by the mill, and givin' up the Forge Cottage 
 to me." 
 
 as
 
 6 Hnnie Dcane 
 
 " And are ye goin' to do that ? " 
 
 " What, take on the cottage ? That's for you to say." 
 
 " How can I say, Jim ? " 
 
 " You can, and you knows how. Six months ago I wanted 
 to keep comp'ny wi' you, but your father he said you wus too 
 young. Mine, he thinks diffrent, and so do mother. Why, 
 our mother wus married at your age, and 'ave never bin sorry 
 for it, as she says herself." 
 
 Annie kept silence. 
 
 " So," Jim went on, waxing hopeful, " I've got leave to settle 
 things, and, if you likes, we can be married and comf table this 
 side o' Chris'mas." 
 
 Annie still kept silence. 
 
 " Mother didn't quite like ye a little time ago, but she've 
 come round. She says as you've looked older and settleder 
 lately. So, as they sees it's no good tryin' to cross me, they've 
 giv' in \ and, any time you likes, our mother'll come an' talk to 
 your mother about settin' up 'ouse. She knows as your folks 
 'ave got a lot o' mouths to feed, an' nothun to giv' away, so 
 she'll do all as is wanted." 
 
 Again young Drake had to listen to his own footsteps for 
 some minutes. At last Annie looked up. 
 
 " Jim," said she shakily. 
 
 "Well, Annie?" 
 
 " Don't let your folks trouble to see mine, nor to move to 
 the mill on account o' me, for I can't marry ye, Jim, an', what's 
 more, I never shall." 
 
 "Well, that's straight!" said Jim, spilling the milk by 
 reason of a sudden shock. 
 
 " It can't be too straight, Jim. I means what I says, an* I 
 want you to know as I do mean it I can't never marry you, 
 Jim. I wish I could." 
 
 "You've got another chap?" said he, halting between pride 
 and curiosity. 
 
 " No, I haven't." 
 
 " Then why can't ye marry me ? " 
 
 " I've never made ye think as I wus goin' to. I've often 
 wondered what made ye run after me so. I've cheeked you, 
 too, sometimes, and mother, she've giv 5 it me for it. I'm sorry 
 now, Jim." 
 
 " But why is it ? " urged Jim, with a suspicion of pathos in 
 his voice. " Give a chap a reason. Things is easier to bear 
 when there's a reason. As to ninnin' after ye, a chap don't 
 mind runnin' after a girl he wants, an' I'm sure I'd do my best
 
 "3 must bolfc 
 
 by ye, an' giv' ye as good a home as my earnin's 'd allow 
 of." 
 
 " It's all no good, Jim. There's no reason as I can tell ye 
 of in partickler ; but I can't, an' I won't, an' there's an end 
 of it." 
 
 Young Drake's face was as pale as it could be, taking its 
 sun-tan into consideration. He stopped in the middle of the 
 road. 
 
 " Wait a minute," said he, holding Annie back, for she was 
 walking on. " We'll be in the village directly. Let's have 
 it out 'fore we gets there." 
 
 " We've had it out, Jim." 
 
 " No, we haven't. Why, if you can't marry me, should you 
 wish you could ? " 
 
 " What do ye mean ? " 
 
 " You said that just now." 
 
 "Did I?" 
 
 "Yes, an' it was a rum thing to say. What wus it ye 
 meant ? " 
 
 She looked startled. The longest tentacle of the monster 
 Dread, far-reaching, had begun to encompass her. 
 
 " I s'pose I said that becos' you wants me, Jim." 
 
 " I don't think that's likely. You wouldn't be likely to wish 
 that jest on account of me." 
 
 The fear in the girl's eyes intensified. She was not clever 
 enough to see that Jim was merely accusing her of being selfish. 
 She fixed her eyes on his, and paled to her lips. 
 
 " I can't see any reason why you should care for my feelin's. 
 Why should you want to marry me and yet say you can't ? " 
 persisted Jim. " Speak up, and tell me what's the matter." 
 
 She made several attempts to free herself of Jim's arm. 
 
 "There's nothink the matter," she began; but then she 
 stopped, for her faint voice failed her. 
 
 " Well, it's a rum thing to me if there isn't," said Jim blankly, 
 " that's all ! Let me hold ye poor little thing ! I would be 
 good to you, if you'd on'y let me ! " 
 
 The rough caress, the touch and presence of the lad, so 
 different to something she remembered, were hateful to her. 
 She shrank from Jim, and he saw it. 
 
 "Don't touch me," she said, with a shiver, "I'm right 
 enough now." 
 
 " Nonsense ! Look here, Annie, you're right down bad, an* 
 it s time as your mother had the hint to take care o' you."
 
 s Bnnte Deane 
 
 She gasped in sudden fright. " Oh, Jim, what do you 
 mean ? " 
 
 " Why, that you're goin* wrong in yer health. You're as thin 
 as a rake, an' as white! I can't think how 'tis yer mother 
 haven't noticed it. Our mother would." 
 
 Annie breathed again, and walked slowly on. 
 
 " Mother 'aves enough to do to look after the childern," she 
 said presently ; " an' so 'ave I. I gets very tired sometimes. 
 That's what's the matter wi' me, Jim ; on'y that." 
 
 " Then," said he eagerly, " here's yer chance ; get away out 
 of it" 
 
 She shook her head, and the tears came. 
 
 " I'd like to, but that's what I meant when I said I wus 
 sorry. I wish I could like you well enough to want to come 
 wi' you an' live at the Forge Cottage. But when I thinks o' 
 that, I feel as if I'd rather stay at home, even wi' all the 
 childern a-worryin' my life out." 
 
 Jim withdrew his supporting arm. 
 
 " All right," he said gloomily ; " that's a clincher. I've bin 
 a fool to come so many times for a slap in the face. I take 
 good care I don't come for another." 
 
 He quickened his pace. Annie stopped. 
 
 " Give me the milk, Jim. I can't keep up, so you go on." 
 
 She took the milk, and, stumbling to one side of the road, 
 sat down on a heap of stones. 
 
 Jim walked on, leaving her by the roadside. She watched 
 him, wondering if all men were alike. That other man had 
 left her in outward kindness, but still he had left her. This 
 man walked away in open, selfish brutality. It was simply a 
 question of method ; the spirit of the thing was the same. 
 She rose after a while and went homeward, quickening her 
 pace as she came within earshot of her father's cottage, for she 
 heard a familiar sound the fretful wail of a baby. 
 
 " Where in the name o' patience ha' ye bin to ? " Mrs. Deane 
 began, as soon as the girl lifted the latch. " Here's this baby 
 ready to eat his fingers, an' he jest weaned ; an' the others 
 cryin' to go to bed, an' father a-waitin' for 'is supper. Who 
 would be me, I should like to know? As well be a toad 
 under a harrow. Look sharp, off wi' yer bonnet, an* take this 
 child. There there, sonny ; Annie '11 take 'im an' giv" 'im 'is 
 supper." 
 
 Annie stood patiently swaying the child to and fro she who 
 was just a child herself, in all but a child's freedom and gaiety. 
 Even when her mother handed her the baby's bread and milk
 
 "3 must bolfc nvs {Tongue " 29 
 
 she swayed monotonously still, like a clockwork figure gradually 
 " running down." 
 
 She fed the baby with more haste than judgment crammed 
 him, in fact, with a view to his speedy satisfaction and quietude. 
 Experience told her that being satisfied he would sleep, and then 
 she could take him up to her bed, and set to work on similarly 
 disposing of his brothers and sisters for the night. This done 
 once more, she went downstairs, meaning to pour a little water 
 on the leaves in the teapot, and then to go to bed herself. 
 Her mother, however, demurred. 
 
 " Coin' to bed ? " she said, "an' a heap o' socks and 
 stockin's to mend, besides all the other mendin' an' makin'? 
 What next, for a great gal like you, as ought to take things off 
 my 'ands? If I'd two pairs I could get on, but I've on'y got 
 one, so I can't let yourn be idle for a 'our or two yet. Skulkin' 
 off to bed, lazyin' ! Tired, indeed ! What d'ye think I am ? " 
 
 The girl stood silent. She was not only tired, but ill and 
 very wretched. Still, she made no complaint simply sat 
 down and drew the big work-basket towards her, longing the 
 while for the dark room upstairs, for her one poor luxury of 
 tears. Mrs. Deane drew a chair and sat down opposite Annie. 
 
 " Father's choppin' the bavin in the back-house," she said. 
 " What made ye so late with the milk ? Was Jim along wi' ye ? " 
 
 " I met him up the road." 
 
 " Ah h," said the mother, with a smile, " that was it, I see. 
 He's offen 'long wi' ye lately, Annie." 
 
 " It isn't becos' he's wanted, then," said Annie. " I don't 
 want Jim. I've told him so more'n once. If he thinks I 
 cares anything for 'im, then he can't take in what's said." 
 
 " Ye see, 'tisn't likely," said the mother ; " he's a steady chap, 
 an' they're so much better off than we. I don't s'pose he 
 thinks as you mean what you ses. Drake's people is gettin' 
 quite eager for it. I s'pose they sees that Jim's so set 'is mind 
 on ye that it's no good tryin' to cross 'im." 
 
 "Jim won't set 'is mind on me no longer," said Annie, 
 clutching the table and closing her eyes. " I told 'im to-day 
 once an' for all 'twas no good." 
 
 " Then you're a little fool ! " burst out Mrs. Deane wrath- 
 fully. " Here's we as pore as pore, scarce knowin' where 
 to turn for a bit o' bread, an' when there's a good 'ome open 
 to ye you tosses yer head an' turns up yer nose. You'll 
 live to repent such foolishness, my gal; an' if we wus some 
 parents, you'd be made to marry Jim whether ye would or no." 
 
 Annie went on darning, but feeling that her mother was
 
 30 Hnnfe Deane 
 
 watching her, she thought it best to say she was not well 
 Before she could speak the room upheaved, and she put out 
 both hands to keep herself from falling. 
 
 " Lor* 'a mercy, oh 1 " said Mrs. Deane ; " what's the 
 matter ? " 
 
 " I'm tired," murmured Annie piteously ; " on'y that. You 
 thinks I'm lazy, but they wus all awake jest after four this 
 mornin', an' I've bin on my feet since five." 
 
 "Why, get along, then," said the mother, not unkindly. 
 " Are ye faint ? Here, child, here's the stairs ; can't ye 
 see 'em ? " 
 
 Annie felt her way up, reached her room safely, and lay 
 down among the sleeping children, very cold, and sick, and 
 comfortless. 
 
 Mrs. Deane resumed her seat and took up the darning. 
 
 " Where's Annie ? " said the father, when he came in. 
 
 "Gone to bed. There's somethin' wrong wi' 'er lately. 
 Gals o' that age is 'ard to manage. They don't know half their 
 time what ails 'em. But, Dan'l, as sure as I'm alive, when she 
 says she won't 'ave Jim Drake she means it" 
 
 "Time enough for all that," said the man. "She's only 
 sixteen. Leave 'em alone, missis leave 'em alone." 
 
 Annie lay and listened for her father and mother to come to 
 bed. When all was quiet she lit a bit of candle, put her hand 
 between the flock bed and the mattress, drew out the 
 photograph we know of, and held it against her cheek. 
 
 " It was all terrible wrong," she said, " an' I'm goin' to suffer 
 for it bad. But to marry Jim couldn't put things right, an' I 
 won't do it. It would be wicked to deceive Jim, an' I won't 
 do it. Besides, I couldn't never like Jim now. When he put 
 'is arm round me to-day I could ha' struck 'im. No; I must 
 bear what I've got to bear, an' hold my tongue."
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 JIM'S MOTHER 
 
 CHRISTMAS was over, and the Drake family had not found it 
 necessary to remove to the mill. Jim had not pressed the 
 matter of marriage upon Annie further, and the village gossips 
 were at a standstill. That an eligible young fellow should want 
 a girl, and not be able to get her, was a thing so remarkable as 
 to suggest mystery and demand solution. But as January 
 drew to a close, and the clear, cold days began to lengthen, the 
 gossips waxed garrulous, and darkly hinted that the key to the 
 long-standing puzzle had been found. When Annie passed up 
 the straggling street, looking furtively from one side to the 
 other, she was conscious of producing much ill-concealed 
 interest. The village newsmongers turned from their doors to 
 pull aside window-curtains and crane their necks, the better to 
 judge of the truth of their suspicions ; and when the shrinking 
 girl had passed they rushed to the doors again to nod and 
 make signs to each other across the road. The matter was even 
 discussed in the little general shop, and began to lose the 
 charm of novelty. 
 
 Mrs. Deane, absorbed in her household trials, was one of the 
 last to awaken to the situation. She kept pretty much within 
 doors, so the rumour which was freely circulated among the 
 chatterers outside did not reach her. It did not reach her, 
 indeed, until the short second month of the year was about 
 half over, and what little anxiety she had felt concerning 
 the girl now much better was over too. 
 
 The elder children were at school, Annie was out with the 
 young ones, Deane was at work, and his wife, having " cleaned " 
 herself, set the kettle on for tea, and sat down to indulge in ten 
 minutes' doze by the fire. The February sun was bright, but 
 Mrs. Deane's blazing bavin twigs were brighter, and the kettle 
 soon began to sing. The tired woman had nodded once or 
 twice, when her head went back with a violent jerk because of 
 a rap at the door. 
 
 " Dear, bother 1 who's that ? " said she testily as she went, 
 
 31
 
 3* Hnnte Deanc 
 
 yawning, to lift the latch. "Lor"! Mrs. Drake; come 
 in, do." 
 
 Mrs. Drake went in, and sitting down, took her big cameo 
 brooch out of her shawl, and laid it on the table, thereby show- 
 ing that she intended to stay. Mrs. Deane was surprised, but 
 flattered. 
 
 " You're all alone ? " said Mrs. Drake. 
 
 u Yes. Deane's at work, an' Annie out wi' the childern." 
 
 " Ah, it'll do 'em good. I dessay they're well wropped up. 
 It's fortunate you are alone, for I've got somethin' to say. I 
 feels like this : there's that bein' said in the village as didn't 
 ought to be said if it isn't true ; an' anybody hearin' of it an' 
 not tellin' the parties int'rested isn't doin' a neighbour's part, as 
 I'm sure I likes to do myself, an' expects other people to do 
 by me." 
 
 Mrs. Deane sat down and opened her mouth, but said 
 nothing. 
 
 " The first I heard of it was a little better'n a month ago ; an', 
 though I won't deny but what it give me a turn, knowin' you so 
 well, an' thinkin' o' my boy Jim, who's a good, straightforrard 
 lad as ever wus, an' never have give us a day's trouble since he 
 got over the fever nine years ago, I passed it by, an' it went out 
 o' my mind. But on'y last week Drake hisself says to me, 
 ' Missis, you rek'lect what so-an'-so said to you about ', and 
 afore he could finish I see what he meant. ' Why, that I do,' 
 says I. 'Have you heard anythink ?' 'Yes, I have,' says he; 
 *an', depend on't, it's near about right/ though, as I says agen, 
 stricter people than you Deanes, an' respectabler " 
 
 " But what is it ? " here interposed Mrs. Deane helplessly. 
 " You haven't told me what it is yet." 
 
 " I'm comin' to it. Of course, our Jim's a good lad, though 
 I say it as hadn't ought ; but, no matter how good a lad is, gals 
 must take care o' theirselves, or things'll happen as it's best 
 shouldn't happen. Old married folks like us, Mrs. Deane, 
 knows all about that." 
 
 " Will you b'lieve me," said Mrs. Deane, dropping her hands 
 on her knees, " but I can't see what you're drivin' at I can't 
 if I was killed for it." 
 
 Mrs. Drake lifted her brows very high. " Is it ever 
 possible ? " she said drily. 
 
 " It is, though by your look you don't believe me." 
 
 " Well, if that's true, I'm a'most sorry I come ; but I must 
 say, Mrs. Deane, that if Annie had been my gal, I should ha' 
 seen how things wus a long time ago."
 
 Sim's flDotber 33 
 
 " Annie ? " the mother said stupidly ; " our Annie ? Why, 
 what d'ye mean about her? I knows she've not bin well 
 very peaked and poorly ; but if you've come to show me my 
 dooty to my children, Mrs. Drake, let me tell you as I do that 
 as well as circumstances 'ill let me. They might look better if 
 they lived better, but wages is little and victuals is dear. They 
 haves the best I can give 'em, Mrs. Drake." 
 
 " I'm not talkin' about that, my good soul. When you says 
 as that gal isn't well, do ever you mean that you can't see what's 
 the matter wi' her ? " 
 
 And then something came into the mother's innocent mind 
 which for the moment stunned her, as one is physically stunned 
 by a blow on the head. She was recalled to immediate matters 
 by the kettle, which boiled over, causing Mrs. Drake to cough 
 violently by reason of the sulphurous smother it made. By the 
 time she had recovered her breath, Mrs. Deane had risen to 
 the situation, and was ready to defend it. 
 
 " I'm much obliged to people for scandalisin' my gal behind 
 'er back," she said ; " it's neighbours all over, that is. But they 
 better mind what they says, for Deane's a quiet man as ever 
 lived ; but 'e wouldn't stand by quiet to hear 'is gal spoke bad 
 of, an' anyone as did it 'd find theirselves mistook. There's 
 nothun wrong wi' our Annie, ye may take my word for that. 
 Growin' gals is offen weak an' out o' sorts, as I own she 'ave 
 bin an' is now; but a better gal isn't to be found for miles 
 round no, nor a prettier, Mrs. Drake. P'r'aps thafs why folks 
 can't let her alone." 
 
 Mrs. Drake smiled, and said she never had set herself up to 
 be a judge of beauty , and that as long as her Patty behaved 
 herself like a modest girl should, she was quite content to 
 leave the good looks to other people. Everybody knew that 
 " handsome is as handsome does," and she, for one, wouldn't 
 say " Thank you " to be the mother of a pretty girl ; she had 
 always thought this to be a position fraught with so much 
 responsibility. Having delivered herself of these opinions, she 
 rose and put on her shawl. 
 
 " I'm sorry you haven't took my meanin' kinder," she said, 
 with the pin of her brooch between her teeth ; " but in case you 
 should find what I tells ye to be right an', mark my words, it 
 is right I'll say what I meant to say, 'cos we, Drake an' me, 
 'ave felt a bit put about ourselves. Now, jest you speak to 
 your gal on the quiet. If all's right, why, so much the better, 
 an' there's no 'arm done ; but if there is anythink amiss, an 1 
 anybody belongin' to us is to blame, why, then, Drake an' me 
 
 c
 
 34 Bnnte 2>eane 
 
 will do what we can to try and put things right. I, for one, 
 don't like to lay all a burden like this on the one pair o' 
 shoulders. I thinks the man's shoulders is the strongest, an' 
 should anyway take half. It mayn't be pleasant for us, but I'd 
 like to know as we did the right thing. An', Mrs. Deane, now, 
 or at a future time, as may be, you may depend on us to do it. 
 I'm sorry if I've offended you. I can on'y say, as I said jest 
 now, I wish to do a neighbour's part, as I'd like any o' my 
 neighbours to do by me." 
 
 When Mrs. Drake had left, Mrs. Deane slowly began to 
 prepare the children's tea. They all came in shortly, and she 
 helped Annie attend to them as usual. But when they were 
 all in bed she sat down opposite her husband, looking at him 
 drearily, and wondering whether or not to tell him of Mrs. 
 Drake's visit. She decided to tell him, and did so. 
 
 After a long, long talk they made up their minds to say 
 nothing for a week, during which time the mother was to keep 
 a close watch over the girl. 
 
 At the end of the week Deane said : 
 
 "Well, missis, tell us what ye thinks, for my very bread don't 
 taste right these seven days, an' there's somethin' in the look o' 
 the gal as chokes me off speakin' to 'er. Tell us, what do ye 
 think?" 
 
 And the mother answered quietly : 
 
 " Dan'l, I don't think at all. I knows ; an' I knows as it's 
 true."
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 "i DON'T KNOW" 
 
 THE next day the sword which had hung over Annie Deane's 
 head for so many weary weeks descended. 
 
 The elder children were at school. Mrs. Deane shut the 
 younger ones out of mischief, and then, with more steadiness 
 than might have been expected of her, asked Annie for the 
 truth, half hoping, after all, to hear a bewildered denial of the 
 whole thing. No denial came. Very quiet, very white and 
 wretched, Annie heard what her mother had to say, standing 
 the while with tight-clenched hands twisted in the skirt of her 
 gown, and with eyes fixed on the bit of pale sky she could see 
 through the slip of a casement. 
 
 When her mother begged for the truth, she stood unmoved ; 
 when the poor woman broke down and sobbed, she stood 
 unmoved; when the sobs gave way to bitter and vehement 
 reproach, she stood unmoved ; but when it came to the all- 
 important question of identity, she opened her pale lips and 
 answered with the air of one who had long since prepared such 
 answer : 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " What ? " said the mother, in angry impatience. " Don't 
 make me any such foolish answer as that agen, or you'll be 
 sorry for it ! How dare ye stan' in front o' yer own good 
 mother an' tell her such a wicked thing. Tell me straight out 
 who is it ? " 
 
 " It is true what I said. 1 don't know." 
 
 Checking herself with difficulty, the mother passed the 
 exasperating answer by. 
 
 " Mrs. Drake come to me and spoke very fair. She offered 
 to try and shut people's mouths. It's a sad disgrace, an' if 
 Drake's people 'ad turned their backs on ye, it wouldn't ha' bin 
 to wonder at. But they're very right-thinkin' folks, an' both 
 she an' Drake'll try to make Jim stan' by ye, an' hush it up as 
 well as they can." 
 
 She showed some feeling now. Her eyes came down from 
 
 35
 
 3<> Hnnfe Deane 
 
 the patch of sky and met her mother's for an instant ; her lip 
 curled in supreme contempt. 
 
 "Jim Drake ! " said she scornfully, and the mother saw at 
 once that it was not he : which made things worse. In the 
 thought of Jim had lain a certain amount of comfort, a hope of 
 escape from the deepest depths of village scorn. Jim and 
 Annie together would have to live the scandal down. Now Jim 
 walked out of it with clean hands, leaving the girl to face it 
 alone. There was no one else to whom Mrs. Deane could turn, 
 and she plied the girl with questions unavailingly. At last, 
 fearing to trust herself, she turned away in despair. 
 
 " Get out o' my sight," she said, "or I shall never be able to 
 keep my 'ands off ye ! I must leave yer father to deal wi' you." 
 
 Deane tried to get out of it with all his might. 
 
 "What can I do?" implored he helplessly. "Gals is the 
 mother's business, specially at a time like this." 
 
 " Or any other time that's a time o' trouble," said she bitterly. 
 " Trust a man for givin' the woman the dirty work to do." 
 
 " But I dunno how to get at her, missis. How do /know 
 what to say ? It's the worst stroke o' luck we've ever had, an' 
 I dunno how to deal wi' it. What does other folks do ? It 
 seems to me as I've heard they sends the gal right away." 
 
 " Tell me where ? What friends ha' we got to take her ? It's 
 very well to talk of sendin' her away, wi' no money an' no 
 friends. No ; what we've got to do is to find out who's to 
 blame. You must frighten 'er into tellin' us that." 
 
 So the father, with even a blush of awkwardness on his 
 weather-beaten face, went in to the girl and begged her to tell 
 him what it was imperative they should know. She hid her 
 face from him, but kept silence. 
 
 " Don't mistake us," he said patiently. "We're terrible cut 
 up, but we won't turn our back on ye if on'y you'll tell us the 
 truth. We'd sooner ha' followed you to the grave ; but there's 
 no use talkin' o' that now. As soon as we can get turned 
 round, we must see what can be done ; but afore we can do 
 anythink at all, o' course we must ha' the whole truth right 
 out." 
 
 She rocked herself backwards and forwards, but said nothing. 
 
 "You'll gain nothink by obs'nacy," he resumed. "You'll 
 on'y harden us agen ye. O' course, if it comes to that, we can 
 find out easy enough. The world ain't so big but what a man's 
 to be found if he's in it. Still, we're lookin' to you to tell us 
 who he is." 
 
 She held her peace. Her father went closer to her.
 
 "3 IDon't fmow" 37 
 
 " No defiance," said he, " 'cos' that I won't 'ave. Ye've done 
 enough wrong without aggeravatin' it by defyin' yer father an' 
 mother. Now, d'ye hear. What I wants is a man's name." 
 
 She moaned to herself, but did not speak. 
 
 " All as I 'as to say is give me that man's name." 
 
 She moaned again, with her face hidden. 
 
 He drew her concealing hands away, and held them in one 
 of his. 
 
 " Now, tell me that name." 
 
 She moistened her lips, and tried to free her hands. "I I n 
 
 " What ? Come on, now." 
 
 " I I can't." 
 
 " Don't say that agen. You can, and you shall." 
 
 Her face was grey, her teeth were chattering with fear, her 
 hands were swelling with the vice-like grasp on her wrists. Her 
 father had never beaten her, but she had seen him beat the 
 boys, and physically she was a coward. 
 
 " I'm waitin' for that name." 
 
 Her lips formed the answer inaudibly. 
 
 " What did ye say ? " 
 
 I don't know." 
 
 " None o' that, or you'll get my blood up, an' I shall do 
 what I shall be sorry for. Now, dare say that agen. Tell me 
 that man's name." 
 
 " Father, I don't know." 
 
 " What ? " 
 
 " I I " she stopped, afraid. Deane was losing his self- 
 control, and his face showed signs of the storm within him. He 
 rocked the girl to and fro by her hands, then suddenly brought 
 her forward with a jerk, which closed her chattering teeth upon 
 her lip, staining it with blood. 
 
 " Dare tell me that lie agen ! Tell me the truth." 
 
 She tried to free one hand, but not being permitted, patiently 
 stooped her mouth to the sleeve of her old dress, and left a red 
 mark there. Deane saw it, and freed her hands. She wiped 
 her lip, then rubbed her wrists hard and slowly. They were 
 very painful. 
 
 " I'm waitin' for the truth." 
 
 She edged back to the wall as if for protection. Her father 
 followed her. 
 
 "Are ye deaf? or are ye a fool ? " 
 
 She leaned against the wall, patient and dumb, the blood 
 from her bitten lip slowly outlining it with red. 
 
 " Will ye answer me ? "
 
 38 Bnntc Deane 
 
 " I have." 
 
 "You haven't. I ast ye for a man's name." 
 
 She put her trembling arm in front of her face. 
 
 " I told ye what I could, father. I did, for truth," she said, 
 with a flinch at every word. 
 
 ' You told me a lie." 
 
 " It wusn't, father ; it wus the truth." 
 
 u I say it was a lie, an' not on'y that, but a foolish lie a 
 hardened, wicked, cursed lie ! " cried Deane, raising his voice 
 until the small stock of household glasses on a shelf near rang. 
 Wus it that lad o' Drake's ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Wus it any o' the village folks ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Then it wus some o' the gentry round about, an* they shall 
 pay for it dear ! " 
 
 " It it wusn't none o' them." 
 
 " Then who wus it ? " 
 
 She pressed back hardly against the wall. 
 
 " Say ye won't tell me." 
 
 She made no answer. 
 
 " Mind, I'll make ye, for my blood's up." 
 
 She brought her eyes to the level of his clenched fist, as if 
 she were trying to measure the strength of it, or to familiarise 
 herself with the idea of being struck by it. The knotty veins 
 and the white knuckles seemed to fascinate her. 
 
 " Yes," Deane said slowly, " you may look at it, an' 'less ye 
 up an' tell me what I want to know, ye'll feel it let the 
 consequences be what they will." 
 
 There was silence, and then, quite suddenly, Annie lost all 
 fear of the clenched hand, for physical weakness had mastered 
 her, and she was growing faint. The little room seemed to be 
 fading away, and something curious, like a tangible darkness, 
 was weighing her eyelids down and pinning her back against 
 the wall. She was not even frightened when she discovered 
 that her father was holding her by the shoulders ; she only felt 
 a throb of gratitude. She was going to faint, and if he hurt 
 her, she would not feel it. Besides, he would be startled then, 
 and would let her alone for fear of injuring her. He might be 
 terribly upset, but he was " father" still, and surely would not be 
 very cruel. But he had no idea of letting her alone. He saw 
 that she was pallid, that her eyes were heavy and devoid of 
 expression ; but a fainting girl was a thing which had not come 
 into his narrow experience. So he simply held Annie by the
 
 "5 H>on't "Know" 39 
 
 shoulders, and demanded satisfaction, sometimes roughly, 
 sometimes with an effort after self-control, but always in a 
 manner calculated to make her understand that he meant to 
 have the truth. 
 
 They stood thus for ten or twelve long minutes. Although 
 Annie felt desperately ill, she did not quite lose her senses, 
 and as the minutes passed she realised that sight and power of 
 thought were growing clear again. She tried to speak, found 
 she could not, waited, and tried again, succeeding very 
 imperfectly; tried once more, and managed to ask if she 
 might sit down. 
 
 " When you've answered me," said Deane. 
 
 But I'm bad, father ; I'm so bad ! " 
 
 " Then speak up, and tell me what I ast. As soon as you've 
 done that ye can go." 
 
 She dropped her head back against the wall, with a feeble, 
 whining protest against his cruelty. 
 
 "Now, then," he said, with a jerk of her shoulders, "sharp. 
 I'm at the end o' my patience." 
 
 " I can't help that," she said, struggling with a choking at 
 her throat. " I've nothin' to say." 
 
 " Ye won't say ? " 
 
 " I can't say." 
 
 " Who's to stop ye ? " 
 
 She gasped again, and held her throat with her hands. 
 
 "Why can't ye?" 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 And then, fearing the effect of that exasperating answer, she 
 lost control of herself, and burst into shrieking sobs, which 
 brought her mother from the next room, and fairly frightened 
 everyone. 
 
 " Here, here, go 'long out of it," said Mrs. Deane to her 
 husband. " I might ha' known as you'd do no good. Why, 
 Annie Annie, don't cry like that ! There, there's a good gal 
 now, hush up. Did father hit ye ? No ? then whatever is the 
 matter ? Why didn't ye tell me, an' then I wouldn't ha' put 
 'im on to ye ? Men can't never tell when to stop. Here, 
 mercy, this'll never do!" 
 
 Saying which she took the shaking, sobbing girl in her arms, 
 and alternately coaxed and scolded her into silence. Then she 
 went into the kitchen, where Deane sat in crestfallen shame, 
 and soundly rated him for his clumsiness and failure. 
 
 " Don't tell me ye didn't hit 'er. Ye made 'er poor mouth 
 bleed. It's bleedin' now, an' she's like a dead thing 1 As if
 
 4 Bnnie 2>eane 
 
 there wusn't enough 'arm done without that ! Here's the 
 children 'ome from school. What, Alice ? what's the matter 
 with Annie ? Nothink. Off wi' yer things and 'elp wi' the 
 dinner, an' don't ast so many questions." 
 
 The neglected dinner being ready and everyone served, the 
 mother left her own and went back to the front room. 
 
 " Come along," she said, " come an' have yer dinner. If 
 you cries yerself blind ye can't straighten things now." 
 
 But Annie, though she followed her mother into the kitchen, 
 shook her head at sight of the bit of " rusty " bacon and the 
 savoy cabbage on the kitchen table. 
 
 "Give me the baby," said she, as well as she could for 
 sobbing. " I don't want no dinner, but do let me have the 
 baby," 
 
 She took the child, and commenced to cram him, as usual, 
 with his dinner of mashed potatoes and milk ; while he varied 
 the performance by kicking up his heels and uttering an 
 occasional crow of delight as one big tear after another fell 
 upon his chubby hands. 
 
 Late that night, when all was quiet save for Deane's regular 
 snoring, the mother slipped out of bed, and stole into the next 
 room. 
 
 " Asleep, Annie ? " whispered she. 
 
 " No, mother." 
 
 "Well now, there's a good girl, tell yer mother what we 
 wants to know. Tisn't as if father an' me wanted to be 'ard 
 on ye ; we don't. We'll try and scrape together a bit o' money 
 to send ye' away for a bit, an' then we'll take ye' back agen the 
 same as ever ; but we can't till we knows the truth. There's 
 nobody to hear now. Tell mother who the man is as made ye 
 forget yerself an' do this dreadful wrong." 
 
 And out of the dark there came the old hopeless answer, 
 spoken steadily 
 
 "Idoritknow?
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 M IN THE DEAD, UNHAPPY NIGHT " 
 
 A FEW days later Annie and her mother stood on the plat- 
 form of the village station, waiting for the Reading train, a 
 temporary refuge having been found for the girl by Mrs. 
 Drake, who had proved herself a very friend in need to the 
 Deanes in their trouble. 
 
 " Now, jest you listen to me," she had said to Mrs. Deane ; 
 " I've bin into Readin', an' I've seen my Aunt Jane. Not as 
 she is my aunt, but we always call her aunt, an' that's near 
 enough. She've always kep' a girl to help about the house, an' 
 I knows as yours have bin brought up to work. She can do 
 light work as long as she's able, an' when she's not well, 
 p'r'aps by that time we'll have found out what we've not found 
 out yet. Anyways, this'll do for now. Aunt Jane Fryer is as 
 good a soul as need be, an' very religious. Not as she 
 mightn't be a bit pleasanter in her manner o* speakin', but I 
 finds that to be the case wi' people as is religious in gen'ral. 
 They won't seem to lay to heart that honey ketches more flies 
 than vinegar. Her man wus on the railway, an' wus run over 
 by a goods train. I went in to see him 'fore he died. She 
 wus that anxious about his soul that she forgot his body, so I 
 stayed to help her a bit. I mind she wus terrible straight 
 wi' me for cookin' him a dinner on the Sunday. She never 
 haves a hot dinner Sundays. But I did cook it, an' he eat it, 
 an' I've liked to think as he did, for the very next Sunday he 
 wus where dinners didn't matter to 'im. But she was that 
 huffy ! She set at the table an' read the lessons for the day 
 with her face as red as fire, an' her back as stiff as buckram. 
 Still, Aunt Jane is a wonderful good woman ! She'll do your 
 Annie good, an' as I says, it's the best we can do for now." 
 
 As one result of this conversation, Annie stood on the 
 platform of the village station, with a band-box tied up with 
 string, and her other odd possessions in a red, white-spotted 
 cotton handkerchief. 
 
 " Be a good gal, now," said Mrs. Deane, wiping her eyes, 
 
 41
 
 4 Snnfe 2>eane 
 
 "an' I'll come an' see ye' 'fore many weeks is over, if I can. 
 Mind you do what's to be done all neat and clean. It's 
 dreadful hard on me! for Alice is such a poor hand with a 
 baby ! Here's the train. Stan' back a bit. Have ye got the 
 envelope an' the stamp to let me know as you've got there 
 safe? Good-bye, an' mind as you're grateful to Mrs. Fryer 
 for a havin' of ye. It isn't many as would." 
 
 An hour or so later Annie followed Mrs. Fryer up the narrow 
 garden path which led to that lady's residence. Not an impos- 
 ing residence in point of size, but exceedingly prim, and spick- 
 and-span, and stiff in its interior arrangement. The fuschias 
 and oak geraniums in the front parlour window carefully tied 
 back to little painted ladders were stiff; the netted curtains 
 were stiff; the tables a round one in the middle of the room, 
 a collapsible one with leaves at one side were stiff; so was 
 the horse-hair sofa, so were the chairs. The framed photo- 
 graph of a sailor, mounted upon cloth and surrounded by 
 British flags laboriously copied in coloured wools, was stiff ; so 
 was the uncanny-looking " Genealogical Tree " ; so was the 
 pile of musty books all theological and desperately dry 
 which adorned the side-table ; so was the case of ghastly wax 
 flowers which adorned the centre one. Annie involuntarily 
 drew herself up. Mother was always chiding her for "stooping." 
 She felt that this would not be necessary here. The very 
 atmosphere of Mrs. Fryer's front parlour would keep her upright. 
 She followed her new friend into the little back room in a silence 
 so profound that the clock as it ticked seemed to be taking a 
 liberty. Annie half expected to see Mrs. Fryer go to the wall 
 and stop it. No disorder, nothing out of its proper place, no 
 children no sign of anything young or lively ! Annie's heart 
 sank, and her eyes filled for the twentieth time that day. 
 When she had taken her band-box upstairs, and had found her 
 way down again, Mrs. Fryer announced that she was going 
 down the street to the grocer's, and that she would be obliged 
 by Annie watering the front garden ; but she must please not to 
 make a slop, and on no account must she talk to the neighbours. 
 
 The girl carefully carried out her instructions. When the 
 garden was watered, Mrs. Fryer had not returned, so her 
 charge moved reverently about the front parlour, and, having 
 examined the various objects of interest, thought she might 
 look at the books. At the bottom of the pile was a Family 
 Bible, then a " Life of Christ," then the " Sermons " of a 
 defunct divine, with a " Memoir " of said divine by another 
 divine, then Watts' " Hymns," then Keble's, then the " Pilgrim's
 
 "3U tbe Beat), TUnbappg IRfgbt" 43 
 
 Progress," with illustrations which haunted Annie every night 
 for many a week after, then Venn's " Complete Duty of Man," 
 then Sturm's "Reflections," then a tiny Book of Common 
 Prayer, and the " Christian Year." The " Reflections " being 
 somewhat attractively bound in bright blue and gold, Annie 
 opened them, and was immediately fascinated by the frontis- 
 piece, in which a gentleman in a high black " stock " and 
 irreproachable pantaloons is inviting a lady in short sleeves and a 
 bodice only suitable for a ball-room, to go with him into " some 
 flowery valley and there sing a hymn of praise." 
 
 The incongruous nature of the illustration did not occur to 
 Annie. She only thought how easy it must be to sing hymns 
 of praise in such a lovely place as this elegant pair had all to 
 themselves, and how easy it must be to be good when all the 
 good things of life were showered upon one in profusion. She 
 turned over the leaves to see if there were anything said about 
 the elegant pair, but found there was nothing, and put back the 
 book. She next tried to get at the Family Bible, and 
 succeeded at the cost of a fright. The pile of heavy books 
 held a set of japanned trays in place against the wall. The 
 books being disturbed, down came the trays, with a bang and 
 a clatter peculiar to tin trays and to no other articles under the 
 sun. 
 
 " Good gracious ! " cried Mrs. Fryer, running up the garden 
 path ; " what's that ? " 
 
 Ashamed and startled, Annie restored the side table to its 
 accustomed order, while Mrs. Fryer looked on. 
 
 "I'm not sayin' that I mind you lookin' at a book," said she; 
 " for there's nothing but good books in my house ; but still, 
 it's always safe to ask first. To touch things without leave is 
 to take a liberty ; but that, I daresay, you didn't understand." 
 
 Just at first she did not, but comprehension of such matters 
 soon developed in her. Her life with Mrs. Fryer was not 
 a happy one. She was not imposed upon, nor hard-worked. 
 Being a good worker, clean and quick, she gave satisfaction in 
 that way, and was even anxious for more to do; but Mrs. Fryer 
 had two causes of complaint. Annie seized every opportunity 
 to creep away when she cried herself stupid and ill and she 
 would not talk. 
 
 " I shall get it all out of her, never fear," Mrs. Fryer had 
 said to Mrs. Drake. "She will tell me all about it when she 
 gets a bit used to me." 
 
 But all the artful " pumping " in the world took Mrs. Fryer 
 no nearer to the truth : which was exasperating to the common
 
 44 Hnnie HJeane 
 
 female mind. When the woman found that all her questioning 
 was useless, her sympathy became blunted, then wore quite away ; 
 and as her feeling towards the girl could not remain stationary, 
 it quickly developed into dislike. 
 
 " You're no innocent," thought Mrs. Fryer grimly ; " you're 
 deep, and about as deep as they make 'em." 
 
 Feeling herself disliked, Annie grew dull and wretched. 
 At a time when most women are gently dealt with, she was 
 left to feel her way along a path beset at every step with 
 the terrors of the Unknown. What those terrors meant 
 to the girl only she knew ; what the long and lonely nights 
 were to her she could not have told anyone. If a young head 
 ever turned grey with fear, then had Annie's been grey indeed. 
 Accustomed from her childhhood to sleep with children to 
 feel the warmth of child-life on her arm, the stir of child-life 
 all about her to wake up now in the dark, alone, and hear 
 nothing but the solemn, mysterious " buzz " of absolute silence 
 was torture, such as had surely sufficed for the girl's punish- 
 ment, had she had no other. 
 
 For the first two or three weeks she said nothing, only tried 
 to conquer herself, to fight against the terror which seized her 
 when she woke after her first brief sleep, and realised that for 
 four or five interminable hours she must lie there listening to 
 the creaky sounds in the bare, dark room, while her heart beat 
 so that it shook her whole frame, and the bed on which she lay. 
 
 " I won't have another night like this," she would moan to 
 herself as she lay huddled under the clothes. " it'll do worse 
 than kill me it'll drive me mad." 
 
 But the grey light would faintly outline the window-panes 
 once more, and Annie's poor heart would gradually slow down. 
 Daylight was coming, and the phantoms born of the darkness 
 would glide away. Then, worn out, the girl would sleep 
 heavily until Mrs. Fryer's sharp voice awoke her with a start. 
 
 Still, she said nothing of these terrible nights. With the sun- 
 light lying brightly over everything, it was not easy to keep the 
 realism of them alive ; and but for a sort of mental dulness 
 which grew upon her day by day, she might have doubted 
 the existence of the phantom army which mustered in her dark 
 room every night. 
 
 " If I say anything to her" she thought, as she went wearily 
 about her work, " she'll only tell me I'm wicked to be afraid o' 
 the dark. If ever I knows any poor soul who's got to be by 
 theirselves at night, I hope I won't forget to help 'em through 
 if I can."
 
 "3n tbe Deafc, Unbapps ttfGbt" 45 
 
 The time came when silent endurance became impossible. 
 One night at the end of March she woke from a ghastly dream, 
 streaming with cold perspiration and shaking in every limb. 
 The wind was blowing a hurricane, and a waning moon gleamed 
 out from masses of scurrying cloud. It seemed to Annie that 
 the very fiends were loose, and shrieking to be taken into 
 human pity and shelter. She lay for a moment in stupid fear, 
 wondering whence came those awful cries. She told herself 
 it was only the wind, and surely that was nothing to be afraid 
 of. But what was the wind ? And then there came into her 
 mind a thing she had once heard said by a preacher who 
 should never have been permitted to preach to the ignorant. 
 He, indulging in language of the flowery order, had tried to 
 impress upon his audience the existence of a devil of the 
 material sort, and had alluded to him with bated breath and 
 upraised hand as " The Prince of the Power of the Air." The 
 terrible sounding sentence, together with the solemn-grotesque 
 imagery it conjured up, had taken firm hold on Annie's 
 childish mind ; and ever since then the howling of the wind 
 had suggested to her the very presence of the Evil One and his 
 flying satellites. As a fresh blast smote her chattering window 
 afresh, that old "bogie " of her childhood, oddly mixed up with 
 Apollyon, plus two horns and a luxuriant tail, started into fresh 
 life and unhinged her altogether. Her hair lifted, and cold 
 hands seemed to be pressing upon her face. Too terrified to 
 move, she burst into a bloodcurdling shriek, which echoed 
 through the tiny house, and resulted in the sudden appearance 
 of Mrs. Fryer, struggling with a sputtering candle and a red 
 flannel petticoat. 
 
 " Dear, dear ! " cried she, stumbling over the petticoat, and 
 thereby extinguishing the candle ; " what's the matter ? You 
 woke me out of a beautiful sleep, and have given me palpita- 
 tion o' the heart fit to kill me ! An' now the candle's out, an 1 
 no matches handy! What on earth made you scream like 
 that ? " 
 
 " There's somethink in the room," panted Annie j " I know 
 there is ! I woke up sudden, an' I see it ! I felt it come an' 
 hold my face down wi' two cold hands. Oh, Mrs. Fryer, I'm 
 goin' to die. I'm sure I am ! That thing meant I wus. 
 Somethink like that come an' touched mother the night as 
 gran'father died." 
 
 "To the moon with your rubbish 1" cried Mrs. Fryer 
 angrily, " and with your mother too, for ever filling your head 
 with such foolery. Here, now, get into bed directly 1 You'll
 
 4 finnfe Deane 
 
 give yourself your death, and then blame it on to something 
 which never happened. I declare you've frightened me out of 
 my wits ! " 
 
 " But not like I'm frightened," moaned the girl ; " an' ev'ry 
 night's the same. Nobody knows how I tries not to be afraid, 
 but I am. It's no good sayin' I'm foolish. Nights like this'll 
 kill me." 
 
 " The fact is, Annie," Mrs. Fryer said severely, " your con- 
 science is at work with you. If you was to up and tell the 
 truth, you'd be able to sleep fast enough. You can't hide away 
 from God, Annie. It's Him that speaks to you in the dark, 
 and until you've confessed, He won't let you alone." 
 
 Colder than ever went Annie. 
 
 " Let me dress," cried she, in terror. " I'll come an' sit in 
 your room I'll sit outside, or anythink on'y let me know as 
 there's somebody near to speak to." 
 
 " Well, then, come into my bed. I can't have my night's 
 rest broke into like this for your nonsense ! " 
 
 So Annie lay shivering beside Mrs. Fryer, while that excellent 
 person pointed out to her the sinfulness of concealment, and 
 the certainty of consequent suffering. Annie began to wonder 
 if concealment of a sin were worse than the sin itself. Mrs. 
 Fryer's sermon seemed to point that way. But much as the girl 
 might wonder whether or not she ought to confess, she had no 
 intention of doing so. She could not have said why, but she 
 felt why. To keep that part of her trouble to herself was her 
 one gleam of comfort in the matter. Deep down in her heart 
 was the image of the man who had deserted her, and she would 
 have suffered martyrdom rather than have dragged that image 
 forth to desecrate it in the light of common day. Her nature, 
 slow to receive impressions, was extremely tenacious of them, 
 once received. 
 
 But for her meeting with that nameless man, she might have 
 gone through life as maiden wife mother all of the very 
 ordinary kind. Awakened by that meeting with him to feeling 
 to love to passion to abandonment of Right, and surrender 
 of Self all in one breath as it were, she had not yet found her 
 level again. Further mental or moral progress was for the time 
 a: rested. She was still a very child in her ignorance. Ruined 
 for ever in the world's eyes, she had yet to learn what this 
 meant, and, having learnt, to resent it with all the might of a 
 nature which was narrow, and which education had had no 
 chance of widening. But it is just this kind of girl who some- 
 times stops at her first slip and goes no further. The narrow
 
 tbe 2)eafc, Ulnbapps 1FU0bt" 47 
 
 mind narrows the sympathies, and keeps the heart from stray- 
 ing any more for ever. 
 
 What with her fright and her real desire to conciliate Mrs. 
 Fryer, Annie had hard work to abstain from part confession as 
 she lay shaking there that night. She wanted present kind- 
 ness, present sympathy, and she felt that if she confessed these 
 things would be hers. Also, if she did confess, he would not 
 suffer ! None of her people could trace him unless by means 
 of his photograph. Annie lay pondering these matters while 
 Mrs. Fryer admonished, threatened, and drew graphic sketches 
 of terrible punishments ahead. But pondering produced no 
 confession. At last Mrs. Fryer grew weary, likening Annie's 
 heart to that one of Pharaoh's ; and then she abandoned herself 
 to sleep, while over the Berkshire town the dawn rose, chasing 
 the silent night-army for a few more hours, and shutting 
 Annie's secret more tightly than ever within her breast. 
 
 Throughout that day Mrs. Fryer was frigidly severe. She 
 had a bad headache, consequent, she said, upon the breaking 
 of her rest 
 
 " We will go to bed early to-night," she remarked at tea- 
 time ; " for I had next to no sleep at all last night, and no more 
 had you." 
 
 Annie whitened at the thought of the long night ahead. 
 
 " Am I to sleep with you ? " she said. 
 
 " No ; you must sleep in your own room. If you will not 
 make a friend of me in one way you can't expect to in another. 
 Now, I hope you will go to sleep like a sensible girl, and not 
 let us have any nonsense about cold hands and the like. It's 
 downright story-telling." 
 
 "It's dreadful truth," said Annie ruefully. 
 
 "Then what you see is sent tj make you a better girl, and 
 I hope it will have that effect." 
 
 White as a sheet went Annie. 
 
 " If you was to know what it is," she faltered. 
 
 " I'm thankful to say I don't. Night is as safe as day to the 
 Lord's people." 
 
 " It isn't that," the girl said hurriedly, " it's jest use. I can't 
 sleep becos' I'm so used to the children. I do miss 'em so 
 at night. Why, there's five in my room besides me, an* to be 
 alone sends me mad. It's nothink to make game of it sends 
 me mad." 
 
 " Well, then, you will have to go back home." 
 Annie's colour came back. 
 
 " I've been thinkin' o' one thing as would get over it," said
 
 48 Hnnie Deane 
 
 she hesitatingly. " I've bin goin' to ast you ever so many 
 times. It's about the baby mother's baby. He's so good I 
 never a bit o' trouble wi' me. He'll lay on the floor, as long 
 as he can see me, wi' two bits o' wood, or a bit o' paper 
 what'll rustle, an' he'll jest talk to hisself in his way, an' be no 
 trouble to nobody. You'd scarce know there wus a baby in 
 the house. If you'd let me have baby I'd be so thankful. I 
 could bear the nights with the baby." 
 
 Mrs. Fryer's power of speech temporarily deserted her. 
 
 " Well, to be sure," said she at last, " I never heard of such 
 impudence in all my life ! I say nothing of the thing being 
 ridiculous I'm only thinking of the impudence, and the great, 
 unbounded liberty of mentioning such a thing ! " 
 
 "I didn't think o' that," said Annie, beginning to cry, 
 " becos' it's on'y me as he could be any trouble to. I'd get up 
 earlier to wash an' dress 'im. I wouldn't eat much, an' I've got 
 a few pence as 'd buy 'im a little milk. A ha'porth twice a day 
 'd keep 'im, wi' what I could spare o' my food." 
 
 But Mrs. Fryer was still astonished, and could only repeat 
 that the impudence of that request surpassed anything in her 
 experience. 
 
 Annie said no more, and at half-past eight went quakingly 
 into her bare bedroom, trembling at the sound of her own foot- 
 steps, and ready to scream as she listened to the deliberate 
 closing of Mrs. Fryer's door. 
 
 She threw off her things and scrambled into bed, where she 
 spent the night at close quarters with Terror. She lay there 
 paralysed with fear, and when Mrs. Fryer went into the room 
 about seven the next morning she saw that here was no 
 " shamming," the girl was mentally and physically prostrate. 
 
 " I'll leave you alone for an hour or two," said the startled 
 woman ; " a sleep will do you good." 
 
 The girl neither answered nor moved, and two hours later, 
 when Mrs. Fryer went up with some tea, she saw that the 
 half-rigid figure on the bed had not shifted its position. 
 This was alarming. Mrs. Fryer condescended to be human. 
 She coaxed Annie, she scolded her with a touch of playfulness, 
 she did whatever occurred to her to do, and at last, in despair, 
 made up her mind to go down the street in search of a 
 neighbour, who was a person of experience and resource. 
 
 Having hastily tied on her bonnet, she opened the front door, 
 and there on the step stood Mrs. Deane, with a big basket of 
 greenstuff on one arm and the baby on the other. 
 
 " Good mornin'," said she, panting under the weight of her
 
 "3n tbe Deafc, TOnbapps iRiabt" 49 
 
 impedimenta. " I come by the early train. I was anxious to 
 see Annie." 
 
 "Come in," cried Mrs. Fryer, rather flurried; "come ia 
 I'm really glad to see you." 
 
 She found Mrs. Deane a chair, outraged her very nature by 
 taking the baby, and then proceeded to give a garbled account 
 of Annie's condition and its causes. 
 
 " You see, I really didn't think that she was so frightened as 
 all that. It seems so silly in a girl of her age, and knowing 
 that she'll have to pluck up and get her own living, I thought 
 it was no use to humour her to every little thing." 
 
 " Ah, that's true enough," said Mrs. Deane quietly ; " but 
 now there's a lot of allowance, Mrs. Fryer ; an' our gals is that 
 timorsome, you can't think ! " 
 
 " Then I'm afraid it's through some mistake in their train- 
 ing," retorted Mrs. Fryer. " What a heavy baby, to be sure 1 
 You know that children brought up in the right way oughtn't 
 to be afraid of the dark." 
 
 " Well, right or wrong, Mrs. Fryer, they mostly is, an' it's no 
 good turnin' our backs on such fancies jest becos' we're older, 
 an' have got over 'em. If you've shut your door at night an* 
 left Annie all alone it's bin cruel, an' I wish I'd known it." 
 
 " I'm sure no one can ever lay cruelty to my door," said 
 Mrs. Fryer. " I'm a God-fearing woman, Mrs. Deane ; but 
 perhaps it will be as well that you take the girl away." 
 
 Poor Mrs. Deane drew in. If she took the girl away, what 
 could she do with her ? Mrs. Fryer understood that perfectly. 
 She did not want to send Annie away, because she was a good 
 worker, both in the household and with her needle. Besides, 
 had not Mrs. Drake assured Aunt Jane that if she had the 
 girl she should not be a loser ? And was not the word of Mrs. 
 Drake a thing to be trusted ? 
 
 " Well," she said, after an awkward pause, " 111 go up and 
 let her know you're here." 
 
 She went up. At the word "mother" Annie's dull eyes 
 took on a gleam of intelligence, but she made no further 
 response, and Mrs. Fryer, in some trepidation, went down, and 
 sent up the mother and the baby. Their familiar presence 
 penetrated the lethargy which wrapped Annie about as nothing 
 else could have done ; and when the crowing baby crawled up 
 the bed, patted her face and pulled her hair, the desolate girl 
 gave a broken-hearted gasp, then burst into a storm of sobs, 
 out of which at last came one intelligible cry 
 
 " Mother mother do take me home ! " at which the
 
 so Bnnie Deane 
 
 poor mother sat down and cried too, that this should be the 
 thing of all others which she could not do. 
 
 "I've got no room for ye, child," she said, wringing her 
 hard hands together, " an' it wouldn't do. It do seem hard to 
 turn our backs on ye for the sake o' what neighbours 'd say ; 
 an' if 'twasn't fur the childern, an' so many of 'em in the bit 
 of a place, I'd take ye back an' tell 'em to say what they 
 liked." 
 
 Annie turned away with a moan, but recovered somewhat as 
 the day went on, and before Mrs. Deane left Mrs. Fryer made 
 a great concession. In the solemn atmosphere of the front 
 parlour she told her visitor that as she had the baby here, he 
 might be left behind for a few days, which announcement 
 reconciled Annie to the idea of remaining in Reading. 
 
 The baby was left behind. Annie's plate went empty that 
 his might be full, and her cup of poor tea was often quite 
 innocent of milk or sugar ; but she went to bed with the child 
 in her arms, and was as happy as she could well be under the 
 circumstances. 
 
 Now, Master Willie Deane was a good child as children go, 
 but Mrs. Fryer was fidgety, and at the end of a week had 
 begun to feel that a baby in the house was an insufferable 
 nuisance. But how to get rid of the baby ? He could not be 
 sent home in a hamper like any other little animal, and to re- 
 quest his parents to come and fetch him was to impose upon 
 them a heavy penalty of the railway-fare order. So the days 
 slipped by until Willie had been an unwelcome guest for more 
 than three weeks, and Mrs. Fryer felt that her hospitality might 
 come to an end. 
 
 " I think Willie had better go home," she said one morning, 
 when the child had been troublesome. " It is quite time that 
 you had a rest from carrying him about." 
 
 Annie's colour came and went. 
 
 "I don't find him heavy," she said timidly, "an' I hope he 
 haven't been no expense to you ? " 
 
 " That is not the thing. He upsets the place, and you'd 
 better write and tell your mother to fetch him." 
 
 But Annie, though she wrote to her mother, did so in such 
 a way that Mrs. Deane wrote back begging another week for 
 the baby. Father's club money had emptied the family cotters ; 
 besides which, Mrs. Drake talked of coming, and would bring 
 Willie back with her. 
 
 The child took a good bit of looking after. Though still 
 unable to walk, he could get from one room to another by
 
 "3n tbe S)eafc, Tftnbapps TUobt" 51 
 
 means of the zig-zag wriggle peculiar to his tribe. Also, he 
 could pull himself up by the furniture, and thus reach articles 
 which might reasonably have been supposed to be beyond 
 him. His spirit of enterprise kept Annie on the alert, and 
 one morning at the end of April there came a crash in more 
 senses than one. The girl was busy, and failed to keep strict 
 watch over the baby's movements. Therefore, one moment 
 beheld him seated on the floor of the back room, the next saw 
 him advancing by means of his patent wriggle towards the 
 sanctuary of the front parlour, the next witnessed him pulling 
 himself up by the tablecloth, and the next found him upon his 
 back on the floor, surrounded by the theological books in a 
 state of demoralisation, and by the debris of the basket of wax 
 flowers, glass-shade and all ! Poor Annie ! All the king's horses 
 and all the king's men could not put that horrible wax-work 
 together again, and Mrs. Fryer had set upon it a value quite 
 fictitious and appalling. In vain Annie pleaded the baby's 
 ignorance and customary good conduct. Mrs. Fryer put him 
 across her knee, and having made one part of his infant person 
 very red, she sat him down upon it, and told him that he had 
 broken something which could never be replaced on this side 
 of the grave. Annie, weeping as she swept up the fragments, 
 devoutly hoped that wax flowers under glass-shades might be 
 unknown on the other. She wrote a piteous letter home, and 
 Mrs. Deane came in hot haste to fetch Willie away. He went, 
 cheerfully unconscious to the last of the gravity of his offence ; 
 or, if conscious impenitent. So far from making any attempt 
 to conciliate Mrs. Fryer, he treated her firmly as one who had 
 dealt him injustice. 
 
 Little sympathy was shown towards Annie in the hurry and 
 the petty bickerings of the two women. 
 
 "Children would be children," said Mrs. Deane, with a 
 martyrised air, "and what was Willie but a baby? " 
 
 To which Mrs. Fryer responded that she was aware of it, 
 but that children, be they ever so young, could be taught to 
 " mind." 
 
 So Annie helped to carry the baby to the station, and felt 
 very guilty and wretched as she did so. 
 
 " Now," said her mother at parting, " ye mustn't be fright- 
 ened nor silly, an' you must bear in mind what we owes 
 to Mrs. Fryer for havin' ye here. An' really, ye should ha' 
 minded Willie carefuller. I dessay she wus put out at havin' 
 her nice glass-shade broke When things is right agen, please 
 God, you'll go to service, an' then the first money you earns
 
 sa Hnnie Deane 
 
 must go to payin' for that shade. I'll try an' see ye agen 
 before long; but if I can't, why, I can't. Ye see this railway 
 ridin' takes the very money we wants to keep us decent. 
 Father's most at his wits' end, an' the children's feet's on the 
 ground. If I hadn't ha' come here to-day, Ben could ha' had a 
 pair o' boots come Saturday." 
 
 Annie hugged the baby, and gave him a sponge-cake bought 
 coming along with her last available penny. Then the train 
 moved off, and the girl turned away. 
 
 She looked very thoughtful as she went along, and before 
 turning into Friar Street stopped to take a shabby purse from 
 her pocket and assure herself of the safety of its contents. 
 Clutching the purse tightly, she walked on to the busy part of 
 the town, looking about for a likely shop. 
 
 " Take it to any large shop," her letter had said. She took 
 it to the largest she could find. Here they declined to take 
 any trouble for her, so she went somewhere else without 
 success. Then she tried a chemist's, where her precious bit of 
 paper was taken from her, held up to the light, and otherwise 
 examined, but at length handed back to her, with a tranquil 
 gesture signifying refusal. This frightened her. 
 
 " Isn't it good 1 " she burst out piteously. 
 
 " Oh, yes, good enough ; but I cannot change it." 
 
 She breathed again and turned away. 
 
 " I'll take it to our grocer's," thought she. " They'll change 
 it They'll think it's for Mrs. Fryer." 
 
 The grocer's assistant knew her, and nodded pleasantly as 
 he took the note to the desk. But the cashier looked surprised, 
 held it up to the light, and still fingering it suspiciously, walked 
 down the shop to Annie, who was turning rather sick with 
 suspense. 
 
 " Am I to take Mrs. Fryer's account from this ? " 
 
 "Oh, please, no/" she said eagerly ; "it's mine." 
 
 " H'm ! " He looked more surprised than before, and 
 walked back to the desk, where he remained so long that Annie 
 lost her head What were they doing with her fortune ? Oh, 
 horrible suspicion ! were they going to get it away from her ? 
 She went up to the de^k, with her fright visible in her eyes. 
 
 " Please," faltered she, " where's my money ? " 
 
 " I have had to send the note out, We banked this 
 afternoon, and are short of change " 
 
 She stood for quite ten minutes, shaking with apprehension, 
 while the grocer's boy went to two or three shops, and varied 
 his occupation by reading a little sensational literature. At
 
 "3n tbc Deafc, "dnbappE fifabt" 53 
 
 la.rt, having obtained the change and mastered the contents of 
 his week's instalment, that grocer's boy handed Annie's fortune 
 to the cashier, who in turn handed it to the owner. She put 
 the money in her purse, the purse in her handkerchief, and both 
 articles in the bosom of her gown. How selfish she felt as she 
 walked away from the shop, thinking of mother and Ben's bare 
 feet ! Ben was such an enemy to shoe-leather ! She was 
 terribly hungry, but she walked on, looking straight ahead, 
 because the shop windows should not tempt her. Besides, 
 Willie having departed, she would be at liberty to eat a bit 
 more herself, and could have some milk and sugar in her tea 
 to-night. 
 
 Reaching home she found tea in full swing, the best china in 
 use, also the plated teapot, while the centre of the table was 
 occupied by a sixpenny " Madeira " cake. These things were 
 in honour of Mrs. Fryer's niece, who was unexpectedly present, 
 and of whom Mrs. Fryer thought a great deal. 
 
 Annie was severely scolded for having been absent longer 
 than was necessary, so severely that but for hunger she would 
 have retreated to the back kitchen and stayed there. But 
 hunger was stronger than pride, so she ate her tea in silence, 
 while the smart stranger held forth on the splendours and 
 advantages of " service " in good families. The smart stranger 
 hailed from London, which fact surrounded her with a halo of 
 fascination for Annie. 
 
 " Oh ! I'm quite my own mistress," said she, with a smile. 
 "Talk of a shop assistant being better off than us ? We have 
 plenty of the best of everything ; in fact, they'd know better 
 than to expect us to eat anything else every Sunday out unless 
 there's something unusual, one half day in the week, besides a 
 whole day once a month, and a fortnight at whatever time of 
 the year we happen to prefer. Then every year we have a rise 
 of salary." 
 
 Mrs. Fryer sat rigidly upright. 
 
 "You're forgetting one thing, 'Liza," said she severely. " All 
 these things are only open te those who, like yourself, bear an 
 unblemished character." 
 
 " Oh, of course," said the fortunate young person, as she 
 dropped her eyes, " that is indispensable." 
 
 After tea Mrs. Fryer went up to dress, preparatory to 
 accompanying her niece part of the way home. 
 
 " Ever been to London ? " said the young lady to Annie. 
 
 " No. It's a big place, isn't it ? " 
 
 " Immense. I couldn't give you any idea."
 
 54 Bnnic Deane 
 
 " Do you know where Regent Street is ? " 
 
 " Of course. It's one of the principal West End streets- 
 everyone knows it" 
 
 Annie coloured with suppressed excitement. 
 
 " Could anyone lose themselves in London ? " 
 
 "Well, I don't see how. There are too many 'buses and 
 cars and policemen about. Besides, you've always a tongue in 
 your head." 
 
 u Your friends live here, don't they ? What'd you do if you 
 wusill?" 
 
 " Go to a hospital. You are much better attended to than 
 you could be at home." 
 
 Here Mrs. Fryer came down and walked off with her niece. 
 Annie proceeded to wash up the best china, to eat a piece of 
 bread and butter left on the plate, and to pour some hot water 
 into the few spoonfuls of strong tea which the young lady from 
 London had thought it " correct " to leave in her cup. By the 
 time she had put everything away Mrs. Fryer returned. 
 
 " My niece wants me to spend the day with her to-morrow," 
 said she. " Would you mind being left ? I should be back 
 before dark." 
 
 " I wouldn't mind at all," said Annie. 
 
 " Then let us get to bed. You can sleep with me." 
 
 This was a good hearing. Annie slept soundly, and woke 
 the next morning feeling much better and brighter than she had 
 done for some time. 
 
 Mrs. Fryer left the house about eleven, having left Annie a 
 bit of cold meat, some bread, a pinch of tea in one piece of 
 paper, and a spoonful of sugar in another. 
 
 " There's some beautiful dripping on the shelf," she said as 
 she departed, " so you won't want to meddle with the butter. 
 Mind you have a fire for me by the time I come home. You 
 may let it out now. You won't want it, working about." 
 
 To make sure it was let out she turned back, took off the 
 greater part of the " live " coal, pushed it under the grate, and 
 scuttled out of the smoke post haste. Annie instantly put the 
 kettle over the remains of the fire, made her tea, ate dinner 
 and tea together with evident relish, then cleared everything 
 tidily away ; after which she went up and straightened her bed- 
 room, put all her things into one bundle, and was about to 
 carry the bundle downstairs when she heard a knock at the 
 door. 
 
 "Who's that? " cried she pettishly. "The veg'table man, I
 
 "2Fn tbe 2>eat>, "Clttbapps nafebt" 55 
 
 suppose, an' we don't want nothink, but perhaps I'd better 
 answer." 
 
 " Nothink to-day, thank you," she said civilly, as she opened 
 the door, and then she dropped back, with a cry of dismay, for 
 there on the clean, red bricks in front of the spotless door-step 
 stood Jim Drake
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE MAN WHO WAS NOT A GENTLEMAN 
 
 HE looked at the girl, and then away. Red as she was, he was 
 redder still ; filled with shame as she was, he was full too, and 
 brimming over. He looked down at his boots, investigating 
 them each in turn, then both together ; but if he were looking 
 for his voice, he failed to find it. There was a moment of em- 
 barrassing silence ; the door began to swing slowly shut. Jim 
 put his foot on the step and kept it open. 
 
 u I wants to speak to you," he said. " Can I come in ? " 
 
 "I dessay," Annie answered timidly. "Mrs. Fryer have 
 gone out." 
 
 Jim went in, putting his hat, brim upwards, on the table. 
 Stuck in the lining was a lovely yellow rose in a nest of brown- 
 green leaves. 
 
 " Lord Kennarven's gardener gave me this," explained he, as 
 he held the rose towards Annie. " I thought you'd like it." 
 
 She felt the cool leaves against her fingers, but could see 
 nothing, so blinded was she with tears. 
 
 Silence fell between them again. Jim stood uneasily, first 
 on one foot, then on the other, while he opened one after 
 another of Mrs. Fryer's books. Annie stood with her back to 
 him, wondering what had brought him there. The clock in 
 the back room striking twelve reminded her that time was more 
 precious to-day than usual. She made an effort and spoke : 
 
 " What brought you here, Jim ? " 
 
 " I come a purpose to see you. I knows why you're here, 
 an' I come to say that if you likes I'll I'll stan' by ye that 
 notwithstandin'." 
 
 She felt her way to a chair, and dropped into it. 
 
 " Oh, Jim ! " she sobbed piteously ; " oh, Jim I " 
 
 " Yes, I will. I've bin thinkin' over things ever since you 
 come away. At first I couldn't make 'ead nor tail o' what was 
 goin' on, but at last our mother she up an' told me. I found 
 as they all thought I had a hand in it, but I never said whether 
 'twas nor 'twasn't so. I jest made up my mind to come an' see 
 you, an' what I wants to say is as I'll stick to ye through thick 
 
 S6
 
 Ubc flDan wbo was not a Gentleman 57 
 
 an' thin ! I've got the blame ; well, then, I'll take it. When 
 I've married you, what's yourn's mine, an' if anybody's got a 
 turn to interfere wi' my business, I can deal with 'em. If it's 
 a woman, she'll have the length o' my tongue, an' if it's a man 
 he can have the length o' my arm, wi' a fist at the end of it." 
 
 She shook her head and sobbed. 
 
 " When I talked to ye last," Jim went on, " you said as you 
 couldn't marry me ye wished ye could. Them there words 
 o' yourn got hold o' me. I felt as when I could make out what 
 they meant, I'd make it all out. When mother told me what 
 was goin' on, then I see plain enough, an' I says to myself, 
 4 Well, now, that was good o' that gal. Many a one would ha* 
 took me as a short cut out o' the muddle, but she was above 
 that' I've always liked ye, I always shall. I can't help that, 
 an' I ain't goin' to try. As it's you what's in this muddle, why, 
 I on'y knows as I'd give all I've got to help you out. I can't 
 say more'n that if I talks for a hour. All what you've done 
 don't make no difference to the way I thinks o' you. As I says, 
 4 You're in trouble, an' I'd give all I've got to help you out.' " 
 
 It was not particularly well put, nor did Jim look particularly 
 well as he put it. His hair well plastered down with oil, his 
 ruddy flesh-tints killed by a scarlet necktie, his awkward air, 
 and his utter lack of self-possession, he would have passed for 
 anything rather than a hero. Perhaps he did not comprehend that 
 there was anything heroic in the offer he had come to make. 
 He simply felt that he wanted to give the girl he " liked " the 
 shelter of his name and his protection. He understood that 
 people would call him a fool for doing this if they knew, and he 
 meant to take care they did not know, but he was not puffed 
 up at the thought of doing something generous. Annie, how- 
 ever, saw the generosity with a clearness rare in her perception 
 of things. She felt that Jim had come before her in a 
 new light, felt that he was something much better, much 
 higher than she had hitherto thought him. Mrs. Fryer had 
 opened her eyes with unnecessary frankness as to her future 
 relationship towards mankind, had told her that every man 
 would regard her with contempt, open or veiled as the nature 
 of the man might prompt, but always with contempt. Now 
 here was Jim, of whose capacity for mere kindness she had 
 never thought very highly, offering to do her a kindness which 
 was too great to understand. She forgot her shame, she turned 
 and looked at the awkward lad in astonished reverence. 
 
 " Who'd ha' thought you cared for me like that !" she said 
 softly.
 
 s Hnnie 2>eane 
 
 "Well, I do, so now you knows." He stopped a minute 
 here and minutely examined the lining of his hat, then said 
 steadily, "There's one man somewhere's about as will know 
 what we know. Say as I marries you, I'd like to know 
 whether I'll be called on to touch my hat to that man for 
 gentry." 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " Shall I be like to meet 'un about ?" 
 
 No." 
 
 " Sure o' that?" 
 
 " Certain, Jim." 
 
 "Dolknow'im?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Ever seen 'im ? n 
 
 " Not as I knows of." 
 
 "Never likely to?" 
 
 " No," she said bitterly, " nor me neither." 
 
 " I'm not throwin' any doubt on what you says," said Jim 
 patiently, " but I hope you tell me the truth o' that matter, 
 becos' it's like this : if ever I'm likely to run agen 'im in our 
 parts (I thinks as I know the sort o' man 'e is), why, I'll take ye 
 an' we'll make a 'ome elsewhere. If he've really cleared out, 
 we can stop where we are." 
 
 She sat looking wistfully at Jim. She felt inclined to go and 
 touch him, to take his hand, or in some way try to show him 
 that she was grateful. For she was very grateful ! It was the 
 first genuine sympathy she had met with, the first mention of 
 any faith in her as being at all possible. With all the rest she 
 was a thing of the past ; with Jim alone was she the same, was 
 she still herself, in spite of what had happened. Her mother's 
 parting words, " You'll 'ave to go to service," had plainly shown 
 her that between her parents and herself was fixed an im- 
 passable gulf of offence, which nothing in all her future, be it 
 never so blameless, could bridge across. That sentence of her 
 mother's meant that she must face life on her own account, 
 that henceforth there would be no place for her in the cottage 
 with the rest. So from that moment all desire to go back home 
 had left her. She felt that she could not go back on such a 
 different footing to the old one. She had been so necessary, 
 had always felt herself to be a comfort; now she would 
 have ceased to be necessary, and would be a disgrace. 
 Mrs. Fryer also had laboured earnestly to show her that she 
 was one set apart from good, one who, having turned aside 
 from the straight path of duty, must be content to tread the
 
 TTbe flDan wbo was not a Gentleman 59 
 
 by-ways all her life. No human creature serenely treading 
 that straight path would make room for her to walk abreast of 
 them. This had been the burden of Mrs. Fryer's discourse, 
 and Annie had meekly begun to accept the prospective by- 
 ways for her own, wondering a little incidentally what sort of 
 company she would find there. Now, here was Jim, her old 
 despised sweetheart, preaching a totally different doctrine, 
 which opened up to her a prospect full of warmth and light. 
 She had sometimes felt that if anyone really cared for her, they 
 would care still, in spite of what she had done ; and now Jim 
 was showing her that she had not been far wrong. But then, 
 Jim was ignorant like herself. She did not want to take 
 advantage of him. 
 
 " You're only a boy, Jim," she said, in a friendly way. "If I 
 was to let you do what you want to do you'd be sorry for it 
 some day." 
 
 "We'll chance that," said Jim. " I ain't afraid. I didn't 
 come here afore I'd turned it all over in my own mind, and 
 settled everythink as I could think on." 
 
 She got up, standing with her back to him, while the colour 
 surged into her face and burned there. 
 
 " Ye see," she said, " 'tisn't on'y me what's got to be thought 
 of, there's somethink besides, Jim, an' it ain't to be expected as 
 you could could like it" 
 
 u I knows," said he hurriedly, " an' I thought o' that, too ; 
 but sure I ain't such a fool as to be down on a thing for what 
 it couldn't help. I'm ready to stan' by what I've said, for God 
 knows I means it. If you likes to stop 'ere till they can ast us 
 in church, well an' good. I'll get a 'ome ready by then, an' I'll 
 come an' take ye back. I reckon when I does that as I puts 
 myself in front o' you to take what blame there is. It's mostly 
 the women's tongues as you've got to fear, 'an I'll do my best to 
 keep them off ye." 
 
 Annie said nothing. Jim's goodness touched her inexpres- 
 sibly, but that mention of " going back " shut up her heart even 
 to him. No, she did not want to go back there. 
 
 " I can keep them off ye," urged Jim again. " I don't see 
 why you should care for a few maggin' women. If it don't 
 matter to me, why should it matter to you ? " 
 
 " I think it'd matter to both of us," she said. " I'm not 
 thinkin' o' other people. I'm on'y thinkin' o' our two selves, an' 
 tho' I can't tell why, Jim, I can see as plain as plain that I hadn't 
 ought to marry you. You're offering to do more for me than's 
 right, an' as soon as you'd got yer own way you'd see what a
 
 60 Bnnie 2>eane 
 
 stoopid you'd bin, an' you'd wish me anywheres out o' your 
 way." 
 
 " I wouldn't," said Jim, with energy ; " I never would ! You 
 thinks I'm jest a green'orn what don't know nothin 1 . I dessay 
 I am, but even a gree'orn knows the gal he likes from them he 
 don't like, an' he'll do for her what 'e wouldn't for them. If 
 any other gal wus in your place, why, p'r'aps I'd be the first to 
 say as it served her right ; but, jest becos' it's you, why, I can't 
 sleep o' nights for thinkin' about ye." 
 
 "I wonder you haven't give over doin' that" she said 
 miserably. " Anybody can tell ye fm good for nothin'." 
 
 " Let 'em try," said Jim. 
 
 " They will everybody will. But, Jim, I don't want to be 
 bad. I never felt to want to be good like I do now that 
 nobody'll believe in me." 
 
 "I believe in ye," Jim said quickly; "an* that's jest why I 
 wants to take ye back. I'm sure they'd have to come round in 
 time an' own as I wus right." 
 
 " It isn't for you to think a lot o' me at all," she said, again 
 turning from that mention of going back. " I can't let you 
 take blame as isn't yourn. It would be downright bad to let 
 everybody b'lieve that, Jim, and I can't do it I can't 
 nohow." 
 
 Jim's face hardened. Annie's obstinacy began to damp him, 
 to turn him back to that level beyond which so few of us ever 
 manage to rise. He spoke a trifle bitterly. 
 
 " I can't think as it's the ' bad ' o' the thing what's standing 
 in the way," he said ; " the truth is, you don't care nothin' for 
 me. If you did, you'd marry me, an' chance whether 'twas 
 right to do it, or whether 'twas wrong." 
 
 She winced at the truth of that assertion, as there forced 
 itself into her mind a fatal comparison. It was so fatal to 
 Jim. She saw his worth more plainly than she had ever seen 
 anything in her life, but she saw it with a kind of despair that 
 it could not be worth to her. She could not like him because 
 of the man who had for ever set up in her mind the outward 
 and visible ideal of what a man should be. 
 
 " That's the truth, isn't it ? ' ; said Jim at length, his bitterness 
 increasing. 
 
 " Not not quite," she said ; " there's more o' what I says 
 about it than you thinks. You won't b'lieve me when I says 
 that I don't know how to say No. If you thinks a minute you'll 
 see how easy things'd be for me if I said Yes. Say I goes wi' 
 you, I goes into all sorts o' comfort an' friends ; say I don't, I
 
 TTbe /Ran wbo wad not a Gentleman 61 
 
 tan't see nothink but hard work, an' that for strangers. But, 
 Jim, I could be honest wi' strangers. If I lived at 'ome with 
 your folks, I'd never be happy, becos' I'd be afraid o' my life 
 they'd find out. I had enough o' that sort o' dread 'fore I come 
 'ere. An' Jim, if by-and-by there should be somethink as as 
 lived to grow up, an' I see your mother a pettin' an' lovm' of it 
 for yourn, I'd have to go down on my knees an' tell 'er all 
 about it, or the sight o' that'd make me feel a long sight more 
 'shamed o' myself than I feels now." 
 
 She dropped into her chair, rocking herself to and fro, and 
 crying aloud as a child cries 
 
 Jim's eyes were dim, too. 
 
 " You're lookin' far enough ahead for trouble," he said ; 
 "very likely that wouldn't happen at all. An', as I says, if I 
 don't trouble, why should you ? I can see a comftable life for 
 you an' me, if you'd let it stop at that an' be contented." 
 
 She dried her eyes and looked at him. 
 
 " I s'pose you wouldn't tell yer mother, Jim ? " 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 " There'd be nothink gained by doin' that. She'd think I 
 wus a fool, an' you wus worse. She'd never take to ye as long 
 as she lived. If I told 'er that, she'd tell father, an' between 
 'em I'd have a hotter billet than the forge on a broilin' day. 
 No ; I'll know it, an' stick to ye notwithstanding but I draws a 
 line at tellin' anybody else." 
 
 " Becos' o' bein' laughed at for a fool, Jim ? " 
 
 " Well," said Jim, " say a man is a fool, he don't know it foi 
 certain, ye see ; but he don't invite all 'is neighbours to come 
 an' 'elp him find out whether he is or not. He ain't so anxious 
 to have the question decided." 
 
 The girl rose, with a dignity which Jim noticed at 
 once. 
 
 "Now, you see I'm right," she said ; "after a bit you'd see 
 that you wus a fool yerself, an' that'd be a good deal worse than 
 the chaff o' yer neighbours, Jim." 
 
 " Neighbours be hanged ! " he burst out impatiently ; " as I 
 said afore, I'm not tied to the village. I can get a livin' where 
 nobody '11 know, nor want to know. Who's to trouble in a big 
 place how long I've been married, or where you wus or who 
 afore I married you ? " 
 
 " There's a better livin' for you at home, Jim, than you'd 
 find away. The people 'ere wants more than we do in the 
 country I means, more in the way o' food. An' you've bin 
 used to live well I knows how your mother looks after you.
 
 6a Bnnie Deane 
 
 To take you away from yer own folks 'd be a'most as bad as to 
 marry ye, Jim ; and to do both 'd be bringin' ye to ruin." 
 
 He turned on his heel, brushing his coat-sleeve round and 
 round his hat. 
 
 " Then I'm to understand as it's no good o' me stoppin' 
 'ere ? So I'd better go on about my business." 
 
 Annie started. That she could offer him no inducement to 
 stay was true, but she scarcely liked to send him away. 
 
 " Don't go away angry, Jim," she faltered. 
 
 " Angry ! Where's the use o' bein' that, 'less it's wi' myself 
 for bein' so hard to understand when I'm beat ! I on'y come 
 to give you a chance o' settin' yerself right agen, an' if you won't 
 take it, why, I can't 'elp that, can I ? I begin to think there's 
 somethin' behind, some hope o' that man as you says have quite 
 cleared out." 
 
 " I haven't, Jim ; I haven't no hope at all." 
 
 " Well, will ye come 'ome that is, when we're married ? " 
 
 " I'd like to I'd like to." 
 
 " Very well, then, say you'll come." 
 
 " I can't say it." 
 
 "Mother shall come an' see ye to-morrow, and settle all 
 what wants to be done." 
 
 "No no I" 
 
 K I'll stick to ye as long as I lives, an* I'll never breathe a 
 word to a livin' soul." 
 
 " I'm sure you wouldn't, Jim." 
 
 " I'll never fling it up in yer face." 
 
 " I knows you wouldn't." 
 
 K I won't even ast ye to tell me what ye haven't told me. 
 I'll hold my tongue about it to the day o' my death, onless you 
 first begins it o' yer own accord. I'll do whatever a man can 
 do to make ye happy an" comftable, for I'll never take to 
 another gal as I've took to you." 
 
 Annie shook her head. 
 
 " God bless you, Jim ! " she said, in her quaint, old-fashioned 
 way. 
 
 " I don't want no blessins' if I can't have you" 
 
 " Ye musn't say that." 
 
 " Say as you'll think it over, an' let me know." 
 
 " I shall think it over, all as you have said ; but there won't 
 be nothink to let ye know about, Jim." 
 
 " You're goin' to stop 'ere ? " 
 
 She nodded evasively. 
 
 " An' how about when you leaves ? "
 
 ZCbe /iDan w&o was not a Gentleman 63 
 
 " I'm goin' to service." 
 
 " How long have that bin ? " 
 
 " Mother said so last time she come." 
 
 " Then you've left our parts for good ? " 
 
 "Yes," she said, with decisive brevity. 
 
 " You don't know what service is better come '<Sme agen 
 'long o' me." 
 
 " No, Jim no." 
 
 " Oh, very well. I've done. PVaps some day you'll see as 
 ye threw away what wus better worth havin' than ye thought 
 for." 
 
 Whereupon Jim put on his hat and stepped to the door. 
 Annie sprang after him, and caught his arm. 
 
 " I'll never see plainer what you're worth than I do now," 
 she said ; " it isn't that, Jim it isn't, upon my word. Don't 
 go like that. I'd like to 'ave a good look at ye afore you goes 
 you've behaved kinder to me than anybody I knows." 
 
 " That don't seem to count for much," he said, trying to 
 shake her off, in his disappointment. " I thought it would if 
 I kep' right on an' stuck at nothin' ! I ain't much to look at, 
 I know, not so much, I dare swear, as somebody what it's a 
 pity you ever see, an' a greater pity that /didn't ! He wouldn't 
 ha' bin much to look at after I'd done with 'un." 
 
 She was drawing him back from the door with all her 
 might, her face pressed close to his arm. 
 
 "Say good-bye civil, please, Jim. Sure ye needn't think 
 you're so hard done by. You've got all as is good in front o' 
 you, an' there's nothink good for me, en'y hard work an' hard 
 words. Do say good-bye to me kind Jim." 
 
 Jim shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " Good-bye, then," he said, with a grind of his teeth, as the 
 girl took his hand and held it sadly against her wet face. 
 " God knows why I should think so much of ye I don't. It's 
 precious hard on a chap, I says. P'r'aps if I'd treated ye the 
 same as he did you'd ha' liked me. That's mostly the way wi' 
 gals." 
 
 " Don't be hard, Jim. I'll have all sorts o' hard things to 
 bear long after you've forgot all about me, or have come to 
 think me well out o' yer way." 
 
 Jim ground his teeth again in impotent misery, then turned 
 on his heel, looked straight into the girl's eyes, suddenly took 
 her close in his arms, and kissed her. Before she had 
 recovered her breath he had swung through the wooden posts 
 at the end of the red-bricked path.
 
 6 4 Hnnfe 2>eanc 
 
 Annie went slowly back into the house. 
 
 " There goes the best friend I'll ever 'ave," said she. " Most 
 girls would ha' jumped at the thought o' goin' back, but I feels 
 as I've left all that for good. Whatever else I do, I shan't go 
 back there." 
 
 She stood a moment, still tingling with the close pressure of 
 Jim's arms and lips, then she gave herself a shake and set to 
 work. Having put some sticks ready for the re-kindling of the 
 fire, she filled the kettle and stood it on the hob ; then went 
 upstairs for her bundle, tied it more securely, and brought it 
 down, gave one last look round, put the front door-key on the 
 ledge just inside the unlatched window, then dressed herself 
 and departed, taking the road to the station. Here she asked 
 the first porter she saw how long she had to wait for the 
 London train. 
 
 " Five minutes," said he hurriedly. 
 
 " Where will I get my ticket ? " 
 
 He jerked his thumb in the direction of the ticket-office, and 
 Annie followed three or four people who were going there. 
 Standing close behind a man she heard him say : 
 
 "Third class single to Waterloo." 
 
 She took his place as he moved away. 
 
 " Third class single to London," said she firmly. 
 
 The clerk looked at her. 
 
 " Waterloo ? " he asked shortly. 
 
 " Is that London ? " 
 
 " Of course it is. Don't you know which part of London 
 you want ? " 
 
 " I want to get to London by the train what gets there 
 quickest." 
 
 "Waterloo train. There isn't another for an hour and a 
 half." 
 
 Annie put down her money, went back to the platform, 
 asked if this were her train, was pushed into a compartment 
 by a friendly porter, and in two minutes was watching the 
 outskirts of the Berkshire town gli Je past. 
 
 She had started for London an atom of helplessness borne 
 along on the current of Fate towards the mightiest city in the 
 world, without a fear, without a thought of consequence, 
 rendered proof to such ordinary things by the complete armour 
 of perfect ignorance. 
 
 Quite late that night Mrs. Fryer, hot and distraught with 
 running hither and thither asking questions of people likely
 
 Ube /iDan wbo was not a Gentleman 65 
 
 to be able to satisfy her, dropped on a chair in her back room, 
 and declared that she could trouble no more ; that the 
 abominable girl was sure to be safe. A thing that was no 
 good, said the worthy woman severely, never came to much 
 harm. But throughout the night sleep deserted Mrs. Fryer. 
 She rose early, and, by a fortunate chance, betook herself to 
 the grocer who had changed Annie's note on the previous day. 
 She came away from the shop in a righteous fury, and reaching 
 home, wrote to Mrs. Drake. 
 
 " Tell her mother not to waste time in troubling about her," 
 wrote she, " for depend upon it, that girl is born to evil as the 
 sparks fly upward. The very same night her mother left here 
 did she go to my grocer's and get change for a five-pound note, 
 and every penny of that money that hussy has taken away 
 with her. This place was not likely to be good enough for 
 a girl with five pounds in her pocket. What I have said all 
 along is right : there is a gentleman at the bottom of this, most 
 likely one of the gentry round about your way. She was not 
 likely to tell her mother or me his name. He would make it 
 worth her while to keep that quiet." 
 
 That five-pound note which had lain for so long concealed 
 in the bosom of Annie Deane's shabby gown turned even the 
 heart of her mother against her. 
 
 " She had all that in her pocket, an' yet let me drag into 
 Readin' that day to fetch the child she let me cry over them 
 wax orniments, an' 'card me say as Ben's feet wus on the 
 ground, knowin' 'twas all becos' o' her! No, Dan'l, Mrs. 
 Fryer's right. We'd best forget 'er, for she's a bad gal, an' 
 bad'll become of her 1 "
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 LONDON 
 
 IN the dusk of the spring evening a solitary little figure moved 
 slowly along the busy pavement of the Waterloo Bridge Road 
 a figure at once so childish and so womanly that even here 
 many a head turned to look after it, and many a heart gave it 
 a second compassionate thought. Annie Deane was in London, 
 and at present knew not what to make of it. She repeated to 
 herself the names of the few places she had visited, and she 
 found that such names conjured up to her mental vision some- 
 thing which was real, which was recognisable. When she re- 
 peated the name of her native village she could see a long, 
 straggling street, the school-house, the church, the vicarage, the 
 little club-house, where the vicar and his curates met such 
 members of their flock as chose to avail themselves of secular 
 instruction and amusement ; when she said " Reading," she 
 could see Broad Street, the Market Place, Duke Street, and the 
 bridge over the narrow Kennet, the Church of St. Lawrence, 
 the great cannon on its leafy eminence in the Forbury 
 Gardens ; but when she said " London," and told herself that 
 she was actually there, she felt like one in a desert without a 
 guide. She scarcely knew whether to laugh or to cry. Every- 
 thing seemed just one great roar ! Above below around 
 hurry and roar, roar and hurry. Standing on the Bridge, she 
 looked at the sluggish brown river running far below ; at the 
 grimy, unbeautiful buildings on either side ; at the black and 
 ugly river craft creeping along ; and then the unfriendliness of 
 it all smote her sharply, and filled her eyes with tears. 
 
 She turned away from the river to look at the stream of 
 traffic crossing the bridge, at the 'buses and cabs, the waggons 
 and drays, the smart hansoms and dapper private carriages. 
 She looked until she unconsciously stood still, open-mouthed, 
 in painful expectation of a great collision. But the flying 
 vehicles " shaved " each other with marvellous certainty, and 
 Annie, recalled to herself by the derisive grin of a street arab, 
 walked on. Once over the Bridge she halted, and, turning 
 
 66
 
 Xonfcon 67 
 
 aside from the stream of people, walked to and fro in front 
 of some dull-looking houses warehouses or offices, as she 
 could see. 
 
 Nearly opposite was a big grey building, like a church or a 
 hospital, she could not determine which. A trifle curious, she 
 thought she would cross the road for the purpose of finding 
 out, but the flying vehicles frightened her. A heavy tread 
 behind made her look round. 
 
 " Looking for anyone ? " said a big, good-tempered-looking 
 policeman. 
 
 " No, thank you." 
 
 " Want to find any place in particular ? " 
 " N no," with hesitation. " Is this Wellington Street ? " 
 " It is." 
 
 " Wellington Street London ? " 
 The policeman laughed. 
 
 " Wellington Street, Strand, is near enough for most of us," 
 said he. 
 
 She coloured ruby-red. 
 
 " Oh, of course, I know, thank you," and she walked on 
 briskly to join the meeting currents of the busy human stream, 
 abashed by the amused policeman's lenient treatment of her 
 transparent attempt to deceive him. If the Bridge had con- 
 fused her, the clattering rush of the Strand bewildered her. 
 She began to feel a little uncertain in her head. 
 
 " It's the noise," she told herself, " an' the long ride in the 
 train. I wish I'd had tea in that baker's shop in the first road 
 I came along. They made tea there ; they'd got it up in the 
 window. If I was to turn back, I wonder if I could find that 
 shop agen. I knows I haven't crossed a road. I believes I 
 could." 
 
 She turned back along the Strand, glancing up until she 
 saw Wellington Street. Turning this corner with a joyful sense 
 of familiarity, she quickened her pace. 
 
 The human stream was flowing more sluggishly for a time, 
 and the strip of pavement in front of the dull-looking houses 
 was deserted by all save one man the same policeman who 
 had spoken to her half an hour before on that same spot. 
 She darted back in terror. She felt that her ignorance of the 
 locality was patent to that policeman, and she feared his right 
 to question her concerning her business and her destination. 
 At the corner she turned and watched him pacing the pave- 
 ment, with his face to the river. He would be sure to recognise 
 her by the countrified bundle she carried, and of which she
 
 68 Bnnte 2>eane 
 
 was rapidly becoming ashamed. Arrived at the end of the 
 strip of pavement, he stopped, turned, looked (to Annie's 
 excited fr.ncy) straight at her. In frantic haste she bolted to 
 the corner of the street again, and precipitated herself almost 
 headlong into a waiting 'bus, where she sat shaking with stupid 
 fear. The policeman advanced until he was but a few feet 
 away. Annie cowered in her corner, expecting to be dragged 
 out and seized as a runaway ; but just as her fright became 
 insupportable the 'bus started with a great jerk, and in less than 
 a moment the awful policeman was lost to view. The girl 
 sat up and breathed again, but her heart had scarcely slowed 
 down before a sudden and appalling thought set it off again as 
 madly as ever : Where would this 'bus take her ? Where 
 would it stop and let her get out ? 
 
