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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..17ec624 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #51617 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/51617) diff --git a/old/51617-0.txt b/old/51617-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 229b2e5..0000000 --- a/old/51617-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5416 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Sorceress; v. 1 of 3, by Margaret Oliphant - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: The Sorceress; v. 1 of 3 - -Author: Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: April 1, 2016 [EBook #51617] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SORCERESS; V. 1 OF 3 *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - - THE SORCERESS. - - - - - THE SORCERESS. - - A Novel. - - BY - - MRS. OLIPHANT, - - AUTHOR OF - “THE CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD,” - “THE CUCKOO IN THE NEST,” - ETC., ETC. - - _IN THREE VOLUMES._ - - VOL. I. - - LONDON: - F. V. WHITE & Co., - 31, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND, W.C. - 1893. - - (_ALL RIGHTS RESERVED_) - - - PRINTED BY - TILLOTSON AND SON, BOLTON, - LONDON, NEW YORK, AND BERLIN. - - - - -THE SORCERESS. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - - -It was the most exciting event which had ever occurred in the family, -and everything was affected by it. - -Imagine to yourselves such a young family, all in the very heyday of -life, parents and children alike. It is true that Mrs. Kingsward was -something of an invalid, but nobody believed that her illness was -anything very serious, only a reason why she should be taken abroad, to -one place after another, to the great enjoyment of the girls, who were -never so happy as when they were travelling and gaining, as they said, -experience of life. She was not yet forty, while Charlie was twenty-one -and Bee nineteen, so that virtually they were all of the same age, so to -speak, and enjoyed everything together--mamma by no means put aside into -the ranks of the dowagers, but going everywhere and doing everything -just like the rest, and as much admired as anyone. - -To be sure she had not been able to walk about so much this time, and -had not danced once, except a single turn with Charlie, which brought on -a palpitation, so that she declared with a laugh that her dancing days -were over. Her dancing days over! Considering how fond she had always -been of dancing, the three young people laughed over this, and did not -take the least alarm. Mamma had always been the ringleader in -everything, even in the romps with the little ones at home. For you must -not think that these three were all of the family by any means. - -Bee and Betty were the eldest of I can’t at this moment tell how many, -who were safe in the big nursery at Kingswarden under the charge (very -partial) of papa, and the strict and steady rule of nurse, who was a -personage of high authority in the house. Papa had but lately left “the -elder ones,” as he called them, including his pretty wife--and had gone -back to his work, which was that of an official at the Horse Guards, in -some military department of which I don’t even know the name, for I -doubt whether the Intelligence Department, which satisfies all the -necessities of description, had been invented in those days. - -Colonel Kingsward was a distinguished officer, and the occasion of great -_éclat_ to the little group when he showed himself at their head, -drawing round him a sort of cloud of foreign officers wherever he went, -which Bee and Betty appreciated largely, and to which Mrs. Kingsward -herself did not object; for they all liked the clank of spurs, as was -natural, and the endless ranks of partners, attendants in the gardens, -and general escort and retinue thus provided. It was not, however, among -these officers, red, blue, green, and white--of all the colours in the -rainbow--that Bee had found her fate. For I need scarcely say it was a -proposal which had turned everything upside down and filled the little -party with excitement. - -A proposal! The first in the family! Mamma’s head was as much turned by -it as Bee’s. She lay on the sofa in her white dressing gown, so flushed -with happiness and amusement and excitement, that you would have -supposed it was she who was to be the bride. - -And then it was so satisfactory a thing all round. If ever Mrs. -Kingsward had held anyone at arm’s length in her life it was a certain -captain of Dragoons who had clanked about everywhere after her daughters -and herself for three weeks past. The moment they had appeared anywhere, -even at the springs, where she went to drink her morning glass of -disagreeable warm water, at the concert in the afternoon, in “the rooms” -at night, not to speak of every picnic and riding party, this tall -figure would jump up like a jack-in-a-box. And there was no doubt that -the girls were rather pleased than otherwise to see him jump up. He was -six foot two at least, with a moustache nearly a yard long, curling in a -tawny and powerful twist over his upper lip. He had half-a-dozen medals -on his breast; his uniform was a compound of white and silver, with a -helmet that literally blazed in the sun, and his spurs clanked louder -than any other spurs in the gardens. The only thing that was wanting to -him was a very little thing--a thing that an uninstructed English person -might not have thought of at all--but which was a painful thing in his -own troubled consciousness, and in that of the regiment, and even was -doubtful to the English friends who had picked up, as was natural, all -the prejudices of the class into which their own position brought them. - -Poor Captain Kreutzner, I blush to say it, had no “Von” to his name. -Nobody could deny that he was a distinguished officer, the hope of the -army in his branch of the service; but when Mrs. Kingsward thought how -the Colonel would look if he heard his daughter announced as Madame -Kreutzner _tout court_ in a London drawing-room, her heart sank within -her, and a cold perspiration came out upon her forehead. “And I don’t -believe Bee would care,” she cried, turning to her son for sympathy. - -Charlie was so well brought up a young man that he cared very much, and -gave his mother all the weight of his support. His office it was to -beguile Captain Kreutzner as to the movements of the party, to keep off -that bold dragoon as much as was possible; when, lo! all their -precautions were rendered unnecessary by the arrival of the real man -from quite another quarter, at once, and in a moment cutting the Captain -out! - -There was one thing Mrs. Kingsward could never be sufficiently thankful -for in the light of after events, and that was, that it was Colonel -Kingsward himself who introduced Mr. Aubrey Leigh to the family. He was -a young man who was travelling for the good of his health, or rather for -the good of his mind, poor fellow, as might be seen at a glance. He was -still in deep mourning when he presented himself at the hotel, and his -countenance was as serious as his hatband. Nevertheless, he had not been -long among them before Bee taught him how to smile, even to laugh, -though at first with many hesitations and rapid resuming of a still -deeper tinge of gravity, as if asking pardon of some beloved object for -whom he would not permit even himself to suppose that he had ceased to -mourn. This way he had of falling into sudden gravity continued with him -even when it was evident that every decorum required from him that he -should cease to mourn. Perhaps it was one of the things that most -attracted Bee, who had a touch of the sentimental in her character, as -all young ladies had in those days, when Mrs. Hemans and L. E. L. were -the favourite poets whom young ladies were expected to read. Well -brought up girls were not permitted, I need not say, to read Byron. -Shelley was a name of fear, and the poems of Mr. Thomas Campbell, not to -say Mr. Thomas Moore (carefully selected) were likely to promote that -quality. - -The pale young man, with his black coat, his hatband, his look of -melancholy, drove out the image of the Captain at once from Bee’s mind. -She had perhaps had enough of captains, fine uniforms, spurs, and all. -They had become what modern levity calls a drug in the market. They made -_Fenster_ parade all day long under her windows; they thronged upon her -steps in the gardens; they tore the flounces from her tarlatan into -pieces at the balls. It was something far more original to sit out in -the moonlight and look at the moon with a sorrowful young hero, who -gradually woke up into life under her hand. Poor, poor boy!--so young -and so melancholy!--who had gone through so much!--who was really so -handsome when the veil of grief began to blow away!--who had such a -pretty name! - -Bee was only nineteen. She had mocked and charmed and laughed at a whole -generation of young officers, thinking of nothing but picnics and dinner -parties and balls. She wanted something new upon which to try her little -hand--and now it was thrown, just when she felt the need, in her way. -She had turned a young fool’s head several times, so that the operation -had lost its charm. But to bring a sad man back to life, to drive away -sorrow, to teach him to hold up his head again, to learn how sweet it -was to live and smile, and ride and run about this beautiful world, and -wake every day to a new pleasure--that was something she felt worthy of -a woman’s powers. And she did it with such effect that Mr. Aubrey Leigh -went on improving for three weeks more, and finally ended up with that -proposal which was to the Kingsward family in general the most amusing, -the most exciting, the most delightful incident in the world. - -And yet, of course, it was attended with a certain amount of anxiety -which in her--temporarily--invalid state was not very good for mamma. -Everybody insisted on all occasions that it was a most temporary state, -and that by the end of the summer she would be all right--the -palpitations quite calmed down, the flush--which made her so pretty--a -little subdued, and herself as strong as ever. But in the meantime this -delightful romantic incident, which certainly acted upon her like a -glass of champagne, raising her spirits, brought her some care as well. -Her first interview was of course with Bee, and took place in the -privacy of her chamber, where she cross-examined her daughter as much as -was compatible with the relations between them--- which indeed were -rather those of companions and comrades than of mother and daughter. - -“Now, Bee, my dear child,” she said, “remember you have always been a -little rover, and Mr. Leigh is so quiet. Do you think you really, -really, can devote yourself to him, and never think of another man all -your life?” - -“Mamma,” said Bee, “if you were not such a dear I should think you were -very insulting. Another man! Why, where should I find another man in the -world that was fit to tie Aubrey’s shoe?” - -“Well,” said Mrs. Kingsward, dubiously; but she added, after a moment, -“You know, darling, that’s not quite the question. If you did find in -the after ages a man that perhaps was--fit to tie Mr. Leigh’s shoe?” - -“Why in all this world, _petite mère_, will you go on calling him Mr. -Leigh?” - -“Well, well,” said Mrs. Kingsward; “but I don’t feel,” she said again, -after a moment’s hesitation, “that I ought to go so far as to call him -Aubrey until we have heard from papa.” - -“What could papa find to object to?” said Bee. “Why, it was he who -introduced him to us! We should not have known Aubrey, and I should -never have been the happiest girl in the world, if it had not been for -papa. Dear papa! I know what he’ll say: ‘I can’t understand, my dear, -why you should hesitate for a moment. Of course, you don’t suppose I -should have introduced Mr. Leigh to my family without first -ascertaining, &c., &c.’ That, of course, is what papa will say.” - -“I dare say you are right, Bee. It is quite what I expect, for, of -course, a man with girls knows what it is, though for my part I confess -I always thought it would be a soldier--Captain Kreutzner or Otto -von----” - -“Mamma!” cried Bee, almost violently, light flashing out of the blue -eyes, which were so bright even on ordinary occasions as to dazzle the -beholder--you may imagine what fire came out of them now--“as if I -should ever have looked twice at one of those big, brainless, clinking -and clanking Germans. (N.B.--Mr. Aubrey Leigh was not tall.) No! Though -I may like foreigners well enough because it’s amusing to talk their -language and to feel that one has such an advantage in knowing German -and all that--yet, when it comes to be a question of spending one’s -life, an Englishman for me!” - -Thus, it will be seen, Bee forestalled the patriotic sentiments of a -later generation by resolving, in spite of all temptations, to belong to -other nations--to select an Englishman for her partner in life. It is -doubtful, however, how far this virtuous resolution had existed in her -mind before the advent of Aubrey Leigh. - -“I am sure I am very glad, Bee,” said her mother, “for I always had a -dread that you would be snatched off somewhere to--Styria or Dalecarlia, -or heaven knows where--(these were the first out-of-the-way names that -came to Mrs. Kingsward’s mind; but I don’t know that they were -altogether without reference or possibilities), where one would have had -no chance of seeing you more than once in two or three years. I am very -thankful it is to be an Englishman--or at least I shall be,” she added, -with a sigh of suspense, “as soon as I have heard from papa----” - -“One would think, _Mütterchen_, that you were frightened for papa.” - -“I shouldn’t like you ever to try and go against him, Bee!” - -“Oh, no,” said Bee, lightly, “of course I shouldn’t think of going -against him--is the inquisition over?--for I promised,” she said, with a -laugh and a blush, “to walk down with Aubrey as far as the river. He -likes that so much better than those noisy blazing gardens, with no -shade except under those stuffy trees--and so do I.” - -“Do you really, Bee? I thought you thought it was so nice sitting under -the trees----” - -“With all the _gnadige_ Fraus knitting, and all the _wohlgeborne_ Herrs -smoking. No, indeed, I always hated it!” said Bee. - -She jumped up from where she had been sitting on a stool by her mother’s -sofa, and took her hat, which she had thrown down on the table. It was a -broad, flexible, Leghorn hat, bought in Florence, with a broad blue -ribbon--the colour of her eyes, as had often been said--floating in two -long streamers behind. She had a sash of the same colour round the -simple waist of her white frock. That is how girls were dressed in the -early days of Victoria. These were the days of simplicity, and people -liked it, seeing it was the fashion, as much as they liked crinolines -and chignons when such ornamental arrangements “came in.” It does not -become one period to boast itself over another, for fashion will still -be lord--or lady--of all. - -Mrs. Kingsward looked with real pleasure at her pretty daughter, -thinking how well she looked. She wore very nearly the same costume -herself, and she knew that it also looked very well on her. Bee’s eyes -were shining, blazing with brightness and happiness and love and fun and -youth. She was not a creature of perfect features, or matchless beauty, -as all the heroines were in the novels of her day, and she was conscious -of a great many shortcomings from that high standard. She was not tall -enough--which, perhaps, however, in view of the defective stature of Mr. -Aubrey Leigh was not so great a disadvantage--and she was neither fair -enough nor dark enough for a Minna or a Brenda, the definite and -distinct blonde and brunette, which were the ideal of the time; and she -was not at all aware that her irregularity, and her mingling of styles, -and her possession of no style in particular, were her great charms. She -was not a great beauty, but she was a very pretty girl with the -additional attraction of those blue diamonds of eyes, the sparkle of -which, when my young lady was angry or when she was excited in any more -pleasurable way, was a sight to see. - -“All that’s very well, my dear,” said Mrs. Kingsward, “but you’ve never -answered my question: and I hope you’ll make quite, quite sure before -it’s all settled that you do like Aubrey Leigh above everybody in the -world.” - -“_A la bonne heure_,” said Bee; “you have called him Aubrey at last, -without waiting to know what papa will say:” with which words she gave -her mother a flying kiss, and was gone in a moment, thinking very -little, it must be allowed, of what papa might say. - -Mrs. Kingsward lay still for a little, and thought it all over after Bee -was gone. She knew a little better than the others what her Colonel was, -and that there were occasions on which he was not so easy to deal with -as all the young ones supposed. She thought it all over from the moment -that young Mr. Leigh had appeared on the scene. What a comfort it was -to think that it was the Colonel himself who had introduced him! Of -course, as Bee said, before presenting anyone to his wife and family, -Colonel Kingsward would have ascertained, &c., &c. It was just how he -would write no doubt. Still, a man may introduce another to his wife and -family without being ready at once to accept him as a son-in-law. On the -other hand, Colonel Kingsward knew well enough what is the possible -penalty of such introductions. Young as Bee was, she had already -attracted a good deal of attention, though this was the first time it -had actually come to an offer. But Edward must surely have thought of -that. She was, though it seemed so absurd, and though Bee had laughed at -it, a little afraid of her husband. He had never had any occasion to be -stern, yet he had it in him to be stern; and he would not hesitate to -quench Bee’s young romance if he thought it right. And, on the other -hand, Bee, though she was such a little thing, such a child, so full of -fun and nonsense, had a spirit which would not yield as her mother’s -did. Mrs. Kingsward drew another long fluttering sigh before she got up -reluctantly in obedience to her maid, who came in with that other white -gown, not unlike Bee’s, over her arm, to dress her mistress. She would -have liked to lie still a little longer, to have finished the book she -was reading, to have thought over the situation--anything, indeed, to -justify her in keeping still upon the couch and being lazy, as she -called it. Poor little mother! She had not been lazy, nor had the chance -of being lazy much in her life. She had not begun to guess why it was -she liked it so much now. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - -I have now to explain how it was that Mr. Aubrey Leigh was so -interesting and so melancholy, and thus awoke the friendship and -compassion, and secured the ministrations of the Kingsward family. He -was in deep mourning, for though he was only eight-and-twenty he was -already a widower, and bereaved beside of his only child. Poor young -man! He had married with every appearance of happiness and prosperity, -but his wife had died at the end of the first year, leaving him with a -baby on his inexperienced hands. He was a young man full of feeling, -and, contrary to the advice of all his friends, he had shut himself up -in his house in the country and dedicated himself to his child. -Dedicated himself to a baby two months old! - -There was nobody who did not condemn this unnecessary self-sacrifice. He -should have gone away; he should have left the child in the hands of its -excellent nurse, under the supervision of that charming person who had -been such a devoted nurse to dear Mrs. Leigh, and whom the desolate -young widower had not the courage to send away from his house. Her -presence there was a double reason, people said, why he should have gone -away. For though his sorrow and trouble was so great that nobody for a -moment supposed that he had any idea of such a thing, yet the presence -of a lady, and of a lady still called by courtesy a young lady, though -older than himself, and who could not be treated like a servant in his -house, was embarrassing and not very seemly, everybody said. Suggestions -were made to her that she should go away, but then she answered that she -had nowhere to go to, and that she had promised to dear Amy never to -forsake her child. The country ladies about who took an interest in the -young man thought it was “just like” dear Amy, who had always been a -rather silly young woman, to exact such a promise, but that Miss Lance -would be quite justified in not keeping it, seeing the child had plenty -of people to look after her--her grandmother within reach and her father -dedicating himself to her. - -Miss Lance, however, did not see her duty in the same way; indeed, after -the poor little child died--and there was no doubt she had been -invaluable during its illness, and devoted herself to it as she had done -to its mother--she stayed on still at Leigh Court, though now at last -poor Aubrey was persuaded to go away. The mind of the county was -relieved beyond description when at last he departed on his travels. -These good people did not at all want to get up any scandal in their -midst. They did not very much blame Miss Lance for declining to give up -a comfortable home. They only felt it was dreadfully awkward and that -something should be done about it, though nobody knew what to do. He had -left home nearly six months before he appeared at the Baths with that -letter to Mrs. Kingsward in his pocket, and the change and the travel -had done him good. - -A young man of twenty-eight cannot go mourning all the days of his life -for a baby of eight months old, and he had already begun to “get over” -the death of his wife before the second event occurred. This troublous -beginning of his life had left him very sad, with something of the -feeling of a victim, far more badly treated than most in the beginning -of his career. But this is not like real grief, which holds a man’s -heart with a grip of steel. And he was in the stage when a man is ready -to be consoled when Bee’s blue eyes first flashed upon him. The -Kingswards had received him in these circumstances with more _abandon_ -than they would have done in any other. He was so melancholy; his -confidences, when he began to make them, were so touching; his waking up -to interest and happiness so delightful to see. And thus, before anyone -had thoroughly realized it, the deed was done. They knew nothing about -Miss Lance--as how should they?