 Fear of ridicule kept her silent. Already two or three of her 
 fellow-passengers had smiled at her bundle, and then at herself, 
 as at something unusual. She resented the smiles, and drew 
 her bundle under her cloak. Also she resented the interest 
 with which she was regarded by a man with penetrating eyes 
 and a much-shaven face. She took an intense dislike to the 
 man, which was stupid, he being simply a member of "the" 
 profession, possessed of the genial kind-heartedness so common 
 among his brethren. But for the crowded state of the 'bus, he 
 would have asked Annie a few questions; but the 'bus was 
 crowded, and he was the first to leave it. Soon after that the 
 vehicle came to a standstill. Several people got out, and 
 Annie, thinking this a good chance of hiding her ignorance, got 
 out too, being first stopped for payment of her fare. She found 
 herself standing on the pavement again, further than she had 
 yet been from Waterloo Station, but no nearer to any place of 
 rest or refreshment. There were three or four roads to choose 
 from, but whom could she ask which road was hers, even if she 
 had had any idea herself? She had one, indeed, but that was 
 fast becoming confused. Taking advantage of a temporary lull 
 in the traffic, she followed some women across the road, drifted 
 aimlessly for a hundred yards or so, until the women turned 
 and looked at her, then drifted back again, finding herself 
 presently in the world-famed Square, among the fountains and 
 the big, grim lions. 
 
 It was almost quiet here in the spring dusk, nay, it was 
 lonely, and the vast site awed the ignorant wanderer, chilling 
 her through and through. It was all so different to anything 
 she had ever seen. With the loneliness of country roads, of 
 narrow, hedge-bordered lanes, of still pine-woods, of gently
 
 OLottoon 69 
 
 swelling fields stretching far away to the soft sky-line, she was 
 familiar ; but here was a loneliness which was quite different, 
 and far more dreadful. She felt small, worthless, of no account 
 whatever. The great space dwarfed her ; the indistinct, gigantic 
 buildings gave her the impression of being iron- built. They 
 must have stood here, she thought, from the beginning of the 
 world, and would disappear with the end of it. Certain it was 
 that everything here was too grand for her. " London " was 
 meant to shelter creatures of another sphere than hers. The 
 very sky was not the same. In the country it was deep, dark 
 blue, and starry ; here it was murky, smoky red red with the 
 reflection of a million flaring lights, lights which shut out the 
 stars. The wind, rain-laden, blew across the big space in gusts. 
 London was in for a wet night ; and a wet night at the end of 
 April can be cold as mid-winter. 
 
 Annie faced the stinging sleet with her heart failing her, and 
 the nerves of her lips and chin a-twitch with the desire for 
 tears. She hurried across the big square, then kept along by 
 the houses, letting the squall sweep by. A sick sinking 
 something which but for anxiety would have been mere 
 hunger possessed her. She was in a street now, and eagerly 
 looking about for a shop where she might get something to 
 eat ; but the solitary confectioner's she found closed just as 
 she reached the door, and she was too timid to knock. She 
 drifted on again, turned one corner after another, coming at 
 last to a mere byeway. Here she found a baker's shop, in 
 which she bought a roll and some plain cake, eating both 
 heartily as she went on down the narrow pavement. She was 
 surprised to find that the hurried meal did her no good; it 
 rather added to her growing physical discomfort. She began 
 to cry in earnest and to quicken her pace, wondering where 
 she was, and whether she could get back to "Waterloo Bridge 
 and the policeman. What a long time it seemed since she fled 
 from that policeman, and how thankfully would she have made 
 her way back to him now ! He seemed almost like a friend ; 
 was certainly the only human being to whom she had spoken 
 since she had left the station. She wondered if he had a home, 
 and wife, and children ; he somehow looked as if he had. If 
 she were to go back and find him, telling him that she had 
 enough money to pay, would he have compassion on her, and 
 take her and her offending bundle in ? She thought he 
 would, and set off bravely to find her way back to the Bridge. 
 
 As far as she could remember, she had come in a 
 " straightish " line from Wellington Street, so now, having
 
 7 Bnnfe 5>eanc 
 
 suddenly turned down this little street, she must be going in a 
 " straightish " line back. Surely she had but to keep on, and 
 presently turn to the right. This would bring her to the busy 
 Strand again, where she would get into a 'bus, if only there w; re 
 one waiting. But just now she could find no turning to the 
 right, and the rain was driving down the street in earnest, The 
 blurred street-lamps flickered in the whirling gusts, while the 
 wet pavements reflected them in misty patches. Annie began 
 to comprehend that her situation was serious. A few people, 
 with lowered umbrellas firmly held, passed her, intent on 
 reaching shelter ; three or four boys, in ragged garments, bare- 
 headed, barefooted, and supremely happy, came out of a narrow 
 court, and turned " wheels " on the wet pavement just in front 
 of her. Nearly falling over the hindmost of these, Annie 
 stopped him. 
 
 " How far am I from the Bridge ? " she said timidly. 
 
 " Eh, miss ? " said the shock-headed urchin, peering up at 
 her with cunning eyes, and touching his forelock in mock 
 respect. " The Bridge, did you say, miss ? What Bridge ? " 
 
 " Waterloo Bridge," 
 
 "Oh, my eye!" 
 
 The urchin thrust his hands in two ragged pocket-holes, an<J 
 danced a neat little pas-seul to the accompaniment of his own 
 whistle. 
 
 " Hi, Bill I come back here and tell us the way to Waterloo 
 Bridge. We're from the country, we are, and we wants to find 
 Waterloo Bridge. Goin' to commit sooicide, miss? Allow 
 me the pleashaw of hpldin' your bundle." 
 
 " Let it alone ! " cried Annie, desperately frightened, for the 
 grimy, grinning imps who were dancing round her looked like 
 Uttle devils incarnate. " How dare ye ? Let it alone ! " 
 
 Saying which she fought for the poor bundle, and tried to 
 break away, but the step-dancer slipped one unsavoury arm 
 through hers, while he flourished the other on high. 
 
 " Come along, pals," cried he ; " come along of us to see the 
 young lady from the country take a header from Waterloo 
 Bridge, like the gal in the play at the ' Vic.', while I holds her 
 property and engages the attention of the peeler, so as he don't 
 yuah on in the nick o' time, like the gal's sweetheart at the 
 theayter. I say, miss, any mystery about this bundle ? Let's 
 feel, now, do." 
 
 " Get away, you little beast ! " cried the girl, frantic with 
 fright and temper. " I'll call ' Police,' if you don't get away." 
 
 " Gently, my dear," said her persecutor, with a diabolical
 
 71 
 
 squinting grimace at his " pals." " I'm escortin' of you to 
 where you wants to go. Come along, now,nice and friendly. Take 
 my arm. I'm sorry I've not got my best togs on, and I can't 
 hoffer you my umbereller, becos' I left it up the spout at my 
 uncle's. I say, it's dooced wet, ain't it ? Hadn't you better 
 allow me to call a cab, 'cos at this 'ere rate we might be 
 drownded afore we gets to the Bridge, which would make the 
 sooicide sort of onnecessary, and spoil the excitement. Have 
 you wrote the letter to yer sweetheart ? Oh, my eye, pals, can't 
 she kick ! " 
 
 " Help ! " shrieked Annie hysterically. " Help ! Police ! 
 Oh, where is somebody to take these dreadful boys away ? " 
 
 The dreadful boys sent up shriek upon shriek of laughter, 
 while they all joined hands and executed a wild dance round 
 their panting, terrified victim, dodging her, and closing up 
 together like lightning whenever she tried to break through. 
 The rain was falling heavily, and the narrow street was deserted 
 by all save one or two people, who hurried past, making no 
 attempt to interfere ; seeing which the urchins waxed merrier 
 and more audacious, forcing the girl against the wall at last, 
 where they kept guard over her for several minutes, enjoying 
 her torture like the young fiends they were. The situation was 
 dreadful. At last a bright thought illumined Annie's despair. 
 
 "If you'll let me go," she said faintly, "I'll give ye 
 sixpence." 
 
 The shrieking war-dance stopped instantly. 
 
 "No tricks, now," said the arch fiend of the gang; "stump 
 up the tanner and we'll say 'Walker!'" 
 
 Scarcely able to stand for trembling, Annie held her wet 
 bundle firmly under her arm, while she felt in her glove for the 
 change given her in the baker's shop. 
 
 " Don't hurry," said the arch-fiend, who was unpleasantly 
 close at hand. " We'll take it in silver, or we'll take it in 
 ' browns ' ; we're not partik'ler, but it must be cash down, an' 
 no credit." 
 
 Brilliantly inspired for the second time, Annie raised her 
 hand and threw some coppers into the middle of the road. 
 In the twinkling of an eye there was a writhing, struggling 
 heap of dirty humanity on the spot where those coppers fell, 
 and Annie made her escape, stumbling and running as best 
 she could until she had safely turned into something like a 
 thoroughfare. By this time the sharp shower had ceased. 
 Knowing that she could not have got far from that terrible 
 gang, the girl pushed on as long as she could, but at last came
 
 72 Bnnfe 2>eane 
 
 to a compulsory stop. The hurry and rush of the past few 
 hours, the terror of the past few minutes, the desolation and 
 uncertainty of a homeless and shelterless night ahead all 
 these things were working her up to a state of panic. She 
 had no wish to hide in dark places now, the more light and 
 companionship the better ; so she stood full in the glare of a 
 big public-house, leaning against the ornamental brickwork of 
 its imposing entrance. 
 
 It took her some minutes to regain her wits and her breath, 
 then she began to understand that she was in a busy thorough- 
 fare, and to wonder if it were the Strand again. She watched 
 the cabs and 'buses go by, watched the ever-meeting, never- 
 mingling streams of people, until a very heart-breaking thought 
 turned everything into a dancing mist : out of all that human 
 crowd she could find no single being to whom she dared go for 
 help. True, she had money, but that was all she had to 
 help her through a time the thought of which paralysed her with 
 fear. She clutched her bundle more tightly as she remembered 
 that she had a little change therein. Her gold was sewn in the 
 bosom of her gown. That must not go. 
 
 " God help me ! " she burst out, half aloud, " what shall I do ? 
 If only I could get to the station, p'r'aps I'd be able to get back 
 to Readin' ; an' oh, wouldn't I be glad to get back ! " 
 
 She shut her eyes in pain, and saw the narrow Reading 
 Street, the little garden-fronted terrace, the red-bricked path to 
 Mrs. Fryer's front door. Annie thought of it as Eve thought of 
 her lost Paradise. Suddenly giving way, she leaned against the 
 door of the public-house, and made up her mind to stay there 
 until someone ordered her away. 
 
 Let come what come may, she had no will left wherewith to 
 combat Fate further ; she abandoned herself to sheer fatigue 
 and misery. 
 
 But in another moment there smote upon her ear a cry, a 
 word which sent the blood bounding through her veins afresh, 
 and quickened every numbing sense she had. That word was 
 Regent. She grasped her bundle and started forward. The 
 cry came from one of the 'buses which stood just across the road. 
 
 Regent Regent what? A word too long for street; a 
 word apparently ending with " s." Too intent upon reaching 
 that 'bus to heed even the meeting traffic, Annie dashed across 
 the road right under the nose of a cab-horse, oblivious of the 
 shouted oath of the driver, and only perceiving her danger when 
 she felt herself grasped by the conductor of the 'bus she was 
 struggling to enter at all risks.
 
 Xonfcon 73 
 
 " There, now," said he grimly, " can't you see where you're 
 goin' to, young woman ? It's your sort as hauls a man up for 
 runnin' over somebody. If you'd ha' bin killed, it wouldn't 
 have bin that cabby's fault." 
 
 He pushed the girl into the 'bus, and gave the signal to 
 drive on. 
 
 Annie made no inquiry as to where she was going. She 
 sat back in her seat, holding on to the edge of it. There 
 were but four travellers besides the girl, and neither of them 
 spoke to her. They looked at her curiously, even sym- 
 pathetically ; but she was too far gone to notice, or to care if 
 she did notice. And by the time the leaden weight above her 
 eyes had lifted sufficiently to allow her to look about her, she 
 had the 'bus to herself. The conductor swung himself partly 
 inside. 
 
 " Circus?" said he, with something of interrogation in his tone. 
 
 "What circus?" said Annie, with a vivid recollection of 
 Messrs. Sanger on a visit to Reading. 
 
 " Regent Circus." 
 
 The girl got up. 
 
 " Where's Regent Street ? " said she eagerly. 
 
 The conductor jerked his thumb over his shoulder. 
 
 " What part do you want ? " 
 
 " I don't know, for certain." 
 
 " Well, what number ? " 
 
 She told him. He repeated it thoughtfully. 
 
 " I think you'll find that about half-way down, on the left- 
 hand side. What ? No, I don't know the name, but you'll 
 find it if you've got the number." 
 
 " Will they be shut ? " she asked breathlessly, as she stepped 
 out to the pavement, wondering why she trembled so. 
 
 "Shut? Yes; most likely." And the conductor, swinging 
 round by his strap, put one hand to the side of his mouth like 
 an open shutter, and commenced to shout for customers. 
 
 Annie went slowly along the broad pavement, trying to 
 account for her agitation. 
 
 Was she not in Regent Street? Was she not upon his 
 track ? He had said he was going away, but just lately she 
 had begun to doubt the truth of that statement. All his con- 
 duct was accounted for to her by a new theory of ignorance. 
 It was this which had decided her to find him. His youth, 
 his pleasant laugh, his gentle speech and manner were all so 
 hard to associate with brutal intention. 
 
 " He didn't know," she kept on telling herself. " If he was to
 
 74 Bnnie Deanc 
 
 know, he'd tell me what to do ; he'd find me some place to go 
 till I was all right agen. I'm sure he would he wus so kind. 
 Why, he wus afraid o' me scratchin' my feet wi' the brambles, 
 an' how angry he wus wi' Tommy that day for kickin' me ! " 
 
 Annie's way of looking at things was a feminine way. The 
 man had done her one great wrong, but in little things he had 
 been kind and considerate ; and with the average woman it is 
 the " eternal little thing " which counts. 
 
 She stepped out, looking up at the big numbers as she 
 neared the one she wanted. 
 
 Up to the present the possibility of finding one shop in this 
 maddening confusion called "London" had been so remote 
 that her plan of action, should she succeed in finding it, had 
 not been decided upon. It now became necessary to think 
 what she should do. 
 
 Still looking upward, she stumbled on a few yards and 
 stopped. The shop was closed 1
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 "L. A. LK QUESNE" 
 
 FOR an instant it seemed to Annie as if sky and street had 
 come together in one great clap of disappointment and despair. 
 When things had steadied, she looked at the house again and 
 saw lights in the upper windows, also a side door slightly 
 open. She pushed it more so, finding another, half-glass, and 
 hung upon the swinging principle. Through this she could see 
 a dimly-lit passage and staircase. In another instant she was 
 in the passage, peering into a big glass case containing photo- 
 graphs, the name upon which was identical with the name on 
 the photograph left for her under the pine tree months before. 
 A thrill of hope revived her from head to foot. Now " London " 
 meant more than a vast confusion. Here, where she stood, he 
 had stood; here, somewhere near at hand, was he. All her misery 
 must vanish if she could but lay her hand upon him. He 
 would forgive her everything when he knew, 
 
 She walked up the passage, and stood on the bottom stair^ 
 looking up. On the sombre-tinted wall was a painted hand, the 
 forefinger extended, and " Studio second floor," in big black 
 letters. Annie mounted the stair and went on until she came 
 to another door. Without giving herself time to think she 
 opened it, and found herself in a large room, furnished with 
 velvet chairs and a lounge or two. 
 
 " Is that you, Willis ? " came in a man's voice from behind 
 a Japanese screen. 
 
 Annie did not say anything, only began to undo her bundle, 
 wherein was the photograph. 
 
 " Willis ! " called the voice again irritably, " is it you ? " 
 
 "No," here interposed another voice, this time feminine* 
 also from behind the screen ; "it can't be, for I sent him home 
 half an hour ago." 
 
 A gentleman stepped out from the Japanese obstruction, 
 and, seeing Annie, said, not very civilly : 
 
 " What do you want ? " 
 
 " If you please," faltered she, " if you please, sir, I I had 
 to to give I means, to show you this, an' to ast where to 
 find him." 
 
 75
 
 76 Bnnie 2>cane 
 
 Whereupon she turned as white as a sheet, and trembled 
 guiltily all over. 
 
 The gentleman took the portrait, lifted his brows in surprise, 
 and surveyed Annie critically from head to foot 
 
 "Who sent you here? " he said. 
 
 " A friend of his," said she, more falteringly than before. 
 
 The gentleman continued his critical survey, then shook 
 his head. 
 
 " To whom does this belong ? " 
 
 "That picture, sir? Oh ! that's mine." 
 
 " Who gave it you ? " 
 
 "He did hisself." 
 
 " Who did ? " 
 
 She stepped forward and laid her finger on the portrait 
 
 " He did," with an emphatic little nod, as of one who would 
 say, " Are you stupid ? " 
 
 "What Mr. Mr." and here he paused, waiting for her 
 to fill in the name. 
 
 " Yes," said she promptly, " he did, hisself." 
 
 "And yet you don't know his name?" 
 
 She started and looked distressed. 
 
 "Who says I don't?" 
 
 " You don't I am sure of it. It is quite plain to me." 
 
 She hung her head and said nothing. Her interrogator 
 continued : 
 
 "And yet you tell me he gave you this? Really, you 
 cannot expect me to believe it" 
 
 " But it's true ! " she cried miserably ; " it's quite true. He 
 promised it to me, an' when he went away he sent it." 
 
 " Oh, now he sent it ! And yet did not send his name 
 with it" 
 
 Remembering to what duplicity had brought her, Annie 
 held up her head and spoke out : 
 
 " I don't know his name ; it's true, I don't but I knows him 
 very well." 
 
 The photographer shook his head with decision, and handed 
 back the card. 
 
 " I can do nothing for you ; it is of no use coming to 
 me." 
 
 Annie clutched the edge of the table near her. 
 
 " I wants his name an' address," she said, " that's all You 
 can tell me that, becos' you knows it" 
 
 " I know it, certainly ; but I am not supposed to give it to 
 anyone who chooses to come and ask for it It would not
 
 "3U a* %e (Sluesne" 77 
 
 be in accordance with our custom. We are not at liberty to 
 disclose people's names and addresses." 
 
 She looked bewildered. 
 
 The photographer put one foot upon a chair, eyeing her 
 more graciously. It was his business in life to find beauty in 
 the human face, and a certain share of beauty this girl had. 
 
 " I'm afraid you don't understand," he said slowly, " but it is 
 like this : Our customers are at our mercy, and we are obliged 
 to be careful. Of course, when we take portraits of public 
 people, such portraits are public property, and are even sold, 
 but that is by permission. Now, in this case you bring me the 
 portrait of a private gentleman;" he paused for three or four 
 seconds, and watched her, then resumed, " and you ask me for 
 his address. I cannot say what use you might make of it, you 
 see. Besides, it would be a breach of confidence between him 
 and me. He would have a right to think me impertinent, and 
 he might be excessively annoyed." 
 
 " He wouldn't," she burst out eagerly, " he wouldn't be 
 annoyed at all." 
 
 " I cannot risk it. I am not refusing you for mere unkind- 
 ness. I am only following rules which are respected among 
 us, and which we do not care to break. As I have said, it is 
 not possible for me to say what use you might make of this 
 information you want." 
 
 " I won't make use of nothink," she pleaded, " how could I ? 
 What 'arm could / do ? Even if I wus to try, an' goodness 
 knows as I wouldn't try ! " 
 
 " I cannot say whether or not it is in your power. I know 
 nothing of you. About giving you this address, it might be 
 right enough, but it is a thing I cannot do." 
 
 Annie stared at him with eyes brimful of despair. His 
 reasons were no reasons to her. She could not understand 
 them. She could only say stupidly : 
 
 " What 'arm could I do ? If you told me where to find him, 
 I shouldn't tell nobody else. As to 'im bein' angry, he'd be 
 glad when he knew. Why won't you tell me? What shall 
 I do if you don't tell me? I've not got no other way of 
 findin' out." 
 
 She wrung her hands together, and spoke out shrilly in her 
 great distress. 
 
 The photographer was beginning to be sorry for her, and 
 to wish her gone. He perceived that she was not educated up 
 to the point of courteously-implied dismissal. It would be 
 necessary to give her an emphatic " No," and he shrank from
 
 7 Hnnte 2>eanc 
 
 giving it himself. He went into a tiny inner room, where 
 his wife, with bonnet and cloak on, stood waiting. 
 
 u Who is that ? " said she. " What a time of night to trouble 
 one on business ! We shall miss the 8.30 train." 
 
 Her husband threw the portrait he held on the table. 
 
 " Look here," he said, " it's the very queerest thing ! A 
 girl begging his address." 
 
 The lady gave a cry of surprise. 
 
 " Imagine it ! A common girl, of course ? " 
 
 " Oh ! if you like to put it in that way, a common girl, 
 certainly. A country girl, fresh from her native wilds, and in 
 downright distress. She's " 
 
 Here the speaker paused, rilling in the sentence with a 
 significant look at his wife, who responded with one of startled 
 comprehension. 
 
 " I wish you would speak to her." 
 
 " I will ; but of course you cannot give her the address." 
 
 " That is of course. She doesn't know his name, either.'* 
 
 " How ridiculous ! The girl must be crazy." 
 
 Annie was standing in the studio anxiously watching that 
 black-and-gold screen. When a lady appeared to her instead 
 of a gentlemen, she was in nowise elated. The lady looked 
 sharper than her husband, and spoke more decidedly than 
 he. 
 
 "We are waiting to leave," said she; "I am sorry we 
 cannot give you this gentleman's address. My husband has 
 doubtless told you why. It would be interfering with his 
 private affairs in a way that nothing could excuse." 
 
 " I can't see that," persisted Annie. " If he'd mind me 
 knowin' it'd be diff'rent. But I know for certain he wouldn't 
 mind, an' why can't you believe me ? " 
 
 " Well, you see it is so plain to us that if he had wished you 
 to know his name and address he would have given you both 
 himself." 
 
 " But he didn't know I'd want," and here the girl stopped, 
 suddenly remembering that these people knew him, and that 
 by talking to them she was betraying him. She had no wish 
 to betray him ; she loved him far too jealously for that. " He 
 had to go away in a hurry," she finished up, rather lamely. 
 
 " That has nothing to do with us. We only know that we 
 should not be justified in giving you what he evidently does 
 not wish you to have." 
 
 Saying which, she put Annie's portrait in a clean envelope, 
 and handed it back to her.
 
 "3L H, Xe (Sluesne" 79 
 
 " Besides, I must tell you that I think you are making some 
 ridiculous, or perhaps wilful, mistake. Remember, I know 
 this gentleman. He is a gentleman, and in my opinion 
 would be very unlikely to have anything to do with a girl like 
 you." 
 
 Annie had pluck enough left to resent that speech. She 
 said, " Thank you, ma'am," put her photograph back in her 
 bundle, and prepared to leave. 
 
 " I hope you have friends here ? " said the lady then. 
 
 The girl made no answer. 
 
 " Have you come far ? " 
 
 " A good way." 
 
 " Then you have friends here ? " 
 
 The girl halted, 
 
 " I s'pose you won't tell me where to find 'im ? " she said 
 quietly, after a pause, during which she had lifted her bundle 
 and turned to the door. 
 
 " I cannot ; it would not be right, and we should be laying 
 ourselves open to blame." 
 
 Annie nodded, opened the door, went slowly down the 
 stairs, and out into the street. Her one hope, her one 
 resource, had failed her. 
 
 The photographer's wife went back to the inner room. 
 
 "Wasn't that odd?" said she. "I don't remember any 
 such thing ever happening before. Do you ? " 
 
 " Never. Do you believe the girl's story ? " 
 
 " No. Who could ? Of course, she is in distress, but I feel 
 sure he is not the man she wants. She has picked up that 
 portrait somewhere, and somebody behind her has put her up 
 to an impudent scheme for extorting money." 
 
 " Perhaps. Why should you think that it is not he whom 
 she wants ? " 
 
 " Because I believe he is not that sort of man." 
 
 " What on earth can you know of the man ? I think you 
 have seen him about half-a-dozen times." 
 
 " That is true, but then he is so friendly ! You kept him 
 waiting more than an hour on two occasions." 
 
 " Which means that he failed to keep the time of his 
 appointment. No virtue that ! " 
 
 "Well, he apologised, and did not mind waiting. I have 
 known people come late to their appointments, and then seem 
 quite insulted because they had to wait. I feel sure that he 
 is innocent as regards this girl." 
 
 u You judge by her general ignorance of him. I suppose
 
 8o Hnnfe 2>eane 
 
 you are right. We have published a good many of those 
 photographs, have we not ? " 
 
 "Yes, and are still printing them. It was the best negative 
 you got of him. By the way " 
 
 She broke off, went over to a cupboard, took out a file, and 
 lifting a few letters, found one she wanted and drew it off. It 
 was from Milan, and bore a recent date. 
 
 " DEAR MRS. WESTON, Will you kindly send me a dozen 
 copies of that last photograph of mine? Of course, I could 
 easily have some done here, but you know I am a lazy beggar, 
 and the trouble of sitting is immense. Besides, when a thing 
 is a success, why not stick to it ? I'm in no hurry, if you have 
 no copies on hand. 
 
 " Faithfully yours, 
 
 " L. A. LE QUESNE." 
 
 Mrs. Weston re-filed the letter. 
 
 " I don't believe it of him," she said ; " but his photos are 
 ready to send, and if you have no objection I will tell him 
 about the girl." 
 
 " I would rather you did not, but do as you like." 
 
 " Will you write instead of me ? " 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 " No. You are business manager, and the correspondence 
 is your affair." 
 
 "Well, then, I shall tell him, to give him the chance of 
 clearing himself of a very ugly suspicion. He will do it." 
 
 " Will he ? Where are his photographs ? " 
 
 She threw one across the table. Her husband held it away 
 from him and screwed up his eyes. 
 
 " I remember him very well. Do you know that he is what 
 you women call a 'fascinating' beggar? Not one of your 
 atrocities who try to be fascinating, but who is so because 
 he is so, and can't help it." He threw the portrait back. 
 "There's one thing," he said, rather sneeringly, "if he were 
 ever meant to be any good, he has circumvented the Provi- 
 dential intention by his choice of a profession. In a year 
 or two hundreds of silly women will have flattered him into a 
 conceited fool." 
 
 Mrs. Weston burst out laughing. 
 
 " How bitter you are ! and only listen to the rain ! We have 
 lost that train, so can make ourselves comfortable for half an 
 hour. I will write that letter while I wait." 
 
 In a few minutes she handed the written letter to her 
 husband.
 
 "3U a. %e (Sluesne" 81 
 
 "Regent Street, April 30, 18 . 
 
 "DEAR MR. LE QUESNE, Herewith your photographs. 
 Shall be glad to hear of their safe arrival. Had you not better 
 defer payment until you return ? 
 
 " Such a curious little thing happened to-night in connection 
 with these photographs that I feel I must tell you about it. 
 Just as we were leaving, a girl quite young and very pretty 
 found her way into the studio. She produced one of the photos, 
 and earnestly begged your address. My husband questioned 
 her a bit, feeling sure that she had mistaken you for someone 
 else. He could make nothing of her, except that you had given 
 her the portrait. We thought this most unlikely, seeing that 
 she did not even know your name. I need scarcely say that 
 we told her nothing. Trusting you will receive photos in good 
 condition, 
 
 " I am, sincerely yours, 
 
 " E. M. WESTON." 
 
 Copy of letter received by Mrs. Weston some days later : 
 
 "Milan, May 5, 18 . 
 
 " DEAR MRS. WESTON, So many thanks for prompt atten- 
 tion to order. Photos arrived quite safely. Thanks for sug- 
 gestion concerning payment ; I may not be in England for six 
 months, possibly longer. 
 
 " By the way, what a rum thing about that girl ! Who the 
 dickens was she ? 
 
 " Of course, it was very good of you to ketp faith with me, 
 but should she come again, or you be in possession of any 
 information as to her whereabouts, will you give her my name 
 and address ? It would be interesting to know what came 
 of it With kind regards, I am, 
 
 " Faithfully yours, 
 
 " L. A. LE QUESNE." 
 
 Mrs. Weston passed the letter to her husband. 
 
 " He treats the matter as an innocent man would," said she. 
 " ' Certainly,' he says, ' give her the name and address. / have 
 no fear. I should be amused to see what came of it,' Now, 
 to me that looks like innocence." 
 
 "Very well. But if ever that girl comes here again, I shall 
 avail myself of Mr. Le Quesne's permission ; I shall put her in 
 possession of his name and address, although I should not 
 expect to share in the- amusement of seeing ' what came of it.' " 
 
 But the girl went to Regent Street no more. 
 
 F
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE CURATE OF ST. SAVIOUR'S 
 
 IN a barely-furnished room of a house in another part of 
 London, a man sat quite alone ; sat with drooped head and rest- 
 lessly moving hands, like one whose thoughts are far away. The 
 strong and cheerful light of fire and gas would have suggested 
 occupation to most people, but this solitary man was idle. 
 Judging by the pallor of his face, such idleness was necessary ; 
 judging by the oddly restless hands, it was distasteful, and 
 would be transient. And, indeed, idleness was altogether out 
 of keeping with the air which pervaded that room ; out of 
 keeping with the mass of papers on the writing-table, with the 
 business-like books on the undecorated book-shelves, with the 
 straight-backed, utirestful wooden chairs. The very mantel- 
 piece was devoid of ornament, for the clock thereon was square 
 and squat, disclaiming all merit but the indispensable one of 
 accuracy. The one ornament of the room hung above the 
 clock, and had brought its owner more in the way of mis- 
 understanding and censure than any earthly luxury he could 
 have set up. It was only a carving of wood, only a figure 
 hung upon a cross, but it was terribly suggestive of the Scarlet 
 Lady, and the sight of it did greatly exercise the minds of the 
 strictly orthodox who had occasion to enter the study of the 
 Rev. Frank Netherwood. 
 
 But Mr. Netherwood was no disciple of the Roman form of 
 Catholicism. Catholic he was, in the broadest and best sense 
 of the word, but he was fettered by no particular creed, and 
 cramped by no particular dogma ; nor would he be controlled 
 by those who were. Nominally attached to the Church of 
 England, he was in reality Christian first and Churchman after 
 genuine enthusiast (known to the comfortable as " fanatic ") 
 through and through. Of good birth, of ample private fortune, 
 he yet chose to live among the poorest and worst of his kind, 
 and to live in the humblest way ; following the right wherever 
 it chanced to lead, combating the wrong wherever he chanced 
 to find it, with never a fear of personal consequence. Some- 
 what alienated from his own kindred by what they chose to call 
 
 82
 
 Ube Curate ot St. Savour's 83 
 
 his "eccentricity," he lived his earnest life alone; turned aside 
 for ever from the thought of marriage by the death of the woman 
 he had loved, an earthly future of the purely personal kind he 
 had none. He thus felt himself free to spend his strength and 
 his money on his fellow-men, and he spent both without stint. 
 It was nothing to him that his fellow-workers who wore the 
 uniform of the Church, and professedly fought under the same 
 flag as he, shrugged their shoulders and spoke of him in under- 
 tones as "a little extraordinary "; nothing to him that even his 
 own excellent vicar, in attending to the complaints of laxity 
 brought against some of his staff, said extenuatingly, "Ah ! you 
 see, Mr. Netherwood has made it difficult for others who come 
 after him. It is impossible to judge men by his standard. He 
 is not quite as other men are. He is an enthusiast, what some 
 people call a a well, a crank I " 
 
 Which speech, coming to Mr. Netherwood's ears, had caused 
 him to smile, but had not altered his method. 
 
 " Let every man do as seemeth best to him," said he. For 
 himself, he did what he did because he could do no other. 
 Seeing things as he saw them, he would have accounted him- 
 self unworthy had he done less. But upon those who did less 
 and thought it enough, he never sat in judgment, being above 
 all things merciful. Yet was there much of humanity in him, 
 which the leaven of saintliness could not eradicate. When he 
 went home one day, to find a very exalted personage in the 
 shape of the Bishop of the Diocese sitting in the room where 
 hung the Figure on the Cross, and found that the exalted 
 personage had come there solely to request that the Figure be 
 removed, all the pugnacity in him, which long years of self- 
 denial had not killed, showed itself. He refused to remove 
 the carving of wood, or to believe that its presence could 
 possibly be a genuine cause of offence to any unbiassed 
 follower of the faith it symbolised. In vain the good bishop 
 pointed out to him that he was breaking a solemn Command- 
 ment when he set up that graven image, that he was placing a 
 stumbling-block in the way of tottering feet, that he was 
 counteracting the effect of his own good work when he 
 permitted a doubt to be raised as to whether such work had its 
 source in that which was of God or that which was of the Devil. 
 
 Mr. Netherwood, standing in front of the bishop, waited 
 until he was invited to speak. 
 
 " Sir," he said then courteously, " if what I say shall give 
 you just cause to doubt my fitness for a place among you, then 
 by all means suspend me, for I can work as well outside the
 
 84 Hnuie 2>eane 
 
 Church as I can in. But I say, and I say openly, that good 
 work is good work, by whomsoever done ; and if indeed I have 
 been permitted to accomplish such work, then has no man 
 the right to question the Source of it, for there is but One, and 
 though my room were hung about with graven images by the 
 score, that Source could neither be divided nor multiplied." 
 
 " That is a simple truth to us, but the uneducated mind is 
 narrow, and clings to recognised form and rule." 
 
 " Because it pays the Church to keep to such form and rule. 
 For me, sir, I hope those who know me will believe that if I 
 had any leaning towards the Church of Rome I should not be 
 attached to the Church of England, and for the carving 
 'crucifix* if you will I cannot believe that it could offend 
 any man or woman to whom I am personally known." 
 
 " But nevertheless it may, and remember, ' Woe to him by 
 whom such offence cometh."' 
 
 " Say, rather, sir, ' Woe to him who wastes his God-given 
 life in the splitting of straws, and the killing of the spirit with 
 the letter.' Has not our Church three iron crosses? Has not 
 our altar a golden one? Is it the empty cross we preach? 
 Are we afraid of the Figure by which alone the cross has any 
 significance? No. But bring the two together and there is 
 a great cry of animosity, not towards the symbol, but towards 
 another sect, whose form of worshipping the same God differs 
 a little from ours. If I hung a picture of the Crucifixion over 
 my mantelpiece, even a painting of a crucifix, no man would 
 complain, because it would beyfa/; I hang the wooden carving, 
 and my very honesty is doubted. Oh ! sir, we are the same 
 children of the same God, and to me this cavilling is pitiful ! " 
 
 " Yes, yes, I understand that," said the bishop testily, " but 
 people are pitiful. If they weren't, the Church would not 
 have her hands so full. Is there no little way by which we 
 can get out of this ? You say this was a personal souvenir ? 
 Well, why not hang it, for instance, in your bedroom ? " 
 
 " I hang it, sir, in the room where I work. It assists me, 
 and I should miss it Moreover, if I hang it in my bedroom 
 you would be hearing that I had set up an oratory. If it is where 
 all men can see it, my sincerity should not be questioned. 
 It is a personal souvenir, carved by a dying lad as he lay upon 
 his back in a wretched room, and given to me because he had 
 nothing else to give in return for a little sympathy and atten- 
 tion. No, sir, if I cannot remain among you without removing 
 my little friend's keepsake, then I will work independently; but 
 for the keepsake, it will remain where it is."
 
 Curate of St. Saviour's 85 
 
 And the bishop walked off to the nearest corner, where his 
 carriage was waiting, and drove to St. Saviour's Vicarage. He 
 did not go in ; the vicar ran out. 
 
 " Has your lordship seen Mr. Netherwood ? " 
 
 " We have," said the bishop tranquilly; *' our advice is to let 
 him alone, and find more men like him." 
 
 So he had been " let alone," but the finding of men like 
 him was still unaccomplished. 
 
 He looked tired to-night, very frail and worn. He had had 
 a hard day, and might well have considered his night's rest 
 earned; but the time wore on, and he sat there with closed eyes, 
 contracted brows, and hands the restless movement of which 
 never ceased. Twice the door opened, and an elderly woman, 
 treading softly, advanced and looked at him, coughed to attract 
 his attention, failed, and withdrew. The second closing of the 
 door roused him. He turned his head towards it and opened 
 his eyes. 
 
 Powerful influence over the minds of others is often trace- 
 able to some physical peculiarity in the person who wields 
 it, and surely those beautiful eyes of Mr. Netherwood's had 
 something to do with the power he wielded over those with 
 whom he came in contact. Soft and dark and deep they were, 
 at once humanly intelligent and divinely tender, eyes the 
 penetrating quality of which it is hard to resist or to evade. 
 
 Perhaps it was that they had seen so much. Had seen the 
 all but hopelessness of human reformation, and yet had kept 
 their steady light ; had looked into the depths of human 
 infamy, and yet had never ceased to be compassionate ; had 
 watched the stifling nights through in dens where the poor 
 lay herded together more filthily than swine, and had never 
 turned aside in discouragement ; had seen the innocent suffer 
 for the guilty, and yet had never turned away in despair. 
 
 "Where is your God, who lets these things be?" said the 
 cynics to the patient worker, to which he would answer with 
 steadfast eyes fixed ever on the beyond where the light is. 
 
 "The man who wastes his time in asking other men that is 
 little likely to find an answer." 
 
 When Mr. Netherwood's vicar had said of him that he was 
 not quite as other men are, he had been nearer the truth than 
 he was aware, for there were influences in the younger man's 
 life of which he never spoke. To him they were real, admitting 
 of no doubt or question. He neither sought nor evaded them, 
 but once possessed by them, surrendered himself without 
 resistance, feeling that he was being utilised for good, and for
 
 86 Smite JDeane 
 
 good only. Such influences were upon him to-night, as he sat 
 in his study, separating him from the outside world as 
 completely as though he were not of it. His face was pale, 
 his hands were clasped about the arms of his chair, his dark 
 eyes had the uncertain, unseeing look of the sleep-walker. The 
 room grew dark, and the objects in it faded away ; all, as it 
 seemed to him, but the carven Figure on the Cross, slanting 
 downward where it hung, until the light of It encompassed him 
 and shut him in, and all the rest was gloom. 
 
 There was a Voice in his ear which he knew, a touch on 
 
 his head which he loved, a beckoning hand in front of him 
 
 which he had never yet refused to follow, let it lead him 
 
 whither it would. Then out of the great hush the Voice said : 
 
 " Listen ! " 
 
 And he answered : " I am listening." 
 " What do you hear ? " 
 
 " I hear the moan of the wind, and the driving rain outside." 
 The Voice said : " There is something more than that." 
 u I hear the tread of the passers-by, and the sound of a 
 striking clock." 
 
 "There is something more than that." 
 " I hear the hoarse voice of a drunken man as he staggers 
 by to his home." 
 
 " Leave him alone for to-night." 
 " I hear the muffled roar of London by night* 
 ' That is not meant for you." 
 ' I hear nothing more." 
 ' Listen again." 
 4 Nothing nothing." 
 ' Listen again." 
 
 ' I hear the moaning of a human voice." 
 1 What voice ? " 
 
 ' A woman's voice and young. But it is faint and far away." 
 ' Still, it has words. Can you not hear them ? " 
 ' The voice is low, but it seems to say, ' God help me I 
 What shall I doT 
 
 " Go out and answer it. The way is long, but not to 
 willing feet, and dark, but not to eyes that see. Take no 
 heed of its length, or of its darkness, or of its windings, and 
 it shall bring you to a place where all is quiet, under the 
 shadow of a great wall. There is a soul adrift to-night on 
 the waters of despair. Go out and rescue it." 
 " I will go." 
 " There is no time to lose."
 
 Ube Curate of St. Saviour's 87 
 
 " I will lose none." 
 
 The light from the Figure receded ; the room grew bright 
 again with fire and gas ; the still figure in the chair gave a start, 
 and then a violent shiver, as the elderly woman who had entered 
 before bent over it and spoke : 
 
 " I beg your pardon for startling you, Mr. Frank, but it is 
 getting late and I was anxious, for you are so white ; and though 
 you were asleep, your eyes were not quite shut. You are not 
 well, or you are over-tired." 
 
 " I am perfectly well," he said, smiling as his old friend laid 
 her hand over his dazzled eyes. She had followed him from 
 luxury to work, and was privileged. " But I had no idea I 
 was asleep." 
 
 " And you will go to bed ? " 
 
 " Well, by and by ; but first I must go out." 
 
 " Oh, not any more to-night," she urged in distress ; " please, 
 my dear boy, not any more to-night." 
 
 " But it is imperative." 
 
 " Surely to-morrow will do ! It is a quarter to eleven now, 
 and such a fearful night" 
 
 "Why fearful?" 
 
 " Stormy. It holds up for a few moments, and then the 
 rain comes down again in torrents." 
 
 " Rain and wind are nothing to the healthy. Will you let 
 me have my boots ? " 
 
 " If you were healthy," she pleaded, " I mean strong. But 
 you cannot expect to work at this rate without breaking down, 
 and you look worn out. And when you have broken down, 
 where will be your thanks? If the people were worth it, I 
 would not say a word ; but a whole city of them are not worth 
 you, Mr. Frank, and all your trying will never alter them." 
 
 He went to the old woman's side, and, still smiling at her good- 
 humouredly, lifted his hand, and pointed to his keepsake. 
 
 " Were we worth that ? " he said gently. " Now, there's a 
 good soul, don't waste time, but find my boots." 
 
 She left the room with a gesture of resignation, while Mr. 
 Netherwood went out to the hall, and there put on his overcoat. 
 
 " Any use taking an umbrella ? " inquired he cheerily, as he 
 took his boots. 
 
 <f I am afraid, Mr. Frank, no use at all." 
 
 "So much the better," he said, opening the door and 
 bending his head as a great gust of wind swept in and all but 
 extinguished the hall lamp. " I hope you will not sit up, 
 because, if I should want you, you will not mind being called."
 
 88 Jinnfe Deane 
 
 "You know that," she said, as she held the door with 
 difficulty from banging, and stoo'd to watc h Mr. Netherwood as 
 he went out, his head bent against the driving gusts, and his 
 tall figure the one thing that was human in the gloom of the 
 storm-swept street. 
 
 At the corner where the street opened into a busier 
 thoroughfare he paused to consider a moment, then turned to 
 the right and walked rapidly on Past the first turning, past 
 the second, pausing at the third for an instant, deciding not to 
 take it, and continuing his hurried walk onward for a short 
 distance. Then, as if confronted by a sudden obstacle, he 
 turned and crossed the road. 
 
 Straight in front of him was a court narrow, dark, evil- 
 smelling. He paused again here, as if in uncertainty, but 
 entered and went straight through, turning neither to the 
 right nor left, speaking to no one, spoken to by no one, going his 
 way blindly, trusting to the Voice within him to lead him aright. 
 
 At the entrance to a spacious square he raised his head, 
 and saw that he was in a neighbourhood of which he knew 
 little, his work lying in one not nearly so respectable. He 
 crossed the square and came out upon a road where the 
 cars were still running, and dripping 'busmen were urging 
 drenched horses along a road as slippery as glass with the 
 rain. Just as he came into the light of a lamp, a woman's 
 figure, in sombre, shapeless garments, brushed past him, then 
 suddenly turned back. 
 
 " Mr. Netherwood ? " said a gentle, surprised voice. 
 
 "Sister Margaret?" responded he doubtfully. 
 
 " Yes. What a terrible night ! " 
 
 " It is. Are you seeking assistance ? Are you in difficulty 
 of any kind ? " 
 
 " Oh, no ! only going to relieve Sister Ruth for the night." 
 
 " Are you close here ? " 
 
 "Very; 25, Errols Street." 
 
 " Thank you. Good-night." 
 
 He turned away and walked on, somewhat confused and 
 harassed. The interruption had interfered with the clear- 
 ness of his inner sight and hearing. For an instant fear 
 took hold of him, fear of having done wrong in turning 
 aside to ask direction of the Sister. But after one moment 
 of keen dread, he put the thought behind him ; his lip 
 curled in sudden self-contempt. Was the God he served 
 such a petty Deity that He should withdraw His guidance 
 because of a question asked of one who seemed likely to
 
 Curate of St. Saviour's 89 
 
 possess the knowledge that was necessary ? No ! He 
 thrust the doubt away as one of the devil's prompting, and went 
 swiftly on until he came to a place where three roads met. 
 Here he paused, while the rain-storm ceased, and overhead a 
 rift in the scurrying clouds disclosed one calm, bright star. 
 He smiled at it gratefully. 
 
 To him it had a significant beckoning look. Surely his 
 work lay that way ? He crossed the busy road and took the 
 quieter one to his left, walking on until the clock of a neigh- 
 bouring church struck, telling him that nearly an hour had 
 passed since he had left home. 
 
 " There is no time to lose," the Voice had said to him in the 
 solitude of his room. He knew that he had lost none, and was 
 not afraid ; but smiled a little to himself as he thought of the 
 howl of derision he could raise about his head, the flood of 
 nineteenth century common-sense which would be ready to 
 sweep over him, did he but tell his fellow-workers that he had 
 come hither on this wild night in obedience to a Voice heard in 
 a dream. 
 
 Not one of those fellow-workers but were ready to stand up 
 on any Sunday of the year and impressively intone to a listen- 
 ing congregation the sacred stories of old. How that divine 
 voices had come to men in the still watches of the night, telling 
 them to arise and be about their Master's business. Ay, and 
 not only would those fellow-workers impressively intone those 
 stories, but they would confidently expect their hearers to 
 believe them would be shaken to the depths of their orthodox 
 souls did any man dare to get up and say that he did not 
 believe them. 
 
 But should any man get up and say, " I, too, hear the 
 Divine Voice, and go whither It tells me ; " how then ? 
 
 Of a surety would the intoners of ancient truth turn, and say 
 in their natural human voices : 
 
 " Thou art deluded, or the truth is not in thee. In either 
 case thou art a danger to Society, and should be dealt with 
 accordingly." 
 
 For Faith is of the past, or at best may now be permissable 
 on Sundays. The thing for the present is hard-headed common 
 sense, that stops the ears of man to any voice but the voice of 
 Reason, that bids him trouble not his soul about that which 
 he cannot see, and seeing grasp ; and grasping show to his 
 neighbour for a solid, tangible reality. 
 
 The Reverend Frank Netherwood smiled again as he thought 
 how concerning things past men professed to walk by faith.
 
 90 Hnnie H>eane 
 
 For the present to walk by sight was customary and exposed 
 no man to ridicule. Besides, the future draws so heavily upon 
 one's credulity that, maybe, prudence suggests economy, even 
 to the verge of present starvation. 
 
 The clouds were gathering again ; the star was hidden, but 
 Mr. Netherwood pressed on, then suddenly paused and looked 
 about him, trying to locate himself, but without success, for 
 though he knew his London pretty well, he had taken little 
 heed of the streets and squares through which he had passed 
 to-night. He knew, however, that he was going North 
 Londonwards, and fancied he recognised the road in 
 which he stood, or could have done so but for the general 
 gloom, which the flickering street-lamps did little to relieve. 
 On the right-hand side of the road were good-class private 
 houses; on the left a lawn-like plot of ground enclosed by 
 smoke-dimmed evergreens, and further by a smoke-blackened 
 iron palisading mounted upon a low stone wall. 
 
 Two or three cabs stood on the stand hard by, their drivers 
 half-asleep inside them, for shelters were not general in those 
 days. The light from the lamps struck across Mr. Netherwood's 
 path for an instant, and then was left behind, but it made him 
 dimly visible to a woman who was leaning against the railings. 
 She stepped out and spoke to him spoke to him familiarly, 
 persuasively, touching his arm with a hand which was covered 
 with what had once been a delicate, well-fitting glove. He 
 started, keeping his back to the distant, rain-blurred lamps. 
 
 "Is \\.you 9" he said, in an oddly disappointed, weary way. 
 
 " Me ? " laughed the woman. " Yes, it is me. But who you 
 are the deuce knows. However, if we're old friends " 
 
 " We are very old friends," he interposed quietly. " You 
 are Kate Lucas, I think, and I " 
 
 Before he could finish the woman recoiled, and pressed her 
 hands over her ears. 
 
 " God forgive me ! " she burst out piteously. " It's Mr. 
 Netherwood ! " 
 
 " Yes, it is I. I have made many inquiries for you, but have 
 been able to find no trace of you. Not that I had given you 
 up don't think that. By your evading me for so long, I 
 concluded that you were passing by some other name." 
 
 He spoke with an utter absence of reproach or anger, but 
 the woman shrank from him as though she would have been 
 glad had the earth opened to swallow her up. He followed 
 her back to the railing, and stood close to her. 
 
 " Let me go, sir," she said, in a dreary way ; " let me go,
 
 Ube Curate of St. Saviour's 91 
 
 You can have nothing to say to me. You're one sort and I'm 
 another you at the top and me at the bottom. You've had a 
 good many tries to alter me, and it's only wasting your time." 
 
 " Time is not mine, nor have I ever wasted it while it has 
 been passed in trying to make you as happy as I am myself. 
 Have you been thinking of me to-night ? " 
 
 She looked at him, surprised. 
 
 " There's scarcely a day or a night that I don't think of you, 
 sir ; but for to-day, I doubt if you've entered my head at all, for 
 a wonder ! " 
 
 " You are in no urgent distress of any sort ? " 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " Have you been with anyone who is ? " 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 He nodded thoughtfully. 
 
 " Where are you living now ? " 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " I shan't tell you, sir," she said firmly. " No, I will not. 
 You go to those who will repay you for your trouble. There 
 are such, but I'm not one of them." 
 
 "Where are you living?" 
 
 " I shall not tell you, sir, not if I stand here all night." 
 
 " That is foolish, because I am so sure to find out. If I had 
 not urgent work elsewhere, I should not leave you until you 
 had returned to the Home with me." 
 
 " You'd have to wait some time, sir. I went back once of 
 my own accord, because I couldn't shake off the thought of 
 something you had said to me. Not a soul in that place 
 warmed to me or gave me a welcome. They were all as stiff as 
 their collars ! When you came in on service night you gave me 
 a glad, friendly sort of look, and I knew that you were pleased ; 
 but I heard the Matron say to you, ' Kate ? Oh, yes, she's 
 back for a little while.'' They knew me better than you, sir." 
 
 " They knew you not at all. / know you, and, because I 
 know you, I refuse to take any judgment of you but my own. 
 Before many days I shall have found you out. Remember, I 
 never cease to pray for you, and God is not deaf." 
 
 She whitened, and turned away with a miserable, impatient 
 cry. She knew he would keep his word. He had found her 
 out before. 
 
 It was raining again, heavily. She glanced up at one of the 
 cabmen, who, wrapped in a sack, sat on his wretched box. 
 
 " Give me a rest inside ? " said she. 
 
 " Don't mind for a few minutes, onless you're wet."
 
 92 Hnnic 5>eane 
 
 " I'm not wet. I've only just come out." 
 
 " Oh ! " laughed the man ; "dry inside an' out ? " 
 
 "That's it," she said, as the hint appealed to her, and, 
 feeling in her pocket, she offered the man twopence. 
 
 He shook his head. " Get in, get in," he said gruffly ; " I 
 don't want your money." 
 
 She gave a hard laugh, then huddled herself up in a corner 
 of the cab to wait until the storm had driven by. 
 
 Mr. Netherwood waited for no storm, but pushing on in the 
 teeth of it, came to the end of the iron railing, then put out his 
 hand and grasped it, for the rain-laden wind swept round the 
 corner with the force of a flying giant. Holding fast by the rail he 
 peered up the narrow way almost too narrow to be called a 
 road which lay in front of him. By the aid of a flickering 
 lamp he saw that another side of the enclosed shrubbery 
 ran along here, and fronting that a dark unbroken mass of 
 brickwork. 
 
 " And it shall bring you to a place where all is quiet 
 under the shadow of a great wa//." 
 
 The words flashed through his brain like a touch of fire. He 
 felt his cheek pale and his knees tremble, while his heart beat 
 low, and the human life in him seemed to shrink down in very 
 awe. For here was the " shadow of the great wall." He stood 
 under it now. All was profoundly quiet and lonely, with 
 the curious loneliness which close proximity to busy life 
 accentuates rather than softens. The wall seemed to be 
 a blank one, but as Mr. Netherwood stood under it, and, 
 shading the pouring rain from his eyes, looked up, he 
 distinguished two or three of the swinging semi-circular 
 windows which are sometimes used to light stores or 
 stables. The sudden stamp of a horse's hoof and the clang 
 of a chain told him that the buildings were stables. Feel- 
 ing his way along he came to a heavy door, securely closed 
 and fastened for the night. Leaving this behind he pro- 
 ceeded cautiously for a few paces and stopped. Not a 
 human being passed him, not a human footstep was to be 
 heard on either side. Evidently the place was little fre- 
 quented, even if it were a thoroughfare at all, which he felt 
 inclined to doubt. It was a very unlikely place in which 
 to seek anyone, but he was not discouraged. Something 
 within him told him that he had been guided aright. He 
 stepped back until his shoulder rested against the wall of 
 the Mews. The shelter thus afforded him was slight, still it 
 was something, and as he stood he listened. The rain was
 
 Curate of St. Saviour's 93 
 
 falling lightly now, and the lulling wind crept round by the 
 wall like the sound of a human sigh. Mr. Netherwood moved 
 a few feet forward and stopped, with his hand on the wet brick- 
 work, and his ear strained to catch that faint sound. It was a 
 sigh, louder now and nearer ; a sigh of the nerve- stirring, blood- 
 curdling sort, like that which flutters through darkened rooms, 
 where the watchers sit and tremble as they remember that 
 even so shall it one day be with them. Many such vigils had 
 Netherwood kept, but familiarity with them does not harden 
 one. Even his blood ran coldly, and the roots of his hair 
 lifted. Someone was lying within a few feet of where he stood, 
 but though he peered to right and left, the darkness was so 
 great that he could distinguish nothing. So he stood away 
 from the wall, and, raising his voice, asked was anyone near ? 
 
 The awful sighing ceased a moment, then went on afresh. 
 
 " Is anyone near ? " he asked again, stepping back to the 
 wall, for the sound seemed to come from there. A moment's 
 silence, and then there came out of the darkness a smothered 
 shriek of agony, or terror, or both. 
 
 Mr. Netherwood bent down and groped about. There, on the 
 ground, huddled up against the dripping wall, was something 
 human and feminine, but whether young or old he could not tell. 
 
 "Who are you, poor soul?" said he compassionately, "and 
 what are you doing here alone ? I am Frank Netherwood, a 
 curate of St. Saviour's. Is that enough to make you trust me, 
 and tell me what evil has happened to you ? " 
 
 The wet heap writhed and struggled, beating itself the while 
 fiercely against the wall. Netherwood tried to lift it, but two 
 bare hands sprang out and held him off. He desisted, and 
 spoke again gently, trying to gain the confidence of his 
 mysterious " find." 
 
 " Don't be afraid of me. Indeed I am what I say, a clergyman 
 of the Church of England. Surely, therefore, I am to be trusted." 
 
 The woman if she were a woman only writhed and 
 struggled like a thing in torment, twisting herself along the 
 ground as if to escape notice. Netherwood followed her, and 
 bending took firm but gentle hold of her. 
 
 " Don't try to get away from me. I am here to help you 
 sent here on purpose. Listen to me and try to follow what I 
 say. You have been in sore distress to-night?" 
 
 No answer. 
 
 " You have been wondering what to do ? " 
 
 No answer. 
 
 " You have cried to God for help ? "
 
 94 Bnnie >eane 
 
 A despairing moan. 
 
 " And you thought He was deaf, or cruel, or had forsaken 
 you ? " 
 
 She gave a little sympathetic cry, as if that way of putting it 
 touched her. 
 
 " That is not so, is never so. He heard, and has sent me. 
 If you doubt it, ask yourself how else should I be in this lonely 
 place, where I have no business but you ? And which is some 
 distance from my own home and my own work. Think if at any 
 time to-night you have cried, ' God help me ! What shall I do f ' " 
 
 Still no answer, but two bare, icy hands groped about until 
 they found his, and held them as the drowning hold a rope. 
 
 " Tell me, is not that true ? " 
 
 He felt a wet face touch his hands, and knew that she was 
 acknowledging the truth of what he said. 
 
 " Now, do you doubt that I am here to help you ? " 
 
 She made an effort to stand ; he bent and lifted her, 
 rested her gently back against the wall, then felt in one of 
 his pockets. He had been the last in the mission-room that 
 night, and had brought a box of matches away with him. 
 Standing with his back to the wind, he cautiously struck a 
 light, shading it with his hand. For one instant the figure 
 propped up by the wall stood out in the feeble glimmer ; for 
 one instant two great despairing eyes met Mr. Netherwood's, 
 two blue lips parted and twitched with impotent desire to 
 speak, but in the next the figure had twisted face to the wall 
 again, and Netherwood heard the same smothered shriek of 
 agony, or terror, or both. He laid his hands upon the girl's 
 shoulders; that she was only a girl that flash of light had 
 shown him. 
 
 "In God's name," he said then earnestly, "tell me what 
 I can do for you ? " 
 
 " Nothin' nothin'," she said through tight-clenched teeth ; 
 " where's the good o' you? I can't tell you." 
 
 It was not impertinently said, nor coarsely ; the tone simply 
 implied that she might have told somebody other than he. 
 He took it at once. 
 
 " Is there anyone you would tell ? " 
 
 " Not now, not now. Let me alone. I'm dyin' ; but oh ! 
 it's so long about so long so long ! " 
 
 "You are not dying. I am sure you are very ill, from 
 some cause unknown to me. Now, I am going to get a cab 
 and to take you to some place of safety where you will be 
 well looked alter. I shall be back in a few minutes."
 
 TIbe Curate of St. Saviour's 95 
 
 She put out her hands and held him back. 
 
 " I can't tell you" she moaned helplessly, " but I see your 
 face in the light o' the match, an' it looked so good an' kind ! 
 An' oh, please, if you could take me to some woman, or fetch 
 one here, I'd tell her. It's a woman as / wants, the'd know, 
 an' she'd help me ! " 
 
 " Stay here for five minutes," Mr. Netherwood said, " and I 
 will send you what you want." 
 
 The girl was alone again, while her new friend walked 
 swiftly back to the high road, remembering the cabs he had 
 seen on the stand. 
 
 There was only one, and as he reached it, the door 
 opened and the woman Kate got out. She tried to slip away 
 unrecognised, but, quick as she was, was not quick enough. 
 
 " Kate, I want you." 
 
 " Not to-night, sir not to-night. I can't come to-night, 
 and I won't." 
 
 "Yes, you will. Listen to me." 
 
 " No, Mr. Netherwood, no. I'm going home now ; I am, 
 upon my word. I just sat there out of the rain. It is clearing 
 up, and I am going home. I'll report myself to you 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " To-morrow will not do. It must be now. I want help, 
 and you must give it me." 
 
 " You want help from me, sir ? That isn't likely." 
 
 " Never mind that now." He turned to the cabman. " I 
 will come up beside you." 
 
 " Right, sir. It's pretty damp." 
 
 " That does not matter. Kate, you will get inside." 
 
 Kate reluctantly got inside, and Mr. Netherwood mounted 
 to the seat beside the driver. In less than five minutes he gave 
 the order to stop. 
 
 " This ain't a thoroughfare, sir ; this is the back way to 
 Grandison's Gardens, and here's Grandison's Mews." 
 
 " You can wait here for us." 
 
 He descended and opened the cab-door for the astonished 
 woman inside. 
 
 " Come with me," he said. 
 
 She obeyed. Everything was pitch dark, and the farther 
 they went the blacker it looked. 
 
 " Where are we, sir ? " 
 
 " Quite safe," rejoined he cheerily. " We have not much 
 farther to go. Keep close to this wall, and you will come to a 
 girl a poor, desolate creature in great distress. Will you say I
 
 9 fc Bnnie Deane 
 
 sent you ? I will wait here in case you want help, but unless 
 you do I shall keep in the background. I can do nothing for 
 her. What she wants is a woman's help and attention. While I 
 was wondering where to find her these things, I came upon you." 
 
 Something in the tone, an implied trust in her as a woman 
 still, checked the bitter jest at her own expense that rose to Kate's 
 lips. She went on up the dark, wet path as she was directed. 
 
 She found the girl still standing face to the wall, quite rigid 
 and motionless, save for an occasional strong shiver. 
 
 " Come, my dear," said the woman, touching her timidly, 
 "you're to come with me. Mr. Netherwood sent me. I'm 
 to get you to the corner. There's a cab there. Oh, poor little 
 soul ! Why, you are drenched ! No wonder you shiver ! 
 What are you doing here ? " 
 
 Getting no answer, she ventured to take the girl in her arms, 
 then felt for her left hand, and examined by touch its bare, 
 cold fingers. 
 
 Kate asked no more questions, but stood thinking. 
 
 " You're a bit of a thing, and I'm strong, but whether I 
 can carry you to the corner or not I don't know. Anyway, 
 I can try." 
 
 The half-conscious girl was a dead weight, and Kate raised 
 her voice : 
 
 " Where are you, sir ? " 
 
 " I am here." 
 
 " Will you tell the man to 'back' the cab to here? She 
 can't walk, and I can't carry her." 
 
 Cabby's unwilling horse was slowly backed with clatter and 
 difficulty ; but at last the lamps threw a patch of light on the 
 spot where the two women stood. 
 
 Kate had taken off her smartly-shabby fur-lined cloak, and 
 had wrapped the girl in it. 
 
 " Please take her while I get in, sir, and then give her to me." 
 
 She dropped into Kate's arms like a figure of stone, but 
 finding a bright light upon her face, buried the poor face 
 upon her new friend's bosom with a plaintive cry of shame. 
 
 Kate gathered her up and hushed her as one hushes a 
 baby, talking to her, soothing her, stroking her dripping hair 
 out of her eyes, and holding her hands to the warmth of her 
 own breast, while the cab went on to its destination. 
 
 When at last it drew up in front of a lofty red-brick 
 building, surmounted by an iron cross, a neighbouring clock 
 struck twelve.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 " GOD BLESS IT ! " 
 
 MR. NETHERWOOD descended, rang the bell, was admitted, and 
 spoke to the Sister-in-charge, who summoned the Matron. 
 That good person showed signs of irritation as she looked at 
 the girl, who was assisted into the hall, for she saw that rest 
 for that night was out of the question. 
 
 The Matron's irritation was not unnatural. To be summoned 
 from one's bed on a cold night is not conducive to geniality, 
 and even the saving of souls may degenerate into a matter of 
 business : office hours from ten to four. Therefore was there 
 some parleying, a murmur of " No suitable accommodation for 
 such a case," " It could be better attended to at a hospital," 
 and the like. Which parleying was cut short by Mr. Netherwood, 
 who begged that no obstacle be offered to the girl's reception, 
 but that she be attended to straightway. 
 
 " For," said he to the flushed and fidgety Matron, " I can 
 permit no obstacles I see none. We have rooms, there must 
 be one for her. Were there no other woman here, you are 
 here, and can do your best for her. Pray let there be no half- 
 heartedness among us. There should be none among those 
 who have had the courage to profess" 
 
 The Matron flushed deeper, glancing to the other end of the 
 hall, where Kate and the Sister-in-charge were bending over the 
 moaning girl: three very distinct types of womanhood the 
 Sister at the top, Kate at the bottom, and Annie a kind of 
 connecting link between the two. 
 
 Mr. Netherwood passed out on his way to a medical man, 
 saying to Kate as he did so : 
 
 " You will stay with her ? You can be of use. I find wa 
 are short of hands." 
 
 " Yes, sir," said Kate meekly. 
 
 The Matron controlled herself, and set to work in earnest. 
 Mr. Netherwood was the authority here. So much of his time, 
 energy, and substance had been spent on the founding of tli s 
 "Home" that no one dared rebel against him openly. la 
 
 97 G
 
 98 Hnnie 2>eane 
 
 vain some of the officers had tried to impress upon him the 
 absolute necessity of " System," and the fatality of permitting 
 one department to interfere with another ; to urge upon him, in 
 fact, the stern enforcement of rules and regulations. 
 
 " I see," he had responded promptly ; " but I am not 
 seeking to establish an office carried on by machinery. I could 
 take you to scores of such failures now. My Home must be a 
 home, and the officials must have hearts as well as heads. If 
 I establish these rules you ask for, I ensure your greater ease 
 and leisure, but what about the unhappy souls I seek to benefit ? 
 I drive them away with a scourge of red tape. No ! I seek 
 neither ease nor leisure for myself; in my helpers I expect to 
 find those who are one with me." 
 
 Therefore was Annie Deane admitted to the Home that 
 night instead of being sent to the nearest hospital. Not that 
 it mattered one whit to her whether she were admitted or not, 
 for her life was at too low an ebb. Those hideous hours 
 between dusk and midnight had crushed all feeling out of her. 
 In body and mind alike she had passed the acute stage of 
 suffering, and was numb. But with warmth and skilful atten- 
 tion the numbness passed away. She had to come back to 
 life, and coming, to lie in that high, bare room, moaning and 
 praying to die, while the pale Sister and the watchful doctor 
 listened to her passionate wonder that death should refuse to 
 put an end to her torture and let her be at peace. Why h d 
 they brought her here ? Why had they not left her under thit 
 wall in the rain ? It was cruel, she burst out frantically, If 
 only they had left her alone, she would have been quite dead 
 now dead, and cold, and quiet. Oh, merciful God ! would 
 someone pray to Him to send her a little, only a little, quiet ? 
 
 What had she done that she should be singled out to suffer 
 in this way ? Was she too wicked to die ? She had heard of 
 strong people dying easily dying swiftly, without pain, like a 
 baby going to sleep, but for her 
 
 The pain of a hundred deaths had got her in its grip. The 
 very soul of her tried to wrench itself free of her body, to 
 spring forward and catch the pale Figure that came near and 
 looked her in the eyes, and yet withheld its hand. 
 
 At last, when the framework of the high, bare window began 
 to show against the dim light from the sky, she gave herself up 
 to despair. 
 
 " Where's the use o' prayin' ? " she said. " I am too wicked 
 to die, or else God has forgotten me." 
 
 The Sister fell on her knees, praying for pardon of the awful
 
 "Oofc Bless 3t!" 99 
 
 words ; half hoping, half fearing that they were the last that 
 poor sinner might utter. But the time went on, the light 
 strengthened, and the pale Figure, though it hovered near, 
 seemed uncertain whether or not to stay. 
 
 But the Angel of Death passed over St. Saviour's Home 
 that night, and the Angel of Life, passing in instead, breathed 
 its divine essence into a little male child whom it is true 
 that nobody wanted, not even the worn-out mother, who, upon 
 that day, completed her seventeenth year. 
 
 A neighbouring clock was striking seven when the Matron 
 knocked at the door of Mr. Netherwood's room. 
 
 "It is useless to keep you longer," she said; "the girl 
 will live, but she is prostrate, and incapable of understanding 
 anything that is said to her." 
 
 " And the child ? " 
 
 "Will live too. Both will be sure to do well. It is only 
 your mother and child of value who die." 
 
 " I should like to see the child. It has a life to live, which 
 it may not live to itself. Therefore it is of value, surely ? " 
 
 "To you, perhaps," she answered, with a smile. " It is in 
 my room with the woman Lucas. Will you go up ? " 
 
 He mounted the stairs, went alon; the matted passage to a 
 room at the end, and paused at the half-open door. 
 
 It looked grey in the early morning, and even a glowing fire 
 failed to make it home-like or comfortable. In a chair, with 
 her back to the door, sat Kate Lucas, crooning pitifully over 
 the little bundle on her knees. She had not heard anyone 
 approach, and commenced to talk to the poor baby bitterly : 
 
 " Poor mite, that nobody wants ! You will only be a burden 
 for her to carry all through her life, and one that everybody 
 will take good care she shall never hide. What a pity you 
 didn't die ! One good thing you're a boy, so life can never be 
 as hard on you as it is on us. I wonder where the man is 
 whose photograph I took out of your mother's poor wet dress 
 to-night. I wonder whether he'd care if he knew that she was 
 found under a dripping wall, more dead than alive, and that 
 her neck was black and blue where she'd taken it between her 
 hands and tried to strangle herself! Not he! Why should 
 he ? Who's to prove that it was any of his doing ? It isn't 
 right we all, and they nothing ; it isn't right. There's justice 
 for a man in this world, and mercy \ but if there's either for a 
 woman, I've never seen it."
 
 ioo Snnie Beane 
 
 She laughed dismally, then caught the little bundle up in 
 her arms and turned to pace the room with it, facing Mr. 
 Netherwood as he stood in the doorway. 
 
 " I didn't hear you, sir." 
 
 " No? I heard you, instead. You were saying some terrible 
 things, which would have been more terrible had they been 
 true." 
 
 " They are true, sir. I'm not saying that I am the one to 
 say what's right and what's wrong ; but the difference between 
 the sin of a man and the sin of a woman is a crying injustice, 
 sir, and keeps many a woman down who would like to get on 
 her feet again. Oh ! I'm not talking of the like of me ; I am 
 talking of such as that poor thing we found last night ! " 
 
 " Of her particular case I know nothing, but of one thing I 
 am certain : whatever difference men may choose to make 
 between the sin of a man and the sin of a woman, morally and 
 before God there is none ! As it is in her case, so it is in his ; 
 as she must answer for it, so must he." 
 
 " Then it is in the next world, sir ; for as far as I can see, he 
 goes scot free through this." 
 
 " I say never I What a man sows, that shall he also 
 reap." 
 
 " Ah ! that sounds all right, sir ; but asking your pardon for 
 talking so to you, I don't think there's much in it, and I don't 
 think it has ever stood in the way of a man sowing what he 
 thought he would. A man can turn good before his reaping- 
 time comes. When he's quite tired of doing what's wrong, he 
 can turn round and say, ' Now I am going to be respectable,' 
 and everybody thinks it is all right ; but let the woman who 
 has made one slip turn round and say that she is going to 
 be respectable! Every man laughs, and every woman says, 
 ' That you don't, if / know it ! ' Ah ! don't talk to me to- 
 night, sir ; an angel from Heaven couldn't make me anything 
 but bitter." 
 
 " And yet what would be impossible to the angel is quite an 
 easy matter to this child." 
 
 Kate was pacing the room, with the baby's face held against 
 her own. She stopped, not comprehending, then suddenly 
 grasping his meaning, she smiled. 
 
 " Ah, well, sir, what does it know of bitterness yet ? And 
 who could be harsh to the poor little mite ? God bless it ! " 
 
 She caught herself up as the words left her lips, startled by 
 them, ashamed of them. 
 
 Mr. Netherwood looked at her with a smile.
 
 Bless 3t I" 101 
 
 "You see you, too, believe; you, too, think there is some 
 good in the blessing of God ! You say He is deaf and blind 
 to the working of evil, and to the suffering of the creatures He 
 has sent upon the earth ! According to you He is cruel, callous, 
 unjust, unmoved by pity, insensible to prayer ; and yet, when 
 you wish to invoke some good thing upon the life of this little 
 child, the best even you can say is, ' God bless it ! ' " 
 
 She thought a moment, while the expression of her face 
 changed. 
 
 "That is true, sir," she said, with a sigh; "as you put a 
 thing it always comes home to me. But we won't start the 
 baby with my blessing. It isn't good enough, by a long way ! ' 
 
 She held the child out to him with some little hesitation. 
 Without any hesitation, he took it, then, uncovering the tiny 
 face, he looked at it kindly by the strengthening light of the 
 coming day. 
 
 " May the God to whom our light is darkness; our knowledge, 
 ignorance ; our reasoning too pitiful for anger, bless thee ! 
 May the God of the fatherless be a Father to thee, the Friend 
 of the friendless walk side by side with thee as far as thou hast 
 to go ! Being born to what men call ' evil,' mayst thou hold 
 to that which is good ; being born to nothing, mayst tho'j 
 have what is better than all ! So shall the shadow of the sin 
 of thy birth prove to be but the shelter of God's outspread 
 wing." 
 
 He kissed the child, and gave it again into the woman's 
 arms. 
 
 And thus, with two widely different blessings, from two widely 
 different people, Annie Deane's little son began life.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 "WHAT is THIS PLACE?" 
 
 FOR many days the rescued girl lay almost as silent as the dead, 
 neither remembering the past nor caring about the future lay 
 in a state of mental and physical restfulness which was neither 
 apathy nor content, but something between. Unable to nurse 
 her baby, she did not feel that immediate interest in it which 
 a nursing mother feels. When the baby was taken from her 
 side, her dull eyes followed it ; when it was brought back, a 
 slight very slight change of expression would show that she 
 knew it was there. But, after a while, she began to feebly 
 grope about until she felt the tiny doubled-up fingers, began to 
 try to raise her head in answer to a sudden cry j but when Kate 
 or one of the Sisters came near, she turned her face to the wall, 
 and stared at it with eyes that were vacant and dull. 
 
 The Sisters were extremely patient. Acting under medical 
 orders, they made no attempt to rouse the girl to interest or 
 animation, which, said the doctor, would come in time. He 
 was right. Annie began presently to notice if the baby's place 
 were vacant, to stretch her arm that the child might lie on it, 
 to draw the little breathing body nearer and to touch the 
 velvet head with her cheek. Kate was the first to witness the 
 stealthy actions. She went to the girl's side. 
 
 " He's a dear little boy ! " said she cheerfully. 
 
 There was a long silence, followed by a question spoken 
 feebly. 
 
 "How old is he?" 
 
 '* A fortnight yesterday." 
 
 Annie said no more then, but much later in the day asked 
 in a stronger voice : 
 
 " Who've got my things ? " 
 
 "The Matron," answered Kate, " but I undressed you, and I 
 found some money, I have that until you're able to take care 
 of it yourself." 
 
 "There was something with the money." 
 
 u Yes, a photograph ; I've got that too." 
 
 102
 
 " TWlbat is tbte flMace ? " 103 
 
 Annie said no more. 
 
 " Are you pleased the baby is a boy ? " 
 
 She considered, and presently said that she thought it was 
 " a good thing." 
 
 " Why ? " Kate asked gently. 
 
 " Boys don't have so much to bear as girls do." 
 
 " No, and he will be quicker off your hands." 
 
 As the days passed the current of her life began to quicken. 
 Memory came back to her, and with it interest; interest 
 brought the desire for speech, and such desire kindled the 
 power to gratify it. When the baby was three weeks old the 
 mother was a responsible being, strong enough to note what 
 was passing about her, and to show signs of gratitude to those 
 who tended her. It was not until she was able to sit up for 
 a few hours during the day that the Matron attempted to 
 question her. 
 
 " Your name is Deane, I think ? " 
 
 " Yes, ma'am Annie Deane." 
 
 " I want you to tell me something of your history. We 
 wish to befriend you. The first thing is to know where you 
 come from, that we may communicate with your friends." 
 
 " Please, ma'am, I don't want that done." 
 
 " Why not ? " 
 
 " I don't, ma'am ; and, please, I won't have it done if I can 
 help it." 
 
 " But I must know why." 
 
 " My father an 1 mother haven't got no room for me. I done 
 what wus wrong, an' I had to go away. I can't go back." 
 
 " Did you run away from home ? " 
 
 " Yes, ma'am." 
 
 " To avoid your parents' anger ? " 
 
 Annie hesitated. 
 
 " You were afraid they would find something out?" 
 
 11 They'd found it out, ma'am." 
 
 "And were terribly angry, I suppose? They had a right 
 to be so." 
 
 "Yes, ma'am." 
 
 " You ought not to resent their being so." 
 
 " I don't, ma'am." 
 
 " Will you tell me who led you into this terrible sin ? " 
 
 She whitened, but said deliberately : " No, ma'am." 
 
 " You mean you won't ? " 
 
 "Please, ma'am, I won't." 
 
 The Matron flushed.
 
 104 Hnnie H>eane 
 
 "But you owe us some confidence. We have not asked 
 you a single question, though you have been here nearly a 
 month. Now that you are getting stronger we shall have to go 
 thoroughly into your case. You will be able to leave us in a 
 short time, and this raises the question Where will you go ? 
 Taking your youth into consideration, we should naturally 
 decide upon restoring you to your friends." 
 
 " I can't go back, ma'am." 
 
 " But it is your better plan, and your duty besides. If your 
 friends refuse to receive you, then we will take the responsibility 
 of finding you a suitable situation. But we must first see 
 whether they do refuse." 
 
 Annie made no answer, only looked very white and shaky. 
 Seeing which, the Matron did not pursue the subject further. 
 On the next day, however, she returned to it with greater firm- 
 ness, but was met with equal firmness on the part of the girl, 
 who had evidently been preparing her defence. 
 
 " If you please, ma'am," she said respectfully, " I've left 
 home for good. I can't tell you where to find my mother an' 
 father. If you found 'em, they'd on'y say as I must get my 
 own livin' in service ; an' if I haves to do that, where's the use 
 o' troublin' them ? I don't want them to know what I've bin 
 through ; they'd make a talk about me in the village, an' that 
 I wouldn't like." 
 
 "Which is beside the question, and nothing to do with us. 
 We cannot permit your private dislikes to interfere with our 
 duty. There will be much that you will not like, but you must 
 face the fact that you deserve blame, and you must bear it with 
 all the patience that time and prayer will bring you." 
 
 Annie's answer was unfortunate. 
 
 "Yes, ma'am, but I can't see as it could do any good to go 
 home. I've done with 'em all at home, and they've done wi' 
 me. I shan't never ast them to help me ; they've got enough 
 to do to help theirselves." 
 
 " Were they unkind to you ? " 
 
 "No, ma'am." 
 
 " You had a happy home ? " 
 
 Annie smiled, wondering what this severe lady would call a 
 " happy home." She thought of the tiny cottage, of the bread 
 not always buttered which made up three meals out of the 
 four ; of the bit of greasy bacon which so often did duty for the 
 fourth ; of the hard little bed on the floor from which she had 
 been accustomed to rise so very early ; of the incessant wants 
 and wailings of the ever-recurring babies ; of the incessant
 
 "TCHbat is tbis flMace?" 105 
 
 "clucking" of the mother-voice, rendered shrill by the cease- 
 less round of petty cares which will turn the gentlest woman 
 alive into a shrew. 
 
 The memory of it all swept over Annie and carried her 
 back to the Berkshire village, to her unchildish childhood, 
 which those lurid-golden days in the pine-wood had ended so 
 abruptly. The Matron's question went unanswered, while the 
 girl's dulled memory woke and quivered painfully. 
 
 " Were you happy at home ? " repeated the inquisitorial 
 voice. 
 
 " Yes, ma'am." 
 
 "You led a happy life with kind parents, and yet you 
 fell into temptation. I wish you would tell me how this 
 happened ? " 
 
 " I can't tell you, ma'am." 
 
 The answer ruffled the Matron. 
 
 " I dislike throwing benefits in the teeth of those who have 
 received them," she said ; " but as they are not my benefits, I 
 must speak of them. Do you realise how much has been done 
 for you by the officials of this Home ? Do you know that you 
 were brought here in a dying condition ? " 
 
 " I scarce recollect comin' here, ma'am." 
 
 " But you must have known since. Your life hung upon a 
 thread. But for perfect medical aid and devoted nursing it 
 could not have been saved. No lady could have been more 
 tenderly cared for than you have been here." 
 
 " It's been very good of you all," said Annie humbly. 
 
 Now this might be humility, but it was not gratitude, and 
 gratitude was what the Matron wanted to see. 
 
 "You have been here nearly a month," she said, "you 
 and your child, and you have taken it all as a matter of 
 course. In the ordinary way, a girl of your class would have 
 been at work again by this time, but you have not even tried 
 to rouse yourself to the extent of considering what you are 
 going to do ; so now we must consider this for you. Of 
 course, we cannot claim gratitude, but I think we have a right to 
 some information respecting you and your past history." 
 
 The girl was roused ; she sat up and spoke with some energy. 
 
 "If you thinks I'm ungrateful, ma'am, you're wrong. I 
 can't say a lot, but I'm sure it do seem wonderful to me that 
 I should be in a place like this, with gentry lookin' after me. 
 But it's on'y the last few days as I've had the heart to look 
 about me. As to work, ma'am, I'll do anything you thinks I 
 can do, and be glad to do it."
 
 106 Bnnie 2>eane 
 
 u That is not what I mean," said the Matron hastily. " I 
 am not saying that you are fit to work at present I am asking 
 for a little confidence in return for our attention." 
 
 " Please, ma'am, I had some money when I come here, an' 
 the young woman Kate, she's got it. I've got four pound. 
 Wouldn't that pay for me ? " 
 
 The Matron looked up in surprise. 
 
 " It is a lot of money for a girl like you to have. How did 
 you come by it ? " 
 
 ' It wus give to me, ma'am." 
 
 1 Who gave it you ? " 
 
 ' It wus give to me, but I can't tell you no more." 
 
 1 How long have you had it ? " 
 
 ' Since last August, ma'am." 
 
 The Matron understood, and flushed with righteous anger. 
 
 " I am afraid you fail to understand the meaning of ' imper- 
 tinence.' I must talk to the others about you. If you will not 
 answer me, perhaps someone else will meet with more success," 
 saying which she picked up her work and left the room. 
 
 Annie sat and cried. She had honestly meant the money to 
 pay her expenses, but had not thought it would be necessary to 
 disclose her private affairs, nor did she mean to disclose them. 
 
 This reticence made her enemies, as it had done before. 
 The Matron ceased to take any interest in her, and was at no 
 pains to conceal the fact. The Sisters drew her grievous 
 pictures of her mother's agony of mind concerning her. Kate, 
 arrayed now in the sombre uniform of the Home, advised her 
 stealthily to tell the Matron just enough to keep her from 
 "harping about it;" but Annie held her peace, and saw all 
 sympathy drift away from her. 
 
 When the time came for her to join the other inmates of the 
 Home, something rose within her like a great wave of aversion 
 and resistance. All Mrs. Fryer's hints and allusions to her 
 stained character took definite shape. She shrank from the 
 inmates in uniform. Out of place as she had felt among the 
 saintly nursing Sisters, she felt still more so here. She had 
 avoided asking questions, but now she watched her opportunity 
 and spoke to Kate. 
 
 " What is this place ? " she said steadily. 
 
 Kate shifted her eyes from Annie's, but made no reply. 
 
 " What is this place ? " repeated the girl, more steadily still 
 
 * St. Saviour's Home.'" 
 
 "Home for who?" 
 
 " For such as you and me."
 
 44 Mbat is tbts place?" 107 
 
 " What ar<r you ? " 
 
 Kate was dumb. 
 
 " What are you ? I know what I am, but there's somethink 
 about you others I can't make out." 
 
 " Well," said Kate hardly " well, then, if you know, answer 
 me first and tell me what you are." 
 
 Annie considered, trying to answer truthfully. 
 
 " I'm a girl that's done what she shouldn't do, that's made 
 one great mistake, and is very sorry for it." 
 
 Kate was getting harder. 
 
 " Well," she said, " we're women who have made a score of 
 such mistakes, and are not sorry for it that's the difference." 
 
 Annie sat down. She was still weak and easily excited. 
 
 " That is a difference ! " said she piteously. 
 
 " I daresay to your way of thinking just now it is, but to 
 most people's way of thinking we're equal. One such mistake 
 as ours, or a dozen it is all the same. They herd us together 
 and ticket us alike." 
 
 " That isn't fair." 
 
 " I suppose not. But don't sour me, Annie ; don't make an 
 enemy of me, for I like you, and I'm sorry for you." 
 
 " I don't want you to be sorry for me. If what you says is 
 true, you'd better be sorry for yourself." 
 
 " Too late in the day for that, so I can afford to be sorry for 
 you." 
 
 Annie was touched. 
 
 "I don't ast no questions," she said, "becos' I haven't 
 answered none; but did you ever make a mistake like I've 
 made ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And was left with a baby to keep ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Then how come you " 
 
 She stopped, puzzled how to convey what she meant. 
 
 " Never mind me," Kate said briskly ; " I shan't make you 
 any wiser than you are." 
 
 " But I can't make it out. I can understand it for once, 
 but to talk o' makin' a mistake like this again I I can't 
 understand that, nohow." 
 
 " You will understand fast enough, or you will be very lucky, 
 unless unless " 
 
 She laughed bitterly, and stopped. 
 
 "Unless what?" 
 
 " Unless you can swallow their doctrine of eternal damnation.
 
 io8 Bnnie 2)canc 
 
 Then you can enjoy the blessed privilege of hard work for the 
 rest of your life, with the Bible for consolation." 
 
 " I've worked hard ever since I was a child. I don't mind 
 that." 
 
 "Then perhaps you'll keep afloat. I hate hard work. I 
 always did." 
 
 " Ah, but you've bin brought up better than me ; you speaks 
 better." 
 
 " That is only the difference between town and country. I 
 went into service young as under-maid to some young ladies. 
 I think I picked up their way of speaking, and it has stuck to 
 me ever since. Also, I picked up their notion of getting 
 through life as easy as possible ; their liking for dress and 
 pleasure, and lying in bed late, and leaving all the trouble to 
 whoever was unlucky enough to have to take it on. My ! what 
 a selfish lot they were ! Good-natured and pleasant enough in 
 their way, but bad teachers for a girl who wasn't too steady at 
 best. It's dress and laziness that ruin girls, Annie. It's only 
 here and there that one's ruined by what they call love ! " 
 
 " Well, I'm not lazy, an' I've never had no dress but mother's 
 old ones, cut shorter in the skirt, an' took in in the body to 
 make 'em fit." 
 
 "A town girl wouldn't stand that. I think you had better 
 go back to where you came from. Here you will be finding 
 out that you are what's known as ' pretty.' " 
 
 " Oh ! " the touch of flattery drew her out at once, " he said 
 I was pretty ! " 
 
 Kate laughed. 
 
 " Of course ' he ' did. You mean the man in the photograph ? 
 Come, now, he was no plough hand, no farm labourer ? He 
 was a gentleman, /know ! " 
 
 Annie shut her mouth in a tight line. 
 
 "And he wasn't short of money ! " 
 
 The girl said nothing. 
 
 " I say, Annie, I'll never tell a soul, but who was he ? * 
 
 ' I don't know." 
 
 *' My word ! that's a good joke ! Do you mean " 
 
 " I means to say nothink about 'im, neither to you not to 
 nobody else." 
 
 "That's straight!" said Kate demurely. "You'll see him 
 again?" 
 
 Annie made no response, only said that she thought it 
 " time to go down." As they went downstairs, they met the 
 Matron going up.
 
 "TKIibatfs tbfs fclace?" 109 
 
 " Annie Deane," she said, " come into my room." 
 
 Annie turned and followed her up. 
 
 " Will you close the door ? Thank you. I have noticed 
 that you are very friendly with Kate Lucas." 
 
 " I didn't think I was friendly with anybody, ma'am." 
 
 " That is rather an impertinent answer. I am willing to 
 believe that you did not mean it so ; still, anything approach- 
 ing self-assertion in a girl like you prejudices people against 
 you. I would advise you to guard against it. As I said 
 before, you are friendly with the girl Lucas." 
 
 Annie did not reply. 
 
 " Are you sure you knew nothing of her before you came 
 here?" 
 
 " She've bin in London all her life, ma'am, an' I never see 
 London till I come into it that day they brought me here. So 
 I couldn't have knowed her, could I ? " 
 
 " You might have answered me straightforwardly, with a 
 ' Yes ' or ' No.' Do you know that she is unlikely to do you 
 any good ? " 
 
 Annie thought she saw a chance of saying the right thing. 
 
 "Oh, ma'am," she said impulsively, "I did think that 
 myself ! " 
 
 The Matron raised her brows. 
 
 "That is scarcely what I mean. I don't know why you 
 should set yourself above your companions. I simply wished 
 to say that there are others who would be safer confidantes 
 for you." 
 
 Annie felt rebuffed. 
 
 " There are girls in the house who are sincerely repentant, 
 who are striving to get back into the right path. They might 
 be of some use to you, but in Kate Lucas I have little faith." 
 
 Annie felt so sure now of saying the wrong thing that she 
 was nervous. 
 
 " If you please, ma'am, I'd sooner not know anybody as is 
 here. How will I set abuut gettin' some place o' service ? I 
 think I'm fit now." 
 
 The Matron looked as if the girl irritated her, as indeed 
 she did. 
 
 "The truth is, we do not know how to deal with you," she 
 said. "It is our custom to study the past life of our girls, 
 with a view to understanding their requirements. But you 
 have given us no opportunity of serving you in this way. You 
 have your health and strength restored to you, and now you 
 wish to walk out of the house as much a stranger to us as when
 
 no Hnnic 2>eane 
 
 you came. You either do not understand things, or you are 
 more deficient in the sense of gratitude than any girl I have 
 had through my hands." 
 
 The tears found their way into Annie's eyes. 
 
 " I am not ungrateful," she said. " It's on'y that I've bin 
 reck'nin' to pay ; an' now I finds I can't, I don't know what to 
 say." 
 
 The Matron's colour deepened. 
 
 " Evidently you do not understand," she said, " or you would 
 not talk of payment. I don't know of anything which has so 
 repelled me as the glib manner in which you talk of that terrible 
 money ! I should have thought better of you had you been as 
 reticent concerning it as you have been concerning your past 
 life. I suppose the only thing is to find you a situation. 
 What can vou do ? " 
 
 " Anythi ik, ma'am, as is work. I can wash, an' scrub, an' 
 cook, an' mend ; an' mother, she says as I'm a rare good ironer ; 
 an' as to children, I can do anythink for they." 
 
 The Matron shook her head. 
 
 " I am afraid your knowledge there will be of little use. I 
 could not recommend you for the care of good-class children ; 
 you speak so badly. There is nothing open to you but general 
 service." 
 
 "What's that, ma'am?" 
 
 " You will have to go as ' maid-of-all-work.' As a rule, I set 
 my face against this class of situation for our girls ; but if you 
 will not let me assist you to anything better, I must give way. 
 If you stay here for six months I shall know no more of you 
 than I do now, so perhaps we had better find you a place at 
 once. You may go down." 
 
 On the following day Annie was sent into the laundry, 
 where she had a certain amount of work given out to her. 
 She got through this with credit, and was afterwards pointed 
 out to the Matron as one of whom good work might be 
 expected later on. 
 
 Kate Lucas happened to hear of this. She managed to 
 sidle up to Annie. 
 
 "They will give you the chance of staying on," she 
 whispered hurriedly. "Good ironers are scarce. But don't 
 stay. You'll do better away. I want to speak to you if I 
 can get the chance, but they are keeping you out of my way." 
 
 Here the woman in charge came up. 
 
 "There's a van-load just in," she said. "You two might 
 go and sort it out."
 
 " Wbat is tbf s place ? " 1 1 1 
 
 Annie followed Kate, who set to work on a heap of linen, 
 talking rapidly as she worked. 
 
 " Listen to me, for I shan't get a chance to speak to you 
 again, perhaps. Some time ago I lived in a square off the 
 Camden Road as general servant. I didn't stop long, but it 
 has come into my mind that that place would suit you until 
 you're fit for something better. You might learn a lot from 
 the old lady. She doesn't do much herself, but she'll potter 
 about and show you how to do things. She's strict, but that 
 won't matter if you mean to go straight. I've had her on my 
 mind these two or three days, and to-night, if I can get out, 
 I'll go and tell her all about you." 
 
 " But perhaps she don't want a servant" 
 
 " I'm going to see. Anyway, don't stop here. You'll learn 
 more harm among the girls than you'll learn good off the 
 Sisters " 
 
 Here the Matron, passing the open door, paused and entered 
 the room. 
 
 "One can manage this sorting," she said, "and Annie 
 Deane may cease work for to-day." 
 
 After which she stood and waited for Annie to follow her 
 out. 
 
 Kate laughed to herself. 
 
 " All right," said she dryly, " you are a very good woman in 
 your own estimation ; but as for Annie Deane, I shall do her 
 more good than you will. Anyway, I can try."
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 "ONE OF THE HOPELESS SORT " 
 
 KATE did try. After working hours she applied for leave 
 to go out, which was granted, providing that she chose tc 
 accept the companionship of one of the Sisters. She smiled, 
 but submitted, remaining silent as to the nature of her errand, 
 and puzzling the good Sister by walking so far and so fast. 
 
 Arriving at the house she wanted, she hesitated. 
 
 " Must you go in with me ? " she said to Sister Ruth. 
 
 " I am supposed to do so," was the timid answer ; " but I 
 will wait. I am sure I can trust you not to get me into any 
 trouble. You know that 1 am new to my work." 
 
 Kate nodded, and rang the bell. 
 
 " Is Mrs. Holt at home ? " said she to the servant who opened 
 the door. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Can I see her ? " 
 
 " Who shall I say it is ? " 
 
 Kate hesitated. 
 " Oh, tell her somebody from St. Saviour's Home." 
 
 The girl pushed open the drawing-room door, and Kate 
 walked in, looking round at the once familiar objects with a 
 smile. 
 