--and what could she have had to do with -it if they had known? - -So there really was nothing but that doubt of Colonel Kingsward’s -approval to alloy the pleasure of the party, and it was only Mrs. -Kingsward who thought of it. Charlie pooh-poohed the idea altogether. “I -think I should know my father better than anyone,” the young man said, -with much scorn of his mother’s hesitation. He was very fond and very -proud of his mother, but felt that as a man himself, he probably -understood papa better than the ladies could. “Of course he will -approve; why shouldn’t he approve? Leigh is a very decent fellow, though -I don’t think all the world of him, as you girls do. Papa, of course, -knew exactly what sort of a fellow he was; a little too quiet--not Bee’s -sort at all. No, you may clamour as you like, but he’s not in the least -Bee’s sort----” - -“I’m supposed to prefer a noisy trooper, I believe,” said Bee. - -“Well, I should have said that was more like it--but mind you, the -governor would never have sent us out a man here who was not good enough -for anything. Oh, I understand the old boy!” - -“Charlie, how dare you?” cried his mother; but the horror was modified -by a laugh, for anything more unlike an old boy than Colonel Kingsward -it would not have been very easy to conceive. - -“Well, mamma, you wouldn’t have me call him my honoured father, would -you?” the young man said. He was at Oxford, and he thought himself on -the whole not only by far the most solid and serious member of the -present party, but on the whole rather more experienced in the world -than the gentleman whom in the bosom of the family he still condescended -to call “papa.” - -As for little Betty, who up to this time had been Bee’s shadow, and who -had not yet begun to feel herself _de trop_, she, no more than her -sister, was moved by any of these cares. She was wholly occupied in -studying the new thing which had suddenly started into being before her -eyes. Betty was of opinion that it was entirely got up for her amusement -and instruction. When she and Bee were alone, she never ceased in her -interrogatory. “Oh, Bee, when did you first begin to think about him -like that? Oh, Bee, how did you first find out that he was thinking -about you? Oh, Bee, don’t you mind that he was once in love before?” -Such were the questions that poured in an incessant stream into Bee’s -ears. That young lady was equal to them all, and she was not unwilling -to let her sister share more or less in the new enlightenment that had -come to herself. - -“When did I first begin to think of him?” she said. “Oh, Betty, the -first minute I saw him coming through the garden with Charlie to speak -to mamma! There were all those horrid men about, you remember, in those -gaudy uniforms, and their swords and spurs, and so forth--such dreadful -bad taste in foreigners always to be in uniform----” - -“But, Bee,” cried Betty, “why, I’ve heard you say----” - -“Oh, never mind what you’ve heard me say! I’ve been silly, I suppose, in -my day, like almost everybody. Aubrey says he cannot think how they can -live, always done up in those hot, stiff clothes--none of the ease of -Englishmen about them.” - -“Papa says they are such soldier-like men,” says little Betty, who had -not been converted from the _regime_ of the officers, like Bee. - -“Oh, well, papa--he is an officer himself, but he never wears his -uniform when he can help it, you know.” - -“Well,” said Betty, “you may say what you like--for my part, I do love a -nice uniform. I don’t want ever again to dance with a man in a black -coat. But Bee, you’re too bad--you won’t say a word, and I want so to -know how it all came about. What put it into your head? And what did you -say to one another? And was it he that began first--or was it you?” - -“You little dreadful thing,” said Bee; “how could a girl ever begin? It -shows how little you know! Of course he began; but we didn’t begin at -all,” she said, after a pause, “it just came--all in a moment when I -wasn’t thinking, and neither was he.” - -“Do you mean to say that he didn’t intend to propose to you?” said -Betty, growing pale. - -“Oh!” said Bee, impatient, “as if proposing was all! Do you think he -just came out with it point blank--‘Miss Kingsward, will you marry me?’” - -“Well,” said Betty: “what did he say then if he didn’t say that?” - -“Oh, you little goose!” said Bee. - -“I am sure if he had said ‘Oh, you little goose’ to me,” said Betty, “I -should never have spoken a word to him again.” - -“It is no use talking to little girls,” said Bee, with a sigh. “You -don’t understand; and, to be sure, how could you understand--at your age -and all?” - -“Age!” said Betty, indignant, “there is but fifteen months between us, -and I’ve always done everything with you. We’ve always had on new things -together, and gone to the same places and everything. It is you that are -very unkind now you have got engaged; and I do believe you like this big -horrid man better than me.” - -“Oh, you little goose!” said Bee, again. - -“No, it isn’t a big but a little, horrid man. I made a mistake,” said -Betty, “not like Captain Kreutzner that you used to like so much. It’s -small people you care for now; not your own nice people like me and -mamma, but a man that you had never heard the name of when you -first came here, and now you quote and praise him, and make the -most ridiculous fuss about him, even to Charlie, who is far -nicer-looking!--and won’t even tell your sister what he says!” - -This argument came to so high a tone that mamma called out from her room -to know what was amiss. “It does not become you girls to carry on your -old scuffles and quarrels,” she said, “now that one of you, at least, is -so grown up and about to take upon herself the responsibilities of -life.” - -“Is Aubrey a responsibility?” Betty whispered in her sister’s ears. - -“Oh, you little silly thing!” Bee replied; and presently Mrs. -Kingsward’s maid came in to say that Mr. Leigh was in the sitting-room, -and would Miss Bee go to him as her mistress was not ready; for this was -the little fiction that was kept up in those days before Colonel -Kingsward’s letter had been received. It will be seen, however, that it -was but a fiction, and that as a matter of fact there was very little -restraint put on the young people’s intercourse. “You must not consider -that anything is settled; you must not think there’s any engagement,” -Mrs. Kingsward had said. “Indeed, indeed, I cannot take upon me to -sanction anything till I hear from her papa.” But virtually they met as -much as they liked, and even indulged in little talks apart, and -meetings by themselves, before Mrs. Kingsward was ready; so that as a -matter of fact this restriction did very little harm. - -And in due time Colonel Kingsward’s letter was received, and it was not -unfavourable. The Colonel said that, on the whole, he should have -preferred it had Mr. Leigh waited till they had all returned home. It -would have been a seemly forbearance, and saved Mrs. Kingsward a great -deal of anxiety; but as matters stood and as his dear wife approved, and -he heard nothing but good of Mr. Leigh, he would not withdraw the -provisional consent which she seemed to have given. “It will be -expedient in the circumstances that you should all return home as soon -as possible, that I may go into matters with the young man,” the Colonel -added in that part of his letter which was not intended to be read to -Aubrey Leigh. And he added, as Bee had prophesied, “You might have been -sure that I should not introduce a young man to my family, and to -yourself, my dear, without ascertaining previously,” etc., etc., just as -Bee had said. He added, “Of course I never contemplated anything of this -sort: but one can never tell what may happen when young people are -thrown together. The property is a good one, and the young man -unexceptionable, from all I can hear.” Then Mrs. Kingsward’s mind was -set at ease. It seemed to Bee that her father might have said something -on the subject of her happiness, and acknowledged Aubrey to be something -more than an unexceptionable young man. It was inconceivable, she -thought to herself, how cool people are when they come to that age. The -property good, and the young man unexceptionable--was that all? Did papa -take no more interest than that? But at all events the engagement was -now quite permitted and acknowledged, and they might walk out together -all day, and dance together all night, without a word said; for which -Bee forgave and instantly forgot--it was really of so little -importance--the coolness of papa. - -Mrs. Kingsward’s “cure” was over, and by this time most people were -leaving the Bath. Our party made their preparations for leaving too, in -the pleasantest way. It was not to be at all a rapid journey, which -would not have been good for Mrs. Kingsward. They were to make their way -at leisure from one beautiful old city to another across the breadth of -Germany, staying a day here and a day there, travelling for the most -part in a large, old-fashioned carriage, such as was the custom then, -with a wide-hooded seat in front, like the _banquette_ of a French -diligence, in which two people could be extremely happy, seeing the -scenery much better than those inside could do, or perhaps not seeing -the scenery at all, but occupying each other quite as agreeably with the -endless talk of lovers, which is not interesting to anybody but -themselves. Before they set out upon this journey, however, which was to -hold so great a place in Bee’s life, a little incident occurred to her -which did not appear to be of very much consequence, but which made some -impression on her mind at the time, and vaguely appeared afterwards to -throw light on various other events. The German Bath at which the -little story of her love took place is surrounded with woods--woods of a -kind that are never seen anywhere else, though they are the special -feature of German Baths. They are chiefly composed of fir trees, and -they are arranged upon the most strictly mathematical principles, with -that precision which is dear to the German mind, row upon row standing -close together, as if they had been stuck in so at their present height, -with so many cubit feet of air to each, as in the London lodging-houses. -They are traversed by broad roads, with benches at intervals, and at -each corner there is a wooden board on which is painted indications how -to find the nearest _restauration_ where beer is to be had, and the veal -of the country--for the German, in his hours of ease and amusement, has -continual occasion to be “restored.” - -Bee had gone out early in the morning to make a little sketch of an -opening in the trees through which a village spire was visible. There -were not many points for the artist in landscape, especially one of such -moderate powers as Bee, and she was very anxious to finish this to -present it, I need scarcely say, to Aubrey, as a memento of the place. -Probably there was some other sentimental reason--such as that they had -first spoken words of special meaning there, or had first exchanged -looks that were of importance in their idyll, or some other incident of -equal weight. She was seated on one of the benches, with her little -colour box and bottle of water, giving the finishing touches to her -sketch. Sooth to say, Bee was no great performer, and the ranks of the -dark trees standing arithmetically apart to permit of that little -glimpse of distance, were too much for her. They looked in her sketch -like two dark green precipices rather than like trees, and had come to a -very difficult point, when a lady coming along by one of the side walks, -round the corner past the _restauration_, suddenly sat down by Bee’s -side and startled her a little. She was not a girl who was easily -frightened, but the suddenness of the apparition out of the silent -morning when she had thought nobody was in sight was a little startling -and made her hand shake. - -“I hope I am not intruding upon you,” the lady said. - -“Oh, no!” said Bee, looking up with her bright face. She was as fresh as -the morning in her broad Leghorn hat with the blue ribbon, and her eyes -that danced and sparkled. The stranger by her side was much older than -Bee. She was a handsome woman; dark, with fine eyes, too, a sidelong -look in them, and a curious half smile which was like La Gioconda, that -famous picture Bee had seen in the Louvre, as we all have. She thought -of La Gioconda at once, when she looked up into the lady’s face. She was -entirely dressed in black, and there could not have been found anywhere -a more perfect contrast to Bee. - -They got into conversation quite easily, for Bee was a girl who loved to -talk. The lady gave her several