 " Who'd have thought I should ever have seen the inside of 
 this house again," she said to herself. " Here she comes, with 
 the same little patter along the hall, and the same rustle of the 
 old black silk." 
 
 " A light here, please,. Emma," said a brisk voice outside. 
 
 " Emma," mused Kate, " / was Emma. I wonder she 
 doesn't change the name for luck." 
 
 She drew back behind the door as an old lady entered, 
 followed by a girl with a lighted taper. A pretty old lady, 
 small, plump, pink of face, and with a bright youthfuiness of 
 eye an old lady who might have stepped out of a picture, 
 snowy-frillt-d fichu, black satin cap-strings, big paste waist, 
 buckle, anci all. 
 
 Ill
 
 "<sme of tbe ibopeless Sort" 113 
 
 While her servant lit the gas, she turned herself about to find 
 her visitor. 
 
 " Oh ! pray don't sit there behind the door," she said ; " you 
 are in the draught of the crack. Come and sit " 
 
 Here she paused, lifted two fat little hands as if to ward off 
 an imaginary horror, and cried : 
 
 " Oh, dear me, how could you ? Oh, how very dreadful of 
 you ! How very dreadful, Emma ! It is, it is, indeed ! " 
 
 " Please 'm," said the startled taper-bearer, " what have I 
 done?" 
 
 "You? Nothing. I don't mean you/' said the old lady, 
 trotting over to a big chair and sitting down in it. " Go away ; 
 don't say anything to Mr. Holt. Shut the door, and don't 
 listen outside." 
 
 When the door had been shut with an indignant bang, Kate 
 stood up. 
 
 "How could you?" the little old lady burst out afresh, 
 patting the arms of her chair in great excitement. "To think 
 of you having the the dreadful effrontery to enter this house, 
 to stand there looking me in the face ! I wonder the ceiling 
 does not fall in ! I wonder the floor does not give way ! If I 
 tell Mr. Holt that you have been here he won't believe me." 
 
 " If you will let me, ma'am," said Kate quietly, "I will tell 
 you what I came about. It wasn't for myself." 
 
 " I should think not. It would be useless. Even if I 
 wanted a servant ever so badly (as I do), and Mr. Holt were 
 ever so anxious to see me suited (as he is), I should never be 
 able to persuade him to let me try you again. He is so very 
 firm ! You must remember, Emma, how impossible it is to 
 move Mr. Holt when once he has made up his mind." 
 
 " Yes, ma'am ; but as I said just now, I am not come on my 
 own account at all." 
 
 The old lady trotted over to another chair. 
 
 "Make haste and say what you have come about, then. 
 This is extraordinary ! Only this morning I said to Mr. Holt, 
 * I am sure I am going to see someone I have not seen for a 
 long time.' I had that feeling. And we were wondering 
 whom it could be. I thought it must be Georgie." 
 
 " Did you say that you were wanting a servant, ma'am ? " 
 
 " I do want one badly, But you know, Emma, I did say 
 when you left (not that I want to cast a stone oh, dear, I dont 
 want to do that !), but I certainly did say when you I. ft that 
 never, never, never again would I engage a girl with any any 
 stain upon her character." 
 
 H
 
 H4 Hnnie Beane 
 
 "The girl I came about is very different to me." 
 
 " Is she above suspicion ? Is she quite respectable ? " 
 
 " She can be made so, ma'am," said Kate, " by anyone who 
 is willing to help her. She's only seventeen, and now's the 
 time to take her, before other girls have got at her, and have 
 told her what she doesn't know. I've thought what a safe 
 place this would be if I could get her here. She'd be a good 
 servant to you I know she would, with a little showing 
 how." 
 
 "But how comes she to be dependent upon your recommen- 
 dation ? You know, Emma, how careful I am about casting 
 stones, but you must see that your recommendation is likely 
 to do her more harm than good." 
 
 " If you'll let me, ma'am," said Kate patiently, " I'll tell you 
 all about it." 
 
 She did so, with many interruptive assertions on the part of 
 the old lady to the effect that it was all of no use, and that she 
 would never be able to persuade Mr. Holt to receive another 
 girl who was not in every way above suspicion. Still, she asked 
 many questions concerning Annie Deane, and during Kate's 
 recital of the girl's story, kept up a running commentary of 
 " Poor thing ! " and " Dear me, how shocking ! " and " Oh, to 
 think the world should be so wicked ! " Really, she wondered 
 that Heaven did not send another flood and sweep away the 
 people for their wickedness ! 
 
 " Of course," said Kate in conclusion, " I can't answer for 
 anybody's being genuine, but I do think this girl will repay any 
 trouble that's taken for her. She's not had her fling like the 
 rest of us at the Home. She won't mind a tight hand over 
 her, nor she won't expect much liberty, unless the Matron gets 
 her into ' good ' service, where the others will put her up to 
 what she can get in the way of privileges, if she likes to hold 
 out for them. She knows nothing of all that now ; she's just 
 as much a child as her own poor baby." 
 
 " Ah, that is the thins; ! There is the baby. Fancy a girl 
 of seventeen with a baby ! In my young time such a thing 
 would have been quite a scandal. Now nobody takes much notice. 
 There really ought to be a universal Day of Humiliation, like 
 there was in the time of the Great Plague ! Oh, dear ! if I 
 attempt to persuade Mr. Holt, I must suppress the fact of 
 there being a baby." 
 
 "The Home people will help her out with that, ma'am, as 
 long as she shows herself deserving. They won't let the child 
 stand in her way."
 
 "One of tbe fjopeless Sort" ns 
 
 But Mrs. Holt stood in great fear of her hrtsband, or 
 pretended so to stand. 
 
 " I must tell him before I sleep to-night," she said ; " I am 
 sure he will be dreadfully angry with me for promising to do 
 anything for a girl with such a dreadful stain on her character; 
 but I should be glad to get somebody. I cannot put up with 
 this girl. She will not keep her place, and she takes liberties 
 You must remember how very firm Mr. Holt is upon the 
 subject of taking liberties. He will have a girl in to her time, 
 and he knows directly if there is any fruit gone out of a tart. 
 Then he insists upon my going down to the kitchen when the 
 tea is made, because he says that the girls pour off the best 
 cup for themselves." 
 
 Kate smiled, with the air of one who is wise. 
 
 " Then you'll see the Matron to-morrow, ma'am ? I hope 
 you will ! She doesn't understand Annie Deane, and the 
 sooner they part the better." 
 
 " Well, if I can anyhow persuade Mr. Holt, I will go ; but 
 really I have very little hope, very little indeed. Now, tell me 
 about yourself. I am so thankful you are back with the good 
 Sisters " 
 
 " Yes, ma'am," interrupted Kate, " I'm back, but Sister Ruth 
 is waiting for me outside, and I must go." 
 
 " Oh, I see ! Will you let yourself out, quietly ? I must 
 steady my nerves before I go down and tell Mr. Holt that you 
 have been here. Whatever will he say when I tell him that I 
 have promised to try that unfortunate girl ? And oh ! I do hope 
 I shall be able to suppress the fact of there being a baby." 
 
 Kate withdrew, closing the door. As she stood for a second 
 on the mat outside it, the old wild feeling that she knew swept 
 up and possessed her. There was that in her which loathed 
 restraint, which was inimical to every kind of authority. Set 
 up anything representing Law before Kate, and an unreasoning 
 devil in her did instantly arise to beat at it and sweep it away. 
 The Home was hateful to her because it represented Authority ; 
 the Matron was hateful to her because she represented 
 Authority ; the inmates were despicable because they tamely 
 submitted to be ruled by petty self-appointed Authority. A 
 gaoler was still a gaoler to Kate, gaoled he never so mercifully, 
 for she had the temper of the born Anarchist, which will pull 
 down the house of the Ruler, though the falling ruins mean 
 death. 
 
 Her way out lay through the front door to her right, but 
 down four stairs to her left the garden door stood open. She
 
 1 6 Bnnie Deane 
 
 threw up her arms with an inarticulate cry. The way out! 
 there was a way out, which did not lead to the Home. 
 
 " Here goes ! " she muttered, springing down four stairs as 
 lightly as a cat. " I can't go back there. If there was any 
 repentance in me the inside of that place would kill it in a 
 week. I can't breathe there. It chokes me. I'm one of the 
 hopeless sort, and Madam the Matron knows it, so she came this 
 afternoon and marched Annie Deane away from contamination. 
 That is how they practise the charity they preach. There's 
 only one Christian among them Netherwood. I've often 
 thought that whenever I did find a Christian without a handful 
 of stones ready to throw at the first sinner who came along, it 
 would be a man. Christianity is too hard for women ; it means 
 too much self-control." 
 
 She laughed as she flew down the garden path. If the 
 garden gate was locked, she must turn back. It was locked, 
 and the key was not in it. Go back ? Not she ! She dragged 
 the garden seat to the wall, mounted first one and then the 
 other ; in one minute had swung herself down, in another was 
 running through the narrow avenue of back entrances as if all 
 the Furies were after her. At the end of the dreary avenue she 
 paused, then stood a moment to regain her breath. As she 
 did so, the face and the voice of the " one Christian " she had 
 found came vividly in front of her. She writhed away from it. 
 
 " Some day," she muttered, " in some other place, but not 
 in St. Saviour's Home. I'd try for you I'd be a slave to you, 
 because you're what you say you are, and not a white-washed 
 sham ! Well, I've done Annie Deane a good turn. I've found 
 her a safe home ; I think I'll write and give her a hint or two 
 about the old Judy who blames everything on to poor old hen- 
 pecked Punch. I've certainly gone out of my way to rescue 
 Annie Deane. I'll enter that on the credit side of my ledger. 
 There are nor many entries on that side, and the debtors' 
 columns are choke-full. I shall never balance up ! I wonder 
 how long the poor simple soul will walk up and down the 
 square? She will give a timid knock presently and ask if 
 I'm ready. Poor old Judy will have a fit, but it won't stop 
 her from going to see Annie to morrow, on the chance of 
 securing a girl who won't want to eat the fruit out of the tarts, 
 nor help herself to the tea."
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 "I'LL CALL HIM THAT, OR NOTHING AT ALL 1 * 
 
 IT was Annie Deane's last week at the Home. Mrs. Holt 
 had used her persuasive powers upon Mr. Holt with excellent 
 results, and the girl was to enter their service without delay. 
 She was glad, and did not hesitate to show it. Kate's dis- 
 appearance had made things harder for her. Disliking her 
 from the first, the Matron was now thoroughly averse to 
 her, and would be glad to get her out of the house, so that 
 she and the circumstances connected with her might be 
 forgotten as soon as possible. 
 
 For Annie was associated with another "failure," and the 
 Matron hated failures, because they made Mr. Netherwood 
 inquisitive, and sent him probing deeply into the subject of 
 Cause and Effect, with the former of which there was never 
 any telling who might prove to be identified. Therefore let 
 them be rid of Annie Deane with all speed. 
 
 But before she could go there were one or two little cere- 
 monies of a religious character which must be gone through for 
 the credit of the Home. Had Annie ever been confirmed ? 
 Yes ; she had. 
 
 The Matron lifted her brows, sighing at the inefficacy ot 
 that ceremony. 
 
 " Why were you confirmed ? " said she severely. 
 
 "Because the Bishop wus comin', ma'am, an' I wus gone 
 fourteen." 
 
 " Did you feel any desire to be confirmed ? " 
 
 " No, ma'am. A lot of us went together." 
 
 "You should not have gone unless you felt yourself to be 
 prepared." 
 
 ' I think I said somethink about not wantin' to go, but 
 mother said it was rubbish, so I giv' in." 
 
 " You were wrong." 
 
 " Yes, ma'am," said Annie meekly. 
 
 "Your baby will be christened on Sunday afternoon, at S 
 
 117
 
 8 Bnntc S>eane 
 
 Saviour's. If you have not decided on a name for him, you 
 had better do so." 
 
 " Please, ma'am, I have." 
 
 " What are you going to call him ? " 
 
 "Lin." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Lin." 
 
 "After whom are you naming him?*' 
 
 The girl coloured distressfully, but said nothing. 
 
 The Matron felt tranquilly amused. 
 
 "You are thinking of 'Lynn,' she said, "which is a sur- 
 name. You could not call your child that It would be 
 ridiculous." 
 
 " It isn't a surname, ma'am. I knows that" 
 
 "You know very little, I think, and you are evidently 
 mistaken. At all events, it could be but a pet name for a 
 longer one ; or, as is sometimes the case in good families, the 
 mother's maiden name given to the son." 
 
 " It might 'ave bin that" 
 
 The Matron gave way to anger. Fancy allowing this girl %e 
 give her baby a gentleman's pet name. There was no shaming 
 her ignorant presumption ! Of course, " Lin " was the name of 
 the man who had ruined her. 
 
 "You will do better not to call the child anything so 
 inappropriate," she said. " If you cannot see how how 
 shameless it makes you appear, I must tell you. Please 
 think of something sensible, I could not submit such a name 
 as this to Mr. Netherwood." 
 
 Annie was very white. 
 
 " Then we'll let it be without any name at all, ma'am," she 
 said quietly. " I can't see as it matters much." 
 
 " But it does matter. The child must be known to the parish 
 authorities by some name. He will take your name of ' Deane,' 
 and some other, something plain and suitable, he must have as 
 well." 
 
 Annie spoke respectfully, but firmly. 
 
 " He'll be named ' Lin,' ma'am," she said, " or nothink at 
 all. If I could see as it mattered to anybody, it 'd be another 
 thing, but I can't Who's to care what I calls him? I'm not 
 meanin' to be saucy, ma'am, but it really isn't nobody's business 
 but mine." 
 
 She trembled lest the Matron should be powerful enough to 
 thwart her. 
 
 She had made up her mind long ago. She had heard the
 
 "S'll call blm tbat, or notbing at all" 119 
 
 little name but once ; had caught her breath as it slipped un- 
 awares from its owner's lips. He had been telling her of the 
 life his friends had been good enough to plan for him a life 
 in the office of a highly-respected lawyer uncle. One of his 
 cousins had kindly " taken it on," said he, " instead." 
 
 " For it's more in my line than yours, Lin. You would bolt 
 in a month. Street-singing, now, or nigger business would suit 
 you much better." 
 
 Annie had not heard the last part of the sentence, being so 
 interested in the first. 
 
 " I knows your name ! " she had burst out excitedly. " They 
 calls you 'Lin.' " 
 
 He had made one of his odd grimaces, but had not denied 
 the name. 
 
 And now, in spite of contempt and derision, she stood her 
 ground. 
 
 " Who's to care what I calls him ? " she repeated, with a 
 choking in her throat as she thought of her friendless baby. 
 " I'll call him that, or nothink at all." 
 
 " So," said the Matron to Mr. Netherwood later, " I left the 
 matter for you to settle. I find the girl quite intractable." 
 
 Mr. Netherwood smiled. 
 
 " Really," he said, " I see no objection. Three letters of 
 one sort make a name as well as three letters of another. 
 Take, for instance, 'T-o-m,'and you have 'Tom'; ( J-i-m,' and 
 you have ' Jim' ; ' J-o-e,' and you have ' Joe.' ' Lin ' suggests a 
 refinement which strikes you as being out of place ? Well, I 
 cannot see our right to dictate to the girl in the matter. It 
 only concerns herself." 
 
 " But the point is this : the girl is naming the child after 
 the man whose whereabouts she has refused to disclose. 
 Surely we are encouraging a bad thing ; we are making a sort 
 of heroine of her. She is leaving here as no girl has ever left 
 before. We know nothing of her; we are not in touch with 
 her friends. I say that we have permitted ourselves to be 
 duped into neglect of our duty. She will leave here, will leave 
 the child behind her; will then put herself in renewed 
 communication with this man, and we shall actually have 
 aided rather than prevented her. If nothing worse comes of 
 it, she will form one of those terrible permanent connections 
 which we are powerless to reach." 
 
 " I am not afraid." 
 
 " Well, you see you are not as practical as I. You are an
 
 i2o BUI tic Deane 
 
 Idealist, and are taking this girl for what she is not. She is 
 artful and presumptuous." 
 
 Mr. Netherwood's luminous eyes looked steadily into the 
 Matron's. 
 
 " You dislike her," he said ; " you are unjust to her, because 
 she has not satisfied your curiosity? 
 
 " Mr. Netherwood ! " 
 
 " I repeat it You are influenced by personal pique. For- 
 give me, but these things should have no place among us." 
 
 Her crimson face betrayed her. She had sense enough not 
 to attempt denial. 
 
 " Perhaps you are right," she said ; " but we have had some 
 failures lately, and when I see lives like yours recklessly sacri- 
 ficed for worthless creatures who grimace behind your back it 
 hardens me against them." 
 
 " Then," Mr. Netherwood rose and spoke with gentle firm- 
 ness, " it becomes necessary for you to resign your position. 
 We cannot have hardness ; we cannot have intolerance. Our 
 life here is from day to day, and admits of no anticipation, 
 no discouragement because of the retrospect. We must be 
 patient, we must be impersonal; we must be careless of ridicule, 
 and have no eyes for that ' grimacing behind our backs.' We 
 must do each our own duty and leave the rest. As long as we 
 are troubling whether or not it pays to do our duty, then I 
 think we are doing two things at once, and one of them 
 not well. If any poor soul, struggling however feebly to the 
 right, struggles in here and is received with half-hearted sym- 
 pathy and ill-concealed scepticism, then we are disgracing the 
 name under which we fight." 
 
 " Mr. Netherwood, at the risk of being misunderstood, I tell 
 you that your extreme tolerance does harm. You give too 
 much latitude. Analyse your theory of unlimited patience, 
 and you will find that it means allowing women to drift in here 
 and out again as they will, and as Kate Lucas has" 
 
 " And where have we any authority for a limit ? Find me 
 one, and I will sift it to the bottom. Suppose a girl comes in 
 here and goes out again six times, and the seventh comes to 
 stay? It is our business to receive her, but it is not our 
 business to show her that we do not believe in her. By so 
 doing we open our doors, and she drifts out. If your personal 
 want of faith has been in any way answerable for Kate Lucas's 
 falling away, I must beg you to resign your position." 
 She turned as white as the collar at her throat. 
 " Oh ! " she said piteously j " oh, Mr. Netherwood ! "
 
 44 311 call bim tbat, or notbina at all" 121 
 
 " I say I must. You are the power here, and I must know 
 that you are quite selfless in your intercourse with these 
 unfortunate women." 
 
 " With the unfortunate yes ; but I have been talking of the 
 wilfully perverse." 
 
 " Leave them, or rather ask whether the wilfully perverse be 
 not yourself. To us, all who enter here are simply and literally 
 ' unfortunate.' Unfortunate, inasmuch as free to follow that 
 which is good, they yet follow that which is evil, to their own 
 cost ; free to walk in the sun, they yet turn to the shade ; free 
 to walk upright in the open ways, they yet will crawl among 
 the filth and tangle of a dismal swamp ! For such marvellous 
 lack of perception should there be anything but helpful pity ? 
 Above all, when the poor blind creatures stumble c in here, 
 should they be confronted by personal doubts as to the 
 sincerity of their desire to see? Never mind whether they 
 come once or a hundred times, they shall be welcomed ; if not 
 by you, then by somebody in your stead." 
 
 She stood, grasping the back of a chair. 
 
 "You leave me no alternative," she said. "When this 
 Home was established, seven years ago, I took on its manage- 
 ment. I was going to say that I have done my best, but 
 talking to you always makes one wonder what one's best might 
 be made by increased effort. I have sometimes felt that the 
 woman Lucas would be the cause of my leaving. I say 
 nothing about the justice of sacrificing me to her. You say it 
 is right, and what you say I never question. I will stay until 
 you can fill my place, and will give my successor any 
 information I can." 
 
 " Stay a moment, you can help us in another way. Will 
 you remain as manageress, and give the other duties into the 
 hands of Sister Elizabeth? You would still guide the 
 machinery, as it were, but would have nothing to do with those 
 who enter or those who leave." 
 
 "You propose to utilise my business capacity?" she said 
 bitterly, "and to give Sister Elizabeth the right to order me 
 about?" 
 
 " I do not look at it in that way. You profess to have the 
 welfare of this Home at heart, but you have shown yourself 
 unfit for the post you have hitherto filled. This raises a 
 difficulty. My proposal shows you a way out of it. Which is 
 to be ? Is it the Home, or is it your pride ? " 
 
 She considered a long, long time.
 
 !* Hrotte H)eanc 
 
 "I could not be a servant to Sister Elizabeth," she said at 
 last, very slowly, " so I suppose it is my pride." 
 
 " I am sorry," Mr. Netherwood said to himself as the door 
 closed behind her ; " but if she interfered with this work, it was 
 imperative that she should go."
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 " BUT IF THAT WOMAN COULD LIVE TO SHOW SHB 
 WASN'T RUINED?" 
 
 ON the following Sunday Annie carried her baby to church, 
 where, in spite of opposition and ridicule, he received the name 
 of " Lin," in addition to that of Deane. Now it happened 
 that the afternoon service, instead of bringing peace to Annie, 
 brought sore trouble and misunderstanding. The day was hot, 
 and the sermon specially addressed to those about to be con- 
 firmed was long. Baby Lin lay across his mother's knees, 
 sleeping as peacefully as the most reputable baby alive, while 
 the voice of the preacher resounded through the building, now 
 swelling in exhortation, now sinking to a whisper of warning or 
 reproach, but always failing to convey to Annie any idea what 
 it was all about There was nothing of which the ignorant 
 mind could lay hold; it was all high-sounding and vague. 
 Annie tried her hardest to follow that discourse, hoping to come 
 across something which should serve as a guide to her, which 
 should shed some light on the path of her everyday life. The 
 Matron and the Sisters had told her that worldly things were 
 dead to her, and that she was dead to them; that religion 
 was the thing by which alone she might venture to steer her 
 course through the sombre existence which remained to her ; 
 that she must be content with joys of the higher, unseen sort, 
 with the hope of the world to come. She had listened very 
 wistfully, being young, but had not questioned the truth of what 
 she heard. So Religion was all that was left her ? If that were 
 so, then must she and Religion be close friends, and under- 
 stand each other very thoroughly ! She had set to work to find 
 out what she made of the Christian life as set forth in the New 
 Testament. The first thing she had discovered was that the 
 Matron herself was no Christian, the second that to be a 
 Christian at all was a hard, not to say impossible, thing. 
 
 " I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse 
 you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which
 
 124 Bnnic Deane 
 
 despitefully use you and persecute you, that ye may be the 
 children of your Father which is in Heaven." 
 
 And again : 
 
 " Whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him 
 the other also." 
 
 These words, and many others of the same purport, had set 
 the girl thinking. She had heard and read them many times, 
 and had not understood. She understood now, and was deeply 
 impressed as she thought of the number of professing Christians 
 she had encountered in even her limited acquaintance. 
 
 " I wonders how so many people dares" she said to herself, 
 in sudden awe. " They wouldn't if they see these command- 
 ments like I sees them. Mrs. Fryer wus always talkin' of herself 
 as one of God's people, an' the Matron seems to talk as if she 
 wus that above bein' like other people that there wus no gettin' 
 up near her ! But neither of they wouldn't do good to anyone 
 as did evil to them, nor stand by patient to offer the other 
 cheek ! I don't think I'll ever tell anybody that I'm a 
 Christian. I'll keep it to myself till I see how I gets on." 
 
 She had said it in all good faith and reverence, and had 
 shut the Book slowly, very sad at heart 
 
 She settled herself to-day to listen to the sermon with all 
 her might, eager to be helped forward upon a difficult way, to 
 hear something which should open the door of her dark soul 
 and so let in the light. 
 
 The preacher enlarged upon the blessed privilege of baptism 
 which all enjoyed in common; upon what he termed the 
 " glorious mystery of baptismal regeneration," by which, while 
 they were yet unconscious babes, they could become partici- 
 pators in the priceless gift of salvation. He reminded them 
 again and again that they were " baptized into the very body 
 and blood of Jesus Christ." He felt he could not sufficiently 
 impress upon them this magnificent truth. 
 
 Annie caught the sentence, repeating it to herself until the 
 words vague enough in themselves were totally meaningless 
 and bewildering. She put them behind her at last, only to 
 find that she had lost what bit of the thread of that discourse 
 she had been able to pick up, and that the preacher had lost 
 himself in a labyrinth of high-sounding words which might be 
 impressive, but were certainly not intelligible. 
 
 Annie's desire for practical guidance faded away in dis- 
 appointment. Her attention wandered to the beautiful win- 
 dows, to the high-arched roof, to the snowy reredos in the 
 dim, rich chancel ; then it came back to the people about her
 
 Sbe wasn't TRuinefc 125 
 
 to the yawning school children, to two bent and wrinkled aged 
 people who reminded her of the villagers at home. She looked 
 at them kindly, and smiled. Then everything seemed lost in 
 a misty hush. She lost consciousness of what was passing 
 around her because of something which was passing within 
 her, until she came back to present circumstances with a 
 start because Sister Elizabeth had tapped her sharply on the 
 arm. Holding her baby more tightly, she sat upright and 
 saw that the other girls were staring at her, and that Sister 
 Elizabeth's solemn face was all alight with indignation. She 
 turned crimson, and bent over the sleeping baby. 
 
 Through the remainder of the service she knew she was in 
 disgrace, and after a silent walk back to the Home, was 
 followed up to her room by Sister Elizabeth herself. 
 
 " Annie Deane," said she gently, " this is your last Sunday 
 here, and we have all been hoping that the remembrance of it 
 would be blessed to you. But for something I myself saw this 
 afternoon, I might have let you go without further warning." 
 
 " What did you see, ma'am ? " faltered Annie. 
 
 " I saw your conduct in church, and I am obliged to say 
 that it was very bad. The others were preparing for a solemn 
 ceremony, and through you their attention was turned aside. 
 Before you leave us we must try once more to show you the 
 only way by which you can hope to hold your own against the 
 evil which is struggling for mastery over you." 
 
 " What did I do ? " sobbed Annie miserably, " do tell me 
 what I've done." 
 
 "I was watching you the whole of the time. I saw you 
 look about you ; first at one window, then at another ; I saw 
 you look at the school children and at the old people. When 
 you could find nothing else to interest you, you let your 
 thoughts drift away to worldly matters, and then you openly 
 laughed. It was a scandalous thing, and caused the attention 
 of the others to wander. I must report this to Mr. Netherwood. 
 He comes after Evensong to speak to those who leave us 
 to-morrow." 
 
 Sister Elizabeth turned and left the room. Annie threw 
 herself down and sobbed until she was weary and faint. 
 
 Between five and six Sister Ruth came up with some tea. 
 
 " Don't cry like that," she said kindly ; " I am sorry you are 
 in trouble on your last day with us. I feel so sure you did not 
 intend to set a bad example this afternoon. I saw you smile, 
 but I thought it was only because you were happy. And I 
 should like to tell you not to be afraid of Mr. Netherwood when
 
 126 Bnnie 2>cane 
 
 he sends for you presently. Tell him whatever is in your mind. 
 He is so good and so very patient ! Speak out to him, and 
 don't be afraid." 
 
 Sister Ruth departed then, but the gentle words put renewed 
 life into Annie. She begged to stay away from church, and, 
 once by herself, sat down and wrote a letter ; one which was 
 apparently difficult to write, for it took so long, and so many 
 tears were shed over it, that as she laboriously fitted the paper 
 into the envelope, she heard the others come in from church. 
 She began to tremble, knowing that her summons from Mr. 
 Netherwood might come at any moment. 
 
 Now to Annie Mr. Netherwood was a being of another 
 sphere, scarcely human, knowing so much without being told ; 
 scarcely divine, being so manly of speech and so sympathetic. 
 His message was not long in coming. Annie obeyed it halt- 
 ingly. Outside his private room she paused, leaning against 
 the door in a state of uncontrollable agitation. She dreaded 
 the strong, bright light inside; she dreaded the clear eyes 
 which, meeting hers, would see through all her secret thoughts, 
 try how she might to hide them. 
 
 She knocked, was bidden to enter, and found, to her bound- 
 less relief, that the room was dark. The blinds were down, and 
 matches and taper lay ready upon the table, but Mr. Nether- 
 wood sat with his back to the door, nor when it opened did he 
 lift his head. 
 
 In truth, he was ashamed of the attitude the Sisters had 
 assumed, and were compelling him to assume, towards the 
 girl; and as he sat there waiting for her, one version of an 
 old Story came into his mind, touching him with a sense of 
 hitherto undiscovered beauty and delicacy. According to this 
 version there was brought unto One in the days of His ministry 
 a woman upon whom He was urged to pass summary and im- 
 mediate sentence because of her being taken in open and 
 shameless sin. But He paused, and stooping, made as if He 
 would have written something upon the ground, " As though he 
 heard them not" That memorable, graphically-painted scene 
 flashed into Netherwood's mind, and he understood that 
 stooping Figure and averted Face as he had never done 
 before. 
 
 Surely the most human, the most manly and chivalrous act 
 here in this Book recorded ! Showing that before even that 
 poor, battered wreck of womanhood He was ashamed, and that 
 until her howling, open-mouthed accusers had slunk, away He 
 mercifully forbore to look her in the face.
 
 Sbe wasn't 1Rut^ 127 
 
 There was silence in Mr. Netherwood's study for some few 
 moments, and then it was Annie who spoke. 
 
 " If you please, sir, you sent for me ? " 
 
 " Yes ; you are leaving us to-morrow, and I want to say a few 
 words to you. Will you sit down? I am suffering from 
 headache, and shall be glad to leave the gas unlit for a while." 
 
 Annie's fear vanished in sympathy. 
 
 "I'm sorry," she said timidly; "please, sir, don't trouble 
 about talkin' to me if you're not well." 
 
 " Oh, it is nothing much, and 1 must say something I have 
 promised to say. The Matron and Sister Elizabeth are con- 
 cerned about you. They feel they know as little of you now as 
 they did when you came." 
 
 " Yes, sir ! " said Annie drearily. 
 
 " I wish you could have decided to trust them. It would 
 have made you friends, and given you a home here to which 
 you might have been glad to come sometimes." 
 
 " What is it they want to know, sir ? " 
 
 " For the first thing your parents' address. Your want of 
 desire to assure your friends of your safety strikes the Sisters as 
 heartless, and, on this point, I agree with them." 
 
 " Please, sir, I have wrote to mother to-night. I would have 
 done it before but for bein' afraid o' the Sisters seein' where I 
 sent the letter. They'd sure to have wrote, too, and p'r'aps 
 what they said would ha' fetched mother or father up here after 
 me. I didn't want that, sir. They no more wants me back 
 there than I wants to go. 
 
 " Are you sure of that ? " 
 
 " Quite sure, sir, so I thought I wouldn't write till I'd got a 
 place an' wus goin' to it. I couldn't go back home without the 
 baby" 
 
 " We will take care of him if you like to go back alone." 
 
 " I couldn't, sir. He've got nobody but me, an' I can't go 
 an' leave him behind, so I'll stop where he is, sir." 
 
 "That reminds me I believe Mrs. Holt wished you to 
 conceal the child ! You were very decided in refusing. The 
 Sisters thought a little too much so." 
 
 "Yes, sir; but I've made up my mind never to hide the 
 baby, an' I wus afraid they'd try to persuade me. I want to do 
 what's right, tho' they don't believe me ; an' how can I do that 
 if I begins by makin' out I haven't got no baby ? If I makes 
 believe he is not mine it'd be a lie, and I couldn't start agen 
 with a lie, sir ! " 
 
 " That is true."
 
 i28 Hnnic Deane 
 
 "That's why I couldn't go back home. I'd be so much 
 more tempted to hide him there. Here, as long as I does my 
 duty, why should anybody interfere about my baby ? " 
 
 Mr. Netherwood was silent The Sisters complained of 
 Annie's unbecoming manner, but as far as he saw she spoke 
 straightforwardly and sensibly. She did nut cringe that was 
 all. 
 
 "Please, sir, did you hear that I got into trouble this 
 afternoon ? " 
 
 " I did. I wished to talk to you about it." 
 
 "What did you hear, sir?" 
 
 " That you were inattentive, that your manner was not such 
 as befitted the holy place you were in ; that, having allowed 
 your thoughts to drift entirely away, you suddenly and openly 
 laughed." 
 
 The girl rose and stood leaning against the table. 
 
 " Sir," she said quietly, " please, that isn't true. I didn't tell 
 nobody else the truth o' this afternoon's church, but when I'm 
 talkin' to you I feels I'm talkin' to someone as will believe me. 
 It wus like this : I went to church as happy as anythink, 
 thinkin' o' my new place, and how good it wus o' God to find 
 a home for me an' the baby too. I went there expectin' to 
 hear somethink as would help me an' show me how to get on. 
 Right up to the sermon I right down enjoyed it, for it wus 
 beautiful, an' one o' the hymns we used to have at home. 
 When the minister began the sermon, I found it wus to them 
 as wus goin' to be confirmed, but the things he said I couldn't 
 understand. I tried hard, but at last 1 give it up, for I 
 couldn't understand. What he said didn't seem as if it 
 had anythink to do with me. I looked round. The 
 girls wus sittin' up straight, but I could tell they wasn't 
 lis'nin', and two poor old people agenst the door wus 
 gone to sleep. I begun to feel like cryin'. Sister 'Lizabeth 
 have often told me that there's nothink but religion left lor me 
 as long as ever I lives, and I wondered how could I ever be 
 happy with on'y a thing as I couldn't understand ? An' how 
 could it keep me from doin' what's wrong. My head begun to 
 ache, an" I sort o' went sleepy, till somethink set me lis'nin'. 
 It kep' beatin' through the church like a great heart, so that 
 mine kep' time with it. 1 couldn't make it out, but it was a 
 reg'lar ' throb ! ' ' throb ! ' as didn't never stop, and seemed like 
 to go on always. But then come a funny whizzin' noise, an' a 
 click, an' it struck four. The beat went on agen directly 
 after, an' I knew it wus on'y the big clock up there in the
 
 Sbe wasn't TCuinefc 129 
 
 tower. But somehow, sir, it had showed me more than the 
 preacher had, and I see quite clear that it didn't matter whether 
 I could understand or not. Him, an' his voice, an' the people 
 all seemed a long way off, till there wus nothink left but the 
 beat o' the great clock, an' me. I thought of how it had 
 kep' on night an' day long 'fore we wus born, an' how it'd go on 
 jest the same after we wus all dead, an' I see as clear as day- 
 light that the long words I couldn't understand need not 
 trouble me nor yet nothink else ; for I see that the God who'd 
 made even Time, an' could keep everythink steady an' sure like 
 the beat o' that great clock, could take care o' me an' my 
 poor baby. I can't tell it to you as it come to me, but it did 
 come, an' I know I'll never forget it. I wus that happy, 
 p'r'aps I did laugh I couldn't say now." 
 
 She stopped, and the sound of her wistful voice seemed to 
 linger about the twilight room. 
 
 " Do you understand me, sir ? ' she said, after a pause. 
 "It sounds somehow poor now I've spoke of it, but it wus 
 clear enough to me then." 
 
 Understand? Did he not? His face was buried in his 
 hands, and his eyes were full of tears. 
 
 " I do understand," he said earnestly, " and I tell you that 
 you saw more in that flash of light than I or any other man 
 could show you in a life-time ! The God Who made you spoke 
 to you in the beat of that clock, which does but measure out 
 His time. Never mind whether you understand the words of 
 His minister or not. You know now what I know to be 
 enough." 
 
 Annie underwent a sudden reaction. That this man, who 
 to her was little short of a saint, should come down to her 
 level, should stand, as it were, side by side with her, and not 
 be ashamed to acknowledge it, was too much for her. She 
 dropped her head on the table, and burst into tears. 
 
 He rose and laid a gentle hand on her bowed head. 
 
 " Have no fear for your future. 1 know you will do that 
 which is right. If it will be of any comfort to you, remember 
 that / understand you, that /trust you, that /believe if you 
 fail in your new undertaking it will not be your fault. And if 
 you do fail, come to me ; I will find you another home wherein 
 you shall succeed. Keep hold of what was given you in church 
 to-day, and do whatever is given you to do with all your might ; 
 then, although life may be wanting in what is known to many 
 as ' pleasure,' I promise you that it will yet be well worth living, 
 of actual use and value to you and to those who know you. 
 
 I
 
 130 Bnnie 5>cane 
 
 Now, having told me so much, will you tell a little more ? I 
 am not asking this to satisfy myself. You are suspected of 
 being in communication with the man who was the cause of 
 your coming here. Will you tell me if this is so ? " 
 
 " It isn't, sir." 
 
 " You know where he is ? " 
 
 She hesitated. 
 
 " I'm goin' to say what'll pVaps make you think I'm tellin' a 
 lie, sir; but tho' I once heard him say that name what I've 
 give the baby, I knows no more what his right name wus, nor 
 who he wus, than_y0 do, sir." 
 
 He looked as he felt surprised. 
 
 " Please believe it's the truth, sir." 
 
 " I believe it. A lie between you and me would not be 
 possible." 
 
 " It must seem unlikely, sir, but I say agen it's the truth. I 
 come to London hopin' to find him, but I know now there's no 
 chance." 
 
 "Which is a merciful thing for you. This makes your 
 future all the more hopeful, seeing how utterly your past is 
 done with." 
 
 Yes, sir ! " 
 
 There was such a quiver of pain in the dreary words that 
 they touched the human side of Netherwood. 
 
 " Let him go," he said steadily, " and put all thought of him 
 behind you." 
 
 She sighed miserably. 
 
 " I'll try, sir ; but it's hard for me to think him so bad as he 
 seems to be to you what didn't know him." 
 
 " God forbid that I should call any man bad. But the fact 
 remains that he did a terrible thing, for which soon or late he 
 will have to suffer." 
 
 " No, sir," she burst out excitedly, " Pvc suffered enough for 
 that ; an' if I never learned to pray for nothink else, I'd pray 
 God not to punish him. Why should he be punished now ? " 
 
 " Could any man think to ruin a woman and not answer 
 for it?" 
 
 " Yes, sir; but if the woman could live to show as she wasn't 
 ruined ? " 
 
 Netherwood was startled. It was such a desperate question, 
 asked with bated breath fearfully. The Matron or the Sisters 
 would have instantly said : " You are ruined, beyond all hope 
 or doubt," but the random hurling of harsh truths had no part 
 in the curate's method. For a moment he knew not what to
 
 J5be wasn't TRuineD 131 
 
 say. The girl went on piteously, speaking as if to one who 
 could not fail to understand, and so to help. 
 
 " I don't want him punished ; oh ! I don't want him 
 punished ! He was young, an' kind to me, an' I know that if 
 he'd thought about it he'd never have done a bad thing to 
 nobody. If I've sinned once and am sorry for it, why shouldn't 
 he be, too ? If I'm forgive for my sin, can't he be as well ? " 
 
 " We will hope that he is sorry for it." 
 
 " I'm sure he is," she said, with her hands locked hard one 
 in the other. " I knows him. I wish you did. I've heard 
 the Sisters say as it's your delight to find some good in them as 
 others thinks is all bad." 
 
 " I have found no man all bad, thank God ! But I beg of 
 you to look at this man fairly, to cease to cling to him as some- 
 thing which he is not. I must say, and that in very decided 
 fashion, that his sin towards you was of the vilest, and I fear 
 that the more I knew of it the less reason I should see to alter 
 my opinion." 
 
 " That's what they all says," she said grievously. u That it 
 wus one of the worst sins, and deserves a hard punishment. It 
 was first along the thinkin' o' that as made me try to be a 
 good girl. An' I will try I will try ! Becos' if, after all, I 
 could prove as I wusn't ruined, wouldn't it come right ? 
 Would it be fair to punish a man heavy for what he hadn't 
 done ? " 
 
 " I see what you mean, b'ut he cannot escape, seeing that the 
 intention was to ruin. It is the intention, you see, rather than 
 the deed." 
 
 " He never intended," she said, with steady persistence ; "if 
 'twas anythink, 'twas for want o' thinkin'." 
 
 " Well, I am not sure that it is my part to teach you hard 
 thoughts of anyone, even of him. Put him away from you as 
 completely as possible, or think of him only when you are 
 upon your knees." 
 
 At that moment a lamp in the street was lit. The feeble 
 rays came through the drawn blinds, making a patch of light 
 in the quiet room. 
 
 " It seems to me," Netherwood said, " that I read your mind 
 on this subject, and I see there a hope that you will meet this 
 man again." 
 
 " Yes, sir, I feel that some day before I dies I'll see him 
 agen, somewhere. I don't see it's very likely, but there's that 
 feelin" about me all the same. An' if there was anythink as I 
 could choose, I'd like to be able to show him some day as I'd
 
 is* Bnnie S)eane 
 
 done well for myself an' the baby what he didn't know about ; 
 I'd like to tell him how I'd tried to be a good girl, so as he 
 shouldn't have to answer for any harm as had come to me." 
 
 Mr. Netherwood rose. 
 
 " I think I have no more to say just now. Should this man 
 cross your path again, I beg of you to let me know. Against 
 all ordinary temptation, I believe you can with God's help 
 hold your own, but against that one you might fail." 
 
 " I don't think you'd need to fear, sir," she said, in her old- 
 fashioned, patient way ; " there won't be much now to tempt 
 me. All I've got to hope for when I leaves here to-morrow 
 is that I'll be able to please them as is kind enough to give me 
 the chance, an' that I'll learn to be a good mother to my poor 
 baby." 
 
 Netherwood held out his hand in silence ; in silence Annie 
 put hers into it, and then passed out of the dim room into the 
 gas-lit hall. 
 
 On the next day she passed out of the great iron gates of 
 St. Saviour's Home into the work-a-day world outside, there 
 to begin life afresh in the humble capacity of a domestic 
 servant. 
 
 On the following Tuesday morning the village postman gave 
 Mrs. Deane a letter. It bore no address, being simply headed 
 by the date : 
 
 " MY DEAR MOTHER, I hope you havent been very worried 
 about me, becos Ive been better took care of than I deserved 
 to be. I am going into a place of service with a lady and 
 gentleman to-morrow, and your not to think but what I will do 
 all right. My dear mother, I have been a sad truble, and I am 
 very sorry I cant come back, becos theres something else 
 to be thought about, and I couldn't bring it home, so I 
 must stay away and work for it. It hasent got nobody but me, 
 and never will have, so I must work hard and do without 
 myself to let him have it. I don't mind work, as you knows. 
 My dear mother, pleas dont tell the others about me bein a bad 
 girl, for 1 was fond of the little things, and I know they was 
 fond of me, and I wouldnt like to know that they was learnt to 
 think bad of me. I have had all my things for service found 
 me, and some money what I had when I come here (its a 
 Home) give back to me So I got the Matron to tell me how 
 to send money away. She give me this peace of paper for ten 
 shillings. Pleas buy something for one of them, the baby I
 
 Sbe wasn't 1Ruine& 133 
 
 would like best, and kiss him, for I do think of him, and T did 
 miss him at first. I shall alwis think about you all, and if you 
 will write to me and address the letter to the Reverend F. 
 Netherwood, at St. Saviours Home, London, E., I shall get it 
 by comin for it. But I do hope you wont be comin after me 
 nor perswadin me to come back, becose I cant never do that. 
 With kind love to father and you and all, 
 
 " I remain, your loving daughter, 
 
 " ANNIE." 
 
 Mrs. Deane was little touched by that letter. It came too 
 late, and was too independent in tone. Also, whatever 
 anxiety she had felt for her daughter's safety had been tempered 
 by the memory of that five-pound note. She thought of it now 
 as she looked at the post-office order for ten shillings. 
 
 " She could well afford to send it," was her bitter comment ; 
 "all her things found her, and two or three pound in her pocket. 
 She's better off than we, Dan'l. P'r'aps she've sent an' paid Mrs. 
 Fryer somethink for her board. I'll ast Mrs. Drake if she 
 have that I will." 
 
 Annie had not sent Mrs. Fryer anything at all, and her 
 parents thought it an unpardonable omission. Moreovt r, they 
 said what they thought, which led to Mrs. Fryer thinking the 
 matter over, with the result that Mrs. Drake was the recipient 
 of the following remarkable document : 
 
 Mrs. Drake, 
 
 To Mrs. Fryer. 
 
 S. D. 
 Six weeks' board and lodging, at 7s. 6d. per week, for Miss 
 
 Annie Deane 250 
 
 One case of wax flowers under glass shade, broke by Master 
 
 Deane o 10 o 
 
 In consideration of housework done by Miss Deane while she 
 
 was here, at 2s. 6d. per week ... o 15 o 
 
 Balance due to Mrs. Fryer.. 200 
 
 Mrs. Fryer will be oblidged by receiving the above at your earliest 
 convenience. 
 
 This document caused Mrs. Drake more than one fit of 
 immoderate laughter. 
 
 " God bless the silly woman ! " she panted, as she wiped her 
 eyes. " Why, we'll pay her a trifle for the girl's board, to be 
 sure, if she's that stingy ; but as for the glass shade ! them
 
 134 Hnnfc H>eane 
 
 there things is goin' out o' date fast, an' a very good thing too ! 
 They was never like flowers as grew in any garden / ever see ; 
 an' why I don't know, but they alwis did put me in mind of a 
 coffin ! She ought to have give that child sixpence for makin' 
 an end of 'em." 
 
 But the glass shade was paid for after all, in strictest secrecy, 
 by a lad whose name was Jim,
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 THE FIRST FOUR YEARS 
 
 IF life in her new sphere had promised Annie little variety, it 
 certainly kept its promise ; if she had expected hard work and 
 plenty of it, she was not cheated, nor did she, in consequence, 
 grumble. 
 
 The days were very much alike in that quiet suburban 
 square. To rise at six every morning was no hardship 
 to Annie, but the descent to the underground kitchen, where 
 flourished black beetles by the score, was a trial which she 
 never learned to face with fortitude. With skirts held high, with 
 some flat and heavy missile at hand, she would make for the 
 hearthrug, which was religiously laid down in the afternoons 
 only, and would hurl it away from her, while she waited for results 
 with set teeth and dilated eyes. Then would follow a great 
 and loathsome slaughter, which scarcely left Annie mistress of 
 the situation, seeing that she stood as much in awe of the dead 
 and dying around her as she did of the scurrying survivors of 
 the massacre. 
 
 " If there is anything in your new life you find specially hard, 
 don't be afraid to speak of it," Mr. Netherwood said to her the 
 first time he had an opportunity of seeing her alone. " It very 
 often happens that a trouble spoken of is a trouble lightened." 
 
 "Oh, sir! " she said ruefully, "there's nothink I think but 
 what I can get used to, 'less it's the beetles ; an' they swarms at 
 night so as you can hear them ! I knows it's very stoopid, but 
 I'd rather work double as hard in a place where there wasn't no 
 beetles." 
 
 Mr. Netherwood laughed, at which Annie turned very red. 
 It was a little thing, but there is room in a large mind for very 
 little things, and Mr. Netherwood made a private note of 
 Annie's beetles. He sent his own servant to Merryon Square 
 with a well-tried " exterminator," which, without exterminating, 
 materially lessened ; and one can get used to most things, 
 even black beetles. 
 
 There were many other troubles of the minor sort of which 
 Annie never spoke. For instance, a girl who rise at six gets 
 
 135
 
 136 Bnnic JDeane 
 
 hungry before nine ; but nine was the breakfast hour in Merryon 
 Square, and no permission was given Annie to anticipate this. 
 At first she wondered if there would be any harm in making 
 herself a cup of tea between seven and eight, the time when 
 she began to feel a bit faint ; but one liitle incident which 
 happened during her first week settled that point for good. 
 
 Mrs. Holt, spotless and fresh and juvenile, trotted down to 
 the kitchen at five minutes to nine, and took the teapot from 
 the dresser. Annie saw her put one hand on its shining side. 
 
 "It feels warm" she said, with a slight accession of colour. 
 
 " Yes, ma'am ; I shone it up a bit, because I was standin' 
 about wait in'." 
 
 Mrs. Holt lifted the lid and sniffed. 
 
 " It smells of fresh tea," she said, her pink colour deepening 
 to red. 
 
 " Do it, ma'am ? " said Annie. " I rensed it out when I 
 polished it p'r'aps it's that." 
 
 " No, that would not do it. Are you sure " she was very 
 red now, and flurried " there has been no no tea made this 
 morning ? " 
 
 Annie understood. 
 
 " I am sure, ma'am," said she quietly. 
 
 " Oh ! it didn't matter if there had. It is only that I like to 
 know." 
 
 But Annie saw by her mistress's manner that she was not 
 expected to have anything before nine. 
 
 Mrs. Holt never locked anything up, on principle, but was 
 incessantly worrying herself and her husband anent something 
 which was gone, "going," or "likely to go," until she had 
 determined beyond any sort of doubt that it did or did not go. 
 She liked to leave things open because it gave her the chance 
 of proving the honesty of the maid in charge. She was not 
 altogether ungenerous, but while she would give away the value 
 of a pound she resented the taking of a pennyworth without 
 permission. If some edible nick-nack happened to be 
 overlooked until it was spoiled, she would say : 
 
 "Oh, dear, Emma, why not have eaten it? " 
 
 On the other hand, should Emma happen to act upon that 
 hint and eat something to prevent it from spoiling, Mrs. Holt 
 would be sure to remember that edible nick-nack and ask for 
 it, after which she would flush and fidget and be extra dignified, 
 by way of conveying a reproof she had not the courage to speak. 
 Annie very quickly understood, and conducted herself 
 accordingly.
 
 llbe 3fii*st jfour l^ears 137 
 
 At first she owned to a great dread of the master, whose 
 adamantine " firmness " she had had impressed upon her, but 
 she socn found that the mild little man was the happiest 
 nonentity alive, who would no more have dreamed of interfering 
 with his busy little wife's fads than he would have thought 
 of trotting off "solus" for a holiday. It is true he once 
 ventured to suggest that a couple of spoonfuls of tea be left 
 out overnight for " Emma's " breakfast, but the suggestion was 
 provocative of such an indignant remonstrance that he instantly 
 apologised ; also, he ventured to think most girls expected a 
 night out, and that Emma might not be an exception. 
 
 His old lady promptly sat upon him. 
 
 A night out for a country girl of tarnished reputation a 
 night out in London ? Oh, what was Mr. Holt thinking of 
 that he should try to thwart his wife in her efforts for the 
 girl's good ? Did she not go on errands ? Did she not in 
 that way obtain plenty of fresh air ? But to think of giving 
 her a night out ? Oh, how dreadful, to be sure ! 
 
 "Of course," finished the little woman severely, "if you 
 wish to manage the girls, or to alter my rules for this girl in 
 particular, no matter how surprised I may be, I must give 
 way ; but until now you have had the greatest respect for my 
 opinions, and the greatest admiration for the way in which I 
 manage." 
 
 Mr. Holt could only protest that his admiration of his wife 
 was vast and unshaken, that he believed her to be the kindest, 
 most indulgent, and most wonderful woman in Christendom ! 
 What more could any man say ? Simply nothing, s j he 
 reiterated what he had said until his wife was mollified. 
 
 " I'm sure," she said, with an air of injury, "things must be 
 coming to a pretty pass if I am to be set down for a severe 
 mistress ! The fact is, I am too indulgent, and I get imposed 
 upon. Only a short time ago, Mrs. Sherman Mrs. John 
 Sherman was here to tea, and the way in which Emma (our 
 last Emma) spoke to me about something quite took her by 
 surprise. 
 
 " ' My dear,' she said to me, ' you will never be successful 
 with servants while you allow them to speak to you in that 
 familiar way. Of course, I have no right to praise myself, but 
 I will say that I have no trouble whatever with my servants.' 
 
 " I said I knew that, as indeed I did. 
 
 " ' Well,' she said, ' I will tell you how I do it. I set my 
 foot down from the very beginning upon any attempt at inter- 
 course. I won't be spoken to except upon the subject of work.
 
 138 Hnnie 2>eane 
 
 When I first engaged Maria the girl I have now she tried it 
 on ; they all do. I had occasion to go into the scullery one 
 morning, where she was doing something at the sink. " It's a 
 lovely morning, isn't it, ma'am ? " she began. 1 made no 
 reply. She looked at me out of the corners of her eyes. 
 
 " ' " Isn't it a beautiful morning, ma'am ? " she said again, with 
 all the impudence imaginable. I went on picking over the 
 fruit for preserving. 
 
 " ' " Isn't it a lovely morning, ma'am ? " she said, as if she 
 thought I might be deaf. I put out my hand and set the tap 
 running. She looked at me for a minute, and then she under- 
 stood. That girl never addresses me now unless she wants an 
 answer.' Now I ask you, Mr. Holt, what you would say to me 
 if I were to treat a fellow-creature like that ? " 
 
 The artful little man patted his wife's shoulder. 
 
 " My dear," he said gallantly, " pray don't quote Mrs. John 
 Sherman. Odious woman ; the very opposite to everything 
 a woman should be the very opposite to you. I cannot 
 have you mentioned in the same breath with Mrs. John 
 Sherman." 
 
 "That is just the point," said Mrs. Holt triumphantly. 
 " When I can be hard and exacting and inhuman, my servants 
 will give me a good name ; but I cannot help being indulgent, 
 so I get imposed upon. My poor mother always said I should 
 never learn to keep anyone in their proper place." 
 
 And that old personification of indulgence trotted off to the 
 kitchen. She had an idea, only an idea, that Emma sat down 
 for ten minutes in the afternoon before going up to dress. 
 
 As time went on Mrs. Holt began to realise that in "Emma" 
 she had something approaching the ideal of her domestic 
 dreams ; and the more she realised this, the more she put her 
 ideal to excellent practical uses. Other girls had shirked the 
 washing; this one did it, and did it well. Other girls had 
 entirely misunderstood the treatment of the necessary flat-iron ; 
 in the hands of Emma it became not only harmless, but 
 beneficent. Other girls had refused to benefit by Mrs. Holt's 
 practical lectures on " Gravy as it is versus as it should be," 
 and had known no medium between potatoes served as a purie 
 and potatoes served as an easy-medium-for-acquiringindigestion; 
 but Emma's gravy soon ceased to be detectable from Mrs. 
 Holt's own, and her potatoes were beyond suspicion. Her 
 needlework, too, was above the average, and Mrs. Holt was a 
 generous contributor to bazaars ! 
 
 " The girl is really a treasure," said the little old lady to
 
 Ube jfirst jfour Jljears 139 
 
 herself. " I only hope I shall not find out something dreadful 
 about her before long." 
 
 For Annie herself the time passed not all unhappily. Work 
 she did, from morning to night, conscientiously, willingly ; for 
 the most part silently. If it were a dull life, she honestly felt 
 she might expect nothing better. For her pleasures she had 
 the Book the Sisters had given her, and the consciousness of 
 doing right ; besides which there was ever the grateful remem- 
 brance of Mr. Netherwood's parting words of trust, and ever 
 the thought of the child. 
 
 At the end of the first year was fought the first battle for a 
 privilege hitherto withheld. Annie begged for one night off 
 during the week, that she might see the child more frequently. 
 Mrs. Holt flushed very red, and said that she would mention 
 the matter to Mr. Holt, but that she had not the slightest hope 
 of obtaining his consent. Annie said no more about it that 
 week, but the next, with her customary quietude of voice and 
 manner, she asked again. Mrs. Holt replied that she had 
 spoken to Mr. Holt, but that he considered the asked-for 
 privilege quite unnecessary. 
 
 " Could I have an afternoon ? " urged Annie. " I'd like that 
 better. Baby don't alwis seem to know me, an' sometimes he's 
 gone to bed. If he see me offener, ma'am, he wouldn't 
 forget." 
 
 Mrs. Holt shook her head. 
 
 Every afternoon brought its work, she said, and work must 
 be done. 
 
 Annie asked no more, but being impressed with the reason- 
 able nature of her request, she wrote to Sister Elizabeth, who 
 in her turn wrote Mrs. Holt to the effect that unless Annie 
 Deane were allowed to visit her child every Wednesday after- 
 noon she would be removed from Merryon Square. The Sister 
 further added that the girl's wages were, in her opinion, insuffi- 
 cient for the amount of work executed by her. She had been 
 in receipt of three shillings a week. At the end of her year 
 would Mrs. Holt make it four ? 
 
 Mrs. Holt sought her husband and asked him tragically if 
 he thought such impudence had ever been heard of in the 
 memory of man ? Mr. Holt answered cheerfully that perhaps 
 the like hadbeen heard of, but that he was not quite sure. The 
 old lady trotted about, and called Heaven and Earth to witness 
 how shamefully she was imposed upon by everybody. 
 
 " But, my love," interposed the little man soothingly, " after 
 all, it amounts to this : Is the girl worth four shillings a week,
 
 i4o Bnnic Deane 
 
 or is she not ? As a matter of fact, have you not paid roach 
 more for much less in return ? " 
 
 Instead of being grateful for having the matter thus pre- 
 sented to her, Mrs. Holt protested that the last straw had been 
 inflicted upon the back of the proverbial camel. 
 
 " Of all things, this is the hardest ! " said she. " To think 
 .hat girl should have the power to sow discord between us." 
 
 But Annie's wages were raised, and her Wednesday after- 
 noons were spent with the child. 
 
 "Although I must say, Emma," said Mrs. Holt, "that I 
 resent the Sister's meddling. In future you and I must 
 manage our own affairs." 
 
 
 
 Annie's second year in Merryon Square wore away in like 
 fashion to the first. Had she chosen, she might have been a 
 power in the house, but she did not even perceive her oppor- 
 tunity. Silent, diligent, and respectful, patient and unresentful 
 under petty impositions and the sting of trust withheld, she 
 went on trying so to work out her own salvation, and with 
 that his. 
 
 Mrs. Holt's dread of discovering something bad in the girl 
 gave place to a dread of something happening to deprive her 
 of her services. 
 
 " She has only two faults," the old lady told Mr. Netherwood 
 once, " she is ' deep ' and very miserly." 
 
 " Miserly ? " repeated he. 
 
 K Miserly. She had some money when she came here, and I 
 am sure she has never spent a shilling since. Of course, I give 
 her little things in the way of clothes, and she has no necessity 
 to buy much ; but for a girl of nineteen to hoard her pence 
 until they are shillings, and then to put them in the Savings 
 Bank, seems unnatural." 
 
 Mr. Netherwood remarked that at least the girl had wisdom 
 on her side. 
 
 But wisely or unwisely, Annie saved every penny available 
 for saving ; mended, patched, and contrived until her modest 
 wardrobe was something to marvel at for ingenuity, and was 
 only daunted by shoe-leather, which lends itself not to the 
 skill of the repairing amateur. 
 
 As to her motives for economy was there not the child ? 
 and at the end of two years had he not to be paid for? Con- 
 cerning that there was a consultation between Mr. Netherwood 
 and Sister E'izabcth, at which it was decided that they should
 
 TEbe first four Jflears i4 
 
 keep the child free of expense to the mother until she was 
 one-and-twenty. 
 
 " For," said the Sister, " I certainly have great hope of her. 
 She is a splendid servant, and might easily be doing better 
 than she is. But for the safely which lies in quietude and 
 plenty of hard work, I should remove her. Mrs. Holt is 
 kind, but exacting a sort of unintentional Shylock. The girl 
 has been there two years ; I must see that she has a rise." 
 
 After which there was another squabble in Merryon Square, 
 but Annie's bank-book looked up. 
 
 Then the months rolled by, completing the third year ; and 
 again, completing the fourth. 
 
 Annie Deane was a woman of twenty-one, with a bright-eyed 
 little laddie of four to call her mother, and to touch her grey 
 life with the reflection of a brightness it had never known. 
 
 For her life was monotonous enough. Although she was a 
 pretty woman, no man fell in love with her ; although as time 
 went on she went her way through the busy streets at all times 
 of the day or night, when her business demanded, no one 
 molested her, nor made her the heroine of any little romance. 
 When she rose in the morning to face another day, and when, 
 tired out, she went to bed at night, she had but the one pur- 
 pose in front of her to work out her own salvation, that the 
 sin of her ruin might not be laid at that man's door, and to 
 bring up his boy so that if ever they met he might not be 
 ashamed of him 
 
 This was the aim and purpose of her life.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 THE SHADOW ON THE TURF 
 
 ANNIE always remembered the close of her fifth year in 
 Merryon Square, because it brought with it a break in the 
 monotony of things. 
 
 "Five years to-day," said Mrs. Holt, as she entered the 
 kitchen that sunny July morning. "Dear me, Emma, we're 
 getting quite old friends, aren't we ? " 
 
 " Yes, ma'am," said Annie soberly. 
 
 " And I hope we shall be friends for another five," quoth 
 the old lady briskly. 
 
 " Thank you, ma'am," was the quiet response. 
 
 " Here is a little present for you," holding out half-a- 
 sovereign. " I know you would rather have money than any- 
 thing else. Be sure you do not a not mention it in any 
 way, because Mr. Holt thinks me so terribly extravagant." 
 
 Annie said " Thank you, ma'am " again, and followed Mrs. 
 Holt upstairs with the tray. 
 
 After breakfast Mr. Holt shuffled stealthily into the kitchen, 
 with a boot in each hand. 
 
 " I will have these boots this morning, Emma," said he, in a 
 state of suppressed agitation ; " take them quick. Feel in this 
 one no, in this one there's something for you. Don't 
 mention it to Mrs. Holt she will think me extravagant, and 
 don't drop it it's half-a-sovereign." 
 
 Having jerked out which, he shuffled off with a look of 
 unconcern on his merry little face that would not have deceived 
 a baby. 
 
 Left alone in the kitchen, Annie actually laughed. 
 
 It was not the first time she had assisted at small domestic 
 deceptions of the kind, but they invariably made her uncom- 
 fortable. As she put the coins away she wished the givers had 
 been honest with each other; for the touch of dishonesty made 
 those coins worth less than the ones she worked for. Perhaps 
 that thought made her less diligent, perhaps overworked 
 Nature pined for a rest ; be that as it may, Annie Deane stood 
 
 142
 
 Sbafcow on tbe TTurf MS 
 
 idly at hei kitchen window, then, still idly, opened it, thereby 
 admitting the scent of the jessamine which straggled over the 
 dining-room balcony above. 
 
 " Oh ! " said the Berkshire-bred girl to herself, " how I'd 
 like to take Lin over the fields into the wood this mornin' ' 
 My dear little boy what's never seen the country in his life." 
 
 For once work went hardly with her. She was possessed by 
 a longing for the old fir woods, for the pine-needles ankle-deep 
 underfoot, for the furze and bracken, for the once-despised 
 wild flowers, whose hiding-places she knew ; for the sights and 
 sounds of country life, common enough once, and so of little 
 value, but hallowed now by memory, and sanctified by the 
 glamour which surrounds the irrecoverable. 
 
 " I'll go ! " she burst out suddenly, " I'll go ! I don't care 
 about this money. It won't make much dirfrence in the end, 
 so I'll spend it to show Lin the woods and the flowers an' 
 things, if it's on'y for a day." 
 
 She took Mrs. Holt's breath away by announcing that she 
 wanted to go down into Berkshire, and to take the boy. 
 
 " What an extraordinary thing ! " cried the old lady. " Oh, 
 Emma, you don't mean to come back. Now I see what you 
 have been saving up for." 
 
 " Please, ma'am, I means to come back the same night." 
 
 " Ridiculous ! Just think of the expense. Why, you would 
 have to work for a month to make it up. I must ask Mr. 
 Holt. I am sure he will advise you not to waste money in 
 that way." 
 
 But the old man said : 
 
 " I will look at the railway bills this morning as I pass a 
 station. There may be excursions." 
 
 It happened that there were excursions, and that the fares 
 were reasonable. So one glorious morning, while London was 
 still rubbing its eyes, Annie trudged to St. Saviour's Schools 
 for the purpose of fetching the boy, and long before nine was 
 travelling towards Berkshire. 
 
 Lin knelt upon the seat of the carriage, flattening his 
 sharp little nose against the window-pane, while his mother, 
 stirred more deeply than she had been for years, watched 
 the flying, sun-steeped, shadow-haunted landscape with eyes 
 still beautiful with youth's inimitable beauty. For so long 
 life had seemed stagnant with her, but that morning's rush 
 through the flower-starred meadows, by belts and clumps 
 of shaded wind-tossed trees, by rippling sunlit streams 
 and swelling hill-sides, down which the scurrying cloud-
 
 M4 Bnnfe Deaue 
 
 shadows ran races, woke the sense of enjoyment within 
 her, making her young again. She put one arm about the 
 boy, and held him closely. Her boy ! her boy and his ! 
 As her youth woke in her, the love which had made and 
 marred it woke too with redoubled strength and intensity ; 
 she seemed to be travelling back again to that solitary summer 
 of his making, which at his bidding had darkened into winter, 
 wherein was no light of the sun. Her sense of association 
 with him rather strengthened than diminished as time went 
 by, nor could the silence which wrapped him about kill her 
 conviction that the chain of events would end by bringing 
 them face to face. Not that she dreamed of any purely selfish 
 benefit consequent upon such renewed intercourse ; she had 
 by this time made out enough of men and their ways to 
 abandon all thought of personal reparation. 
 
 " He'd never think much o' me" she would say to herself 
 cheerfully; "that ain't to be expected. But he wus kind- 
 hearted, an' he'd take to the boy if on'y I can manage to bring 
 him up so as he wouldn't be ashamed of him." 
 
 It was barely half-past ten when the train steamed into the 
 little-used station of Annie's native village. No one but she 
 and her boy alighted there, and she felt conspicuous. She was 
 wearing a close bonnet, round which, for concealment's sake, 
 she had tied an old veil of Mrs. Holt's, but the sleepy station- 
 master looked her up and down as he broke her ticket in two 
 and gave her the return half ; also he walked out of his little 
 shelter to watch her down the road. 
 
 " Now, there goes that gal o' Deane's," said he to himself. 
 "If it isn't, I never see her. Often I've wondered what 
 become o' that gal, an', sure enough, that's her." 
 
 Annie walked briskly on, feeling sure that the man had 
 recognised her, and being much agitated in consequence. 
 
 Lin was in high glee, chasing a butterfly such a brilliant 
 red-and-black thing as he had never seen in his life ; but when 
 it fluttered to a big marsh-mallow leaf and settled there, he 
 held his open hand back and let it alone. 
 
 "It'd be a pity to touch it, wouldn't it, mother?" he 
 whispered. "It's out for a holiday, like us. We wouldn't 
 like some great big thing to come and pick us up, would we ? " 
 
 Annie smiled. 
 
 "Let it alone," she said, "it's hurtin' nobody, Lin, and 
 God made it." 
 
 Lin nodded as he watched the butterfly flutter away. He 
 was used to this compassion for dumb things on the part of
 
 Hbe Sbafcow on tbe Uurf us 
 
 the quiet mother who so seldom spoke her thoughts to 
 anybody but him. 
 
 "We're goin' through this gate into the wood," she said 
 presently. " Never mind them things, dear ; we'll get lots of 
 better ones in here." 
 
 She pushed the gate wide for Lin to pass through. He 
 clung to her as she followed him. 
 
 "Can anybody turn us out? " inquired he under his breath. 
 
 "I don't think they will, dearie. I don't suppose we'll 
 meet a soul." 
 
 Nor did they, though they wandered about the wood for 
 hours, sometimes almost lost in the dark heart of it, some- 
 times coming to the edge of ope'i country, and again returning 
 until only the high hedge divided them from the main road. 
 About noon they ate the lunch Annie had brought with them, 
 and then the child stretched himself on the moss and the 
 bracken, and went to sleep. 
 
 His mother sat and dreamed, with a tranquil smile on her 
 face, and in her heart the hush of a great content. To a 
 country-bred girl, who had been working for five years in the 
 underground kitchens of a London house, it was something 
 like to heaven. 
 
 Lin woke up refreshed, to find himself in a veritable Land 
 of Enchantment. For a moment he thought that mother and 
 he must be dead and transported to the heaven they had told 
 him about at school. But he quickly remembered that this 
 heaven was not of the eternal sort was, in fact, to be enjoyed 
 for one day only, so he sat up and opened his bright eyes wide 
 to take it all in. To look up through the pines to the golden 
 cloud-palaces above, to catch the flash of a wood-pigeon's silver 
 wing in the light, to hear the tender coo of the beautiful thing 
 as it hid itself in the dark trees, or the shirper note of a startled 
 song-bird resting at " high-noon," to see a furry brown squirrel 
 run along a tree-branch close by and disappear before one could 
 well say he was there all these things were wonders to the 
 city-born child, and took away from him his wonted desire to 
 chatter. Who could chatter in the solemn hush of those 
 towering, moveless pines ? 
 
 And when he was quite tired of looking up, there was so 
 much to be seen by looking down. Lin made himself a fairy 
 dwelling of dry fir-branches and bracken, carpeted it with moss 
 and roofed it in with fir-cones. Never was child so delighted 
 as was he with the everyday surroundings of the young rustic. 
 Annie's eyes filled as she watched him. 
 
 K
 
 146 Hnnte JDcane 
 
 "We never used to think nothing o' the woods," she 
 thought, " when we was youngsters ; we'd rather play wi' the 
 dust an' stones in the road. Oh, how I'd like mother to see 
 him ; he's such a pretty little child, an' he's got a bcttermost 
 look about him, quits diffrent to our Ben an' Ted an' Dick. I 
 would like 'em to see him. I meant to go when I started ; 
 but now I'm so close, I dursent ! If they'd ever said anythink 
 about bein' pleased to see me it wouldn't look so hard, but 
 they never has. I couldn't take Lin to let him see I wusn't 
 wanted." 
 
 Still, as the day wore on her hankering after that cottage 
 midway up the village street was only kept in check by the 
 doubt of the reception its inmates would accord her. 
 
 " Sure they'd be pleased to see me," she mused wistfully. 
 " I don't want nothing of 'em, an' I'm goin' back to-night. 
 Still, there's Alice old enough to understand, an' p'r'aps mother 
 wouldn't know what to say. It'd break my heart if I took the 
 child there and didn't get no welcome." 
 
 So, try as she might, she could not summon sufficient 
 courage to take her beyond the wide turf-ride which skirted 
 the wood. Each time she heard someone coming she hurried 
 the boy back into hiding. This naturally startled him, made 
 him apprehensive of he knew not what, and caused him to tire 
 of the quiet place. Also, he grew thirsty. All the milk in 
 the ginger-beer bottle was gone, and Annie had thrown the 
 bottle away. Some bread and butter remained and an odd 
 remnant of cake, but Lin wanted neither. He was not fretful, 
 nor importunate, but he was getting tired, had had enough of 
 the country for one day, and pined in secret for his 
 " tea," 
 
 " Couldn't we go and find some water ? >r he said, with a 
 child's tired wriggle, " I am so thirsty ! " 
 
 Annie stopped, and her colour mounted high. 
 
 " Come along, darlin'," she said suddenly, " you shall have 
 a drink. We'll go and find one." 
 
 The child's face brightened, and he trotted briskly by his 
 mother's side. She crossed the turf-path, went down a grassy 
 slope, lifted Lin over a wire fence, and got through herself, 
 then crossed a wide meadow to a half-open gate. 
 
 " Now, don't be frightened," she said, in a tremor of 
 excitement ; " I'm going to stand here while you runs down to 
 that little house there an' ast them for a drink o' water." 
 
 " Which house ? " said the child doubtfully. 
 
 " The little white one, with the clean doorstep. The door's
 
 Ube Sbafcow on tbe Uurf 147 
 
 pretty sure to be open, but if it isn't you've on'y to knock 
 they're safe to come." 
 
 Too thirsty to be shy, Lin ran across the road, halted, and 
 sidled along to the door. 
 
 " Knock if it's shut," called his mother eagerly. 
 
 Lin knocked, and was seen by Annie to step over the 
 threshold, after which he entirely disappeared. What his 
 mother endured for the next few minutes she could not have 
 told. What was the child doing? Were they asking him 
 questions ? If they asked him his name and he told them it 
 was Deane, would they guess, and so come out to look for 
 her? She stood, half-hidden by the hedge, wondering why 
 the boy was so long. If he saw nobody about, would he go 
 through the little " back-house " into the garden ? And oh ! 
 horrors ! would he tumble down the well ? Her heart stood 
 still at that thought, and she was on the point of rushing 
 across the road when Lin reappeared at the door, followed 
 by Mrs. Deane, who was laughing as she wiped her hands on 
 her apron. 
 
 " Look," said Lin, in his childish Cockney treble, " there's 
 mother up the road by that gate. I told you I wasn't alone." 
 
 Mrs. Deane laughed again, watched the boy as he ran across 
 to the half-hidden figure by the gate, and called "Good-bye" 
 as he reached it. 
 
 " Good-bye," responded Lin, at the top of his voice. " I 
 said ' Thank you,' didn't I ? Mother's afraid I forgot. Good- 
 bye." 
 
 Annie slid through the gate and pushed it "home." She 
 was afraid to face the road to fasten it properly, for her mother 
 still stood at the open door. 
 
 " I had a nice drink out of the well," said Lin, as he trotted 
 over the meadow. " I saw them pull it up in the bucket, and 
 wasn't it cold ? What made me such a long time gone ? I 
 went with a funny old man to see the little pigs next door. 
 I shouldn't like to have pigs in my garden, 'less it was pigs tW 
 didn't smell. These did, dreadful ! " 
 
 Annie hurried the child across the meadow with an odd 
 sensation of being followed. At the fence on the outskirts of 
 the wood, she ventured to look back. There was not a soul 
 in sight. Her heart slowed down. 
 
 " Did they ast you who you wus ? " 
 
 " They asked me my name." 
 
 "What did you tell them?" 
 
 " I said it was Lin."
 
 148 Hume Dcane 
 
 " Did anybody kiss you ? " 
 
 "The woman did, and so did the funny old man. He said 
 I was a nice little gentleman, and spoke up according to my 
 Size." 
 
 The foolish mother smiled with sudden pleasure. 
 
 " A little gentleman ! " This was what his boy should be 
 if any exertion of hers could bring it about. 
 
 " Didn't you see anybody else there ? " 
 
 " A little girl just bigger than me." 
 
 " That must have bin Kate. No, she's eight now, or nine, 
 p'r'aps ; it must have bin Maggie." 
 
 Lin looked puzzled. 
 
 " Do you know the people in that house, mother ? " said he, 
 looking up at her quiet face. 
 
 " Yes, dear. The woman what come to the door wi* you wus 
 my mother, an' that's where I lived when I wus little like you." 
 
 " And who was the little man with his legs tied up ? The 
 little man that took me to see the pigs ?" 
 
 " My father, dearie, an' your gran'father." 
 
 " Then why didn't you go in with me ? n 
 
 She shook her head without answering. 
 
 The boy, never tiresomely inquisitive, considered; but his 
 consideration led to nothing more important than the discovery 
 of a private and personal distaste for little old men who wore 
 red handkerchiefs round their necks, and tied up their legs 
 with string. The two presently sat down to eat the remainder 
 of their provisions, then Annie took the boy on her lap and 
 wiled away the time by telling him about the rabbits that 
 hopped about in the wood when the sun had gone to bed ; 
 about the yellow flags that grew farther up the stream, whose 
 ceaseless rippling wash they could hear from where they sat ; 
 about the coops of young pheasants that were enclosed in wire 
 netting to keep people away from where they were; and 
 presently as she was telling him how thickly the nuts grew on 
 the belt of hazels "just over there," there was a sudden 
 clucking, then a whizz and a "whir-r!" And over against 
 tht-m a glorious cock-pheasant rose, to sail away down the red 
 stream of the sunset light, glittering and gleaming like a bird 
 all set with jewels. The wood was astir with hidden life. The 
 coo of the pigeons sounded drowsily now and then, while the 
 birds woke up to say good-night to the departing sun, and the 
 bushes rustled as bird or animal scudded through. This 
 mysterious stir only served to accentuate the loneliness of the 
 place, and when the great golden feathers in the sky began to
 
 Ube Sbafcow on tbe ZTurf 149 
 
 turn red, and the evening breeze to sigh through tbe bracken 
 and rustle the long grasses by the streamlet's edge, Lin began 
 to get frightened, and to cling to his mother, listening. 
 
 " It's time we wus makin' for the station," she said cheerily, 
 noticing his frightened look. "We sban't meet nobody likely 
 to know me now, so I tl.inks we'll go by the road. We'll have 
 to turn back a bit as far as the gate, but it's easier walkin' than 
 it is in here, what wi' the roots an' the brambles." 
 
 "Let us go by the road," said Lin, only intent upon getting 
 out of the wood. 
 
 They turned at once and made for the gate leading to the 
 highway. As they walked on, keeping close to the hedge, for 
 it was easier " going " there, Annie could tell that someone was 
 walking close by in the road, and hung back a little to 
 let that other wayfarer get ahead. At the gate she and 
 Lin would turn to the right for the station, while the 
 man in the road it was a man, by the step would pro- 
 bably continue his walk to the village. In this way she 
 would escape observation. Knowing that she had plenty of 
 time, she halted under pretence of tying Lin's shoes more 
 tightly, thought she had given the man in the road time to get 
 past the gate, and then walked on, with Lin still clinging to 
 h^r, silent and nervous. In another five minutes they were at 
 .he end of the dividing hedge. The big wooden gate stood 
 open, and across the stretch of reddened turf to the left was 
 flung a huge, grotesque shadow the shadow of the figure of a 
 man. Lin saw it instantly and hung back, trembling. 
 
 " Oh, look there ! " he whispered, pointing to it. " What is 
 that, mother ? " 
 
 "On'y a gentleman, dear," she whispered back, keeping 
 close to the sheltering hedge, for she was foolishly startled 
 herself. 
 
 " Is it a giant, mother ? It's not like a man." 
 
 " Nonsense, darlin'. It's the sun bein' low that makes his 
 shadow big like that. He's standin' still in the road. Keep 
 quiet. We'll stop here till he've passed on." 
 
 But she counted twenty by the loud beating of her heart, 
 while the child stood clinging to her skirts in fear, and still the 
 dark shadow stretched up the reddened turf immovable. 
 
 " I dursent show out till he've gone," thought Annie, picking 
 up the boy, who had begun to whimper. " P'r'aps he's a tramp, 
 an' heard us comin' along, an' he's waitin' to see who 'tis. If 
 he stands there long, or comes into the woods, whatever will I 
 do?"
 
 iso Hnnfe 2>eane 
 
 But as she watched the shadow wavered, swayed, moved 
 slowly slantwise across the gate to the hedge on the other side, 
 then passed right out of sight, and very soon the accompanying 
 footsteps had died away in the distance. Annie turned into 
 the road and ran, with Lin held tightly in her arms. When 
 she ventured to put him down and look behind there was not 
 a human being in sight 
 
 " There ! " she said, laughing at herself as well as at Lin, 
 " we're not a quarter of an hour from the station now, an' I 
 think the train's due in little more than that. Don't be silly, 
 darlin'. It was nothink but a man standin' in the road." But 
 the child could tell that she had been startled too, and nothing 
 short of the station lights put him at his ease. 
 
 They slipped into the dark shelter on the platform to wait, 
 and although the station-master walked past several times, he 
 could not feel quite certain that the woman in the thick veil 
 was Dan'l Deane's missing daughter. The train was not over- 
 full, and Annie, lifting the boy so as to hide her own face, 
 entered a compartment quickly and sat back in a corner. 
 
 Lin fell asleep almost as soon as the train was in motion. 
 Annie held him tightly while she watched the flying landscape, 
 watched the twilight and the moonlight struggle for mastery, 
 while one pale green star hung trembling over the dark belt 
 of firs which hid her native village. She had re-visited the old 
 scenes after an absence of five long years, but had not had the 
 courage to find out whether or not the door of the old home 
 was still shut against her. 
 
 "I'd have gone if I'd bin alone," she thought sadly; "but 
 how could I go, an' take the boy ? " 
 
 A little later she was rumbling through the stuffy London 
 streets in a stuffier London 'bus, gently trying to wake Lin, who 
 was heavy, and had sadly tired even her work-strengthened 
 arms. But Lin was under the influence of country air, and 
 would not wake, so with a basket on one arm and a child in 
 both, this jovial holiday-maker stumbled out of a 'bus in the 
 Camden Road, and turned from there into Merryon Square. 
 Lin's school being at the other side of London, he was to stay 
 with his mother for that night. Once or twice she stopped to 
 rest her arms by putting one foot on a friendly doorstep and 
 shifting the sharp handle of the basket, but at last she shut the 
 area-gate of No. 19 behind her, and cautiously descended the 
 dark flight of steps. 
 
 The old people had gone to bed, leaving a tiny jet of gas 
 burning, but nothing by way of supper. Annie only stopped
 
 Sbafcow on tbe tlurf 151 
 
 to rub her arms and to lock the area-door, then she carried 
 Lin up to bed. She was very soon beside him, tired out and 
 decidedly hungry, with her one holiday in five years at an end, 
 but happy enough for all that. The boy had had a long day 
 in the country, had seen the woods and the fields, and heard 
 the birds sing. 
 
 When all was still, and Annie was just falling asleep, Lin 
 child-like turned and woke up. 
 "Are we home, mother?" 
 
 "Yes, darlin'," said she, afraid he was going to ask for some- 
 thing to eat. "Go to sleep, there's a dear, becos' mother's 
 very tired, an' have got to get up so early to-morrow mornin'." 
 Lin lay quiet for a minute or two, then whispered fearfully : 
 "But that was a ^shadow, wasn't it, mother?" 
 And, strange to say, of all the sights and sounds with which 
 the child had that day made acquaintance, the memory of that 
 dark shadow, thrown by the setting sun upon the turf, was the 
 memory which stayed with him which made upon him a deep 
 impression never to be quite effaced.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 "YOU HAVE AN ELDER SISTER?" 
 
 AND yet it was nothing more uncanny than the shadow of an 
 ordinary mortal, who was clad in ordinary fashion, and who 
 if appearance goes for anything was a gentleman. Anyway, 
 I e was a lover of beauty, wherever he chanced to find it, and 
 he found it that night in the stretch of sunlit sward where it 
 gently sloped upward to the fir-clad hill. A hen phtasant was 
 strutting about, and he stood to watch her, thinking what a 
 pretty thing she was, and all unmoved by any desire for 
 slaughter. But then he had no gun, had nothing more 
 destructive than a stick, which was of the business-like order, 
 and had evidently seen some service. 
 
 He had heard voices and footsteps on the other side of the 
 thick hedge, but had lost them again; and when the pheasant, 
 rising, passed out of sight, he resumed his walk to the village, 
 quite unaware of the effect his shadow had had upon the 
 W'-mnn and child standing in hiding but a few feet away. At 
 the entrance to the village street he halted to look about him, 
 then went on afresh until he came to the inn. He remem- 
 bered the inn, having some years before spent a few nights 
 there. He went in now, had half a bottle of soda-water 
 and some brandy, noted that the house had changed 
 hnnds, chatted for five minutes or so with the landlady, 
 found she knew little or nothing of the humble people about 
 her, and drifted out again to the twilight street, presently finding 
 himself at the end of it. Here he stopped, and was on the 
 point of turning back, when the sound of a blacksmith's 
 hammer rang out sharply close at hand. He turned on his heel 
 and made for the forge, which lay to his left, with a sloping 
 green in front, and the blacksmith's cottage at the side of it. 
 Evidently the last habitation in the village, for the high road 
 stretched away beyond without a break. A spick-and-span 
 cottage was the blacksmith's, with newly-painted door and 
 windows, with white curtains upstairs and down, and a general 
 air of prosperity everywhere. In the doorway stood a girl, who 
 
 152
 
 "fcave an Eifcer Sister ?" 153 
 
 turned her head to watch the stranger as he passed. He gave 
 her a keen glance, then another, and yet another. In two 
 minutes he re-passed. Then he stopped, took a cigarette from 
 his case, went across the green to the cottage door, lifted his 
 hat, and asked the girl in the doorway to give him a light. It 
 was done with the ease of a man who is accustomed to take 
 his welcome wherever he chooses to go done without a trace 
 of hesitation or fussiness. The girl disappeared, staying inside 
 the house long enough to let her risen colour cool down, then 
 returned to the door with a box of matches. 
 
 " Thank you ! " 
 
 He struck a match, lit the cigarette, then, holding it between 
 the second and third fingers of his ungloved hand, said 
 pleasantly : 
 
 " Is your name Deane ? " 
 
 " It was Deane, sir, but " 
 
 "Ah!" he flashed a look at her left hand and smiled; "but 
 it is not Deane now, I see." 
 
 "Yes, sir, I've been married three months." 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 " Is your father still living here? " 
 
 " Yes, sir, they lives at the further end of the village the 
 last house but three you come to." 
 
 "I don't want to see him particularly; in fact, I want a 
 little information which I would much rather obtain from 
 someone else from anyone else, indeed, who is in a position 
 to give it me. You have an elder sister ? " 
 
 The girl's manner altered at once. She suddenly stiffened 
 from head to foot. 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 " Is she a married ? " 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 "I thought she married, say, between five and six years 
 ago." 
 
 " No. She left here for good about that time, but she didn t 
 marry" with a touch of emphasis on the last word, apparently 
 meant to convey that for such an one as that elder sister 
 marriage was an unattainable dignity. 
 
 The stranger put his cigarette between his lips just long 
 enough to keep it alight, then said : 
 
 "Will you tell me why she went away?" 
 
 The girl drew herself up more stiffly still, and averted her 
 face from her questioner's keen eyes. 
 
 M Well, sir, perhaps I might if I knew what right you had to
 
 i54 Bnnie Deane 
 
 come and ask me about such a thing, or if it was a fit subject 
 for anyone to talk of to a stranger." 
 
 He took no notice of the rebuff, only spoke more earnestly. 
 
 " I know it is an odd subject for a chance conversation, but 
 upon my honour I have no wish to offer you insult. I am not 
 a boy, and you are a married woman. I asked you a question, 
 an important question. If you will not answer it, where is 
 someone who will ? " 
 
 She coloured with annoyance at the stranger's lack of interest 
 in her as a woman as a pretty woman. She answered nothing. 
 
 " Can I see your husband ? " 
 
 " Jim's gone to Readin'," she said, " and won't be home till 
 past ten. I daresay you could see him in the morning." 
 
 " Jim ! " The stranger started, repeating the name to him- 
 self. Jim Jim what ? Why, of a surety, Drake ! Was 
 not Annie's old sweetheart the son of the blacksmith here- 
 abouts ? Had that same sweetheart consoled himself by 
 marrying Annie's sister ? The stranger dropped his cigarette 
 in the dust and trod upon it. Certain it was that he did not 
 want to see Jim Drake ! 
 
 " I shall not be here to-morrow," he said, " and I think you 
 might tell me what I want to know." 
 
 " What do you want to know ? " 
 
 " Why your sister left here as she did. I promised a friend 
 of mine to make inquiries concerning her, and I must keep my 
 promise." 
 
 " Well, then, sir, she left here because she was a downright 
 bad girl, and was more trouble to her poor old father and 
 mother than all the rest of us put together." 
 
 '* Where did she go from here ?" 
 
 " She went to Readin'. " 
 
 " What to do there ? " 
 
 " I don't know. I was a bit of a child, not fifteen, so you 
 mav be sure as mother was not likely to say more to me about 
 it than she could help." 
 
 " Where is your sister now?" 
 
 " That T can't tell you." 
 
 He looked at her keenly. 
 
 " Is it possible? "he asked slowly. 
 
 "Yes. She's never been back. For though we are not 
 very high, we're respectable, sir, and she's the only one of my 
 father's name or mother's either that ever disgraced it. I, for 
 one, don't care to remember that she belongs to us at all." 
 
 "But surely you know what she did when she left home?"
 
 41 Kou "Stave an El&er Sister ? " 155 
 
 " She went into service; that is, I believe she did." 
 
 "What, straight into service at once? Was she in a 
 condition to do that ? " 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 He went closer, and looked her in the face. 
 
 "I think you do," he said quietly. "Come now, you are 
 her sister after all ; happier and more fortunate than she, I am 
 sure, but that need not make you hard upon her. You were 
 children together, and you must have had some little affection 
 for her once. Now, if I tell you that the man who once did 
 her a grievous wrong would like to make her some amends, 
 will you tell me where to find her? He cannot set things 
 right that is, of course, impossible ; but he might atone to her 
 somewhat. Anyway, he would like to try." 
 
 Mrs. Blake's colour died out. Her eyes sought the stranger's 
 face, and dwelt there. It was a fascinating face, with strongly- 
 cut features and peculiar eyes, set a thought unevenly and 
 near the nose. A pleasant face, a lovable face, but as she 
 looked at it Mrs. Alice Drake was stirred by sudden and 
 unreasonable dislike. 
 
 She had always disliked the sister whose abrupt departure 
 from home had thrown the care of the younger children upon 
 her a care to which she had never taken kindly, thinking it 
 " beneath " her. Considering herself in every way superior to 
 her meeker elder sister, she had never forgiven her father foi 
 once having surveyed her critically when she had presented 
 herself at home after a few months' absence. 
 
 "Eh h, Alice," he had said regretfully, "ye may be a finer 
 growed gal, but ye'll never be such a pretty 'un as your sister 
 Annie." 
 
 That miserably-petty recollection cropped up even now. In 
 two minutes the blacksmith's young wife had measured her new 
 acquaintance from his sunburnt face to his slender, well-kept 
 hands, and from there to his dusty boots. 
 
 "You're a swell," thought Mrs. Alice Drake, "and you're 
 the man. You ' promised a friend ' indeed ! your conscience 
 pricked you, more likely ! Why should I tell you where she is ? 
 Shall I ? Now shall I ? No, that I won't. Let her work as 
 she ought to work, and think herself lucky that people can be 
 found who are willing to give her the chance. You'd go and 
 provide for her, perhaps take the child away and bring him up 
 as a gentleman. No, madame Annie, I'll spoil that game, if 1 
 can. Even Jim '11 never forget you. He only married me 
 because I was a bit like you."
 
 is* Bnnie 2>eane 
 
 These reflections took up little time. The man who stood 
 facing Mrs. Drake was unaware of any awkward pause in the 
 conversation. 
 
 " You will tell me," he said again persuasively, " where to 
 find her?" 
 
 " I can't, sir." 
 
 " You mean that you don't know ? " 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 "But your people know your mother surely knows ? " 
 
 "Not any more than I know. I'll tell you : She went from 
 Readin' to London, and it was a long time before mother heard 
 a word of her. Then she had a letter from some Home or 
 other, saying that Annie was all rig it, and was being looked 
 after by some clergyman. I don't remember his name. 
 Mother sent an answer, but but let me see, now. Did she 
 ever hear from her since, or was that the last time ? I really 
 am not quite sure." 
 
 She paused, apparently rummaging about in the recesses of 
 her memory for something half forgotten. The stranger waited, 
 eyeing her attentively. 
 
 "I really don't think she did write again," she resumed 
 thoughtfully, "only once just to say good-bye, and that was 
 some time after." 
 
 "To say 'good-bye'?" 
 
 "Yes; she what is it you call it? emigrated. Well! that's 
 the last we know of her." 
 
 Having jerked out which statement, she darted a shifty look 
 at the stranger's face, and saw there incredulity " writ large." 
 
 "Surely you know where she went? " 
 
 " To where they mostly do go America, Canada, somewhere 
 there. I don't know nothing more than that. I daresay," she 
 went on a trifle eagerly, " that it seems unlikely to you." 
 
 " It does seem unlikely," he said quietly. 
 
 " Because you can't enter into our father and mother's feel- 
 ings. You've no idea what letter-writin' means to poor folks 
 who've not had much schoolin'. I'm sure I'm pretty right in 
 sayin' that them one or two letters mother wrote our Annie 
 was the only letters she ever wrote in her life. And Annie 
 was never much good at learnin'. Mother used to say that 
 there was some good in sendin' me to school, but it was jest 
 wastin' money on Annie. She was always sort of stupid, I 
 used to say, and sure enough she showed I was right." 
 
 "But even stupidity would not account for her going to 
 Canada without reference to her parents."
 
 1bave an Elfcer Sister?" 157 
 
 "Where there's no sense there's no feelin', they say, and there 
 was precious little in her. You see, sir, I can't go through it 
 all to show you how that disgrace parted Annie from our folks. 
 Talk of feelin' ! Why, she let father and mother take us 
 children's very food money to get her into Readin' ! She let 
 mother break open our little money-boxes a' purpose to go and 
 see her, when all the while she'd got plenty of money in her 
 pocket, give her by them as bad as herself ! " 
 
 " How do you know that ? " 
 
 " Because she run away that same night as our mother come 
 home with the baby, and before she went she changed a five- 
 pound note. It was as much the thought o' that as anything 
 which set our folks against her, for they could see what a bad, 
 hard-hearted thing she was. So when they once found that 
 she was all right, they jest washed their hands of her, and said 
 that she'd made her own bed, and must lay on it. They'd got 
 us others to think about, and so they let her go." 
 
 "She appears to have been willing." 
 
 " More likely sulky, I expect. When she found she was not 
 to come back here just as she liked, she went off in a pet 
 without sayin' where." 
 
 It seemed very uncharitable and wretched, but it was 
 certainly very likely. The stranger gave a dreary shrug and 
 half-turned on his heel. 
 
 " Well, there is still one point to be cleared up, and that the 
 main one. Did your sister tnrgrate alone?" 
 
 " Don't a lot usually go together ? " 
 
 "That is not what 1 mean. Has she anyone to keep besides 
 herself? As a matter of fact, was there not a a child?" 
 
 Mrs. Alice Drake went a little faint, and swallowed a lump 
 in her throat. 
 
 " If there was," she said, leaning hard against the door-frame, 
 *' there isn't now. It was that part of it what mother kept to 
 herself, but children's ears are mostly open to what's no good 
 to them, and after that first letter from Annie I heard mother 
 say something to father about it's bein' a mercy that the child 
 was took, because it'd give Annie a better chance o' gtttin' on." 
 
 Her listener's intent brows relaxed. 
 
 "They meant that the child was dead?" 
 
 Mrs. Drake's l;ps were pale, and she answered with difficulty. 
 
 "Of course, that must have been what they meant." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 He gave a long sigh, whether of rehef or regret it was 
 impobsibie to say. After a pause he said :
 
 is Hnnie 2>eane 
 
 11 1 might as well take the name of that Home you mentioned. 
 Your sister, of course, emigrated from there." 
 
 " I don't think so. Mother wanted to write there, to be sure, 
 about it, but she'd burnt the bit of paper that had the address 
 on, and she's a poor memory for anything like that. Of course, 
 if you'd like to see mother, I've told you where they live ; but I 
 don't suppose she'd go into it with you like I've done, and it'd 
 upset her dreadful, I know." 
 
 "No doubt. I don't think I will trouble her. There is 
 nothing more to be said. I am much indebted to you for your 
 patience. I thank you very sincerely. Good-night ! " 
 
 He lifted his hat, walked sharply across the green on to the 
 road, and Mrs. Drake saw him no more. 
 
 But when he had passed the last house, and there was 
 nothing in front of him but the dim and lonely road, he 
 slackened his pace, muttering the while to himself in an oddly 
 weary, hopeless kind of way : 
 
 " I am glad she did not drift to anything worse. I am glad 
 that the child died. That is, I think I am. Oh, how the 
 devil do I know what I am, except that it isn't ' glad ' of any- 
 thing ? Where's the use of finding the girl ? If there had been 
 a child I would have taken it would have let the whole world 
 know it was mine ; but the child is provided for, and for the 
 girl herself she will be far, far better without further attention 
 from me. Well, I have done what I could, which turns out to 
 be nothing." 
 
 He stood still in the darkening road, while a circling bat 
 flew past and past him. 
 
 "Shall I go back and tell her what I've done?" he burst 
 out excitedly, " right back to her now f Surely she knows I 
 cannot keep away for ever. If only I could make her see ! 
 How did I know what womanhood meant until she taught me ? 
 I was a fool, groping in the dark. I did not know ; before 
 God and my own conscience, I say, I did not see the horror of 
 the thing I did. And now that I do see " 
 
 He threw back his head and laughed, but the laugh had a 
 ring in it like the cry of a broken heart. It startled even him. 
 He walked on, still muttering to himself, for he was in bitter 
 trouble, and trouble until now had so comfortably passed him by. 
 
 " Now that I do see, what is there left for me but to wish 
 myself blind again, that I might do as other men do, and be 
 content. If only I hadn't loved her quite so well ! And if 
 only she were not so very well worth loving ! And if only she 
 had not thought I was worth it too ! Oh ! after all, what is it ?
 
 ibave an Elfcer Sister?" 159 
 
 Nothing but what every fool feels once in his pitiful life 
 time 
 
 " Of love 
 
 That never found its earthly close, what sequel ? 
 Streaming eyes and breaking hearts ? or else the 
 Same as if it had not been ? ' 
 
 "Why ' the same as if it had not been,' after a few months. 
 What is it but a disease a touch of raging fever, bad to bear 
 but never fatal, and in a short time over ! What is it ? " He 
 stopped and ground his heel deep into the yielding road. 
 " What is it ? Oh ! where's the use of denying it ? My God ! 
 my God ! It's just too hard to bear ! " 
 
 A day or two after that the old station-master met Dan'l 
 Deane, and stopped him. 
 
 " Well, Dan'l," he said, " and how is the world using you ? " 
 
 " Fairish, thankee," responded Dan'l mildly, " fairish." 
 
 " Did I dream that I saw somebody belongin' to you a day 
 or two ago? Somebody that went away some five years 
 back ? " 
 
 " You must ha' bin dreamin', Master Robins." 
 
 " I certainly did see her." 
 
 "What, my gal Annie? No. She've never bin home. 
 She's all right and well, thank God, but it's a long way off is 
 London, an' travellin' means money. Besides, there's the 
 women-folks, and they don't forgive one another much, Master 
 Robins." 
 
 "That's true, Dan'l. I must have been mistaken. But a 
 young woman of just the same stamp as her got out of the 
 excursion train that run through here from Waterloo to Reading 
 last Tuesday. She fought very shy of lookiri' me in the face, 
 and she had a little boy with her about five or six years old. 
 They stayed somewhere here for the day, and caught the train 
 again at night. I can't say that I got a real good look at her, 
 but I cert'n'y thought it was your gal." 
 
 Unsuspicious Dan'l only shook his head. 
 
 " It warn't her," he said, " Lor' bless ye, no." 
 
 But when he went indoors he told his wife of Master 
 Robins' fancy. She dropped on a chair and threw up her 
 hands. 
 
 "An', depend on it, it wus our Annie," she cried ; "ay, that 
 it wus ! An' that little feller what come in here asting for a 
 drink wus her boy."
 
 160 Bnnie Dcane 
 
 " Why, that's nonsense, missus where was she J " 
 
 " I see her I see her myself. She stood up the road against 
 Hobbs's pasture gate, sort o' back behind the gate-post, an' 
 when the child run back to her, though I warn't close enough 
 to see her face, I noticed the lot o' hair light hair, ye know, 
 Dan'l out at the back of her bonnet, an' thinks I to myself, 
 ' Lor', that young person's got a head like our gals', like our 
 Annie's an' our Alice's.' But little did I think she'd bin 
 wand'rin' around here all day not likin' to come into her own 
 home ! An' to think that wus her little lad ! My poor gal ! 
 I'd ha' bin that pleased to see her; an' for her to go away 
 without as much as a cup o' tea." 
 
 Mrs. Deane picked up the corners of her apron and burst 
 out crying. She was still crying when a hand tapped at the 
 window, and then pushed open the door. 
 
 " Anyone home ? " cried Alice gaily. " Why, mother, what 
 are you cryin' about ? " 
 
 Father and mother together told " why." 
 
 At the end of the story Alice turned on her heel with an 
 impatient sneer. 
 
 " So here you two old sillies sit and cry. Well, now, let me 
 tell you there's nothing to cry about. Annie didn't wander 
 about here without company, any more than she did six years 
 ago ; and what's more, she sticks to the same. So you needn't 
 fret about her going away in want of a cup o' tea, mother. Did 
 the child look like want ? " 
 
 " Not a bit," said the mother volubly, " he looked like any 
 lady's child, didn't he, father ? " 
 
 " That he did," said Dan'l, with a touch of pride ; " that he 
 did, an' no mistake ! " 
 
 " Well, he's a gentleman's child, anyway," said Alice drily, 
 " that I do know, and p'r'aps I could tell you whose." 
 
 The mother dried her eyes. 
 
 " What do you mean, Alice ? How long ha' you knowed 
 what nobody else ever did find out ? " 
 
 " Why, since Tuesday, when she was here, and he was here 
 too." 
 
 " Don't be over-sharp wi' your knowin's, Alice," the father 
 said, giving her a steady look, which she did not meet. " I'll 
 say for you as you've got a good head for makin' up where 
 there's anything missin', an' you ain't none too careful o' the 
 truth o' what you sez." 
 
 " Thank you, father," said Mrs. Alice, turning red. " We 
 all know who you thought the most of when we girls was in
 
 Ibave an JElfcer Sister ? " 161 
 
 question. There's precious little thanks in this world for a 
 girl who knows how to behave herself. But, thank goodness, 
 I've got a home of my own and somebody who appreciates me, 
 though my Jim isn't a 'swell,' who wears dandy boots and 
 turns up his trousers to show them ; and though he haven't got 
 dainty hands, with a weddin' ring on that it would have been 
 more to his credit if he'd given away." 
 
 Alice had lost her temper, and was vixenish. Dan'l and his 
 wife sat open-mouthed and dumb. 
 
 " I see him, and spoke to him," said Mrs. Alice, with great 
 nonchalance ; " but don't believe me if I'm not worth believin'. 
 Ask Robins. You say he saw her. Now, just for satisfaction 
 sake, and to clear me, ask him if he didn't see a man in a 
 grey suit of clothes, with a straw hat and brown boots." 
 
 " Robins told me she got in an' got out by 'erself." 
 
 " Wel^ now, Robins is home to his tea. Come on, mother, 
 don't sit frettin' there. I'll go up to his house with you, and 
 we'll ask him." 
 
 The two women went, and surely enough, Robins did 
 remember a gentleman corresponding with Mrs. Drake's de- 
 scription, who had reached the village by an evening train, 
 and had joined the mail for London three or four hours later. 
 
 " So ye see, Alice, he warn't with her," said Mrs. Deane, in 
 a stage whisper. 
 
 " Warn't he ! " said Alice, growing coarse as she grew 
 spiteful. " She couldn't wait anywhere up the line for his 
 train, could she? It was very likely that them two'd come 
 into this place arm-in-arm, wasn't it? or go out of it 
 either ! " 
 
 Robins suddenly let his tilted chair forward and slapped his 
 knee. 
 
 " Now I know where I've seen him before ! " he cried. 
 " Only that summer before your gal left here did that same 
 gent lookin' a good bit younger then come up and down 
 this 'ere line for weeks most ev'ry day. An' it did fairly puzzle 
 me to think what he was doin' here." 
 
 " You're sure it was the same man, Mr. Robins ? " 
 
 " Certain sure," said Robins ; as, indeed, he was. 
 
 "Well, mother, now p'r'aps you'll believe me. Annie went 
 starvin' for a cup o' tea, didn't she ? And you ought to fret 
 your poor old heart about a deservin' girl like her, didn't you ? 
 She hankers after home as much as I do after Queen Victoria, 
 Service, indeed ! So am I in service, as much as she is, and 
 more 1 " 
 
 L
 
 1 6a Hnnfe Deane 
 
 Mrs. Deane saw the matter through her daughter's 
 spectacles, and presently Dan'l saw it through his wife's. 
 
 " I think I settled that," said Mrs. Alice Drake. " But he 
 must almost have passed her on the road. Now, that part of 
 it I can't make out."
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 "LINDSAY LE QUESNE, THE FAMOUS TENOR" 
 
 " I HAD a great surprise yesterday," said Mrs. Holt, when she 
 entered the kitchen the morning after Annie's holiday. " Mr. 
 Holt and I had made up our minds to rough it yesterday. 
 We were going to dine down here just as we could, and then 
 about twelve up drove a cab. 'Dear heart alive,' I said, 
 'who's that? I knew somebody would call to-day. Some- 
 body always does when one is in a muddle.' You have heard 
 me speak of my niece, Mrs. Kemble, have you not ? " 
 
 "Yes, ma'am." 
 
 " We brought her up, you know. I may be a little partial, but 
 I have always said that I never, never saw such a pretty girl as 
 Georgie was. Her present husband followed her about for 
 weeks until he found out where she lived. Then he called 
 upon us and told us how much he admired her. Well, you 
 see, she had nothing, dear child, and he came of such a high 
 family. We thought it a wonderful marriage for her ; but I 
 don't quite know whether we were right. Do you remember 
 me going to Southampton to see her when they were 
 going abroad? That is three years ago, and now they 
 are in London, so she embraced the first opportunity of 
 coming to see us. So thoughtful of her ! She brought her 
 children two such lovely creatures ! You can guess how 
 vexed I was that I could not receive them properly. 
 Of course, you could not help it, but it did seem all for the 
 purpose. She is used to such style, you know five or six 
 servants, and Mr. Kemble so particular. I wanted to say that 
 Mr. Holt has been kind enough to offer to take your boy back 
 to school this morning, because Mrs. Kemble and the children 
 are coming, and we must have a nice dinner about three 
 o'clock." 
 
 " Yes, ma'am," said Annie. 
 
 So it happened that Lin trotted off with the little old gentle- 
 man, and was quite surprised to find what a jolly little old 
 gentleman he was when he was safely out of reach of his little 
 
 163
 
 1 64 Hnnfe Deane 
 
 old lady. They had not gone far when he turned into a quiet 
 hotel, where he had a disgustingly dirty little bottle of wine, 
 which set Lin wondering what they would say if mother took 
 such a thing upstairs at No. 19, where everything was so clean 
 and shining. Then Mr. Holt had two cigars of a very special 
 kind, one of which he lit, and the other did put most carefully 
 into his breast pocket. He paid for his wine and cigars with 
 what looked to Lin like a nice new farthing, but it could not 
 have been that, because the waiter brought some change back, 
 out of which he was permitted to keep sixpence. Lin could not 
 quite see why he was so permitted, and gave it up as something 
 beyond him. The boy sat on a leather-covered lounge 
 watching the old man hold the violet wine up to the light, sniff 
 it, taste it, nod at it in high approval, and empty one glass after 
 another until he had emptied the bottle too, when he 
 suddenly remembered his little charge. 
 
 " I wonder, now, if they keep cakes here," said he, with his 
 head on one side and his fat chin between his finger and 
 thumb. " I shouldn't be at all surprised to find that 
 somewhere in this house there are three-cornered cakes with 
 currants on the top ; and depend upon it, we shall find them in 
 a big lilass jar." 
 
 Lin's eyes were very wide and bright as they watched the 
 little man ring the bell, and his ears were very sharp to catch 
 some myterious question asked of the waiter, who at once 
 suggested "lemonade," and departing, returned with a tray 
 bearing a long glass and a round bottle that rolled about in a 
 foolish, helpless sort of way, and was evidently never meant to 
 stand on its own bottom, or to take upon itself any sort of 
 responsibility. 
 
 " Do you think he will drink all that ? " Mr. Holt asked the 
 waiter in an undertone. 
 
 " Well, sir, it's hard to say," responded that person blandly; 
 " but if you're not used to children, sir, I'd advise you to keep 
 an eye on him, merely for the sake of his own comfort, sir, 
 afterwards. I don't see that it could do him any worse harm, 
 sir, but it might make him uneasy." 
 
 " Ah, just so," said Mr. Holt solemnly, " I I see." 
 
 So Lin, having eaten a cake, did his best to reduce the 
 lemonade, ate another cake, returned to his " absorbing " task 
 with deliberation, paused to take breath, had another drink, 
 and yet one more, began to feel as if he had swallowed the 
 bottle, and desisted.
 
 Xe (Stuesnc, tbe famous Uenor" 165 
 
 " Perhaps you've had enough ? " suggested Mr. Holt 
 mildly. 
 
 " I haven't had enough," responded Lin, with water in his 
 eyes, and a great tingling in his nose, " but I can't drink any 
 more." 
 
 He slid down from the lounge and held himself up very 
 stiffly. 
 
 " All right? " said the little old gentleman. 
 
 " Yes, sir," responded Lin bravely, feeling like a balloon 
 somewhat over-inflated, and in imminent danger of collapse. 
 
 When they were in the street again he was thoughtful, but at 
 last found courage to air his thoughts. 
 
 "Are you all right, sir ? " said he innocently. 
 
 " All right, my little man ? Certainly. Why ? " 
 
 " Because you drinked all your bottleful, didn't you ? " 
 
 "Ah! but I'm bigger than you, and can stand more, you 
 see." 
 
 The child nodded. 
 
 " I suppose that man was glad I couldn't finish mine. Will 
 he go and drink it, do you think ? " 
 
 " I don't expect he will. Here's our 'bus. Now, before we 
 get in, listen to me. You are not to tell anybody that I took 
 you anywhere or gave you anything. You will remember that, 
 won't you ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir. Mustn't I tell mother ? " 
 
 " Well, no. You see, when we're out we don't tell everyone 
 where we go. Not that there's any harm, my little man ; oh, 
 no, but we don't think proper to say anything about it, that's 
 all. So you must remember to keep quiet, and then some 
 day you may get more cakes and lemonade." 
 
 Lin was silent for some few seconds, then spoke with great 
 earnestness. 
 
 "If I do," said he, "will you tell the man to bring mine 
 when he brings yours ? I'm sure I could have finished it if I'd 
 begun when you did." 
 
 When Annie went into the dining-room that afternoon to lay 
 her table, she thought the lady who stood half in the room and 
 half on the balcony outside was the prettiest lady she had ever 
 seen in her life. And Mrs. Kemble was very pretty, with a 
 gipsy-like small face, from the forehead of which the silky uncut 
 hair sprang in a low perfect arch : with a faultlessly-curved, 
 vividly-coloured mouth, and a pair of long-lashed eyes, so dark 
 that the pupils were only visible in a strong light.
 
 1 66 Hnnfc Deane 
 
 Two lovely children were clinging about her as Annie 
 entered, and she was pettishly trying to free herself, talking the 
 while excitedly to her aunt. 
 
 " Who was to dream of there being any scarcity of money ? 
 Be quiet, Vy, what a tomboy you are ! I think it is despicable 
 in a man to lure a girl into marriage by deliberate misrepre- 
 sentation of his circumstances. I say it is vile. It ought to 
 be punishable." 
 
 " But, my love, perhaps he did not mean to deceive you." 
 
 " But he did he did I or why should he not have spoken 
 the truth ? Why, when it was suggested that he should make 
 some settlement upon me, did he get out of it by airing his 
 ridiculous notion about the beauty of a woman's entire 
 dependence upon her husband? I saw it all soon after we 
 were married, when he refused me such a paltry necessary as a 
 sealskin coat, and glazed the refusal over by saying that he 
 believed fur to be unhealthy wear." 
 
 " Well, dear, I really believe that myself." 
 
 " Fiddlesticks ! If it is, why don't three out of four rich 
 women die ? They all wear it ! No, he simply could not, 
 or would not, afford it. I am never allowed to go shopping 
 alone since I once went into Morris's, ordered a few little 
 things I actually needed, and told them to render him the 
 account. Of course, I thought it only the right thing to do. 
 Oh, auntie, there was such a row ! He got out a horrid book 
 and showed, or pretended to show, me what his income really 
 was. I burst out at him for not telling me before. He smiled 
 in that cruel way of his, and reminded me of a stupid thing I 
 had once said about not wanting to know. Suppose I had 
 said it ! Of course, I thought he had the income of a 
 gentleman, and he knew I thought so." 
 
 Mrs. Holt looked distressed. 
 
 "It is terribly disappointing for you, love," she said. 
 
 " Disappointing ! I think it is worse than disappointing. I 
 say the whole thing was dishonest. He married me under 
 false pretences, and, if I could, I would have him punished 
 for it." 
 
 " But is this true about his comparative poverty ? '' 
 
 " Say comparative beggary, aunt. That is much nearer the 
 mark." 
 
 " Then why not let the big place in the country, my dear, 
 and live quietly somewhere else? Surely that would be 
 cheaper H' 
 
 " Of course it would, but he says his people have always
 
 Xe <SHie0ne, tbe famous ttenor" 167 
 
 lived there, and have managed to keep up appearances ! If we 
 starved indoors, he would not care so long as he saw himself 
 described as ' W. S. Kemble, of the Warren, Galloway, near 
 Chelmsford J.P., Esquire.' Not many months since I had 
 notice from the only decent cook I have ever managed to 
 find. What do you think she said to me ? " 
 
 " My poor dear child, I don't know.'' 
 
 " Why, she gave me notice, because she thought our table 
 really did not need anything but a good ' general.' ' In fact, 
 ma'am,' she said to me in that atrociously patronising way they 
 assume when they know they have the upper hand, ' if I was 
 you, I'd certainly have my dinner in the middle of the day. 
 One good meal's worth two messin' ones, and I'm sure you and 
 the children 'd have the benefit.' What could I say? The 
 woman was right." 
 
 Here Annie announced that dinner was ready, and Mrs. 
 Kemble's domestic woes were temporarily shelved. 
 
 She came often after that ; in fact, she was in Merryon Square 
 nearly every day, and she watched Annie with her long, 
 brilliant eyes until the girl was uncomfortable. 
 
 " Do you know, auntie," said she one day, " that I have 
 taken a great fancy to your maid ? She is remarkably pretty ! " 
 
 "/ have thought so!" exclaimed the little old gentleman 
 unguardedly. "Now, really, I have thought that myself." 
 
 " Mr. Holt," said his little old lady, turning very pink, 
 "when she first came here you may remember that I asked 
 you if you thought her pretty, and you said that your sight was 
 getting so unreliable you could not tell a pretty face from a 
 plain one ! " 
 
 " Ah, yes, my dear, but when a face is familiar it makes a 
 difference. It it grows upon one, as you may say " 
 
 " I can't see that at all," said Mrs. Holt, with a fussy dignity 
 exactly like that of a bantam hen ; " and to talk of a servant's 
 face growing upon one is to say the least of it very bad 
 taste, Mr. Holt very bad taste indeed." 
 
 Mr. Holt did not attempt to defend it, only sat rubbing his 
 chin and looking severely snubbed. 
 
 " She is quakerish, servantish," Mrs. Kemble went on, " but 
 I often look at her, and think how I should like to undo those 
 prim plaits and see what her hair is like. It is a lovely colour, 
 and she has such a mass of it ! Don't think me idiotic, auntie. 
 You surely have not forgotten my love for all things beautiful ? 
 She has been with you some time, I think ? " 
 
 " Five years, dear."
 
 t68 Hnnte Beane 
 
 " She cooks splendidly ! " 
 
 " Y-e-s. Of course, I have had to drill it into her, and even 
 now I superintend every little thing." 
 
 Mrs. Kemble nodded. 
 
 " I wish I could find just such a girl. It is astonishing how 
 much you can get out of one left to herself, and how little out 
 of three or four. / say that you people who can manage with 
 one servant are immensely fortunate." 
 
 Mr. Holt began to look apprehensive. Mrs. Holt saw it, 
 and proceeded to carry into execution the exclusively feminine 
 practice of " cutting off one's nose to spite one's face." 
 
 " Of course, we should not be justified in standing in the 
 girl's light," she said demurely, " and if you would like to take 
 Emma into Essex, my love, I daresay she would go with you." 
 
 The old gentleman rose from his chair to avert the 
 impending disaster. 
 
 " My dear," he said, " you forget. Georgie knows nothing of 
 the circumstances which led to Emma's coming here." 
 
 Mrs. Holt did not rise, but she placed her fat hands firmly 
 on the arms of her chair, and looked at her husband with the 
 serenity of conscious power. 
 
 " Mr. Holt," she said, " I know my duty as a Christian. Will 
 you be good enough to attend to your own affairs ? " 
 
 "Yes, yes, my love, of course. I only thought " 
 
 And then the little man sat down, quite snuffed out and 
 despondent. 
 
 Mrs. Kemble looked startled. 
 
 " Surely this girl is not one of your experiments, auntie ? " 
 she said. " I thought you had done with all that." 
 
 " My dear, your uncle was wrong to mention Emma's private 
 affairs very wrong. You know I would not let you have a 
 girl about whom there was any doubt. If I can give her five 
 years' exemplary character, surely you need not want to go back 
 further than that ? " 
 
 " Oh, of course, I will trust to you," said Mrs. Kemble 
 hurriedly. " I am sure you would not let me have the girl if she 
 were not well worth having." 
 
 Mr. Holt suppressed a sigh. Five years' peace in the 
 kitchen at an end ! Now war would be declared again, just 
 because Georgie wanted everything she saw, as usual ! 
 
 It happened that day that Georgie wanted something else. 
 She suddenly remembered a certain kind of tea-cake, only 
 obtainable at one shop in the Euston Road. 
 
 " Oh, auntie," she said, " if Emma has done, can she go and
 
 " Xinfcsag Xe Cfcuesne, tbe famous Uenor " 169 
 
 get some? I would go myself, but they would not send them 
 in time, and / couldn't carry a big paper bag, now, could 
 I?" 
 
 "Certainly not, love," said auntie, horrified at the suggestion. 
 'Of course, Emma shall go." 
 
 " The children might go with her," said Mrs. Holt, but they 
 puckered their brows and wrung their shoulders, and flatly 
 refused, like the spoiled young savages they were. They were 
 having a game at " tents " that is to say, that they were up in 
 Annie's bedroom, had pulled her bed to pieces, had tied the 
 corners of the sheets to the brass knobs of the bedstead, and 
 were thus laboriously "camping out." They did not want to 
 go out with " auntie's nice Emma," and what was more they 
 wouldn't go out, so " auntie's nice Emma " left them in 
 possession of her private apartment and went for the tea-cakes 
 alone. 
 
 Mrs. Kemble, reading luxuriously in her aunt's own 
 particular chair, heard the racket above stairs. 
 
 " What damage can they do up there ? " she asked after 
 a while. 
 
 " Not much, my love," said auntie cheerfully, " if any. You 
 sit still and have a nice rest." 
 
 But presently Mrs. Kemble reluctantly drew herself upright 
 and listened, then threw down her book and went upstairs. 
 She crept up the top flight and peeped round Annie's bedroom 
 door. Tired of camping out, the children had found a new 
 amusement. They had turned the contents of Annie's box on 
 to the floor and were arrayed in her clothes. 
 
 " Oh, you wretches ! " cried Mrs. Kemble angrily. " Why 
 couldn't you leave that box alone ? What will the girl say ? 
 Well, I am sure /can't help it. She really should have locked 
 her box. Out of the way ! I will put some of the things back, 
 but I can't trouble to replace them all." 
 
 She collected a little heap of linen, and hastily put it at the 
 bottom of the box. 
 
 " Oh, look, muvva ! " cried four-year-old Vy. " Here's 
 somefin' dropped out." 
 
 Saying which, the child picked up a worn envelope, and 
 pulled therefrom two or three cheap Christmas cards and a 
 cabinet photograph. Mrs. Kemble made a dart for these 
 articles. 
 
 " You little monkey I You mustn't touch those things, nor 
 open people's Oh ! how very extraordinary ! " 
 
 She scrambled to her feet and ran downstairs.
 
 170 Snnfe 2>eane 
 
 " Auntie," she cried breathlessly, " look here ! Did you 
 ever know anything so funny ? " 
 
 "What is it, love?" 
 
 " Why, look." 
 
 Mrs. Holt adjusted her spectacles, and held the portrait up 
 to the light 
 
 " Well, dear, who is it ? " she said serenely, then. 
 
 " Don't you know ? " 
 
 " Indeed I don't." 
 
 " Not when you have heard me rave about him many and 
 many a time, until you used to say you were sick of the man's 
 name? The children found this in your quakerish Emma's 
 box." 
 
 " And still, my love, I haven't a notion whose portrait it is." 
 
 " Not when I once dragged you out on a fearful night on 
 purpose to hear him ? It is Lindsay Le Quesne, the tenor 
 singer." 
 
 " Ah ! I remmeber the name, but I should not recognise his 
 portrait I suppose you left this one at home, and Emma 
 found it" 
 
 " No ; I have mine now. Where did the girl get this, I 
 wonder. I must run and put it back." 
 
 She had barely reached the top of the stairs, when she heard 
 Annie enter the house. There was nothing for it but to leave 
 the muddle untouched and apologise. She sat down on the 
 edge of the bed to wait for the girl, who was not long in coming. 
 
 " Don't be frightened, Emma," she said, laughing ; " I was 
 hoping to get this straight before you came back, but you were 
 too quick for me. I would apologise, but really it is your own 
 fault for not locking your box. Evidently, you have never 
 lived in a family where there were marauders of this sort." 
 
 " Oh, it's the childern, ma'am," said Annie smilingly ; 
 " never mind, as long as they've bin quiet." 
 
 As she spoke her eye fell upon the scattered contents of the 
 worn envelope. Mrs. Kemble watched her. 
 
 " They have turned out all your secrets," she said lightly, 
 " even to this portrait of a gentleman." 
 
 " Thank you, ma'am," said Annie, stretching out her hand to 
 take the photograph. 
 
 " I was quite surprised. In my happy school-days he was 
 one of my heroes." 
 
 " Yes, ma'am ? " 
 
 " You know who he is, don't you ? But of course you 
 do."
 
 %e (Huesne, tbe famous Uenor" 171 
 
 " That I don't, ma'am," said Annie tranquilly, commencing 
 to pick up her scattered property. 
 
 " Then what makes you keep his portrait ? " 
 
 "I kep' it, ma'am, because it's so much like somebody I 
 knowed years ago." 
 
 "Ah! I see." 
 
 Annie's face was inscrutable, her manner quite collected. 
 She knew she was being probed, and had no intention of 
 betraying herself by as much as a flinch. If secrecy had never 
 been necessary before, it was necessary now. 
 
 " That is the portrait of Mr. Le Quesne," her inquisitor went 
 on, " the famous tenor." 
 
 " What is that, ma'am ? " 
 
 " Don't you know ? I mean, he has a tenor voice. He is a 
 professional singer, and considered by many to be only second 
 to Sims Reeves." 
 
 " I don't know much about singin', ma'am." 
 
 " I suppose not. I adore music. In fact, I ought to have 
 kept it up and followed it. My voice was good enough once. 
 But girls are such fools they think they must marry, if they 
 die for it ! " 
 
 Annie went on straightening her box, repeating a name to 
 herself the while, and waiting in keen anxiety to hear it spoken 
 again. 
 
 " You knowed the gentleman, then, ma'am ? " 
 
 " Mr. Le Quesne ? No, I cannot say I knew him personally. 
 I have heard him sing, and have seen him many times. When 
 I was an Academy student he used to come and sing for us 
 sometimes, with other 'stars,' and was, oh, so delightfully 
 pleasant and nice ! His voice was so perfect that he took his 
 place in the front rank without the long struggle which falls to 
 the share of most professionals. He has been marvellously 
 successful. I saw him only last May. He crossed from Calais 
 to Dover in the same boat with my husband and me." 
 
 Annie's hands were mechanically replacing her tumbled 
 belongings. Annie's heart was beating anything but 
 mechanically. 
 
 " He was with Mdlle. Le Breton, the lady he is going to 
 marry has married by this time, I suppose." 
 
 The kneeling figure in front of the open trunk bent lower, 
 lower, until the set, pale face was quite hidden. 
 
 "She is a singer, too," Mrs. Kemble continued, wondering 
 whether the girl was keeping out of sight on purpose. " Her 
 name is French, but she is English. She is even more famous
 
 172 Hnnie 2>eane 
 
 than he, and a remarkable woman in many ways so thoroughly 
 good and charitable ! But then, she is a Roman Catholic." 
 
 Annie spoke at last. Her voice sounded hollow, but that 
 may have been because she was bending over her box. 
 
 " I s'pose he's very fond of her, ma'am? " 
 
 " Fond of her ! He worships her ! " returned Mrs. Kemble 
 pettishly, as if the thought of it annoyed her. "She is 
 a beautiful woman, quite as old as he is. I watched 
 them drive up to the pier. Her hands were full of flowers, 
 besides those her maid carried, so in getting out of the carriage 
 her dress caught the step and she all but fell. He caught her 
 in his arms and laughed outright because she blushed so. They 
 looked so happy and so absurdly proud of each other that I 
 envied them. ' What a life ! ' I said to myself. ' Beauty 
 talent opportunity wealth and happiness!' Oh, Emma, 
 some people have it all in this world !" 
 
 "An' some haves nothink," responded Emma, with quiet 
 bitterness. 
 
 " That is true. I could not help laughing at the difference a 
 short sea-voyage made in Miss Le Breton. She is a wretched 
 sailor, and when she landed she was half dead. It is great 
 fun to see how ashamed most men look of their sea-sick 
 womankind. They either stalk on in front or pretend they 
 have lost something, and stay behind to look for it. And 
 really a sea-sick person is a ghastly fright. I noticed that Mr. 
 Le Quesne neither stalked on ahead nor lagged behind, but 
 carried the poor girl up the steps, and was oh, so kind to her !" 
 
 " They're married now, you say, ma'am ? " 
 
 " I think so. I have not seen it announced, but I daresay 
 it has been, for all that." 
 
 Annie rose from her knees, and went to the table for her 
 cap. Mrs. Kemble rose from her seat on the bed. 
 
 " I'm awfully sorry the children have given you so much extra 
 work," she said lightly, as she ran downstairs. 
 
 Annie closed the door, then stood with her back against it, 
 holding her swelling heart with both hands. Her breath was 
 coming in gasps, and the pent-up tears would not come at all, 
 although she tried to cry, feeling that unless she did she would 
 burst into one of those storms of tearless sobs over which she 
 had no control, and which, by alarming the inmates of the 
 house, would betray her. She staggered to the washstand and 
 tried to swallow some water, but it choked her, so she plunged 
 hands and face into the filled basin, then walked frantically to 
 and fro until she had in a measure regained her breath, using
 
 Xe (Sluesne, tbe famous Uenor" 173 
 
 it, when she did regain it, only to cry, as she had done years 
 before : 
 
 "God help me, what shall I do? " 
 
 Her life seemed suddenly inverted. The very aim and 
 purpose of it was gone, leaving behind it a desolate and 
 abandoned creature, who had no foothold upon life anywhere. 
 She had been so strong, so steadfast, so patient and content to 
 wait God's time ; had looked forward, with a faith that nothing 
 could shake, to the day which should reveal to her that man's 
 identity, upon which she would be able to utter a name, 
 knowing it for his. That day had come. She knew his name 
 only to know, too, the name of the woman who was to share it. 
 The thought maddened her, and turned her into a fury. She 
 suddenly burst out laughing as she thought how patiently, how 
 reverently she had been following a phantom. Perish patience 
 henceforth and for ever ! Perish reverence and meekness and 
 unquestioning submission to a bitter yoke ! What were all these 
 things to her, seeing that by the aid of none of them might 
 she hope ever to come face to face with the father of her boy ! 
 
 Also, this failure of one part of her scheme showed 
 her how utterly she had wasted effort in another direction. 
 For five long years she had striven upon her knees to root out 
 of her heart its love for this man. She expected nothing from 
 him, she would ask nothing. She knew she dared not reopen 
 any guilty connection with him, for that would imperil her own 
 soul and his. So she had believed that she had succeeded in 
 separating from her thought of him all purely selfish interest, 
 had conquered herself sufficiently to think of him only in 
 connection with the child. Now even that link must be 
 severed; not even it could have any power to connect her 
 with the husband of another woman. 
 
 The husband of another woman ! The very sting of it lay 
 there ; for in all her thought of him she had not thought of 
 him as that. By this she knew that, in spite of all her striving, 
 she loved him selfishly still. Failure ! failure on every side ! 
 She must give up the past and go upon a different plan. 
 
 As she paced her narrow room with increasing steadiness, Mrs. 
 Kemble's light word-sketches came back to her each in turn: 
 " They looked so happy and so proud of each other " ; " He 
 caught her in his arms and laughed " ; " He carried her up the 
 steps, and was oh, so kind to her ! " Annie's breath steadied, 
 regulated, then came quietly and evenly as usual. Why 
 should they two be so happy ? Did his wife love him too 
 blindly to care what his past had been so that his future was
 
 174 Hnnle Beane 
 
 hers ? What name was that ? She tried to spell it over to 
 herself L-e-k-w-a-n-e. That was what her ignorance made of 
 Mrs. Kemble's two swift syllables. Surely an odd name? 
 One she had never seen or heard before. Well, now she knew 
 it, and could trace him at any time. He being a man of note 
 in the world, anyone could tell her where to find him. Why 
 not find him now ? Why not go to him and say, " Before you 
 settle down to your married life, will you throw a thought 
 backward to a girl who was only good enough for you to amuse 
 yourself with, and not even good enough for that, longf I am 
 that girl. I am not come to you for myself, being too low and 
 common, with no chance of ever being higher or more desirable ; 
 but here is your son. What about him ? Is he to be low and 
 common too, or will you give him the same chance with the 
 sons who may be born to you later on, who will not be one 
 whit more yours than he t If you doubt that he is yours, take 
 him, look at him, look at his eyes and then at your own. Ask 
 any fair judge if there be any resemblance between you, and if 
 that fair judge say "No," then I will take him away, and 
 will trouble you no more." 
 
 She sat down, shaking in every limb. 
 
 She would do it. Wife or no wife, she would go to him. 
 Why should she slave night and day to keep his son, when he 
 was living in luxury, in sunny, married happiness with a lady, 
 pampered like himself? 
 
 So he was kind to her, was he ? Well, that was his way, 
 and after all meant little. Time was when he had held the 
 brambles back from hurting even her poor, ill-shod feet, when 
 he had pushed aside the tough hazel-twigs that they might not 
 rebound and sting her face. Once one had done so, and the 
 tears coming into her eyes at the pain of it, he had laughed in 
 his gentle way, and taking the face in his hands, had kissed it. 
 Her face flamed now as she remembered that kiss. 
 
 " They shan't have it all," she burst out, in a fury. " I'll 
 take Lin, and I'll go and find him. Lin's as much his as any 
 son she will ever have. He won't deny it. He'll know it's 
 naked truth. And she ? She'll look at my boy, and she will 
 know it too." 
 
 All the gentle influence of the religion to which she had 
 clung passed away from her, leaving her a new creature. There 
 was keen comfort in this strange desire for vengeance, in this 
 murderous design upon his happiness; she felt exhilarated, 
 buoyant. She answered the dining-room bell with more than 
 her usual alacrity; she attended to the tea table with more
 
 %e <&uesne, tbe jfamous Uenor" 175 
 
 than her usual animation, and actually smiled at Mrs. Kemble 
 when she met that lady's attentive eyes. 
 
 "There's no sense in bein' meek," thought she ; "/'#<? had 
 enough to forgive, an' now she shall have a little as well. He've 
 got heaps o' money. Some of it shall go to keep my boy." 
 
 At half-past twelve she went up to bed, very tired, and with 
 that strange exhilaration dying down. She commenced at once 
 to undress. Her Bible lay on her table, but that could go for 
 to-night. So could her prayers. Of what good were prayers? 
 God helped those who helped themselves. She would hence- 
 forth pluck up heart and be selfish. Surfeited with self-denial 
 and drudgery, she was going to begin afresh. She blew out 
 her candle and got into bed. 
 
 But sleep would have none of her. The moonlight, stream- 
 ing in through the uncurtained window, fell straight and 
 steadily upon Sister Ruth's Lenten present to her, the framed 
 print of a Thorn-crowned Head; the face of Sister Ruth 
 herself, gentle and saint-like, came and stood by, looking very 
 earnest ; the face of a man she reverenced, second only to his 
 Master, came close too, and his deep, never-to-be-forgotten 
 voice spoke to her in no uncertain tone, telling her whither 
 she was drifting. 
 
 " The devil is with you," it said. " Get up, open your book, 
 and see what is there promised to those who have courage to 
 stand firm to the end." 
 
 She got up and opened the book hap-hazard, then lit her 
 candle, and removed her finger from the page. 
 
 " Delight thou in the Lord, and He shall give thee thy 
 heart's desire. 
 
 " Commit thy way unto Him and trust in Him, and He 
 shall bring it to pass." 
 
 She shut the book, and, kneeling down, prayed as usual. 
 First of all for her boy, that he might be kept unspotted from 
 the world ; then for her people in the distant country village, 
 that they might never know again such sorrow as she had 
 brought upon them; then for the kind old folks who had 
 given her shelter and honest payment for honest work ; then 
 for herself, that she might have courage to endure and not to 
 question; and finally, for that man so far above her in a 
 strange and sunny atmosphere, that he might be happy in the 
 dear love of a better woman than she. 
 
 Against that last prayer the whole human nature of her rose 
 up in fierce revolt. But with set teeth and clenched hands she
 
 176 Hnnfe iDeaue 
 
 wrestled with it, and, wrestling, threw it behind her. She 
 knelt there long after all power to pray, or even to think con- 
 nectedly, had left her ; knelt on, worn out, inert, and exhausted, 
 but she had won her blessing. 
 
 " I can't see how," she said, as she threw herself on her bed 
 in the light of the rising sun, " but that's of no account. 
 What I've borne for the last six years I can bear for the next. 
 I'll hold on. I won't doubt, an' some day I'll see as God 
 knowed better than me." 
 
 And before she slept there dawned upon her a conviction 
 that it was indeed God, and not chance, who had been at work 
 in her humble room that day. Was it chance that had sent 
 her out on a trivial errand ? Was it chance which had set 
 Mrs. Kemble's mischievous children to turn out her box? 
 Was it chance which had tossed that portrait upon the floor, 
 and had put it into the hands of a woman who recognised it ? 
 Was it chance which had put her in possession of that man's 
 name? No, of a surety there was something more than 
 chance at work here ! 
 
 Quite content again, and in charity with all the world, Annie 
 fell asleep.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 "MY CRIME'S THE WORST TO HUMAN VIEW" 
 
 THERE was enough to be done in Merryon Square just then 
 Mrs. Kemble and her children came nearly every day. Some- 
 times to a mid-day dinner, sometimes to a late one, sometimes 
 to a high tea which was supposed to save trouble, but did not. 
 Add to this the fact that Mrs. Holt was continually telling her 
 niece to pack the children's little things in something handy, 
 and to " bring them in the cab," because Emma " had a lot of 
 spare time, and would do them up so well," and it will be 
 seen that Emma was not idle. And when this sort of thing 
 had gone on for the hottest six weeks in the year, she really 
 began to grow weary. 
 
 Mr. Kemble had been called away to Liverpool, but had left 
 his wife a free hand in the matter of engaging "auntie's 
 treasure," if the treasure were willing. 
 
 " By the way, auntie, have you spoken to Emma ? " said Mrs. 
 Kemble, on the day of her husband's departure. 
 
 She and the children had spent it in Merryon Square, and 
 were lingering over a latish dinner served in Emma's best style. 
 
 " Yes, yes, my love ; of course. I spoke to her almost as 
 soon as you spoke to me." 
 
 " Did she like the idea of going with us ? " 
 
 " Yes, she seemed to welcome the thought of a change. No 
 matter how kind one is to them, they always do that. And 
 then, you see, she is a country-bred girl." 
 
 " I will speak to her myself presently." 
 
 " Certainly, love ; when you like." 
 
 Mr. Holt endeavoured, without success, to catch his wife's 
 eye. She moved her chair, and sat where he could not see 
 her. He coughed and fidgeted, and trotted about, but the 
 old lady sat unmoved, dumbly assuring her lord and master 
 that his restlessness was understood and ignored. Annie was 
 busy at her ironing board with Vy's elaborate frocks and 
 pinafores when Mrs. Kemble descended to the kitchen, with 
 
 177 M
 
 178 Bnnie 2>eane 
 
 the skirt of her gown well up on her arm, and her eye on the 
 alert for any stray article of a polluting character. 
 
 Servants usually liked Mrs. Kemble. She might be selfish, 
 exacting, and given to the making of unnecessary work, but she 
 was gracious even to familiarity, and pleasant selfishness on 
 the part of a very pretty woman is more easily looked over by 
 servants than the unbending noli-ma-tangere, different-order-of- 
 being manner which so many mistresses think it correct to 
 adopt. 
 
 Annie rested her iron and dusted a chair. 
 
 "Don't leave off, or I shall hinder you, because I have a 
 good bit to say. Auntie told you how much I should like to 
 take you with me? " 
 
 " Yes, ma'am." 
 
 " She says you are willing to come." 
 
 "I think I'd like it, ma'am. I haven't felt well lately, and 
 Sister 'Lizabeth said last Sunday as she thought I'd better have 
 a change." 
 
 Mrs. Kemble looked uneasy. 
 
 " Oh, I don't suppose it's much," she said ; "these under- 
 ground kitchens, probably. You will have plenty of air at 
 home, and not so much to do. There is an awful lot to do 
 here, I am sure, and aunt always was faddy" 
 
 This last in an undertone, accompanied by a confidential 
 nod. 
 
 "Well, she likes everything done right, but as long as I 
 knows how, I don't mind that. I've bin rather worryin', ma'am, 
 about your cookin'. It isn't anythink in a plain way I'm afraid 
 of, but about the fancy things an' sweets. Do you think I'll 
 be able to manage them ? " 
 
 " Oh ! pray don't worry about the sweets," Mrs. Kemble 
 said drily, "you can manage all the sweets we are likely to 
 want. I have seen quite enough in the last few weeks to tell 
 that you can undertake our cooking. If we ever go the length 
 of a dinner-party, Mr. Kemble must hire help for the night ; 
 and for a supper, there is always a convenient pastry-cook." 
 
 Annie felt surprised, not so much at the words as the tone 
 in which they were spoken. 
 
 "About the wages," Mrs. Kemble went on thoughtfully. 
 " If you could undertake those fine things," with a nod in the 
 direction of the ironing, " I could give you five-and-twenty 
 pounds a year. I dare not offer you more ; Mr. Kemble never 
 had any idea of treating anyone fairly. If / get no justice, 
 how can servants expect any ? "
 
 Crime's tbe Worst to f>uman tUfew" 179 
 
 Not being educated up to the point of concealing her 
 emotions, Annie stared at Mrs. Kemble in surprise. That 
 lady laughed. 
 
 " Hasn't auntie told you all about us ? " she said. " If she 
 hasn't, the others will, as soon as you get there. The fact is, 
 we may be grander at The Warren than you are in Merryon 
 Square, Emma (oh, let me see, we shall call you ' Deane '), but 
 we are no happier. You see," pulling herself up sharply, " Mr. 
 Kemble is many, many years older than I, and in marriages of 
 that sort there is always so much for the wife to put up with. 
 I hope you will try to make things a little easier for me now. 
 My cooks have given me such a lot of trouble." 
 
 " I'll do whatever I can, ma'am," said Annie heartily. " It 
 won't be no trouble to work for you, I'm sure." 
 
 " Most of the girls are very good to me, leaving out the 
 cooks, who are women, and always on the watch to feather 
 their own nests ; but when I do find a girl who considers me 
 or waits upon me too much, Mr. Kemble is sure to mark her 
 out for speedy dismissal, so you must be careful." 
 
 Annie was desperately sorry for the little lady. 
 
 " What a pity you ever married him, ma'am ! " said she 
 unguardedly. 
 
 " A thousand pities ! I was a spoilt baby, Deane. Aunt 
 ruined me. It was all done in kindness, but it was mistaken 
 kindness. Now I am suffering for it. I thought a big house 
 in a park was all any woman could want, besides a carriage 
 and diamonds. I wore Mr. Kemble's mother's tiara and 
 necklet every night for a week after we were settled at The 
 VVorren then he took every bit of valuable jewellery to the 
 bank, and has had an overdraught on it ever since ! Oh ! I 
 ought not to talk about him to you ; but if / don't tell you 
 somebody else will." 
 
 " But you must ha' bin fond of him when you wus married, 
 im'am?" said Annie timidly. 
 
 Mrs. Kemble laughed as she prepared to go upstairs. 
 
 " Not a bit of it, Deane," said she, with a dainty little 
 grimace expressive of disgust; "all that sort of thing was on his 
 side. I thought that was enough. Girls are such fools ! " 
 
 When she had left the kitchen, her new servant paused in 
 her work, trying to puzzle this matter out. Why should a 
 lovely, happy girl, such as Mrs. Kemble must have been at 
 eighteen, have married a man of fifty for whom it was scarcely 
 possible she could care ? 
 
 " I s'pose they must have persuaded her into it," thought
 
 i8o Hnnie Dcanc 
 
 she, "like our folks tried to persuade me into marryin' Jim. 
 I'm glad I never done that. I'm free, an 1 I'm not forced to 
 live wi* somebody I don't like. To work ever so hard must be 
 better than that. She never said nothing about Lin. As soon 
 as I'm settled there I must find somebody as'll board him." 
 
 The children being fretful, Mrs. Kemble was anxious to get 
 back to her hotel. In consequence of this, Annie was per- 
 mitted to leave her kitchens in disorder, and to accompany 
 her future mistress, that she might assist in putting the young 
 rebels to bed. 
 
 She was unavoidably late in returning. She had her hot, 
 untidy kitchens to clear up ; it was long past supper-time, and 
 Mrs. Holt was ruffled. 
 
 " So inconsiderate of Mrs. Kemble to keep you all that 
 time," she said, " when you've so much to do. Really, you 
 ought to have help, but it is too late to go for Mrs. Green 
 to-night. You will have to be up very early in the morning." 
 
 When she carried down her supper-tray, Annie looked at the 
 clock and then at the fireless grate. 
 
 rt I ought to finish my ironin'," she said ruefully, " but it'd 
 be so long 'fore the fire burnt clear. I'll do my silver for 
 to-morrow. That'll be a help." 
 
 When she went to bed it was half-past one. She set her 
 alarum clock at five, and rose by it, but work went hardly with 
 her that day, and Mrs. Holt saw it. 
 
 "It is a good thing you are so orderly about your own 
 things," she said. " I am sure they are all tidy, or you could 
 never have been ready by the day after to-morrow. I feel I 
 am making a great sacrifice without proper notice or anything, 
 too. I don't know how I shall manage. But I never did refuse 
 dear Georgie anything, and ah ! now I think of it, are all Mr. 
 Holt's shirts ready ? " 
 
 " Yes, ma'am, I did them a Wednesday, 'stead of goin' out, 
 you know." 
 
 "Ah ! but the half-dozen 'reserve' shirts?" 
 
 " Oh, no, ma'am, not them" said Annie, in dismay. 
 
 "Well, as we are alone to-day, do try. Mr. Holt is so 
 particular, and nobody can do up those shirts as you can. I 
 wouldn't ask it when you are so busy, but he is such a worry." 
 
 Annie toiled upstairs after the reserve shirts, and about four 
 in the afternoon was rolling them up into six nice, damp rolls, 
 when up drove a cab, depositing Mrs. Kemble and the 
 children. 
 
 "Only to tea," said the lovely little creature coaxingly,
 
 Crime's tbe Worst to "fcuman IDtew" 181 
 
 " because you are so busy. And we will put up with bread 
 and butter and auntie's nice jam ; won't we, Walter ? " 
 
 " No," said Walter flatly, " we don't want jam. You said 
 we tould have ' fiss ' at auntie's, you know you did, zest 'cos 
 we had eggs and rice puddin' for dinner." 
 
 Mrs. Kemble turned painfully red, and smartly slapped the 
 child, at which he precipitated himself to the floor, where he 
 had something which might well have been mistaken by the 
 uninitiated for a fit. His mother put her hands to her ears, 
 but took no further notice. When the fit had subsided and 
 the child was intelligible, he continued to announce that he 
 expected " fiss," that he meant to have " fiss," that if he might 
 not have " fiss " he would have nothing, and he would make 
 things uncomfortable as far as he was able. Unfortunately, 
 his capacity for making things uncomfortable was surprisingly 
 great. Mrs. Holt watched his mother's distress until she 
 could bear it no longer. She wiped her perspiring forehead 
 and went downstairs. 
 
 " Oh ! how hot it is here ! " she cried nervously, " but it is 
 a good thing you have a clear fire. Those dear children had 
 a make-shift dinner, nothing but eggs and a rice pudding. 
 You know what children are, Emma they want a bit of 
 fish. Mrs. Kemble is so averse to troubling you, but what 
 can she do, poor thing, when Mr. Kemble won't let them have 
 what is really necessary? I suppose you must finish that 
 shirt, or it will be too dry ; but directly you have, just run and 
 see if you can get a pair of jjood thick soles. If you have 
 them filleted, they will be so little trouble." 
 
 Hot, jaded, and done up, Annie went in search of soles, 
 found, brought them home, and fried them. When she took 
 in the tea-tray the little old man might have been seen to look 
 at her, and then to shake his fist at the children in a way 
 which might have been playful, but which certainly looked 
 vicious. 
 
 " You rascals ! " he said, under his breath, " you double- 
 dyed infantile atrocities ! If only I had my way with you, I 
 would I would ah ! just wouldn't I ! " 
 
 He dared not announce openly what it was that he would 
 do, so he sat fidgeting on his chair, wondering if this were 
 indeed one of those rare times which called for him to assert 
 himself. Was it possible that he ought, he really ought ', to 
 pluck up the courage necessary for a battle with his wife. 
 
 The thought bathed him in a cold perspiration, but he 
 grasped it right manfully, and sat and shivered in his shoes.
 
 i8a Hnnfe JDeane 
 
 Tea was over, the children were in the garden, Mrs. Kemble 
 lay back in auntie's chair; auntie sat rigidly upright, knitting 
 a baby's sock. 
 
 Mr. Holt clutched the arms of his chair, preparing for a 
 plunge. Unless he made it now, he felt there would be a 
 stain upon his conscience for the rest of his life. He fidgeted 
 violently and coughed. 
 
 " Is there anything the matter ? " inquired Mrs. Holt 
 nervously. 
 
 " There is, my love. There is something to be said which 
 at present has not been said, and I wish the matter to be 
 cleared up. Have you told Georgie the truth about Emma ? " 
 
 Once into the fray, it was not so bad. The little man sat 
 firm, waiting to be annihilated. 
 
 " Mr. Holt," said his little old lady, in tremulous tones of 
 anger, " I have told Georgie all that is necessary." 
 
 " May I ask what you have told her ; I must say, and I will 
 say, that if she is satisfied, I am much surprised. She is the 
 mistress of many servants, and has their prejudices to con- 
 sider. I am speaking very reluctantly. I only want to know 
 that nobody is being deceived that everything is open and 
 straightforward." 
 
 Mrs. Holt was for the moment speechless. Mrs. Kemble 
 sat forward in her chair. 
 
 " What is the matter ? " she said. " I am sure / don't want 
 to fish up anything ugly in the girl's past, for of course if it 
 were anything which could affect her now, auntie would have 
 told me." 
 
 "Affect her now?" repeated the little old man, looking 
 apoplectic, "and doesn't it? I should say that a big boy 
 nearly six years old affects her pretty much in the eyes of 
 most people." 
 
 Mrs. Kemble rose. 
 
 "A boy?" she said helplessly; "whose boy? I don't 
 understand." 
 
 Mrs. Holt regained her self-possession. 
 
 " Sit down, my love," she said soothingly, " and let me 
 explain. But, Mr. Holt, let me say first how surprised I am, 
 how ashamed I am, of your unpardonable want of of 
 modesty and good taste." 
 
 " I can't help that, my dear," he said sturdily. " It is as I 
 thought you have not told Georgie, and you ought to have 
 done so." 
 
 " But, uncle, is it true ? Has the girl a child of her own ? "
 
 Crime's tbc Morst to twman Dfew" 183 
 
 " Certainly she has, a boy just turned five." 
 
 " Good gracious ! When you spoke of her in that hesitating 
 way, I thought there was something some slip, or theft, or 
 imprisonment, perhaps all past and done with. But why was 
 I not told right out ? I ought to have been." 
 
 "Just what I said,' said the little man ; "just what I said." 
 
 " But indeed, love," interposed auntie piteously, " I did not 
 really think you would close with her until last night. I made 
 sure something would happen to prevent it, and I did not care 
 to tell you before you had engaged her, because, you see, until 
 then I had no right." 
 
 " She ought to have told me herself." 
 
 " I think perhaps she had not quite seen her opportunity, 
 and" 
 
 " And," said the little man firmly, " I have no doubt that 
 she thinks you know. She would not intentionally hide it ; 
 I am sure of that." 
 
 "Oh," cried Mrs. Kemble, "of course, this puts an end to 
 everything. I couldn't take her to The Warren on any account ; 
 why, I should set the whole house by the ears." 
 
 Upon the round face of the little old man there dawned 
 an unholy joy. 
 
 " Just what I thought," he murmured resignedly ; " exactly 
 what I thought." 
 
 His wife, with one great sigh, sank into a state of humility. 
 
 "I suppose I was wrong," she said, "but I thought that, 
 leaving in such a hurry, Emma would be safe in her new life 
 before you found out about the child, and then I felt sure you 
 would overlook it. I have acted all for the best, and in the 
 true spirit of unselfishness. I thought I was securing you a 
 servant who would be a treasure to you, and I knew that the 
 increase of salary would mean so much to the girl. Also, with 
 the boy at a safe distance, nobody need have been the wiser. 
 In fact, I have always said that Emma would do better to 
 keep the boy in the background." 
 
 " Which she won't do, you know," explained the frustrator 
 of Mrs. Holt's plans ; " she can't be prevailed upon to hide the 
 boy at all. She doesn't think it honest." 
 
 " But," said Mrs. Holt, " since Mr. Holt has chosen, for 
 some extraordinary motive of his own, to come forward and 
 interfere with my plans for you and Emma, I can only 
 apologise, and wish I had let other people manage their own 
 affairs. I am sure I wonder at anyone trying to do a good 
 turn in this world it is a most ungrateful task ! "
 
 1 84 Bnnie 2>eane 
 
 Mrs. Kemble looked impatient and irritable. 
 
 " Well," she said bluntly, " it is awfully tiresome. There is 
 the possibility of inducing the girl to say nothing about the 
 child. If she can keep her own counsel, I am sure I should 
 not publish her private affairs. Mr. Kemble would know 
 nothing about it, and everything would be satisfactory." 
 
 "Exactly!" said auntie, beginning to beam again. "Let 
 it rest, love, and let things take their course. Say nothing 
 now, and when you get Emma safely away, simply forbid her 
 mentioning the child. Tell her if she does, she will be 
 instantly dismissed. She is very amenable to discipline ; she 
 will not rebel. Once in Essex, she will see the difficulty of 
 getting away, and you will be able to manage her easily." 
 
 "Oh, nonsense!" said Mrs. Kemble. "I couldn't take 
 her with me unless we came to a definite understanding 
 first." 
 
 "Then, my love, it will end in your loss. Get her away, 
 and you can make your own terms." 
 
 Mrs. Kemble angrily shook her head, picked up her dainty 
 skirts, and left the room. 
 
 When she had gone, the old gentleman sat and trembled. 
 He had won a moral victory, but it had left him weak. His 
 little lady sat and trembled too, so violently that the tiny 
 silver oats in her best cap played a tiny tinkling tune, but 
 never one word she said. She looked, however, a great deal ; 
 she looked so much that Mr. Holt became nervous, and 
 finding the situation too strong for him, trotted out to the 
 garden and took refuge with the children. 
 
 When Mrs. Kemble entered the kitchen, Annie was on the 
 floor in the midst of the scattered contents of her housemaid's 
 box. 
 
 " It's very dirty an' dusty here just now, ma'am," she said 
 wearily. "I'm cleanin' up, an' shan't be long if you 
 wants me." 
 
 " I do want you. How I hate a kitchen after a meal with 
 any suspicion of cooking in it ! And oh, how the fish smells ! 
 Really, kitchens ought to be right away from where one lives." 
 
 Annie tried to smile, and putting one hand to her forehead, 
 left a smear of blacklead across it, which did not improve her 
 appearance. 
 
 "I have just heard something," Mrs. Kemble said irritably, 
 " and unless you and I can come to some understanding about 
 it, our compact must fall through. I had no idea that you had 
 a son."
 
 Crime's tbe Worst to t)uman Diew " 185 
 
 Annie scrambled to her feet, and leaned against the dresser, 
 while the hot kitchen seemed to revolve. 
 
 "It wasn't my fault you didn't know, ma'am. I ast the 
 missus if she'd told you, an' as near as I can remember, 
 she said, 'Oh, of course.' Yes, I am sure that's what she 
 said." 
 
 "That is about what she would say," said Mrs. Kemble 
 rudely, "but she has acted foolishly, and I feel rather 
 annoyed. If I had had a notion of of this, I should not 
 have engaged you." 
 
 Annie put her hand to her head again, and waited until its 
 throbbing had subsided. 
 
 " There's an end of it, then, ma'am," said she quietly, " an' 
 I can only say agen, it isn't my fault." 
 
 After which she expected Mrs. Kemble to depart, but 
 finding her expectation vain, said : 
 
 " Shall we let it be at that, ma'am ? I can't go with you, so 
 will you be kind enough to let me finish here ? I've had some 
 hard days an' some long days lately, an' next to no rest. I'm 
 pretty well done." 
 
 She wondered at her impertinence in thus addressing a lady, 
 but she was "pretty well done," and at the end of caring 
 about anything or anybody, even herself. 
 
 " Oh, that's not it at all," said Mrs. Kemble, much surprised. 
 "It is all very well to say the matter ends here, but what 
 about me ? What about the inconvenience to which / shall 
 be put? Just think how foolish I shall look if I have to 
 explain to my husband that I engaged you without a single 
 reference simply on my aunt's word. It was such a ridiculous 
 thing to do. I cannot imagine how I came to do it. Mr. 
 Kemble will say that anyone can hoodwink me" 
 
 " I'm very sorry, ma'am, an' that's all I can say." 
 
 "That is of no use. The thing is, what shall we do? 
 What was your idea about the child ? " 
 
 " How do you mean, ma'am ? " 
 
 " I mean, had you any notion of taking him with you ? " 
 
 " Yes, ma'am. I thought I'd find somebody there as would 
 board him, an' when I had, I'd send for him." 
 
 " Impossible quite impossible ! " 
 
 " Very well, ma'am." 
 
 " Of course, he is off your hands ? I mean does he cost 
 you anything?" 
 
 "I've paid for him now more than a year. He's at St. 
 Saviour's Schools."
 
 1 86 Bnnie Deane 
 
 " Well, then, leave him there. At least, he is better cared 
 for than he would be outside. To take him away would be 
 ridiculous." 
 
 "Then I shouldn't go away myself, ma'am. I wouldn't go 
 nowhere that I couldn't see him once a week. That's my 
 holiday Wednesdays an' Lin's, too; an' it's all the pleasure 
 we've got to look forward to." 
 
 "But you forget that you have engaged to go with me. 
 You are my servant, and I cannot let your scruples about 
 leaving your boy behind interfere with my arrangements. I 
 shall hold you to our compact. That is a settled thing; it is 
 not to be upset. I am only here to say that as long as you 
 remain with me nobody must know anything of this stain upon 
 your character. Surely if I consent to overlook it, you ought 
 to be thankful to hold your tongue ! None of the people at 
 The Warren must get a hint. I should be servantless at the 
 end of a month. So don't be tempted to confide in anyone; 
 send your boy's money when you are out alone ; and be sure 
 never to leave your letters about. That is all you have to 
 remember, and it is all I have to say." 
 
 " Don't go yet, please, ma'am," said Annie, " because that 
 doesn't end it. You can't hold me to any engagement. 
 There's nothing bindin' bin done. It's not my fault you've 
 bin put to this trouble, so now I must ast you to let me alone, 
 for I'm that bad to-night, how to do what I've got to do, I 
 don't know." 
 
 "But you will be better after a night's rest. I shall not 
 leave London until the afternoon." 
 
 " Thank you, ma'am, I'm not goin'." 
 
 " But I shall expect you to go," said Mrs. Kemble excitedly, 
 " and I am quite sure aunt will expect it too. Good gracious, 
 girl, are situations in gentlemen's families so plentiful that you, 
 with your history, can afford to refuse one? Come, now, 
 think it over. Say you leave here, where do you think you 
 would be received if you persisted in telling people what they 
 need not know ? Into no good service, that is certain." 
 
 "I've stuck to my boy for five years, ma'am. I've never 
 denied him, nor yet tried to pass myself off for something as 
 I'm not, an' I shan't begin now." 
 
 " But you will have to." 
 
 "No, ma'am I don't think so. When I left the Home, 
 Mrs. Holt wanted me to hide the child, an' I was p'r'aps a bit 
 tempted to ; but then I made up my mind and said ' No,' an' 
 stuck to it, an' Sister Ruth, the best one o' them all, come to
 
 Crime's tbe Worst to twman Wew" 187 
 
 me when she heard o' what I said, an' she says, ' You're quite 
 right ; you've got to begin afresh, and you'll do it better with 
 the child in your arms ; it will be a comfort to you. You had 
 the wrong sort of courage to face the sin ; now you must have 
 the right sort to face the consequences. Never deceive any- 
 body. Tell the truth on every occasion, when you see it 
 necessary for a right understanding between you and some- 
 body else. That does not mean that you need cry it on the 
 house-tops. It may be years before you win back people's 
 respect ; but you will win it ; and the child who looks to you 
 and speaks to you openly as " mother " will be your help.' I 
 never forgot what she said, an' I know I find out how true it 
 was." 
 
 " Sentimental rubbish ! How can the child help you ? 
 Will he, when he grows up, repay you for your extra- 
 conscientious publication of his private misfortune along with 
 your own ? Not he ! Believe me, he would far rather you 
 left people to believe that he was respectable. Will he repay 
 you for standing in your own light to announce to everyone 
 that he had only one parent instead of the regulation two? 
 Not he ! He will, in all probability, be thoroughly ashamed 
 of you, and that is all. I know that sounds brutal, but it is 
 common sense, and a little common sense is worth a great 
 deal of mawkish sentiment." 
 
 " I can't understand what you're sayin', ma'am," said Annie 
 patiently; "but one thing I can see is, that you an' me would 
 never think alike." 
 
 "That is fortunate," said Mrs. Kemble, a trifle insulted. 
 " I am very glad that we two are not asked to view life from 
 the same standpoint. But what about this child? Shall I 
 take you into my service as Mrs. Deane, a widow ? Then the 
 child would seem all right enough. There ! surely that will 
 meet the case. I wonder you have not done that before." 
 
 Annie shook her head. 
 
 " It would not be the truth, ma'am, an' I can't take on the 
 worry of a lie now. If I goes to your place, I do my work, an' 
 I harm nobody. What's gone before in my life is no business 
 o' nobody's." 
 
 " Yes, yes ; but can't you see that a thing like this is just the 
 business that is everybody's. It is the one crime for which a 
 woman never gets forgiven the one thing against her which is 
 never permitted to be forgotten. And really, I only say what 
 I think when I say that it serves her right ; for to throw away 
 all one has one's very life, indeed for love of a brutal,
 
 iss Hnnte Deane 
 
 selfish man is, before everything, idiotic. It is the very 
 stupidest thing conceivable." 
 
 Mrs. Kemble turned contemptuously on her little Wurtemberg 
 heel. Everyone knew that she had a fiery temper, and a long 
 series of pitched battles-matrimonial had made her coarse of 
 speech. 
 
 " And yet, ma'am, to my mind, you yourself done somethink 
 quite as bad, if'twasn't worse" 
 
 A pause. Mrs. Kemble turned again on her heel, and 
 stood transfixed with astonishment. Annie, white as a sheet 
 with the pain of her head and the effort necessary to conquer 
 her natural submission to her superiors, leaned heavily against 
 the dresser, and bit her lips to keep them from twitching. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said Mrs. Kemble at last, " but what 
 was that you said ? Surely I misunderstood you ? " 
 
 " I said, ma'am, that to my mind you'd done somethink 
 quite as bad, if not worse ; an' I say now that I'd rather be like 
 /am than I'd be \\keyou are." 
 
 " In the name of everything that is ridiculous, what do you 
 mean ? " 
 
 " What I've said, ma'am. You haven't spared me, nor took 
 any thought o' whether I'd any feelin' or none, so I'm saying 
 just what I thinks to be right. I don't want to make any 
 excuses for what I've done. Nobody could see plainer than I 
 can the sin o" the thing, though I didn't properly see it at the 
 time, for I wus but a bit of a baby, a few months past sixteen. 
 I was jest as ignorant o' what things is as your little children 
 out there at play." 
 
 She stopped and controlled her shaky voice. Mrs. Kemble's 
 curiosity was aroused. What was the girl going to tell her ? 
 
 " I never had no pleasures not what you'd call pleasures, 
 ma'am nor nobody to think I wanted any, for I wus on'y one 
 out of a lot, an' we wus very poor. I've heard you talk about 
 bein' poor, ma'am, but I means that sort o' poorness what 
 don't give you enough to eat, an' keeps the children a-bed 
 while you washes out their clothes for Sundays. I've worked 
 hard enough since I've bin here, an' lately I've done more 
 than one pair o' hands can do for long together ; but ever since 
 I was a child I can remember nothing but hard work, with 
 nursin' a heavy baby for a kind o' rest. When I goes to bed 
 now I often think o' my bed on the floor at home. It was the 
 best as mother could give me, but there wusn't much comfort 
 in it, ma'am, for a girl that worked from five in the mornin' to 
 seven at night, an' offcn later than that. Mother wus such a
 
 Crime's tbe Worst to Tbuman Ifliew" 189 
 
 slave herself that I don't s'pose she'd got time to think it wus 
 hard on me, but it wus. A girl what's young don't always 
 want to be a slave, even if 'tis to her own brothers an' sisters. 
 Then in the middle o' all that there come along that man. He 
 wus nothink like any man I'd ever had to do with ; he was the 
 sort o' man as even you, ma'am, might be proud to think as he 
 took notice of you. He took a lot o' notice o' me, an' wus that 
 kind to me an' friendly-like in his ways that I sort of got deaf 
 an' blind to everythink but him." 
 
 Mrs. Kemble, becoming interested, perched herself on the 
 edge of the kitchen table. 
 
 " Did your parents know anything about it ? " 
 
 " No, ma'am ; I met him on the sly." 
 
 " You were quite old enough to know that was wrong." 
 
 " Quite old enough, ma'am. I'm not trying to excuse myself 
 at all. I'm on'y tryin' to show you what sort o' life I'd bid, 
 an' what a wonderful thing it wus to me to be made a fuss of 
 by somebody like him. I got right out o' myself. I had no 
 more thought o' myself than if I'd bin a stock or a stone, I 
 wus what you'd call a fool, but if my right hand could ha* 
 done him any good, I'd ha' gone for the rest o' my life without 
 one. Mind, ma'am, that man never promised me nothink at 
 all ; I jest throwed myself away for the pleasure o' bein' with 
 him, o' bein' somethink to do with him, bad as it wus." 
 
 "It was bad," said Mrs. Kemble, filling in the pause, "and 
 as I said very foolish." 
 
 " Well, ma'am, that wus me, an' now here am I, a ruined 
 woman ; an', as you says, it serves me right. But when you've 
 said that, ma'am, I can't help thinkin' o' you. You wus older 
 than me, an' had, as far as I can see, everythink as heart could 
 wish for edjucation to learn you what wus right, plenty o' love 
 an' kindness, an' all ! There come along to you a man what 
 wus old enough to be your father, an', if I judge right, older 
 than that, an' you throwed yourself away jest as sure as ever I 
 did, not for the sake o' him, but for the sake o' what he'd got. 
 You've told me that yourself. VVusn't you old enough to know 
 that wus wrong ? I think so. You're glad to say that us two 
 isn't ast to look at things from the same point o' view, and, 
 ma'am, so am /, for I do say that I could sooner forgive a girl 
 who sold herself for love than one what sold herself for money. 
 It means the same ruin to both of 'em, when you looks at it 
 right ; but at least the one what sells herself for love don't go to 
 church an' call God to witness a wicked lie. I'm an unhappy 
 woman, ma'am, an' you are the one to say it serves me right.
 
 igo Bnnte IDcane 
 
 I mustn't say that to you, because it's not my place, but I can 
 think what I like, ma'am, can't I ? " 
 
 Having said which, Annie stumbled forward and fell in a 
 heap upon the floor. 
 
 Mental excitement had put the finishing touch to physical 
 exhaustion, had laid the last straw on the back of the proverbial 
 camel, and the result was collapse. 
 
 Almost as white as the girl, Mrs. Kemble felt her way out of 
 the kitchen and up the dark stairs. Then she burst open the 
 dining-room door. 
 
 " I know," she gasped out, " I know that absence makes a 
 vast difference to people's affection for one ; but I never, never 
 thought that you would have permitted me to be insulted in this 
 house by an ignorant, impertinent servant girl ! " 
 
 And, oh, what a fillaloo there was that night in Merryon 
 Square 1
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 "THE BEST VOICE OF THE LOT" 
 
 ANNIE came back to herself later on amid the scattered con- 
 tents of her housemaid's box, with a feeling of close proximity 
 to something loathsome. This proved to be an immense 
 horror of the beetle tribe, promenading leisurely upon her 
 bare arm. She hurled the thing away, then pulled herself up 
 by a friendly chair, sat down on it, leaned her head against the 
 wall, and gave herself up to lethargy. She heard the patter of 
 the children's feet in the hall, and the banging of the front 
 door, connecting these sounds with the departure of Mrs. 
 Kemble. 
 
 Long after dark some one came into the kitchen, struck a 
 light, and stood looking at her. With some effort she opened 
 her eyes and saw Mrs. Green, the woman who occasionally 
 came in to help. That lady lit the gas, turned up the skirt of 
 her gown, and fastened it behind her with the big cameo brooch 
 she had taken out of her shawl. 
 
 "Oh, dear," said Annie stupidly, "is it Saturday? You 
 needn't have come. I'm not goin' now." 
 
 The woman nodded indulgently. 
 
 " Where's your friends ? " she said, speaking with raised 
 voice, as if the girl were deaf. 
 
 Annie could not trouble to explain. 
 
 " Because you've done enough for a bit, and if you've got 
 nobody else, then I'll take you home for a rest. P'r'aps now 
 you'll see that I was right when I said you was a fool ever to 
 do what you have done here. It's bin' all right enough from 
 Mrs. Holt's way o' lookin' at things, but slave-drivin' is done 
 away with now. ' How can there be a lot o' work in a house 
 where there are only two people ? ' says she to me just now. 
 ' Right enough, ma'am,' say I, ' but I've seen people have rooms 
 turned out for the sake of seein' other people at work, an' I 
 have knowed missises as would rather have furniture an' carpets 
 wore out with on-necessary cleanin', than give a servant an 
 
 191
 
 i9 Bnnfe 2>cane 
 
 hour or two's rest.' Come on, now, out o' this, an get 
 to bed." 
 
 Mrs. Green lifted Annie out of her chair, half-carried her 
 upstairs, and saw her into bed. With one great sigh of 
 thankfulness, the girl was asleep. 
 
 When she awoke the next morning, Mrs. Green and Sister 
 Ruth were standing beside her bed. Said the latter : 
 
 " Mrs. Green came to us last night and told us you were ill. 
 I have come to see if it is possible to take you back with me 
 for a rest." 
 
 Annie feebly protested that she had had a rest, that she was 
 very grateful, but would stay and do her work. At which Mrs. 
 Green said " Rubbish ! " and Sister Ruth said " Impossible ! " 
 the result being that Sister Ruth and Annie departed from 
 Merryon Square in a cab. 
 
 The girl thought it a trifle unkind of Mrs. Holt to let her go 
 without seeing her, but when she remembered the old lady's 
 passionate affection for her niece, she concluded that she 
 (Annie) had given mortal offence by daring to speak her mind 
 to that exalted lady. 
 
 "She'll never forgive me," the girl said later on to Sister 
 Elizabeth, " an' I don't know however I come to speak so to a 
 lady, but I couldn't seem to help myself." 
 
 Sister Elizabeth was very gentle. 
 
 " Never mind Mrs. Holt," she said ; " you have proved to 
 us that you desire to do what is right. We can find you a 
 place when you are ready to take one. Five years' character 
 will take you anywhere." 
 
 All the Sisters' prejudice against Annie had long since given 
 place to respect for her straightforwardness, her integrity, and 
 her self-denying devotion to her boy. They knew no more of 
 her than they had done at first, but even her reticence gave 
 her an additional claim upon their respect, seeing that reticence 
 among women who have made u the " mistake is a quality 
 extremely rare. So it happened that Annie's second stay at 
 the Home was a pleasant one, affording her just the restful 
 change she needed. At the end of a fortnight she wash er- 
 self again, and asked for permission to return to work. 
 
 " I'm not earnin' anythink," she said, " an' the boy's got to 
 be paid for. Please may I send for my things from the 
 Square ? " 
 
 The messenger who went for the " things " returned without 
 them, and the same day a lady, who looked very sheepish, and 
 who could not meet Sister Elizabeth's eyes, called at the Home
 
 Best tfloice of tbe OLot" 193 
 
 to know what Emma meant by sending for her things. Of 
 course, she was coming back. Had not everyone understood 
 it ? Dear, dear, how very distressing and extraordinary ! Oh, 
 please let her see Emma herself? Emma would say at once 
 that it had been an understood thing. 
 
 Sister Elizabeth was quiet, but decided. 
 
 " I cannot advise the girl to return to you, Mrs. Holt," she 
 said. "She was brought here a fortnight ago completely 
 prostrated by hard work and long hours. You have had a 
 willing and a conscientious servant. You have taken advantage 
 of her misforture to deny her those privileges of freedom and 
 leisure which are the common right of all, and which the 
 ordinary girl would have taken to herself. To such an 
 ordinary girl I believe you would be an excellent mistress ; to 
 the girl who has not the courage to defend herself, I fear you 
 are very hard." 
 
 The little old lady was indignant, was outraged, was scandal- 
 ised ! Was not Merryon Square a home ? Was it not a 
 Christian home? Were not the duties light? Was not she 
 herself the most lenient, the most ridiculously easy-going 
 mistress alive ? And if she were ever anything else, was it any- 
 body's fault but that of her husband, who was so firm in the 
 matter of governing servants ? And so very particular ! 
 
 As to that night on which she was accused of something like 
 brutality to a sick girl did she even know she was sick ? Had 
 anyone told her? Had the girl herself complained? How 
 could one be expected to know a girl was ill if she never said 
 anything about it? And how could she Mrs. Holt know 
 that Emma lay on the kitchen floor in a faint for nearly two 
 hours, when she had enough to do to attend to her dear 
 niece, Mrs. Kemble, who was so pardonably upset, and who 
 was, always had been, and always must be, such a perfect 
 lady? 
 
 Sister Elizabeth sat unmoved, but presently said she would 
 speak to the girl. She did so. 
 
 " The Holts want you back. I am not advising you to go ; 
 but if you do go, I have made the terms upon which you will do 
 so." 
 
 " I means to go, ma'am," said Annie at once, " an' I'll tell 
 you why. I was silly to go on doin' what I did, grumblin' to 
 myself, but not speakin' out. I did think she ought to have 
 knowed I wus doin' too much ; but when I found she didn't 
 know, I ought to have spoke, an' there'd bin an end to it. I 
 shall know betler now. There's always somethink to be put 
 
 M
 
 194 Hnnie H>eane 
 
 up with in every place, an' these people knows all about me 
 I'll go back, thank you, ma'am." 
 
 She went back, much to the delight of the old gentleman, 
 who, however, had the discretion to conceal such delight under 
 a mask of stolid indifference. 
 
 Of all the privileges which her return to Merryon Square 
 brought her, Annie valued one the most highly ; she was 
 permitted to have her boy with her from the Saturday after- 
 noons to the Sunday evenings. Those Saturday afternoons 
 became the very joy of her existence. To meet the 'bus which 
 brought the child, to take his little warm hand in hers, and 
 wander with him through one of the parks, to hear his happy 
 chatter, to watch his happy face with its odd, fleeting flashes of 
 likeness to a face she hud known in the time that was no more, 
 to take him home and sit him up in the kitchen while she 
 finished her work, to feed him somewhat injudiciously with the 
 dainty bits of her own fare carefully stored for him in a biscuit 
 tin, to fall asleep at night with his head on her arm, to wake 
 before he did and lie and watch him, to put on his clean 
 collar and take him into the dining-room to say "Good morning" 
 to the old people all these simple things made her content to 
 work hard for the rest of the week, and shed upon her selfless 
 life all the sunshine that it had. 
 
 Gradually, by imperceptible growth of custom, Lin grew to 
 regard the dining-room with less of awe and more of criticism ; 
 grew to look upon one particular chair as his, and to think it 
 no great privilege to have his tea with the old people. 
 
 Annie would try to keep him downstairs, fearing to be thought 
 presumptuous, but the child was a happy, unobtrusive little 
 creature, and if he did not trot upstairs, the old gentleman was 
 sure to ring for him. Occasionally, it is true, the old lady 
 lectured upon the inadvisability of lifting the boy out of his 
 proper sphere ; but her lecture fell upon stony ground, and Lin 
 regarded the dining-roorn as a fair field, to which he was 
 admitted without favour. 
 
 This state of things kept Annie in perpetual apprehension. 
 She knew that as the boy grew to look upon his privileges as 
 a right, Mrs. Holt would resent it, and would make herself 
 uncomfortable and unpleasant. 
 
 This apprehension was not justified until Lin was getting on 
 towards his ninth birthday. He came from school in the 'bus 
 as usual, and running up the square, sprang up the steps, and 
 finding the dining-room door ajar, went right in. Now it 
 happened that Mrs. Holt had a visitor, and that Lin forgot to
 
 "TTbe Best IDofce of tbe Xot" 195 
 
 wipe his boots. The boy stood with his cap in hand for a few 
 seconds, checked by the colour of Mrs. Holt's face and the 
 expression of her closed mouth, then he said awkwardly : 
 
 " Shall I go downstairs, ma'am ? " 
 
 "Certainly," responded she with asperity; "and another 
 time, please remember to come in by the area-gate. Tell 
 Emma to bring a dustpan and brush here at once. Your 
 boots are muddy." 
 
 Lin flushed scarlet and went downstairs. 
 
 " I didn't know there was anyone there," he said to his 
 mother, "and Mrs. Holt was cross." 
 
 Annie departed with the dustpan and brush. As she reached 
 the dining-room she heard Mrs. Holt say something about " old 
 servants," and the difficulty there was in checking their 
 tendency to presumption. 
 
 " I've bin expectin' this, dear," she said to Lin, when she 
 went down again, "an* you shouldn't ha' gone into the dinin' 
 room like that. I'm not sorry, because it's time as you knew 
 that you're not parlour comp'ny, an' mustn't expect to go there 
 onless you're sent for." 
 
 " I don't mind about going there," said Lin, with his eyes 
 brimming over, " but they've always told me to go ; and why 
 should they tell me if they don't want me ? Mr. Holt wasn't 
 there. She wouldn't have spoken to me like that if he had 
 been." 
 
 Mr. Holt came in shortly after, and rang the bell. 
 
 " Tea, please, Emma," said the old lady ; and, " Where's 
 the boy, Emma ? " said the old gentleman. 
 
 " Down with me, sir." 
 
 " Send him up, send him up; and where's that division sum? 
 My word, what I'll say to him if he hasn't done that division 
 sum." 
 
 Annie went down and told Lin to go up. But he was 
 still smarting, and said he didn't "want to go up, thank 
 you." 
 
 " Nonsense, dear, you mustn't show temper. We are not 
 supposed to do that, Lin; it isn't our place. I've had to 
 pocket a deal like that, Lin, an' so must you. Go up, my boy, 
 please." 
 
 Lin was obedient, and went, but did not sit down, and when 
 asked to do so, said : 
 
 " If you please, sir, I'll have tea with mother." 
 
 " Eh, why, what's this ? " cried Mr. Holt, " why why why 
 I can't understand. Have tea with your mother when there
 
 i9<5 Snnfc 2>eane 
 
 are muffins about ? Hot muffins with plenty of butter ? Why, 
 what's the matter ? " 
 
 "Nothing, sir," said Lin, turning red; "but mother's all 
 alone, and 1 think I ought to go and keep her company." 
 
 " Quite right," said the old lady hastily, " and it is very good 
 of him. Emma can keep one muffin back for him. Don't 
 interfere with him, Mr. Holt ; it is only right that he should 
 prefer to go down with Emma." 
 
 " But it's funny, all the same, my love, because he usually 
 prefers to stay with us. Well, well, you rascal, run along, then, 
 and come up when you have had your tea. I must have it 
 out with you about the division sum." 
 
 When Lin had left the room, Mrs. Holt began. 
 
 " You really must stop making this fuss about that boy. I 
 have been watching for an opportunity to speak, and now I 
 have found it. You have lifted the boy out of his place, and 
 presently we shall find it difficult to make him understand what 
 that place really is. In fact, I had occasion to give him a lesson 
 to-day." 
 
 The old gentleman was like Lin, he did not understand ; he 
 showed it. 
 
 " The boy is growing up. When he was a baby, it was all 
 very well, but now it is getting tiresome, and it is time he 
 understood that for him to be here is a favour; but that for 
 him to come rushing in as if the place belonged to him is a 
 liberty, and a liberty," finished the little lady firmly, " which 
 must be checked." 
 
 " But, my love, what's the matter with the boy ? Why, we 
 have known him from a baby, and he is such a nice, well- 
 mannered little chap. I thought you liked to have him here ; 
 upon my word, I thought you did." 
 
 " That does not say that I want him rushing in here whether 
 I am alone or not, whether he is welcome or not If we do 
 want him we can always ring." 
 
 " But I have never known him ' rush in.' " 
 
 " He rushed in to-day, in at the front door, and, without 
 knocking or anything, came right across this carpet with his 
 boots all mud. Mrs. Sherman Mrs. John Sherman hap- 
 pened to be here, and she asked me if the boy were a visitor 
 of mine." 
 
 u Well, he was, my love, wasn't he ? " laughed Mr. Holt 
 nervously. 
 
 " Don't be foolish, Mr. Holt. Of course, I had to explain 
 things, and Mrs. Sherman was so sarcastic ! You know what
 
 Best Dolce of tbe Xot " 197 
 
 she can be. 'Such a novel idea,' she said, 'to have the chil. 
 dren of one's unmarried servants invading one's reception 
 rooms.' Of course, it was unpleasant, but I must say that she 
 pointed something out to me which I had not thought of before. 
 ' Depend upon it,' she said, ' the woman is bringing up that 
 boy with false ideas, and all on account of you allowing him 
 the run of the house. She has her eyes open. She thinks if 
 you live long enough you will do something in the matter of 
 placing him out, or, if you don't, that you will leave him some- 
 thing in your will. That's her move ! ' You know Mrs. 
 Sherman was always rather vulgar." 
 
 " Very vulgar," said Mr. Holt angrily, " much too vulgar, my 
 dear, for her opinions to have any value." 
 
 " But there was sense in what she said. If we are raising 
 any hopes of that sort in Emma's mind, it is our duty to crush 
 them at once. That boy is nothing whatever to us, and I 
 should not dream of doing anything for him. How could we 
 when we have Georgie ? " 
 
 "Well, I don't know," said the little man slowly, "/am 
 without kith or kin, and your niece, my dear, has no claim 
 upon me. I think I have said that if Emma remains with us 
 I shall not forget her good services. You may remember, Mrs. 
 Holt, that I have said that." 
 
 Mrs. Holt dropped her knitting and turned faint. It is true 
 that she did in a general way rule her husband, who, by the 
 way, was her junior by five years ; but she had never been 
 able to guide his hand in the framing of certain directions 
 concerning the final distribution of his property, neither had 
 she seen those directions. Mr. Holt had them in safe custody, 
 and when approached on the subject was exasperatingly un- 
 communicative. This worried his wife to the verge of despair, 
 and still the little man, though he knew it, made no sign. It 
 was the last vestige of authority that remained to him, and he 
 held on to it firmly. 
 
 " Of course, I have heard you say something of the kind," 
 Mrs. Holt said, in great agitation, " but I am certain you 
 would not dream of leaving Emma much. She is well paid I 
 think over-paid, and yet sometimes I fear that if anything 
 happened to me you would be cajoled into doing something 
 unjust." 
 
 " Unjust, my love ? How could it be that, when we have 
 no children of our own ? " 
 
 " It could, it could, and you know how. We have brought 
 Georgie up, and you know my wishes, my intentions with
 
 igs Bnnte 2>eane 
 
 regard to her. If you ignore these, Mr. Holt, it will prove 
 very plainly that you care nothing about me" 
 
 " I care very much about you, but Georgie is a different 
 matter. We took her from a poor home, and lavished upon 
 her both money and affection. Perhaps you have had some 
 return for it, my dear ; but / have had none none whatever. 
 Miss Georgie made her bed in her own wilful way, and I think 
 she finds it uncomfortably hard. A matrimonial bed usually 
 is when it is made without affection. She will have your 
 money, and she will have some of mine, but not all. If you 
 have encouraged her to look forward to my death you have 
 done wrong. So you were a bit sharp with the boy 
 to-day?" 
 
 "I was sharp; and let me say at once, Mr. Holt, that I 
 will not have that boy encouraged to take liberties in this 
 house. No, not if I have to tell Emma that in future he had 
 better spend his Sundays at school." 
 
 " I object to that," commenced the old gentleman firmly ; 
 but he said no more, for Annie entered with the tray. Her 
 face was flushed, and her lips indrawn. Mrs. Holt saw directly 
 that the girl had overheard part of the conversation between 
 Mr. Holt and herself. The old lady's heart sank. Oh, dear ! 
 oh, dear ! Now Emma would go, and all her troubles would 
 begin afresh. 
 
 But Emma was not so upstart, and knew her " place " far 
 too well to resent Lin's snub. She let the matter pass without 
 comment, until she and the boy were waiting for the 'bus 
 which was to take him back to school. Then she said : 
 
 " I think, dear, that p'r'aps it'll be as well if you don't look 
 to come now ev'ry Saturday. Will you be disappointed ?" 
 
 " It'll be a bit dull at school," said Lin, in his old-fashioned 
 way, " but I shan't mind when I think of what Mrs. Holt said 
 to me. I don't feel as if I want to come next Saturday, but 
 the old gentleman said I was to." 
 
 " Then you'd better. On'y, dear, I'll be glad if you'll bear 
 in mind that I'm on'y a servant here, an' that you're my little 
 boy. Mr. and Mrs. Holt is my master an' mistress, an' we're 
 nothink to them at all. I've bin goin' to tell you that, becos' 
 I knew she'd soon begin to think it wus time to tell you that 
 you wus makin' too free." 
 
 " I remember she did tell me a little while ago that I must 
 make the most of things," said Lin ; " and when I asked her 
 why, she said that as I got older I shouldn't be able to come 
 so much. The old gentleman laughed and patted me on the
 
 ttbe Best IDoice of tbe Xot " 199 
 
 back. I always liked him," finished Lin candidly, "much 
 better than her." 
 
 "Well, we must break off your comin' a little at a time. 
 There's a lot o' disappointments for poor people like us, Lin ; 
 but they're all for our good, an' they don't hurt much as long 
 as we try to do our best. Here's your 'bus. Mind what I 
 says, be a good boy, an' learn all you can while you've got the 
 chance." 
 
 Lin kissed her and sprang into the 'bus, nodding at the 
 patient figure on the kerb-stone until he could see it no 
 longer. 
 
 All that week was Mrs. Holt specially gracious, even fussy, 
 and she mentioned Lin more than once in quite a motherly 
 way. But Annie was more than usually quiet, and the thought 
 of the coming Saturday was sad, instead of pleasant. On the 
 Friday evening, however, she had a surprise, in the shape of a 
 letter from the boy. 
 
 " MY DEAR MOTHER, I am writing to tell you something I 
 am sure you will be glad to hear. Mr. Hoskins, our choir- 
 master, has asked if I can stay here for Sundays. You know 
 v e have got a little chapel in the house, because you have seen 
 it. Three of the boys that used to sing in the choir have gone 
 to Canada (if it was not for you 1 should like to go, too) and 
 some of the others' voices are breaking. Your voice does 
 break when you are old enough. So Mr. Hoskins tried a lot 
 of us to see if we could sing ; then he picked out me and two 
 or three more, and tried us again. He says I have got the 
 best voice of the lot, and he's going to teach me. So I said I 
 would stop Sundays if you dident mind. This will come in 
 nicely about Mrs. Holt, won't it ? I shall not be at all dull 
 now, because I just do like singing, and I can go up ever so 
 high, like that boy that sings in the anthem at St. Saviour's. 
 So good-bye for this week. Come down to church some 
 Sundays. Our friends are allowed to come. 
 
 " I remain, your very loving son, LIN. 
 
 " I know I have spelt this quite right, because I have wrote 
 it with a dictionary, all except dident, and that I could not 
 find. I am glad about the old lady. Won't she be surprised. 
 I am sorry about the old gentleman, though, because I think 
 now I don't come he will be rather dull." 
 
 Annie smiled as she folded the letter.
 
 200 Bnnfe Deane 
 
 " God's way out of my little trouble," said she. " I can work 
 with a light heart now." 
 
 But the touch of human nature in her caused her to keep 
 silence until the boy was asked for. 
 
 Saturday's tea-time came, and Mr. Holt rang the bell. 
 
 "Where's the boy, Emma?" as the tray appeared, 
 
 " Not comin' to-day, sir, thank you," said Annie briskly. 
 
 " What ? What's the matter ? " 
 
 "Nothink, sir. They wants him to stay Sundays now, to 
 sing in the choir, so o' course I must be glad as he's o' some 
 use. It's bin very kind o' you, sir, an' you, too, ma'am, to 
 have him here so often ; I'm very much obliged to you both." 
 