hints about her little picture which Bee -knew enough to know were dictated by superior knowledge, and then they -got talking quite naturally about the place and the people who were -there. After they had discussed the society and the number of English -people at the Bath, and Bee had disclosed the hotel at which she was -staying, and many details of her innocent life, which she was not at all -conscious of disclosing--the stranger began to inquire about various -people. It was not by any means at once that she introduced the name of -Leigh; not indeed till she had been over the Reynoldses, and the -Gainsboroughs, and the Collinses, under Bee’s exultant guidance and fine -power of narrative; then she said tentatively, that there was she -believed, at one of the hotels, a family of Leighs. - -“Oh!” cried Bee, her countenance flushing over with a sudden brilliant -delightful blush, which seemed to envelop her from top to toe. She had -been looking up into her companion’s face so that the stranger got the -full benefit of this sudden resplendent change of colour. She then -turned very demurely to her sketch, and said meekly, “I don’t know any -family, but there is a Mr. Leigh at our hotel.” - -“Oh,” said the lady, but in a very different tone from Bee’s startled -“oh!” She said it coldly, as if recording a fact. “I thought,” she said, -“it was the Leighs of Hurstleigh, friends of mine. I may have been -deceived by seeing the name in the lists.” - -“But I think, indeed I am sure, that Mr. Aubrey Leigh is connected with -the Leighs of Hurstleigh,” Bee said. - -“Oh, a young man, a widower, an inconsolable; I think I remember hearing -of him. Is that the man?” - -“I don’t know if he is an inconsolable,” cried Bee, with a quick -movement of anger and then she thought how foolish that was, for of -course a stranger like this could have no unkind meaning. She added with -great gravity, “It is quite true that he has been married before.” - -Poor little Bee, she was not at all aware how she was betraying herself. -She was more vexed and indignant than words can say, when the woman (who -after all could not be a lady) burst into a laugh. “Oh! I think I can -see how matters stand with Aubrey Leigh,” this impertinent intruder -cried. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -It was just two days after the interview in the wood described above, -that the Kingsward party got under weigh for home, accompanied, I need -not say, by Aubrey Leigh. Bee had not told him of that chance meeting, -restrained I do not know by what indefinite feeling that he would not -care to hear of it, and also by the sensation that she had as good as -told the lady, who was so disagreeable and impertinent as to laugh, what -change had taken place in Aubrey’s sentiments, and what she had herself -to do with that change. It was so silly, oh, so silly of her, and yet -she had said nothing, or next to nothing. And there was no reason why -she should not have said whatever she pleased, now that the engagement -was fully acknowledged and known; indeed, if that woman were in any -society at all, she must have heard of it, seeing that, as Bee was -aware, not without pleasure, it had afforded a very agreeable diversion -to the floating community, a pleasant episode in the tittle-tattle of -the gardens and the wells. Bee had no absurd objection to being talked -of. She knew that in her condition of life, which was so entirely -satisfactory as a condition, everything that concerned a family was -talked over and universally known. It was a thing inevitable to a -certain position, and a due homage of society to its members. But -somehow she did not mention it to Aubrey, nor, indeed, to anyone, which -was a very unusual amount of reticence. She did not even give him the -sketch, though it was finished. She had been quite grateful for that -person’s hints at the time, and eagerly had taken advantage of them to -improve her drawing; but it seemed to her, when she looked at it now, -that it was not her own at all, that the other hand was so visible in it -that it would be almost dishonest to call it hers. This, of course, was -wholly fantastic, for even supposing that person to have given valuable -hints, she had never touched the sketch, and Bee alone had carried them -out. But, anyhow, her heart sickened at it, and she thrust it away at -the very bottom of the box that Moulsey was packing. She had no desire -to see the horrid thing again. - -In a day or two, however, Bee had altogether forgotten that interview in -the wood. She had so many things to occupy her mind. There were few -railways in those days, and the party had a long way to travel before -they came to Cologne, where that method of travelling began. They all -felt that common life would re-commence there and their delightful -wandering would be over. In the meantime, there was a long interval of -pleasure before them. The early breakfast at the hotel in the first -hours of the autumnal morning, the fun of packing everyone away in the -big coach, the books to be brought out to fill up corners, both of time -and space, and “Murray” then alone in his glory, with no competitive -American, no Badæker, no Joanne, to share his reign--spread out open at -the right place, so that mamma inside should be able to lay her finger -at once upon any village or castle that struck her--and above all the -contrivances to be carried out for securing the _banquette_, as Bee -said, for “ourselves,” made a lively beginning. Charlie and Betty -sometimes managed to secure this favourite place if the attention of the -others flagged for a moment, and though mamma generally interposed with -a nod or a whisper to restore it to the privileged pair, sometimes she -was mischievous too, and consented to their deprivation, and desired -them for once to keep her company inside. She generally, however, -repented of this before the day was over, and begged that their -favourite seat might be restored to them. - -“For they are really no fun at all,” the poor lady said. “I might as -well have two images from Madame Tussaud’s.” - -“It had been a little hard upon Aubrey at the moment of their departure -to find half the garrison round the carriage, and bouquets enough to -fill a separate vehicle thrust into every corner, the homage of those -warriors to the gracious ladies. He had been very cross, and had made a -great exhibition of himself, especially when Captain Kreutzner’s faggot -of forget-me-nots, tied with a ribbon like that on Bee’s hat, had been -presented with indescribable looks. What did the fellow mean by bringing -forget-me-nots? He wanted to pitch it out of the window as soon as they -were fairly started. - -“What an idiotic custom!” he cried. “What do the fools think you want -with such loads of flowers when you are starting on a journey?” - -“Why, it is just then you do want them,” cried Betty, who had a dozen or -so to her own share, “to smell sweet and show us how much our friends -think of us.” - -“They will not smell sweet very long, and then what will your friends -think of you?” said the angry lover. - -Was it possible that Bee was detaching a little knot of the blue flowers -to put in her waistband? Bee, Bee! his own property, who had no right so -much as to look at another man’s flowers! And what did she do, seeing -the cloud upon his face, but arrange another little bouquet, which, -with her sweetest smile--the little coquette--she endeavoured to put -into his, Aubrey’s, button-hole! He snatched them out of her hand in a -sort of fury. “Do you want me never to forget that heavy brute of a -German?” he cried, in his indignation. “You may put him near your heart, -but I should like to kick him!” These very natural sentiments made Bee -laugh--which was cruel: but then poor Captain Kreutzner had been blotted -out of her life some time ago, and knew his fate, and had really no -right whatever to present her with these particular flowers. His lovely -bouquet with its blue ribbon was given to a girl in the first village, -and awakened the still more furious jealousy of another swain who was -less easily appeased than Aubrey; but this _ricochet_ was not thought of -by the first and principal pair. - -There was not perhaps so many remarkable features in that journey as if -it had been through Italy. There were great plains to traverse, where -the chief sights were cottages and farmhouses, women going by with great -loads of freshly cut grass full of flowers on their heads, fodder for -the home-dwelling cows--or men carrying their hops clinging to the -pole, to be picked at home, or long straggling branches of the tobacco -plant; and in the evening the postillion would whip up his horses, and -Charlie in the _banquette_, or John, the manservant, in the rumble, -would tootle upon a horn which the former had acquired clandestinely -before the party set out--as they dashed through a village or little -town with lighted windows, affording them many a flying peep of the -domestic life of those tranquil places. And in the middle of the day -they stopped to rest somewhere, where the invariable veal was to be -found at some Guest-house a little better than the ordinary, where -perhaps a bigger village stood with all its high peaked stream: and at -night rattled into an old walled town with shadowy high houses which -belonged to the fourteenth century, and had not changed a whit since -that time. There they stayed a day or two, varying the confinement of -the coach by a course through everything that was to be seen, setting -out in a party through the roughly-paved streets, but parting company -before long, so that Aubrey and Bee would find themselves alone in the -shelter of a church or in an insignificant corner by the walls, while -the others pursued their sightseeing conscientiously. - -“As for me, what I like is the general aspect,” said Bee, with an air of -superiority. “I don’t care to poke into every corner, and Aubrey knows -the history, which is the chief thing.” - -“Are they talking all the time of the history?” said Betty, overawed. - -But this perhaps, was not the opinion of Charlie and mamma. No, they did -not care very much for the history. People are bad travellers in that -stage of life. They are too much interested in their own history. They -went about like a pair of Philistines through all these ancient streets, -talking of nothing but the things of to-day. The most serious part of -their talk was about the home in the depths of England in which they -were henceforth to spend their lives. Aubrey had ideas about -re-furnishing--about making everything new. It would be impossible to -tell the reader how bad was the taste of the time, and with what -terrible articles of furniture he proposed to replace the spindle legs -and marquetry of his grandfathers. But then these things were the -fashion, and supposed to be the best things of the time. To hear them -talking of sofas and curtains, and of the colour for the boudoir and the -hangings of the drawing-room in the midst of all those graceful old -places, was inconceivable. You would have said the stupidest, -unimpressionable pair, talking of ugly modern English furniture, when -they should have been noting the old world of Nuremberg--the unchanging -mediæval city. But you must remember that the furniture was only a -symbol of their love and their new life, and all the blessedness of -being together, and the endless delights of every day. The sofas and the -curtains meant the _Vita Nuova_, and the refurnishing of the old house a -beautiful fabric of all the honour and the joy of life. - -Then came the great river, and the progress down its shining stream, and -between those beautiful banks, where again they made several pauses to -enjoy the scenery. The Rhine is not now the river it was then. It was -still the great river of romance in those days--Byron had been there, -and the young people remembered Roland and his tower, with his love in -the white convent opposite, and felt a shudder at the thought of the -Lorelei as they floated under the high and gloomy bank. I doubt, -however, whether the lovers thought much even of these things. They were -busy just now about the gardens, which Bee was fully minded to remodel -and fill with everything that was new and delightful in the way of -flowers. - -“I shall have masses of colour about the terrace, and every spot -covered. I wonder which you like best, majolica vases or rustic -baskets?” Bee was saying, when her mother called her to point out the -Platz and Bishop Hatto’s tower. - -“Oh, yes, mamma, it’s very pretty. But you like clematis, Aubrey, for -the balustrade--to wind in and out of the pillars. Yes, yes, I can see -it well enough. I like every kind of clematis, even the common one, the -traveller’s joy--and it would hang down, you know, over that old bit of -wall you told me of. Do go forward, Aubrey, and let them see you are -taking an interest. I do see it all quite well, and it is very romantic, -and we are quite enjoying it I can assure you, mamma.” - -This was how they made their way down stream; in the moonlight nights -they ceased to talk of practical matters, and went back to the history -of their loves. - -“Do you remember, Bee, that first time in the wood----?” - -“Oh, Aubrey, don’t you recollect that drive coming back in the -dark--before I knew----?” - -“But you always did know from the very beginning, Bee?” - -“Well, perhaps I suspected--and used to think----” - -“You darling, what did you think?