 Mrs. Holt turned slowly red, and her little silver oats 
 rattled. 
 
 " You are very welcome, Emma," she said stiffly. The old 
 man said nothing. 
 
 But when tea was over, the old lady was so full of indignation 
 that she trotted off to the kitchen to speak her mind. If she 
 chose to regulate the boy's visits, well and good ; for Emma to 
 do so was " upstart." 
 
 "I don't understand this, Emma," she said, "I mean the 
 boy's sudden stopping at school. I feel sure there is some- 
 thing behind, some unbecoming spirit of resentment. It is 
 true that I was annoyed with him for rushing into the dining- 
 room in that rude way when I was receiving a visitor. I spoke 
 firmly to him, but it was for his good, and if you could not see 
 that I think you are very silly. You will find it a mistake to 
 encourage the boy in being upstart. That will neither become 
 your position nor give him the true idea of his." 
 
 " I'm not doin' that, ma'am. I've had no hand at all in his 
 stoppin' at school. But now, as it's settled he is to stop, I'm 
 glad, because I think he might have got to look on comin' here 
 as a right, an' I couldn't have helped myself. I've tried that 
 hard to keep him in his place, you can't think ; but you wus so 
 kind to him, an' childern don't see the rights o' things. You 
 can't expect it." 
 
 "Well, it seems strange that he should be wanted so 
 suddenly, and that you should say nothing about it." 
 
 " I didn't know myself, ma'am, 'till last night. But I'm glad 
 it's happened. I've bin tryin' to think how to tell the boy, 
 becos' I knowed you'd soon think 'twas time. Now it's 
 settled all outside of us." 
 
 " Well, now, really? said Mrs. Holt, " I must say I think 
 you have some odd notions of privileges. For all our really
 
 "Ube Best iDoice of tbe %ot" 201 
 
 remarkable kindness to your boy, what do we get ? Gratitude? 
 Not a bit of it ! Simply resentment when we think him old 
 enough to be taught that he has no real claim upon our 
 consideration. What has been really a great favour you have 
 distorted into something like a right. Well, well, that is the 
 sort of thing I have experienced all my life ! " 
 
 " I'm not ungrateful, ma'am," said Annie, " far from that." 
 
 " But do you suppose that child would have had the run of 
 any house but this? Of course not. It has been a great 
 concession on our part. It is true that /might still be inclined 
 to let things stay over a bit, but Mr. Holt has noticed the 
 tendency to take things as a matter of course, and I have told 
 you how very sharp he is upon anyone who takes a liberty. 
 You may not believe me, but he is very sharp." 
 
 " I'm quite satisfied, ma'am," said Annie quietly, " an' very 
 grateful for all the happy Sundays you've give me an' the boy.' 
 
 The old lady rambled on anent " privileges," and finally went 
 upstairs, still gently insinuating that but for Mr. Holt's intense 
 dislike of anyone taking liberties, Lin might have spent his 
 Sundays in Merryon Square for ever. But the next morning, 
 when Mrs. Holt was dressing for church, her husband crept 
 cautiously down to the kitchen. 
 
 " Emma," cried he, in a flurried whisper, " Emma, I must 
 tell you how sorry I am that Mrs. Holt upset the boy. I 
 happened to be out, or it would not have happened. It was 
 done more to please that old hag of a Sherman woman than 
 anything. She's a female terror, Emma, a a horse-marine 
 woman dreadful ! I am tremendously sorry ! Don't mention 
 to Mrs. Holt that I said anything, but I shan't lose sight of 
 the boy, Emma. He's a jolly young shaver, and I'm very fond 
 of him." 
 
 Whereupon the little old man crept upstairs, and arriving in 
 the hall, had a sham fit of coughing to let Mrs. Holt know his 
 whereabouts. 
 
 So Lin ceased to spend his "week-ends " in Merryon Square, 
 and thus was established a new state of affairs which lasted foi 
 more than two years.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 LIN STARTS LIFE ON HIS OWN ACCOUNT 
 
 ONE afternoon in late autumn Annie was summoned from the 
 consideration of Mr. Holt's new shirts by the sharp ringing of 
 the front door bell. She ran upstairs and opened the door to 
 Mr. Netherwood. 
 
 "Please come in, sir. Mrs. Holt is in," said she. 
 
 " I will see Mrs. Holt, certainly," he said, smiling at Annie's 
 brilliant colour, "but I came on purpose to see you." 
 
 Annie ushered him in, and then resumed her work until the 
 drawing-room bell re-summoned her. 
 
 Mr. Netherwood had not disclosed his reason for wishing to 
 see Annie, and Mrs. Holt was very anxious ; but of course she 
 withdrew, and left the door open. 
 
 Mr. Netherwood promptly rose and shut it. 
 
 " I came to see you about the boy," he said at once. " I 
 have waited for a fitting opportunity, and now I think I have 
 found it." 
 
 "Yes, sir/' 
 
 "Have you ever thought what you are going to do with 
 him?" 
 
 "Why, no, sir anyhow, not yet awhile. He's not old 
 enough." 
 
 "You think not? Well, granting that he w young, you 
 cannot afford to go on paying for his education ? " 
 
 " I can, sir," she said timidly. 
 
 " I don't think so, and I think now it is time it ceased." 
 
 " What, his edjucation, sir ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Oh I sir," she said, in piteous surprise, " he's only 'leven 
 an' a half." 
 
 "There are many lads of eleven and a half profitably 
 employed in trying to maintain themselves. I am afraid you 
 will be disappointed, and I do not expect you to agree with 
 me ; but I must speak plainly, and I must ask you to trust to 
 my judgment in the matter rather than your own. First of all, 
 
 202
 
 %in Starts Xife on t>is wn Hccount 203 
 
 are you earning enough to have anything left for yourself when 
 you have paid for the boy ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir. At first I had to take out of the bank to do it, 
 then it got about level, an' now these last two years I'm savin' 
 agen. I don't want but a very little myself, sir, an' oh, I do 
 want Lin to be well edjucated ! " 
 
 " I know you do. It is always our way to set too high a 
 value on a thing which we ourselves do not possess. Believe 
 me, you think more of education than it is actually worth ; that 
 is, than it is worth to the great majority of people, your boy 
 with the rest. I have seen many lads do better without 
 education than they would have done with ; and in my opinion 
 Lin is one of the boys who will do better without. He has 
 quite as much of the knowledge that is to be gained from books 
 as he will require, for I want to tell you in all possible kind- 
 ness that he is not, and that he never will be, what is called 
 'clever.'" 
 
 Annie's eyes filled with tears. 
 
 " He's no age," she faltered ; " you can scarce tell, sir." 
 
 " Oh, yes, we can. If he were clever, I should advise you 
 differently. He is bright and sharp enough ; he is splendidly 
 conscientious and safe ; but in studies of the solid kind, such as 
 arithmetic and so on, he is simply nowhere." 
 
 " I never could do sums myself," Annie said sadly. 
 
 11 Well, you see, that has not stood in your way, and it will 
 not stand in Lin's. We watch our boys very carefully, and try 
 to develop any talent they may have. But Lin has no ' bent,' 
 no fancy for any kind of trade, no hobby at all. This cripples 
 us. With lads like this the only thing we can do is to watch 
 for a suitable opening and place them out." 
 
 11 How, sir ? " 
 
 " In superior business-houses as assistants, messengers, 
 errand-boys." 
 
 Annie looked hurt 
 
 " I wouldn't like Lin to be that, sir. I wouldn't think it was 
 good enough." 
 
 "That is a mistake. Every kind of honest work is good 
 enough for an honest lad. If there is the right stuff in him, he 
 will be content to begin at the bottom and to work him- c If up. 
 Many a fine lad has been spoiled by the false pride of a 
 ' coddling ' mother, or the equally false pride of a father, who 
 desires to give his son a soft berth where he himself has had a 
 hard one. A soft berth makes a lad's muscles flabby, and 
 flabby muscles make a flabby mind. There is much of
 
 204 Hnnfe Deanc 
 
 nobility in your desire to work for the boy that he may be 
 idle ; but there is much, too, that is harmful. In any case, Lin 
 could only remain with us for another year and a half. When 
 he leaves he must do something ; can you tell us what ? " 
 
 " I had thought of sendin' him to a good school fr 
 or two, an' then tryin' to get him into some some office," said 
 Annie, feeling that her ideas were lamentably hazy. 
 
 " You could not afford it, and you would be making a great 
 mistake. Give Lin two years' more 'schooling,' and I will 
 engage to say that he will be up to the ears in subjects which 
 will be of no use to him, while all idea of his responsibility 
 towards you will be lost in a false idea of his own value. No f 
 Take your boy now, let him feel his own feet and learn to 
 stand upon them, let him know what it is to earn the boots he 
 wears upon them that is the kind of schooling which will 
 make him of some use to you and himself. He has one 
 talent a talent for music, but we could not cultivate that 
 seriously ; it would mean much outlay and doubtful return. 
 Our organist, Mr. Hoskins, is very fond of him, and helps him 
 to pick up a bit of musical knowledge as he can. That may 
 one day be some pleasure to him, and can do him no harm. 
 He is a gentle lad, almost too affectionate and sensitive for a 
 boy. Extra education will not help him there ; he wants his 
 sensitiveness what is roughly called ' knocked out of him.' Do 
 you think I am cruel ? " 
 
 " No, sir, I am sure you couldn't be that. Have you got 
 any place for Lin in your mind, sir ? " 
 
 "I have. That is what brought me here. There is a 
 music shop close to us, the proprietor of which is well known 
 to me. He has little to do with the shop himself. It is 
 managed by Mr. Hoskins. They want a boy for errands, and 
 we think Lin is the boy for the place." 
 
 She was disappointed, humiliated, and, truth to tell, 
 indignant. She was so proud of her slender, refined-looking 
 lad, and had dwelt upon a future for him so different to this. 
 Even her veneration for Mr. Netherwood turned to something 
 like resentment He had understood her so well, yet here he 
 was urging her to send Lin out as an errand-boy. With great 
 difficulty she restrained her tears. 
 
 Mr. Netherwood heartily disliked his task. He had 
 anticipated this pained resistance, but he felt it necessary to 
 save the lad from being spoiled. 
 
 "Your idea of your duty to Lin is to be a perpetual 
 umbrella to him," he said, with a cheery laugh, "and you
 
 Xfn Starts %ife on ibis wn account 205 
 
 are all wrong. Don't shelter him, teach him to trust 
 to God and to himself, as for the last eleven years you 
 have done. He is not a tender plant, to be reared in a 
 hot-house ; he is a boy, with the making of a man in him, and 
 a good man, too, if he is not ruined by over-much devotion." 
 
 " But an errand-boy ' " she said piteously ; " at work early 
 and late, an' out in all weathers ! " 
 
 "Rouyh weather will be good for him. Well-clad, well- 
 shod, and well-fed, a healthy lad can snap his fingers at the 
 weather." 
 
 " An' there's the other boys, sir. I wouldn't like Lin to be 
 like the butcher's an' baker's an' veg'table boys as comes 
 round here." 
 
 " He will be differently situated. In the first place, he will 
 not be wanted until half-past eight in the morning. It will be 
 his business to sweep out the shop, to clean the windows, to 
 dust the pianos and other instruments, to deliver all music 
 which has to be sent home, and to stay in the shop while Mr. 
 Hoskins goes to dinner and to tea. He himself will have an 
 hour for each of these meals, and the shop closes every 
 evening at seven. I think you will allow that there is little 
 hardship in such a situation as that." 
 
 " But where will he sleep and board, sir ? " 
 
 " With safe people of our own selection. They already have 
 two or three of our lads who are engaged during the day. You 
 will have to pay the same as you are now paying for the boy ; 
 but he will be earning 45. a week, which will be some help to 
 you." 
 
 " I don't like the thought of it, sir," she said. " It have 
 come to me like a shock. He's such a little bit of a thing to 
 be earnin' his own livin'." 
 
 " But you will let him try ? " 
 
 " I s'pose I must, sir. But if he finds it too hard, I shan't let 
 him stop." 
 
 " He won't find it hard," Mr. Netherwood said cheerfully ; 
 " he will like it." 
 
 Mr. Netherwood was right. Lin did like it, and had not 
 been at work for a month before he began to feel as if he were 
 getting on in the world at a truly astonishing pace. 
 
 It is true that the sweeping out of the shop was more 
 difficult than he had imagined it could be. The broom-handle 
 was much too long, and there was no compromise about it 
 somehow ; but it grew manageable after a while, and Lin was 
 one of those lads who, when he once saw his way, went right
 
 206 Bnnie JDcanc 
 
 on with a will, and never looked behind him. Lin's chief 
 failing was his reluctance to strike out on an untried path. 
 Fear of failure kept him back. 
 
 But the great source of his pleasure in his new life was his 
 association with things musical. The smattering of music 
 which his chorister's duties had bestowed upon him had 
 coloured all his tastes and inclinations. He picked up notes 
 more easily than he had ever done figures. By aid of a 
 singularly accurate ear he picked up tunes he heard, and with 
 fingers long and flexible he managed to play them in a 
 singularly accurate manner. At first he did this on a 
 convenient piano during Mr. Hoskins's dinner-hour; but Mr. 
 Hoskins, instead of repressing, encouraged him. 
 
 " Deane," said he, " if you had been born in different 
 circumstances you'd have made a good all-round musician. As 
 it is, if you can get the chance of a little practice, you will do 
 better than I am doing. You have more talent than I have, 
 and a quicker ear. The Professor said when he was in again 
 he'd try your voice ; and if he thinks it good enough, he'll take 
 you into his choir. I hope you will happen to be in." 
 
 It happened that Lin was in. 
 
 " Hallo ! " said the Professor briskly, " so you are my new 
 hand, I suppose ? " 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 " Where are you going ? " 
 
 " With a message for Mr. Hoskins, sir." 
 
 " Well, come here first, and let me see if you have lost that 
 voice Hoskins talks about." 
 
 Lin followed his employer to the back of the shop, tried to 
 use his voice, could not find it for some time, but at last fished 
 it up from vasty depths in a very infirm condition. 
 
 Mr. Staniforth laughed. 
 
 " All right," he said, " /know. Your heart is in your throat, 
 isn't it ? I'm not in a hurry. Take your time and try again." 
 
 Thus encouraged, Lin tried until his voice came back, tried 
 after it had come back, and then the Professor became 
 attentive. 
 
 " I wish you were not nervous," he said brusquely. " You 
 might earn a little for the next year or two if you could get 
 over that. It's of no use if you couldn't." 
 
 Lin felt snubbed, and when the Professor left Mr. Hoskins 
 said: 
 
 " Look here, Deane, put your nerves out, and the governor 
 will give you a surplice in his choir. He won't take any further
 
 Xin Starts Xife on tris wn Bccount 207 
 
 trouble about you, because he's busy, and there are plenty of 
 boys with voices and without nerves. I shall send somebody 
 up to the school to do duty for me on Sunday, and I'll take you 
 to his church." 
 
 Mr. Hoskins was as good as his word. Lin and he went 
 early, invaded the vestry, found two extra surplices, and 
 augmented the choir by two voices. 
 
 Now, Lin had a charming face, and a surplice has an 
 etherealising effect on the appearance of the "human boy." 
 The Professor made a note of that boy, and told him good- 
 humouredly to turn up on Wednesday night for practice. 
 
 Lin obediently " turned up." 
 
 Also intent upon conquering his nerves, he turned up 
 regularly afterwards, was at first taken little notice of, then 
 gradually accepted without formal acknowledgment as a 
 regular ; and at last oh, happy Lin was paid half-a-crown a 
 week, and looked upon as good enough for solo purposes. 
 
 It is true that on his first appearance as a soloist his heart 
 played him tricks, and beat everywhere but in the right place ; 
 true that when he saw a sea of faces turn suddenly in 
 his direction he wished it were a veritable sea, and would 
 come up and drown him. But the waves receded, as it were, 
 leaving him high and dry, ready to do better on the next 
 occasion. 
 
 " Was it very bad ? " he asked Mr. Hoskins piteously when 
 they got out. 
 
 " No ; it was just mechanical. Pure and true, but without 
 any feeling. You'll come right in a week or two." 
 
 And Lin came right, so far right that the Professor grew 
 proud of him ; so did the congregation ; so did Mr, Hoskins. 
 In short, Lin tasted the sweets of popularity, and found them 
 much to his liking. He grew accustomed to the smiles of 
 recognition with which he was greeted by the young ladies of 
 the congregation ; he accepted them most frankly, and returned 
 them too, so brimming over was he with kindliness and happy 
 content. He was such a " love of a boy," said the girls among 
 themselves, and so " superior " ! 
 
 Mr. Hoskins conceived quite an affection for him, often 
 taking him about with him after the shop was closed, as well 
 as on Sundays. 
 
 A mild and harmless young man was Mr. Hoskins, who 
 parted his hair in the middle, who wore tinted spectacles, and 
 who had drifted into membership of the local Philharmonic 
 Society, into a mild course of oratorio, concert-going, piano
 
 2o8 Bnnic 2Dcaue 
 
 and organ playing, just as naturally as your fast young man 
 drifts into horse-racing and patronage of variety theatres. 
 
 Mr Hoskins took Lin home to Camberwell, where on 
 Sundays they had an early tea to admit of their getting back to 
 their respective services, where Lin was always kindly received 
 by Mr. Hoskins's mother and sister, where he was waited upon 
 by a neat maid in a snowy cap and apron (who reminded him 
 of his mother, and made him feel like a sneak), where he ate 
 home-made cake and jam galore, and did thoroughly enjoy 
 himself. 
 
 Sometimes he met Mr. Hoskins after service and returned 
 with him to Camberwell to supper ; then they usually found the 
 rooms with the folding doors filled with young people all cut 
 out on the Hoskins pattern young people who were devotedly 
 musical ; who knew the " Messiah " and the " Elijah " by 
 heart ; who seemed to be living on the recollection of the last 
 great oratorical performance, or for the sole purpose of 
 attending the next ; who were great upon Santley and Edward 
 Lloyd, upon Lemmens Sherrington and Madame Patti, who 
 discussed the " chorus " in technical terms, describing the 
 "attack" as having been firm or wavering as the case might 
 be, and set Lin wondering whether choral societies were given 
 to fighting. 
 
 On these nights he usually slept at Camberwell. Then, in 
 Mr. Hoskins's den upstairs, he would reverently study a big 
 album filled with musical celebrities past and present, or a 
 scrap-book filled with reminiscences of such celebrities, for at 
 the shrine of musical fame was Mr. Hoskins always figuratively 
 prostrate. Small wonder is it if Lin soon became prostrate 
 too, and thought that to be able to take the solos in the 
 "Messiah" was to be seated on the apex of human ambition, 
 and to wield the baton of a choral society's conductor was to 
 reach the summit of human responsibility and importance. 
 
 Lin was not an obtrusive boy. If asked to sing he would 
 do so at once, simply and unaffectedly, often smiling at the 
 extravagant applause, but oddly unelated by it, which said not 
 a little for his level-headed common sense. In truth, it was 
 his mother's teaching which here came to his aid. 
 
 " You must remember this won't last," she said to him, when 
 he told her of his successes ; " don't forget that, there's a dear, 
 or when your voice goes you'll be lost." 
 
 The boy did not forget 
 
 " Some other fellow will come along and take my place," 
 thought he, "as I took Ted Wilmot's. He hates me! I
 
 Xin Starts Xife on Ibis wn Bccount 209 
 
 wonder if I shall hate the other fellow. It wouldn't be fair, 
 because I shall have had my turn." 
 
 During that winter he sang at " Readings " and at Institutes, 
 also at private soire'es, at first gratuitously, then for a modest 
 but very acceptable fee ; and still he was not spoiled, only 
 became brighter, more intelligent opening out, as it were, to 
 new and sunnier influences. 
 
 His intense gratitude to Mr. Hoskins was a little unusual in 
 a boy of his age, when boys are not as a rule openly grateful ; 
 and the relations between him and the people at Camberwtll 
 were cordial in the extreme. 
 
 On the occasion of one of his visits, Mrs. Hoskins bethought 
 herself to ask him a few questions, commencing with what was 
 to Lin a " poser." 
 
 " Who was your father, my dear? " she asked briskly. 
 
 The boy looked up, pondered the question for a few 
 seconds, then said frankly, with a smile : 
 
 " I think, ma'am, I never had a father. If I had, I'm sure 
 mother would have told me." 
 
 " Dear me ! " said Mrs. Hoskins hurriedly. " I I see." 
 
 Which remark struck Lin as peculiar, because there was 
 nothing to see. He here made a mental note. At the very 
 first opportunity he would hand on that query to his mother. 
 He did so. She, much startled, said : 
 
 " What do you want to know that for ? " 
 
 "Nothing particular, only Mrs. Hoskins asked me, and I 
 didn't know what to say." 
 
 " It didn't matter to her," said Annie quietly. " People 
 should mind their own business." 
 
 "It wasn't much to ask," said Lin warmly; "and I'm sure 
 she didn't mean to be inquisitive." 
 
 " She knows you come from the Home Schools." 
 
 " Yes, but the boys are not all orphans there. Some of thu ir 
 fathers are dead ; but there were a good few whose fathers had 
 left their mothers to do the best they could, and there were 
 some who had fathers in prison." 
 
 Quite off her guard, Annie burst out : 
 
 "Your father was not like that. Don't ever get that in 
 your head. Your father was a gentleman." 
 
 The boy opened his eyes in astonishment. 
 
 " Then I had a father ? " said he. " Is he dead ? " 
 
 She caught herself up too late. 
 
 " Never mind that now," she said. " Some day when you're 
 older I'll tell you."
 
 Ennie 2>eane 
 
 The boy pocketed his curiosity and said no more. Nor did 
 the matter weigh heavily upon him. He thought it over a bit, 
 then came to a sensible and practical conclusion. 
 
 " Whoever he was, he couldn't have been up to much ; and 
 for all the help he's been to us, we might just as well not have 
 had him at all." 
 
 Lin wiped his shadowy father off the tablets of his memory 
 as a thing of no account, and enjoyed life in his own way. 
 
 The very shop in which his time was spent was dear to him. 
 He loved the avenues of pianos and organs, the rows of violins 
 and other stringed instruments, the busts of famous composers, 
 even the holland-covered piles of music on the shelves. The 
 shop was a happy land to him. There were many hours in 
 which he stood about with no delivering to do; then he 
 arranged the songs and pieces alphabetically, wrote neat 
 catalogues of odd sheet music, and kept the spick-and-span 
 new instruments quite free of dust. Also he fraternised with 
 the tuners, and quickly understood the ins and outs of tuning 
 as well as they. He managed to get " scrappy " practices, too, 
 and proved himself to be an adept at sight-reading. In short, 
 he picked up stray crumbs of musical knowledge as naturally 
 as a newly-hatched chicken picks up its own living, and, in his 
 eagerness to get on, was ever aided by Mr. Hoskins. 
 
 " Make the most of your time, Lin," his friend would say 
 quietly. " In a year or two you will be up to trying over for 
 people, and you will drift into a berth like mine. It isn't 
 brilliant, perhaps, but it's very pleasant for a quiet fellow who 
 is musical." 
 
 Lin made the most of his time, made fair progress, too, and 
 was supremely well satisfied with the world as he found it. 
 
 But his mother was growing restless, and when she saw how 
 wrapped he was in his business, and how indifferent to every- 
 thing else, from being restless she became first irritable, then 
 impatient, then actually jealous 
 
 " Oh, dearie, do talk about somethink else," she said once, 
 when Lin's tongue had been running on for an hour in the old 
 groove ; " your head's stuffed full of nothink but this music an' 
 singin'. I gets tired of it. It do seem to me such a silly thing 
 to make so much of." 
 
 The boy turned scarlet. 
 
 " I don't see how a thing can be silly when it gets one's 
 living," he said ; " the money hasn't been silly, anyway. It's kept 
 me, mother." 
 
 " Yes, yes, dear ; but it isn't like a thing what can last, is it ? "
 
 Xin Starts OLtfe on Iris wit account an 
 
 " My voice won't last, I know, but my music will." 
 
 " No, dear ; where's the use o' talkin' like that? It's all very 
 well for a pastime for them as can afford it, but you couldn't 
 depend on it to keep you." 
 
 "Yes, I could, and 1 mean to," said Lin stoutly. "I mean 
 to try for a situation like Mr. Hoskins's, and he says I'm pretty 
 certain to get it. Then if I keep on and stick to it, I can help 
 myself by being one of the organist's deputies, and by taking 
 pupils like Hoskins does. Of course, I'm only a boy now, but a 
 music-shop is what I'm cut out for, and the Professor has as good 
 as said he'll give me one of the branch shops by and by. He 
 says himself I'm very sharp at music, and that half the people 
 who learn regularly don't get on like I do." 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "It's all very well," she said, "for them as have plenty 
 besides. As to you being in a shop all your life, no, Lin, that 
 won't do. I couldn't think o' that. If only you'd get some 
 good learnin' books an' try to edjucate yourself as hard as you 
 tries to learn to play the pianna, now, there'd be some sense 
 in it , but it do seem to me that to waste so much time on that 
 is worse than silly it's wrong." 
 
 To Annie it did seem so. 
 
 Even when she suddenly remembered that he was a 
 "celebrated singer," who assuredly earned his living by his 
 singing, all the significance of the thought was done away with 
 by another. Was he not also a gentleman, with time and 
 means (Annie could not understand that a man may be a 
 gentleman without means) to cultivate what she only thought 
 of as a " pastime," a mere thing of leisure, a thing which might 
 not be pursued by common people without incurring for them 
 the danger of being thought presumptuous ? 
 
 Annie set her face against this exasperating music, and was 
 so anxious to impress upon Lin that he could not be allowed 
 to earn his living thereby, that in her valour she forgot 
 discretion, and somewhat alienated the boy by discussing the 
 subject in season and out. He listened in silence, trusting to 
 the future and to his own efforts to bring her round rather than 
 to present rebellion. Still, her obstinate refusal to understand 
 him damped him, and took something away from the happiness 
 of his life. 
 
 It is doubtful whether she would have permitted him to 
 remain at the music shop as long as she did, but for one of 
 those little events which sometimes compel us to identify 
 ourselves with a cause in which our hearts are not.
 
 aia Hnnle Deane 
 
 One morning when she was busy, Mr. Holt went down to 
 her with a paper in his hand. 
 
 " Something of interest to you here, Emma," he said. " The 
 shop where the boy is was broken into last night, and what 
 money there was upon the premises, besides some valuable 
 musical instruments, stolen. I daresay you will hear something 
 about it during the day." 
 
 " Oh, dear ! " cried Annie, turning faint, " I do hope they 
 won't think that my boy had anything to do with it." 
 
 They did not think anything so absurd, but there was a 
 good bit of talk about the burglary, and Mr. Hoskins waxed 
 eloquent. 
 
 " If only the governor had listened to me," he said to Lin, 
 " this could never have happened. I have said dozens of times 
 that it was unsafe to leave these premises unprotected at night. 
 Somebody ought to sleep here." 
 
 "Well, Hoskins," said the Professor, entering at the 
 moment, "so your prophecy has been fulfilled at last. We 
 have had a burglary, and you can have the pleasure of saying, 
 ' I told you so.' I will sit down and give you the chance." 
 
 "I won't avail myself of your generosity, sir," said Mr. 
 Hoskins ; " but I will say there ought to be some one here at 
 night." 
 
 " I suppose there will have to be some one. The thing is 
 where to find the ' some one.' You couldn't stay here without 
 somebody else to look after you, and Deane would not care 
 to find himself in the place alone, would you, Deane ? " 
 
 " No, sir," said Lin, without hesitation. 
 
 " Now, Hoskins, have you any ideas upon the subject? " 
 
 "Well, sir, I think you might furnish two or three of the 
 upper rooms, and pay a sort of caretaker. I'm sure a practice 
 room here would pay, and the caretaker, or housekeeper, or 
 whatever you called her, would be here early and late, just at 
 such hours as people engaged during the day would want to 
 practise." 
 
 " Not a bad idea," said the Professor ; " but what woman 
 would care to sleep on the premises alone ? " 
 
 "I'm coming to that, sir. I would not mind furnishing my 
 own bedroom here, and surely the ^housekeeper could look 
 after me ? " 
 
 " That is worth thinking over. Deane could sleep here, too. 
 But where could we find a decent woman? I'm afraid, 
 Hoskins, the domestic servant is a trial to which you are 
 unaccustomed."
 
 Xin Starts Xffc on 1bts wn account 213 
 
 " If you please, sir," here broke in Lin, in high excitement, 
 " there's my mother ! " 
 
 " Where ? " said the Professor, suddenly craning his neck in 
 the direction of the street. 
 
 " At Merryon Square, sir I didn't mean here but I believe 
 she'd come, and she'd do just what you want, sir ; I'm sure she 
 would. And if you want to know anything about her, sir, you 
 could go to Mr. Netherwood. He'll tell you." 
 
 The Professor went to Mr. Netherwood, and that gentleman 
 went to Merryon Square. The idea of the "housekeeper" 
 seemed such a good one that he felt himself justified in 
 recommending it to Annie's consideration. She thought of the 
 change it would be for her ; she thought of the pleasure of 
 living under the same roof with Lin. Beyond that thought 
 she could not get ; it drew her away from Merryon Square with 
 a power not to be resisted. Terrible was the outcry at No. 19, 
 but Annie was not to be shaken in her determination to leave. 
 At the end of a month she was established in the rooms over 
 the music shop, was cooking for Mr. Hoskins and Lin, and 
 taking care of their slender wardrobes ; was surreptitiously doing 
 Lin's work in the mornings before the shop was open, and was 
 far, far happier than she ever had been or had ever expected 
 to be. 
 
 For at last she and the boy had a home where they could bf 
 together.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 BACK AGAIN AT NO. 19 
 
 THOSE days in the rooms over the music shop were the 
 happiest days of Annie Deane's life. 
 
 She was virtually her own mistress ; she enjoyed the hitherto 
 unknown luxury of a little time she could call her own; she 
 lived above the area-level; she was unharassed by petty 
 tyranny ; and above all, she had the boy with her. She did not 
 " save " nearly as much as she had been accustomed to do for 
 the past two or three years, but Lin's singing fees were now 
 considerable, and when his mother saw how he improved 
 under her care she felt she could not regret her stationary 
 banking account. To say that Lin himself was happy would 
 not convey any idea of his absolute joyous content. To think 
 that his mother was no longer under the pressure of Mrs. 
 Holt's metaphorical thumb, to think that she was not compelled 
 to wear a cap, or to get up at six, or to wait until nine for a 
 cup of tea , to know that she had plenty of fresh air, and that 
 she looked much younger and brighter in consequence, and 
 that all this was due to a happy thought of his why, was not 
 this enough to make any boy happy ? Of course, it was ; and 
 in the matter of selfishness, Lin was unlike other boys. Mr. 
 Netherwood's prophecy concerning him had been verified. 
 Early independence had strengthened him without abating one 
 whit his natural gentleness ; working honestly himself, he could 
 appreciate honest work in others, and he did earnestly 
 appreciate it in his mother. 
 
 When his time was his own he did not care to appropriate 
 it. Work over for the day, he would spring upstairs to know 
 if his mother were going out or to help her with the supper. 
 After supper he would sit down to the piano they were allowed 
 to have in the room, and would try, with Mr. Hoskins's aid, 
 to interest her in his progress. 
 
 Now Annie's power of obstinate resistance was great, and 
 she never encouraged the boy ; but neither could she find the 
 heart wherewith to actively oppose him, and time and custom 
 
 214
 
 3Bacfc Hsafn at mo. 19 215 
 
 will blunt all but the most determined opposition. Mr. 
 Hoskins's quiet reminder that music indoors was belter than 
 questionable company out, had its effect upon her. She let 
 things drift for the present. 
 
 So the three sat together in the dark evenings, and Annie 
 learned something of the lives and peculiarities of the famous 
 in the world of music ; also, in looking through Mr. Hoskins's 
 album she came upon a portrait that she knew. 
 
 "That is Mr. Le Quesne," the owner of the album said 
 enthusiastically. " I heard him sing once in the Albert Hall, 
 and am living in hope of some day hearing him again." 
 
 "I've heard his name before," Annie said, with calmness. 
 " Mrs. Kemble used to talk about him, about the time as he 
 was married." 
 
 " He is not married." 
 
 Her hands went hard together under cover of the table; her 
 voice maintained its even tone. 
 
 " Isn't he ? She said he wus." 
 
 "No. He was to have married Mdlle. Le Breton. 
 Everything was fixed and settled, when suddenly the matter 
 dropped. Why, nobody knew." 
 
 " They did, I s'pose," she said, looking steadily at the 
 portrait, which was of more recent date than her own. 
 
 " I expect they did. There was a lot of gossip about it, but 
 I never heard anything definite. They are both singing still, 
 but they never sing together ; and I have been told by people 
 who ought to know that neither of them would accept an 
 engagement which would bring them together." 
 
 She turned over the leaves, and said no more concerning 
 Mr. Le Quesne. 
 
 So he was still unmarried ! Thank Heaven, she had not to 
 remember that his happiness had been wrecked by any act 
 of hers. 
 
 She heard his name often after that, knew where he was, 
 even heard Lin talk of him, and smiled to herself as she looked 
 at the boy and thought of all that name he uttered so glib 1 ) 
 meant to him and to her. But she held her tongue, nor did 
 Lin ever revert to that awkward question once asked him by 
 Mrs. Hoskins. 
 
 Thus two years flew happily by so happily that even 
 Annie Deane turned away like a coward from the thought of 
 the change that must come presently. 
 
 It came in due time to Lin and his mother. 
 
 First of all, the boy's perfect voice showed signs of breaking,
 
 216 Hnnie Deane 
 
 then very gradually left him. This took the gilt off things for 
 Lin, both socially and pecuniarily. But he told himself he had 
 known all along that his voice was not a permanent possession, 
 and that he must face its loss pluckily. The Professor, who 
 heartily liked the lad, gave him a rise, spoke a few words of 
 encouragement, and told him to hold on steadily in the hope 
 of better times to come. 
 
 When the sharp edge of the first trouble had worn off 
 somewhat, there came along another Mr. Hoskins fell in love. 
 
 Not mildly, inoffensively, modestly, as he did most things, 
 but violently, melodramatically, hopelessly. 
 
 The lady was plump and pleasant, wore spectacles, sang 
 soprano in the Choral Society's chorus, played Handel on the 
 organ, and Mendelssohn on the piano, taught music on her 
 own account, had written a song, and lived to hear somebody 
 sing it, and, according to Mr. Hoskins, was generally "gifted." 
 
 " That's what she is, Deane," he would say confidentially to 
 Lin, " she is gifted. That is the only word which seems to 
 convey the correct impression of her she is gifted ! " 
 
 She certainly was gifted with the power of transforming 
 Mr. Hoskins from a mild-mannered, unobtrusive young man 
 into an inconsequent, dreamy nonentity. But for Lin, some- 
 thing in the business must have gone wrong, for Mr. Hoskins 
 was lost to all the realities except the reality of closing time. 
 His breakfast didn't matter, his dinner was a farce, his tea got 
 cold while he sat and stirred it, thinking all the time of " her," 
 his supper was a necessary evil, the inclination to which he 
 would fain have crushed because it interfered with his recol- 
 lection of his divinity's giftedness. Supper was material, and 
 clashed. Sleep was unnecessary waste of time, so Mr. Hoskins 
 sat up and wasted gas instead, while he wrote whole sheetfuls 
 of his own Impressions of Love, and its Effect upon the Human 
 Soul. Which impressions he read to Lin, thereby half-killing 
 the boy, who would lie with his mischievous young face buried 
 in a pillow, and his irreverent young body shaking with laughter. 
 
 " Deane," said the Professor one day to him privately, " what 
 are you doing with Hoskins ? Is he bewitched ? " 
 
 " That's about it, sir," said the boy, with a twinkle in his eyes. 
 
 11 But what's to be done ? " 
 
 "Ah, tha 1 - I don't know, sir, if it's going to last? 
 
 " It is lasting. It has been on these three or four months, 
 and I am getting anxious." 
 
 " So am I, sir ; and do you know that I sometimes think it 
 will last until he's married I "
 
 JBacfe again at Ho* 19 217 
 
 Now Lin said this seriously, but the Professor shouted with 
 laughter. 
 
 " Deane," said he, " you know more than you think you do. 
 Most lads of your age know less. I'm afraid you are right. 
 Hoskins will have to marry while he has any sense left. It's 
 a bad case, Deane ; I never saw a worse." 
 
 The Professor was a kindly soul, who took a great interest in 
 all his people. He spoke to Mr. Hoskins, and found him not 
 only willing but anxious. His gifted fiancee was not unwilling 
 either, but here things came to a standstill. The material side 
 of life now demanded a hearing. What about a house, and the 
 rent thereof, and the furniture, and the bread and cheese and 
 things, and the washing ? 
 
 " But I assure you, sir," said Mr. Hoskins eagerly, " that 
 besides being a gifted girl she is domesticated. And if it were 
 not for our excellent housekeeper, Deane's mother, I should 
 say, ' Why not let us live here ? ' We could take care of the 
 premises, and it would be less expensive to you." 
 
 " Yes, yes," said the Professor hurriedly ; " but I couldn't 
 sack Deane's mother. I really couldn't do that." 
 
 " Exactly, sir ; that is just what I said. If it were not for her 
 we could have lived here." 
 
 The Professor was not able to see a way out of the difficulty, 
 and the matter dropped. But as time went on, Annie began 
 to see how matters were, and to understand that it was she who 
 stood in Mr. Hoskins's way. 
 
 " We're done here," she thought to herself. " It have bin 
 pleasant, an' I've had a good long rest, but it's over. I shall 
 have to get another place, an' Lin must get into somethink 
 better." 
 
 She did not lose time. She resolved to go to the Home 
 that day and announce herself as being at liberty. But she 
 never went, for as she opened the side door to depart she came 
 face to face with a telegraph boy bearing a message to her from 
 Merryon Square, where her immediate presence was earnestly 
 desired. 
 
 She went at once, just in time to see the little old lady alive, 
 and to promise her that she would stay and take care of the 
 poor, grief-stricken little old man. 
 
 In less than a month she was back in Merryon Square, and 
 Mr. Hoskins had ceased to write down his " Impressions of 
 Love on the Human Soul," or to sit up half the night for the 
 purpose. There was no necessity, for Mrs. Hoskins, though 
 gifted, was a practical soul, and would have objected.
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 ANNIE HAS HER OWN WAY 
 
 ANNIE was back again in Merryon Square, but upon a very 
 different footing to the old one. Now she was to all intents 
 and purposes her own mistress, was spoken of by the old gentle- 
 man as " My housekeeper," had her assistant in the kitchen, 
 and herself presided at the dining-room table. 
 
 Thus she left the old days of general service behind her for 
 ever, and was glad of it, not so much for her own sake as for 
 the sake of the boy. 
 
 Lin was happy as ever. He lived with the Hoskins just as 
 he had lived with his mother, and was as great a favourite of 
 Mrs. Hoskins as he was of her husband's. He was never in 
 the way of the young couple, because after closing time he 
 invariably found his way to Merryon Square, where he was 
 always sure of two very desirable things a hearty welcome and 
 a good supper. He had two homes now, he would say happily, 
 and though his actual wages were small, why, " money was not 
 everything," and there were many privileges which money could 
 not buy. 
 
 But Lin's content was not shared by his mother, who was 
 grievously dissatisfied, and never ceased to agitate for a different 
 sort of life for the lad. She found a warm supporter in the 
 old man, who, being rid of the fear of his wife, and having 
 no kin of his own, resolved to help Lin on in the world. 
 
 " Be patient," he would say to Annie cheerily; " I have set 
 the proper machinery in motion, and we shall hear of something 
 presently." 
 
 It happened that Lin himself heard of this " something " 
 on his sixteenth birthday, which he spent by invitation in 
 Merryon Square, and remembered bitterly to the end of his 
 life: Tea was cleared away, and Annie's work-basket was on 
 the table, when Mr. Holt, with a beaming face and many a 
 gentle pat on Lin's shoulder, told the lad that his life at Brixton 
 must shortly end ; that after some difficulty, and by means of 
 
 ai8
 
 Hnnfe bas ber own TKHas 219 
 
 the payment of a fifty-pound premium, he would presently find 
 himself in the office of a big city firm. 
 
 The boy dropped back against the wall in sheer surprise. 
 
 " What) sir ? " he said, turning pale. " Why, the ' Firm ' 
 have not seen me, and and I have never been consulted in 
 the matter at all." 
 
 " Ah, that is all right enough. I shall take you up myself 
 next week, and this berth has been keeping warm for you these 
 two years. I promised your mother all along that I would not 
 forget you, and I have not forgotten. You will get no salary 
 for the first year, that is not to be expected ; but after that you 
 will start at fifty pounds a year not by any means bad that 
 for a lad of seventeen, eh ? " 
 
 "Yes, sir, I daresay; but who's to find the fifty pounds for 
 the premium ? " 
 
 " Why me, dear," put in Annie, who shook like a leaf as she 
 met the boy's stern look. " What ever else have I been savin' 
 for if it wasn't to give you a good start in life ? " 
 
 He stood away from the wall and looked her quietly in the 
 face. 
 
 " Thank you, mother," he said, with evident self-repression, 
 " but your fifty pounds must never be spent on that. I've 
 started myself in life, and I shall stick to the road I've chosen. 
 I'm sorry to disappoint you, but you shouldn't have disposed 
 of me without asking my opinion. I'm not a stone nor a 
 mummy. I'm sorry if you are going to think yourself badly 
 treated, but to be boxed up in an office is the last thing I 
 desire, and I see no reason why I should be made to lead a life 
 that would go dead against me." 
 
 " Dear, dear," said the little old man ; " come, come, 
 now ! " 
 
 " It's true, sir, and I repeat it. I'm happy where I am, and 
 I want to be let alone. Suppose I am only earning a little, 
 you can't get me more. On the contrary, you pay out to get 
 me nothing at all for a year ! Who's to keep me while I earn 
 nothing for a year? My mother? Not if I know it! I'd 
 rather live on five shillings a week of my own earning until I 
 could prove that I was worth more. My mother kept me long 
 enough, and now I'm off her hands. I'm too old to be thrown 
 on them again. All she has got she wants herself. Why," 
 finished the boy passionately, " what the the dickens should 
 I be worth if T could let her throw away fifty pounds on me 
 now ? " 
 
 " Lin," Annie said gently, " to give you a good start have bin
 
 *2o Snuie JDeane 
 
 the thought that's kep' me alive. Don't talk as if you was 
 grown up away from me, dear it's foolish." 
 
 " It is not, mother it's sense. I tell you I have started 
 myself, and I'm going my own road." 
 
 " No, no, my boy," interposed Mr. Holt ; " that no man 
 may say, much less a boy. Our own road is so often a bad 
 road for us, that well is it if we get turned back at the Turn- 
 pike Gate of Duty. Now, duty to your mother must be your 
 first consideration. She has been more than a mother to you. 
 She has had a double part to play, and she has done it very 
 well." 
 
 The boy's flashing eyes dropped, his under-lip and chin 
 quivered a bit. 
 
 " I know, sir," he said, " I know all about that, and don't 
 you think I forget it. It's just this which makes me say 
 she has done enough for me. I can't let her do any more." 
 
 " So you wish to make her life of no account to her by way 
 of showing your independence ? Take the care of you away 
 from her, and what has she left to live for? And yet you 
 w ithdraw yourself from her at sixteen, and tell her you don't 
 want her any longer." 
 
 " I do ! I do ! " cried Lin, in distress. " Where's the use of 
 saying cruel things like that ? I love my mother, and she shall 
 have all the consideration I know how to give her; but I want 
 consideration, too I want to be understood. As long as I 
 can get my own living and I can get it why not let me get it 
 in my own way? Why force me into something that would 
 be hateful to me ? There's no sense in that, or if there is, I 
 can't see it." 
 
 " If 'twas anything good enough," here put in Annie eagerly, 
 " I'd let you stop; but I've always made up my mind that you 
 never should stop behind a counter." 
 
 " It's not being behind a counter," said Lin quickly. " I 
 shouldn't like that myself. I am getting on. Already Mr. 
 Hoskins has pupils pupils that are not forward enough for the 
 Professor, or who can't afford his terms, and I'm getting every 
 day more fit to take his place in the shop. I shall get on; I 
 will get on ; my heart's in it. Look back at the last five years, 
 and see if I've not got on as it is. I went there to sweep out 
 the shop and to clean the windows, and now I can serve as 
 well as Mr. Hoskins can, and anything in the ordinary way I 
 can play at sight. Hoskins has helped me, I know; but it is 
 my own plodding that has helped me most, and I'm proud of 
 it Since I was twelve I've kept myself, and if I can't keep
 
 Hnnie bas ber own TKHag 221 
 
 myself now, then I'll live on bread and cheese until I can get 
 something better ; but I won't be stoved up in an office, mother 
 no, not even to please you" 
 
 She did not say a word, but the big tears chased each other 
 down her cheeks and fell upon her work-worn hands. Now, 
 Lin's heart was tender, and those big, bright tears broke it 
 altogether. He went up and wiped them away. 
 
 " Look here, mother," he said, in a protecting grown-up sort 
 of way, which would have been pathetic had it not been 
 comical, " I know no rntoher on earth ever meant to be kinder 
 to a fellow than you mean to be to me, but you don't understand, 
 so you have made a mistake, that's all. I know I'm not doing 
 anything wonderful at present, but I'm no age ; and as I said 
 just now, I mean to get on. The Professor is awfully kind. 
 When he gave me that last rise he said he knew it wasn't much, 
 but that if I liked to hold on for a year or two he would see 
 that something better turned up for me presently. Besides, I 
 can tune as well as any man we've got. Let me alone, and 
 trust me to take care of myself. Keep your money in the 
 bank, and some day, when I'm old enough, it will help to 
 furnish a house which, if I know anything, I shall be able to 
 keep going. I'll look forward to keeping you as much as you 
 like, but I've done with letting you keep me." 
 
 She smiled at his boyish confidence, at what she considered 
 his boyish ignorance, but was not one whit moved by it. She 
 and Mr. Holt returned to the attack with calm persistence, and 
 Lin stood it without flinching. They spent a couple of hours 
 in persuasion and argument, and when the boy left neither they 
 nor he had budged an inch. He made up his mind to ignore 
 the whole matter, and he did so until, finding that the Professor 
 had received notice of his removal, he could do so no longer. 
 Then he saw that his mother meant to have her own way, and 
 he resisted with all his might. 
 
 His chief hope was in the Professor himself. 
 
 " Unless you dismiss me, sir," he said, with white lips and 
 flashing eyes, " I shall not go. I can't help what other people 
 happen to think best for me. I'm your servant, and I want 
 to stop here." 
 
 " And I am very willing that you should," said the Professor ; 
 " but you see, Deane, I don't want to stand in your light." 
 
 " What do you mean, sir ? " 
 
 " Well, Mr. Holt called upon me, and I understood something 
 that I had not done until then. The old man is well-to-do, 
 and has no kin of his own."
 
 222 Hnnie Deaneefc 
 
 "What of that, sir?" 
 
 " What of that ? Why, he may as well take an interest in 
 you as anybody else, mayn't he? As a matter of fact, Deane, 
 if you humour the old man a bit, you may presently find your- 
 self in luck's way, and that without doing anyone else any 
 injury." 
 
 " I wouldn't take the trouble to give that a thought, sir," 
 said Lin, with contempt ; " and I shouldn't like myself if I 
 could ' humour ' a kind old man for what I could get. You 
 are mistaken if you think he is to pay this premium. My 
 mother's savings are to go for that." 
 
 " Yes, but then you see you get a good home with them, and 
 your mother's savings are sure to be refunded presently. No, 
 Deane, I'm sorry to part with you, and if I could offer you any- 
 thing as good as this berth you are going into, I would say 
 ' Stay ; ' but I can't, so I feel it my duty to turn you over to 
 your friends. Don't think me unfriendly, and don't make 
 yourself unhappy. Your music will be a capital amusement 
 for you, and wherever you go, my lad, you're as sure to make 
 friends as the sun is sure to shine. You've got the knack 
 don't lose it." 
 
 Lin felt himself dismissed as, indeed, he was. He gave up 
 hope then, and grew very quiet and unlike himself. 
 
 " You mean to persist, mother ? " he said, in final appeal. 
 " You are really going against me ? " 
 
 " My dear, it's for your good on'y for that." 
 
 " Never mind my good you mean me to go into this 
 office?" 
 
 " Yes, dear, please" 
 
 He gave her an odd look from his near-set eyes which made 
 her uncomfortable. 
 
 " Very well," he said slowly ; " if this is my duty, mother, I'll 
 do it ; but you have misunderstood me in a way that it will 
 take me a long time to forget. I'll try to forgive you, because 
 you don't know. If you did, you wouldn't be so cruel." 
 
 She turned away, and walked her room for the best part of 
 that night ; but she was too obstinate to give way as long as 
 she believed herself to be in the right. The premium was paid, 
 and Lin went into the City office. 
 
 For the first few months everything was very wretched. The 
 lad himself was like a plant which, suddenly inverted, was 
 yet expected to thrive. His sweet and sunny temper, rendered 
 sw -"ter and sunnier by independence, changed to a weary 
 irritability very painful to see. With the extravagant obstinacy
 
 Hnnie bas ber own Was 223 
 
 of youth, he turned his back upon everything connected with 
 his old life, upon his old pleasures and his old friends. The 
 very mention of music he forbade himself, nor would he suffer 
 a melody to enter his head, but would fiercely crush it down 
 and turn from it in actual pain. No jilted lover ever felt more 
 completely cut off from all that is good in life than Lin did for 
 those first months in his new berth. His mother began to 
 waver, to wonder if, after all, she had made a mistake, and to 
 know what it is to pay too dearly for one's own way. She 
 suffered much in those days, for the lad seemed other than her 
 lad, and daily drifted further away from her. He had taken up 
 his residence in Merryon Square as he had taken up his new 
 occupation, because he was desired to, because he had no 
 means of providing himself a home elsewhere ; but when Annie 
 flew to the door to let him in, he would pass into the hall with 
 his shoulder raised between his mother's wistful face and his 
 own, then at night he would slip upstairs on some pretext or 
 other, and Annie knew this was done to shirk her good-night 
 kiss. He seldom looked her in the face, and when he did 
 speak spoke in a self-repressed way which never failed to cut 
 her to the heart. 
 
 " I've had my way," she kept telling herself drearily. " I did 
 it all for the best, but I'm afraid I've bin wrong. His music 
 had got too much a hold over him. If I'd took him away 
 sooner, it would have bin all right. He looks that bad and 
 thin ! An' he doesn't seem like my Lin at all." 
 
 Even the old man grew uneasy, although he would not own it. 
 
 " Don't watch him about so," he would say impatiently, " and 
 do let him alone. Take no notice of his little tantrums, and 
 he'll come round all the sooner." 
 
 Lin did come round after a bit as far as the old man was 
 concerned, for it suddenly dawned on him that he was deeply 
 indebted to him for board and shelter, and that if he accepted 
 hospitality he might return it in simple kindness and attention. 
 He set himself to do this; and felt all the better for it, reading 
 the old man the news of the day, or going out with him, or 
 playing him an occasional game of cribbage or draughts. Also 
 he came round sufficiently to make new friends in the office, 
 and to find for himself new life and interest in the world of 
 books , still, from his two old loves, from his music and his 
 mother, he turned away in sensitive pain. Both had been so 
 dear to him, and both had so cruelly failed him ! 
 
 His manner to Annie was never anything but civil, his 
 voice never anything but cold. At last she could bear it no
 
 224 Bnnie Deane 
 
 longer, and one night when he went to bed she followed him 
 into his room. 
 
 " Lin," she said, " what have I done ? " 
 
 " What do you mean ? " said he, attentively looking at the 
 wall. 
 
 " You didn't kiss me." 
 
 Lin was silent. 
 
 " Did you forget, or are you got too old? " 
 
 " Neither," he said drearily, sitting down on the edge of his 
 bed ; " I'm tired, and wanted to come to bed." 
 
 "You never used to get tired, dear. Is it that you're not 
 well ? I've thought lately that you haven't bin." 
 
 She went nearer, getting up courage to touch him ; he 
 divined her intention, and rose to frustrate it. 
 
 " What is it that you want ? Of course, I'll kiss you if you 
 want me to. Good-night." 
 
 " Stop, dear. You know I want you to kiss me, but first I 
 want to know why you don't." 
 
 He thought a moment with set lips and his hands in his 
 pockets. 
 
 "Well," he said at last, turning white, "I think you've your- 
 self to blame, mother. You taught me to value sincerity 
 honesty second to nothing in the world. When I used to kiss 
 you I meant it, and when I can mean it again I will kiss you 
 again, but I can't make-believe. I should feel like a a 
 Judas ! " 
 
 She stood a second or two, then : 
 
 " Very well, my son," she said patiently, and turning out of 
 his room, she shut the door. 
 
 Whereupon Lin felt like a dozen Judases rolled into one, 
 and thought he would go and find her up and kiss her at once. 
 But her obstinacy was reproduced in him, and though he could 
 not sleep for thinking of her, he did not go. 
 
 " I can't," he kept telling himself. " 1 simply cannot forget 
 it. I can forgive the others, because I was nothing to them; 
 they didn't pretend to have any love for me. But she did. 
 She lived with me day after day for two years. I never kept 
 any thought or hope I had away from her. She must have 
 known she did know, and she trampled my hopes underfoot 
 without a grain of pity. Well, I did all I could I gave in; 
 but she can't expect me to be the same to her. That is 
 impossible." 
 
 And he was not the same to her quite ; but he was better 
 ".ban he thought he was, and her quiet, patient face soon began
 
 Hnnie bas ber own IHHaE 225 
 
 to cut him like a knife. Before many days had passed, he had 
 bent over her chair and kissed her of his own accord. 
 
 "We are coming on," the old man chuckled delightedly. 
 " Stop until the end of the year, when we begin to take our 
 salary, and we shall be as right as a trivet ! " 
 
 And at the end of the year, or rather some little time after 
 the year had ended, Lin certainly brightened, and began to 
 grow back into his own likeness ; but the salary was not the 
 cause. The cause was his old friend Hoskins, who looked him 
 up, and having found him, insisted on taking him home to see 
 Mrs. Hoskins and the baby. 
 
 Lin blushed and felt awkward at first, but the baby, who 
 had attained the dignity of short petticoats, and buttoned shoes 
 that were perpetually falling off, was of a friendly turn, and 
 took to Lin straightway; and, what was more astonishing, Lin 
 took to the baby. 
 
 Hoskins rated him soundly for having utterly shelved his 
 music. 
 
 " No wonder you look dismal," he said ; " why, I'm sure you 
 can't have been happy if you have never touched a piano. 
 You must have been starved ! " 
 
 " He looks thin enough," Mrs. Hoskins said affectionately, 
 " and yes anything but happy." 
 
 " Happy ? " said Lin, with a laugh ; <c no, I certainly have not 
 been that. I am afraid the sight of you will send me back to 
 my old habits." 
 
 " Bravo ! " said Hoskins. " Take up your music again by 
 all means. At least, it is a harmless hobby, and even a 
 business man must have a hobby." 
 
 Lin gave way to his old habits, and, after business hours did 
 two or three times a week find his way to the familiar rooms 
 over the shop, sometimes taking Hoskins's place in the shop 
 while that gentleman gave a lesson, sometimes going for a walk 
 with him, sometimes going back to supper with him ; but always 
 feeling thoroughly at home, much more so than he had ever 
 felt in Merryon Square. 
 
 Even his salary was of small comfort to him, for the love of 
 independence had been so early ground into him that he 
 refused to accept what he thought to be an old man's charity. 
 Which refusal caused that old man genuine grief. 
 
 "Isn't your being here a great pleasure to me?" said he. 
 " Don't you think that I should miss you very much ? That 
 on those evenings which you spend elsewhere I'm like an old 
 fish out of water ? Haven't I known you since you first began 
 
 p
 
 226 Bnnie H)eane 
 
 to toddle? And don't you know that even an old buffer of 
 eighty or thereabouts likes a young face and a young voice 
 about him ? Dear me, dear me ! wouldn't I rather pay you a 
 good salary just to keep you, than I'd lose the pleasure of 
 having you about me." 
 
 " You are very good, sir," said Lin; "but I can't look at this 
 thing in the way you look at it, and I shouldn't be worth much 
 if I could. I must try to keep up appearances on as little as 
 I can, and I shall turn over the rest for the privilege of living 
 here. Unless you agree to this, I must find a room for myself, 
 or share some other fellow's." 
 
 So he walked to Brixton when he might have ridden, pro- 
 tected the soles of his well-worn boots with patent abomina- 
 tions the sight of which made his mother cry, took more care 
 of his clothes than a girl takes of her love-letters, and ate his 
 heart out because of his false and to him humiliating 
 position. 
 
 Even when his salary was raised he was little better off, for 
 unhappiness, together with the confinement of the inner orifice, 
 undermined his health, and compelled him either to give up 
 or to seek medical advice. He did the latter secretly, and 
 secretly paid the bills. In this way his third year in the office 
 wore away. 
 
 The fourth opened badly. The summer was long, intensely 
 hot, and Lin's powers of endurance were taxed to the utmost. 
 He held on from day to day, making no complaint, but on 
 many occasions finding himself unable to stick to his desk 
 when he went to business. Then he would commit the ex- 
 travagance of a 'bus, and would go to Brixton rather than to 
 Merryon Square, being too proud to show his mother this 
 unpleasant result of his being forced out of his natural groove. 
 
 " Anything," thought Lin doggedly, " rather than she should 
 break her heart over me, and make a fuss. I'll go till I drop, 
 and then it won't take long to finish me." 
 
 Once at Brixton he always felt better. Mrs. Hoskins was 
 good to him, but in a cheery way, which did not embarrass 
 him, and which won for her the affection and confidence that 
 Annie had alienated from herself. 
 
 A summer holiday, spent with his Brixton friends by the sea, 
 set Lin up again for a time ; but when the summer heat had 
 held its sway, the fogs and damp of the London winter held 
 theirs, and a very potent one it proved to a tired young fellow 
 who began to feel as if some lifeless weight were laid upon his 
 shoulders and tightening about his chest. In truth, he was all
 
 Hnnfe bas ber own Was 227 
 
 but done up, and his increasing delicacy of appearance could 
 no longer escape remark. 
 
 " Lin, what is the matter with you ? " cried his mother one 
 night in despair, when he went straight up from the front door 
 to bed. " You're never well now, and yet you won't tell me a 
 word about it." 
 
 " There's nothing the matter," he said quietly, " nothing at 
 all. We have scarcely been able to see across the office all day, 
 even with the gas lit. How can a fellow feel brilliant in such 
 an atmosphere as that ? And I had to walk home through it ; 
 the 'buses ceased running early in the day. I feel half- 
 strangled. A London fog never suited me." 
 
 " I shall send for a doctor," said Annie. 
 
 " I've been to one." 
 
 "What did he say?" 
 
 "Oh, nothing that one could afford to pay attention to. 
 Don't worry. Good-night." 
 
 " No, no ! You must have something. I'll light a fire here, 
 and bring you something up." 
 
 " Don't, please. I couldn't eat it." 
 
 Lin gently dismissed her. Moreover, to be quite sure that 
 she did not reappear, he followed her to the door and locked 
 it. Then he kicked off his boots and lay down to scrape 
 together sufficient strength and courage to undress and get 
 into bed. But he was at his post at the usual time on the 
 following morning, and managed to get to Brixton the following 
 night. After which he took to going there quite as often as to 
 Merryon Square, and when asked why, he would answer that 
 Brixton agreed with him, and that the Hoskins were so jolly 
 kind! 
 
 Sorely jealous of the Brixton people was Annie in those days, 
 and sorely wretched, too. Such was the unsatisfactory state of 
 things which prevailed right up to the spring preceding Lin's 
 twentieth birthday.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 LIN HAS HIS 
 
 ON a certain stormy day in early March, Lin promised his 
 mother to come home to tea instead of going to Brixton. He 
 usually kept his promises, but that evening the tea-table stood 
 in untouched readiness until nearly seven, when Annie roused 
 the little old man, who sat dozing by the fire. 
 
 " He isn't comin','' she said patiently. " I suppose he 
 didn't feel well again, an' so went there, as usual." 
 
 The old man drew up to the table. 
 
 " Never mind," he said cheerily ; " I daresay they're livelier 
 company than we are. Perhaps there's a girl at Brixton, 
 Emma ? I shouldn't be surprised. There are such things as 
 girls, you know, and the boys are sure to find them out. Let 
 him alone, and have your tea in peace. Dear, dear, what an 
 unhappy creature is a mother with a boy ! " 
 
 " But it rains so heavily," she said ; " an' wherever he is, he 
 wouldn't take a cab." 
 
 When tea was over she put a shawl over her head and stood 
 at the front door watching the driving rain. 
 
 " What a night," she said, with a shiver, "an' he is so ill ! I 
 know it won't be long before he'll give in an' own it. Even 
 then I believe he won't let me do anythin' for him. Oh, if I 
 could but see my time over agen, I'd never force him agenst 
 his will." 
 
 It was long past nine when Lin, drenched to the skin, ran 
 up the steps. 
 
 Annie flew to the door. " Oh, my darlin', are you wet ? " 
 
 " Well, mother, I am wet. I'll go straight to bed. No, I 
 won't, though. I will tell you something before I go.* 1 
 
 Here the old man shuffled to the dining-room door, where 
 he stood and shook his fist. 
 
 "You are killing your mother with anxiety, young man," 
 said he, " and yourself with your own confounded obstinacy. 
 If I wasn't so old and so shaky I'd pitch into you." 
 
 Lin laughed, and coming into the light of fire and gas, 
 
 228
 
 Xin bas Ibis 229 
 
 showed his mother a pair of brilliant eyes, with two patches of 
 colour under them much too vivid to be safe. Her colour 
 answered them in a sudden panic of fear. 
 
 " Do go to bed," she said, "an' don't stan' here in your wet 
 clothes." 
 
 " I can't go until I've got rid of what I want to say. I was 
 queer this morning, and Mr. Williams told me to take the day 
 off. I felt better when I got outside, so I went to Brixton, and 
 during the afternoon the Professor looked in. I had not seen 
 him for nearly two years, so I walked up to his own house with 
 him. I have come from there now." 
 
 He looked at his mother's anxious face, and touched it 
 kindly with an ice-cold hand. 
 
 "I'm very sorry to disappoint you, dear," he said, in his 
 own old affectionate way ; " but you have had your way for 
 nearly four years, and it has not answered either for you or for 
 me. So now I am going to have my way I am going back 
 to my old life." 
 
 She put up her hands and covered her face. Lin took them 
 away and drew them round his neck. 
 
 " But for the thought of your hard-earned fifty pounds, 
 mother, I should never have stuck to this as I have. But 
 now I must give it up, or it will give me up. Dear old 
 Staniforth owned to-day that he always had a hope of my 
 voice being of permanent value to me, but had been afraid 
 to tell me so because I might have built too many hopes on 
 what he said, and everybody is liable to be mistaken. Now 
 there can be no mistake. My voice is weak, but that is due 
 to my state of health, and as I get better it will get stronger. 
 I am going back to Brixton, and he is going to coach me up a 
 bit. I am awfully sorry, on your account; but if I keep on at 
 this sort of thing I shall run you to the expense of a funeral." 
 
 He laughed as he spoke, but he shivered too, and seemed 
 excitable and unlike himself. 
 
 Annie controlled herself at once. 
 
 "Very well, dear. As long as you're happy I'll try to be 
 happy too. If I made a mistake about the life I chose for 
 you, it's bin on'y out o' love for you, an' you must forgive 
 me." 
 
 " What nonsense ! " cried Lin hastily ; " as if I didn't 
 understand that. The Professor was delightfully candid. He 
 said, 'Now I am not saying that you will ever be Sims 
 Reeves or Lindsay Le Quesne, but I am saying that you will 
 have a tenor voice good enough to ensure you moderate
 
 330 Hnnie Deanc 
 
 success. Anyhow, you can earn more on a platform than you 
 can in an office, or I am making a great mistake.' " 
 
 " Yes, dear," Annie interposed firmly ; " but I can't let you 
 stan' here another minute in these soakin' things. Your coat 
 is beginnin' to steam." 
 
 He let her take the coat off, talking all the while upon the 
 subject of which his head and heart were both full. But pre- 
 sently Annie and the old man combined, and persuaded him 
 to go to bed. 
 
 " Don't lock your door," his mother said, as he went ; " I 
 shall be up in ten minutes with some coffee." 
 
 But when she took it up, Lin turned away with a shudder. 
 
 " Not to-night, dear," he said, " I'd rather have water. I 
 feel sick and shivery. I daresay it's nothing. You can stay 
 with me a bit, if you like." 
 
 She sat down on the bed and talked to him until he grew 
 drowsy. Then she turned the gas low, left the door ajar, and 
 crept away to her own room. In spite of her disappointment 
 about the office, she felt happier than she had done for years. 
 The cloud between Lin and herself had quite cleared away. 
 He was her Lin again, boyish and frank and affectionate, so all 
 the rest might go. 
 
 But the next day there was trouble in Merryon Square, 
 Lin was evidently in for a sharp illness, and the heart of Lin's 
 mother stood still with fear. Nor when summoned did 
 Mr. Holt's much-trusted medical man bring her any comfort. 
 It is true that he was very cheerful, but then he was that even 
 when he undertook to account for his patient's extreme 
 prostration, and did it, top, with exasperating ease. He was 
 cheerful even while explaining to Mr. Holt and Annie that, 
 under the circumstances, it really would not be anything 
 remarkable if Lin failed to pull through. 
 
 " Because, you see," said he, " he must have been below the 
 mark for some time past. I wonder that he has not com- 
 plained, or that you have not noticed anything amiss. I think 
 you told me that he is a clerk." 
 
 " Yes, sir," said Annie stonily. 
 
 " Well, now, I should not let him stick to that. Through 
 such a season as we have had, the atmosphere of a gas-lit office 
 has been slow poison to him. He can never have been robust, 
 and a sedentary occupation in a close room was not the thing 
 for him. I know it is difficult to regulate these matters, but I 
 must point out to you how easy I find it to trace his present 
 condition back to its cause, and that no skill brought to bear
 
 Xin bas IMs 23* 
 
 upon a sudden development or or effect can be expected to 
 neutralise a mischief of such long standing." 
 
 Annie bore the doctor's lecture as well as she could, but she 
 stood stupidly still when it was ended, and even forgot to 
 attend the lecturer to the front door. His every word was a 
 stab to a heart already very sore. To see Lin suffer was bad 
 enough, but to know herself the cause was torture unbearable. 
 
 The kind old man could have killed his much-trusted medical 
 adviser for speaking out in such brutal fashion. 
 
 " Don't take any notice," said he angrily ; " it isn't worth 
 while. They are expected to say something, and they must 
 say it. Half the time they don't stop to consider what they 
 do say. Now, only think of what this man says, and see how 
 ridiculous it is on the face of it ! As if the atmosphere of any 
 oflfice could have given the boy inflammation of the lungs and 
 and complications ! Now, I ask anybody in common fair- 
 ness if the office could have given him that? Didn't he get 
 soaking wet yesterday, when he wasn't well to start with, and 
 then walk home like the pig-headed young fool that he is ? 
 Did the office do that ? Did the office put him into the raging 
 fever of excitement he was in when we were persuading him to 
 get out of his wet clothes and go to bed ? Absurd ! " 
 
 ''He'll die!" she moaned wretchedly. "I know he'll die, 
 an' I shall be to blame for it." 
 
 " He shan't die ! " said the old man, thumping the table 
 with his fat little fists. " I say he shan't die, if we have to get 
 the finest advice in all London." 
 
 And Lin did not die, though for the next fortnight there was 
 some fear of his doing so so much fear, indeed, that his pale 
 mother might easily have stepped on to a pedestal to pose as a 
 model for " Grief," or " Dread," or " Remorse," or any other 
 of the acute woes to which humanity is a victim. She looked 
 so wretched that Lin really tried his hardest to fan into a 
 flame his feeble spark of a desire to live ; which may have 
 had something to do with his ultimate success. At any rate, 
 having shaved the dangerous corner, he found himself on the 
 high road to recovery, where, however, he was met by a for- 
 midable obstacle. His cheerful doctor, backed up by a famous 
 specialist, said that so far his progress was satisfactory, but 
 that he felt it his duty to be extremely candid. The spring 
 promised to be backward and cold, and unless his patient were 
 sent somewhere out of reach of its treacheries he would not 
 answer for consequences. 
 
 In other words, Lin was ordered abroad.
 
 23* Hnnie Deane 
 
 Annie went up to her own room, and there thought the 
 matter out, with this result : She resolved for the second time 
 in her life to find that celebrated singer, who was not yet 
 married, and then to ask him if this, his son, would have to 
 die for want f a little money. She had a little herself, but she 
 had no idea what the expense of going abroad might prove to 
 be. Whatever it was, he had enough and to spare ; she would 
 go to him. Besides, if Lin had really made up his mind to 
 follow music as a profession, why, here was a splendid chance. 
 Surely Mr. Le Quesne would not refuse to extend him a 
 helping hand? Surely here was her opportunity. For herself 
 she wanted nothing, but for Lin's sake she would lower herself 
 to ask. In hot haste she went downstairs, and, collecting a 
 heap of Lin's musical papers, carefully looked them through. 
 But she had never seen the name of " Le Quesne " in print, 
 and the great difference in the spelling and the pronunciation 
 of it baffled her completely. She actually found it and spelt it 
 over laboriously to herself, but it was associated with many 
 others, all of the unpronounceable and unfamiliar type. 
 
 " These are foreign names," said she, with a sigh of despair, 
 "and tho' his is a funny name, I know it's English. It must 
 be, since he's an Englishman. I'll have to lead Lin on to 
 talkin' about him, then I'll ast how he spells the name an' 
 where he's to be found. Lin wouldn't think it funny o' me 
 astin', and he'd be sure to know where he is." 
 
 Full of this design upon Lin's innocence, she went up to his 
 room, and found Mr. Holt keeping him company. 
 
 " Ah ! " said the old man, as she opened the door, " here 
 you are. Come in and sit down. We have something to say 
 to you." 
 
 She sat down on the arm of Lin's easy-chair and took his 
 head on her shoulder. 
 
 "Leave him alone," said the old man testily, "and don't 
 coddle him up so. He'd need to go away for a bit, or he'll fancy 
 he's a girl." 
 
 Annie only laughed, and held him closer. 
 
 " You see, we are face to face with a difficulty. That is, 
 with what might be a difficulty, if we had not seen our way to 
 turn it into an opportunity." 
 
 The old man was beaming. 
 
 " Yes, sir ? " said Annie, rather puzzled. 
 
 " This precious boy of yours, not content with trying to kill 
 himself, is trying to kill you. Now, if he kills you, who is to 
 see after me ? I can't let him kill you, so I have to set about
 
 Xtn bas IMs 233 
 
 making him look after himself. And I can do it. Do you 
 know how?" 
 
 He stopped and rubbed his fat hands together, as he beamed 
 upon the pair opposite him. 
 
 " No, sir," said Annie, rather drearily. 
 
 " I can send him abroad, and pay the piper, and be very- 
 glad to see the back of him." 
 
 Lin shook his head. 
 
 " Nonsense, sir," said he, with decision. " You're a brick, I 
 know, but already you have done more for me than I care to 
 remember, seeing how utterly it is out of my power to repay 
 you. As to this going abroad, it is simply not to be thought 
 of. Thousands of better men than I will have to stay in 
 England this spring and take their chance. The doctors 
 ordered me away because they mistook my position in this 
 house." 
 
 "Will you hold your impertinent tongue, sir?" said the 
 little old man, in a bad imitation of a fury. " You are nobody, 
 sir ; but your mother's son must be looked after whether he 
 will or no. Did I not say just now that if you killed your 
 mother I should be at the mercy of a slipshod 'general' and a 
 drunken charwoman ? What have I done that you should con- 
 demn me to that ? Oh ! I'm nearly eighty, but I'm not done 
 for yet. I shall want a lot of attention for some time to come, 
 and I'm not going to let you do me out of it." 
 
 Lin laughed, but said nothing. 
 
 " So I am going to get rid of you. Never mind what I have 
 done for you and what I have not. If I were doing anyone 
 any wrong " He stopped and suddenly became very serious, 
 then resumed : " In a moment of weakness I promised my 
 dear wife that the bulk of my property should go to her niece. 
 I wish most heartily that I could have found courage to refuse. 
 But a promise is a promise, and I must keep mine. Still, in 
 my will I have left you a little matter of two hundred pounds. 
 I suppose I can leave you two hundred pounds, can't I ? or 
 will your confounded pride kick at it ?" 
 
 " You are awfully good, sir ; but if you had anything which 
 you felt justified in leaving away from your own people, my 
 mother stands before me." 
 
 " Let your mother alone, and don't interfere with what does 
 not concern you. I am talking about you. If you go on like 
 this your two hundred won't be any good to you. You will 
 give it the slip, and somebody else will go on the spree with it. 
 ) it seems to me that it can take you out of reach of the
 
 234 Bnnie 2>eane 
 
 east winds, and when you have pulled round a bit it can give 
 you the chance of studying under somebody who will turn you 
 out fit to earn it all back again. We want money when we do 
 want it, and now is the time you want this, so I wrote this 
 cheque last night, and here it is ; and if you don't leave off 
 worrying your mother into her grave, I'll wash my hands of 
 you for an unnatural monstrosity." 
 
 Lin tried hard to say something, but he was still very weak. 
 He could not find his voice, and the fat little figure opposite 
 him seemed dancing about in a fire-lit mist. He dragged him- 
 self on to his feet and offered the old man a thin hand, which 
 that little human fairy accepted with effusion, though without 
 words, afterwards discovering that he had left his handkerchief 
 downstairs, and trotting off to find it, rubbing his hands all 
 the way, and feeling like a schoolboy as he thought of the 
 happiness he had left behind him.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 "MR. WARRENER" 
 
 LIN pulled round with a rapidity which surprised everyone, 
 nimself included. Three weeks after that talk with Mr. Holt 
 he was fit to travel. His belongings were collected in various 
 heaps, and his mother, dim-eyed and heavy-hearted, had begun 
 to think of "packing." For she and Lin had never before 
 been far apart, and to her this " going abroad " was a terrible 
 thing, fraught with much danger, and suggestive of the parting 
 which is final. Still, it was necessary that Lin should go, and 
 as he was not only happy, but eager to go, she did her best to 
 put on a brave front. At last all was ready. The Hoskins 
 had been up on the Sunday to have tea and to say good-bye, the 
 Professor himself had looked in on the Monday afternoon, and 
 had given Lin two or three letters of introduction to musical 
 friends of his own in the land of sunny skies and sweet voices. 
 Now, on the Monday night, Annie and Lin sat together by his 
 bedroom fire for the last time. To-morrow would find him on 
 the first stage of his journey. 
 
 " I say, mother," said he suddenly, " I shall spend my 
 twenty-first birthday away from you." 
 
 "Yes, dear!" 
 
 " I thought of that to-day, and then I remembered something 
 that you once promised to tell me." 
 
 She sat upright, and putting one hand behind her, grasped 
 her chair hard. She knew what that " something " was. 
 
 " What was it about ? " she said, turning rather sick. 
 
 ' You promised to tell me who my father was." 
 
 She did not speak. 
 
 " You may as well tell me before I go." 
 
 He saw her shrink, and noticed the curious distress upon 
 her face. 
 
 " Not that it matters," he put in hurriedly. " I am not 
 curious, that I know of; but as I am going away for some 
 time, and as, if anything happened to you (which, God forbid \\ 
 
 235
 
 236 Hnnie Deane 
 
 there is not a soul to tell me anything, I think perhaps I ought 
 to know what there is to know." 
 
 " That's true," she said ; " I've thought that myself." 
 
 " But you don't want to tell me ? " he said gently. 
 
 " I don't. It seems strange that a thing what everybody 
 knows should never have come to you. Sometimes I've 
 thought you guessed, an' that was why you didn't ast no 
 questions." 
 
 " What was there to guess ? " he cried in surprise. " You 
 told me once that my father was a gentleman, and that you 
 would tell me about him when I was older." 
 
 " I'd no business to ha' told that," she said stolidly. 
 " Haven't anybody ever said anything about me to you ? " 
 
 " In what way do you mean ? " 
 
 " I can tell they haven't," she said, " or you wouldn't ast 
 that. My dear, you'd ha' knowed what there is to know a long 
 time ago if it wasn't that it'll let me down a lot lower in your 
 eyes than I'd ha' liked to be." 
 
 " That is not likely," said Lin quickly. 
 
 " No, but it will. I s'pose I've thought you'd get to know 
 yourself, an' it wasn't a thing as / could make you see when 
 you wus jest a lad ; but everyone as knows me, dear, knows 
 that I wus never married at all, although they knows, too, that 
 you are my son." 
 
 Lin felt as if some one had struck him, yet he instantly knew 
 himself for a fool in that he had not understood this before. 
 If he said nothing now his silence was not unkindly meant ; he 
 simply could think of nothing to say. 
 
 " It do seem strange that you should ha' bin deceived," 
 Annie went on sadly ; " for I've never made no secret of it. 
 I set myself to face the consequences o' this twenty years ago. 
 I never hid nothing, nor deceived nobody." 
 
 " But," urged Lin, very gently, " you told me my father was 
 a gentleman." 
 
 " Yes, an' I shouldn't ha' done, but you wus a child, an' I 
 couldn't tell you anything then." 
 
 He gave a gesture of assent, and was silent. He was startled 
 and terribly ashamed. For though he was young, he had 
 started life early, and lately had seen a little of men and their 
 ways, thus seeing a little, in a second-hand, reflected sort of 
 way, of women and their ways ; but he himself had remained 
 much the same, ever leaning by instinct to that which was 
 pure, to that which was physically and mentally and morally 
 clean. His fellow-clerks had laughed at him as "old-fashioned,"
 
 . TTClarrener" 237 
 
 but had liked him too, and somehow had never attempted to 
 bring him " up to date." 
 
 " Mother," he said presently, " who was the man ? " 
 
 She started, so lost in thought was she. 
 
 " Who, dear ? " she asked stupidly. 
 
 " Yes ! Who ? " Lin's face was growing sterner. " A man 
 may have a wife and child according to law, or a wife and child 
 not according to law. In either case the child is his. The 
 mere fact of his turning his back upon it can't make it less so, 
 can it ? " 
 
 " No ! " she said quietly. 
 
 " Before God and his conscience he knows that, doesn't 
 he?" 
 
 " Yes ! " said she, quietly still. 
 
 "Tell me something of this man who was my father. 
 Knowing you as / know you, I want to know how any man 
 dared to do you such a ghastly wrong. You were always a 
 trusting soul. He promised you " 
 
 "Lin," she said, in hot haste, "he never did. God forgive 
 him an' me, too. I was a foolish child, an' he wasn't much 
 better, as a man's age goes." 
 
 " What age was he ? " 
 
 " I scarcely know," she faltered ; " pVaps as old as 
 you " 
 
 "Oh, then, he was not a. child, 'even as a man's age goes.' 
 He was a man, who knew what he was doing ; that is, he ruined 
 an innocent girl for his own devilish pleasure, and made her no 
 amends. Well, that is how it seems to be to me. Perhaps I 
 am wrong, and he did make amends. What did he do for 
 you?" 
 
 Her face was white and her lips a-twitch. 
 
 " He had to go away," she said bravely. 
 
 " Did he come back ? " 
 
 "No!" 
 
 " He went clean away and left you to face the consequences 
 of his sin single-handed ? " 
 
 " It was my sin, too." 
 
 " That may be ; but he went away for good ? " 
 
 " Yes ! " 
 
 " Knowing everything ? " 
 
 " No, he didn't know nothing." 
 
 " But, but, when you knew, surely you wrote and told 
 him ? " 
 
 " No ! "
 
 238 Snnie 2>eane 
 
 Lin rose and stood leaning on the bed-rail, watching hi& 
 mother earnestly. 
 
 " Why ? " 
 
 " My dear, it doesn't matter now." 
 
 " I think it does. When once we have closed this discussion 
 I promise you never to reopen it ; but now I want to know what 
 sort of man this was. Why did you never write to him ? " 
 
 " Because I didn't know where to find him." 
 
 Liu's hand, as it grasped the rail, shook like a leaf. 
 
 " I knew it ! " he said. " He ruined you and got clear away. 
 What was his name ? " 
 
 " I didn't know." 
 
 " You don't know now ? " 
 
 She wished most heartily that she could have said she did 
 not. 
 
 " I've found out since by accident." 
 
 " But you have never heard from him ?" 
 
 " Never. You see, I come right away from home here, an* 
 if he'd gone back ever so, I should ha' bin none the wiser. 
 He may have gone back, I can't say." 
 
 " I don't think you need trouble," Lin said, with a quiet 
 sneer. " It is safe to presume that he never did go back. 
 What made you come to London ? " 
 
 " I come to try an' find him," she answered simply. " I 
 had a portrait of him, with the name on it of the man what 
 took it." 
 
 " And you came here with no other clue to him than that ? " 
 
 " No other," she answered, with a dreary impatience of this 
 inquisition ; " an' that was no good." 
 
 Lin stood looking before him into vacancy. The blank 
 misery, the shameful sin of the thing was dawning upon him 
 slowly a revelation of humanity's darker side from which he 
 shrank, as anything young and hopeful well might. 
 
 " Good God ! " he burst out suddenly. 
 
 " My dear ! " said she, in loving reproof. 
 
 "Well, I say it in surprise, for I never thought that He 
 could make a man quite as bad as that ! I suppose, after all, 
 there is a devil, and he had a hand in him ! " 
 
 She rose quickly, ready even at that distance of time to 
 stand up loyally in his defence. Whatever he might seem to 
 others, he could never seem wholly bad to her. 
 
 " Lin, he wasn't what you think, an' I can't let you judge 
 him. I've never done that, nor you mustn't neither. God 
 made us all, an' some of us makes mistakes. / made one, an'
 
 . TKHarrener" 239 
 
 that wus one as most people would say stamped me as good 
 for nothink. Would you stan' to hear me condemned by 
 some one as didn't know me ? " 
 
 " You know I wouldn't." 
 
 " Then I can't hear him condemned by some one as didn't 
 know him. He'd never ha' hurt me for sheer cruelty; it 
 wusn't in him, Lin, any more than it is in you." 
 
 41 He turned his back upon you and slunk away ! " 
 
 44 Ah, you see," she said, fatally clinching the matter in her 
 eagerness, " he believed I wus to be taken good care of I wus 
 to have married Jim Drake." 
 
 At this Lin's very physical powers forsook him. He put 
 out his other hand, standing like one upon a cross, grasping 
 the brass rail of the bed. White as a sheet he was with passion, 
 and pain, and disgust. Annie looked at him in wonder. 
 
 "What's the matter?" she said. "You're ill. I'd no 
 business to have told you this to-night. I ought to have known 
 that you wusn't strong enough to stand it." 
 
 He resisted her efforts to draw him away from the bed, 
 only shook his head, and avoided her pleading eyes. 
 
 44 / wish you hadn't told me," he said at last. 44 It isn't 
 pleasant hearing. Mother, did you think it natural for that 
 man to leave you to the care of another man ? You thoi-ght 
 the better of him for his kind consideration for you ? " 
 
 She turned her back upon Lin, and did not speak. He laid 
 a shaking hand upon her shoulder. 
 
 " Mother ! " 
 
 She saw then what he meant, and burst into tears. With 
 her own lips she had hopelessly condemned him ! 
 
 "It was so just," said Lin bitterly, "so manly to the other 
 man ! No, mother ; your idol was a devil, and a coward, and 
 a cur ! " 
 
 44 Lin, my Lin, I loved him ! " 
 
 44 That was a hideous puzzle a sort of attraction to the 
 opposite ! That you, who must always have been good " 
 
 " No ; I wus no better than him. If I've ever got near to 
 bein' better since, it wus becos' o' that love I had for him an' 
 for you. I've tried to atone for the wrong I done, as much for 
 his sake as my own. So," she went on firmly, " I've got to 
 say to you that I can't hear nothink agenst him, an' I won't. 
 He brought me harm, an' he brought me good, too. He made 
 me patient, an' forgivin', an' learnt me to show mercy to all 
 things as I hope for mercy myself. I'm a better woman now 
 than ever I'd ha' bin if I'd never ha' knowed him."
 
 240 Snnie H)eanc 
 
 "No thanks to him," said Lin sternly; "and what about 
 me ? I shall think a lot of myself henceforth ! It is com- 
 forting to reflect that one owes one's life to such a man as he 1 
 Am I anything like him ? " 
 
 " A little," she said shiftily, " sometimes. Nobody'd notice 
 that but me." 
 
 " If I am, I wonder you have not hated me ! It would 
 make me hate myself." 
 
 She turned, and going close to him, laid her face against 
 his. 
 
 " My darlin', I loved you all the better for it. I've never 
 harboured a hard thought of him ; an' if I thought you did, 
 it'd make me unhappy. For love o' me, if you can think me 
 worth loving, you must promise me not to hate him." 
 
 " I'm not a saint, mother." 
 
 "No, dear; but you must forgive him like you've forgive 
 me." 
 
 " You ! What connection is there ? what comparison in your 
 ideas of duty and his ? You have been a slave to me ! To 
 talk of forgiving you is impertinence." 
 
 " You see," she urged earnestly, "it wus so diff'rent ! There 
 wus no comparison; you can't make it. 1 wus an ignorant 
 country girl, an' he, as I told you, wus a gentleman." 
 
 " No, mother," interposed Lin sternly ; " whatever else he 
 may have been, to a dead certainty he was not that ; or, if he 
 were, then may I steer clear of gentlemen for the rest of my 
 life ! " 
 
 " There wus a great difference," she went on unheeding. 
 " I've thought of it many a time. Say as he'd married me, 
 why, I'd just ha' bin a fish out o' water ; an', my dear, 1 should 
 ha' ruined him worse than he ruined me." 
 
 " That is no excuse. The fact of his being what you say he 
 was only proves his utter worthlessness. He was a man of 
 good birth (truly there is a lot in that!}, of education (there 
 would seem to be a lot in that, too !), of cultivated tastes and 
 sharpened sense of what is right and wrong. And yet all these 
 advantages led him to nothing higher than the ruin of a child ! 
 His sense of gentlemanhood was so keen that it allowed him 
 to leave you to face your ruined life, and to hide his share in 
 it under the name of an innocent man. Oh, mother, I have 
 lost something to-night that I shall never get back ! I had no 
 idea that civilised man could sink so low. And then, to think 
 that I belong to him ! " 
 
 Annie sobbed piteously.
 
 . Marrenei:" 241 
 
 " No, though," Lin went on thoughtfully, after a pause, " I 
 do not belong to him. In the eyes of the law I have no 
 father. For that I can be thankful ! " 
 
 Moved by a sudden, pitying impulse, he bent his head and 
 kissed his mother's white face. It was no part of his duty to 
 stand aloof from her. 
 
 " I'll be content with you," he said gently, " for you have 
 made up for him to me." 
 
 " My dear, I've tried. An' you must learn to forgive him 
 too. For he wusn't what you thinks him, as some day you'll 
 find out. He didn't know, or he'd ha' come back. An' 
 besides, he left me some some money." 
 
 " How much money ? " 
 
 "Five pound. It was a great help to me; but for it I 
 might ha' stopped an' married Jim. Thank God, it let me 
 get away from that I " 
 
 u Five pounds ! " said Lin wearily. In truth, he was weary, 
 for weakness and agitation had mastered him. " Five pounds ! 
 Well, mother, some day we will send that money back with 
 interest and thanks. But until we can, I will do my best to 
 forget what you have told me. For if I think about it I shall 
 have to make you tell me that man's name, and perhaps it is 
 better that I should not know it." 
 
 Annie kissed him, unclasped his hands from the bed-rail, 
 and drew him over to a chair. 
 
 " I've done you a lot of harm," she said ; " you shake like a 
 leaf, an' you're as white as a ghost ! You wusn't strong enough 
 to bear it. You'll scarce be fit to go to-morrow." 
 
 He smiled at her anxious face, and went off into deep 
 thought. He started up after a while, and began to pace the 
 room. 
 
 " There is a name to be put on my belongings yet," he said, 
 with a sudden return to his own manner. "Don't think I 
 mean to be unkind, dear, for indeed I don't, but I am going 
 to start a name of my own. If I should stumble upon his, you 
 can tell me, and I'll drop it." 
 
 " Why not mine, dear ? " she said wistfully ; " it's yours 
 you wus christened by it. Are you ashamed of it ? " 
 
 " No. But if you don't mind, I will start afresh with some- 
 thing quite different. Many professionals find it convenient 
 to adopt names other than their own. I shall only be follow- 
 ing their lead. On the day I left the Schools to go to 
 Staniforth's there was a little chap died in the Infirmary. He 
 was awfully fond of me. He hadn't a friend in the world, and 
 
 o
 
 242 Hnnte Deane 
 
 his name was Warrener. With your consent, mother, my 
 name shall be Warrener, too." 
 
 She looked a trifle hurt and disappointed, but she offered 
 Lin no opposition. 
 
 So the next day " Mr. Warrener " and his luggage went 
 southward, and deep quiet settled down upon the house in 
 Merryon Square.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 "IN A KINGDOM BY THE SEA " 
 
 As the summer passed, and then the autumn, Annie grew 
 accustomed to the thought of the great distance between Lin 
 and herself, and, growing accustomed, ceased to fret about it. 
 He wrote regularly and hopefully, told her what he was doing 
 and how he did it, nor ever failed to show, by means of kindly 
 consideration and affectionate phrase, how closely she was 
 connected with all his hopes and aspirations, and that in all his 
 happy air-castles she had her own special apartment. She 
 treasured his letters, reading them over and over, each time 
 finding out something she had missed before, or understanding 
 some little phrase which had hitherto puzzled her. 
 
 Concerning their conversation on the night before he left 
 England, Lin was quite silent, nor could Annie find in any of 
 his letters the faintest trace of his having remembered it. 
 Sometimes she found herself doubting whether she had 
 actually told him, or whether it was all a dream. 
 
 " There's one bit o' likeness between him an' me," she would 
 say to herself, " he can keep a thing to hisself, if he says he 
 will." 
 
 Just after Christmas she had a letter from the Italian city 
 where Lin had for the present settled down to study under an 
 old friend of the Professor's. 
 
 " A very happy Christmas," he wrote, " in spite of unfamiliar 
 surroundings. A night or two before I had a delightful 
 experience, which has made such an impression on me that I 
 shall have to tell you about it. The three fellows who are 
 staying in the same house with me came in full of news. They 
 are all English, as I think I have told you, and very jolly at 
 that ; but the beggars don't work much, and they make a lot of 
 fun of me for being in such dead earnest. You see, they don't 
 know, and I don't see the necessity of telling them. Anyhow, 
 they were full of spirits ; they came and upset my shanty, put 
 a cat and two kittens inside the piano, and kicked up a fearful 
 
 243
 
 244 Hnnfe 2>eane 
 
 riot, all because there was to be a concert in aid of the English 
 charities here, and our own Lindsay Le Quesne, passing 
 through here on his way to London, had consented to break 
 his journey North, and to give his services. This meant a 
 crowd, and the prices went up to anything ; but we made up 
 our minds to ruin ourselves and pay, if it were only for 
 standing-room. So we put on our overcoats, turned up our 
 collars, and stood patiently stamping our feet in the cold. 
 (Perhaps you think it can't be cold here, but that is a delusion.) 
 Then we fought our way up the stairs, and getting seats, sat us 
 down to shiver in a marble desolation. Now I have set your 
 heart beating in double-quick time, but indeed there is no 
 delicacy about me; I am thoroughly strong and well. The 
 place was crammed, and the row I mean enthusiasm some- 
 thing tremendous. But the funniest thing out was that even 
 the two titled lady-amateurs, and the other Britishers who had 
 elected to distinguish themselves, elected to do so in Italian. 
 We admired their pluck, and marvelled at it, but it left the 
 success of the whole thing to some one who came on about 
 midway down the programme. I had never heard Mr. 
 Le Quesne sing. I expected a great deal, but, by George, I 
 was not disappointed. I don't know that it was his voice 
 altogether, but he himself did thoroughly fascinate me ! 
 After all the ' natives,' with their endless bowing, gesticulating, 
 and fire-working ; after the distinguished amateurs, with their 
 imitation of the aforesaid, and their remarkable mixture of 
 nervousness and foolhardiness, his graceful presence, and his 
 pure, unaffected voice came like a breath of home. One might 
 not have thought much of it in London, but here, where 
 everything is so strange and un-English, it was simply 
 electrifying ! A bit of a slenderly-built Englishman, he 
 seemed to us to embody all that is best in manhood and 
 in nationality. With everything showy open to him, he yet 
 chose a simple English song ; and if I were to try to tell you 
 the effect it had upon everyone, I should make a fool of myself. 
 As long as I live I shall remember those opening words, sung 
 in that most impressive of silences the silence of a listening 
 crowd 
 
 " ' It was many and many a year ago, in a kingdom by the sea.' 
 
 " I held my breath, while something like a cold shiver ran 
 through my hair and down my backbone. O'Brien an 
 Irishman, and a bit of a devil, but a real good sort at bottom 
 turned as white as a sheet, and sat like a figure of stone.
 
 "3n a !tfn0&om bs tbe Sea" 245 
 
 Harvey a bit of a dandy, who makes a point of sneering at 
 everything suddenly lost something on the floor, and bent 
 down ever so long looking for it. Otway screwed up his 
 eye-glass, and glared at the great chandelier. But the feeling 
 in each one of us was the same. If we had never known 
 ourselves before for the sons of that 'kingdom by the sea,' 
 never felt what it was to be passionately proud of it, we 
 knew now, and it was worth while being enlightened. We 
 all, so to speak, wrapped ourselves in our Union Jack, and 
 looked down on every man who was not a Britisher ! But 
 British, or Italian, or French, or what not, everybody present 
 felt that voice of our great singer's, and made no secret of 
 such feeling. Not that he could have wanted telling, though, 
 for he knew knew that he held that vast crowd in front of him 
 just as easily, just as sensitively, as a boy holds a flying kite. 
 And the voice itself is perfect, as soft as velvet, and as clear as 
 a silver bell, never missing a word, or slurring one over, or 
 sacrificing truth to mere effect. It was a lesson in sincerity as 
 well as in singing. Even the idiots who sometimes spoil a 
 thing by applauding between the verses were silent, shut up by 
 the marvellous echo of the last word. When he began again 
 
 " ' She was a child and I was a child, in our kingdom by the sea ; 
 
 And we loved with a love that was more than love, I and my Annabe 
 Lee' 
 
 I saw the tears drop down on O'Brien's coat-collar, and I was 
 not surprised, for I could have cried myself. O'Brien told me 
 afterwards that it took him back among the misty green hills 
 at home, back to the days when a little Irish girl had loved 
 him, and made him, as he said, unconsciously quoting David 
 Copperfield, 'more fit for Heaven than ever he had been 
 since ! ' 
 
 " Well, I sat that song out, listening as I have never listened 
 before, and as I never expect to listen again. It was a 
 revelation to me of much in myself and others of the existence 
 of which I had not known. It was finished as perfectly as it 
 had been begun. The trick of using a high note at the end 
 for the sake of effect the singer disdained ; his voice dropped 
 down and died away quite naturally. 
 
 " And what a tumult there was ! He responded with the 
 little ' Donna e Mobile,' known to you as ' Fair shines the 
 moon to-night,' and then he was gone, taking every scrap of 
 intelligence we fellows had away with him. With one accord,
 
 24 6 Hnnfe 5>eane 
 
 all the British youth in the city (students and loungers alike) 
 took leave of sense and delivered itself over to enthusiasm: 
 
 " We learned that Mr. Le Quesne was to leave by the mid- 
 night train, so we all marched to the station, waited for him, 
 and gave him three British cheers loud enough to deafen him. 
 I know my throat ached and my ears rang for an hour ! 
 
 " He had but a minute or so, and seemed completely taken 
 by surprise ; but he stood at the carriage window bare-headed, 
 shouted us ' A Happy Christmas,' said he heartily wished he 
 were a youngster again and one of us, and that the sound of 
 our British voices would echo gratefully in his ears all the way 
 he was going to say ' home,' but pulled himself up and 
 substituted ' to London.' 
 
 " Those of our number who were near enough got a hearty 
 shake of the hand. / had one, and I was proud of it. 
 
 " When we had all had time to cool down, I think we felt a 
 bit ashamed of the exhibition we had made of ourselves ; but it 
 was a memorable occasion, and I am sure Lindsay Le Quesne 
 is a brick ! By the way, I like to know that you understand 
 my ravings, and you may not recognise his name by seeing it ; 
 but you used to hear us talk of him as ' Lindsay Le Quain.' " 
 
 She sprang to her feet with a cry, and the sheets of thin 
 paper fluttered to the ground. The thing she had hoped for, 
 prayed for, dreading it all the while, had happened ! Lin and 
 he had met, had looked in each other's eyes, had grasped each 
 other by the hand in all kindness in something more than 
 charity ! 
 
 Annie smiled as she thought of the white-faced lad who, 
 standing that night by the rail of his bed, had burst out 
 brokenly : 
 
 " Did God ever make a man quite as bad as that ? " 
 And now ? She took Lin's happy letter, and resumed her 
 reading, quite sure that all was right. 
 
 " I nearly ruined things with my muddlin'," she said. 
 "Thank God, I kep' his name to myself. It's all comin' 
 round. I can just stan' by an' see a surer Hand than mine 
 bring them two together. They'll know each other without 
 any help o' mine, an' Lin will find out for hisself that what I 
 says is true. There's a lot o' good in him oh, a lot o' good ! 
 as there is in us all. Yes, he must find that out for hisself, 
 an' the rest '11 follow. If he kncwed that name first, it 
 woi'ld spoil everything, for somehow I think as Lin is 
 slow to forgive. All them four years in that office he didn't 
 forgive me 7" 
 

 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 "GIVING PLACE UNTO THE NEW" 
 
 ONE evening, late in the following summer, Annie stood on 
 the platform of Charing Cross Station waiting for the train 
 which was bringing Lin home. While she waited, joyful 
 expectation was so mingled with shyness and dread that she 
 had much to do to keep from crying. 
 
 Lin's later letters were largely to blame for this. In spite of 
 their frank affection, there was in them a certain tone of self- 
 reliance, of "emancipation," that told his mother he was 
 coming home full of his own future, which was to be spent 
 in his own way. This seemed to take him beyond her to 
 leave her in the background. Also, his letters had altered in 
 another way, that she could feel, but could not quite explain. 
 She saw that Lin had found his level among congenial people, 
 and was beginning to understand his own value, which, from 
 his point of view, was entirely satisfactory, but from hers, a 
 trifle humiliating. 
 
 " He's Mr. Warrener now," she said to herself, as she stood 
 on that busy platform, "an', by the way he writes, he feels 
 pretty certain of doin' well. I must expect to find him altered, 
 an' I mustn't be down-hearted if he is." 
 
 But as that train steamed in she could not see it for tears, 
 and the scurrying mass of people were but one misty blot, 
 which she had not reduced to order when she felt her face 
 flattened against Lin's shoulder, and knew that her prim little 
 bonnet was all awry. 
 
 At any rate, thought she, his happy laugh was quite 
 unaltered, and yes, so were his eyes. Having settled which, 
 she permitted herself to be placed against a lamp-post. 
 
 " You stay there," said Lin, " while I look up my traps." 
 
 The traps were found, and Annie, with her heart in her eyes 
 and an unusual flush on her cheeks, watched the owner of the 
 said traps as he shook hands with three other fellows, who 
 were evidently chaffing him as they glanced in her direction. 
 
 "What do you think?" said Lin, as he rejoined her and put
 
 248 Bnnic Dcane 
 
 his arm through hers. "The beggars refused to believe that 
 you were my mother. I had no end of a bother to stop 
 O'Brien from coming to find out for himself. I shouldn't have 
 tried, but I knew three strange fellows would have frightened 
 you out of your wits." 
 
 "Why didn't they believe it, dear?" said she, sensitively 
 afraid of not looking good enough. 
 
 " They said you were a lot too pretty, and ever so much too 
 young." 
 
 She shook her head at him in reproof, thinking what a good- 
 looking, gentlemanly fellow he was, and how like, how very 
 like to some one else. 
 
 " How is the dear old man ? You said you were afraid I 
 should see a difference in him." 
 
 " Yes, he is gettin' feeble, he calls it lazy ; but his mind's 
 quite clear. He's bin so afraid that you wasn't livin' as you 
 ought to live, for want o' money." 
 
 " On the contrary, I have a very respectable remnant of my 
 ' legacy ' left. Money goes farther over there than it does here. 
 Oh, you quiet, stay-at-home small person, won't I take you 
 about if I ever manage to earn anything decent ! Now, here 
 we are; we shall have to put up with a 'growler,' because of 
 the luggage." 
 
 Mr. Holt stood on the top of the steps of No. 19, and 
 commenced to wave his big silk handkerchief as soon as the 
 " growler " came in sight 
 
 " Here you are ! " cried he, as Lin sprang out, "here you are 
 at last ! Why, good gracious ! Why, dear me ! dear me ! 
 you've grown like any boy at school ! Eh ? The effect of the 
 Italian air, is it? What a pity I didn't go to Italy in my 
 youth! It might have made me grow ! Where's your mother ? 
 Oh, here she is ! Well, now you've got him home again, what 
 do you think of him ? Looks delicate, doesn't he ? Looks 
 consumptive or asthmatical, or something of that sort, no 
 doubt. Dear me, what a state she has been in because she 
 has been sure that the country where organ-grinders grow wild 
 would not agree with you ! She's heard that they eat nothing 
 but onions, and drink nothing but olive oil, and she was sure 
 you wouldn't do either to save your life ! And he's grown 
 a moustache, too ! That's for the girls, Emma," with a wicked 
 little wink. " Depend upon it, he grew that for the benefit of 
 the girls. Well, well, we're only young once, and we've got to 
 make the best of it." 
 
 Whereupon, having shaken Lin's hands until his fat little
 
 "<Bit>fn0 place nnto tbe Hew" 249 
 
 shoulders ached, and he was quite out of breath, he toddled 
 into the dining-room and sank into a chair, telling Lin solemnly 
 that it was his intention to lose no time in consulting a 
 specialist on the subject of his own premature decay. 
 
 Lin laughed again, and hoped in all sincerity that he might 
 live to be a hundred ! 
 
 That mention of "girls" was quite enough to set Annie's 
 heart beating in dread. 
 
 " That would be the next trouble," she thought ; " Lin was 
 nearly twenty-three ! " 
 
 She soon saw, however, that Lin's head was not running 
 upon engagements of the matrimonial order, but upon 
 engagements of quite a different sort. 
 
 He had come home full of health and vigour, ready to take 
 his place in the ranks, and to shoulder his way as near to the 
 front as his natural gifts and their newly-acquired cultivation 
 would let him. 
 
 The day after his return he reported himself to the Professor, 
 who personally presented him to several people likely to be of 
 service. As a result of which, Lin was fairly started in the 
 ranks of professional singers, and having obtained a public 
 hearing, was passed up as one who was likely to get on. 
 
 If Annie had looked forward to his being home for long, she 
 soon had to abandon any such idea. Barely a fortnight had 
 passed when a telegram summoned him to his agents, and 
 when he returned to Merryon Square it was to announce that 
 his " traps " must be packed for a longish journey on the 
 morrow. 
 
 " I'm off on a nine weeks' tour through the provinces," said 
 he jubilantly. " Really a stroke of luck ! With a real live 
 prima-donna and a first-class conceit party. ' Madame's ' tenor 
 has broken down. I'm sorry for him, but I hope he will 
 remember the eld proverb about the ill wind. Madame herself 
 was in Bond Street, and interviewed me. She's a funny little 
 Austrian, with heavenly eyes and a dark moustache. She 
 called me ' Vorreener,' and said my voice was ' Ah, so moche 
 too nice ! ' I thought at first she meant it sarcastically, but she 
 didn't she was guileless. I shall adore Madame, I know I 
 shall." 
 
 " Isn't she married ? " asked Annie faintly. 
 
 "Yes, to a Frenchman. Berton tells me that Madame 
 never takes him on tour, though ; he stays behind to attend to 
 her domestic menagerie and the conservatories." 
 
 11 How old is she ? "
 
 s Hnnfc 2>eane 
 
 Lin burst out laughing. 
 
 "Older than you are, mother mine. She has a daughter 
 nearly twenty, who travels with us as solo violin." 
 
 " What is she like ? " asked Annie, in despair. Of course, the 
 daughter was a certainty ! 
 
 K I don't know. But when I get away I will forward you my 
 impressions of everybody and everything." 
 
 He forwarded his impressions, which seemed to his mother 
 to be much too favourable, as indeed they were, to be deep. 
 Everything was rose-coloured to Lin just then, and Annie soon 
 grew accustomed to his extravagantly happy letters. Also she 
 grew to regard them as frivolous, and began to fear that he 
 was in the hands of the Philistines, who must perforce corrupt 
 him. Her narrow education and narrower experience had 
 cramped her sympathies, in all save one direction. But for 
 that she might have developed into one of those objectionable 
 people who are firstly-religious, lastly-religious, intermediately- 
 religious, and most ^-Christian. But the thought of that man 
 who was a sinner, the intense love for him which all those 
 years had not destroyed in her, the firm belief that he must 
 yet be something to her, and she something to him, the 
 burning desire to atone for his sin with her own this 
 humanised her, made her merciful, and tolerant of many things 
 which she would otherwise have felt it her duty to condemn. 
 Even now she felt that it must be scarcely less than sinful to 
 pass one's life in ministering to the mere amusement of other 
 people. To her a theatre was a bad place. Concert-going 
 might be a shade or two ahead of theatre-going, but for life to 
 be all concert-going was surely wrong. If Lin were wrong, 
 then was it clearly her duty to warn him. She straightway sat 
 down and wrote him her fears on the subject. 
 
 Lin's answer was temperate to a degree. 
 
 "I am sorry this is a trouble to you," he wrote, "but I 
 understand how you feel about it. Yes, we do professedly 
 devote ourselves to other people's amusement, and, as long as 
 people demand to be amused, so long should it be the study 
 of somebody to provide amusement of the kind which shall 
 lift them up instead of letting them down. Besides, music is 
 something better than an amusement to those who love her. 
 I wish you would try to set aside your prejudice, and to look 
 at the thing fairly. Would you banish music from the 
 churches? Of course not. Then why should music be all 
 that is good in a church, and all that is bad in a concert-room ? 
 No ; I know. You have the ' pleasure ' of the thing on your
 
 "Giving place unto tbe Hew" 251 
 
 brain, the absence of the element of 'work.' I spend my days 
 in idleness. Now, how shall I make you see that I don't do 
 anything of the kind ? that my heart is in my profession, and 
 that in consequence I am working quite as earnestly as, and 
 far more conscientiously than, I have ever worked in an office ? 
 Better by far a contented singer than an unhappy clerk. You 
 say you fear that an idle, pleasure-loving, pleasure-seeking life 
 must ruin one, must make one think that the world was made 
 for one, and so in time must deaden all sense of responsibility 
 towards one's fellow-creatures. A man must not necessarily 
 be said to lead such a life as you describe, simply because he 
 follows a calling congenial to him, and is thereby rendered 
 happy. Indeed, it seems to me that he must be a poor 
 creature whom happiness does not make more human, more 
 sympathetic, more desirous of doing some little good when he 
 can. Surely happiness ought to make us better, and not 
 worse. Somehow I can't think that goodness is the outcome 
 of misery. 
 
 " And now, concerning the people with whom I am asso- 
 ciated. It is downright comical to find you condemning 
 people without knowing them. It is so absurdly unlike you ! 
 Who taught me to look for good in everybody, however 
 unpromising ? You did. It is a fine religion, this of yours, and 
 it is astonishing to find you running away from it. If you knew 
 my fellow-travellers, no one would more cheerfully acknow- 
 ledge their actual worth than you. They are very much the 
 same as the rest of us, neither all good nor all bad, neither very 
 saintly nor very sinful for the most part generous, unassuming, 
 anxious to please, grateful for appreciation, certainly not selfish, 
 and always more ready to say a kind word and do a kind action 
 than they are to say a harsh word or to do an unkind action. 
 You condemn them for want of knowledge. As I am one of 
 them now, please extend to them your ever-ready charity of 
 opinion. There is one thing : however severe you may be to 
 the crowd, one has only to reduce the crowd to single 
 individuals, and never had individual sinfulness so merciful a 
 judge ! Do you think I have forgotten how you once pleaded 
 with me for one who seemed to me to be outside humanity, 
 who seems to me to be so still ? Don't think I do not think 
 of it because I have not spoken of it. I try to put it away 
 from me as far as I can, but in spite of me it comes in front of 
 me oftener than I like. Here I am much less charitable than 
 you are. For the more I see of the world, and of the men and 
 women in it, the less excuse I can find for a man who commits
 
 252 annie 2>eane 
 
 the one crime which the law of this country suffers him to 
 commit with impunity. I think of it in this way, I think of it 
 in that, I try to find some shadow of excuse for it, I try to 
 soften it down, to think it less horrible ; but I never, never 
 succeed. The man who could do a thing like that must be 
 morally deficient, or mentally weak, as are the men who 
 take other men's lives, or contentedly fatten upon other 
 men's substance. There must be an absence of under- 
 standing somewhere. And now I am condemning myself, 
 for, if this is so, then surely ought one to say, ' God forgive 
 him, for he knows not what he does ! ' But I do feel that such 
 a man must carry about him some distinguishing mark by 
 which all right-thinking men shall know him for something to 
 be shunned. I feel that if I were ever to meet that man, sheer 
 instinct would lead me to recognise and so to avoid him. May 
 I never meet him ! As to the forgiveness for which you plead 
 so hardly, I think you only want to consider the matter fairly 
 to see that forgiveness is out of the question. Apart from all 
 bitterness, speaking calmly, I say that there are injuries which 
 do not admit of forgiveness. The only thing one can do is to 
 try to forget them." 
 
 He came back from his provincial tour just the same as 
 ever. Even Madame's charming daughter had failed to lead 
 him captive, or, to be quite correct, had not tried, she being 
 as much absorbed in her own affairs as was he in his. As time 
 went on, Annie ceased to lose her breath when Lin mentioned a 
 lady's name, just as he ceased to feel that his very life 
 depended upon some important criticism of his share in a 
 programme. He grew used to all degrees of praise, save its 
 superlative, which he modestly thought to be beyond him. 
 But neither had he ever to fear the adverse extreme, from 
 which he was as far removed. Everything intermediate he 
 weathered successfully, and at last, feeling pretty sure of a 
 friendly audience, thought he might let the dreaded critiques 
 pass. 
 
 Safely launched on the tide of popularity, Lin came and 
 went, making Merryon Square his headquarters, and feeling 
 now no hesitation in doing so. The old man was so devoted 
 to him, so proud of his success, and of having had so large a 
 share in bringing it about, that for Lin to have lived elsewhere 
 would have meant just that sort of ingratitude of which he was 
 incapable. 
 
 The old friends from Brixton came up occasionally, though
 
 place unto tbe "flew" 253 
 
 not often, for there were little new friends now who could not 
 come too, and who would have objected to stay at home. 
 
 During these occasional visits Annie would sit working in 
 silence, while Mr. Hoskins and Lin talked "shop" by the 
 hour, ever listening, as she worked, for the mention of a 
 name, which, somehow, was never spoken in her hearing. 
 Perhaps Lin had enough to do to attend to his own affairs. 
 Even the thought of the giants of his profession failed to awe 
 him now. Familiarity was breeding a pleasant sensation of 
 growing acquaintanceship. Annie once or twice nerved 
 herself to ask a question, but her dread of Lin connecting 
 that question with the story of his own parentage effectually 
 held her back, and thus the name, though it rose to her lips, 
 remained unspoken. If Lin looked at her, she thought, she 
 would infallibly betray herself. So she stealthily searched the 
 papers, finding there many names with which she had become 
 familiar, but his name never. This puzzled her. She made 
 up her mind to watch for an opportunity, and to ask where the 
 famous singer was, but was saved the trouble by Lin himself, 
 who suddenly looked up one night from the paper he was 
 reading with an excited shout of: 
 
 " By George, he's here ! He's singing for the Cancer 
 Hospital, and I shall meet him ! " 
 
 "Who, dear?" said Annie, stooping to pick up something 
 she had dropped. 
 
 "Lindsay Le Quesne. Now, mother, here's your chance. 
 If you never go to another concert, you will go to this. I am 
 determined that you shall hear him. You will never believe 
 in me again, but I will put up with that, just to show you what 
 a tenor voice can be." 
 
 " Where have he been all this time ? " she asked indifferently. 
 " You've been home two years, or near it, an' I never hear you 
 say nothing about him." 
 
 "Well, there has been a great deal said," Lin answered 
 thoughtfully, " which, as it was but rumour, I did not care to 
 repeat. The whole of his engagements for last year were 
 cancelled on account of ill-health. It led unscrupulous people 
 to insinuate that he had lost his voice, and would never sing 
 again." 
 
 " That isn't true," she said, "or he would not be goin' to 
 sing now." 
 
 " Of course, it is not true. I never thought it was. I can 
 quite understand that he would not care to risk his reputation 
 by singing when he was not up to the mark. A really great
 
 254 Hiinie 2>eane 
 
 artist cannot afford to do that. I see here that this is his only 
 appearance this season, so go you must." 
 
 " When is this concert ? " 
 
 " Oh, not for six weeks yet, the 3rd of February, I think. 
 Now, don't say you won't go, because you will, and there is an 
 end of it." 
 
 " I haven't said I wouldn't go," she said slowly, " for if 
 everything goes well, I will go, jest to hear your your Mr. 
 Le Quesne." 
 
 And then as Lin looked up at her with a pleased smile, she 
 turned and left the room, for suddenly and vividly, like any 
 girl of seventeen, she had blushed to the roots of her hair. 
 
 As the date of that concert drew nearer she lost more and 
 more of her self-possession, until the thought of it was a night- 
 mare. To " have to go " anywhere was always somewhat of a 
 trial to her quiet, retiring disposition, and the thought of the 
 crowded hall, the idea of sitting as one of the crowd to see the 
 man who had dominated her whole life, but to whom she was 
 less than nothing, so preyed upon her that it made her ill* 
 
 " I'll have to tell Lin I can't go," she thought, on the night of 
 the 2nd of February ; " for I can't, it's no good. The thought 
 of it have made me bad. I'll leave it to near the last hour, an' 
 then I'll tell him I'm not well, and that I can't go." 
 
 But Lin was not to be " done." He only laughed. 
 
 " Mother," he said, " I am quite prepared for that awful 
 announcement, but I am going to be brutal. I am going to 
 insist. I know all about your nerves, and after to-night I will 
 be at their mercy. But for this once I am not going to give 
 into them. You shall get into a cab at your own door, you 
 shall get out at the door of the hall. I will see you into your 
 seat, and I will come and fetch you out of it. But if I have to 
 carry you, you shall go." 
 
 She had to give in. 
 
 How she controlled herself sufficiently to sit quietly in that 
 cab, to let Lin help her out and pilot her through a crowd of 
 laughing, chattering people to her seat, to take possession of it 
 and smile as Lin nodded and left her, she never knew. It 
 seemed to her that through all the heavy demands life had 
 made upon her powers of endurance, they had never responded 
 so feebly as now. Her heart beat fast and heavily, her head 
 was going round. She closed her dim eyes and leaned back in 
 her chair. A ceaseless chatter was going on about her, which 
 would have amused her had she been able to listen to it. Even 
 Lin's professional name, spoken by a girl behind her, only
 
 place unto tbe IRew " 255 
 
 moved her with a dim sense of familiarity. She did not feel 
 curious as to what they might have to say about him. But as 
 the later comers surrounded her she began to feel sheltered 
 and to recover herself, to venture to raise her eyes and look 
 about her, to look at the occupants of the crowded gallery 
 through her opera-glasses, as her neighbours were doing. She 
 dropped the glasses in her lap with a start, as a burst of applause 
 greeted the appearance of two distinguished instrumentalists, 
 who came forward to open with a duet for piano and violin. 
 Annie found this duet dull and uninteresting, just a continuous 
 ripple of meaningless sound ; but the next item, a song by a 
 well-known baritone, she thought very nice. She even felt 
 sorry that Lin's voice was not strong and deep like that ; your 
 sonorous baritone or bass can usually command the admiration 
 of the crowd. After that came a lady, who moved Annie to 
 genuine wonder that a voice could be made to do so much and 
 say so little. Still, the lady was much applauded, and only by 
 dint of determination escaped having to sing again. Then 
 came Lin, quite at home and in excellent voice. A faultlessly 
 got-up young man on Annie's right at once undertook to 
 enlighten two girls of his party as to Mr. Warrener's private 
 affairs. 
 
 " He's an awfully decent chap, you know friend of mine 
 knows him well. Yes, he's one of the VVarreners well- 
 connected, and all that. You can see he's a gentleman at a 
 glance there's never any chance of making a mistake about 
 that, is there ? " 
 
 " Oh, never" responded one of the girls severely. 
 
 " He's awfully good-looking," said the other, with enthusiasm. 
 
 " Think so ? Well, it's a rum thing, but he's got a downright 
 striking look about him of the other tenor chap Le Quesne, 
 you know. They say he fancies himself on the strength of it 
 wears his hair and moustache in the same way, cultivates the 
 same mannerisms, and all that." 
 
 " Is not that rather foolish ? " asked the severe young lady. 
 " Such a challenge to comparison." 
 
 " Y-e-s. But he'll never be Le Quesne, you know hasn't 
 the quality nor the power either." 
 
 " How long before he comes on? I'm dying to hear him." 
 
 u Oh, some way down. Beastly long show, isn't it ? These 
 charitable concerns always are." 
 
 Here an indignant would-be listener turned and stared at the 
 chattering trio, with the effect of producing temporary silt- nee. 
 
 The next two items over, Annie clutched her opera-glasses
 
 356 Bnnie 2>eane 
 
 and sat upright. All about her was an air of expectant excite- 
 ment, and the well-informed young man on her right had burst 
 forth afresh with reliable information concerning Mr. Le 
 Quesne. 
 
 " He's the deuce an' all of a bad lot, you know. He was 
 going to marry Helen Le Breton, but all in a hurry she found 
 out that he had a wife living apart from him in some American 
 watering-place. I know a chap who has seen her. Le Quesne 
 never denied it. He was awfully gone on Le Breton, and she 
 on him. They say it jolly near killed her. Come along, now. 
 Where is he ? Hallo ! here he is." 
 
 " It is not he," said the severe young lady breathlessly. " It 
 is Mr. Warrener." 
 
 " Didn't I tell ou he was like him ? No, by Jove, it is 
 Warrener. Le Quesne's not turned up." 
 
 Annie took her hand from her eyes and looked up. There 
 stood Lin, in the midst of a hubbub of disappointed excitement, 
 patiently waiting to speak. 
 
 He did so with pardonable nervousness. He had been 
 desired by Mr. Le Quesne to say that, owing to indisposition 
 and a throat affection induced by sudden change of climate, 
 he felt unequal to singing " The Requital," for which he was 
 down on the programme. Rather than disappoint, he would 
 sing, but it would be at great personal inconvenience, and he 
 claimed the indulgence which a generous public would not 
 fail to extend to an old servant who had never had occasion to 
 ask it until now. 
 
 The cheering was loud and long. Lin retired, and in 
 another minute Mr. Le Quesne came on, outwardly self- 
 possessed, but, as those who were near him saw, very pale, with 
 the curious yellowish pallor of deep-seated physical trouble. 
 From out of the roar which greeted him, Annie heard a voice 
 behind her say triumphantly : 
 
 " What did I tell you ? Barnes bet me a fiver yesterday that 
 Le Quesne never sang another song ! He's been in the hands 
 of the German specialists for the last six months, and Helston, 
 his own doctor here " 
 
 The voice abruptly ceased as Le Quesne began his song. 
 
 Annie sat with her white lips tight set, and her opera-glasses 
 upheld. They were good glasses, and placed every line of the 
 singer's face at her mercy. 
 
 What was his voice to her? She was incapable of judging 
 whether it were good or bad, but his face had been with her 
 day and night for five-and-twenty years, or rather the face of a
 
 "<3lv>ina place unto tbe View" 257 
 
 man whom she supposed was he. Once and for ever let any 
 doubt concerning his identity be set at rest. Of a surety here 
 was the man. Something surged over her like a great wave of 
 passionate resentment and of impotent revolt. Oh, time ! oh, 
 pitiless, insatiable time ! which had so altered him ! He had 
 stood still with her, surrounded by the glamour of his gracious 
 youth. She had had but to close her eyes, and lo ! he was 
 before her, with his lithe length of shapely limb, his wavy brown 
 head, his sunburnt face and clear eyes, and laughing, low-toned 
 voice. And now ? Oh, this was not he ! He had walked 
 away in the low red sunlight of a summer evening years and 
 years ago, to be seen of the girl who loved him never more ! 
 
 " He, as I knowed him, is quite dead," thought Annie Deane, 
 as she watched his ghost with hungry eyes, " an' I, as he knowed 
 me, am dead too. We're old, that's all. My Lin's more like 
 him now than he is like himself." 
 
 She laid the opera-glasses quietly on her knees. He was 
 going off ; there was a roar of sound the whole house through. 
 Those who were at the back stood up. Annie heard loud cries, 
 and hand-clappings, and the usual beating of sticks and 
 umbrellas ; she saw hats and handkerchiefs wave ; she watched 
 him come back to the platform five times, the last time shaking 
 his head with a weary, unmirthful smile. He stood one 
 moment at the top of the stairs leading from the platform, 
 slowly shook his head again, bowed yet once more, then finally 
 disappeared. The clamour in front continued until some one 
 came forward and announced that Mr. Le Quesne had left the 
 hall. In the lull which followed, Annie heard the girls on her 
 right declaring that they did not remember ever having been so 
 disappointed in a singer before. 
 
 " It is difficult to believe that he can ever have been so very 
 wonderful," said the severe one languidly. " There is nothing 
 at all in his voice now, as far as my judgment goes." 
 
 " Well, there was," the knowing young man said ruefully. 
 " Ask anybody who has heard him ! Of course, there's no use 
 denying it, he's simply gone all to pieces ! " 
 
 " He looked very ill," the younger girl said gently. *' It was 
 good of him to sing, but I think he made a mistake, and did 
 himself injustice." 
 
 As he made his final bow to his generous audience, Lindsay 
 Le Quesne thought the same thing. Well, it was a mistake 
 made in a good cause, and had involved a sacrifice of self as 
 bitter as it was complete. 
 
 " I will sing for you if possible," he had said, two months 
 
 R
 
 258 Bnnie 2)eane 
 
 before, and he had kept his word, trusting perhaps too blindly 
 in the perfect gift which had been his so long. More than 
 once, quite recently, he had sung, feeling ill and by no means 
 sure of himself, and yet had shaken himself free and had made 
 his mark. But to-night he had made a mistake, the full 
 significance of which he might not stop to analyse at present. 
 Now, he had but one desire to get away and be alone. That, 
 and the natural instinct which forbids a man to show by as 
 much as a shrink or a quiver that he has lost, kept him out- 
 wardly self-possessed ; but he made no attempt to console 
 himself with any comfortable lie. Truth grim, ghastly, 
 pitiless loomed darkly between him and that applauding 
 crowd ; truth grim, ghastly, pitiless followed him down the 
 stairs, prepared to follow him henceforth whithersoever he 
 might go. Hitherto he had refused to look truth in the face ; 
 he knew now that he might refuse no longer. He must get 
 accustomed to her stern features, must make friends with them 
 must learn to smile at them as a brave man should. Well, 
 given breathing time, he knew himself to be not quite deficient 
 in pluck. Life, even with him, had not been all success. 
 He lingered half a minute to listen to the roar behind him. 
 When once he had passed out of earshot, that, too, would be 
 among the things that were done with. 
 
 He was sorely tempted to turn back and look at the kindly 
 crowd once more just for gratitude and old friendship's sake, 
 but he shrugged his shoulders and turned on his heel. Good- 
 byes are not so pleasant that one need prolong them. Better 
 to cut them short and go. Once out in the dark street once 
 up his own stairs, into his quiet room, there would be no 
 necessity for the smile which was a lie. 
 
 He stepped down into the passage leading to the artists' 
 rooms. But for having to get his coat, he reflected, he might 
 have got away without encountering any one. As he stood 
 hesitating, some one who had been standing in the shadow of 
 the staircase came forward. 
 
 " I have your coat here," said Lin Warrener. " I thought 
 you were not up to standing about talking to people. You 
 ought to get out of these draughts as quickly as possible." 
 
 He turned and looked at the speaker in ill-concealed annoy- 
 ance. He wanted no sympathy, spoken or implied. But Lin's 
 face, like his voice, exhibited none. It was quite unemotional, 
 not to say expressionless. And yet something in it attracted, 
 then riveted, Le Quesne's attention. 
 
 "Thank you," he said. " I shall be glad to get away. Let
 
 "6t\>fn0 place unto tbe IRew" 259 
 
 me see I think it was you who apologised for me? Again 
 thank you." 
 
 Lin assisted him with his coat in silence. 
 
 " Have you finished ? " 
 
 " No. I have another song ; not yet, though." 
 
 "A long programme to-night." 
 
 "Very. I suppose you have a cab or carriage waiting? 
 Shall I see?" 
 
 " No, I am walking. The night is fine, and my place not 
 two minutes' walk from here." 
 
 He stood, fastening his collar as he spoke, and looking at 
 Lin attentively. 
 
 " Do I know you ? " he said. " Your face strikes a chord in 
 my memory somewhere." 
 
 " Perhaps I can tell you how. I will get my coat and walk 
 up with you if I may unless, of course, you would rather be 
 alone." 
 
 Five minutes before he would rather have been alone, but 
 now he said : 
 
 " I am not so anxious for my own society. Come with me, 
 if you like." 
 
 Lin went. 
 
 " I can steal half an hour," he said cheerily, as he joined Le 
 Quesne in the street. " Now, let me account for you knowing 
 my face. Do you remember a noisy crowd of temporarily- 
 exiled Britons who once assembled at a station to have the 
 honour of wishing you God-speed ? " 
 
 " What, in Italy three four years ago? " 
 
 11 Yes." 
 
 " Indeed, I do remember ! It is just one of those things a 
 man is pleased to remember. So you were one of that happy 
 crowd. What good times you must have had over there ! " 
 
 "Yes. But, you see, it takes so little to make one happy 
 at one-and-twenty. Your ' Annabel Lee,' for instance, has 
 been a delightful memory ever since." 
 
 "Thank you once more; I am glad you heard me sing 
 before to-night, because you might have been persuaded that 
 reputations are made easily, whereas it is the other way about." 
 
 " I hope I keep that fact well in mind," Lin said, with a 
 laugh. " About your singing to-night you were not well, as 
 everyone knew, and an artist is not a machine that he should 
 1 go ' just because it is time to set him in motion." 
 
 " Ah, but he should be 1 An uncertain reputation is worse 
 than a bad one."
 
 Snnte S>eane 
 
 " That can't be a reliable opinion, coming from you, who 
 have never had either." 
 
 " I am afraid you are too sharp for me. So you are sure I 
 have not met you more than once ? " 
 
 " Quite sure." 
 
 " How long have you been singing ? " 
 
 " Rather more than two years." 
 
 "I did not hear your song, but I heard its reception. 
 Judging by that, you sing well." 
 
 " Nothing startling," said Lin cheerfully. " I shall never 
 be among the stars, so it is best to make up my mind to it." 
 
 "We have only your word for that; and, even if you are 
 right, I don't know that you need regret it much ; for, if you 
 fail to get very high, you won't have so far to fall when your 
 time comes." 
 
 There was no bitterness in the words, but Lin winced, and 
 said nothing in answer. As they passed a brilliantly-lighted 
 public-house, he felt he was being watched. 
 
 " I can't quite make this out," Le Quesne said, when they 
 had passed again into shadow. " I don't pretend to anything 
 remarkable in the way of remembering faces ; I have seen too 
 many, and I am sure I should not remember yours had I only 
 met you once in a crowd. I must have known somebody like 
 you." 
 
 " Very likely," said Lin, as they crossed the road. 
 
 " Here we are, and there is a strong light in my rooms, which 
 means that my friend Helston is waiting to pitch into me for 
 disobeying his orders. I shall have to own that I was wrong, 
 and that he was right. I hate being pitched into come in 
 and act as a buffer ? " 
 
 " I wish I might, but I must be getting back." 
 
 " Ah, I forgot. Well, you know where I live. Come and 
 see me ! Let me think, though. I believe they are getting up 
 a conspiracy to prevent me from talking, so I must not ask you 
 to martyrise yourself. Do you play cards or billiards ? " 
 
 "Both very badly." 
 
 " Then I am afraid I cannot offer you anything in the way 
 of entertainment. Still, I should like to hear you sing." Saying 
 which, he held out his hand. " Will you give me a look ? " 
 
 " I should like to immensely." 
 
 "Then by all means do. Come in presently when you 
 have finished." 
 
 " I would, but I am on domestic duty. I have to see my 
 mother home. She won't leave her seat until I go for her."
 
 "<3t\>ma place unto tbe TRCW 261 
 
 Le Quesne turned round on the step, feeling in his pocket 
 for his latch-key. 
 
 " Sure it is your mother?" said he drily. 
 
 "As sure as a man can be," was the answer, at which Le 
 Quesne laughed, and Lin turned back towards the hall, the 
 echo of that laugh jarring painfully upon him as he went. For 
 himself, he was in no laughing humour, being steeped to the 
 lips in a humiliation that was not his own. 
 
 " It is no business of mine," he told himself miserably, "and 
 I wouldn't have let him see that I felt it for the world ! But 
 I'd have given my head rather than he should have sung. He 
 need not have sung. His name had filled the place, and the 
 funds would not have suffered. By George ! he suffered. I 
 couldn't have stood there and smiled at defeat as he did. He 
 bore it like a brick, and never made a sign. I wonder what 
 he will feel like when he is left alone to-night. / should feel 
 like putting a bullet into my head. For he has had his day. 
 He is done for, and he knows it. I wish I had not to go on 
 again. He has taken all the pluck out of me for to-night"
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 "MY MOTHER MR. LE QUESNE " 
 
 " SHALL we walk or ride nome ? " asked Lin of his mother, 
 when it was all over. 
 
 " I'd rather walk, dear please." 
 
 " It's a longish walk, and it is late." 
 
 " Just as you like, only I'm tired of sitting." 
 
 Which was but half a truth ; the whole being that she was 
 athirst for information, and was relying upon the walk home 
 to give it her. Lin, however, was extremely quiet. He did 
 not refer to the concert at all did not even ask if she had 
 enjoyed it. This told her there was something wrong. At 
 last she could bear the silence no longer. If Lin did not mean 
 to say anything about the man he had expressly taken her to 
 hear, why, she must. She could not eat her heart out in 
 unbearable suspense. 
 
 " How wus it that you come on to say that to-night, dear ? " 
 
 " Oh, it was in this way : Both conductors shirked it. One 
 because he has very little English, and would have made a 
 fearful hash of saying anything ; the other because he is as 
 nervous as a girl, and when he is flurried always stammers. 
 They wrangled behind in a way so comical that I was enjoying 
 it until I happened to look at Mr. Le Quesne. He was 
 evidently too ill to be kept waiting about while they settled 
 matters at their leisure. I rather impertinently, I am 
 afraid went to his rescue." 
 
 " What is the matter with him ? " 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " Much, would you think ? " 
 
 " I really could not say." 
 
 " But you talked to him ? " 
 
 " Yes. I walked as far as his house with him, and promised 
 to call." 
 
 She drew away from Lin's arm, and clenched her impatient 
 hands in the folds of her dress. The announcement was such 
 a startling one, and Lin made it in such a matter-of-fact way. 
 
 262
 
 flDotber /fcr. Xe <fcuesne" 263 
 
 Judging by his manner, he might have been calling upon Mr. 
 Le Quesne all his life. 
 
 " What made you do that ? " 
 " Because he asked me." 
 
 She gave a quick, sharp sigh. If only she dared have stopped 
 and have cried, " Tell me every word that man said to you, and 
 every word you said to him, or I shall go mad," she would have 
 done it, for it seemed to her that Lin was answering her shortly 
 for the purpose. But she restrained herself. He could not 
 have any suspicion yet, and if she asked too many questions 
 he would surely begin to wonder. 
 
 " I heard a lot o' people just round me talkin' about him," 
 she said presently. 
 
 " Yes, they always do. They know more about every public 
 man than he knows about himself." 
 
 " They wus sayin* he had a wife in America." 
 "Well, that he may have. I don't know. After all my 
 ravings about his voice, I am afraid you were disappointed." 
 
 " I don't understand voices," she said, with irritation, " you 
 know I don't. It's no use astin' me about singin'. The people 
 next me was disappointed ; they said so." 
 
 " Did they suppose he wanted to disappoint them ? Do they 
 think their disappointment matched his ? It is easy enough to 
 find fault with an artist who lets his good-nature run away with 
 his judgment, but it is not very kind." 
 
 "I don't think they meant it unkind," she said, and they 
 walked on in silence again until they were near home. 
 
 " You'll call an' see how he is, won't you ? " she ventured then. 
 " Oh, certainly ! " 
 "When? To-morrow?" 
 " If I have time." 
 
 " I'd make time. It'll look bad if you don't go soon." 
 She ascended the steps as she spoke, passed into the house 
 in front of Lin, then went straight up to her own room. As 
 she turned up the gas and caught sight of herself she started. 
 Her cheeks were scarlet, and her large-pupiled eyes brilliant 
 with inward fire. She dared not face her son like that. She 
 sent word by her little maid, who had stayed up to attend to 
 Mr. Holt, that she could not come down to supper that she 
 w\s very tired. 
 
 But she only loosed her heavy hair and walked up and down 
 her room, muttering excitedly to herself: 
 
 " There's something wrong with him something that's cruel 
 bad. I can tell that by Lin's manner. He won't say no more
 
 264 Hnnic 2Dcauc 
 
 than he can help ; he doesn't when anything's touched him 
 deep. He's that fond of him ! he fired up about them people 
 bein' disappointed as if it had been hisself ! Can it ever be 
 true that they two are gettin' friendly ? Oh, what will I do if 
 they do? An' what will I do if they don't? Either way it'll 
 drive me mad." 
 
 
 
 When Lin went to bed that night it was with the fixed in- 
 tention of calling at Mr. Le Quesne's rooms the next day. 
 But somehow the next day things appeared in such a different 
 light that he could scarcely believe his impressions of the 
 previous night reliable. It all seemed so improbable. Le 
 Quesnethe familiar becameagain Le Quesne the unapproachable, 
 hedged about by the formidable barrier of his own greatness. 
 
 " What was it all but a mistake ? " thought Lin. " He was 
 ill and down in the mouth, as a man is when he is queer. I 
 had a cheek to offer to go home with him ! I wish I hadn't 
 now. I shan't call. He is somebody in the world, and lives 
 in an uncommonly swell part of it. I am nobody, and have 
 no right even to leave a card at his door with a name upon it 
 which is not mine. If he remembers me, he can easily find 
 me out." 
 
 It happened that as Lin went up Oxford Street that day he 
 met Cliffe Hayter, the baritone whose voice had made such an 
 impression upon Annie. Lin knew him slightly, and they 
 stopped. 
 
 "Shocking thing this about Le Quesne," Hayter said at 
 once. " I was not altogether unprepared for it, but it's terribly 
 hard on a man of forty-six ! " 
 
 Lin nodded, preferring to say nothing. 
 
 " For a man at the top of the tree, too, he's always been 
 yery civil to everybody." 
 
 " So I have understood." 
 
 " You don't know him personally ? " 
 
 " Not at present. He asked me last night to call upon him, 
 and I said I would." 
 
 Hayter smiled. 
 
 "Ah, that is understood, you know. That is his way 
 of showing that he doesn't put ' side ' on. Now I don't want 
 to offer you advice, but you are a young hand, and in the 
 matter of general invitations from ' big ' people, it is better to 
 use a little discretion than to run the risk of kicking your 
 heels while a lackey inspects your visiting-card, or tells you 
 that there is no one at home."
 
 flfcotber fl&r* Xe <Huesne" 265 
 
 The sensitive blood tinged Lin's face, but he calmly agreed 
 with Mr. Hayter, and instead of going where he had honestly 
 intended to go, turned in another direction. Hayter might 
 have an unpleasant way of giving advice, but the advice itself 
 was sound, or seemed so to Lin. 
 
 His mother let him alone until supper-time ; then, with the 
 innocent air of one who suddenly remembers a thing, she said : 
 
 " Have you heard how Mr. Le Quesne is to-day ? " 
 
 "I have not." 
 
 " I thought you was goin' to call." 
 
 " I was, but somehow I don't think I will. Unequal friend- 
 ships are not desirable. They are sure to drop off and leave a 
 rankle behind." 
 
 " But he ast you to go, an' you said you would." 
 
 " I know. I am told it is his custom to give invitations in 
 that way. I am advised to use discretion in the matter of 
 accepting mine." 
 
 "Told! Advised!" She was pale and excitable. "You 
 said you'd go, an' outside people's advice didn't ought to make 
 you break your word" 
 
 Lin looked up, surprised. Annie did not flinch. She felt 
 this to be a matter of principle, upon which she might venture 
 to insist. Knowing her, Lin unden>tood, or thought he did. 
 
 " You are right," he said. " I will keep my word. I will 
 go." 
 
 And the following day, with an uncomfortable sense of im- 
 pending humiliation, he presented himself at Mr. Le Quesne's 
 door. 
 
 The man who answered it inspected him leisurely. Yes, Mr. 
 Le Quesne was in, but was not seeing anyone at present, not 
 even intimate friends ; was forbidden to do so by his medical 
 advisers. Even they the servants in the house had in- 
 structions to assist in the rigid enforcement of the order, " No 
 visitors." 
 
 Lin took a card, scribbled " With kind inquiries " under his 
 name, and having handed it to the solemn guardian of Mr. Le 
 Quesne's privacy, went away. 
 
 "That's done with," said he, trying not to feel snubbed. 
 " I've kept my word, and to-morrow I shall be off for the rest 
 of the week." 
 
 Annie was at once relieved and disappointed when she 
 heard the result of that call. 
 
 By the following Sunday Lin was at home again, and in the 
 evening accompanied his mother to the last of some Lenten
 
 266 Bnnie Deanc 
 
 services held in a West End church. When it was over, and 
 they came out upon the crowded pavement, he turned round 
 in answer to a touch on his shoulder from behind. 
 
 " Is it possible ? " said he in surprise, with Le Quesne's hand 
 in his own. " I'm " He was going to say " Awfully glad 
 to see you," but pulled himself up and said, "How-do-you-do?" 
 instead, at which the curiously kind expression in Mr. Le 
 Quesne's eyes deepened into a smile. He had grown used to 
 reading people, and he read Lin very easily. He did not 
 answer the conventional question. 
 
 " Is it not cold for you to be out ? " 
 
 " I'm not supposed to be out, but I had the blues indoors, 
 and couldn't stand them." 
 
 " And a bad cold, too ? " 
 
 " No. I am a bit hoarse, that's all. Are you alone ? " 
 
 " I have my mother with me, but she seems to have 
 disappeared." 
 
 " Still the same mother ? " 
 
 " On my honour ! I must go in search of her." 
 
 " Find her, and walk to the end with me." 
 
 Lin had some difficulty in carrying out the first part of 
 this order. His mother was nowhere to be seen. 
 
 "Well, this is odd!" muttered he to himself impatiently, 
 turning back into the shadowy churchyard, " whereon earth " 
 
 " Here I am," said Annie faintly, stepping out from the 
 shelter of the church porch. " Is is he gone ? " 
 
 " No ; I am going to walk part of the way back with him. 
 Come along. What made you run away like that ? " 
 
 "You go," she said, desperately resisting all Lin's efforts to 
 put his arm through hers. " I shan't come with you. I can't, 
 Lin I can't ! No no you go alone ! He didn't see me. 
 Go quick ! I couldn't come not for the world ! " 
 
 " But why ? And he did see you. He sent me back for 
 you. What on earth is there in him that you should make 
 this extraordinary fuss ? " 
 
 He spoke sharply in his impatience. 
 
 " I'm not makin' a fuss," she said, pressing back harder than 
 ever against the wall, " on'y you know I never speaks to 
 strangers I can't. You never ast me to." 
 
 " But for once I do ask you. Come along ! " 
 
 " I can't ! You go with him an' leave me." 
 
 " How the dickens can I do that ? Do you know we are 
 keeping him standing in the cold, and he is as hoarse as a 
 raven ? You need not say half-a-dozen words if you don't
 
 flDotber flDr* Xe (Stuesne " 267 
 
 want to ; but come you must, unless you want me to look like 
 a" 
 
 " Fool," he was going to say, but remembered that he was 
 losing his temper, and checked himself. 
 
 " Now, no nonsense," he said coaxingly. " It is nothing but 
 that. Come along to please me." 
 
 She gave in silently, suffering him to put his arm through hers 
 and draw her forward she shaking like a leaf the while to 
 where the object of her terrible dread stood patiently waiting. 
 
 " Mr. Le Quesne my mother," said Lin then simply, 
 whereupon the gentleman lifted his hat, and the small, closely- 
 veiled woman bent her head, but uttered never a word, so 
 terrified was she. For the whole length of a long street 
 they three walked abreast, Annie in the middle, her arm 
 sometimes brushing Mr. Le Quesne's coat-sleeve as the crowd 
 jostled them, her head almost on a level with his shoulder. 
 To her it was an experience alike divine and terrible, for the 
 touch and presence of him woke in her so much that it had 
 been her daily task to subdue, and the dread of recognition 
 had her in an iron grip. It seemed to her impossible that he 
 could walk by her side and not know her. Why, she would 
 have known him, living or dead, among a thousand. He bent 
 towards her two or three times and spoke to her, but her 
 tremulous, faint answers intimated to him that she was an 
 extremely shy woman, and one in particular stamped her as 
 uneducated, comprehending which, he considerately let her 
 alone, and talked to Lin. 
 
 Once he caught sight of her face as they passed a lamp, and 
 the same sense of familiarity which Lin had stirred in him 
 moved him afresh, and puzzled him because he could not "fix" 
 it. 
 
 At the corner of the street they all stood, she well back in 
 the shadow of the wall. 
 
 "Come in," Mr. Le Quesne said cordially. " I'm all alone." 
 
 " Not to-night, thank you," from Lin. " We are expected 
 home by nine." 
 
 Annie spoke up suddenly. 
 
 " / am ; you're not." 
 
 " No, no ; I couldn't let you go back alone." 
 
 " I know the way, an' I don't mind at all." 
 
 "Nonsense, Mrs. Warrener," Le Quesne said hastily, "I 
 could not hear of such a thing. If you will not come in, send 
 your escort back to me when you have done with him." 
 
 " I'll do that," she said at once. " He shall come."
 
 268 annie Deane 
 
 Mr. Le Quesne bade her a courteous "Good-night," while 
 two hands which had not met for five-and-twenty years lay in 
 each other for a second or two, and in one heart a long- 
 smouldering fire burst into burning flame. This might be but 
 the faint-hued ghost of the brilliant figure she had kept so 
 carefully embalmed from decay in the secret cells of her 
 memory, but better this than any living man the whole world 
 through ! Other men might be as men to other women ; for 
 her there had never lived but one. When she and Lin had 
 walked a few yards she stopped. 
 
 " Go back an' catch him up," she said peremptorily ; " I'm 
 goin' home alone." 
 
 " I could not do that. I will come back later on." 
 
 " Go back now. He likes you. You can't tell what good it 
 might do you to know him. I should have made you go with 
 him, but you know i d jn't like strangers to hear me talk. Go 
 back now." 
 
 "But, mother, he will not think any the more of me for 
 leaving you to go to him." 
 
 "Say I made you go to please me. Don't vex me, dear go 
 back. He's all alone ; he said so." 
 
 Lin, surprised but willing, went back, overtaking Le Quesne 
 at his own door. 
 
 " My mother insisted," explained he, laughing. " She is a 
 small person, but resolute ; so I had to give way. She is quite 
 at home in London, and, as I am so much away, has often to 
 walk without escort." 
 
 " I feel like a brute to her, but a grateful one. Come 
 up." 
 
 " I feel worse than a brute," Lin said, as he followed his 
 host into a room where everything from end to end was beauty. 
 " You are forbidden to talk. I shall be tempting you to break 
 through restrictions which can only be imposed upon you for 
 your own good." 
 
 Le Quesne turned up the lamps. 
 
 " They impose restrictions for the sake of appearing to do 
 something, whereas there is nothing to be done. If you 
 don't mind being talked to in whispers (it exasperates me), there 
 is nothing else of consequence. Sit down and have a smoke." 
 
 Lin sat down. Le Quesne stood with his back to the 
 fire and lit a cigarette. 
 
 "My people made a mistake the other day," he said, 
 blowing rings of smoke upward, " I told one of the girls to tell 
 Harker that when Mr. Warrener called I wanted to see. him.
 
 /I&otber /lDr Xe <&uesne " 269 
 
 Whether she forgot or whether it was a conspiracy, I don't 
 know." 
 
 "It was explained to me; and, of course, it was quite right." 
 
 " It was wrong. / asked you to come. Why did you not 
 insist upon Harker letting me know you were here ? " 
 
 " I scarcely think I could have ' insisted ' when he told me 
 you were denying yourself to your own friends." 
 
 " Who are they ? " he said, with a shrug. " Why now own 
 up and tell me the truth why did you not call the day after 
 that concert? And why, when you did call, did you take a 
 servant's word rather than mine ? " 
 
 "That is severe," said Lin, trying not to turn red, "and 
 and oh, hang it all! I dare say you know without being 
 told." 
 
 He took his cigarette from his mouth, and gave Lin one keen 
 look of unmistakable approval. 
 
 " That's better," said he. " Right. I do know. As far as I 
 am concerned, don't do it again." 
 
 " I won't. But do you know that I had a rap or two over 
 the knuckles about my impudence in apologising for you the 
 other night ? One or two people assured me that I had made 
 not only a mistake but an impertinent mistake." 
 
 " The ' raps ' were administered by people who were jealous, 
 and, in consequence, spiteful. You should have laughed at 
 that. Don't you see that you are making your mark, and that 
 until you have made it the noble army of incapables will cry 
 you down ? After you have made it they will be the first to 
 cringe. Take no notice of them now or then. Stay, though ; 
 I must not try to make you enemies, now that it is out of my 
 power to make you many friends." 
 
 He smoked for a minute or two in silence, then went on, 
 speaking with an odd mixture of graciousness and straight- 
 forward simplicity which Lin afterwards described to his mother 
 as " fascinating." 
 
 " I am interested in you, not only because you are a singer, 
 but because, if my impressions go for anything, you have 
 qualities which in a young man are even rarer than good tenor 
 voices. You are kind-hearted, and not ashamed to show it ; 
 also you trot your mother about, which looks well for your 
 morals. May I be impertinent enough to ask how old you 
 are?" 
 
 " Nearly twenty-four." 
 
 " An age at which most fellows are neither ' fish, flesh, fowl, 
 nor good red-herring.' Who is responsible for your training?"
 
 270 Snnie H>eane 
 
 "My mother." 
 
 He looked immensely surprised. 
 
 " What, the little woman I saw to-night ?" 
 
 " The same." 
 
 "Is it possible? Of course, she had assistance." 
 
 "Answering for myself, I might tell you none. She would 
 tell you she had the assistance of God. I feel that I have no 
 right to answer you in any other way, because she would not 
 like it. To her, this is a simple truth a reality." 
 
 "It is, I think, to every good woman. It is the splendid 
 faith of good women that keeps the world going. Pity it is 
 that they are so rare. Do you know that you have been very 
 fortunate? And yet, knowing well the value of sincerity in our 
 lives, you let Marker deny me to you. How was that ? " 
 
 Lin winced. 
 
 "You are going deep," he said. "A man may know the 
 value of sincerity too well to expect to find it in every fresh 
 acquaintance." 
 
 " He might put his fresh acquaintances to the test on the 
 chance of finding it." 
 
 " You are very merciless." 
 
 " And you are much too sensitive. Sensitiveness in a man 
 is a drawback. It prevents him getting on in the world. 
 Others who are without it get to the front while he is wondering 
 whether or not it is bad taste to give his neighbour a push." 
 
 "I am afraid I can't alter my nature. Besides, you have 
 outlived diffidence. I have not. You do not consider per- 
 haps do not even know that the petty conventionalities the 
 Harkers of life are mighty to those who are not initiated." 
 
 " It is odd to me that they should be so to any man who 
 feels his own value." 
 
 "There you are. You know yours. I have to find out 
 what mine is. I might have called here again, but have been 
 away since Thursday." 
 
 " I know. I saw where you were singing, and I thought as 
 I looked at the name that it was as familiar to me as your face. 
 I knew some Warreners once. Their place was next to my 
 uncle's, just outside Warwick. Are you in any way connected 
 with them?" 
 
 " In no way," said Lin, with emphasis. " I have not a 
 single relative whose name is Warrener." 
 
 And again he felt that conventionalities are mighty, and that 
 snobbery is mightier. Mr. Le Quesne evidently accepted him 
 for a gentleman that is, for the son of a gentleman. He took
 
 jflDotber flDr* Xe Cfcuesne" 27 
 
 his birth for granted first, and invited him to his rooms after- 
 wards. The pause threatened to become awkward. Lin sat 
 thinking, the colour wavering in his face as he tried to decide 
 how to settle the difficulty in front of him. He felt ashamed 
 of himself that it should be a difficulty at all. Clearly it was 
 his duty to accept no man's hospitality in masquerade. He 
 felt that Le Quesne was not the man to think any the 
 better of him for doing that. But then it was so easy for 
 one man to talk of another's " value " when his own was a 
 matter of universal acceptance. All very well for him to say, 
 " What are the barriers of conventionality to me ? " He might 
 venture to ignore them, having his passport of " birth." Lin 
 had no such talisman, and to-night he chafed a little at the 
 barred gates. Le Quesne stood watching him with keen 
 interest. 
 
 " What is it now ? " he said gently ; " another Harker in the 
 way ? " 
 
 " Something worse than Harker. This : I cannot come here 
 allowing you to think me other than I am. I am not a 
 ' gentleman,' as the term goes, and have no wish to pass for one. 
 Until I was thirteen I earned my living in a very humble way. 
 After that I went into a City office. But for the kindness of an 
 old friend of my mother's, I could not have been where I am 
 now. He found the money whicn sent me to Italy, and gave 
 me my chance. I feel compelled to tell you this, because I 
 dislike to enjoy any man's friendship under false colours. For 
 the rest, I think it is no man's business but my own. Indeed, 
 if I told you more I should be betraying private matters not 
 my own at all." 
 
 " Well," Le Quesne said, with a tone in his voice that was 
 something more than kind, " and what are we leading up to ? " 
 
 " Simply to a clear understanding. I don't wish to deceive 
 you. I am not of your order, and I have no wish to come here 
 as if I were." 
 
 Saying which he stood up, and looked his new friend in 
 the face. 
 
 "I see. Well," going close and stretching out his hand, 
 " will you come here to please me ? " 
 
 Lin's old pleasant manner turned at once. 
 
 " Why, no," said he, with a happy touch of audacity as his 
 hand met Le Quesne's in a close, firm clasp ; " I will come here 
 to please myself." 
 
 " Bravo ! As far as I am concerned, you may put your 
 sensitive pride in your pocket, I think better of you for
 
 *7 a n ufc Deane 
 
 having it, because it is a part of every true artist's composition ; 
 and though, as I say, it often stands in a man's way, it gains for 
 him the appreciation of the very few whose appreciation matters. 
 It is rather an odd thing that, being so sensitive, you have so 
 little fear of the naked truth. Sensitiveness sometimes afflicts 
 the moral constitution with a sort of spinal disease. Did you 
 know that I could preach ? I must have been making myself 
 unpleasant. I have been prying into your private affairs, and 
 moralising, to boot. Well, a man with one foot in the grave is 
 privileged. He may be as objectionable as he likes ; nobody 
 grumbles." 
 
 An icy shiver ran through Lin. 
 
 "I shall do more than grumble," said he blankly ; "if you 
 talk like that I shall bolt." 
 
 " Yes ? That is the way of most men. I can't bolt, you see. 
 In any case, I must stay and face it." 
 
 " But it isn't true," said Lin, with stiffening lips. " It can't 
 be true." 
 
 " It is true. I got Helston up in a corner yesterday and 
 wrung the truth out of him. I believe it hurt him more than 
 it hurt me. No man has more than his day, you know, 
 Warrener, and I have had an uncommonly pleasant one. I'm 
 not ungrateful. But because of this I go out when I am told 
 to stay in, and I smoke when I am told not to smoke. I 
 would rather live comfortably for six months than dismally for 
 twelve. Wouldn't you ? " 
 
 Lin pitched his cigarette in the fire, and was dumb. 
 
 " Now perhaps you will understand that ' conventionalities ' 
 matter nothing to me. They never did matter much. When 
 you have seen life in all parts of the world you don't stop t6 
 ask a man for his pedigree before you shake hands with him." 
 
 Lin walked across the room to look at a picture. 
 
 " It is bad form to talk to you like this," Le Quesne said 
 cheerfully. " You are young, with everything good in front of 
 you. Youth hates misfortune, or disease, or death it is 
 natural enough." 
 
 " But such things are." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " And we know they are." 
 
 u That is so ; but we show them a clean pair of heels when 
 we can. Now, I believe you to be far above the common run 
 of men ; but when I tell you that I have to die, you threaten 
 to bolt." 
 
 Lin walked back to the fire.
 
 flDotber flDr. %c <&uesne" 273 
 
 "You startled me," he said quietly ; " but I will not bolt if 
 you will let me stay." 
 
 " Not if I talk horrors and give you the blues ? " 
 
 " Talk what you like. If this is true, as I hope to God it is 
 not, of what else should you talk ? It must be always in front 
 of you it is the one thing which is real to you. To talk of a 
 trouble sometimes lightens it, and to tell a man to eat his heart 
 out in silence that another man may be more comfortable is 
 surely brutal, isn't it ? But the worst of it is, I shan't be able 
 to do anything for you, and that," finished Lin, with a 
 suspicion of a break in his voice, " will be hard." 
 
 Le Quesne laughed. 
 
 "You shall bear me company," he said, "and I will promise 
 you to keep the skull and cross-bones out of sight. Will you 
 sing to me ? " 
 
 " Of course ; but I am afraid I shall sing badly. I would 
 rather sing to all the newspaper critics at once than to you." 
 
 He sang very well, and in five minutes his new friend knew 
 what he was worth. 
 
 " Do you mind being told that you have not a spark of the 
 ' divine fire' ? Not that you need regret that, for it burns one 
 out too soon ; but you have a voice that will serve you well and 
 faithfully. I can be of some service to you, I think, although 
 my singing days are over." 
 
 Lin was very late in reaching Merryon Square ; but 
 late as it was, his mother had not gone to bed. She gained 
 nothing, however, by sitting up, for Lin was exasperatingiv 
 uncommunicative.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 LIN MAKES A PROMISE 
 
 IT was a bleak day in March. 
 
 Lindsay Le Quesne, lounging idly in his big chair by a 
 cheery fire, was indulging in silent soliloquy, a form of amuse- 
 ment which had lately grown upon him. For lately he had 
 had something to think about, something interesting enough 
 to put in the background even that ever-nearing end of every- 
 thing which he had grown to contemplate not quite unheroically. 
 He looked up as the clock chimed, rose to his feet, paced the 
 long room a bit, easily tired of it, and dropped into the big 
 chair again, with his face to the darkening windows and his 
 thoughts running ever in the same groove. He was thinking 
 of Lin Warrener, who, since that Sunday evening three weeks 
 before, had often been with him, sometimes staying but a short 
 time, sometimes staying half the day and far into the night, 
 and always making himself thoroughly at home. 
 
 " I can't make this out," thought Le Quesne to himself 
 for the fiftieth time ; " can't quite see why I should have become 
 so attached to him. I don't remember ever being attached to 
 a man before. I have had plenty of friends, good fellows and 
 true, for whom I would have done anything reasonable, and 
 who, I believe, would have done anything reasonable for me. 
 But this is a different thing. When Warrener comes into this 
 room it affects me physically ; so does the touch of his hand. 
 It sets my nerves quivering. I feel as if I had lived before, and 
 in that other life had known him. I can only put it down to 
 that ghastly idea which I have not the pluck to set at rest. Now, 
 clearly this is foolery. I will prove that in the very next talk I 
 have with him. I can't think why I have not cleared it all up 
 before. Three or four times I have screwed myself to the pitch 
 of asking him about his name, and at the last minute my heart 
 has given way. T have been so afraid of his answer that I have 
 turned sick, like a fainting girl. Once he saw it, and just saved 
 my senses by giving me brandy and opening the window. I've 
 got past mental excitement it kills me, but I must know. 
 
 74
 
 Xin /l&afces a promise 275 
 
 The thing is at once so possible and so impossible ! He does 
 not disown the name of Warrener, but I feel sure it is not his. 
 He is nearly twenty-four. He bears a curious, but very 
 unmistakable resemblance to me. He is as close as the grave 
 about his family affairs, and, although he often talks of 
 his mother, I have never heard him mention his " 
 
 He gave a shiver, and covered his eyes with his hands, as 
 if to shut something out. 
 
 " It all fits in, but it can't be anything more than sheer 
 coincidence. . . . His age? That goes for nothing. His 
 likeness to me ? I have seen chance likenesses just as striking. 
 His voice? History proves that remarkable voices are not 
 hereditary. Still, I can't get away from the thought. Why, 
 as that little fair-haired woman walked beside me that night, 
 did something about her send me cold? Why did her frightened 
 eyes and her purposely-lowered voice conjure up before me a 
 Berkshire wood on a wet summer night, and a man who fled 
 out of it as from a thousand devils? Oh, this will turn my 
 hair gray ! " He got up and paced the room, muttering, 
 " Warrener loves her, which he would not do if she were not 
 worth it. He speaks of her as of one whose principles are 
 quite above suspicion. Is it possible for the little rustic I once 
 knew to have bred a son like Warrener? I doubt it. For 
 Warrener is the right sort is straight. All his ideas seem to 
 have been drawn from that which is pure ; he seems to have 
 shot upward to the light as naturally as a young tree 
 that is left to Nature, and unspoiled by what is known as culti- 
 vation. And yet, in spite of this, the stamp of gentlemanhood is 
 upon all he says and does a stamp which, by the way, he 
 repudiates with a certain touch of fierceness. When I said 
 something the other day about a 'gentleman,' his mouth 
 hardened, and the first approach to anything like a sneer that I 
 have seen in him came across his face. What harm has a 
 ' gentleman ' done him f I should not judge him to be vin- 
 dictive. I have never come across a nature at once so manly 
 and so affectionate. It is this which attracts me. Most young 
 fellows in the presence of illness are like the proverbial cat 
 on hot bricks. They hate it ; they are awkward and out of 
 place ; they would as soon be shot as go where it is. But 
 when Helston and the others had been knocking me about 
 last Thursday, and had left me vilely ill and wretched, 
 my youngster happened to look in. There was nothing of the 
 cat on hot bricks about him. He stuck to me with the pluck 
 and coolness of a doctor, and with more than the tenderness
 
 276 Hnnie Deanc 
 
 of a woman. So far from having any wish to get out of it, he 
 stayed because he wanted to stay, because if there were anything 
 to be done for me he would rather do it than let anyone else. It 
 may be odd, but it is true. No one has ever cared a straw about 
 me since she threw me over ; no one has touched me or looked 
 at me as my youngster does since she used to sit on the arm 
 of my chair and put her arms round my neck, and make a 
 hopeless fool of me ! I have had a good many things worth 
 having since then, but never a scrap of genuine affection. 
 Therefore am I grateful to Warrener, who offers it to me now. 
 I wonder if she has made a fool of any man since ? No, at 
 least I may concede her that; I know she hasn't. It is 
 eighteen years since she sent me adrift, and yet if I know her 
 I say 'if she loves me to this day. If I were to write to 
 her I say 'if again and say, 'Nell, I am dying, and I'm 
 very lonely, will you come to me ? ' I should have but to know 
 where she was to know how long it would be before she was 
 with me. I am not likely to write, for she killed in me all that 
 was worthy to live. Having raised me to Heaven, she dashed 
 me down to to earth. Not lower than that, thank God 
 no, not lower ! I was only lower than that once ; which 
 recollection brings me back to Warrener. Ah ! " 
 
 He stretched out his hand and touched a bell. A trim girl 
 answered it. 
 
 " Will you get me a North London Directory ? " 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 A few minutes later the book was forthcoming. 
 
 " May I light your lamps, sir ? " 
 
 "Thank you." 
 
 This done, Mr. Le Quesne opened the Directory, and turned 
 to Merryon Square. 
 
 "No. 19 No. 19 here we are: 'Thomas William Holt.' 
 Are there two 19*8 ? No ? Then who the deuce is Thomas 
 William Holt? and what has he to do with Warrener?" 
 
 He threw the book on a chair, and going over to a little 
 table, tossed about a heap of visiting-cards until he came to the 
 one he wanted. 
 
 " Mr. Lin Warrener, 
 19, Merryon Square, Cam den Road, N.W." 
 
 " Lin ! Lin ! What an odd thing that his name should be 
 an abbreviation of mine ! Is that coincidence, like his unevenly- 
 set eyes ? Yes, seeing that that girl never knew what my name 
 was, it must be coincidence."
 
 Xin fl&aftes a promise 277 
 
 He threw himself down afresh in the big, luxurious chair, and, 
 lying back, closed his eyes, but still could not shut out that 
 haunting dread. 
 
 " Did I not go down there ? Do I not know that the girl 
 went to Canada, and that the child died ? Whose word have 
 I for that ? The word of Mrs. Drake, who may have been 
 genuine, and who may not. I was wrong. I ought to have 
 sifted the matter to the bottom ; I ought to have had proof, and 
 been content with nothing less. Well, I must get it now, and 
 the dread of what such proof may mean is shortening my 
 life." 
 
 As, indeed, it was. He looked desperately ill as he lay back 
 there with closed eyes, and his hands, as they rested on the 
 arms of his chair, trembled visibly. These signs did not escape 
 the notice of some one who, entering quietly, bent down and 
 looked at him. 
 
 He felt the presence, and looked up with a start. 
 
 " My dear lad, I did not hear you." 
 
 " No. I knocked, but came in quietly then, thinking you 
 might be asleep. Did I startle you ? " 
 
 " No ! " 
 
 " Feeling ill ? You look so, and worried." 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 "That must be because I thought you had deserted me. 
 Isn't it late?" 
 
 " Yes. I was humbugged about the first part of the day, 
 and then, as I was near some old friends of mine at Brixton, I 
 looked in, and could not get away." 
 
 " Have I not heard you speak of your Brixton friends 
 before?" 
 
 "I expect you have. They were friends to me when I wanted 
 friendship ; they understood me and sympathised with me 
 when even my mother failed to give me comprehension or 
 sympathy." 
 
 " What were you doing then ? " 
 
 " I was a clerk in a City office, and desperately discontented 
 and wretched." 
 
 " Wretched ? I don't like to think of you being that. Will 
 you tell me about your early life? Go back as far as you like 
 you won't bore me." 
 
 Unsuspicious Lin went back to the shop at Brixton. His 
 companion listened attentively, but took the first opportunity 
 of interrupting. 
 
 " You say you were eleven when you went to Brixton ? *
 
 278 Hnnte 2>eane 
 
 "About that, I think, or rather over." 
 
 " Where were you before that ? " 
 
 11 At St. Saviour's Schools." 
 
 Le Quesne's throat was very dry, and he spoke with diffi- 
 culty ; but Lin, grown used to his husky voice, did not notice 
 that it was more so than usual. 
 
 "Are not those Schools for for -fatherless lads?" 
 
 "There are many such there, but I don't think it is a 
 ' condition.' " 
 
 He moved in his chair, and, bending forward, buried his 
 face in his hands. " Were you a fatherless lad ? " was surely 
 an easy question to ask, but for his life he could not ask it. 
 Lin's former remark, "If I told you more, I should be expos- 
 ing affairs which are not my own," came back to him now 
 with a curious meaning. He steadied himself and said : 
 
 " You are a Londoner, then ? I did not think your mother 
 spoke like one." 
 
 "I am a Londoner yes, but my mother is a Berkshire 
 woman." 
 
 He sat very still, while the room went round with him, and 
 the cheery lamps, receding, left him in a dark mist that lay cold 
 and wet upon his forehead like a clammy hand. He felt for 
 the arms of his chair and clutched them hard, fighting 
 desperately for calmness and self-possession. Now this 
 matter must be cleared up. One more point was cleared up. 
 What nonsense ! Was there but one woman in all Berkshire ? 
 Truly, when a man's physical forces failed him, he was at the 
 mercy of nerves and womanish fancies ! He would reconnoitre 
 a bit, and give himself time before he put the question which 
 would settle everything. 
 
 " Any water there, Lin ? " 
 
 " Plenty." 
 
 Lin poured out the water, noticing how the hand that took it 
 from his shook. 
 
 " You are a nervous rag," said he, with affectionate severity. 
 1 1 believe when I am not here you mope." 
 
 " I do, for fresh air. By the way, I was going to write to 
 you the other day, and lost your card in the heap, so I turned 
 to the Directory to see if No. 19 were yours. I only found the 
 name of Holt, and couldn't understand it, as you are living at 
 home." 
 
 " Mr. Holt is the friend who sent me to Italy. My mother 
 is his housekeeper. She was that in Mrs. Holt's time. 
 Leaving out the couple of years she spent with us at Brixton,
 
 %fn /iDafees a promise 279 
 
 she has been in Merryon Square for the last four-and-twenty 
 years." 
 
 And still the terrible point was not cleared up. As long as 
 he was skirting round it, he managed to keep himself in hand. 
 No sooner did he determine to come to it than his heart failed 
 him. It was beating now, a slow, irregular thud, which repeated 
 itself in his brain until he was past bearing it. He tried 
 several times before he succeeded in speaking clearly enough 
 to attract Lin's attention, for one of the lamps was too high, 
 and Lin had crossed the room to lower it. 
 
 " Your father is, of course dead ? " 
 
 The question once fairly asked, he sat upright, waiting to be 
 put out of his misery, with sight and sense slowly dying down 
 into a darkness something like to death. Was it that he could 
 not hear, or had Lin failed to answer him ? He waited in 
 pitiful uncertainty, for a few seconds only, but they seemed to 
 him interminable. 
 
 Lin put the lamp right, then stood looking at it while he 
 mentally framed his answer. 
 
 " My mother," he said at last, in a voice the hard severity of 
 which fell upon his listener with the stunning effect of a physical 
 blow, " was deserted before I was born. Of the man who 
 deserted her it is not my custom to speak ; but in case you 
 should attach any dishonour to the name of Warrener, 1 had better 
 say at once that it was not his, any more than it is mine. I 
 have no more right to the name of Warrener than I have, for 
 instance, to yours." 
 
 Le Quesne's long-held breath came quiveringly through his 
 lips again ; his heavily-beating heart seemed to k-ap up in him 
 and stop. Still clutching the arms of his chair, he turned his 
 head to the curtained doorway leading to the room beyond, 
 trying to measure the distance between it and him. Could he 
 hold out long enough to put that pitiful little distance between 
 himself and what ? Between himself and that which was part 
 of himself, bone of his bone, flesh of his flesh, quickened with 
 keenest life of his giving ! He was alone with it ! 
 
 Let him but make one sign of distress, and a hand would 
 touch him mercifully, not knowing; a voice would speak to 
 him affectionately, not knowing; eyes would look anxiously 
 into his bloodless face eyes that he dared not meet, because 
 from them his own looked back at him. With the strength of 
 sudden horror he struggled to his feet. They refused to carry 
 him. His eyes were dim, and the curtained doorway was 
 lost in a thick mistj in his ears was a continuous ringing
 
 a8o Hnnfe Deane 
 
 like the strong vibration of many wires. And still, if only 
 he could struggle to that door, and know that it was locked 
 before Lin had time to see that there was anything wrong with 
 him ! 
 
 Three times he tried to make even one step forward. The 
 third time he knew that it was useless, and gave in. With 
 a long, piteous moan of pain, which startled Lin beyond 
 description, he dropped back in the chair and fainted. 
 Lin was beside him in an instant. 
 
 " I ought to be shot ! " he burst out angrily. " A fool could 
 have seen that you were not fit to sit here talking, that you 
 were holding out for sheer obstinacy. I shall know better 
 another time. What shall I do with you? I'd rather look 
 after you myself than turn you over to anyone else." 
 
 He looked startlingly grey and death-like, but Lin did not 
 lose his head, or set the bells ringing, or make any sort of fuss. 
 He set to work quietly with water and eau-de-cologne and a 
 handkerchief, having first sat down on the arm of the big chair 
 and taken Le Quesne's head tenderly on his own shoulder, 
 where it remained long after the brain therein had recovered its 
 power to suffer. 
 
 It seemed to Lin a long time before the husky voice re- 
 assured him. It was faint and very languid. 
 
 " Is it you, Warrener ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Anyone here besides ? " 
 
 "No one at all." 
 
 "I'm glad of that. I apologise for giving you so much 
 trouble." 
 
 " You are no trouble to me. You know that." 
 
 " Perhaps I do. Don't move me, and don't be frightened. 
 I'm all right now." 
 
 " I am not frightened," Lin answered, with a gentle pressure 
 of the uncertain hand that was trying to find his ; " but I wish 
 you wouldn't keep about when all the time you feel like dying, 
 and never say a word about it." 
 
 " I thought I should have conquered it, but it conquered me. 
 Warrener 1 " 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 " When my time comes, and I am dying, will you stick to 
 me?" 
 
 " You are very merciless," said Lin in distress. 
 
 "But //#you?" 
 
 " I will"
 
 Xin flDafees a ipromfse 281 
 
 "That is a promise," Le Quesne said wearily, "and one 
 that / have no right to exact from you, God knows ! " 
 
 There were no more confidences that night, although when 
 Lin felt at liberty to leave for Merryon Square the clocks were 
 chiming for midnight.
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 '* w/LL YOU COME WITH ME ? " 
 
 FOR a few days following that talk Le Quesne gave himself up to 
 hopeless certainty, and was very quiet a state of things which 
 occasioned Lin no surprise. A man who was ill, who knew 
 that on this side of the grave he could not expect to be any- 
 thing else, who owned that sleep only came to him in broken 
 snatches, and that weary as his days were, they were heaven in 
 comparison with his nights, might well be expected to be quiet. 
 There was one thing to be said for him he never complained. 
 
 " Do you never get a wigging for keeping such unearthly 
 hours ? " he said to Lin once. 
 
 " Never ; and do you know that my mother's forbearance in 
 the matter surprises me. The dear old man grumbles at my 
 everlasting absence, but the mother says never a word." 
 
 " I am indebted to her. She seldom goes out, you say ? " 
 
 " Very seldom. As a rule, to church and back. I had the 
 greatest difficulty in getting her out " " to hear you" he was 
 going to say, but substituted " to that concert on the 3rd." 
 
 Le Quesne smiled. Even that memory was losing its 
 bitterness. 
 
 "I should like to see your mother," he said slowly. "I 
 mean, I should like to talk to her. I suppose she would not, 
 for instance, come and formally hand you over to me for the 
 next few months." 
 
 " I am sure she would not. She would as soon be shot as 
 talk to a stranger a stranger out of her own sphere, too." 
 
 " I saw very little of her, but is she not a pretty woman ? " 
 
 " I think so." 
 
 " Have you a photograph of her ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " When you can think of such a trivial thing, put the portrait 
 in your pocket." 
 
 A day or two later, when Lin was leaving Merryon Square, 
 he remembered that request, and turned back into his own 
 room for the purpose of complying with it Entering, he 
 
 282
 
 " "mill gou come witb flDe ? " 283 
 
 paused in confusion, for his mother was putting the room in 
 order, and the photographs, in a folding leather frame, stood on 
 the dressing-table just against her. 
 
 "What is it, dear? " she said : " I thought you'd gone." 
 
 " No, I forgot something, and came back for it." 
 
 " Anything I can get you ? " 
 
 He walked over to the dressing-table. 
 
 " I want these. I'll bring them back to-night." 
 
 She flushed fiery red, and shutting the frame, laid her hand 
 upon it. 
 
 " What do you want them for ? " 
 
 " Mr. Le Quesne wants to see them." 
 
 She tightened her hold on the frame. 
 
 "Lin," she said, "you've bin talkin' about me to Mr. Le 
 Quesne. It wasn't like you to do that. I don't like it." 
 
 " Gently," said Lin, with a touch of annoyance. " I have 
 talked about you, but not as you think I have. You might 
 have trusted me not to do that. I daresay I can tell you all 
 that has passed. He asked if I were a Londoner, and said he 
 did not think you spoke like one. I told him you were a 
 Berkshire woman. He also asked if my father were living. I 
 took my time in answering that question, wishing to be 
 satisfactory without betraying you. I told him that you were 
 deserted before I was born, that I did not wish to speak of the man 
 who deserted you ; but that it might be as well to acknowledge 
 that my name was not Warrener. I said no more about you ; 
 in fact, almost as soon as I had spoken he fainted." 
 
 Her hand pressed upon the frame so heavily that the frail 
 glass cracked across with a faint " click." 
 
 " I daresay you wus frightened," she said. " You rung for 
 somebody to come to him ? " 
 
 " No ; I pulled him round myself. The day before yesterday 
 he asked me if you would go and see him." 
 
 " Oh, no," she said piteously ; " you know I wouldn't." 
 
 " I told him so. It was then that he said he should like to 
 see a photograph of you." 
 
 She saw why on the instant. He wished to be sure. When 
 he was sure, would he tell Lin of the discovery he had made ? 
 She drew the frame nearer, still keeping her hand upon it. 
 
 " He've forgot that by this time," she said ; " he very likely 
 said it without any meanin'. I wouldn't like you to take it, 
 Lin, please." 
 
 " I think that is nonsense, mother." 
 
 " It isn't nonsense. I can't let you take it"
 
 284 Hnnie JDcanc 
 
 " Then show me one sensible reason for refusing him such 
 a paltry request" 
 
 " Show me one sensible reason for him makin' it." 
 
 " You belong to me ; he takes a great interest in all which 
 concerns me. I suppose he likes me." 
 
 " That's on'y natural. You've got a kind way, an' if he's ill 
 an' lonely I can understand how he likes to have you with 
 him. But I don't want you to talk about me. I don't see the 
 need for it." 
 
 Saying which, she took the photographs from the table, 
 prepared to retain possession of them. Lin turned a trifle 
 " rusty." 
 
 " You mean you won't let me take them ? " 
 
 " I means that I'd rather you didn't." 
 
 " Oh, very well. It is a paltry thing to make a fuss about, 
 either way ! Of course, when a dying man makes even a 
 paltry request, one likes to grant it if one can ; and I would 
 go far enough out of my way to gratify any wish of his. Still, 
 this is your affair. Good-bye." 
 
 She stumbled across the room, was at the door as soon as 
 he, and stood with her back against it, looking at him. 
 
 " What did you say, Lin ? " she said piteously. " A dyin* 
 man ? " 
 
 " That is so. He knows it." 
 
 "That makes a difference," she murmured. "I didn't 
 know. How should I, when you never told me ? " 
 
 11 One does not cry it all over the place. Perhaps I have 
 been hoping a little, and perhaps I have felt it too much to talk 
 about it to any one. For I like him as 1 never liked a man in 
 my life. He has a fascination for me had before I ever spoke 
 to him, and the more I see of him the more I admire him. It 
 takes a man with a backbone, with some real good in him, to 
 face what he has to face, and to show no sign of fear or of 
 revolt. He has had it all ! Success great enough to be called 
 Fame ; wealth more than enough to satisfy him, for his tastes 
 though refined are very simple ; and the hope of marriage 
 with a beautiful woman gifted like himself. He is only forty- 
 six, and everything is over with him, everything but the wealth, 
 which cannot even obtain for him a few hours' immunity 
 from pain ! Do you think you would not feel for him as I do ? 
 Do you think the sight of his patient pluck wouldn't go to 
 your heart as it does to mine ? Do you think that if he asked 
 you to do some trifling thing for him you would hesitate to do 
 it, knowing how little any one could do? "
 
 "mill sou come witb flDe?" 285 
 
 She shook her head, trying to reiterate that, of course, she had 
 not known. How could she, when he had never told her? 
 
 " I have told you now, that you may make some excuse for 
 me if I seem to be turning my back upon my old friends for the 
 sake of making more influential ones. Personal advancement 
 has nothing to do with this particular friendship. I should not 
 run after him for the mere honour of being associated with a 
 famous man. In fact, I don't see how anyone could look at 
 him and still have any hankering after what we call Fame. I 
 know I have steadied down wonderfully on that subject since I 
 have known him. I say, with conviction, that I would ratru-r 
 he left me his character than his voice." 
 
 She turned her eyes to Lin, with an expression in them half 
 of triumph and half of despair. Had the time come for her to 
 say, " And this is the man of whom you would believe no good 
 thing ? " She half thought the time had come, but was steeped 
 to the lips in self-distrust. Until now, Heaven itself had 
 worked for her. She felt too clumsy and too ignorant to 
 interfere. She held the photographs out to Lin. 
 
 "You can take these if you like," she said. Ay, and the 
 very life of her with them, if it could have done that dying man 
 any good ! 
 
 Lin took them, feeling a little ashamed of his impatience as 
 he looked at her pallid face. 
 
 " I'm afraid I have made you think that I keep my kindness 
 for strangers," he said, walking across the room after her ; " but 
 when I am not with him he is alone. And 1 believe that, 
 failing me, he would prefer to be alone. For he is very con- 
 siderate. When the doctors come he sits down while they 
 probe, snip, burn, and torture his throat, until he is too shaky 
 and sick to stand it any longer ; but he never fails to thank 
 them, with what little voice remains to him, for what they have 
 done, or to smile at me when I have tried to pull him round a 
 bit, and ask me if I really think it sensible to make two 
 persons suffer where one would do ? " 
 
 With her hands pressed hard to her throat, and her heart 
 like lead in her, she stood and listened. Lin was in a com- 
 municative mood, and she did not wish to check him, though 
 she knew not how to listen quietly. 
 
 " I suppose there's many a poor soul as bad off or worse 
 than him," she said presently. " He's rich. That makes 
 things easier. With so many when sufferin' comes, want 
 comes too." 
 
 " I know, and that is hard ; but with him there is some
 
 286 Hnnte 2>eane 
 
 thing harder. What the memory of his sight is to a blind 
 man, the thought of his lost voice is to a singer who can sing 
 no more. I had felt that before, but the other day it came 
 home to me with a force that has left my heart sore. I know 
 you don't quite follow me, because you cannot enter into the 
 love of a singer for his art ; but if you had seen the thing as I 
 saw it the other day, you would have understood. You could 
 not have helped it He is awfully good to me in the matter of 
 giving me hints on music, and he takes no end of pains in 
 seeing that I do a thing as it ought to be done. I had been 
 playing something, and I did not play it to his liking, so he 
 turned me out and took it on himself. He has the velvety 
 professional touch, the perfect comprehension of the thing he 
 plays, which are matters alike of artistic gift and faultless train- 
 ing. Well, as he played it was Beethoven's ' Adelaide ' he 
 lost himself in it, and forgot. Carried away by its beauty, as I 
 have been many a time, he opened his lips to sing it " 
 
 Lin's voice died away. He turned on his heel and was 
 silent. Annie crept closer and laid a hand on his arm. 
 
 " I can see,"^she said " I can see as that must have bin 
 bitter hard to bear." 
 
 " Hard ! He flung himself face downward on a couch and 
 sobbed like any girl. That is the only time I have seen him 
 give way. Helston came in not long after and kicked up an 
 awful row because he found him so prostrate. Now, I must 
 go. You won't sit up, will you ? If I leave him early, the 
 nights are so abominably long to him, so I'm sure to be late." 
 
 " I won't sit up. I know what long nights are that is, I did 
 once, an' I never forgot. You can tell him," with a curious 
 emphasis on the verb, " that I said as long as you wus any good 
 to him I'd be thankful you should stay." 
 
 He kissed her, and wondering a little at her cold face, took 
 it playfully between his warm hands. 
 
 "If I deliver that message," he said, "you may lose me 
 altogether." 
 
 She only writhed her lips into a smile, and drew away from 
 him, wishing him gone. 
 
 " Where are the photographs ? " said he. " Oh ! here we 
 are. Good-bye." 
 
 Lin walked into Le Quesne's beautiful room as cheerily as 
 ever, and was welcomed in the usual way, with a sudden smile 
 and a lingering pressure of the hand. 
 
 " I get earlier and earlier," said he ; " I shall soon come to 
 breakfast like a Frenchman. What have I here? The
 
 "Will gou come witb /foe?" as/ 
 
 photographs you wished to see. I had a bother over them. 
 My mother can't imagine why anybody should wish to see her 
 portrait. Been reading ? " 
 
 " Only a poem in a magazine. It has set me longing for a 
 sight of the sea and, Lin, I must have it." 
 
 " Getting desperate ? " said Lin gently. 
 
 " A trifle that way. Sit down and read this ; I will be with 
 you in a moment." 
 
 Lin took the book over to a window and sat down. Le 
 Quesne, taking the leather frame from the table whereon Lin 
 had lain it, went through to his bedroom. Safely there, he 
 opened the case, looked steadily at the fair face therein, and 
 sat down to think things over. Time had wrought marvellous 
 changes in Annie Deane, but this was she. Any doubt to 
 which he might have clung was settled for all time. That 
 wayside weed which he had trampled upon and left to die had 
 not died, but, nourished by the Love-spring within it, had 
 lived and marvellously thriven; had even come up all the 
 fairer from his cruel tread, and had borne a blossom which the 
 winds of Fate had blown right home to him ! He threw the 
 frame upon the bed. Of the portrait within it he thought but 
 little, except as of a missing link in his chain of evidence. What 
 he thought of was the tall young figure in the next room, of 
 the bright young face, of the eyes that were so like his own, 
 of the hands that were so gentle when they touched him, of 
 the voice that was so tender when it spoke to him ! And 
 the tears forced their way as he thought, and his heart went 
 out in passionate yearning to the lad whom he dared not 
 own. 
 
 " My Lin ! " he muttered wretchedly to himself. " The one 
 thing in the world which is mine, but to which I may put for- 
 ward no claim. Lin ! I must somehow have let my nickname 
 drop. She picked it up, and gave it to the boy. Well, if he 
 knew, he wouldn't thank her." 
 
 When he re-entered the drawing-room, Lin was still reading, 
 so he re-laid the frame upon the little table, unobserved. 
 
 " This may be poetry to the poetical," cried Lin dictL.orially, 
 " but to me it's maudlin ! " 
 
 " Your education has been neglected, young man ; but the 
 poem is good." 
 
 " Well, we'll give it another chance, and see what we make 
 of it
 
 288 Hnnfe Deane 
 
 " ' I have come again to the sea, where first for me was the light of the 
 
 sun 
 The sea that in travail and toil of years has been to me home and 
 
 mother. 
 I have seen the world at its best and worst ; and now that its worst is 
 
 done, 
 I have come again to the sea, where first for me was the light of the 
 
 sun. 
 
 Lost is the glory of light that burst on my soul, and what have I won ? 
 Smiles that shatter and scorn that sears : there is one true heart none 
 
 other. 
 I have come again to the sea, where first for me was the light of the 
 
 sun 
 The sea that in travail and toil of years has been to me home and 
 
 mother.' 
 
 "Takes a deuce of a lot of breath," said Lin irreverently, 
 "and breath is so valuable, when one lives by it in more senses 
 than one. Besides, why say a thing three times over when once 
 is enough? If a man does that in prose, he is voted a bore." 
 
 "You are hopeless." Le Quesne, with a laugh, took the 
 book away and threw it on a chair. 
 
 " The fact is," said Lin, " a little poetry goes a long way with 
 me. I took on the study of it at the wrong time. I approached 
 it in the spirit of revolt rather than that of reverence. A 
 fellow in the same office with me used to feed upon it, and 
 was as full of quotations as a girl's birthday book. I found 
 that I could stand Shakespeare because he was so colossal ; he 
 seemed to rebuke everything into a great peace. You dare not 
 cavil at him ; he is so mighty, and yet with it all a man I A 
 man who did not despise the ' common herd,' because he saw 
 that they had their God-given right to live ; that they were even 
 of some account. Your modern poet is different. He wraps 
 himself in a serene disdain of the great majority which keeps 
 the world going. ' You don't understand me,' says he, with his 
 nose in the air. ' Well, by such as you I do not desire to be 
 understood. I write for the chosen few ! ' And this, mark 
 you, is, as a rule, said by the man who has all the good things 
 of life to start with ; who goes at his leisure from one favoured 
 spot on the earth to another ; to whom the ordinary grind of 
 living of finding out how to keep body and soul decently 
 together is a thing unknown." 
 