--and did you really care--as early as -that?” - -They went on like this whatever happened outside, giving a careless -glance at the heights, at the towers, at the robbers’ castle above and -the little villages below; not so much as looking at them, and yet -remembering them ever after, enclosing the flow of their young lives, as -it were, in that strong flowing of the Rhine, noting nothing and yet -seeing everything with the double sight which people possess at the -highest moment and crisis of their career. They came at length to -Cologne, where this enchanted voyage was more or less to end. To be -sure, they were still to be together; but only in the railway, with all -the others round them, hearing more or less what they said. They said -good-bye to the Rhine with a little sentiment, a delightful little -sadness full of pleasure. - -“Shall we ever be so happy again?” said Bee, with a sigh. - -“Oh, yes, my sweet, a hundred times, and happier, and happier,” said the -young man; and thus they were assured it was to be. - -I don’t think any of them ever forgot that arrival at Cologne. They came -into sight of the town just in the evening, when the last glow of sunset -was still burning upon the great river, but lights beginning to show in -the windows, and glimmering reflected in the water. The Cathedral was -not completed then, and a crane, like some strange weird animal stood -out against the sky upon the top of the tower. The hotel to which they -were going had a covered terrace upon the river with lights gleaming -through the green leaves. They decided they would have their table -there, and dine with all that darkling panorama before their eyes -through the veil of the foliage, the glowing water, the boats moving and -passing, with now and then a raft coming down from the upper stream, and -the bridge of boats opening to give passage to a fuming fretting -steamboat. Aubrey and Bee went hand in hand up the steps; nobody noticed -in the half dark how close they were together. They parted with a close -pressure of warm hands. - -“Don’t be long, darling,” he said, as they parted, only for a moment, -only to prepare a little for the evening, to slip into a fresh dress, to -take out a new ribbon, to make one’s youthful self as fair as such -unnecessary adjuncts permitted. - -But what did Aubrey care for a new ribbon? The only blue he thought of -was that in Bee’s eyes. - -I do not think she was more than ten minutes over these little changes. -She dressed like a flash of lightning, Betty said, who could not find -her own things half so quickly, Moulsey being occupied with mamma. Such -a short moment not worth counting, and yet enough, more than enough, to -change a whole life! - -Bee ran down as light as air to the sitting-room which had been engaged -for the party. She felt sure that Aubrey would hurry, too, so as to have -a word before dinner, before the rest were ready--as if the whole day -had not been one long word, running through everything. She came lightly -to the door of the room in her fresh frock and her blue ribbons, walking -on air, knowing no shadow of any obstacle before her or cloud upon the -joyful triumphant sky. She did not even hear the sound of the subdued -voices, her faint little sob, strangest of all sounds at such a moment, -which seemed to come out to meet her as she opened the door. Bee opened -it wondering only if Aubrey were there, thinking of some jibe to address -to him about the length of time men took to their toilettes, if she -happened to be ready first. - -She was very much startled by what she saw. Her mother, still in her -travelling dress, sat by the table with a letter open in her hands. She -had not made any preparation for dinner--she, usually so dainty, so -anxious to get rid of the cloaks and of the soils of the journey. She -had taken off her hat, which lay on the table, but was still enveloped -in the shawl which she had put on to keep off the evening chills. As for -Aubrey, he was exactly as he had been when they parted with him, except -that all the light had gone out of his face. He was very pale, and he, -too, had a letter in his hand. He uttered a stifled exclamation when he -saw Bee at the door, and, lifting his arms as though in protest against -something intolerable, walked away to the other end of the room. - -“Oh, Bee,” said Mrs. Kingsward, “Oh, go away, my dear, go away! I -mean--get something to eat, you and Charlie, and Betty, and then get to -bed. Get to bed! I am too tired to take anything, and I am going -upstairs at once.” - -“I thought you had been upstairs, mamma, half-an-hour ago. What is the -matter? You look like a ghost, and so does Aubrey. Has anything -happened? Mamma, you won’t look at me, and Aubrey turns his back. What -have I done? Is it anything about me?” - -“What nonsense, child!” said Mrs. Kingsward, with a pretence at a smile. -“What could you have to do with it? We have both--Mr. Leigh and -myself--found letters, and we are busy reading them. I am sure the -dinner must be served. We ordered it in the balcony, don’t you remember? -Run away and make Charlie and Betty sit down at once. I am too tired. -Moulsey will run down in a little and get something for me.” - -“Mamma,” said Bee, “you cannot make up a story. Something has happened, -I am sure of it; and it is something about me.” - -“Nonsense, child! Go away and have your dinner. I would come if I could. -Don’t you see what a budget of letters I have got? And some of them I -must answer to-night.” - -“Have you letters, too, Aubrey?” said Bee, in her amazement, standing -still as she had paused, arrested by the sight of them, just within the -door. - -“Bee, I must beg you will not put any questions; go and do what I tell -you; your brother and sister will be coming downstairs. Yes, of course, -you can see that Mr. Leigh has his letters to read as well as I.” - -“Mr. Leigh! I wonder if we have all gone mad, or what is the matter? -Aubrey! tell me--you, at least, if mamma won’t. You must have had a -quarrel. Mamma, why do you call him Mr. Leigh?” - -“Oh, for goodness sake, Bee, go away.” - -“I am not going away,” cried the girl. “You have had a quarrel about -something. Come, mamma, you must not quarrel with Aubrey--if he has done -something wrong or said something silly, I will answer for him, he never -intended it. Aubrey, what do you mean, sir, turning your back both on -mamma and me? Come here, quick, and ask her pardon, and say you will -never do it again.” - -Poor little Bee’s heart was fluttering, but she would not allow herself -to believe there was anything really wrong. She went close up to her -mother and stood by her, with a hand upon her shoulder. “Aubrey!” she -said, “never mind if you are wrong or not, come and beg mamma’s pardon, -and she will forgive you. There must not--there must not--oh, it is too -ridiculous!--be anything wrong between mamma and you. Aubrey!” - -He turned round slowly and faced them both with a face so pale that Bee -stopped short with a gasp, and could not say a word more. Mrs. Kingsward -had buried her face in her hands. Bee looked from one to the other with -a dismay which she could not explain to herself. “Oh, what is the -matter? What is the matter?” she said. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -There was no merry dinner that night in the verandah of the hotel under -the clinging wreaths of green. Mrs. Kingsward went up to her room still -with her heavy shawl about her shoulders which she had forgotten, though -it added something to her discomfort--followed by Bee, pale and rigid, -offering no help, following her mother like an angry shadow. Charlie and -Betty met them on the stairs and stood aside in consternation, unable to -conceive what had happened. Mrs. Kingsward gave them a sort of troubled -smile and said: “Get your dinner, dears; don’t wait for us. I am too -tired to come down to-night.” - -“But, mamma----” they both began in remonstrance. - -“Go down and get your dinner,” said Mrs. Kingsward, peremptorily. - -As for Bee, she did not look at them at all. Her eyes were fierce with -some sentiment which Betty could not divine, and angry, blazing, as if -they might have set light to the hotel. - -Little Betty pressed against Charlie’s side as they went down, startled -and alarmed. “Bee has had a quarrel with mamma,” she whispered, in tones -of awe. - -“That’s impossible,” said Charlie. - -“Oh, no, it’s not impossible. There was once----” - -It comforted them both a little in the awful circumstances that such a -thing had perhaps happened before. They went very silently and much cast -down to that table in the verandah, whither obsequious waiters beckoned -them, and contemplated with dismay all the plates laid, all the glitter -of the lamps and the glasses. - -“I suppose we must not wait for them as they said so,” said Charlie, -sitting down in his place at the bottom of the table. “Tell Mr. -Leigh--that is the other gentleman--that we are ready.” - -“The other gentleman, sir,” said the waiter, who was the pride of the -establishment for his English, “has gone out.” - -“Gone out!” said Charlie. He could only stare at Betty and she at him, -not knowing what to think. - -“He has had his letters, too, sir,” said the waiter in a significant -tone. - -His letters! What could that have to do with it? Charlie also had had -his letters, one of them a bill which he did not view with any -satisfaction; but even at twenty-one a man already learns to disguise -his feelings, and sits down to dinner cheerfully though he has received -a bill by the post. Charlie’s mind at first could not perceive any -connection between Bee’s withdrawal upstairs and Aubrey’s disappearance. -It was Betty who suggested, sitting down very close to him, that it -looked as if Aubrey and Bee had quarrelled too. - -“Perhaps that is what it is,” she said, as if she had found out a -satisfactory reason. “Lovers always quarrel; and mamma will have taken -Aubrey’s part, and Bee will be so angry, and feel as if she could never -forgive him. There, that is what it must be.” - -“A man may quarrel with his sweetheart,” said Charlie, severely, “but he -needn’t spoil other people’s dinner for that;” however, they comforted -themselves that this was the most likely explanation, and that all would -come right in the morning. And they were very young and hungry, having -eaten nothing since the veal at one o’clock. And these two made on the -whole a very satisfactory meal. - -The scene upstairs was very different. Mrs. Kingsward sent Moulsey away -on pretence of getting her some tea, and then turned to her daughter who -stood by the dressing-table and stared blankly, without seeing anything, -into those mysterious depths of the glass which are so suggestive to -people in trouble. She said, faintly, “Bee, I would so much rather you -would not ask me any more questions to-night.” - -“That is,” said Bee, “you would like to send me away to be miserable by -myself without even knowing what it is, while you will take your -sleeping draught and forget it. How can you be so selfish, mamma? And -you have made my Aubrey join in the conspiracy against me--my Aubrey -who belongs to me as papa does to you. If you are against us it is all -very well, though I can’t imagine why you should be against us--but at -least you need not interfere between Aubrey and me.” - -“Oh, my dear child, my poor darling!” said Mrs. Kingsward, wringing her -hands. - -“It is all very well to call me your poor child, when it is you that are -making me poor,” said Bee. - -She kept moving a little, first on one foot then on the other, but -always gazing into the glass which presented the image of an excited -girl, very pale, but lit up with a sort of blaze of indignation, and -unable to keep still. It was not that girl’s face, however, that Bee was -gazing at, but at the dim world of space beyond in which there were -faint far-away reflections of the light and the world. “And if you think -you will get rid of me like this, and hang me up till to-morrow without -knowing what it is, you are mistaken, mamma. I will not leave you until -you have told me. What is it? What has papa got in his head? What does -he say in that horrid--horrid letter? I wish I had known when I gave it -to you I should have thrown it into the river instead of ever letting it -come into your hands.” - -“Bee, you must know that this passion is very wrong and very improper. -You ought not to face me like that, and demand an answer. I am your -mother,” said Mrs. Kingsward, but with a falter which was all unlike -that assumption of authority, “and I have no need to tell you anything -more than I think is for your good.” - -“Ah! I know where that comes from,” cried Bee; “that’s papa’s thunder! -that’s what he has told you to say! You don’t believe, yourself, that -you have a right to hang up a poor girl over some dreadful, dreadful -abyss, when she was so happy and never suspected anything.” Here Bee’s -voice faltered for a moment, but she quickly recovered herself. “And to -drag her away from the one person that could support her, and to cut the -ground from under her feet, and never to tell her what it means!” - -It was at this point that Moulsey, with a little discreet cough to -herald her approach, came into the room, bearing a tray with tea, and a -little cover from which came a faint but agreeable odour. Mrs. Kingsward -was in great trouble about her child, but she was much exhausted and in -want of physical support, and it did seem to her hard that she might not -be permitted to eat the smallest of cutlets before embarking on a scene -such as she knew this would be. Oh, why didn’t papa come and say it -himself, when there was so much that was dreadful to say? - -“Shall I fetch something for Miss Bee, too?” said Moulsey. “It ain’t a -good thing for a young creature to go without her dinner. If she’s not -going down, ma’am, as would be much the best, I’ll just run and fetch a -little something for Miss Bee too.” - -“Indeed, indeed, Bee, Moulsey is right. Think how miserable the others -will feel all alone, and thinking something has happened. Do go down, -darling, and strengthen yourself with a little food, and take a glass of -wine just for once to please me. And after that you shall be told -everything--all that I know.” - -Bee grew paler and paler, standing there before the glass, and her eyes -blazed more and more. “It is as bad as that, then!” she said under her -breath to herself, and then went away from where she was standing to the -further end of the room. “I shall wait here, mamma, till you have had -your tea. I know you want it. Oh, go away Moulsey! Let me alone! No, you -shall not bring me anything! or, if you do, I will throw it out of the -window,” she said, stamping her foot. The dark end of the room seemed -suddenly lighted up by a sort of aurora borealis, with the fire of poor -Bee’s burning eyes and the flashes here and there of her white -frock--oh, poor white frock! put on in the sunshine of life and -happiness to please her love, and now turned into a sort of sacrificial -robe. - -“Take it away, Moulsey; I can’t eat anything--I can’t, indeed--no more -than Miss Bee--” - -“But you must, ma’am,” said Moulsey. “Miss Bee’s young; she’s had -nothing to drain away her strength. But it’s far different with you, -after all your family and so weak as you are. If Miss Bee were a real -good girl, as I always thought her, she’d go away and get something -herself just for her poor mamma’s sake, and leave you alone for a moment -to get a little peace and rest.” - -“There is no rest for me,” murmured the poor lady. “Oh, papa, papa, why -didn’t you come and tell them yourself?” - -These piteous tones went to Bee’s heart. They moved her half with -contempt, half with compassion--with something of that high indignant -toleration of weakness which is one kind of pity. If mamma could eat and -drink at such a moment, why shouldn’t she be left to do it? The girl -started up and left the room in the quick flashing impulse of her -passion. She walked up and down in the corridor outside, her arms folded -over her high-beating, tumultuous heart. Yes, no doubt she was going to -be miserable, all her happiness was cut down and withered away, but in -her present passionate impulse of resistance and gathering of all her -forces to resist the catastrophe, which she did not understand, it could -scarcely be said that she was wretched yet. What was it--what was it? -she was saying to herself. It might still be something that would pass -away, which would be overcome by the determined, impassioned stand -against it, which Bee felt that it was in her to make. The thing that -was worst of all, that stole away her courage, was that Aubrey had -failed her. He should have been there by her side whatever happened. He -ought not to have abandoned her. No doubt he thought it was more -delicate, more honourable, more something or other; and that it was his -duty to leave her to brave it alone. It must have been one of those -high-flown notions of honour that men have. Honour! to leave a girl to -fight for herself and him, alone--but, no doubt, that was what had -seemed right in his eyes. Bee walked up and down in the half-lighted -passage, sometimes almost pushing against someone going up or down, -waiters or chambermaids or surprised guests, who looked after her when -she had passed; but she did not take any notice of them, and she heard -as she passed her mother’s door little sounds of tea-cups and dishes, -and Moulsey’s voice saying “A little more,” and her mother’s faint -replies. Poor mamma! After all, what ever it was, it could not be her -affair as it was Bee’s. She would be unhappy about it, but not all -unhappy. She had the others, who were all right. She had papa. It would -not shatter her to pieces even if one of the children was to be -shipwrecked. It was the shipwrecked one only who would be broken to -pieces. For the first time in her life Bee felt the poignant sensation, -the jealous pride, the high, desolate satisfaction of suffering. The -others could all eat and do the ordinary things. She was elevated over -all that, silent as on a Peak in Darien. She felt almost a kind of -dreadful pleasure in the situation, smiling to herself at the sounds of -her mother’s little meal. She could dine while Bee was miserable. They -could all dine--Charlie (which was natural), Betty, even Aubrey. She had -no doubt that he, too, must be seated, feeling as a man does that dinner -must go on whatever happens, at the table downstairs. - -After a while, which seemed a long time to Bee, Moulsey came out with -the tray. She was startled, and exclaimed under her breath at the -appearance of the girl walking up and down in the corridor: “I did -think you would have had the sense to go and join the others, Miss -Bee.” Bee was too much uplifted, too distant on her high pinnacle of -martyrdom, to make any reply, but when Moulsey ventured to add a word of -advice, to the effect that she must be careful of her mamma and not -weary her with questions and she so tired and so weak, the girl flashed -forth all her heart of indignation. “She has eaten her cutlet, it -appears,” cried Bee. “I should think she may answer my questions.” - -“Oh!” cried the maid, who had the privileges of an old servant, “you -have got a heart without pity. You are just like your papa!” - -Bee swept past her into the room, where poor Mrs. Kingsward, who after -all had eaten but a morsel, sat lying back in an easy chair awaiting the -dreadful conflict which she knew was coming. Poor lady, she had lost all -her brightness, that pretty grace of the young mother among her grown up -children, which prompted so many compliments. She lay back in her easy -chair, feeling as she said “any age”--as old as any woman on the edge of -the grave, not knowing how she was to bear the onslaught that was -coming, and how she was to say what had to be said. He had borne it far -better than Bee--poor Aubrey, poor Aubrey! whom she must not call Aubrey -any more. He had not denied anything, he had fallen as it were at her -feet, like a house that had been undermined and had no sound -foundations, but Bee was different. Bee was a tower that had -foundations--a girl that was able to stand up even to papa, and why--why -had he not come to give forth his sentence in his own way? - -Bee came forward flashing into the light, in that white frock which -shone, and with those eyes that blazed through all the neutral tints in -the room. She did not sit down, which would have been a little relief, -but seized a chair and stood with her hand upon the back, leaning upon -it. - -“I hope, mamma,” she said, pitiless, “that you liked your tea, and ate -something--and that you are better now.” - -“Oh, Bee!” cried the poor lady; if there is one reproach more dreadful -than another it is this of being able to eat when you ought to be -overwhelmed with trouble.” Mrs. Kingsward could scarcely keep from -crying at the imputation. And Bee, I fear, knew that it was the -unkindest thing that could be said. - -“Now, mamma,” she resumed, almost stonily, “it is time that you should -tell me what has happened. We arrived here all quite happy--it is just -an hour ago----” here Bee’s voice shook a little, but she commanded it -with an effort--“I ran up to dress for dinner, and when I came back in -about ten minutes I found you and Aubrey--with your letters--looking as -if you had both been dead and buried while I was away. You wouldn’t -answer me, and he never said a word. You had done something to him in -that little time to make him turn away from me, and yet you will not -tell me what it is. Here I am alone,” said Bee, once more with a quiver -in her voice. “Aubrey ought to be standing by me. I suppose he is having -his dinner downstairs, too, and thinking no more of me. I just stand -alone, nobody caring in all the world. What is the meaning of it, -mamma?” - -“Bee, you are very hard upon me. And poor Aubrey, he is having no -dinner--of that I am sure.” - -“You called him Mr. Leigh downstairs.” - -“So I