 " Lin, don't get excitable." 
 
 t( I must ; I can't help it. You see, I come of the great 
 plebeian majority. I am a Nobody, and I feel with my kind. I 
 remember once reading some rules framed for men's guidance 
 by one of the mighty ones he was a poet, too. He recom-
 
 "Will BOU come witb flDet" 289 
 
 mended that every man should endeavour to keep himself up 
 to intellectual pitch by reading some noble poem every day of 
 his life, by seeing some great and elevating work of art, etc. 1 
 I got no further than that. ' Great Heaven ! ' said I, ' what 
 impudence ! ' How about the millions of poor devils whose 
 sole idea of poetry is a street rhyme ? whose only notion of a 
 picture is the grocer's yearly almanack, or the coloured supple- 
 ment to an illustrated paper? Are they not men too? Is 
 there not an earth for them f There had need to be a heaven. 
 I dived a bit into the personal history of the great man I speak 
 of, and I found that, like most preachers, his practices were 
 open to question. In his relations towards at least one 
 woman he was not immaculate, not even what an ordinary 
 man would call honourable. It is true that she was socially 
 beneath him, was of a different order of being ; so I suppose 
 that honour in his dealings with her was not necessary. She 
 simply didn't count ! " 
 
 The colour flushed slowly in Le Quesne's face. 
 
 " I am sorry I started you on this subject," he said ; " you 
 are getting bitter, and it is a mood that does not sit well upon 
 you." 
 
 " I am not bitter ; I only feel with the rank and file, with 
 the ' nobodies.' By the way, have you ever read ' Nobody's 
 Story ' ? Of course you have. To my mind, it is the finest 
 bit of prose ever written by one who wrote nothing second- 
 rate. An inspiration, a flash of real genius, it is yet intelligible 
 and homely. Let your high-falutin' 'poet' match it if he 
 can ! " 
 
 Le Quesne was slowly pacing the long room. Lin's opinions 
 jarred upon him somehow. Yet who was responsible for 
 them ? Of a surety, nobody but himself. 
 
 " So you wash your hands of the poets ? " he said. 
 
 " No ; but I have set up for myself a poetical standard 
 beyond which I am content not to go. The learned tell me 
 it is not art at all. Never mind, it is nature. We may take it 
 to heart and warm ourselves by it, may even learn from it a 
 wholesome lesson or two very well worth learning. Longfellow 
 is the woman's poet, they say. He is also mine." 
 
 " Don't monopolise him. Few people know him better than 
 I, and I quite appreciate ' a wholesome lesson or two.' I should 
 like to give you one. You know the ' Hiawatha ' ? " 
 
 " Do I not ! " 
 
 " You remember the introduction ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes !
 
 Hnnfc Deane 
 
 " ' Written with little skill of songcraft, 
 Homely phrases, but each letter 
 Full of hope and yet of heartbreak, 
 Full of all the tender pathos 
 Of the here and the hereafter.' " 
 
 " I mean something before that a passage which contains 
 the germ of a religion I have often felt I should like to preach 
 if I had been fit the necessity for human charity 
 
 " ' Ye whose hearts are fresh and simple, 
 Who have faith in God and Nature, 
 Who believe that in all ages 
 Every human heart is human ; 
 That in even savage bosoms 
 There are longings, yearnings, strivings, 
 For the good they comprehend not ' 
 
 Now you, in sheer unthinking prejudice, would extend to the 
 savage a charity which you would deny to the Somebody simply 
 because he ts somebody. And, Warrener, you are a bit in the 
 wrong. I have seen more of life than you, and I must beg a little 
 charity for Somebody. He has a heart as well as Nobody, 
 though custom may have taught him not to wear it on his sleeve. 
 Also, he has a mental hide, which, being of finer grain than 
 your prot6g6's, is far more easily vulnerable." 
 
 That speech made Lin wince. It seemed to imply that he 
 had been personal. Before he had made up his mind what to 
 say, Le Quesne went on : 
 
 " Now, come here and talk to me upon another subject. I 
 have been talking to Helston. He held forth on the evils of 
 my being alone, and frightened me by announcing that I must 
 have a nurse. I said I couldn't think of it, that I could not 
 entertain an elderly lady for my own sake, nor a young one for 
 yours. At which he said that as long as you were here, we 
 could get on. So it comes to this : Will you throw up your 
 profession for the summer, and go to the coast with me ? " 
 
 Lin did not answer at once. 
 
 " I know, of course, that I am asking you to make a great 
 sacrifice. You are just fairly started ; to withdraw from yout 
 profession now means withdrawal from public notice, and 
 consequent loss of reputation 
 
 "I don't care about that," said Lin impulsively. 
 
 "Then you are a trifle peculiar." 
 
 " Don't mistake me ; I do care about it, but I would rather 
 risk it than leave you alone."
 
 " Mill gou come witb dfce ? " 9* 
 
 " You would like to come with me ? " 
 
 " I should, but I should like to be at work as well." 
 
 "For love of it?" 
 
 " No, for the sake of my own independence." 
 
 " Then you see that your profession does not stand before 
 me, but your pride does. Are you going to turn me off for 
 that ? You were not so particular with Mr. Holt." 
 
 " That was different. I knew that if occasion arose I could 
 repay him." 
 
 " You can repay me in a commodity which money cannot 
 command. Already I am very heavily in your debt. By the 
 way, your old friend may be disappointed. He helped you on, 
 and may feel annoyed at your withdrawal. Will you let me 
 repay that two hundred ? It is a thing I should like to do." 
 
 " No, no," Lin laughed. " What a rum thing to want to 
 do ! The dear old chap gave it me so kindly, and I wouldn't 
 hurt him for the world." 
 
 " Why should it hurt him ? He is nothing to you." 
 
 " He is the best of things an old, tried friend." 
 
 " Well, settle this matter. Will you come with me ? By 
 this time next year you will be free again, and your voice will 
 be all the better for a long rest. You who have so much time 
 need not grudge me a few months. Any engagements ahead ? " 
 
 " A few, up to the end of the month." 
 
 " Don't accept any more. Tell your mother to send your 
 traps on here, and I will tell them to prepare you a room. 
 Hand me that portrait of your mother. . . . You are not like 
 her. By the way, where did she get your odd short name ? " 
 
 " I haven't a notion." 
 
 " It is an abbreviation of mine. My mother was a Lindsay. 
 I was born, and she was buried, at sea. I often wonder if this 
 accounts for my love of the sea. The best days of my life 
 have been spent upon it I mean the real red-letter days 
 which stand out boldly in one's retrospect." 
 
 " I can recall but few," Lin said thoughtfully. " I have 
 one vivid recollection of a day's excursion into Berkshire 
 when I was a little chap of five. My mother had such a 
 longing for me to see the country that she spent a whole 
 sovereign and took me down for the day. I think I was 
 more awed by the wonderful quietude than impressed by 
 the beauty of things. One thing, however, remains with me 
 to this day a sort of terrible grotesque ! My mother and I 
 were on the wood side of the hedge, quite hidden from 
 any one who might have been in the road, but very near
 
 29* annfe H)eanc 
 
 a gate which opened on to it. I can only suppose, now, that a 
 man stood in the road, undecided whether to turn in at that 
 gate or not. Right in front of it was a broad turf ride. The 
 sun was low and red, and the man's shadow stretched along the 
 turf gigantic and appalling. I began to whimper, and my 
 mother, though she tried to reassure me, was startled too. I 
 don't suppose you follow me, but it is a weird memory to me, 
 and has assumed the form of chronic nightmare. Only a week 
 or two ago I was dreaming of that same thing. I thought I 
 was trying to extricate my shadow from that shadow, and 
 couldn't. I was still struggling when I woke up." 
 
 " How long ago is that ? " 
 
 " Eighteen years ago in the month of June." 
 
 Le Quesne dropped wearily into a chair. 
 
 "Eighteen years ago," said he, "in the month of June, I 
 was to have been married. I remember /went on an excursion 
 to Berkshire instead." 
 
 Lin did not remark upon the coincidence, but crossing to 
 Le Quesne's side, laid a gentle hand over his haggard eyes. 
 
 " You had no sleep last night ? " 
 
 " Very little ; but I don't see how you should know it." 
 
 "Lie down now, while I amuse myself by trying to find some 
 beauty in this blessed poem." 
 
 He pushed the couch nearer the fire, lowered the blinds, 
 made his charge comfortable, and himself the same. 
 
 "Lin." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 " Am I to understand that you will come with me ? * 
 
 " I think so. And now I may as well make a confession. 
 The other day when I was late I had been in answer to a 
 telegram from my little Austrian ' Madame.' She is taking a 
 concert party through India, and she offered me very good 
 terms to go with her. But for the thought of you I should 
 have gone." 
 
 In response to this confession Le Quesne's hand went out to 
 rest across Lin's knee. Lin took the hand in his own, and 
 settled down to the " blessed poem," while his charge fell 
 asleep. 
 
 As the time passed drowsily by, he dropped his book on the 
 floor and fell a-thinking, with his eyes on the sleeper's face. 
 
 " It is a queer thing to do, and you must have a wonderful 
 grip of me, or I shouldn't do it. What will be said of me for 
 doing it will be enough to set any man's ears tingling. You 
 must have had grand times of it 1 'I have seen life at its best
 
 "TOU ECU come witb /foe?" 293 
 
 and worst.' You are entitled to make that assertion. All 
 ' champagne and truffles ! ' Now it is ' vin ordinaire,' and the 
 bread of bitterness. It is such a terrible come-down that it 
 makes one's heart ache. Any other man would grumble and 
 curse his fate, but there is a nobility about you that adversity 
 can't touch. You have had it all, and yet I don't think you 
 have been altogether happy. I wonder why you parted from 
 that woman. She must have been hard to please." 
 
 He picked up his book and went on reading. Apparently 
 his presence had a quieting effect upon his companion, who 
 slept for more than two hours, then woke with a shudder of 
 remembrance and a painful struggle for breath. 
 
 Lin raised him pitifully on his arm. 
 
 " I know," he said, " your throat's dry. I'll get you some 
 water, or there's plenty of milk here. Marion has brought in 
 tea. Is that better ? Even an ordinary bad throat is dry as a 
 chip when one has been to sleep, you know." 
 
 * 
 
 "Well, if ever there was a good, kind soul in this world, that 
 young Mr. Warrener is that soul," said Marion, the maid, to 
 the stolid Harker. " He waits on our Mr. Le Quesne hand 
 and foot. He glared at me for rattlin' the tray just as a 
 mother might if you threatened to wake a cross baby." 
 
 Harker nodded mysteriously. 
 
 " There's a ladder up to our first-floor window," said he, tv as 
 some of you will see through presently. You'd have seen 
 through it before if you'd had any eyes."
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 "TO MAKE THE PUNISHMENT FIT THE CRIME " 
 
 " HAVE you told your people to send on your traps here ? " Le 
 Quesne asked Lin a day or two later. 
 
 " I don't think I have. As you spoke of going away so soon, 
 I thought it unnecessary to change for such a short time. 
 Also, for three days this week I must be away." 
 
 " I cannot get away as quickly as I hoped to do. Helston 
 told me yesterday that I am not fit. He says I have gone 
 back. Here he comes. I heard his carriage-door bang." 
 
 " Then I will go into your room. If you want me, let me 
 know." 
 
 Dr. Helston did not put his patient to the torture that 
 morning simply examined him a little generally, and then sat 
 down. 
 
 " I am going to be unpleasant," he said. " I am going to 
 speak my mind and pry into yours. Now, what's the matter 
 with you ? " 
 
 " That is surely for you to say." 
 
 " No ; I am at fault. We are doing our utmost to prolong 
 your life, and as fast as we do you undo." 
 
 " I really don't understand." 
 
 " Then I will explain. Your local malady is intelligible to 
 me, but your general condition is not. You are variable; 
 your nerves are all to pieces. Now, do you what in speaking 
 ito a woman I should say fret ? " 
 
 "What about?" 
 
 " Your own condition." 
 
 " On my honour, I do not." 
 
 " Nor about the loss of your voice ? " 
 
 " I have left all that behind." 
 
 " J thought so. Therefore I am the more at sea." 
 
 " I wish /were at sea." 
 
 "Have you settled your affairs? No, I am not saying 
 good-bye to you ; don't think it. I have many patients who will 
 
 294
 
 "tto mafce tbe ffwnfsbment fit tbe Crime" 295 
 
 die before you, if only you will give us a chance \ but is your 
 will made and all that sort of thing ? " 
 
 " I have had occasion to make my will afresh." 
 
 " And your other business matters ? " 
 
 " Warrener is seeing to everything for me now." 
 
 " Ah ! " Dr. Helston turned his spectacles full on to Le 
 Quesne's face, with a sharp pair of eyes behind them. " Nice 
 fellow Warrener ? " 
 
 "Very nice." 
 
 " Known him long ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Dear me ! He is much attached to you." 
 
 u I believe he is." 
 
 " And you to him ? " 
 
 "That is so." 
 
 "Who is he?" 
 
 Le Quesne hurriedly nodded in the direction of the curtained 
 archway through which Lin had passed. The doctor repeated 
 his question in a lower key, but met with no reply. 
 
 " Do you know ? 
 
 " I do." 
 
 " Does he know ? " 
 
 *' He does not." 
 
 The doctor got up and stood close to his uncommunicative 
 patient. 
 
 " I thought so," he said. " It dawned upon me two or 
 three weeks ago. The likeness is too peculiar to be a chance 
 one. I knew your father, whose physical peculiarities are 
 reproduced in you. If I know anything at all, Warrener is a 
 Le Quesne too." 
 
 " For God's sake, be quiet." 
 
 " I cannot afford to be quiet. I must speak for your own 
 sake. I can see how things are, although the precise circum- 
 stances may be unknown to me. The thought of telling him 
 something that he does not know is sapping your life away." 
 
 " That, I believe, is true." 
 
 "Then you must send him right away from you or make 
 a clean breast of it and tell him." 
 
 " I can't send him away. He makes life endurable to me. 
 But for him I might be tempted to end it." 
 
 " Nonsense ! Why not tell him ? " 
 
 " I cannot tell you why, but neither can I tell him anything. 
 It gets more impossible every day." 
 
 " He is yours ? "
 
 296 Snnie Deane 
 
 " He is mine." 
 
 " Well, I have told you, while you are eating your heart out 
 like this, you are giving yourself no chance." 
 
 It was so. For the first day or two after Annie's portrait 
 had settled what little doubt he had, he had felt more at rest, 
 and had consequently improved in health. But as the days 
 passed the temporary relief passed too, giving place to a 
 longing for open acknowledgment, for mutual understanding. 
 The more he saw of Lin, the more convinced he became 
 of the utter folly of telling him in what relation they 
 stood to each other. Lin would infallibly turn his 
 back upon him, would change from Lin the merciful to 
 Lin the merciless in a few terrible moments. The thought 
 of such transition was too bitter ; he could not face it. Once 
 or twice he made up his mind to see Annie herself, but from 
 that ordeal also he shrank with a shudder of disgust. Thought 
 of renewed intercourse with her was revolting. Even in 
 thinking of Lin, the remembrance of his being her son took 
 something away from his value. If he could but be separated 
 from her ! If only the Deane in him could be set aside, as 
 Nature had set it aside, simply stamping him with the Le 
 Quesne seal ! He felt the brutality of such thoughts, but they 
 were with him all the same. The thought of Annie Deane 
 produced in him a sick shiver like that produced by some 
 edible to which one has a strong antipathy. He fought against 
 it, but it was there. How had she found out his identity with 
 the false lover of her youth? Of one thing he was certain: 
 she had not disclosed it to Lin. Therefore surely she must 
 still be in doubt? He conjectured, resolved, wavered 
 resolved again, until his brain reeled, and it was little wonder 
 if his health were unsatisfactory. Even Lin failed to rouse 
 him to anything like animation, and but for the wistful, 
 affectionate way in which the restless eyes followed him 
 wherever he went, even Lin might have begun to fancy himself 
 unwelcome. 
 
 " There," cried he cheerfully one evening, " I have despatched 
 the last letters, and am free to go about my own business. I 
 must start early to-morrow morning, and I cannot anyhow get 
 back until the day after. Own up that you will be glad to be 
 rid of me." 
 
 "That goes without saying. I have a man coming on 
 business in the morning, and I shall take the opportunity of 
 writing the two or three private letters that you could not write 
 for me."
 
 "ZTo mafee tbe iCwnisbment fit tbe Crime" 297 
 
 " At the end of which you will be pretty well used up. I 
 wish I weren't going. One thing it is my last long 
 journey." 
 
 " Come and sit down. You will not mind a little business 
 worry by and by ? I want to make you an executor under 
 my will. Will you give me your baptismal name ? " 
 
 "I will do whatever you really wish me to do; but actual 
 name have I none. In the eyes of the law I don't exist." 
 
 "Never mind the law. What name were you baptized 
 under?" 
 
 " My mother's name of Deane." 
 
 "Thank you. I was obliged to ask, for the sake of 
 accuracy ; that is all." 
 
 " I understand. I hate having to tell any one, even you. 
 Not for my own sake, because I can't believe that any right- 
 thinking man or woman would think less of me for a thing 
 with which I had nothing to do. Directly I own that my 
 mother is an unmarried woman, everyone reads that as ' a bad 
 woman,' which she never was, and never could have been." 
 
 " Is uncharitableness so rampant ? " 
 
 "As regards the sin of a woman, I think so. You have 
 seen a good bit of all sorts of life ; but even you, although you 
 speak leniently and say, ' Ah, well, such things are ! ' in your 
 heart think that such women are sinners, and must expect to 
 be stoned." 
 
 " I have not said so. I do not think so." 
 
 " I cannot help it if you do," said Lin, a trifle aggressively. 
 " I care nothing for any man's speech or thought upon this 
 subject. I apologise to no man for my mother. She is a 
 sympathetic, selfless soul, who has toiled for years in the hope 
 of seeing me benefit by her martyrdom. She is oh ! where is 
 the use of me saying what she is ? it is that which makes me 
 savage ! What avails it that I have proved her to be good, and 
 honest, and pure ? I might assert it until I was hoarse ; nobody 
 would believe me." 
 
 " I am afraid you are right. You will do better to keep 
 your faith to yourself. You will not make converts, and you 
 will make enemies." 
 
 Lin shrugged his shoulders. How was he to know that a 
 very miracle could not have converted this man, who 
 remembered her but as a pertly-pretty little rustic ; who, so far 
 from finding her " good, and modest, and pure," had found 
 her as clay ready to his half-unwilling hand. No, the miracle 
 could not have converted Lindsay Le Quesne to that faith !
 
 298 Hnnie Dcanc 
 
 Again the sick shiver went through him as he remembered that 
 Lin was his and hers. 
 
 " I have often thought," he said slowly, " that the mistakes of 
 women are unjustly dealt with. There is no gradient in the 
 case. A woman is either at the top or at the bottom. Some 
 day we may arrive at a fairer adjustment of things, may 
 discover how to 'make the punishment fit the crime,' like 
 another * Mikado.'" 
 
 " Then," said Lin quietly, " there will be many men cut off 
 for ever from every domestic tie, and from the friendship of 
 every right-thinking person." 
 
 "Better hang them at once, or herd them away from 
 civilisation, as they do the lepers." 
 
 " Hanging is reserved for murderers. A life for a life a 
 still exacted, The honour of a woman is as much to her as 
 her life. Then let the man who takes it forfeit his own." 
 
 " You feel strongly concerning this particular sin ? " 
 
 "I do. I would as soon have to aiswer for the crime of 
 murder as for the ruin of a girl ; I wcul t as soon shake hands 
 with the man who had committed the one sin as with the man 
 who had committed the other." 
 
 Le Quesne moved uneasily and put his hand over hi eyes. 
 Lin bent down and looked at him. 
 
 " All right? " he said, with a sudden change from severity to 
 infinite kindness. " I keep my eye on you since you collapsed 
 without warning a week or two ago. I can't afford to have my 
 nervous system shattered in that way." 
 
 " I don't think I shattered it then, did I ? " 
 
 "That's a different thing," Lin laughed. " You see, I didn't 
 know so much of you. Now I think you have magnetised 
 me. I declare solemnly that on the days when you are extra 
 queer I don't feel worth a rush myself ! " 
 
 He kept his hand so as to shield his eyes from Lin's. 
 
 " Being so sympathetic in one way, I should like to make 
 you so in another. As you spoke just now, I was thinking how 
 tremendously severe you young ones are upon a sin to the 
 committal of which you have never had any sort of temptation ? 
 What can you know of the after-life of a man who has fallen a 
 victim to such temptation ? Perhaps if you could follow that 
 you might see that he was punished quite enough." 
 
 " I am afraid I should see nothing so satisfactory. We all 
 know that there are plenty of criminals of this stamp who go 
 scot-free." 
 
 " We know nothing of the sort ; we see their outside lives, and
 
 "ZTo mafce tbe fcuntebment fit tbe Crime" 299 
 
 rush to our own conclusions. 'A man's heart knoweth its 
 own bitterness.' " 
 
 " I know, but a man who could do a thing like that could 
 have no heart at all." 
 
 " Have I not told you that 
 
 '"In all ages 
 Every human heart is human ' ? " 
 
 " I could tell you a history which might make you doubt it.' 
 
 " Tell it me." 
 
 " No. I have no right to make it public." 
 
 " There is one point upon which your faith is greater than 
 mine," said Le Quesne slowly. " Your knowledge of women is 
 limited. When you know more of them, they will cease to be 
 each a goddess on her own pedestal, and man's scepticism as 
 to their divinity will become more pardonable in your eyes. 
 But I must hold my tongue. I don't want to corrupt you." 
 
 " I don't think you could. All my ideas of women are 
 derived from one good woman. Whatever of good there is in 
 me is derived from her." 
 
 "Perhaps. But were you much with her? Were you not, 
 as a matter of fact, at school ? " 
 
 " Yes ; I saw her twice a week." 
 
 "You saw more of others. I should take it that your 
 character was moulded by them. Self-reliance came to you 
 early, also outside sympathy and comprehension. And, by 
 the way, did not your mother fail you later on ? Your own 
 determination, and the help of outside friends, made you what 
 you are. Really, I cannot see that you owe her as much as 
 you think you do. Circumstances and the difference of 
 education severed you. You must very early have left her, so 
 to speak, behind." 
 
 " Ah ! you do not know, and I believe it is useless to try to 
 tell you. The fact is," he laughingly bent over Le Quesne and 
 rested his hands on the framework of the couch, "you are 
 bristling with aristocratic prejudices. You don't know it, but 
 you are." 
 
 " Absurd ! " He laughed, too. " And if I am, what has 
 that to do with it ? " 
 
 " Simply this : I have admitted that my mother is an 
 uneducated woman. I have also told you that she is a 
 deeply, outspokenly religious woman. Now, even on the 
 subject of religion you are intensely aristocratic. Only the 
 other day you said that you could not talk much about
 
 300 Snnie 2)eane 
 
 religion, nor believe in the man who did; that religion got 
 louder as the social scale descended, until at last it got to the 
 street corners and a brass band. I watched you, and I thought 
 what an out-and-out aristocrat you were at heart." 
 
 " Lin, drop that word ! It is as bad as the obsolete ' genteel.' 
 I have seldom heard it used until I heard you use it." 
 
 " Well, you see I am not, what must I say patrician ? So 
 why on earth you took to me, I cannot imagine." 
 
 " My dear lad," he lingered over the words, trying to hide 
 the tenderness in them, "whatever else you are, you are 
 genuine, and the rest goes for nothing." 
 
 Lin stood upright, went across to the piano, and played a 
 bar or two of the quaint thing that was ringing in his head. 
 
 " There you are," he said lightly ; " it's just another ' Pink 
 trip slip for a six cent fare.' I can't get rid of it 
 
 " ' To make the punishment fit the crime, 
 The punishment fit the crime.' " 
 
 "We are in sympathy. It is ringing in my head. Do you 
 know that if ever I had committed any any such sin, as 
 as the one we were speaking of just now, I might be tempted to 
 think that my punishment had fitted the crime ? " 
 
 " What a ghastly thing to say ! And how have you ever 
 been punished until now ? " 
 
 " Sit down and I will tell you." 
 
 Lin sat down close to him, with his half-smoked cigarette 
 between his lips, and his arm thrown in half-careless, half- 
 caressing fashion across the head of the couch.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 " I WILL REPAY " 
 
 " I DON'T think I ought to let you tell me anything. You 
 know talking is bad for you." 
 
 " I have been quiet for two or three days, and I don't find 
 it makes much difference. I want you to remember what I 
 say, because of a time that is coming when you will know more 
 of me than you know now." 
 
 Lin looked surprised. 
 
 " I shall never know anything," he said heartily, " that will 
 alter my opinion of you." 
 
 " That is a rash assertion." 
 
 " Yes ? Never mind I make it in all confidence. You 
 see, you have been a sort of hero to me for years. And now 
 to think that I know you, to find that I was not mistaken in 
 you, to know that I am privileged to be of some small service 
 to you well, I say in all sincerity that this is the keenest 
 pleasure I have ever known." 
 
 Le Quesne smiled, but his eyes filled. 
 
 " I am a sorry ' hero ' for you, Lin. You make me think I 
 had better hold my tongue. Why should I be so anxious to 
 undeceive the only person who has ever made a hero of me ? 
 I am sure I don't know. I suppose your ideas of women have 
 set me thinking of my own early impressions, and I can see 
 what has made the difference between us. To begin with, you 
 reverence your mother. I have no idea what manner of 
 woman my mother was. I was educated with a family of 
 cousins, and I lived with them until I was old enough to turn 
 out on my own account. The uncle who undertook to bring 
 me up was a solicitor, a substantial ' family ' man, who was 
 received by the county people, whose daughters rode to 
 hounds, and whose sons were in expensive regiments, going 
 the pace with the fastest. There were four daughters, and 
 (don't let me shock you) not one of them worth a thought ! 
 Selfish, vain, unintelligent, fast, they had but two ideas the 
 first was to get money, the second to convert it into dress. I 
 
 301
 
 soa Hnnte 2>eane 
 
 hope such girls do not grow in every family, but they grew in 
 that one, and they lowered my ideas of womanhood for all 
 time. All those girls married. Heaven knows why ! My 
 aunt did nothing to check the fearful extravagance. In fact, 
 she was as extravagant and as useless as the girls themselves ; 
 and, as far as I could see, other women who came to stay in 
 the house were pretty much the same. They looked upon me 
 as a boy, and seldom troubled to take any notice of me, so I 
 had ample opportunity to sample the conversation of women, 
 married and unmarried, when such conversation is en deshabille, 
 and I can tell you, Lin, that very often it was anything but 
 nice. When my cousin Madge, a girl of eighteen, became 
 engaged to a man of forty, I well remember some old-fashioned 
 friends of my uncle's making a special journey into Warwick- 
 shire, armed with clear evidence of the bridegroom's hopeless 
 depravity. My aunt heard the evidence without turning a hair. 
 
 " ' Simple spite,' she said ; ' nothing but spite.' For her 
 own part she should not dream of taking any notice of it, 
 much less of permitting it to stand in the way of Margaret's 
 marriage. 
 
 " Marriage was the thing, you see, Lin. They must 
 marry. No matter whom, as long as he was socially up to the 
 mark. Neither a man's age nor his habits mattered a jot, as long 
 as his family were good enough, and his pocket deep enough. A 
 boy fresh from college, or an old sinner on his last legs both 
 were fair game, and both were hunted. I grew to think of all 
 women as fair frauds, with a dangerous hook attached to the 
 third finger of the left hand. Anyway, I tell you that when I 
 was your age I held women very lightly." 
 
 " I can understand that," Lin said. " You saw no reason 
 to do anything else ; you had been to such a bad school. 
 Your opinion of women altered. I want to know when, and 
 why." 
 
 " It began to alter directly I got among women who were 
 making their own way ; who were, in plain language, earning 
 their own living. No matter whether by necessity or choice, the 
 effect was to ennoble them. I had always had a hope that 
 there were women who had souls above the level of a draper's 
 shop window. Very soon after I entered the musical 
 profession that old hope began to strengthen in me, and as it 
 strengthened it gave an earnestness to life that I cannot 
 explain. I did not understand it then, for I was blind to 
 much that to you has been clear everyday experience. I have 
 no hesitation in saying that when I began life on my own
 
 account I could not have loved the best woman God ever 
 made. I could not have sufficiently freed myself from myself. 
 It was not in me to comprehend a good woman, because I 
 could not have believed in her. I looked upon marriage as 
 the very last folly which any man with a seeing eye could 
 commit. It was such a splendid institution for women that it 
 must of necessity be a bad one for us. As time went by there 
 dawned upon me an idea that I had, perhaps, been wrong, and 
 that the true interests of the two sexes were, after all, identical. 
 But nothing happened to make me study that matter until I 
 was nearly six-and-twenty." 
 
 " Not much of an age, after all," said Lin leniently. 
 
 " I don't think my age excused me. I was as old at eighteen 
 as you are now, and older. But then, you see, you have had 
 to work, and work is the finest safeguard against evil ever yet 
 discovered. As soon as I began to work I was a better man. 
 I had been singing nearly five years when I met Miss Le 
 Breton. It was my first season in opera. We were singing 
 together, and saw a good deal of each other. I had heard 
 much talk of her, and had smiled in derision. A little 
 virtue in a prima donna, as in Royalty, goes a long way. But 
 I soon found that all I had heard was plain, unvarnished truth. 
 Don't be afraid ; I am not going to give you a long description 
 of her, but I should like to give you some idea of what she 
 was, or you might not comprehend what followed. She was 
 a combination of opposites, which says little, because all 
 charming women are that. She was a creature of ideals, and 
 yet intensely lovable and human ; rarely and variously 
 gifted, and yet a very fireside witch. She had money in 
 her own right, which she devoted entirely to charity, 
 hoping thereby to ameliorate the condition of those less 
 happy than herself. She lived upon what she earned, and 
 that by no means luxuriously or not more so than was 
 necessary to the maintenance of her position as an opera singer. 
 In her private life she was simple to t' e verge of severity, and 
 I never saw her in an extravagant gown. A staunch Roman 
 Catholic, she had seen too much and dived too deeply into 
 things to have any bigotry about her ; but religion was real to 
 her, and guided her every action. I can safely say that I 
 never heard her say a malicious thing, that I never knew her 
 prevaricate or coquette with the truth ; I know she would not 
 have told a lie to save her head. She once owned to me that 
 she felt very deeply her responsibility towards God. ' He had 
 started her so generously,' she said, with the little homely way
 
 304 Smite H>eane 
 
 of expressing herself that she had sometimes. She felt she 
 must live up to her gifts, that as so much had been .niven her, so 
 much would be required. Now, can you fancy the astonish- 
 ment with which I heard a woman talk in that way ? Can you 
 imagine the effect it had upon me when I found that here was 
 a woman who in the midst of wealth was simple-minded, who 
 in the midst of temptation was loftily pure, who in the midst of 
 success great enough to turn the brain of the levellest-headed 
 man alive was steady, undated, utterly unspoiled ? As I grew to 
 know her better, to realise that she was what she seemed to be, 
 my old self fell away from me. I was a new man. I remember a 
 few fearful weeks in which I staggered about like a man who 
 has been trying to look at the sun, and then through a woman 
 I saw what manhood should be, and, through that vision of 
 manhood, I saw God. What she was to me, some woman will 
 some day be to you simply the woman one loves. There is 
 no miracle, Lin, though every man thinks one has been wrought 
 for him alone. Even now my old superstition clings to me, for 
 I believe I loved that woman as never man loved woman yet ! 
 You see, she was so well worth loving. It took one out of the 
 common to convert me, but being converted, there were no half 
 measures possible to me ; I fell down and worshipped her. I 
 had not anticipated my conversion by giving a little faith to 
 one goddess here, and to another there. I had lived as men 
 do live, certainly not better, perhaps a little worse ; but I had 
 never cared two straws for a woman before that time, as I have 
 never cared two straws for a woman since, although from a 
 scoffer at them all I grew to look upon the sorriest wreck among 
 them as sacred, for was not she, too, a woman ? and had not a 
 woman once been dearer to me than life ? Does it sound like 
 high-flown nonsense to you, Lin ? " 
 
 " No," said Lin quietly, " it sounds like truth ; but I cannot 
 like your Miss Le Breton. To my mind's eye she is stone I 
 beg your pardon, marble. I feel I should like to give her 
 pedestal a stealthy push." 
 
 " She was not stone she was dainty, passionate flesh and 
 blood. All her opinions were deep-rooted, and she had the 
 courage of them." 
 
 " Say she was a strong-minded woman, and have done with 
 it," said Lin resignedly. " For my part, I say, from anything 
 like a strong-minded woman may Heaven and all the saints 
 deliver me ! " 
 
 " Why ? She is above a weak-minded woman, as a man 
 with a will of his own is above one who has none ! "
 
 "3 mm iRepag" 305 
 
 "You admire women whose aim in life is to shiiek from 
 every available platform, and to seize the House of Commons 
 for themselves ? " 
 
 " My dear lad, take my word for it that they are infinitely 
 preferable to the women who squander God-given wealth on 
 their own empty vanities; who move heaven and ea'th to find 
 husbands, but never one finger to make of themselves wives ; 
 who bear children because it is the one natural process from 
 which they cannot escape, but who afterwards turn their backs 
 upon every other responsibility connected with them. Their 
 dress and their dogs take up their spare time. Hired nurses, 
 of whom they know nothing with whom they themselves 
 could not associate are good enough for their children. Your 
 platform shriekers are better than they ; at least, they are in 
 earnest about something." 
 
 " You cannot mean that you would care to marry a strong- 
 minded woman ? " 
 
 " I should prefer her to a woman who had no mind at all. 
 The man who shuns intelligence in his wife is either knave or 
 fool ; he either fears to be found unworthy or empty-headed. 
 I think any sensible man would prefer to share his life with his 
 intellectual equal rather than with his inferior." 
 
 " Please let it stop at equality ; don't tie a man to his 
 intellectual superior. He wouldn't have the ghost of a chance; 
 he would be simply snuffed out." 
 
 " He would have every chance. Superiority of intellect is 
 rarely self-assertive. The wider the culture, the greater the 
 courtesy. A cultivated woman would be far more likely to 
 appreciate what is due to a man than an uncultivated one. 
 Don't make the mistake of supposing submission to be the 
 peculiar attribute of ignorance. It is quite the reverse." 
 
 " I shall have to invoke the aid of my old friend, and tell 
 you that 
 
 " ' What I most prize in woman 
 
 Is her affections, not her intellect.' " 
 
 " A matter of natural disposition. Ignorance does not 
 breed affection any more than culture kills it. The nature 
 which is affectionate will remain so, whether the intellect be 
 cultivated or not." 
 
 " I do perceive that I am worsted," said Lin, with a touch of 
 tragedy. " Let us get back to your goddess." 
 
 " Who was so human that she loved me ? She braved the 
 wrath of her people and the grave di approbation of her Church. 
 
 u
 
 306 Hnnte 2>eane 
 
 In less than six months from the time we met we were engaged 
 to be married. I was like the man in ' Maud,' then, Lin I 
 had my ' day.' It lasted a few short weeks. There was nothing 
 to wait for, so we resolved to marry, quietly, without delay. 
 Everything of a preliminary nature was settled. 
 
 ...... 
 
 " We sat one evening together, discussing the tremendous 
 change in people which is brought about by marriage, the 
 severance of trivial ties and friendships which marriage effects, 
 and she spoke regretfully of some letters which she could not 
 quite determine to destroy, and yet had little wish to keep. 
 They were a man's letters. She sealed them carefully up at 
 at last in order to put them away, and then laughingly asked 
 me what about mine ? 
 
 " I laughed, too, and going through into my room yes, that 
 very room yonder I brought out a drawer into which I had 
 tossed the contents of an old disused portmanteau : piles of 
 old letters, nothing more. I remember I spoke with light- 
 hearted contempt of them and of their forgotten writers, and 
 she shook her head at me in rebuke. 
 
 " ' Burn them,' I said. ' They should have been burnt 
 before.' 
 
 " There was nothing there of which I had the slightest fear 
 nothing, I felt quite certain, by which any woman could have 
 been compromised. What man in his senses would keep 
 letters of which he was afraid? Besides, I knew Miss Le 
 Breton perfectly. I knew she would read nothing there 
 except by express invitation, or with a view to destroying 
 anything manifestly worthless. I left her to amuse herself 
 with the bonfire while I wrote some letters on business con- 
 nected with my marriage. As I was addressing my last 
 envelope, she asked if I had finished. 
 
 " ' Very nearly,' said I. ' Have you ? ' 
 
 "'I can get no farther,' she said, looking at me in an intent 
 way peculiar to her. ' What is this ? I found it with this old 
 photograph of you.' 
 
 " I got up and took the thing out of her hand. 
 
 " Such an innocent-looking thing it was, Lin my ' bolt 
 from the blue ' ! Merely a few words written on a business 
 memorandum ' telling me of an incident which had come 
 under the writer's notice, and with which I was associated." 
 
 He paused, compelled to pause by the heavy beating of his 
 heart and the consequent unsteadiness of his voice. 
 
 " No, no, there is nothing the matter with me," he said, in
 
 "5 Mill fRepas" 37 
 
 answer to Lin's anxious regard of him ; " but I have never 
 spoken of this to man or woman, and the thought of it stirs 
 me to this day." 
 
 Which was more lie than truth. It was not the thought of 
 Helen Le Breton which set his heart a-throb to-night, and 
 parched his lips until utterance was a matter of effort. His 
 dread of that parting years ago had been great, but the dread 
 of parting with Lin was far, far greater. And he was getting 
 perilously near to the confession which might bring it about. 
 
 " But what was it ? " said Lin, with a touch of excitement, 
 as he threw his cigarette end into the fire. 
 
 " You remind of her. ' What is it ? ' she said, as I stood 
 there like a man in a dream. 'Lindsay, tell me that the woman 
 is mistaken* I told her God knows what I told her ! The 
 thing looked so black against me was so black that the 
 more I tried to explain, the more I condemned myself. I saw 
 it in her whitening face and her altered manner. I gave up, 
 and was dumb." 
 
 "But what had you done? Nothing heinous, I dar; 
 swear ! " 
 
 Here was his chance. Now was it clearly his duty to give 
 Lin back his faith in him, and say : 
 
 "The thing I had done was heinous. As you judge, she 
 judged." 
 
 Le Quesne paused, turned coward, and let his chance go by 
 Some sort of confession he must make, but rather than tell the 
 naked truth to Lin, he felt he could have suffered death. 
 
 " Heinous ! " he repeated wearily. " To her it must have 
 have seemed so. Judging as she judged, it was so. Her 
 standard of of morality was high, and when a woman loves 
 a man she rarely takes him for what he is ; she takes him for 
 what she herself has made of him." 
 
 He spoke half impatiently. He was impatient with his own 
 cowardice. So far he had but lain the blame of their parting 
 upon Miss Le Breton's ultra-fastidious sense of honour. Where, 
 even now, was his own ? 
 
 " Warrener," he said abruptly, in his torture, " I have never 
 tried to make myself out to be a saint, have I ? You seem to 
 speak as if I had. Don't I tell you that there were many by- 
 ways off the high road of my life down which I could not have 
 taken a woman like Miss Le Breton ? a woman who held that 
 a man's life should be morally blameless, since he demands a 
 spotless record with the woman he marries." 
 
 " Did she expect to find such a man ? " said Lin drily.
 
 Hnnfe Deane 
 
 " I cannot say. She knew that I was not such a man. Still, 
 there was one thing far back in my life of which I had not 
 told her, for a reason hereafter to be given you. Before I had 
 reached the age of one-and-twenty I had treated a girl what 
 men in our life would call shabbily" 
 
 He paused again. Could he let it stop at that ? Did that 
 mild word do justice to the situation ? 
 
 " Shabbily, according to our creed ; unpardonably, accord- 
 ing to hers. Unpardonably, now, according to mine ; but 
 when I did it, I did not see as I see now. Women were no 
 marble goddesses to me then, Lin. They were hollow casts 
 shams not even whitewashed, some of them, and the one of 
 whom I speak had been to me the cheapest of them all. I 
 had gone my way. My studies abroad, my success both there 
 and at home, had put the girl out of my head. In my heart 
 she had never had a place. God forgive me, I had never 
 thought her worth it. I was wrong. Anyway, on the eve of 
 my marriage with Helen, that that girl of whom I speak 
 had passed out of my memory with the shadows of all the 
 others. There was but one reality, and she was to be my 
 wife." 
 
 He stopped and glanced at Lin. He, sitting forward in a 
 chair with his hands clasped about his knee, was intensely 
 interested, but in Le Quesne's side of the narrative solely. 
 Odd as it may seem, the motif of the story, the unknown 
 "girl," utterly passed him by. The narrator saw it, with a 
 mighty throb of relief. 
 
 "Well?" said Lin. 
 
 "Well, there we stood I with the cursed paper in my 
 hand, and she watching me. All I could get from her was, 
 'Tell me the truth. No matter how bad it is, tell me the 
 truth.' 
 
 " I recalled the circumstances as well as I could, and told 
 her everything. Ninety-nine women in a hundred would have 
 forgiven me, but I had had the courage to love the hundredth, 
 and she hesitated. She said she must have time in which to 
 think the matter over. I gave her as much as she chose to 
 take. The next day she sent for me. She said that she was 
 unable to keep herself any longer in suspense ; that in trying 
 to come to a right conclusion she saw one gleam of hope for 
 herself and for me. She said I knew her. I knew she held 
 that a man should be as far above suspicion as the woman he 
 married ; that he had no right to demand a purity in her 
 which he could not claim for himself. I knew that in
 
 39 
 
 promising to become my wife she had set aside her opinions, 
 or rather, in her great love for me, had ignored them. In her 
 great love for me she was prepared to go farther still. Would 
 I tell her why when I had told her of many other things I 
 had made no mention of this one girl ? 
 
 "I saw our 'one gleam of hope' die out. I made no 
 answer. 
 
 " ' You were afraid of me ? ' she said, with an eagerness that, 
 in her, was pitiful. ' You thought I would not forgive you ? ' 
 
 " I told her I had had no such fear. 
 
 " ' You thought that even if I forgave you I should think of 
 it afterwards, and that, rankling, it might destroy my faith in 
 you?' 
 
 " I said the reason had not been that. 
 
 " ' Then what was it ? ' she said hopelessly, for she knew as 
 well as I did. 
 
 " ' I did not tell you because I had forgotten all about it.' 
 
 "That settled things. She sat down on one chair, I 
 remember, and grasped the back of another with both her 
 hands. 
 
 " ' You have gone farther,' she said, ' than I feel justified 
 in following any man. I cannot be false to myself, or how 
 could I expect to be true to you ? Although I might have 
 given myself to a man who had done a thing like this, I could 
 not trust the man who could forget it when it was done. I 
 should not feel safe.' 
 
 " I accepted her decision. I went my way, and she hers. 
 I have never seen her since." 
 
 Lin sat back in his chair. 
 
 " She never altered her mind ? " 
 
 " If she did, she never said so. Now, do you see how 
 Heaven took up the cause of the despised? I had once 
 thought a girl too low for my consideration ; the time came 
 when a woman thought me too low for hers. The girl I had 
 forgotten was very well avenged."
 
 CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 THERE was a long pause. 
 
 " I don't like that goddess of yours," said Lin at last. " 1 
 am sure she would have made you a terribly exacting wife." 
 
 " Perhaps. I walked out of my fool's paradise, and have nevel 
 sought another. But ever since I have felt what it is to be 
 shut out. I have been like a man who passes for a millionaire, 
 and knows himself for a beggar." 
 
 " While there were scores of women who would have thought 
 it an honour to share your life ? " 
 
 " Perhaps it is because there are ' scores ' that a man fails 
 to find the one ; perhaps I had no heart to make the search ; 
 perhaps I saw in the whole matter a Hand against which we 
 are powerless. Still, the hankering after something to care 
 for, something which should care for me, never let me alone ; 
 and one day as I was passing through a village in the Midlands 
 I saw a lovely little curly-headed chap playing with the dust and 
 stones in the road. I fell in love with the youngster, thought 
 it would be a real good turn to take him from his sordid 
 surroundings and bring him up decently. His people demurred 
 a little, but money soon silenced them. I brought him to 
 London, engaged a highly superior person to look after him, 
 surrounded him with all a child wants, and much that it does 
 not want, but I never succeeded in winning from that child 
 one particle of affection." 
 
 " What an extraordinary thing!" 
 
 " It was all the more extraordinary because he was really an 
 affectionate child. I tried him for more than a year, until he 
 had become as distasteful to me as I was to him. Then his 
 nurse married and he fretted after her, refused to countenance 
 her successor, and became a veritable nightmare to me. As I 
 had bowed to Fate in the matter of a wife, I bowed to Fate in 
 the matter of the child. I gave in, and wrote to the youngster's 
 people stating why I wished to be relieved of him. My letter 
 was returned to me. Tempted by unaccustomed money, the 
 
 310
 
 tt> Hcguafntance' Safee 3" 
 
 whole family had emigrated. After a heap of trouble I 
 succeeded in tracing them to California ; after a heap more 
 trouble I found somebody who was willing to take the child 
 out to them. When he got there I had a letter from his 
 father, who, having failed to do any good, considerately 
 laid the blame upon me. He said I had tempted them to 
 sell their child; that the money had been a curse to them, 
 and that they had never prospered since they had touched it. 
 I can't tell you what I spent in that attempt to win a little 
 affection, because I never knew. Well, I had turned my back 
 upon affection once, and I was condemned thenceforward 
 to seek it in vain." 
 
 "Have you not grown morbid over that unlucky recollec- 
 tion ? " Lin said cheerfully. " You say you once treated a girl 
 shabbily" 
 
 " Very shabbily, Lin worse than shabbily." 
 
 " When you were young," pursued Lin, unheeding, " and 
 had been spoiled by bad training. I know the privilege of 
 sex is enormous, and a man ought to be extremely careful not 
 to abuse it. Still, he may find that he has made a mistake, 
 and it may be more justifiable to 'jilt ' a woman than to marry 
 her." 
 
 " But the man who even jilts a woman is voted a cad." 
 
 "When she knows that he is chafing to be free? Surely 
 between honourable people an understanding is all that is 
 necessary a little straightforward explanation." 
 
 Le Quesne sighed restlessly. They were getting wide of 
 the point now, and he was too cowardly to turn back to it. 
 Lin must learn the truth in a different way. 
 
 "Explanation?" he repeated. "There are times, Lin, 
 when explanation demands a moral courage denied to the 
 average man. He dare not explain he bolts." 
 
 Lin nodded thoughtfully. 
 
 "Well," he said, rising, and beginning to pace the room, 
 " I stick to my point. I say that it was no part of Miss Le 
 Breton's work in life to pass sentence upon you. Whatever 
 you might have done worthy of rebuke, it was before you 
 knew her ; to whomsoever else you had been false, to her you 
 had been true." 
 
 Le Quesne half rose, watching Lin with painful interest. 
 
 " You honestly think that ? " 
 
 " I do." 
 
 " You would not think it part of your business to take up 
 the cause of another for conscience' sake? You would not
 
 31 Hnnie 2>eane 
 
 fight some one else's battles if it were against some one for whom 
 you had any love ? " 
 
 " I am an ordinary person," Lin said ruefully, " and I am 
 afraid I could not fight against any one I loved, even in the 
 cause of right." He stopped a second, struck by the strained 
 expression of Le Quesne's face. " Now, if it were the other 
 way about, I could understand it. I might take up the cause 
 of one I loved against a stranger, and fight for it as if it were 
 my own." 
 
 " Ah ! " His eager face fell. " And if you stood between 
 two people, both dear to you how then ? " 
 
 " I should try to bring them together." 
 
 " Impossible ! How then ? " 
 
 " I should have to decide which side had right upon it, and 
 take my stand upon that." 
 
 He dropped back upon the couch, and turned his face away 
 from Lin. 
 
 " There would be small need for decision," he said, " since 
 the matter does not ;idmit of any doubt." 
 
 Lin stopped, and bent forward, trying to look into the averted 
 face. 
 
 "What are you driving at?" he said, half banteringly and 
 half in earnest. " You are very mysterious to-night." 
 
 The averted face came slowly round, the dark eyes, heavy 
 with painful tears, looked straight up into Lin's. 
 
 " It's the old story of the missing moral courage, Lin," he 
 said. " Time will explain to you, but I I haven't the pluck." 
 
 Some far-off glimmer of the light to come touched Lin at 
 that moment startled puzzled eluded him, like the touch 
 of an unseen hand, and then was gone, lost in the intensity 
 of his faith in the man beside him. 
 
 "You are down in the dumps to-night," he said lightly, 
 "and I believe it is because I am off to-morrow. I ought to 
 be off now, for it is past eleven." 
 
 "Just the time of night I hate. Sit down and tell me that 
 story you spoke of just now. You said you had no right to 
 make it public. Telling it to me will not make it so." 
 
 Lin sat down with knitted brows and an uncomfortable 
 vision of Annie's reproachful face. 
 
 " I have no right to do it," he said. u My mother would 
 never forgive me if she knew, but I want you to know what 
 love can do for women who are not gifted ; who do not set 
 themselves up for anything out of the ordinary run ; who are 
 simply unselfish and womanly. She was only a little peasant
 
 if or It) Hcquatntance' Safee 313 
 
 girl. She had no advantage of any sort that I can discover ; 
 was poor and ignorant, and quite content to remain so. 
 Somehow I can't tell you how, for I don't know she came 
 in contact with a a well, she calls him a gentleman." 
 
 " She told you this herself? " 
 
 "Yes. You see, I was going away, and was rash enough 
 to ask for information concerning my paternity. This this 
 man (one must call him something), having amused himself in 
 his own vile way, got clear away, leaving her neither name, 
 address, nor any clue to either except a photograph. In 
 proper hands that might have been of use, but she kept it to 
 herself. She afterwards brought it to London, to the place 
 where it was taken, thinking in her ignorance that the 
 photographer would tell her who the original was, and where 
 to find him." 
 
 " Did you ever see that photograph ? " 
 
 " I have never asked to see it, nor do I believe she would 
 show it me if I did. She would be afraid that I might try to 
 find him." 
 
 " Surely a needless fear ? " 
 
 "Perhaps, and yet I don't know. If I ever think much 
 about it, I lose my head. I sometimes feel an irresistible 
 longing to see for myself what the man to whom that devilish 
 deed was possible, is like. From what I can gather, he was 
 an educated man, a man of means, of an age I should say near 
 about my own ; but of that I am not sure. And he left a child 
 of sixteen to face her own ruin by the aid of his photograph 
 and a sum of money. What do you think it was ? " 
 
 "God knows!" ' 
 
 " Five pounds ! And sometimes I think that if ever I am 
 face to face with him I will crush a five-pound note into some 
 convenient shape, and force it down his throat, if I hang 
 for it ! " 
 
 Le Quesne suddenly struggled to his feet, and stood leaning 
 against the mantelpiece. Lin spoke with a curious quietude, 
 but about the depth of his feeling on the subject there could 
 be no mistake. Le Quesne made none. 
 
 " And you think your mother would thank you for trying to 
 avenge a wrong which she has been content to bear in silence ? " 
 
 " No. I believe if I were to raise a hand against the hound 
 she would hate me. For she loves him has openly told me 
 that I bear a certain amount of resemblance to him, which has 
 made me doubly dear to her ! It is just this part of a very 
 unsavoury story which tempted me to tell the whole to you.
 
 314 annie 2>eane 
 
 I was ill when I heard it for the first time, and it upset me 
 horribly upset me so that I daresay some of the points were 
 lost on me ; but I shall never forget how she pleaded for that 
 cur, nor how desperate she got when I reviled him. His very 
 vileness was lost upon her because it was his. He told her 
 black was white, and she believed him ! ' He left me plenty of 
 money he believed I should have married Jim ; he didn't 
 know what I should have to go through, or he wouldn't have 
 left me to bear it. How could he have known, when I did not 
 know myself? If I could only have let him know, he would 
 have come back. He wasn't bad ; he was young, and didn't 
 think ; but in his heart he was kind and good. I tell you I 
 know he was. Lin, if you've ever cared anything about me, 
 you mustn't say a word against him. I won't hear it.' That 
 is how she kept on ; and what is more, she meant it 1 " 
 
 " Yes ? " He spoke with a touch of incredulity. " That 
 being so, is it not strange that she could not have gone the 
 whole self-sacrificial length, and have kept his infamy from you? 
 Instead of which, she seems to have been careful to put you 
 in possession of just those points of the history which are 
 hopelessly damning to him ! " 
 
 Lin looked at the speaker in surprise. 
 
 " Knowing her, I don't think it strange. To have done what 
 you suggest, she must either have refused to tell me what 
 it was my right to know or have put me off with a tissue of 
 lies. As to those damning facts of the history, believe me, she 
 actually put them forward in defence of him, so little good 
 woman and just as she is is her judgment of him to be 
 trusted ! When she saw what I thought of the business, saw 
 that all defence of him was out of the question, she did 
 what it seems to me natural for your genuine woman to do. 
 She shut her eyes to the sin, and stood prepared to stand by 
 the sinner through thick and thin ! She tried to make a 
 convert of me. God forgive me for being angry with her 
 that she should think it possible! She actually believed 
 that she could win me over to see that man with her eyes ; 
 to believe with her that he had sinned indeed, but unin- 
 tentionally, unconsciously, not realising the gravity of his 
 own act." 
 
 " It is a pity that you should refuse to be converted, for I 
 believe that she is right." 
 
 Lin swung round on his heel to face Le Quesne. 
 
 " You what ? " he said blankly. 
 
 " I believe she is right."
 
 ffor <S>1& acquaintance' Safee 315 
 
 "You don't mean it! You cannot mean that you a 
 man of the world, knowing well what things are could 
 attempt to defend such a thing as this ? For her to try to 
 excuse the human devil who ruined her, and left her in 
 recompense his portrait and five pounds, is perhaps com- 
 prehensible ; for you to do so is not only incomprehensible 
 it is absurd ! " 
 
 " I make no pretence of doing so. I only say that a woman 
 may be a bettter judge of even a bad man than you or I, or 
 any other, save the God who made him. In fact, her judgment 
 is near akin to the Divine. ' The sin I hate, but the sinner 
 I love.' Can you not see that this is possible? For this 
 particular sin, who would try to defend it ? Of course, it was 
 brutal." 
 
 " It was not," said Lin hotly. " Give a brute his due, and 
 don't malign him. He stays by the brute he mates with. 
 In his poor, dumb brute fashion he defends her. He will 
 even lose his life for her, and he will do his best for his 
 helpless brute cubs, until the time has come when instinct 
 teaches him that they can do without him. But this con- 
 temptible thing, with brains to tell him right from wrong, and 
 education to preclude all possibility of his mistaking the one 
 for the other, slunk away, and left a child not seventeen to 
 find her way through difficulties which might well had she 
 but realised the nature of them have made her give herself 
 up to despair and the river. And yet you are so extra 
 merciful, you would like to think that he did not know what 
 he was doing ! I think he did know very well, for he took 
 excellent care to get clear away, leaving no trace behind him. 
 You may have wondered why I was so hard upon this un- 
 recognised ' crime ' the other night. Now you know. Of 
 course, you cannot see it as I do. It has never come home to 
 you, so you can't be expected to feel it. But if this thing had 
 happened to anyone you cared for by George ! you would 
 feel it then ! You would not stop to consider whether or 
 not this man was quite sure of what he did. It would be 
 enough for you that he did it, and the thought of him would 
 raise the devil in you, as it does in me." 
 
 His elbow resting on the mantelpiece, his white face resting 
 on his hand, Le Quesne stood for some moments in silence. 
 
 " You say she knows now who the man is ? " he asked at 
 length, without shifting his position. 
 
 " Yes, she has since found out." 
 
 " You do not know how ? "
 
 3*6 Runic IDeauc 
 
 " I did not ask. I lost all patience, and preferred to know 
 nothing more about him. I think she put forward some extra- 
 ordinary idea of her own, that as she had sinned once and been 
 sorry for it ever since so had he. It exasperated me beyond 
 expression. Her atonement has been made before all the 
 world. If he has been moved by any desire to atone, he has 
 had four-and-twenty years to do it in, and has never made a 
 sign. I think that speaks for itself." 
 
 " Are you sure he has made no sign ? He may have tried 
 to find her, and failed." 
 
 " May have tried ! Are there no newspapers ? Are there 
 no such things in them as advertisements ? Or, if so much 
 publicity were distasteful to such a delicate mind as his, are 
 there no Private Inquiry Offices ? Don't tell me about a man 
 'failing' to find any woman who is alive, and not in hiding. 
 You seem to be infected with my mother's desire to handle 
 this particular criminal apologetically. It wouldn't take much 
 to prove to you that he was no criminal at all." 
 
 " You are out of temper, and, in consequence, unreasonable." 
 
 " That is very likely. Have I not told you that I never 
 willingly think of him ? I have not ; it won't do. More than 
 once I have been startled to find how much of the devil there 
 is in a man ; even in an ordinary man such as I. Do you know 
 that at first I used to dream about him dream that I had him 
 in my grip ? and I have knelt on him stabbed at him shaken 
 the vile breath out of him choked him with my naked hands 
 have watched him gasp until there was no breath left in him 
 to gasp with, and then I have let him go for dead ! Oh ! it is 
 no fiction. When I think of that man all the good in me 
 takes flight, and there is nothing but a vengeful devil left." 
 
 Le Quesne stood upright There was a look in his eyes 
 which told that he was at the end of his self-control. He put 
 one shaky hand in front of Lin's distorted young face. 
 
 " Don't say any more," he said, speaking with difficulty, for 
 his lips were stiff and dry, " 1 can't bear it. I have associated 
 you with all that is good and merciful. If it is in you to be 
 anything else, I don't want to know it. You have become 
 dearer to me, more necessary to me, than you know, and I 
 cannot stand that look upon your face. On your own showing, 
 it is as distasteful to your mother as it is to me. She has lived 
 longer than you have, and has come nearer to the truth. She 
 knows that life is not long enough for us to go out of our way to 
 punish other people's sins. It is enough for us that we try 
 to atone for our own. Let us do that, and be content."
 
 jfor to acquaintance* Safee 317 
 
 Lin felt " pulled up," felt that he ought to be ashamed of 
 himself, but was too obstinate to give way. 
 
 " My mother ! " he said, still angrily ; " where is the value 
 of her judgment as far as he is concerned? She loves the 
 worthless wretch, thinks kindly of him, prays for him! Ah ! I 
 dare swear has prayed for him night and day these five-and- 
 twenty years." 
 
 " A good woman's prayers have been worth his having, Lin. 
 Don't grudge him them, since they have taken nothing away 
 from you. I am sure if he knew, reprobate as he is, he would 
 neither scoff at the prayers nor be ungrateful to the noble 
 woman who, in spite of all her wrongs, could think him not 
 past praying for. When you said once that with regard to your 
 mother's goodness I, with the rest, was sceptical, you were 
 right. I was. I am not now. I am sure she is a good 
 woman. So far from reviling the man who left her, I think 
 you can afford to pity him, seeing that in his ignorance he, 
 
 " ' Like the base Judean, threw a pearl away 
 Richer than all his tribe.' " 
 
 Lin's anger-pale face cleared and lit up. 
 
 " It is awfully good of you to say that," he said gratefully, 
 " and I know you would not say it unless you meant it. She 
 is a good woman, let who may doubt it. Your goddess might 
 preach and lay down rigid lines for other people to follow, but 
 she would have sent three out of four men to the devil. Just 
 look at the time ! I meant to have left while the shops 
 were still open, and here is the result 12.30 ! To-morrow is 
 my mother's birthday, and I always give her something. I 
 shall have to buy the 'something' to-morrow morning on my 
 way to the station, and trust to it being sent home." 
 
 " What do you give her ? " 
 
 " Ah ! there's the puzzle ! It is difficult to find anything 
 acceptable to a woman so absolutely detached from personal 
 possessions. For books she has little taste, while as for orna- 
 ments I have never seen her wear anything but a little gold 
 brooch, a sort of Maltese cross, the sight of which is an 
 abomination to me because, I believe mind, 1 only believe- 
 that God-forsaken scoundrel gave it her." 
 
 " Pray, leave him alone." 
 
 " I can't." 
 
 " Then speak of him less savagely." 
 
 " Why ? You would not have me call him a man ? "
 
 si 8 Bnnie IDeane 
 
 " Why not ? I should like to know in what way you think 
 of him what shape he takes to your mental fancy." 
 
 " He has no shape. He is unreal intangible an uncanny, 
 inhuman horror ! like the ' thing ' in Poe's poem that is 
 ' neither brute nor human ' 
 
 but a ghoul, or the soulless incarnation of Self in Lytton's 
 mystic story." 
 
 " Poor devil ! Who, wherever he is to-night, is just an 
 ordinary human thing, like you and me." 
 
 " I don't believe it. I believe that if I stood face to face 
 with him I should know him for no ' ordinary ' man. I should 
 know him by the look in his eyes, by the very touch of his 
 hand." 
 
 Le Quesne thought a moment, then suddenly faced about 
 
 "So you think that?" he said, as, looking Lin straight in 
 the face, he slowly very slowly held out his hand. 
 
 As the two hands met, one warm with vigorous young life, 
 the other damp and chill, an odd electric shiver flashed through 
 Lin from brow to heel, and back again. He gave himself a 
 shake, laughing, as he did so, the slight nervous laugh of 
 embarrassment. 
 
 " Oh, I know you think I'm a beast," he said apologetically, 
 " and I must be for harassing you. You are as white as death, 
 and your hand is like ice. The touch of it has sent me cold. 
 I am sorry to go, leaving such a bad impression behind me. 
 Never mind ; when I come back I will try to make up for it." 
 
 " Stop one moment. If to-morrow is your mother's birthday, 
 it is yours." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Will you let me give you something ? Oh ! don't be 
 afraid, it is nothing of any value. Only the sleeve-links that 
 have been wherever / have been for the last thirty years. 
 When I was young and superstitious, I always wore them when 
 making any fresh venture, even if I were singing a new song. 
 My ' luck ' has departed. I should like to hand it on to you." 
 
 As he spoke, he took the links from his sleeves and held them 
 out. 
 
 " Will you take your mother a message ? Will you tell her 
 that I could not send her anything but my best thanks for 
 lending me you f That the man who has had so much that the 
 world counts good has come to be indebted to her for the best 
 thing he has found in all his varied experience? I might 
 apologise to her for monopolising you, but I am afraid my 
 apologies now come too late to meet with any acceptance."
 
 jfor l& Hcquafntance' Safce 319 
 
 "I cannot take her such a mysterious message. She 
 wouldn't understand it." 
 
 "She will understand it perfectly." 
 
 " Very well. Wire me to-morrow night just to let me know 
 you are all right." 
 
 "If you wish it of course I will." 
 
 Before Lin left for the North he gave his mother that 
 " mysterious " message. 
 
 Her face flushed suddenly, a clear bright red, which as 
 suddenly died away. 
 
 " There's the message," said Lin, busily tightening the 
 straps of his portmanteau, " and if you can make head or tail 
 of it, why, I can't except, of course, that it is highly flattering 
 to me. Now, when you go into my room, the first thing you 
 have to do is to feel in the pocket of the waistcoat I took off 
 last night." 
 
 " It was mornin', dear," she said gently. 
 
 " I expect it was. Never mind. You will find some 
 sleeve-links in that pocket. I dare not wear them for fear 
 of losing them. Will you put them away ? " 
 
 She nodded and went upstairs as Lin left the house. 
 
 "It was darin' of him to send me that message," she 
 thought to herself as she went. " He'll get too darin' if he 
 doesn't mind. But it was good of him, too. All these years 
 I've prayed that if ever he come to want anything done, it 
 might be give to me to do it. Who'd have thought that ever 
 he'd have come to be alone in the world if 'twasn't for my 
 boy ? I can scarce believe it sometimes. ' He've come to 
 be in debt to me for the best thing he've ever found ' 1 For all 
 I've suffered, I've got my reward." 
 
 Lifting Lin's waistcoat from the peg whereon it hung, she 
 took the links from the pocket. One half-incredulous look at 
 them, and then they were pressed to her cheek, while the 
 tears rained down upon them thick and fast, for old acquaint- 
 ance' sake. In the long ago, when they had lain against his 
 warm brown wrists, the monogram upon them had so sorely 
 puzzled her ! Some of the delicate lines were half effaced 
 now, the centre of each little oval plate depressed by constant 
 use and the sharp twists of nervous, impatient fingers. 
 
 Oh ! poor little worn, half-worthless, wholly-priceless things, 
 at once so -lumb and eloquent how bitterly she cried over 
 them as she carried them up to put them away !
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI 
 
 " AFTER LONG YEARS* 
 
 A FEW days more and Lin had turned his back upon the 
 profession he loved well for the sake of the man he loved better, 
 without a backward look or a selfish thought of the morrow. 
 Le Quesne and he were going to the coast. 
 
 "Not far away," Dr. Helston had said, as he gave the 
 long-delayed permission. " Somewhere handy, so that I can 
 run down now and then to give you a look. Brighton, if you 
 like, or the Isle of Wight." 
 
 " The Island for preference," Le Quesne had said at once. 
 
 So Lin had written here and there, making all arrangements, 
 looking forward with tranquil pleasure to the days they would 
 spend together on the yacht, while the shores of the Island 
 looked fair as a dream in the shimmering haze of the drowsy 
 noons, and the sea lay blue by Haslar. 
 
 His patient had improved. Even under the ordeal of an 
 operation, to which was attached little of solid hope but much 
 of immediate comfort, he had not lost ground. 
 
 " I never meant to have had it done," he told Lin afterwards. 
 " I never meant to have grasped at a straw for the sake of a 
 few months' life." 
 
 One thing weighed heavily upon him the thought of Annie. 
 He ought to see her ; he must see her ; he had no right to go 
 away until he had seen her. Once he had shrunk from the 
 thought of her, had said, like Peter of old, "Lord, how can 
 I touch this thing, seeing that it is common and unclean ? " 
 Now he saw that he had applied the contemptuous epithets to 
 a thing far higher than himself an unpleasant reflection and 
 humiliating, but one which compelled him and asked him 
 sternly what he meant to do. He could but think of her, 
 could but marvel at her faith in him, seeing that it was a thing 
 for which she had so little excuse ! She had seen Lin turn his 
 back upon his very living for the sake of a man whom she had 
 every reason to mistrust and fear, and still she held her peace, 
 
 320
 
 "after Xono gears'' s 
 
 One word from her to Lin, and all her wrongs could be 
 avenged ; but she spoke no such word. She would be of use to 
 him ; she would strive to brighten his pathway to the grave 
 with the companionship of the son who owed him nothing 
 save a nameless life ; but of recompense said she never a word. 
 Is there any wonder that as he thought of her he writhed in 
 sheer disgust of himself? That he began to feel he must tell 
 her how her magnificent faith in him had touched him ? That 
 in the first flush of this new gratitude, this tardy comprehension 
 of her, he overshot the mark ; and from thinking her much 
 lower than she ever had been, he made of her something 
 higher than she really was ? 
 
 " Lin," he said abruptly one morning, " does your mother 
 know we are going away ? " 
 
 " In a general way yes. I have not yet told her when." 
 
 " Well, seeing that we go on Monday, and here is Friday, 
 you are rather slow, aren't you ? How will you let her know? " 
 
 " Oh, I must go if only to see the dear old man. He is 
 very feeble, and at his age there is no certainty in things." 
 
 11 But I want to see your mother myself." 
 
 " I am afraid you will have to want," Lin said, laughing. 
 " You would frighten her out of her wits, or make her ill for a 
 week." 
 
 " Surely you are exaggerating her diffidence ? I mean to see 
 her, in spite of all you can say. Pass me the blotting-pad. I'll 
 write to her now." 
 
 Half-vexed and half-amused, Lin obeyed orders. In less 
 than five minutes the note was sealed. 
 
 "Was your correspondence always so remarkable for 
 brevity ? " 
 
 " I think more remarkable for that than anything. Oh, 
 kindly pass that back again ! I have another note to write 
 to Miss Le Breton. She is in London, and I had a letter 
 from her this morning. She wants to see me." 
 
 " You will see her ? " said Lin slowly. 
 
 " No. But I have some songs in MS., for which I once 
 promised a dying lad to obtain a heating. I have not been 
 able to introduce them myself. I want to ask her to do it in 
 my stead, and I \vantyou to take them to her." 
 
 " Which I would much rather not do, unless you can show 
 me good reason." 
 
 " The MS. is a sacred trust. I don't care to send it through 
 the post." 
 
 " 11 would be perfectly safe with Harker." 
 
 x
 
 saa 'Hnnfe HJeane 
 
 "Per'iaps. I want you to take it. I want you to know 
 this lady. You are narrow, and must be widened for your own 
 good." ' 
 
 " If that is the best reason you have for sending me, I shall 
 decline co go. By George ! you are more forgiving than I am." 
 
 " I have nothing to forgive. Miss Le Breton chose to stick 
 to her principles rather than to me, that is all." 
 
 " That ought to be enough for you." 
 
 " It ts enough to make me respect her. You will do this 
 for me, Lin ? " 
 
 " I would rather not" 
 
 " It isn't much." 
 
 " To me it is a great deal." 
 
 " But if I make a point of it ? If I ask you to do this 
 simply to please me ? " 
 
 Lin stood, considering. 
 
 " Since you put it in that way," he said quietly, " of course, 
 I can't refuse." 
 
 Le Quesne lay back in his chair with a satisfied smile. 
 
 "God forgive me," he thought to himself, " but it is very life 
 ;o me to see how much I can make him do that he doesn't 
 want to do ! " 
 
 By that afternoon's post Annie received this brief 
 communication : 
 
 "Will you come and see me here to-morrow, at three? I 
 will try to send Lin out of the way ; but as he knows I am 
 writing to ask you for an interview, you need fear nothing 
 should you meet him here. In any case, I must see you, We 
 are going away, and one of us may not come back." 
 
 She put the note in her pocket, and sat down to consider 
 its contents. 
 
 " I can't say ' No' to that," she said to herself at last ; 
 " however I'll stan' havin' to face him an' yet keep hold o' myself 
 I don't know, but I can't say ' No.' I must go. If ever I've 
 had a heart an' he've had a place in it, I'll pray God for them 
 two or three hours to-morrow to turn it into stone, or the 
 sight of him '11 kill me." 
 
 A glorious June afternoon, golden and cloudless without, 
 oppressive and enervating within. With lowered blinds and 
 windows widely opened to the air, Le Quesne sat in his big,
 
 "Hfter XOUQ gears'* 323 
 
 luxurious room alone, waiting for Annie Deane now hoping 
 she would come, and then hoping she would not ; now telling 
 himself that she would not refuse any request of his, and then 
 wondering why she should comply, but ever growing more 
 nervous and restless as the time drew nearer to the appointed 
 hour. Five minutes to three. He rose, walked the length of 
 the room, paused to listen to faint steps first on the stairs, 
 then in the passage outside heard Barker's familiar rap at 
 his door, wheeled round so as not to face it as it opened, 
 heard it open and close, and knew that his visitor was awaiting 
 his notice. 
 
 She stood just inside the big, dim room, trembling and 
 confused. It was very dim to her, coming as she did 
 straight from the glaring street, so dim that at first she 
 did not see the tall figure standing within a few feet of 
 her. But she felt its presence, and, shading her eyes, looked 
 helplessly about her. The result was not reassuring. She 
 felt as might some street-waif who has stumbled unawares 
 into a church she was oppressed by unaccustomed space, by 
 nobility of line and detail. The brilliant pyramids of bloom 
 and foliage, the gleam of marble limbs half-hidden by palm 
 and fern, the glow of colour from a few perfect pictures per- 
 fectly hung, the tables and cabinets full of costly trifles, the 
 luxury luxury everywhere humiliated her. She felt so cruelly 
 out of place in that splendid room that she could have dropped 
 into the first chair she came to, and have burst into childish 
 tears. In the brief pause that followed the closing of the 
 door behind her, Annie Deane went back to her girlhood, and 
 the value of her after experiences was for the time being lost, 
 banished into obscurity by the light from one great truth 
 between her and the man to whom life in a place like this 
 was a matter of course there must ever be a gulf fixed. She 
 was of one world he of another. Of what avail was her 
 nobility of mind, her laboriously-attained purity of soul ! 
 Though this man might know these things were hers, such 
 knowledge was powerless to make of her in his eyes the 
 one thing she had craved to be a woman to be loved. 
 Night after night in the long years gone had she lain awake 
 planning in her own mind what she would say to him if they 
 should ever again stand face to face. They stood so now, and 
 lo ! they instantly fell back into the old hopeless position. 
 She was simply a shrinking peasant woman, with awkward 
 manner and halting speech ; he was Lindsay Le Quesne, a man
 
 324 Smile JDeanc 
 
 with whom she could never hope to stand on equal terms 
 because he was a gentleman ! 
 
 Growing accustomed to the subdued light, Annie became 
 aware that he was looking at her. She put up her veil and 
 looked at him. For one moment they met on common ground, 
 for the thought in the minds of both was the same they heartily 
 pitied each other as the helpless victims of Custom 
 exemplified by Class. If Le Quesne had desired to assume 
 the rdle of suppliant, he had to subordinate such desire to his 
 natural instinct of courtesy. It only remained for him to try to 
 put his shrinking visitor at her ease. 
 
 " It was good of you to come to me," he said, making no 
 attempt to shake hands with her, because he could see that she 
 did not wish it. In truth, her hands were too hot to be pleasant 
 to the touch of refinement. " I hoped you would have come 
 without being asked, but I have waited in vain for a sign from 
 you, and now could wait no longer. We leave on Monday." 
 
 She sat down on the chair he placed for her stupid 
 speechless wretched ; fighting hard for self-possession, fearing 
 every second that she would burst into tears. The great 
 opportunity of her life was within her grasp, and she saw it 
 slipping past her unsecured. The only desire she had was the 
 desire to get back to her own world, the world in which this 
 man had no place. Ever gentle in his manner to women, he 
 did not hurry her, merely explained in quiet, indifferent fashion 
 that he had sent Lin to see an old friend of his, and to 
 apologise for his being unable to bid her a personal farewell. 
 He knew enough of women to know that if anything he could 
 say could give Annie back her grip of herself it would be 
 something concerning another woman. He was right. She 
 found her voice. 
 
 " Why did you want to see me ? " she said quietly. 
 
 " Why, rather, did you not want to see me ? " asked he, 
 standing at the end of the mantelpiece just beside her. It 
 was necessary to be near her, for he had very little voice left 
 now. 
 
 " I couldn't see as there wus any need for it." 
 
 " Couldn't you ? For myself you might well have wished 
 to avoid me ; but what a! .out Lin ? " 
 
 " What do you mean about Lin ? " 
 
 " You must have been anxious on his account ?" 
 
 " Not at all. Why should I be ? " 
 
 " You could not have thought him very safe with 
 me?"
 
 " Hfter %ono gears'' 325 
 
 " My Lin'd be safe with anybody. You couldn't harm him, 
 an' I'm sure you wouldn't try." 
 
 "You have seen him turn his back upon his living for 
 my sake ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " You know that I have never made any mention of 
 recompensing him for his sacrifice ? It is a sacrifice of 
 something more than time, of something more than money, 
 of something more than the growing reputation which was 
 the dearest thing in life to him. It means the liberty of his 
 days and the loss of his rest at night, for he is a slave to me. 
 What is he to get in return ? " 
 
 " He've never said, an' I've never ast him." 
 
 " But you must have thought about it ? " 
 
 She was getting back her self-possession; she spoke with 
 even a touch of dignity : 
 
 " I haven't troubled, an' no more have he." 
 
 " Do you mean to say that, in spite of everything, you have 
 trusted me ? " 
 
 " I mean to say," she answered steadily, "that it have been 
 enough for me to know that Lin have bin some good to you. 
 As to recompense when you sent me that message about him 
 the other day, I had more than enough. He was the best 
 thing as you'd found in all your life, an' God had let me give it 
 you. Wusn't that enough ? I thought you understood, or why 
 should you ha' sent me that message ? " 
 
 " I did understand. How could I know Lin and hear him 
 talk of you without understanding? But you are different. 
 You know nothing but bad of me, and yet you let Lin stay 
 with me." 
 
 " If you'd bin nothink but bad," she said, with a smile, " my 
 Lin'd never ha' took to you nor you to him. He've not said 
 very much about you, but what he have said have bin enough 
 to tell me that whatever else he got from bein' with you, he 
 wouldn't get no harm." 
 
 " And yet I was a devil to you ! " 
 
 " You wus young, an' so wus I. God forgive us both." 
 
 He paced the room two or three times, then came back to his 
 place by the mantelpiece, still standing behind her chair. 
 
 " How long have you known my name ? " 
 
 "Since Lin was about five. I found it out accidental. I 
 never tried to find it out after just at first." 
 
 " But why, when you had found out, did you never let me 
 know of Lin's existence? Oh, I know you had little reason to
 
 Bnnfe Dcanc 
 
 suppose I should have troubled about it, but you might have 
 tried me ; you might have given me the chance to make 
 you some amends. If I had not availed myself of it, that sin 
 would have lain at my door. I suppose you thought it too 
 forlorn a hope ? " 
 
 " No, I didn't. I always believed you'd ha' done somethink 
 for the boy if you'd knowed about him." 
 
 "Do you know that I once went down into Berkshire to 
 make inquiries about you ? " 
 
 " No ; I never heard as you done that." 
 
 " I saw your sister, Mrs. Drake. She told me that the child 
 was dead, and that you had emigrated. Why she should have 
 charged her soul with the burden of such a lie, God knows ; I 
 don't." 
 
 Annie turned a shade or two paler. 
 
 ' Alice never liked me," she said patiently. " I've had 
 more'n one proof of that. It doesn't matter now. How long 
 is that ago ? " 
 
 " Eighteen years. If you believed that I should have 
 owned the child, why did you not give me the chance ? " 
 
 ' ( Well, the same time as I learnt who you wus, I learnt, too, 
 as you wus goin' to get married. To ha' come to you, then, 
 would ha' bin a bitter cruel thing to do. I couldn't ha' done 
 it." 
 
 " Most women would have done it. You know that I was 
 not married ? " 
 
 "I heard so, but not till some time after, when Lin was 
 gettin' big enough to know? 
 
 " All the time you were working for him, did it never occur 
 to you that you were, after all, standing in the boy's light? 
 That you were with infinite trouble doing less for him than I 
 could have done with no trouble at all ? " 
 
 " Yes, that's true. You could ha' done better for him than 
 me, an' I dessay I wus selfish. But if I'd only had myself to 
 work for, work'd ha' gone harder wi' me than it did. As long 
 as I'd got him I didn't mind ; I couldn't a-bear the thought o' 
 partin' with him." 
 
 "Do you suppose I should have asked you to part with 
 him?" 
 
 " I couldn't ha* helped myself," she answered steadily, " no 
 more could you. Either Lin must ha' bin your son or he 
 must ha' bin mine. He couldn't ha' belonged to us both" 
 
 "Why could he not?" 
 
 " You wus one thing an' me another. A boy with his father
 
 " Hfter %OI\Q U>ears " 327 
 
 a gentleman an' his mother in service would scarce ha' knowed 
 what to make of hisself, would he ? " 
 
 " Do you suppose that I should have allowed the mother 
 of my son to be ' in service ' ? " 
 
 Her pale face turned slowly scarlet. 
 
 " No," she said, " I don't, an' that's one reason why I never 
 sent to you. It wasn't all selfishness. Don't think I'm 
 meanin' to speak out o' place please dorit think that, bnt 
 onless I speak plain I shan't be able to make you see why i 
 never ast you for no help. I knowed as you'd have provided 
 for the boy, an' I knowed as you'd have wanted to provide for 
 me, too. How could I ha' touched your money and yet made 
 out to myself that I wus tryin 1 to get back to what was right ? 
 I could only do that by earnin' my own livin'. It wusn't for 
 me to hanker after you, as I should^ done if we'd bin brought 
 together agen about the boy ; it wusn't for me to think any 
 more o' you, except to pray that God would bless you and 
 show you the wrong o' what we'd done as plain as He'd showed 
 it to me. I wus afraid to come near you for fear o' bein' 
 tempted; an' thats the truth o' why I never let you know 
 about the boy." 
 
 He covered his face with his hands, in bitter shame and 
 contrition. This was the thing from which he had shrunk, 
 as a thing that was "common and unclean " ! 
 
 " Oh, woman ! " he burst out bitterly, " why was I too 
 blind to see what you were years ago? I should not then 
 have put a millstone about my neck that ever since has 
 weighed me to the earth ! " 
 
 " You couldn't ha' seen what there wusn't to see," she said, 
 a trifle bitterly too. " I wus what you took me for then 
 nothink better. All I knows I've learnt since. P'r'aps the 
 burden you've carried have made you a better man, as mine 
 have made me a better woman. It have made me think o' 
 many things. It wus just their tellin' me as I was a ruined 
 woman that made me determined to show I wusn't that. 
 If God had told me I wus, I'd have abided by what He said j 
 but He doesn't anywhere. It's men that is merciless not 
 Him. So I went by what He said, an' not by what they said ; 
 an' as long as I can answer for myself to Him, they are welcome 
 to say an' to think what they likes." 
 
 " A ruined woman ! " he repeated wearily. " You were a 
 child. It was my sin not yours." 
 
 She shook her head in her old obstinate way. 
 
 " I've thought about that too, an' I'd like to ease your mind
 
 328 Hnnte Dcane 
 
 about it, if I can. You wus but a boy, and I, in my ignorance, 
 tempted you in a way I didn't understand Don't think bad 
 of me for sayin' this it's true. I didn't see it then ; I've seen 
 it since" 
 
 " Your very ignorance should have protected you." 
 
 "Wus you to know it for that?" she said. "I've seen 
 ignorance an' fastness look pretty much alike, an' when I've 
 thought o' bringin' up girls, I've thought as it's most as 
 dangerous to let them know too little as 'tis to let them know 
 too much." 
 
 " You are divinely merciful to me, Annie." 
 
 "I want you to be happy about me," she said gently ; "to 
 put me off your mind. I don't suppose as we'll ever see each 
 other agen (there won't be no need, an' it might make Lin 
 suspicious), so what I've got to say I must say now. I've never 
 blamed you in my heart for what I had to bear. I don't want 
 you to think I've had a hard life just becos' o' you, for that isn't 
 true. Tho' it's bin a hard workin' life, that I'd ha' had in any 
 case, so you can't be to blame for that ; tho' I've had little in 
 the way o' pleasure, I've had Lin, an' he've made up for it ; 
 tho' I've bin what's known as a ruined woman, I haven't 
 suffered, after all, so very much on account of it. I think people 
 have respected me becos' I never hid nothink. It's years now 
 since anyone flung my sin in my teeth. I've kep' myself to 
 myself, an' if ev'ry woman like me did that she'd find she 
 needn't be a mark for stones. After all, I've not bin unhappy. 
 I've done my best, and God has prospered me. So, as I says, 
 I don't see why you should reproach yourself becos' o' me. 
 You couldn't have done any better for me than I've done for 
 myself, an' if Lin'd bin brought up in too much comfort it 
 might ha' spoilt him for bein' any good." 
 
 " I grant you that. He has done far better with you than 
 he would have done with me ; but do you expect me to get any 
 consolation out of that unpalatable truth ? He is your son, 
 not mine ; he owes you everything me nothing but a bitter 
 wrong." 
 
 " It is too late to trouble about that," she said ; " so it's 
 better to try an' forget it. An' yet it's about that as I have 
 somethink to say. I'll say it now, for the time's goin', an' I 
 want to be away from here when Lin comes back. You've 
 bin kind enough to say as you feels in debt to me " 
 
 " Very heavily, Annie, with no chance of ever getting out." 
 
 " I've never ast nothink for myself, an' this isn't for myself 
 that I'm goin' to ast now, altho', if it isn't granted me, I'll be
 
 " Bfter Xong ^ears " 3*9 
 
 heavier punished than anybody, for it'll be all the fault o' my 
 blunderin'. I wants to beg of you one great favour. Lin's 
 young, an' it wouldn't be fair to make him suffer for me " 
 
 "One moment," Le Quesne interposed hastily; "let it 
 never be said that you had to ask for such poor amends as I 
 can make you through Lin. He is my son, and all I have is 
 his. Directly I knew him for mine, I altered my will in his 
 favour." 
 
 She started up and drew back from him, for in his eagerness 
 he had lain his hand on her shoulder. 
 
 " Oh .' " she cried, in piteous reproach, " did you think I 
 meant that? Whatever have I done or said as could have 
 made you mistake me like that ? It never come into my head 
 to think o' such a thing " 
 
 " I'm very sorry," he said humbly ; " I'm very sorry. God 
 knows I have mistaken you enough. I seem fated to mistake 
 you to the end. No, no don't cry ! When I think of all the 
 tears you have shed through me, I feel the most contemptible 
 hound alive." 
 
 She struggled a moment with the choking at her throat, and 
 conquered it. 
 
 " It's this 1 meant. I somehow blundered over tellin' Lin 
 about you, an' I've never bin able to undo what I done then. 
 If you've ever spoke to him about the man what wus his 
 father, you'll know what I mean." 
 
 " I have spoken about the man." 
 
 " You found Lin bitter an' hard ? " 
 
 " Very bitter and very hard." 
 
 " You can see as there's no turnin' him ? " 
 
 " I won't say that. He has an exaggerated, mistaken idea 
 of the man. To him he is not 'man' at all. Some day he 
 will know who he was, and then he will be sorry for having 
 judged him too harshly." 
 
 " I want you to promise me you'll never tell him." 
 
 " Oh, why ? I have always meant to tell him presently." 
 
 " I thought so, because o' the darin' messages you've sent 
 me. They've turned me sick with fear." She got up again and 
 faced him. " Is Lin dear to you ? " 
 
 " Something more than dear to me." 
 
 " Would it hurt you to lose him ? " 
 
 " I shall not lose him. Nothing I could do or say could 
 make any difference between us now. I have been very 
 cautious ; I have waited until I was sure of him, but now I 
 am sure, and I must tell him the truth. I want to stand face
 
 330 Bniiie 2Dcane 
 
 to face with him in honest reconciliation before I die, if it is 
 only for an hour. When I hear him speak of the man who 
 gave him life as a God-forsaken cur outside the pale of 
 humanity, what do you think I feel like, knowing that man for 
 myself?" 
 
 " Let him speak as he likes, an' try not to mind it. How 
 can I make you see how much better I knows my Lin than 
 you do ? In most things he's more o' you about him than he 
 have o' me. From the time he wus but a baby there wus that 
 in him as stamped him for a bettermost class ; but in one thing 
 he's mine he's that obs'nate when he gets a thing in his head, 
 you can't turn him. I crossed him once over the life he'd 
 planned for hisself, an' at the end o' four years it was me what 
 had to give in ; he didn't. An' I don't think as he've seen 
 since that he wus hard. No, he'd got right on his side, an* he 
 felt justified in stickin' to it ; I wus wrong well, if I had to 
 suffer for it, he'd think that on'y fair." 
 
 " You are making him out to be cruel." 
 
 " He can be cruel. I think people what have never been 
 tempted can. It's on'y them as have made mistakes their- 
 selves as can be merciful to others. And my Lin is hard. He's 
 good an' kind, but he's just, an' I've often noticed that just 
 people forgets mercy." 
 
 " He is, above everything, affectionate. Tender-hearted 
 and tender-handed as any girl ! " 
 
 " Yes, but before he loves a thing he'll satisfy hisself as it's 
 worth lovin' ; an', on'y let him find it isn't, an' he'll turn his 
 back on it. It might be terrible hard to do, but if it broke his 
 heart, he'd do it." 
 
 " He won't turn his back upon me. I know it will be a 
 terrible shock for him to have to connect me with that man he 
 loathes ; but Lin's love for me will stand a heavier blow than 
 that. Sooner or later he will say, ' Since it was you who were 
 the sinner well, let the sin go hang ! ' " 
 
 She went closer, and gave his arm a shaky touch. 
 
 " Sooner or later, p'r'aps yes. But can you give him what 
 I give him ? Havfe you got four long years to wait while he 
 comes round ? I'd slaved for him since he wus a baby ; I'd 
 lived ev'ry minute o' my life for him, an' denied myself even a 
 bit o' dainty food to save it for him ; we wus everythink to 
 each other for sixteen years. Then I made one mistake an' 
 went agenst him, and what did he do ? Day after day he slunk 
 out o' the house an' never looked at me ; evenin' after evenin' he 
 slunk in agen, with his shoulder lifted between his face an'
 
 "Bfter Xona gears'* 33 * 
 
 mine ; night after night he crep' away to bed an' took no more 
 notice o' me than if I'd bin a dog, until I thought the very 
 heart in me would ha' broke. An' when he was most too ill 
 to drag hisself to an' from the office he'd lock his bedroom 
 door rather than I should go in to see if I could do anything 
 for him." 
 
 " Poor soul ! " with a compassionate smile at her, " that was 
 hard on you. Some day I will make him ashamed of it." 
 
 " You make him ? Can't you see that if he'd treat me like 
 that when he knew what he'd bin to me for twenty years, he 
 wouldn't be likely to consider you, who, till scarce three months 
 ago, did very well without him ? " 
 
 " That is a reasonable argument, but you must not think me 
 cruel when I say that I have a grip of Lin, the strength of 
 which you cannot understand. I believe him to be so devoted 
 to me that if he thought his life could save mine he would give 
 it to me like a shot ! And yet you think that he would turn 
 me adrift for a thing which happened five-and-twenty years ago ? 
 No, no ; I know him better than that." 
 
 She turned away, and lifted her hand with a gesture of despair. 
 
 " It isn't much to ast," she said drearily, " an' it's for your 
 own sake ; but if you won't believe me, I can't help it. Still, it 
 do look hard that you should go agenst me when it seems to 
 me that God have blinded Lin, in answer to my prayers, to 
 send you some one as cares for you." 
 
 " But what is it you want me to do ? Leave my will to tell 
 him the truth when I am gone ? " 
 
 "Let nothing ever tell him the truth," she burst out with 
 unusual vehemence. " As for your money, if once he was to 
 know it for yours, he'd starve rather than touch a penny of it ! 
 Sure there's plenty o' your own folks as you could leave that to. 
 Leave Lin somethink if you feels it just, but not enough to 
 make him wonder why you should forget everybody for him. 
 That might open his eyes." 
 
 "I choose to leave all I have to my son. if he chooses to 
 pitch it into the street, I shall be none the wiser." 
 
 "An' you won't promise me? Think of the dread I'll live 
 in while you're away. Every day'll seem like two. Do 
 promise me ! " 
 
 He only stood upright, looking at her very earnestly, depriving 
 her of her hard-won calmness, until she shook like a leaf, and 
 could bear the silence no longer. 
 
 " If you won't promise me," she said hurriedly, " it's no use 
 stoppin' here. I'll go before Lin comes back. At least, fU
 
 332 Hnnie 2>eane 
 
 never help him to find out what he'd best not know. Good 
 good-bye." 
 
 He took no notice of the tremulously-spoken word, only 
 continued to look at her, kindly but thoughtfully, as if he were 
 trying to fathom something which puzzled him. 
 
 " Good-bye," repeated she more tremulously still. 
 
 "Is that all?" 
 
 "I I think so, unless it is I'd like to say 'God bless 
 you ! ' " 
 
 "Or God forgive me which? Well, since you have, 
 perhaps He has. No, I can't let you go for a minute, I have 
 something to say to you." 
 
 "Hadn't you better leave it?" she faltered desperately, for 
 she was afraid of him and afraid of herself. " You're not fit to 
 stan' here talk in' to me you look a lot too ill." 
 
 He passed her then, and sitting down on a couch, leaned 
 forward with his face hidden in his hands. 
 
 "Annie!" 
 
 She crossed the room, standing near him, her heart breaking 
 over him, her hands twisted in the folds of her gown. Lontj 
 years of drudgery had not killed her womanly instincts. 
 She loved this man as few women know how to love. With 
 supreme forgetfulness of self", and still with just enough of it to 
 make her feel she would give her life to touch him ! And 
 that she might not do. 
 
 "Annie!" 
 
 She shivered, but did not speak. 
 
 "To do Lin justice is an easy matter, but that will not touch 
 you. Is there anything I can do to make you happier ? " 
 
 " What I've told you. That'd make me very happy, an' that 
 you won't do." 
 
 " Leave that out. Is there nothing then ? " 
 
 " Nothink at all. I'm very comf table now, an' as for bein' 
 hard worked why, if it wasn't for me bein' a good hand \vi' 
 my needle, I'd find the time hang heavy on my hands." 
 
 He stretched out his hand, and drew her closer to him. She 
 did not resist, only twisted her fingers tighter than ever in the 
 folds of her gown, until her nerves from palm to shoulder were 
 one tingling network of pain. 
 
 "Annie, if through all these years you have clung to a scrap 
 of faith in me, you must have loved me, too ? " 
 
 She neither acknowledged nor denied it. 
 