did, and so I must, and all of us; but I cannot have you speaking -of him like that, poor, poor fellow; and just for this once---- Oh, Bee, -my darling, don’t stand and look at me so! I would rather have died than -say it either to him or to you. Your papa has been hearing I don’t know -what, and he has changed his mind about Mr. Leigh altogether, and says -it must not be.” - -“What must not be?” - -“Oh, Bee! Oh, don’t take it so hard! Don’t look like that! -Your--your--engagement, my darling. Have patience; oh, have patience! He -has heard something. Men hear things that we would never hear. And he -doesn’t deny it. Oh! he doesn’t deny it. I had a hope that he would -contradict it at once, and flare up in a rage like you, and say it -wasn’t true. But he doesn’t deny it--poor boy, poor boy! And after that, -how can I say one word to papa?” - -“My engagement?” said Bee, in a hoarse voice. She had been staring at -her mother as in a dream--only partially hearing, not understanding at -all the rest that was said. “My engagement? He gave his consent. It was -all settled. You would not allow us till the letter came, but then it -was consent.” - -“Yes, yes, dear. That was at first. He consented at first because--and -now it appears he has heard something--someone has called upon him--he -has discovered--and he writes to me that it must be broken off. Oh, Bee, -don’t think my heart doesn’t bleed for you. I think it will kill me. He -says it must be broken off at once.” - -“Who says so?” said Bee, in her passion. “He! One would think you were -speaking of God--that can say ‘Yes’ to-day and ‘No’ to-morrow, and build -things up and then snatch them down. But I will not have it! I am not a -doll, to be put in one position and then in another, as anybody pleases. -My engagement! It is mine; it is not his.” - -“Bee, think; it is papa you are speaking of. Dear, I feel for you--I -feel for you! but so does he. Oh, my darling, you don’t know what you -are saying. Do you think he would do anything to make you unhappy if he -could help it--your papa, Bee, who has been so good to you all your -life?” - -“I do not care how good he has been. He is not good now. How will it -harm him? He sits at home, and he thinks he can do as he pleases. But -not with me. It is my affair more than it is his. He thinks he can break -his word and it doesn’t matter--but I have given my word, and it does -matter. Break my engagement!” cried Bee, her young bosom swelling, the -sob rising in her throat that would soon choke her voice. “It is mine -and not his; and nobody in the world shall break it. You can tell him -so, mamma, or I will write myself and tell him so. I am not a wax image -to take any shape he pleases. Who is he? He is not God----” - -“Bee--he is your father----” - -“Oh, my father! Yes, I do whatever he tells me. If he says I am to fetch -anything I run like a little dog. I have never been disobedient. But -this--this is different. I am not a child any longer. And, mamma, not -for him nor for anyone--not even for you will I take back my word.” - -“Bee! You make me say a great deal more than I meant to say. I thought -you would have been a good child and seen that papa must know best. My -poor, poor little girl, there is worse behind. Mr. Leigh, whom we all -thought so much of----” - -“Aubrey,” Bee managed to say, though for no other word could she command -her voice. - -“Darling, he has deceived us. He is not what he seems. He has done, oh, -so wrong--there have been things--that you ought never to hear----” - -“Stop!” said Bee. She had to speak in monosyllables with her labouring -breath. “Wait!--not behind his back.” She rushed to the bell and rung it -so wildly that both waiter and chambermaid appeared in alarm, with -Moulsey rushing in calling for a doctor, and saying that her lady was -going to faint. Bee pushed the woman aside and turned to the waiter, who -stood anxious at the door. “Mr. Leigh!” she cried, impatiently; “the -gentleman--who was with us: tell him--to come here.” - -“The tall young gentleman?” said the waiter. - -“No--the other: tell him he is to come here--instantly--this moment.” - -“I beg your pardon, miss,” said the man. “The other gentleman? He have -been gone away this half-hour.” - -“Gone away!” she cried. And it seemed to Bee that the blackness of -darkness closed over her and the room and everything in it. She did not -faint, oh no, no such happiness--but everything grew dark, and through -the dark she heard her own voice speaking--speaking, and did not know -what she said. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -But Aubrey had not gone away. He had gone out in the dizziness of a -great downfall, scarcely knowing how to keep his feet steady as he -wandered along the dark street, not knowing where he went. The landscape -that had charmed them all so much--was it scarcely an hour ago?--the -lamps reflected in the water; the verandah, with its wreaths of green; -the brilliant yet mysterious glimmer of the moon, made his heart sink to -look at them now. He strayed off into the darkest of the narrow streets, -into the great gloom of the cathedral shadow, where he could see nothing -but a poor light twinkling here and there, making the darkness visible. -Oh! how certain it is that, however sweet they may seem, your sins will -find you out! Oh! how more than certain if you have let yourself be -dragged down once, only once, in a spotless life, that the one fault -will be made into the central fact of your whole existence. If he had -been a bad, dissipated man, it would have been only fair. But this poor -young fellow was like the young man whom our Lord loved though he went -away. All good things he had kept from his youth up--but once, only -once, half distracted by grief, and by the desire which is so natural to -escape from grief, and by infernal temptation, he had fallen--oh, there -was no need to tell him how he had fallen! Had it not been the canker in -his soul ever since? And now this one thing, this miserable, -much-repented fault, which revolted, disgusted, horrified himself, was -brought up against him as if it were the pattern upon which he had -shaped his life. - -And now, what was left for him but to fall down, down into the -unfathomable abyss? The distracted feelings with which he had broken -away from home, the horror and dismay that at once belonged to his -natural grief and made the burden of it a thousand times harder to bear, -all rushed back upon him, whirling him down and down to dimmer and more -awful depths. He had partially healed himself in the intolerableness of -his trouble by travel and change, and the arbitrary forgetfulness which -comes from absence and the want of any association which could call back -to him what was past; and then the touch of Bee’s soft, girlish hand, -the sound of her voice, had suddenly called him back into an enchanted -land where everything had again become possible. He had hesitated for -some time, wondering if he might dare--he who had a secret smirch upon -him which nobody suspected--to avail himself of this way of salvation. -The reader will think that he had not hesitated very long--poor -Aubrey--seeing that the introduction, the acquaintance, the love, the -engagement had all occurred within the small space of one month; but to -the brooding spirit the hours of one interminable day are long enough -for a chronicle. Something like the phenomena of love at first sight had -occurred in the bleeding yet young heart, which had felt itself cut -loose from all the best associations of life. Deliverance, recreation, -the new beginning of life and all its possibilities had gleamed upon him -in Bee’s blue eyes. Her appearance swept away everything that was dark -and ominous in his life. Did he dare to ask for her hand, to set out -again to make himself a new career? He had worked at that question -almost from the first day, discussing it with himself for the three -weeks preceding their engagement, waking and sleeping, almost without -intermission; and then in a moment he had forgotten all controversy, and -let forth without intention the words that had been lying, so to speak, -on the threshold of his lips--and in that moment all the clouds had been -swept away. He was only eight and twenty after all--so young to have -such a past behind him, and what so natural as that his life should -begin again--begin now as for the first time? He had hesitated in the -first fervour of his betrothal whether he should not tell all his story. -But there was no one to tell it to but Mrs. Kingsward--a lady, even a -young lady, not looking much older than Bee herself. That is one of the -drawbacks of a young mother. She was still in the sphere of the girls, -not in that of the old ladies whom Heaven has ordained to represent the -mothers of the race. How could he tell to her the story of that -entanglement? If Colonel Kingsward had been there, Aubrey was of opinion -that he would have made a clean breast of everything to him. But I think -it very likely that he might not have done so. He would have intended -it, and he would have put it off from day to day; and then he knew how -lightly men of the world look upon such matters. What would have -horrified Mrs. Kingsward would probably call forth nothing but a -pooh-pooh from her husband. Aubrey, as it proved, was mistaken there, -for Colonel Kingsward had ideas of his own, not always corresponding to -those of the ordinary man of the world; but no doubt had he heard the -story from that side and not from the other, he would have regarded it -in a very different light. - -But it was too late--too late for these reflections now. The fiat had -gone forth, the sentence had been pronounced beyond appeal. Oh, Bee, -Bee, she was too good for him; too fresh, too bright, unsullied by the -world, for a man who had gone through so much already although he was -still young enough. He who had loved and married--though, oh, how -differently!--poor little Amy, who was nobody, whom he had liked for her -yielding sweetness, sweetness which had cost him so dear--he who had -been a father, who had lost his way in life amid the fogs of death and -grief--how had he now dared to think that such a girl as Bee should -dedicate her fresh young life to restore him again to the lost -possibilities of his? It seemed to him the greatest presumption, the -most dreadful, cynical, almost blasphemous attempt. It was the way of -the world--to think that any woman, however good, might be sacrificed to -the necessities of a man’s restoration whatever he had done; everybody -thought so, his own mother even. But he, Aubrey, should have known -better--he should have known that even at his best he could never have -been good enough for Bee, and to think that he had dared now when he was -no longer at his best! What a fool, what a fool he had been! He had come -to be able to endure the daylight and “get on” well enough when he had -arrived at the Bath and seen her first. Why had he not contented himself -with that, knowing that he had no right to expect more? And now there -was nothing--nothing before him but a plunge into the unutterable -darkness--darker than ever, without any hope--worse almost, if worse -were possible, than when he had fled from his home. - -He did not know how long he had been roaming about the dark town -pondering all these dreadful thoughts. When he went back to the hotel, -which he finally did, worn out, not knowing where else to go, one -reproachful waiter, with eyes that said he ought to have been in bed -long ago, was waiting for him with a curt demand what he would have to -eat, and all the house, except that deserted eating-room, where one -light twinkled--reproachful, like the waiter--was shut up. He went to -his room when he had swallowed some brandy, which was the only thing he -could find to put a little warmth