 "Tell me the truth. Faithfulness, even to a worthless thing, 
 is nothing to be ashamed of."
 
 " after %on0 liJears " 333 
 
 "I'm not ashamed of it, but I don't think it's your 
 business to ask me this" 
 
 "I think it is. I don't want to be impertinent, but I want 
 to know." 
 
 She held her peace, wondering if he could fail to hear how 
 cruelly her heart was beating ; she could hear it herself. 
 
 " Somehow, I think if you had ceased to care for me you 
 would tell me so ; but my knowledge of women is very limited, 
 and I may be wrong. Looking at you just now, I thought of 
 something which quite recently came under my notice. A man 
 I knew very well was once engaged to a lady I also knew ; but 
 he disappointed her, and she declined to marry him. They 
 never met again, though neither ever married ; but more than 
 eighteen years after, she heard that all was up with him that 
 he was dying. She travelled in haste from America to London 
 (he was in London), and then she wrote to him, asking it 
 seems to me a singular favour. With an earnestness the 
 sincerity of which I he could not doubt, she begged to be 
 allowed to go to him to stay with him that whatever loving 
 service could do for him might be done by her alone, until 
 Death should render even that of no avail. As I say, it seemed 
 to me an odd request ; but then, you see, I am not a woman. 
 Was it odd ? You are a woman, and will know." 
 
 " Why should you think it odd ? " 
 
 " It couldn't be very pleasant to watch a thing you love die 
 by inches like a rat in a trap." 
 
 " No it couldn't be pleasant, as you say." 
 
 "Could any woman wish to add such a thing to her 
 experience ? " 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "You would not care to add it to yours?" 
 
 " I can't say." 
 
 He smiled, and, leaning a little forward, rested his forehead 
 against the beating heart which told him the pitiful truth. 
 
 " Annie, would you like to stay with me ? I may be a lot of 
 trouble to you ; but I don't think you would mind, and it could 
 not be for long." 
 
 The folds of her dress fell away from one of her clenched 
 hands. 
 
 " Don't tell me any heroic lie. I can look at you and find 
 out the truth for myself." 
 
 Her other hand released itself and stole up to his shoulder. 
 
 "No one shall know but Lin. Will you marry me?" 
 
 The heart against his forehead beat very heavily now, while
 
 334 Hnnie 2>eane 
 
 two trembling hands stroked his hair tenderly very tenderly, 
 but with a tenderness quite devoid of passion. 
 
 "Annie, will you marry me?" 
 
 " No, my dear," she said at last, with decisive brevity, " I 
 won't." 
 
 "Why? because of Lin? He will forgive me then." 
 
 " No, not becos' o' Lin. If it wus possible for you to wish 
 it" 
 
 " I do wish it." 
 
 " If it wus possible," she went on, unheeding, " for you ever 
 to care for me, it'd be a diffrent thing ; but it isn't, and I'm not 
 so foolish as to think it is. It's all very well now for half an 
 hour, while you feels as if you must move heaven an' earth to 
 make me some amends ; but that's only a flash, an' I couldn't 
 take advantage of it. If I said ' Yes,' you'd feel that the sooner 
 death come an' put an' end to things the better, if 'twas on'y to 
 take you away from me. You'd be like a gtn'rous-hearted child 
 who'd give away all he'd got, an' wus like to fret his heart out 
 that he wus too proud to ast for it back. Give you a fair 
 chance, an' you've got some time to live I go by what Lin 
 tells me. Tie you to me, an' you takes that chance away. Do 
 you think I've loved you for five-an'-twenty years on'y to do you 
 such a bad turn as that ? No, my dear, no no I " 
 
 He did not speak, and she went on : 
 
 " You take my Lin as a gift from me, an' thankful am I that 
 I've anythink to give you as it's worth your while to have. He 
 can do for you as I couldn't he's more o' your sort. Why, 
 do you think I don't feel as the very way I talks would fidget 
 you ? Do you think I don't know that the best as I could do 
 for you'd only try your patience ? It isn't your fault, an' I don't 
 think it's mine. Oil an' water can't help it that they wusn't 
 meant to mix. My hands isn't fit to touch you. Anyone that's 
 ill don't get a fair chance onless they have about them a voice 
 an' a touch as is dear to them an' welcome. I wish mine could 
 be dear to you, but they can't, an' to ast you to suffer them to 
 please me 'd be cruel. You've made me that happy an' grateful, 
 you can't think ! That I should ever have lived to hear you 
 say this to me seems most too good to be true ; but I can't take 
 you at your word it wouldn't be fair to neither of us. I'm 
 quite contented, so you take my Lin, an' let me go." 
 
 She shut the gates upon her glimpse of Paradise as she 
 said those words ; but she did so bravely, honestly feeling that 
 Paradise was not for her. Lifting his head from where it 
 had rested, she gave him one long, pitiful, passionless kiss,
 
 44 Htter Xona Jljears " 335 
 
 and turned from him swiftly lest he might detain her. Well 
 was it for her that the movement was swift, for already the 
 door had opened to admit Lin. 
 
 Something unusual in the expression of his face, something 
 neither suspicious nor puzzled, but yet akin to both, struck 
 Annie on the instant. An adept in the art of concealment, she 
 stood in front of the bowed figure on the couch, and looked 
 Lin straight in the eyes placidly. 
 
 " I got afraid to leave before you come back," she said. 
 " Mr. Le Quesne's tired, an' the heat's so tryin' ! Please 
 don't get up " turning half round, but still looking at Lin 
 " Lin will see me out. I half forget the way." 
 
 " That will give you time to get round," she thought, as she 
 followed her son downstairs. " I'll keep him a minute or two 
 talkin'." 
 
 She did keep him, perhaps five minutes; but Lin still 
 looked pre-occupied, and instead of clearing the stairs at two 
 or three springs on his return to Le Quesne, he took the stairs 
 one at a time deliberately. 
 
 " I must be mad," muttered he to himself, as he paused at 
 the top ; " and yet I swear I was not mistaken ! She stood 
 close to him, bending over him as many a time she has bent 
 over me; and if she didn't say ' You take my Lin, and let me 
 go,' I never heard her say anything in my life 1 "
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII 
 
 DESERTED 
 
 LIN found the drawing-room tenantless, and presently, growing 
 anxious, went to see if all were right with Le Quesne. He 
 found him lying down. 
 
 " Anything wrong ? " he said quickly. 
 
 11 No. It is cooler here than in front of the house. Did 
 you see Miss Le Breton ? " 
 
 " I did. I found her the reverse of all I expected to find 
 her, except in the matter of personal appearance. Kindly 
 allow me to avow my absolute belief in your goddess." 
 
 " Exactly. I knew you had only to see her to be converted, 
 but I did not know whether you would own your conversion." 
 
 "I expected to find her statuesque and stand-offish. Instead 
 of which I found her nervous, and if not exactly flurried in 
 manner, certainly not self-possessed." 
 
 " Then she has altered." 
 
 "Yes? But for the absurdity of the thing, I should say I 
 frightened her. I was shown in to her, and she forthwith 
 caught at the nearest chair, and stood looking at me as one 
 might look at the risen dead. I was getting uncomfortable, 
 when she recovered herself and apologised. She said I was so 
 like someone she had once known that for the moment I had 
 startled her." 
 
 " I think you are generally supposed to be like me." 
 
 " And I am sure you have heard me say that I fail to see 
 much resemblance. Anyway, I am not sufficiently like you to 
 frighten any one." 
 
 Le Quesne made no reply. " It seems to me that God have 
 blinded him," Annie had said scarcely an hour before. Surely 
 she was right ? Perhaps it is but characteristic of human per- 
 versity that the man who had so much to gain by that blindness 
 had never felt so inclined to enlighten it as he did now. 
 
 Lin, taking mental note of his weary face, thought he was 
 tired, and having done what he could to make him comfortable, 
 went back to the drawing-room and settled down with a book. 
 
 336
 
 2>e0erte& 337 
 
 But he was not an attentive reader at the best of times, and 
 now could not read at all. He found himself thinking of his 
 mother, of the self-possession displayed by her in that room 
 only a short time before, a self-possession so foreign to her 
 intercourse with strangers that Lin was compelled to notice it, 
 and to think it peculiar. 
 
 "She wasn't a bit like herself," he thought, as he let his 
 book slip to the floor. " No man would have taken her for a 
 painfully shy woman. I suppose she has grown so used to 
 thinking of him in connection with me that he scarcely seems 
 like a stranger now. Besides, that worn, pale face of his is sure 
 to have gone straight to the little woman's heart. I wish she had 
 understood it is bad form to be demonstrative. Hang it ! I 
 never knew her to be that before." 
 
 The colour came into his face here, for any young fellow 
 who values his womankind is ever jealous of their dignity, and 
 Annie's was not of the order which may venture to unbend 
 and yet be fearless of suspicion. 
 
 It was growing dark when the door between the two rooms 
 opened, and Le Quesne came through. 
 
 " Had a good rest ? " said Lin, starting up. " I must be 
 getting fearfully lazy ; I was half asleep." 
 
 " I have not been asleep ; I have been thinking. Thought 
 and sleep are enemies." 
 
 " Had I known I should have turned you out. What on 
 earth had you to think about ? Oh, I say, I've been thinking 
 too. Did my mother preach to you to-day ? " 
 
 " Why do you ask me that ? " 
 
 " Because I never knew her conquer her natural diffidence 
 unless some one had started her on the subject of religion, and 
 because she has made you so uncommonly quiet." 
 
 " No, she did not preach to me, and if she had, I should 
 have been a reverent listener, for I am sure she is far more 
 fit to preach than many people who do." 
 
 " But which of you talked ? " said Lin, in mingled curiosity 
 and amusement, " you or she ? For the life of me, I can't 
 imagine her having pluck enough to say much to you ! " 
 
 " I think she said more than I did. We had much to talk 
 of, notably you." 
 
 " I might have known it ! Like the man in the ' School for 
 Scandal,' I should have said when I went out ' I go, and 
 leave my character behind me.' " 
 
 Le Quesne failed to be in harmony with Lin's bantering 
 tone and manner.
 
 338 Hnnie 2>eane 
 
 " We were speaking of your earlier life," he said slowly, " of 
 those unhappy days of misunderstanding between you. You 
 ought to have made wider allowance for her prejudices in 
 those times, Lin, seeing what a model of devotion she has 
 been to you." 
 
 Lin's bantering manner changed at once. While acknowledg- 
 ing that devotion with all possible heartiness, he yet failed to 
 appreciate the fact of his mother having made of it the 
 motif of a conversation with Mr. Le Quesne. 
 
 " I am not likely to forget her devotion to me," he said 
 quietly ; " but it is very unlike her to talk of it." 
 
 Le Quesne saw that he had blundered. 
 
 "She made no parade of it," he said hastily, "but she is 
 so transparent ! One could not talk to her for five minutes 
 without understanding that you are all she has had to live 
 for." 
 
 Now Lin knew that as well as anyone, or better ; but he was 
 not in the humour to have it thrown up at him. 
 
 " I have riot attempted to deny it," he said, a trifle curtly. 
 " Upon my word, I can't see why she should have complained 
 of me to you in this way." 
 
 " She did not complain. It isn't in her to do it" 
 
 " She has evidently made you think she might do so with 
 justice, or why should you commence by telling me that I 
 ought to have made wider allowance for her prejudices? I 
 confess myself to be immensely surprised at her coming here 
 and talking to you in this confidential way." 
 
 " Don't be unreasonable. I sent for your mother because I 
 am personally accountable to her for your suspended career. 
 It was necessary that I should discuss matters with her." 
 
 " I don't think so. My career is my affair. I suspend it as 
 I take it up again independently of anyone. I shall not go 
 to my mother to cover deficiencies; so for you to discuss 
 matters with her was not necessary at all. I know perfectly 
 well what it led to. She has never forgotten the wretched 
 years I sacrified to her prejudices, and she has never ceased 
 to chafe at my inability to confess myself in the wrong. She 
 misunderstood me ; she had power to coerce me, and she used 
 it to its limit. I resented it then, and I resent it now ; I am 
 not going to outrage my sense of honesty by pretending that I 
 don't." 
 
 " And yet she had done so much for you, and she thought 
 she was right." 
 
 " I had done as much for myself, and I knew she was wrong.
 
 Desertefc 339 
 
 It is hard to have one's dearest hopes made light of ignored 
 by those who ought to understand one best. That makes 
 one bitter. I daresay that I, in my boyish way, was extra- 
 vagantly harsh, but I felt the injury was one which justified me 
 in being so. I don't expect you to see this, because other 
 people's injuries can always be borne with fortitude not to say 
 with cheerfulness. We won't discuss the matter. Why my 
 mother should rake up that old grievance I don't know. It 
 has long since been happily shelved." 
 
 " She did not rake it up, but she may have wondered why 
 you do for me voluntarily what you only did for her under 
 coercion." 
 
 " It is a different thing," said Lin hastily. " I was all untried 
 then, denied my chance, given no choice, forced into some- 
 thing uncongenial, to pander to a selfish whim. Now, I know 
 what I am worth ; I give up nothing but a little time. I take 
 up my life again when I choose, pretty sure of a kind reception. 
 Where is the comparison ? " 
 
 " A woman would make one. She understands motives less 
 than actions. What is my desire for your society but a ' selfish 
 whim ' ? Yet you would not like to hear it sneered at for 
 that" 
 
 " What is the matter with you ? " laughed Lin indulgently. 
 " Let us have lights, and be cheerful. I can quite see how my 
 mother and you amused yourselves this afternoon. You laid 
 me on a table and, metaphorically, dissected me. Under her 
 guidance you found me suffering from a disease known as 
 ' hardness of heart,' ' inability to assimilate injury ' how shall 
 I find a name for it? Never mind, it doesn't matter. She 
 lamented over my condition, and you undertook to cure me. 
 Is that the truth ? " 
 
 " Somewhere near it. You are resentful, and intolerant ; 
 that is, you profess to be. I think there is more of profession 
 in it than reality, though. It is so out of keeping with the 
 rest of your character that it jars upon me like a false note. 
 There is little wonder if your mother grieves over it." 
 
 " You want me exactly to pattern ? Now, I take it that is 
 the reason why so many excellent people are disappointed in 
 others. They expect consistency, and they don't get it. Man 
 is neither god nor devil. He is a mixture, sometimes of 
 extremes, but nearly always of opposites. I once knew a man 
 who was ultra-conscientious in his dealings with men, but who 
 could no more resist making a woman believe in him and then 
 ' riding away ' than he could resist eating his dinner when it
 
 340 annie JDeane 
 
 was set before him. Also I knew another man who, though 
 fool enough to drink away his health and gamble away his 
 substance, yet never touched the money left him in trust for 
 his imbecile brother, and steadily refused to marry the girl who 
 had stuck to him through thick and thin, not because the poor 
 devil didn't want to, for he loved her, but because he honestly 
 felt he wasn't ^fr / No, it is of no use ; we are not according 
 to line and rule. I have sometimes thought that we are all 
 like a puzzle, only to be fitted together by the Hand which 
 designed us." 
 
 " Stop a minute, Lin, and never mind the lamps. Do you 
 know what you said just now ? I am going to hold you to it. 
 ' Man is neither god nor devil ; he is a mixture of extremes.' 
 Surely I heard you say that ? " 
 
 " Yes, and I believe it" 
 
 " Yet in speaking of a man once you called him a ' God- 
 forsaken hound,' outside the pale of humanity." 
 
 Lin dropped the match he had struck into an ash-tray, and 
 watched it burn out. 
 
 " Outside the pale of humanity," repeated he, " therefore 
 not to be judged by ordinary human laws. When I said what 
 I did I was speaking of the men one meets every day, not of 
 criminals." 
 
 "Yet are even they God-created, as we are." 
 
 " Well, I think they are His business, not ours. I am not 
 speaking irreverently. You can't deny that there are men 
 whose record, handed down to posterity, contains no one thing 
 which is good. Would you like to undertake the white- 
 washing of, say, Judas Iscariot ? " 
 
 Le Quesne sat forward in his chair and spoke with such 
 desperate earnestness that Lin was startled. 
 
 " Well, even for him I will be daring enough to put forward 
 a plea. Do you think he did what he did knowingly ? That 
 he believed in the Man he betrayed ? Of a certainty no, or he 
 had never dared. Sheer reverence had saved him from lifting 
 his vile hand against a thing so awful! He sinned in 
 unbelieving ignorance." 
 
 "Even allowing that, he foully betrayed another man. 
 Does that whitewash him ? " 
 
 "No, but that has been done many times since in cold 
 blood, and unaccompanied by universal execration. Of that 
 part of his sin, too, did Judas bitterly repent. He is, I believe, 
 the only man in the whole of that sacred record of whom it 
 can be said that repentance availed him nothing."
 
 2>eserte& 341 
 
 Lin, leaning against the mantelpiece, watched the light from 
 a glorious full moon creep steadily along the floor. He 
 suddenly stood upright, and turned towards Le Quesne. 
 
 " Surely you and my mother did not speak of the man of 
 whom I told you ? " 
 
 " We did." 
 
 " How very extraordinary ! " 
 
 " Not at all. I am a privileged person, and your mother is 
 your mother." 
 
 " Who spoke of him first ? " 
 
 " I cannot quite say." 
 
 " I wish you could. I don't like to think of it being her, 
 and I would rather that she had not known I told you anything 
 about him." 
 
 " She does know. It was in connection "with this that your 
 curious implacability came under discussion. You know it is 
 a trouble to her." 
 
 " I know she chooses to make a trouble of it. I cannot see 
 why." 
 
 " I promised her to try to convert you." 
 
 " I am surprised you should have done that." 
 
 " You may presently ct ase to be surprised. Your mother 
 has done her best, and failed. I am going to do my best, and 
 if I fail, we shall only be where we were before. I believe you 
 would do more for me than for anyone else. Is that a delusion, 
 or is it not ? " 
 
 " It is a simple truth," said Lin, but he said it irritably, as if 
 he wished that the question had not been asked. 
 
 " Can you account for it being so ? " 
 
 " No. A man's personal likes and dislikes are beyond his 
 control they are involuntary. In that he likes or dislikes, he 
 obeys something entirely outside himself." 
 
 " Yes, you proved that to-day, when you went on a distaste- 
 ful errand to please me, having first made up your mind to 
 detest the lady whose acquaintance I wished you to make. 
 You came back confessing yourself all wrong. Had I let you 
 alone you would have remained in the wrong, and have forfeited 
 the chance of a friendship which will hereafter be of service to 
 you. For you will be friends, I am sure of it." 
 
 " Very well," assented Lin cheerfully, " we will allow that I 
 made a mistake there. A man cannot do more than own 
 himself in the wrong, can he ? " 
 
 " Yes. He can try to right the wrong, and be a better man 
 in the effort. You disliked Miss Le Breton for want of know-
 
 349 Bnnie Deane 
 
 ing her. The other hatred you hug so closely is no worthier of 
 you, as I see you. You know nothing of that man outside this 
 one episode in his life. Of his temptations before, of his 
 repentance afterwards, you would refuse to hear if anyone could 
 prove to you beyond doubt that he was tempted, and that he 
 did repent. Is that manly, Lin is that just?" 
 
 " Why should I be so scrupulous to extend the full measure 
 of manliness and justice to a man who showed himself to be 
 possessed of neither ? " 
 
 " Because I ask you. After to-night I will not trouble you 
 about this one way or the other. You shall decide, and I will 
 accept your decision." 
 
 " If I could see why you should make a point of it, I might 
 try to put the whole thing out of my mind as far as possible." 
 
 " That will not do. You are good enough to say that you care 
 for me more than for any one on earth, and God knows that you 
 have shown you do without talking about it. You have put 
 self behind you once for my sake ; now put self behind you 
 again, and grant me charity for that man." 
 
 " Good heavens ! this is no question of self I My feeling 
 for that man is outside me, or any will of mine. Can you not 
 see that ? " 
 
 " I cannot, nor can I believe it. Lin, I shall not ask of you 
 many more sacrifices." 
 
 Lin sat down on the arm of the big chair, resting his own 
 arm lightly on Le Quesne's shoulders. 
 
 u Ask of me anything in the way of reasonable service, and 
 I will not refuse you. This is a question of principle. Surely 
 you will allow that there are things which, before a man could 
 forgive, he would have ceased to be a man ? This is one of 
 them." 
 
 "Your pride says that ; your obstinacy tells you to stick to it. 
 If I could break down your pride and your obstinacy, from the 
 heart of you I should get a worthier answer." 
 
 " My pride has nothing to do with it. Why agitate yourself 
 and harass me by harping upon a thing which can make no 
 difference to either of us ? " 
 
 Lin spoke earnestly, but he spoke, too, with studied gentle- 
 ness. He could only suppose this to be the whim of a man 
 who, enfeebled by illness, had become exacting, fixing his mind 
 upon a trivial thing only desirable because out of easy reach. 
 
 " Come, let it go," he said. " If I had known that my 
 mother was going to infect you with her little ' craze,' I should 
 have kept you apart."
 
 343 
 
 Le Quesne put up a hand to grasp Lin's. Thus encircling 
 himself, as it were, with the strong young arm, he leaned back 
 heavily against it. He liked to feel it there, to reflect that as 
 yet he had said nothing to scare that gentle touch away. 
 
 " Your mother did not infect me. I said just now I promised 
 her to convert you. That is not true. I promised myself, but 
 she implored tne to leave you alone." 
 
 "She was sensible. She could not see why you should 
 trouble to plead this man's cause with me." 
 
 " Indeed she could." 
 
 Lin shifted his position uneasily. He would have risen, but 
 that the hand he held tightened upon his. 
 
 " Can you show me why ? " 
 
 " Because I knew the man." 
 
 " You knew the man ? Well, that should have raised him, 
 seeing that it could not lower you, but it does not explain 
 why you should plead his cause." 
 
 " I plead it because the time is coming when you will know 
 him too, for he has watched you longingly from a distance, 
 and wishes to be friends." 
 
 Again Lin tried to get away, and again the hand closed over 
 his own with a clasp which might not be shaken off without 
 force. 
 
 " I plead his cause because, indeed, he is not the God- 
 forsaken cur you make of him, but such a man as you say one 
 meets with every day, neither all good nor all bad, but a 
 mixture of both ; a man who, looking at your mother and at 
 you, feels himself not good enough to be admitted and 
 forgiven, and yet not bad enough to be thrust out and stoned." 
 
 Rigid and chill, Lin sat and watched the pale light creep 
 along the floor, watched his shadow lose itself in Le Quesne's 
 shadow, until the shape of each was swallowed up and lost. 
 And he shuddered, as at a half-forgotten dream, which even the 
 light of day has not the power to strip of all its terror. The 
 evening breeze, coming freshly through the open windows, 
 stirred the big palms with a sound like that of a pitying sigh. 
 Why did his thoughts travel back to that holiday of his child- 
 hood, to the hush of the dark pine-wood, to the splendour of a 
 summer sunset, and the shadow of a man upon the reddened 
 turf? He did not know, but he felt his heart within him 
 sink, while there dawned upon him a conviction that he was 
 passing into a fresh phase of existence, in which there would be 
 something missing, something which had made life dear to 
 him, but what he could not tell. He tried to speak, or
 
 344 Hnnfe 2>eane 
 
 thought he tried, and then desisted for lack of will. Whatever 
 he said would only help him to acquire a knowledge he desired 
 to shun, and that knowledge was already all too close at hand. 
 So he sat there dumb, feeling nothing but the clutch of nervous 
 fingers about his wrist, hearing nothing but the hoarse, pathetic 
 voice, at once so full of self-repression and of fear. 
 
 " I plead his cause because his time is very short ; because 
 the shafts of misfortune have struck him so thickly and so often 
 that they have left him with but one spot vulnerable to mortal 
 hand, and that to no hand but your own. To all but your 
 contempt to every loss but the loss of you, he is ready to 
 submit, but^no no Lin, hear me out ; don't take your hand 
 away ! Put it and the other about my neck, and wring the life 
 out of me if you will ; but as long as you leave me a life to 
 live, for the love of God, be merciful to me ! " 
 
 Lin rose to his feet, but could not get away. His arm, 
 pinned by Le Quesne's weight against the back of the chair, 
 seemed at once alive with the horror of loathsome contact, 
 and paralysed for all voluntary movement. He remembered 
 the ghastly, sickening pain of those crushed nerves to the end 
 of his life. 
 
 "I can't believe my senses," he said slowly at last, in a dull, 
 strained voice that bore no likeness to his own. " Are you 
 the man ? " 
 
 " I am the man." 
 
 And the night wind, stirring again through the palm-leaves, 
 touched Lin's white face, whispering softly, " Pity him 1 Pity 
 him ! " 
 
 . 
 
 " Oh 1 my good God ! How horrible / " 
 
 It was the first thing he said after the swirling wave of out- 
 raged feeling, passing, had left him master of his steadying 
 senses. In his brain two shadowy figures were struggling to 
 become one the demon-figure of his mother's seducer, and 
 thar, half human, half divine, of the man who had seemed to 
 him the noblest and most lovable thing on earth. He could 
 not reconcile them it was like trying to reconcile God and 
 devil ; they would not mix. He turned and looked at the still 
 figure lying in the shelter of his tortured arm. How still it lay, 
 yet how convulsively the hand clutched his own with a grip 
 like that of death ! He tried again to free himself, but the 
 clinging hand was still the stronger, and would not let his go. 
 He desisted and stood looking thinking disentangling 
 rt Mtembering until the last vestige of doubt had vanished,
 
 HJesertefc 345 
 
 and the two brain-images melted into one, united for ever by a 
 memory significant as it was sickening the memory of his 
 own likeness to Le Quesne. He had often smiled at it ; he 
 did not smile at it now ; it maddened him. 
 
 " Let go my hand," he said sternly. " I am like you, as they 
 say, and if I think of what that means, I shall be tempted to 
 strike the likeness out of one of us ; there is no reason why 
 it should be you." 
 
 The demand was instantly complied with. Lin drew away 
 his arm and stood a few paces off against the wall. His 
 heart was on fire ; his brain was in a whirl ; also, his 
 pride was in revolt, as it had been in the old days at the office. 
 He had been disposed of in the dark, his most sacred feelings 
 made light of and ignored. This man and his mother had 
 made a dupe of him. By Heaven, they should suffer for it ! 
 
 "Great God!" he burst out savagely, "what have I done 
 that my mother and you should dare to play me such a sorry 
 trick as this ? " 
 
 " I may have played you what you call a ' trick.' She has 
 had no share in it." 
 
 "She let me meet you without warning; she has seen me 
 make a friend of you, knowing well that I would have cut off 
 my hand rather than have offered it to you in friendship." 
 
 "That is true; but she had no desire to 'trick* you. She 
 wished to see peace between us." 
 
 "She wished an impossibility, alike for her own sake and 
 mine. But where you are concerned, wrong is her right, I 
 think. Only to-day, had I not been the blindest fool alive, I 
 should have seen that she and you were far too intimate to be 
 fresh acquaintances, and far too intimate to be honourable. 
 But when I saw her standing close to you, bending over you, 
 I gave my eyes the lie rather than think her not above 
 suspicion." 
 
 Le Quesne rose from his chair and stood leaning on the 
 back of it. 
 
 " Until to-day I had not spoken to your mother for five-and- 
 twenty years nor since I have known you has there been any 
 sort of communication between us. I have been ashamed to 
 look her in the face, and she has been too generous to ask me 
 to do so. But to-day 1 sent for her, and she came. She told 
 me she should not come again, because of her dread of 
 arousing in you any suspicion of the truth. She begged me 
 not to make you any confession, she was so sure that if I did 
 you would have none of me. I wanted her to come to me. to
 
 34 Hnnte 2>eanc 
 
 be my wife for whatever of time remains to me, but she refused. 
 Yes, she did stand close to me, she did bend over me, like the 
 sweet, compassionate woman that she is. There is the truth, 
 I hope she will not suffer in your eyes for my having told it. 
 That you should suspect me is natural ; that you should 
 suspect her is not only w-natural, it is impertinent." 
 
 Unhinged and passion-blinded as he was, Lin shrank. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," he said ; " I have brought her very low 
 in that I have submitted her to the indignity of being defended 
 by you." 
 
 Le Quesne's pale lips twitched and his eyes filled. 
 
 " Lin," he said gently, " words break no bones, they say, but 
 words like yours can break hearts, and mine is a sorry mark for 
 you ; let it alone. I deserve all you can say of me, and more ; 
 but there is one recollection which I hope to take down to the 
 grave with me untouched, and that is the recollection of your 
 kindness. If kindness between us is no longer possible, then 
 at least there shall be nothing else." 
 
 " Kindness ! Where was your kindness when you made 
 yourself so dear to me that nothing else in life had any hold 
 upon me, only to tell me this ? I say it is a devilish trick, just 
 such a heartless thing as one might expect from the man who 
 could act as you did years ago. If there had been a spark of 
 honour in you, you would have warned me away from you at 
 first." 
 
 " I did not seek your friendship, nor had I any idea of your 
 connecton with me until things had gone too far to admit of 
 our drifting back into mere acquaintances. I had no idea that 
 there lived a man for whose existence I was responsible. I 
 wish I had had such an idea. You would have had less to 
 reproach me with than you have now." 
 
 Lin did not immediately answer. Passion was dying down 
 in him. He had believed in the man so utterly he was so 
 willing to believe in him still. 
 
 " Oh ! " he said, wretchedly, after a long pause, " if there is 
 any loophole of escape for you, show it to me. You know 
 what I have heard is it all true, or has it been distorted into 
 something worse than it was ? Most stories of this sort have 
 two sides. If this has, show it me from yours." 
 
 "It has no other side. I can only say that, like Judas, I 
 betrayed a thing to the divinity of which I was blind. I saw 
 no reason to think it sacred. No, Lin, there is no loophole by 
 which I may escape. Only the love which shuts its eyes to the 
 sin for the sake of the sinner can avail me anything."
 
 JDesertefc 347 
 
 " Did you never go back to that village ? never make any 
 inquiry ? never move a hand to find out if that girl were living 
 or dead or worse than dead ? " 
 
 " I went back once five years after. Deserted myself, I 
 bethought me of the girl I had deserted. I tried to find her 
 out." 
 
 " You did go, then ? You did try to find her ? " 
 
 The piteous eagerness of that question touched Le Quesne 
 as nothing had touched him yet. Lin saw a loophole, and was 
 trying to widen it for him. 
 
 " I did. I saw her sister Mrs. Drake. She told me the 
 girl had emigrated, and that the child was dead." 
 
 "That was a double lie, as you might easily have proved." 
 
 " Yes. I proved nothing. I was satisfied, and made no 
 further inquiry." 
 
 " Not of her parents not of anyone else likely to know ? " 
 
 " Not of a living soul. I saw no reason." 
 
 Lin abandoned the loophole as hopeless. 
 
 " You were easily satisfied," he said, " so easily that I think 
 if I were you I would never mention that poor attempt at 
 reparation, never pretend even to myself that I made one." 
 
 " Very well. We will say none was made. We will wipe 
 it out. I did nothing." 
 
 " As I see things you did nothing. This makes your story 
 of repentance the merest clap-trap, in which no man could 
 believe if he tried. For more than twenty years you had a 
 glorious life of it. Ease luxury popularity and success such 
 as fall to the lot of one man in ten thousand ! And then you 
 talk of hardship ! To me it seems that Retribution has over- 
 taken you very slowly. I don't think you have any right to 
 plead your cause with my mother's son as that of a man who 
 has suffered." 
 
 "Very well. We will say I have suffered nothing. I have 
 been a very millionaire in luck, and love, and happiness." 
 
 11 While she has been a beggar in all three." 
 
 " In neither, Lin. She has had_>w." 
 
 " Well, I have been something something to be slaved 
 for, something to keep the sin of her youth well before the 
 eyes of all men. Put yourself in her place, and see if you 
 would have looked upon me in the light of a compensation 1 
 I doubt it. Put yourself in her place ? As if you could ! 
 What do you know of the life of a servant, beyond the fact that 
 if you ring a bell, one will answer it ? I know what her life 
 has been. I wish I could bring it home to you : A patient
 
 343 Bnnfe H>eane 
 
 drudge in an underground kitchen up early and to bed late ; 
 for years at the beck and call of a selfish old she slave- 
 driver, who used her misforture as a means of extorting from 
 her work enough for two ; too honest to touch a bit of the 
 plainest food without permission ; too proud to ask for what 
 was not given readily ; her one pleasure to have me with her 
 from Saturday to Monday. One of my earliest recollections is 
 of getting up when she did in the dark of bitter winter 
 mornings, of being wrapped in an old shawl with my hands 
 tied in away from the cold, of running up and down the pave- 
 ment while she washed and whitened the steps, of seeing the 
 blood run out of the cruel cuts in her hands, and the tears run 
 down her face with the pain of them. Perhaps I remember 
 this the more vividly because she always took so much trouble 
 to tell me I was not to think she was crying it was only 
 the cold wind that made her eyes water. I know that bleed- 
 ing hands are not nearly so romantic as bleeding hearts, that 
 broken chilblains are not a theme for poets. I apologise for 
 bringing such repulsive things to your notice. They belong to 
 that ' Nobody's Story ' of which we were speaking the other 
 day ; they are the realities of life, in comparison with which 
 the sufferings of the sentimentalist are, I venture to think, 
 bearable." 
 
 " Lin, say no more. When your mother said that she knew 
 you better than I, and that you could be cruel, she was right." 
 
 "I am not cruel, I am just. I put her life of hardship 
 against your life of crumpled rose-leaves, and I say that for you 
 to whine about misfortune is clap-trap ! Of course, lam not 
 talking of the last few months, for I know you have had much 
 to bear, and I have seen you bear it like like a brick ! " 
 
 That odd flash of boyish justice, of Lin's better self, was very 
 welcome to Le Quesne. He smiled ; then, slowly crossing the 
 dusky room, he stood close to the slouching figure dimly 
 outlined against the wall. 
 
 " You are severe," he said gently, " but you are young, and 
 severity belongs to youth. When you are older you will be 
 more merciful. And now, for to-night let us say no more. 
 Perhaps to-morrow things will look less black. I don't mean 
 that you will have less to forgive, but you may be more capable 
 of forgiving." 
 
 Lin's tongue was cleaving to his mouth, his heart was sinking 
 in him like a leaden weight. He moved away from the hand 
 hdd out to him. 
 
 "Make no mistake," he said deliberately. "What we do
 
 DeserteD 349 
 
 not say to-night will be unsaid for ever. There is but one 
 thing to do, and that is to put the greatest obtainable distance 
 between us." 
 
 " Lin, you don't mean that ?" 
 
 " I do. It is the only thing that is clear to me. I must 
 go. I couldn't stay here to learn to hate you, to look at you, 
 and know you for the man I have sometimes thought I could 
 suffer to be hung for ! You knew that when you told me I 
 should go." 
 
 "You cannot go," the husky voice said patiently ; " it is out 
 of the question. You could not desert me just for a thing that 
 happened five-and-twenty years ago? Does that change tncl 
 If I were worth caring for an hour ago, I am worth it now, 
 being the same." 
 
 " An hour ago I did not know you ; now I do. There lies 
 the difference. The man for whom I gave up my profession is 
 dead. I return to my profession." 
 
 " The man is not dead, and you are necessary to his life." 
 
 " That is an extravagant assertion, and untrue. By this 
 time to-morrow Dr. Helston will have filled my place. You 
 will not suffer. For me the engagement I refused a few weeks 
 back is still open to me. I shall go to India with ' Madame.' " 
 
 " No, you will not. Even if you could punish me so heavily, 
 there is your mother, upon whom such punishment would fall 
 with double weight." 
 
 " She will be at liberty to fill my place here." 
 
 " Which you know she will not do." 
 
 " Where you are concerned, I know nothing about her." 
 
 They stood quite close to each other for some little time 
 sometimes speaking, sometimes silent, one cheerily patient, the 
 other hopelessly sullen. Le Quesne saw at last that the thing 
 he had smiled at as impossible was the thing which would 
 happen. Lin meant to go. 
 
 The clock chimed ten. Marion knocked, and entered with 
 the supper-tray. 
 
 " Oh ! " she said, in surprise, " there's no lights ! " 
 
 " Put the tray down," Le Quesne said, " we will ring when 
 we are ready." 
 
 The girl withdrew and closed the door. 
 
 " Lin, I will leave you to yourself. I am tired, and want 
 nothing. You are overdone, and will be better alone." 
 
 Lin stood upright. He felt as if the dark room were reeling 
 about with him ; he put his hand back to the wall to steady 
 himself.
 
 35 Hnnfe IDeane 
 
 " One moment," he said, and his voice was sh;iky as he said 
 it ; " shall I tell Harker as I leave that he has to take my 
 place in your dressing-room to-night ? " 
 
 " I don't think so. I feel sure you will sleep there yourself, 
 as usual." 
 
 " I shall not. Don't misunderstand me. I have never given 
 you any excuse. This is a matter upon which I have spoken 
 my mind more than once, with a plainness which you could 
 not have mistaken. I have said that if I forgive that man I 
 condone his vile offence ; if I condone it I descend to his level, 
 and am one with him. You are the man the rest goes 
 without saying. It is a matter of principle : principles stand" 
 
 " It is a matter of pride ; pride gives way, and you will not 
 sacrifice me to yours." 
 
 " Will you answer my question about Harker ? If it has 
 been necessary for me to occupy your dressing-room at night, 
 it is necessary for some one to do so when I am gone. I am 
 not leaving you in a childish fit of passion. I never felt less 
 passionate in my life. I am leaving you because I can do 
 nothing else, because knowing what I do it is impossible for 
 me to stay." 
 
 "Take until Monday, and think it over. Then if you find 
 me too hateful you shall go. I will not say a word to detain 
 you." 
 
 " No ; I am going now. I could not be with you and do 
 less for you than I have done ; I could not look at you without 
 feeling that for us to be together, knowing each other, would be 
 too horrible ! " 
 
 " You are quite sure ? " 
 
 " I am quite sure." 
 
 The lifeless voice went straight to Le Quesne's heart. He 
 felt for Lin more than he felt for himself. 
 
 " Very well," he said, " you are a free agent, and must do as 
 you like. I think you are deciding against me too hastily, but 
 perhaps I am wrong ; perhaps I have not hitherto realised the 
 hold your hatred of your mother's betrayer has obtained over 
 you. I stick to my opinion of you, however, and whether we 
 meet again or not, I shall stick to it still. You are a lot better 
 than you think you are, and if you leave me now the time is 
 not far distant when you will wish you had not. I have 
 spun you down a bit roughly, but you are genuine metal, Lin, 
 and, sooner or later, you will ring true." 
 
 He made no response. Hopeless, sullen, and very sore of 
 heart, he stood there leaning against the wall, hugging his
 
 Desertefc 35* 
 
 pride under the guise of self-respect, yet knowing that 
 somewhere deep down in him something was struggling to 
 respond to the voice and the touch of the man beside 
 him. 
 
 " For the time will come," Le Quesne went on cheerily, 
 " when in thinking of me you will wonder how you could have 
 thought me quite so black. I don't mean in my aspect 
 towards your mother I mean in my relationship to you. I 
 have done you no great harm. You say I have tricked you f 
 Well, that is true, and a trick is a dishonest thing ; but honesty 
 would have scared you away from me, and I wanted you. 
 Surely a pardonable trick ? If I have tried to gain by stratagem 
 that to which I have forfeited my right, I do not think you 
 need resent it quite so bitterly ; if I have been too sanguine of 
 success, thinking that the son of so merciful a mother must be 
 merciful too, I think it is a mistake for which you need not be 
 so slow to pardon me. But you think differently, and you say 
 that you must go. I am sorry. I believe you will forgive me, 
 and come back to me. Will you give me your hand ? . . . No ? 
 . . . Will you let me take yours ? . . . No ? . . . Impossible, 
 is it ? Well, then, never mind. I must wait. Time and the 
 Great Reconciler will bring me better luck." 
 
 He waited a moment moved away lingered again, saw it 
 was hopeless, and, leaving the room, closed the door behind 
 him. 
 
 Unhappy Lin dropped into a chair, and felt that life was 
 over. Yet, why was it over? If this man were so vile, why 
 should separation from him be a matter of regret ? He 
 would not regret it. He would get into harness, and get 
 to work again. Surely a pleasant thought, a cheerful, 
 comforting thought ? He would go to India with kind-hearted 
 little "Madame." Travelling through a strange land would 
 be the thing for him. Life was all in front of him, and he 
 would forget what lay behind. Oh ! he was quite himself, 
 ready to go, eager to go, but he sat on that chair with his 
 head on his breast, and his arms hanging loosely down at his 
 sides. Apparently he was in no hurry, perhaps because for 
 to-night he could get no farther than Merryon Square. 
 
 As he sat in the dark there came to him a sound, a 
 very ordinary sound, but he started to his feet, while 
 all the blood he had surged in a wave to his head. It 
 was the ringing of Le Quesne's bedroom bell. Lin walked 
 across the room and listened, then walked deliberately back. 
 The bell was no more to him than the man who had rung it
 
 Hnnfe 2>eane 
 
 (Would answer it presently. Whether they did or 
 . no business of his. 
 
 ^s the clock chimed half-past ten, Marion reappeared, or 
 
 >uld have done so had it been light enough. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," she said, as Lin struck a match. " I 
 thought I heard you go into Mr. Le Quesne's room." 
 
 " No. Can I get into my room without going through 
 his?" 
 
 " Into his dressing-room, sir ? Oh, yes ! Up the back 
 staircase and through the other door." 
 
 Lin went slowly down to the hall, found the servants' 
 staircase, mounted it, and, entering his room, was conscious of 
 nothing but the fact that the door between it and the next one 
 was half-way open. His first impulse was to shut it, his next 
 to let it alone. What did it matter, open or shut? He was no 
 sneak. He was not afraid of the man in that room, surely ? 
 He pulled himself up sharply as he realised that he was. 
 What did it mean ? Why, that in some way or other he felt 
 to blame. He had no wish to walk out of that house except 
 in serenest assurance of right. Had he anything to regret ? 
 He tried to recall all that had passed. Yes there was no 
 denying that Le Quesne had had the best of him had been 
 temperate, just, and generous. Had he been either? No, 
 he had not. He had taunted this man with whining about 
 fancied misfortunes he who aspired to be just ! He thought 
 of him as he had seen him first, when the world went well with 
 him ; he thought of him as he had seen him again, when he 
 stood to face defeat with a self-possession savouring of 
 heroism; he thought of the days through which they had 
 passed together since. Dark days of physical suffering and 
 breathless torture, of fainting weariness and utter prostration of 
 mind and body. Had he ever "whined"? ever been im- 
 patient, or anything but gratefully considerate to those about 
 him ? Lin got up. Clearly here he had been wrong ; he must 
 own it He pushed open the door and stood inside. There 
 was light in the room from a shaded lamp in a far corner. 
 Le Quesne, still fully dressed, had been lying down, but he 
 slowly rose and stood before his stern young censor in silence. 
 Lin did not look at him. 
 
 " I apologise for disturbing you. I only wish to say that if 
 to-night I have been extravagant or unjust, I am sorry for 
 having been so." 
 
 Le Quesne neither moved nor spoke. 
 
 ft I don't want you to think I am moved by any mean spirit
 
 2>eserte& 353 
 
 of resentment that I am going because I want to be 
 revenged " 
 
 He stopped, perhaps expecting to be helped out. Such help 
 was not forthcoming. 
 
 " On the contrary, I should like to feel sure that you will not 
 suffer by my leaving you ; that my place will be filled by 
 some one who will make up in skill what only affection has 
 done for you through me " 
 
 He stopped again. At the word "affection" something 
 in him gave way. He had not meant to say it, but having said 
 it, it choked him. He felt that for the turning of a straw he 
 could have flung himself upon his knees and sobbed. Had 
 any advance come from the other side then, had the hand 
 which he had refused not long before been offered him again, 
 had the husky voice for which he was listening with a heart- 
 hunger that he would not own have said but one word to him, 
 things might have been different ; but Le Quesne had said his 
 last, had given in, and the moment of opportunity slipped. Lin 
 hesitated, feeling that he had not said what he wanted to say, 
 that he was not leaving with that assurance of right which alone 
 could justify him in doing what he was about to do. He 
 repeated to himself the old jargon about self-respect and 
 principle, and simple appreciation of right and wrong ; but all 
 these dignified hangings in which he sought to take the shelter 
 of justification came down about his ears, and turned into the 
 sorriest rags that ever hung between a man and his better 
 instincts. He raised his head and looked at the dim, standing 
 figure only a few feet away ; but it was so motionless, so 
 unapproachable that Lin steadied again, and, turning, felt for 
 the door. 
 
 The standing figure swayed a little then moved a pace 
 forward, grasping the rail of the bed. Lin did not see the 
 movement, having already passed into the next room, leaving 
 the door of communication a little open, as he had found it. 
 In another minute he had taken up the trifling articles of his 
 own which lay on drawers and dressing-table, and had passed 
 through the outer door, closing it behind him. In the hall 
 he stopped. In a corner stood two portmanteaux, with a 
 strapped-up bundle of sticks and umbrellas and travelling-rugs. 
 Harker could take one of those portmanteaux back and unpack 
 it ; the other could be sent on to Merryon Square. Lin 
 stretched out his hand and took his hat from the stand, starting 
 like a girl at Barker's step behind him. 
 
 " Going out, sir ? " 
 
 z
 
 354 Snnie JDeane 
 
 "Yes, Harker ! w 
 
 The man lingered, looking puzzled. 
 
 " Want a breath of air, sir ? It's a fine night." 
 
 Lin stood irresolute, his heart beating in his throat. 
 
 " Barker ! " he said, with his back to the man. 
 
 "Yes, sir!" 
 
 "I am not coming back. Will you sleep in Mr. Le 
 Quesne's dressing-room until Dr. Helston has filled my 
 place? I am not saying that it is necessary, but I have 
 accustomed him to a good bit of attention. I am a light 
 sleeper, and don't mind turning out. Don't let him miss it 
 if you can help it." 
 
 He put his hand in his pocket and held the man out half-a- 
 sovereign. It was the remnant of his professional earnings. 
 Le Quesne had given him some notes only that morning 
 wherewith to defray the expenses of Monday's journey, but he 
 had left them and the remains of one already changed upstairs. 
 
 Harker looked longingly at the proffered coin. 
 
 " Thank you, sir," he said, " I'd rather not. I've saved a 
 few o' them in my time, but I'd rather give a few than know 
 you was leavin' him alone, sir." 
 
 " He must not be alone, Harker. You must take care of 
 that. You won't forget ? Good-night ! " 
 
 Opening the door, he stepped aimlessly out to the moonlit 
 street. He supposed he must go to Merryon Square. It was 
 the only home he had. Home? He thought of the word 
 with something like a sob. No desolate waif in all London 
 to-night felt more desolate and homeless than did he ! 
 
 < 
 
 Midnight, and another hour gone by. Annie Deane, lying 
 anxious and wakeful, heard the clocks chime one after the 
 other, and wondered why she felt so restless. Surely she was 
 foolish to be apprehensive ? God was in His heaven, and would 
 do all things well. Who had better reason to believe in that 
 than she? 
 
 Calmed by the thought, she was growing drowsy, when she 
 was roused again by the sound of wheels. In another moment 
 the street-bell, pealing through the house, had startled all 
 three people in it, Annie hurried on some clothing, and, 
 descending, opened the door. She could not have told why she 
 was sure of seeing Harker, but she was sure, and there he stood. 
 
 " What is it ? " she said piteously. " What is wrong ? " 
 
 " I'll see Mr. Warrener, please," was Harker's careful answer, 
 u and tell him."
 
 Desertefc 355 
 
 " Mr. Warrener ? My son ? He isn't here." 
 
 " Oh, good Lord ! " said Harker, more in distress than 
 irreverence. " I made that sure of findin' him here I never 
 give it a second thought. Can't you tell me where to find 
 him ? " 
 
 "Come inside," she said rapidly. "I left my son at your 
 house this afternoon. Tell me what has happened since." 
 
 Harker told her what he knew. 
 
 " It was near eleven when Mr. Warrener came down into the 
 hall. He told me he was goin' out, and that he shouldn't 
 come back. I promised him I'd take his place in the dressin'- 
 room, and at half-past eleven I went up to Mr. Le Quesne's 
 room and listened. I couldn't hear a sound. I knocked, and 
 got no answer. I went round then to the dressin'-room by the 
 back staircase and knocked there. I got no answer again, 
 so I opened the door and went in. He'd knelt down by Mr. 
 Warrener's bed, and had stretched his arms across it. His 
 hands were twisted in the counterpane as if they had clenched 
 in pain. I spoke to him, and lifted him up. Dead ? No 
 no ! Thank God, he isn't dead ; but if I say what / think 
 there's very little hope of him." 
 
 " Hasn't he said anything ? " she asked stolidly. 
 
 " Never a word, except when he first come round. ' Harker,' 
 says he, ' Mr. Warrener took his latch-key. Don't bolt the door 
 he may want to get in.' " 
 
 " Wait one minute," Annie said with decisive brevity. " I 
 won't keep you, but I'm goin' back with you in the cab."
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 "ON A LONG AND DISTANT JOURNEY w 
 
 " IF Mr. Warrener comes here, send him straight on to me at 
 Mr. Le Quesne's." 
 
 This was the message left at Merryon Square by Annie. Lin 
 did not receive it, however, for he did not go to Merryon 
 Square at all. He drifted on and on aimlessly, as he had 
 drifted out with head and heart left behind him. A summer 
 night in the open is no great hardship, and a starry sky is 
 kinder than a roof to a man in trouble. Anyway, Lin sought 
 the shelter of no roof that night, and felt that the most 
 hospitable one under Heaven would have stifled him. But he 
 could not get far away, and when, on looking drearily about, he 
 found himself surrounded by the ghastly skeletons of new 
 buildings, some time to be the homes of men, but at present 
 surrounded by piles of raw material, and bounded by dingy 
 pasture-land or dingier market-garden, he turned and slowly 
 retraced his steps, until the suburban houses, wrapped in night 
 silence, closing him in, told him that he was near home. He 
 smiled as that thought crossed him. There would be but a 
 cold welcome for him in Merryon Square when his mother 
 knew what he had to tell her. He doubted whether the same 
 home would ever again be practicable for him and her. She 
 would never forgive him. 
 
 " Evil is her good where you are concerned," he had told Le 
 Quesne bitterly. Almost could he have persuaded himself to 
 say, " Where you are concerned, let evil be my good too." 
 For the more he tried to get away from it, the more he realised 
 how much of good there was in this man. If it were good to 
 be patient, if it were good to be brave, if it were good to be 
 generous, if it were good to be unselfish then was Lindsay Le 
 Quesne a good man, in spite of the sin of his youth. Of the 
 struggle which tore Lin's very heart asunder before he could 
 bring himself to own this naked truth, it would take too long to 
 tell; of the struggle which followed the acknowledgment of 
 that truth it would be impossible to speak intelligibly, so fierce 
 was it, so keen, and so confused, raging ever round one quiet 
 figure, the supreme dignity of which it could not touch. 
 
 356
 
 " <$m a %ona an& 5>fstant -Journey " 357 
 
 " I have sinned. I acknowledge it. I have repented, and 
 have accepted my punishment. God asks no more than this, 
 why should you you, who, in spite of your fancied wrongs, 
 stand more worthily in the ranks of men to-day than if /had 
 been responsible for your upbringing ? " 
 
 Another truth of the apparently inverted order. Lin 
 seized it, ready to prove it a lie. He could prove nothing, save 
 that it was truth. He did stand worthily in the ranks of men, 
 thanks to himself, and to none other. He had learned what it 
 was to stand alone, to be self-reliant, and he who learns that is 
 " clad in complete steel," fearless, with leisure to use his eyes, 
 with liberty to be himself. Without any undue elation, he saw 
 that all he knew worth knowing his poverty and his independence 
 had taught him. 
 
 Then, again, had he suffered any loss directly traceable to this 
 man's door ? Was he not to-day exactly what of all things he 
 would have chosen to be ? Could he say with any truth, " But 
 for the stain upon my birth, I might have been so-and-so, or 
 so-and-so ? " He was a pleasantly-successful artist, popular and 
 content, leading a life of his own selection, and that by no man's 
 favour or patronage. Here, too, the quiet voice he knew had 
 something to say to him : 
 
 " Do you owe me nothing on the score of inheritance ? 
 Whence comes your voice, if not from mine ? What has been 
 the love of your life since boyhood? The love of music 
 transmitted to you by me. The best I had to give is yours." 
 
 Oh ! that quiet figure standing in the gloom of a semi-lighted 
 room, how it haunted him ! Turn where he would, he saw it. 
 The very sin with which the figure was burdened failed to cast 
 the shadow about it that he tried to see, so hedged about was 
 it with love's own radiance. In vain he tried to keep the story 
 of his birth well in front of him, to remember his mother's 
 blighted youth and toilsome middle-age ; in vain he told him- 
 self that forgiveness of these things was not in human nature. In 
 thenext moment hefound himself wondering wondering with 
 drawn brows and suspended breath, like one who listens in fear. 
 Would he be all right to-night ? If he were ill, would he let 
 Harker do for him what he, Lin, had been used to do ? He 
 thought not, for though Le Quesne had disguised nothing from 
 him, he had turned from the sympathy ofothers with the sensitive, 
 shrinking pain of an erstwhile sovereign, now discrowned. Lin 
 set his teeth in rage. What to him was the man, or his loneli- 
 ness, or his pain ? Nothing nothing ! Said the voice of 
 truth within him : " How can you say that ? He is the one
 
 Hnnfe Dcane 
 
 reality of your life to-night. How can he be? Never mind 
 how. He is, and all the 'how' and 'why* in the world 
 beating against that fact cannot do away with it as a fact." 
 
 " Well," said Lin, the self-opinionated and obstinate, " this 
 proves that I am leaving him in no mean spirit of resentment. 
 I can still wish him well, still hope that some one will be good to 
 him oh ! very good to him but that could not be me I " 
 
 " Could it not ? then why, as you think of him tended by 
 others, is there something in your heart that feels like jealousy ? " 
 
 Lin set his teeth again. 
 
 " I have not had time to forget him," he said to the pitiless 
 voice ; " indifference does not come all at once." 
 
 He walked on, while the stars paled and the grey dawn laid a 
 chill hand upon him, body and mind. He was so very wretched, 
 poor Lin ! He could not give in ; he honestly felt he was 
 making a gallant stand for his principles; so he hugged his 
 righteousness to his bosom, and got no warmth from the dry 
 bones thereof. Affectionate he was rarely so for a man ; his 
 association with Le Quesne had taught him how much love 
 for another can take a man out of himself; he had learnt much 
 of what love for another means, much but not all. 
 
 And, indeed, it is given to very few, that power of going the 
 whole length ! It had been given to poor, despised Jim Drake 
 in days gone by, when he had said to the girl who had sinned, 
 " Never mind what you have done, since it was you who did it. 
 It cannot make any difference between you and me." But then 
 Jim was only a common man, who went his way untrammelled 
 by the fetters of pride or self-righteousness. 
 
 As the sun rose over the dim city, transfiguring it, Lin realised 
 that he was tired, also that it was Sunday morning. This last was 
 an irritating reflection. He could do nothing to-day nothing 
 at all ? Well, he could call on " Madame " later on, and let her 
 know that he was at liberty. By the end of the week he would 
 probably be far away. 
 
 As the sun rose higher he turned into one of the parks and 
 sat down. The narrow river was breaking up into innumerable 
 little diamond sparkles ; every blade of grass as it quivered 
 under the morning breeze let fall a gem ; the trees, " waving 
 their long arms to and fro," made a lulling sound like the wash 
 of a low tide on a level shore. The sound smote straight to 
 Lin's heart, and the tears rose in his sullen eyes. They were 
 to have gone to the sea to-morrow, he and that other one they 
 would not go now. He would not care to go with a stranger. 
 Lin started up. The long, low sighing was unbearable it
 
 a %on0 ant) Distant Sottrneg" 359 
 
 crept about him as the night breeze had done in that dusky 
 room last night " Pity him ! " it said eerily. " Go back to 
 him. Go back to him ; he said you would." Lin turned and 
 fled as from a ghost. He walked about again until eight 
 o'clock, when he found himself near a church. Leaning 
 against the railings, he saw a man come and unlock the church 
 door, and soon after the bell struck out for early service. The 
 worshippers were mostly women poor, unpretentious, chiefly 
 old or middle-aged. The late June sunshine, painfully bright 
 to eyes that had watched the night out, made the cool darkness 
 of the church inviting, and Lin drifted in with the rest. He 
 sat down just inside, frowning in weary impatience at the 
 officious woman who instantly pounced upon him to show him 
 to a seat. 
 
 " I am not going to stay," he said sullenly, " I only want a 
 rest." 
 
 The woman let him alone. 
 
 He had no intention of staying or of joining in the service, 
 but at the first words from the altar he lifted his head and tried 
 to see the man who uttered them. Not that he needed his 
 eyes to tell him who the man was. That sonorous, penetrat- 
 ing, soul-stirring voice could belong to no other than to Frank 
 Netherwood. Having found out this, Lin sat still with a sense 
 of returning calm. To be where he was must of necessity 
 mean something good. 
 
 The service was extremely short, the prescribed "homily" 
 being omitted. When it came to the offertory, Netherwood 
 not for the first time laid himself open to the charge of 
 heterodox tendencies in that he did deliberately add to and 
 take from the list of sentences provided by the Church for the 
 officiating priest. One or two straw-splitting Pharisees had 
 more than once made indignant protest, but the offender had 
 smiled, and his Bishop had turned a deaf ear. 
 
 Speaking from the fulness of his own heart to the hearts of 
 those present, desiring not even his own wealth of content and 
 happiness while he stood in the midst of the spiritual poverty 
 of others, he raised his voice in its mingled strength and 
 sweetness : 
 
 ''*' 
 
 "Whoso hath this world's goods, and seeth another have 
 need, and shutteth up his compassion from him how dwelleth 
 the love of God in him?"
 
 36 Bnnie 2>eane 
 
 " While we have time " he stopped, turned his pale face and 
 shining eyes upon the standing people as one who would 
 impress upon them how little time there is " while we have 
 time, let us do good unto all men." 
 
 " Whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you, even 
 so do unto them ; for this is the Law and the Prophets." 
 
 There was still a moment left The great heart that beat 
 with those among which it lived, that felt for them, knowing 
 their needs, that could not send them away empty while it had 
 aught to give, spoke out again without the book, while the deep 
 voice through which it spoke echoed and thrilled in the distant 
 corners of the half-filled church : 
 
 " This is the covenant that I will make with them after those 
 days, saith the Lord. I will put my laws into their hearts, and 
 in their minds will I write them ; and their sins and iniquities I 
 will remember no more" 
 
 Lin Warrener, stricken and ashamed, with that divine promise 
 in his ears, rose and stumbled out again to the brilliant, sunlit 
 street. Merryon Square was no home for him the church 
 offered him no shelter. Charity dwelt in these places, and with 
 Charity he was not in touch. He knew it now. Netherwood 
 had not exchanged services for nothing. 
 
 Lin wandered back to the park and sat down again, with the 
 " soughing " in his ears that was like the wash of the waves on 
 the shore. He did not mind it now. It hurt him ? Well, he 
 deserved to be hurt he who had turned a deaf ear to a man's 
 misery, had hugged his pride and called it principle. He 
 hugged it still, but he knew it for what it was. He was no 
 nearer going back to Le Quesne than he had been before. One 
 devil cast out, four or five entered and tore him. 
 
 "How can you go back?" said one; "you made such a 
 stand, and were so positive. You would have to own yourself 
 all wrong, which you are not." 
 
 " Besides," said another, " he is a shrewd man of the world. 
 He has given you to understand more than once that he has 
 made provision for you. You did not understand then, now 
 you do. He will think that you return to him to secure that." 
 
 Lin's white face turned scarlet at the thought. 
 
 " He won't, he won't," his heart said quietly ; " he knows 
 me better."
 
 "n a Zcma an& HHstant -Journeg" 3 6i 
 
 And then he temporised with that subtle devil of Inde- 
 pendence. 
 
 " How would it be to get back to work again, and having 
 done so, to drift back gradually into intercourse with him? 
 Then, if he wished it, if I saw that I was really necessary to 
 him" 
 
 " Exactly," said the devil, " the very thing that would show 
 beyond dispute that you wanted nothing of him." 
 
 Lin was beginning to sneak out of the difficulty by a back 
 way. 
 
 "While we have time," said Netherwood's voice "while 
 we have time " 
 
 " There is plenty of time," said a fresh adversary ; " he is 
 not dying ; he is better much better. There is no hurry." 
 
 But above the voices of the devil-crew, the voice of Lin's 
 better self did from time to time make itself heard in no 
 uncertain tone. 
 
 " He is so lonely," it said, " and every hour of even this day 
 will be like two to him ! Besides, he is so sure to be knocked 
 up. If this has upset you, what effect do you think it will have 
 upon a man who has been ill for months, and whose fear of 
 losing you has kept him down? Think what a fear it must 
 have been, think what he must have suffered when he heard 
 you talk of him as of the lowest criminal unhung ! Think of 
 the struggle he must have passed through before he resolved to 
 make that terrible confession ! Think of his voice as he made 
 it, of the imploring grip of his icy hand ! And you struck it 
 away from you." 
 
 Said Lin in torture : " If I could forget all else, there is the 
 horrid tie between us. How can I go back remembering 
 flwff" 
 
 That tie was the last stumbling-block. As far as that he 
 could get, but no farther ; it turned him back again and again. 
 All else his love for the man could conquer, but that thought 
 conquered him. Le Quesne himself had known how it would 
 be when he had heard the strained voice say, " For us to be 
 together knowing each other would be too horrible ! " And 
 he had said to himself, with a hopeless smile, " The tie which 
 should have bound us is the sword that divides us ; what a man 
 sows, that shall he also reap." 
 
 The day wore on. Lin, heavy-eyed from want of sleep, and 
 faint from unaccustomed fasting, still drifted here and there.
 
 362 Hnnie 2>eane 
 
 sometimes driven by the goad of his own thoughts, sometimes 
 by the near proximity of people whom he felt rather than saw. 
 After a while he ceased to think connectedly at all, being too 
 tired. Thought drifted aimlessly, as he did. When the bells 
 chimed for morning service they turned into the " Hiawatha," 
 and sung it to him not unwelcomely the quaint and beautiful 
 thing that he loved. Even when the bells had ceased it 
 remained with him. A musical brain is seldom empty of 
 rhythm. 
 
 "I am going 
 
 On a long and distant journey, 
 To the portals of the sunset, 
 To the regions of the home-wind, 
 Of the North- West wind Keewaydin.* 
 
 The hush of service-time settled over everything brooded 
 lifted passed away. The Park was alive with a gay throng 
 of fashionable people, and Lin, retreating to a quiet corner, 
 flung himself down on the warm and friendly earth, wrapped 
 in bodily and mental apathy. For a while the song of the bells 
 remained with him, shifting to and fro ; but at last, when the 
 sun had started on its westward course, and the curious, 
 dreamy quiet which belongs to a Sunday afternoon pervaded 
 everything, his tired brain gave way, and he slept. 
 
 He thought he was in a boat with Le Quesne, drifting fast 
 and faster on the full tide of a summer sea, away, away, to the 
 horizon line, until nothing was to be seen around them but sea 
 and sky, between which their boat seemed to be suspended like 
 a toy. He thought he began to fear, and to say to his com- 
 panion that they were out too far to get back in safety by 
 nightfall. But Le Quesne, with sad eyes fixed on the horizon 
 line, made no answer. And Lin grew more and more afraid, 
 for that arching line, as they flew on, ceasing to fly before 
 them, stood, and turned into a shining wall, in which was a 
 door wide enough to admit many men at once. When they 
 had drifted right up to it, Le Quesne stepped on to the edge 
 of the boat, turned his eyes towards the world that he was 
 quitting, and from there to Lin. 
 
 " Good-bye," he said ; " your pride has brought me to the 
 end of my journey. I wanted to have lingered with you, for 
 you were dear to me ; but you have brought me here, and I 
 must stay, while you go back into the world of men alone."
 
 a OLona an> Distant Sournes" 3 6 3 
 
 Lin saw him step off and enter the gate in the shining wall. 
 But as he stretched his hands towards that gate, with a prayer 
 to be admitted too, the voice, growing fainter in the distance, 
 told him that he could not come yet. 
 
 " Go back," it said sorrowfully, " over the troubled sea of 
 human life, to learn your lesson as I learned mine to make of 
 your mistakes the stepping-stones to better things. Don't 
 lament things gone. Make of repentance a future to be lived 
 rather than a past to be brooded over. For me, I am no more 
 with you or of you. Love and Hate alike are powerless to 
 wake in me an answer. I am content." 
 
 ....... 
 
 He scrambled to his feet and looked about him, at the green 
 of the waving trees, at the blessed light of the sun, at the brown 
 of the laughing river ; he felt his own warm, living flesh. He 
 was alive, and not in the land of shadows. So, thank God ! 
 was that other, and he would go back to him. They would 
 still have some time together, they would go on that journey 
 to-morrow after all, would spend their summer days upon the 
 sea. He would forget the awful bar between them. He 
 could never make of it a tie, but it must be forgotten like the 
 rest. To him the man must always be " Lindsay Le Quesne " ; 
 that, and nothing else. 
 
 ! 
 
 In the early dusk of the summer evening, when the great 
 red moon was rising and the London streets were thronged 
 with people who had no time to notice him, he went very slowly 
 back. Not all willingly, any more than all unwillingly not 
 all shrinkingly, any more than all eagerly not from duty, 
 nor from any sense of the beauty of self-sacrifice but from 
 affection, solely. Lin had learnt his lesson, had gone the 
 whole length, had shut his eyes to the sin for the sake of the 
 sinner, and was going back to be the same to him as he had 
 been before; was going back for the simple reason that he 
 could not stay away. 
 
 He let himself in with his latch-key, and hung up his hat and 
 coat unseen by anyone also, unseen by anyone, he went by 
 way of the servants' stairs up to his room, to Le Quesne's 
 dressing-room. 
 
 It felt like coming home. He stopped to make himself 
 presentable ; twenty-four hours in the open without food or a 
 wash had made of him rather a ghastly object. He smiled as 
 he saw his own reflection, thinking that he looked as ill as he
 
 364 Hnnie Deane 
 
 felt, which was saying a great deal. The door between that 
 room and the next was shut. Everything was perfectly quiet. 
 Lin sat down for a moment to steady his head, for it was 
 beating painfully. Concluding that the longer he waited the 
 worse he would feel, he put out his hand and opened the 
 closed door. Le Quesne would be in the drawing-room. Lin 
 would go quietly to the back of the big chair, and touch him 
 as he had often done before. They would probably both make 
 fools of themselves, but there would be little said. 
 
 Inside the door he stopped why he could not have told. 
 The black-and-gold screen at the foot of the bed hid it from 
 him ; the blinds of the two big windows were drawn, though 
 the windows were opened from the top ; the bed-clothes, tidily 
 folded as though they would not be wanted, were piled upon 
 two chairs. With closed eyes and a heart upon which iron 
 hands seemed to have put a sudden pressure, Lin stumbled to 
 the edge of the screen and lifted his head. The bed was very 
 white and smooth, and in the centre, under the sheet, still and 
 cold and peaceful, Lindsay Le Quesne lay, with his uncovered 
 face turned heavenward. He was alone, but he craved no 
 companionship ; he would lie in awful solitude through many 
 a day and night to come, but he would not complain nor 
 think himself neglected ; though they surrounded him with a 
 very army of watchers he would not raise his hand to ask of 
 one of them the smallest service. Alone or not alone it was 
 all one to him now. For he was dead. 
 
 Annie had been home to Merryon Square, and had just come 
 back. As she entered the hall her eyes fell upon Lin's hat 
 and coat. 
 
 " My son ! " she said frantically to the girl who had admitted 
 her. " Oh, where is he ? Who told him ? " 
 
 The girl looked startled. 
 
 " If he is in," she said, " he can't have been in two minutes, 
 and no one has told him." 
 
 She staggered past the girl and up the stairs. She had had 
 hard thoughts of Lin to-day even she, the patient and the 
 merciful, had said in her heart that God would punish him 
 and that it would be just. 
 
 But now she had only one thought, to spare him if she 
 could, to save him the cruel shock of entering that room all 
 unprepared. Reaching the dressing-room, she saw that she was 
 too late; the o.her door stood open open, as Lin had left it 
 By this time, then, he knew.
 
 a Xona ant) Distant SourncB " 365 
 
 She never spoke, nor moved. With dumb lips and hands 
 pressed hard over her heart she stood and waited listening 
 listening. She could not call him^back she dared not follow 
 him through that open door ; but as she thought of him, she 
 wished that she and the dead could have changed places. For 
 she knew now that the dead had been dearer to him than she 
 could ever be, else had he never forgiven him so soon ! It 
 was not long perhaps not many minutes, before the silence 
 of that room was broken by a heavy footstep crossing it, by the 
 slow closing of a door and the grate of a turning key. Annie 
 crept up close to the door then, and, kneeling down, laid her 
 cold cheek against it. Lin must suffer for his mistake, as she 
 had suffered for hers must win his victory, as she had done 
 unaided and alone. Love, even her love, could not help him 
 in this dire extremity ; sympathy, even her sympathy, would 
 fail to comfort him. And so, for a while, she did not try to 
 comfort him ; only knelt there with dry eyes and aching limbs 
 and bleeding heart, suffering dumbly pang for pang with the 
 child she had borne in love and sorrow. 
 
 She could not cry, she could not pray ; could only wish that 
 she were dead as he was. 
 
 But when the long night had nearly worn away she crept 
 downstairs to Harker, who, undemonstrative, but faithful, had 
 not gone to bed. 
 
 "I can't bear this," she said piteously. "I'm afraid. I 
 haven't heard a sound. There's other doors into that room. 
 Are they all locked ? " 
 
 " I think so," Harker said ; " but one is never unlocked, and 
 so that key must be with mine. I'll see." 
 
 He found the key and let her in. 
 
 She felt her way across the dark room, and laid her hand 
 unerringly on Lin's bowed head. She shivered a little as she 
 sat down beside him, for she felt that the dead man's arm was 
 round his neck. She did not take it away. 
 
 " Tired, darlin', an' cold ? " she said gently. " You must 
 be, kneelin' here ! I've got somethin" to tell you, that p'r'aps 
 in time you'll like to think about. Harker come for you last 
 night, an' you wus not there, so I come myself instead, because 
 I knowed what had happened. I was with him all the time. 
 He couldn't say much, but once he tried to ast me what wus 
 wrong with him, an' I told him that the doctor said it wus his 
 heart. He looked a bit surprised, an' smiled. 
 
 " ' It can't be that,' he said ; ' I have no heart left Lin 
 broke it, and took it away with him.'
 
 366 Bnnie S>eane 
 
 " And then, Lin, I told him a lie. I said as you'd forgive 
 him, an' wus comin' back to him the same as ever, but that the 
 findin' out of things had that upset you that you'd have been 
 no good to him, so you sent me instead. An' as I spoke I 
 prayed to God to make that lie a truth. ' He'll be back to- 
 night,' I said; ' he's only stoppin' to pull round a little, so as 
 he shan't distress you.' 
 
 " He looked at me very hard, but I never flinched, an' at last 
 I see that he believed me. He turned quite quiet then an' 
 went to sleep, an' in his sleep he died. So, do you see, my 
 darlin', that he knew you had forgive him ? For you had. 
 You come back to him just when I said you would. God 
 heard my prayer, an' made my lie come true."
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX 
 
 THE TWO THAT ARK LEFT 
 
 IT is a still, clear afternoon in late autumn, and the scene is 
 shifted back to the Berkshire village that we know. In the 
 tangle of bramble and bracken under the moveless pines the 
 children are searching for blackberries, as other children now 
 grown up searched in the years gone by ; on a low branch of 
 a leafless hazel a robin is singing cheerily. Away in the 
 straggling street the doors are open, and the women, with 
 their children in their arms, call to each other across the way, 
 while from the other end of the village the clang of the forge 
 sounds musically. The Forge Cottage is spick and span, as it 
 was twenty years ago. The Gloire de Dijon, then but a 
 straggling shoot, now climbs to the very roof, and is creeping 
 round to the south wall, where the yellow grapes hang ripen- 
 ing. The clock is striking four as the blacksmith, turning up 
 one corner of his apron, goes round to the back of the house 
 and looks in at a window. A pleasant, roomy apartment is 
 this into which he peers. The fire is bright, the kettle bright 
 too ; the square table in the centre of the room is cleared for 
 tea, but that is all at present, for it is not quite tea-time. At 
 the table sits a small and slenderly-made woman. You might 
 take her for a girl, so slight is she and fair ; but the face is a 
 woman's face, and the eyes have a patient look that does not 
 belong to youth. On her lap, showing white against the black 
 of her gown, a folded letter lies a letter which begins with 
 " My dear mother," and ends with " Yours always, Lin." She 
 shakes her head as she thinks of him, and into her patient eyes 
 the tears come, for Lin is many a mile away. 
 
 How comes she here ? That is easily told. 
 
 For seven years Jim Drake and Alice, his wife, were 
 childless; but after that, as if to make up for lost time, 
 children were born to them quickly all too quickly for the 
 ailing, irritable mother, and with the eighth she died. Then 
 the grandmother, a hearty, buxom woman still, said : 
 
 " Jim, what can a man like you do wi' eight children, and 
 367
 
 368 Bnnte Deane 
 
 the oldest scarce fourteen ? I've got a thing in my head. 
 You know our Annie ? Well, I never told your poor Alice, 
 but one day this summer our Annie come home, an', Jim, 
 we've judged her wrong, for she's no bad woman, an' never 
 have bin. She've worked hard. I knows all about her. Them 
 days, when Alice thought I was in Readin', I went to London, 
 an' stayed wi' Annie at the place where she've bin a'most since 
 ever she left here. I see the old gentleman and, Jim, I see 
 her son. He's that quiet and gentle-like with her, poor thing j 
 but he'd never be at home wi' humble folk like us he's a 
 gentleman, every inch. Says I to Annie when I come away, 
 ' When the old man dies an' he's a great age now what'll 
 you do, my gal? ' An' says she to me, ' I don't know, mother ; 
 that'll depend on circumstances.' ' You'll live wi' yer son ? ' 
 says I. She shook her head. ' He's trav'lin' mostly,' she says, 
 ' an' I couldn't never be idle now. I've thought sometimes as 
 I'd like to help among the poor, or be a mother to some poor 
 qhildern as hasn't got one.' Now, Jim, here's jest the sort o' 
 thing." 
 
 " But," Jim had said, " how about the old gent, mother ? " 
 
 " He's bin dead this three months, an' Annie's bin wi' her 
 son ; but she told me that he was goin' forrin soon, an' then she 
 meant to find some sort o' work, for tho' he kep' on as she 
 should go where he went, she didn't see as that wus really 
 necessary for him, an' she thought as she'd do better doin' for 
 herself at home. I've wrote an' told her our poor Alice is 
 gone, an' you mark my words, Jim, our Annie '11 come an' see 
 after your poor childern, till you can turn yerself round a bit" 
 
 And Jim had written to Annie, asking her. 
 
 At first Lin had refused to hear of it, but Annie meant to 
 have her way. 
 
 " You won't want me, dear," she had said ; " I'd be dreadful 
 lonely an' out o' place travellin' about in foreign parts. Lin, 
 I never meant to go. Whenever you come back agen, I'll 
 come to London an' keep a home together for you, but now 
 I'm goin' to see what I can do for them childern." 
 
 And Lin, sorely against his will, had taken her into Berkshire 
 himself. 
 
 11 1 believe you are making a martyr of yourself," he had 
 said sorrowfully, as he left her behind. " I can't think you want 
 to stay and be a slave to a tribe of rough children." 
 
 " I daresay they do seem rough to you, dear," she had said ; 
 ' but they're nice little things enough, an' I shan't mind." 
 
 She has been a good mother to that rough tribe for somo-
 
 ZTbe TTwo tbat are Xett 369 
 
 thing like three years. Only once has she felt like leaving 
 them, and that was when Jim, having completed his period of 
 mourning, wanted to marry her. She only smiled. 
 
 " It isn't lawful, Jim," she said tranquilly. 
 
 " Here, p'r'aps not, but it's lawful enough in the Colonies ; 
 and to one o' them, if you'll say the word, we'll go. What's 
 right in one part o' the world must be right all the world over." 
 
 "No, Jim, I shall never go. An' it was lawful here to-morrow, 
 I couldn't marry you, nor any man besides. An' if that's 
 what's in your mind, Jim, I mustn't stop here to make you 
 unhappy." 
 
 " You won't do that, Annie," said Jim stolidly. " I'm not 
 such a fool. Wife or no wife, I'm more comf 'table now than 
 ever I was wi' your poor sister, for she wusn't you, nor any- 
 think like you. So we'll let it be. O'ny I do think as it's a 
 lonely life for you slavin' for other folks' childern, wi' the one 
 as is yours doin' the grand miles away." 
 
 Jim is jealous of Lin, and always will be. 
 
 " Lin is very good to me," Annie said, flushing. " If his 
 life takes him far out o' the track o' mine, that's no fault o' his." 
 
 " Well, I will say," said Jim deliberately, " that he ain't my 
 idea of a son. He's 'Mr. Warrener,' ain't he? He's no 
 ' Deane.' That ain't good enough. He've plenty o' money, 
 an' as fur as I can see, he keeps it to hisself." 
 
 " You don't know, Jim, an', for Lin's sake, I'll tell you. He 
 haven't plenty o' money ; that is, not what people thinks he 
 have. He lives on what he earns. The other wus left him by 
 his father, Jim ; but he've never took no pleasure in it, an' 
 the greatest part of that goes to Mr. Netherwood to help the 
 poor. He've wanted me to take some of it, often, but I never 
 could. It's his by right, but for me to live on it'd be wrong. 
 Besides, Mr. Holt left me a pound a week as long as I lives, 
 an' I don't want no more." 
 
 " An' you knew the lad's father, then, after all ? " 
 
 " It come about," she said quietly, " through Lin. He loved 
 my Lin. Yes, Jim, I lived to be o' some little good to him. 
 I was with him when he died, an', when I see he was dead, I 
 knew my heart was dead, too. You'll see now, Jim, why I 
 couldn't marry no other man." 
 
 " So he's dead," said Jim thoughtfully. " Well, they do say 
 as where he's gone there's no marryin' nor givin' in marriage." 
 
 Jim's personal experiences permit him to face this prospect 
 with fortitude and resignation. 
 
 " An' if there is, / shan't be his wife, Jim, though I knows 
 
 2 A
 
 370 Hnnfe H>eane 
 
 where to find her. I've never spoke to her, but I've watched 
 her once or twice when she didn't know it, to see what sort o f 
 woman he'd loved. I see enough to show me why he could 
 never have cared for me. I never see anybody like her. I've 
 got good reason to be grateful to her, for I think if it hadn't 
 bin for her Lin'd never have looked up agen after he died. He 
 wus like a broken-hearted thing, an' she seemed to know how 
 to get at him, where I didn't. She's an opera singer, an' it's 
 her what Lin has travelled with ever since. What's her age ? 
 She's older than me, but she looks that young ! an' they say 
 her voice is most as good as ever. Lin manages everything 
 for her business affairs an' all that. He owes her a lot Her 
 takin' him up have made him. She won't sing with anybody, 
 an' she will have him where she is." 
 
 Jim was silent, but not convinced, having opinions 
 concerning singers and their ways entirely original and 
 independent. He has never since reverted to the subject of 
 marriage, thinking it better to leave things as they are. He 
 sees his children take their troubles to the quiet little woman, 
 sure of a sympathetic listener ; he sees them grow less rough 
 by sheer force of contact with her gentleness ; he sees them 
 tell her the truth without fear, where they used to tell 
 "mother" untruths rather than run the risk of punishments 
 entirely lacking in judgment, or of harsh vituperation, 
 innocent alike of justice and self-respect ; he sees even his 
 eldest girl, pert and vain as was her mother, shamed into 
 silence by simple modesty and patience; he feels the awful 
 blank in the house when Lin comes home and " Auntie " is 
 wanted elsewhere. And he is very well content " Anyway," 
 thinks Jim simply, " I can do a little for her. I can see as she 
 haves a comftable roof over her head, an' I knows that she 
 shan't want for anything as long as I'm alive. If she don't ast 
 for no more, why should I ? I'd rather things bide as they are, 
 as long as she's satisfied." 
 
 So Jim goes tranquilly about his work, and lets the future 
 take care of itself. 
 
 When Lin comes back he is expected in the Spring Annie 
 will be waiting for him in the comfortable London rooms 
 which are " home " to him whenever he is in England. For 
 the first little while she will feel as she always does when he 
 returns after a long absence diffident and awkward, a little 
 afraid of him, as of one with whom she is not quite in touch ; 
 for the first few days, indeed, she will have much ado to look 
 at him with anything approaching calmness, so sharply do the
 
 ttbe ttwo tbat ate Xeft 371 
 
 passing years accentuate his likeness to the dead. The eyes 
 are his ; the voice is his ; so are the courteous ways and the 
 rare, thoughtful smile. That boyish brightness of expression 
 which once obscured the likeness is quite gone now, banished 
 for ever by one memory which never sleeps. But after the 
 first few days Annie's strangeness will wear off, for she will see 
 that under the surface Lin is her Lin still, that without 
 appearing to notice her wistful attempts to seem quite at her 
 ease with him he will yet understand everything ; will give her 
 a little time ; but then, coming quietly behind her, will say 
 laughingly, with his face to hers : 
 
 " Mother, how long am I to be treated as a ' distinguished 
 stranger'?" After which she will have a quiet "cry," and it 
 will be all right. 
 
 They will talk of many things and of many people; he 
 will tell her of his busy life ; she will tell him of her quiet one ; 
 many questions will be asked and answered. But there will be 
 one name unspoken by either, and upon one subject will they 
 both be silent, not by any arrangement, simply by mutual 
 appreciation of the futility of words. Each will know that in 
 the heart of the other one thought is uppermost, one longing 
 unappeased, one sorrow un comforted ; but they will bear their 
 burden silently, in outward cheerfulness she for his sake, and 
 he for hers. 
 
 There will be days when he will tell her that he has 
 engagements, and will not be home until late. Then, waiting 
 until he has left the house, she will put on her prim little 
 black bonnet, and will find her way to one of two places. If 
 she is late in setting out she will go to the Home, where the 
 Sisters will extend to her the right hand of sympathy and 
 appreciation, and aged Sister Elizabeth will insist upon keeping 
 her to tea ; if she has plenty of time she will go partly by 'bus 
 and partly on foot to quite another part of London, will 
 thread her way through a network of dingy by-ways, courts, 
 and alleys, until she comes to one alley more dingy than the 
 rest. Down this one she will go rather timidly, for the 
 inhabitants thereof are veritably " unclean." Unclean of 
 person, of mind, of spirit, yet having one dweller among them, 
 who, content to pass with the reputable for all three, is in 
 reality neither. Finding her way up stairs many and steep, 
 mended here with a scrap of rough board, there with a bit of 
 tin, and everywhere with a sublime disregard of the probability 
 of accidents, Annie will knock at a door upon the topmost 
 landing. She will not feel sure of getting an answer, because the
 
 37* Hnnie Deane 
 
 occupant of the room may be out. Say she is in, she will open 
 the door ; perhaps impatiently, perhaps aggressively, for she is 
 a creature of the untamable kind, and not much given to 
 surface civility unless she gets it in advance. At sight of Annie 
 she will soften. 
 
 "You again ?" she will say, with a gleam of pleasure in her 
 defiant eyes ; " come in if you can get in." 
 
 And " in " Annie will go, shutting the rickety door behind 
 her. 
 
 Perhaps she will find the room full of the steam of "washing," 
 the bare window trickling, the bare walls in a ghastly perspiration, 
 the worm-eaten floor soaked and sloppy ; perhaps the washing 
 will be over, and " drying " will be the order of the day ; then 
 damp clothes will cling about her head as she stoops under 
 the lines that are stretched from wall to wall, and the window 
 will be open, admitting more " blacks " than breezes ; perhaps 
 there will be nothing more depressing about than an ironing- 
 board, supported at one end by the window-sill, at the other 
 by the back of a chair j then that interior will represent dry 
 desolation instead of wet, but " desolation " will be the word 
 for it all the same. 
 
 Two or three times Annie has found the bed on the floor in 
 the corner occupied by two or three babies, all more or less 
 puny and ill-nourished, left here by mothers who are " out to 
 work." Sometimes she has found babies, washing, drying, 
 ironing, all in course of progress at once; then she has 
 straightway pinned up her prim black gown, and set to work 
 herself. 
 
 " Why don't I get out of this into a better neighbourhood?" 
 the tenant of the room will say in answer to Annie's gentle 
 question. "Where's the better neighbourhood that will find 
 me anything to do ? And what is the neighbourhood to me f 
 It can't make work and me friends. Do you think I like 
 washing? I hate it! Do you think I enjoy this steaming 
 place? To me it's a touch of the 'hereafter.' Do you 
 think I've got any love in me for those miserable, sour-smelling, 
 half-fed babies ? No. I never liked babies, even up to the 
 chin in lace, and smelling of scented powder. I always hated 
 trouble and hard work. I hate it now." 
 
 " But," Annie will urge earnestly, " why dorit you go to the 
 Sisters? I do know they would help you to get something 
 better than this." 
 
 " Go to them ? Not me ! I hate them, and they know it. 
 What's the first thing they'd say to me ? ' You must come in,
 
 Ube ZTwo tbat are SLeft 373 
 
 and let us see that your repentance is genuine. We can't do 
 anything until we know that you have a new heart, and have 
 left the old life behind you.' No, they won't say that, but 
 they'll as good as say it. Here I'm wretched enough, but 
 when I've done I can lock my door and be my own mistress. 
 There's nobody spying about me, or making inquiries. I'm 
 not rung to bed at nine, and rung up at six; I'm not 
 ' gaolered ' by a couple of solemn-faced girls who never knew 
 what temptation was, and who wouldn't have given way if they 
 had out of fear of being punished. If I fall away, I can 
 struggle back again unhindered. I've got my liberty." 
 
 " But you don't fall away ; I'm that sure you don't." 
 
 " Then you're the only one to be sure. No there's one 
 besides. I've been to him twice once because I hadn't a 
 penny nor a bit of bread, and once because a woman left her 
 baby with me and never came for it again. Neat, wasn't it ? 
 Made me think of the tricks I've played people in my time. 
 I couldn't keep the poor brat, so 1 went to him. I told him 
 where I lived, and what I was doing. Did he throw cold 
 water on me ? No ! Did he say I must change my clothes 
 before he could believe I'd changed my ways ? Not he ! He 
 believed me. ' Keep on,' he said ; ' I told you I knew you 
 better than you knew yourself. We work out our own 
 salvation in our own way. If your way is not my way, it is no 
 part of my duty to doubt you because of that. If you want 
 anything, come to me ; it you cannot come, send. You know 
 where 1 live.' 
 
 " He sent for the baby the next day, and several times since 
 I've had a note from him asking if I was getting on, and 
 whether I wanted anything. He doesn't come; do you know 
 why? He'd be afraid 1 thought he suspected me. Now, 
 drop me. Kate Lucas I was born, and Kate Lucas I shall 
 die. ' One of the hopeless sort 1 ' they used to say. Let them 
 think so, God knows. Now tell me what you are doing, and 
 all about it." 
 
 Annie will tell her something of her own affairs, wih find 
 something nice for tea in the basket she brought with her, will 
 beg Kate to write and tell her if work fails, and funds run out, 
 and will take her departure under Kate's protection. When 
 they get to the end of the network of dirty streets and alleys 
 they will kiss each other publicly, after the fashion of their 
 common kind, and will go their separate ways. 
 
 On these days of separation from Lin, Annie will feel no 
 curiosity concerning his whereabouts. If his engagements are
 
 374 Bnnie IDeane 
 
 professional she will know it ; if not, he is sure to be found at 
 Miss or, as she is usually called, " Madame " Le Breton's 
 house. He knows that house. He has a key with which he 
 admits himself, asking no permission ; he goes upstairs with 
 the air of one who has a right, gives a light knock at a familiar 
 door, and is forthwith bidden to enter. 
 
 Almost everything in the beautiful room he enters is his, 
 but he has not removed as much as one costly trifle, and it 
 all looks much the same as it looked on that summer night, 
 now nearly four years ago. Even the big "grand" made 
 expressly for a famous singer by a celebrated house, and 
 having his hieroglyphic, " L. A. Le Q.," inlaid at one corner 
 stands open across the old angle. Lin never touches it He 
 has not felt justified in taking up his residence in these rooms 
 not that he shuns them, simply that he feels them to be beyond 
 his present position. So "Madame," having no home in London, 
 takes them off his hands. When she is away they are closed, 
 and the big " grand " relapses into silence. 
 
 The name which is never mentioned between Lin and his 
 mother is yet spoken freely and lovingly enough here. It is 
 the link between Lin and the woman who lives here. He has 
 kept nothing away from her, and she has turned his confidence 
 to rarely good account She has studied him, puzzled over 
 him, mastered him, saved him from the moral death-trap of 
 remorse by urging him to fresh effort, and so has made of him 
 what perhaps he never had been but for her. He sometimes 
 wonders why he can talk to her of the dead while he cannot to 
 his mother, and thinks it must be that here his mother is too far 
 away at once too far above him and too far below. It is 
 more difficult to talk to the woman who loved " not wisely, but 
 too well " than it is to the woman who loved too wisely, and 
 not well enough. 
 
 He has altered in many ways, but such alteration is more 
 below the surface than upon it, and his early friends the 
 Hoskins, for instance will tell you that he is just the same as 
 ever. He looks, perhaps, older than he is ; feels much older, 
 wonders sometimes if indeed it is true that he is but eight-and- 
 twenty ! He gives himself but little leisure, for he has found 
 that leisure means regret, and his is a nature for which the 
 sun can do more than the shade. " He is above everything 
 affectionate," said one, in speaking of him once to his mother. 
 He is affectionate still, but the springs lie deeper, and are not 
 easily reached by a strange hand. A quiet man, though manly 
 of word and deed ; a just man, but now most merciful ;
 
 ttbe TTwo tbat are %eft 375 
 
 naturally impatient of wrong-doing, but ever ready to extend to 
 the wrongdoer the hand of brotherhood he goes his way, 
 honestly desiring to obey a command the full significance of 
 which he was at first too wretched to appreciate. 
 
 " Make of repentance a future to be lived rather than a past 
 to be brooded over." 
 
 Those unforgotten words and Helen Le Breton's influence 
 have made him what he is. 
 
 She, looking at him thoughtfully, is apt to wonder why Love 
 has as yet no place in his life. It is not that he is not lovable, 
 or that sweet eyes do not tell him so. On the contrary, he is 
 just one of those men to whom such eyes are prone to say too 
 much. But the love of women is nothing to Lin. It is such 
 a serious thing, thinks he ; a thing of sorrow and disappoint- 
 ment, and of life laid waste, rather than of gay laughter, 
 marriage bells, and vows too lightly spoken. 
 
 Anyway, Lin is wholly free, and " Madame " is not anxious 
 to see him enslaved. For he is very dear to her, and a woman's 
 affection for a man even though she be twice his age, and 
 beyond all suspicion of foolishness is seldom quite impersonal. 
 
 When Lin's sojourn in London is once more at an end, he 
 and his mother with many a kiss and many a broken word 
 will part ; he, perhaps, with the keener sense of loneliness. 
 
 Far down in the Berkshire village the children will be 
 waiting to welcome her; Jim will have the cottage all swept 
 and garnished for her home-coming, while on every side will 
 rise the grateful assurance that she is of use, of genuine value, 
 to those with whom she lives. A meek woman and unam- 
 bitious, she will see in this assurance enough to make her 
 very well content 
 
 And Lin ? 
 
 Before he leaves the shores of the "kingdom by the sea," to 
 the love of which he was first awakened by a voice now mute, 
 he will take his solitary way to a spot which let him be where 
 he may is seldom absent from his thoughts. The sound of 
 the sea comes there, with the weird cry of the circling gull and 
 the deep boom of the guns that welcome England's ships as 
 they come harbourwards. 
 
 And there in a sunny corner is a grave, bearing upon the 
 cross at its head an inscription which has proved to the many 
 a stumbling-block, but to the few a truth :
 
 376 Hnnfe jEJeane 
 
 LINDSAY LE QUESNE, 
 
 Born, May i5th, 18 , 
 
 Died, June i2th, 18 . 
 
 "And God created man ... in the image of God created 
 He him. . . , And God saw . . . that He had made, and 
 behold it was very good." 
 
 THE END
 
 KTLJ

 
 Ao-!l|il