into his chilled limbs and despairing -heart, and threw himself miserable upon his bed, where I have no doubt -he slept, though he was not aware of it--as Bee did, though she had no -intention of doing so. - -The only one who was really a sufferer in this respect was poor Mrs. -Kingsward, who was ill, and who had been far more agitated than her -feeble strength could bear. She it was who lay and wondered all through -the night what she must do. Was he really gone without a word, thus -proving how much he was in the wrong, and how right the Colonel was? It -would have saved her from a great deal of embarrassment, but I do not -think Mrs. Kingsward wished that Aubrey might have really gone. It was -too summary, it was not natural, it would show Colonel Kingsward to have -been too right. Oh! she believed he was right! She did not doubt that -his decision was for the best any more than she doubted that it was -inexorable: but still the heart revolted a little, and she hoped that he -might not be proved so unutterably right as that. And poor Bee--poor -little Bee! She did not know, poor child, that there were bitters in the -sweetest cup--that if she had twenty years of Aubrey she would not -probably have thought quite so much of him as now--that nobody was -perfect, which was a conviction that had been forced upon Mrs. -Kingsward’s own mind, though it was not a strong one, by the passage of -the years. And then the poor lady went off into perplexed considerations -of what she personally must do. Must he leave them all at once, travel -home in a different carriage, avoid them at the stations, not venture to -come near their table when they dined on the way? It would seem so -ridiculous, and it would be so embarrassing after their very close -intercourse. But men never thought of these little things. She felt sure -that the Colonel would expect her never to let the two meet again. And -how could she do that when they were both travelling the same way? -Besides, was it fair, was it just, would Bee endure it--never to see him -again? - -Bee woke up in all the energy of despair. It burst upon her in the first -moment of her waking that he had gone away, that it was all over; but -her mind, when it had time to think, rejected that idea; he would not, -could not have gone without a word, without even saying farewell, -without asking her--anything, anything--to forgive him or to forget him, -or to be faithful to him, or not to believe what was said against him. -One or other of these things Aubrey must say to her before he went away. -Therefore, he could not have gone away, and everything was still -possible. In her passion and pride she had refused last night to let her -mother tell her what it was. She had resolved that Aubrey should be -present, that he should hear the accusation against him, that he should -give his own explanation--that was only just, she said to herself--the -poorest criminal had a right to that! And Aubrey should have it. He -should not, whatever papa said and whatever mamma said, be condemned -unheard. She dressed in great haste and rang the bell energetically to -ascertain if he had come back. But the chambermaid who answered Bee’s -bell was stupid and could not understand what Herr it was about whom the -young lady questioned her so closely. Had he come back? Oh, yes, she -believed all the Herren had come back; there was not a bed to be had in -the house. But what Herr was it whom the gracious young lady sought. -The old gentleman in the next room, who was so ill? She heard that he -was a little better this morning--or the young Herr in number ten, or -the Herr whose eyes were so bad, who was going to the great doctor at -Dusseldorf? Perhaps poor Bee’s German was at fault. She was still -attempting to make the matter clear when Moulsey came in with the news -that Mrs. Kingsward was very poorly, and had not slept at all, a -statement which Betty, rushing in half-dressed, confirmed anxiously. -“Mamma has had a very bad night; and what is the matter, Bee, that we -are all at sixes and sevens, and why did you lock your door? I came up -as soon as I could--as soon as Charlie would let me. He said it was -dreadful, nobody coming down; and that we must eat through the dinner -for the sake of appearances. And Aubrey never showing neither, and me -obliged to sleep in mamma’s room because you had locked the door.” - -“I want to know,” said Bee, “whether Aubrey came back last night.” - -“Oh, how should I know?” said Betty, “and why shouldn’t he come back? -Of course he must have come back. Is he going anywhere else but home? I -wish people would not get letters,” said the girl. “You are all so -ridiculous since those letters came last night. Letters are nice when -they are nice. But, oh! how much nicer it was yesterday morning when you -had none, and we were all quite happy, and mamma well, and Aubrey and -you as funny as you could be!” - -There flashed upon Bee as she spoke the whole bright panorama of -yesterday. Not a cloud in the sky nor a trouble in the world. Mamma as -fresh as the morning, the river shining, the steamboat thrilling through -the water with a shiver of pleasure in its wooden sides, every group -adding amusement, and they themselves affording it, no doubt, to the -rest. How conscious they had been when they laughed under their breath -at the young German pairs, that they themselves were lovers too, quite -as happy, if not so demonstrative. Oh! yesterday--yesterday! You might -as well say last century for anything that resembled it now. Bee turned -almost fiercely to Moulsey, who stood looking on with that air of -knowing all about it which so often exasperated the girls, and requested -her to go downstairs immediately and ask if Mr. Leigh had come back. -Moulsey hesitated and protested that the chambermaid would know. “And -you that know the language, Miss Bee.” - -“Go down directly and inquire if Mr. Leigh has come back. You know the -waiter that speaks such good English as well as I do,” said Bee, -peremptorily. And Moulsey could do nothing but obey. - -Yes, Mr. Leigh had come back; he had occupied his room, but was not yet -up so far as the attendants knew. There came such a change on Bee’s face -at this news as startled both the curious observers. The light grew less -fierce, more like the usual sunny brightness in her eyes. A softening -came over her face. Her colour flashed back. “I want to know when mamma -is coming downstairs,” she said. “Moulsey--or no, stop. I’ll go myself -and see.” - -Moulsey was so roused that she caught the young lady by the arm. “If it -was your papa himself, my lady shan’t be disturbed,” she said. “And not -by you, Miss Bee, as are the cause of it all; not if you should put a -knife into me afore her door.” - -“How dare you say I am the cause of it all?” - -“Because it’s the truth,” said the enraged maid. “She was worrited -enough before by those letters, and you coming in like the wind, like -your papa himself, as I always said you were his living image; and -stopping her in the middle of her little bit of cutlet that would have -given her strength, and questioning of her like a drum-major, and pacing -up and down outside the door like a wild beast. Mind my words: you don’t -know, none of you, how little strength my poor lady’s got. And you’re -all so masterful, every one, with mamma here and mamma there, and you’ll -not find out till it’s too late----” - -“But mamma’s better,” cried Betty. “She has taken her cure, and she’s -all right till next year.” - -“I only wish as you may all find it so, miss,” said Moulsey, folding her -arms across her broad chest and shaking her head. - -Bee was awe-struck for a moment by this speech, but she knew that -Moulsey was always a croaker, and it was quite true about the cure. She -paused a little uncertain, and then she resumed in a subdued voice-- - -“I never want to disturb mamma. But Moulsey, we’ve got to leave here -to-day.” - -“That can’t be,” said Moulsey, decisively. “My lady is not fit to travel -after such a bad night, and I won’t have it,” she said. “The doctor has -put my lady into my hands, and he says ‘She’s not to be overtired. Mind, -I don’t respond for nothing if she’s overtired.’ And she just shan’t -go--that’s flat. And you may all say what you like, and your papa, too.” - -“Not to-day?” said Bee, with another change of countenance. It flashed -upon her that another day’s delay would give time for all the -explanations in which she could not help hoping. Her excited pulses -calmed down a little. She was not alarmed about her mother. Had she been -so, it would no doubt have given her thoughts another direction. But Bee -knew nothing of illness, much less anything of death. She was not -afraid of them. In her experience people might be ill occasionally, but -they always got better. Mamma, too, would be better presently, when she -got up; and then they could all meet, and the letters and the whole -matter could be discussed. And it seemed to be impossible--impossible -that from this some better conclusion could be arrived at. There had -been so much confusion last night, when it burst upon them like a -thunderstroke. When looked at calmly, without flurry or haste, the -better moment would bring better views, and who could say that all might -not yet be well? - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -Emboldened by this thought Bee went downstairs to breakfast, which was -spread again in the verandah in the warm sunshine of the autumnal -morning. The new hope, though it were a forlorn one, restored her -youthful appetite as well as her courage, and her coffee and roll were a -real restorative after the long fast and agitated night. But there was -no appearance of Aubrey, neither at the table nor in the passages, nor -anywhere about. He seemed to have disappeared as if he had never been. -When Charlie came down from his mother’s room, where he had been shut up -with her for some time, Bee, who had no particular respect for Charlie’s -opinion or inclination to allow him any authority over herself, such as -an elder brother is sometimes supposed to have, began at once to -question him. “Where is Aubrey?” she said. “Why doesn’t he come to -breakfast? Will you go and look for Aubrey, Charlie?” - -“Indeed, I will do no such thing,” said Charlie, almost roughly. “I hope -he has had the sense to go away. I should just like to see him come -calmly down to breakfast as if nothing had happened. If he came, then I -can answer for it, you should not be allowed to say a word to him, Bee.” - -“Who should prevent me?” cried Bee, looking up with her eyes on fire and -her nostrils dilating. She had not noticed before what a cloud was upon -Charlie’s face and how heavy and scowling were his brows. She added, -springing up, “We shall soon see about that. If you think I shall do -what you tell me, or condemn any man unheard----” - -“The cad! He never denied it. You can ask mamma.” - -“I will not ask anyone but Mr. Leigh,” said Bee, throwing back her head; -“and I advise you to mind your own business, and not to call names that -may come back upon yourself.” - -“Stop where you are, Bee. I never went out into the world under false -pretences. A man is a cad when he does that.” - -“I shall not stop for you, nor anyone but my parents,” said Bee, in a -splendid flush of anger, her countenance glowing, her eyes blazing. -“Stand out of my way. Oh, if that is all, and you want to make a scene -for the edification of the tourists, I can go in by the other door.” - -And she did so, leaving Charlie standing flushed and angry, but quite -unable, it need scarcely be said, to coerce his sister. To make an -attempt of this kind, which comes to nothing, is confusing and -humiliating. He looked round angrily for a moment to see if it were -possible to intercept her, then, yielding to necessity, sat down where -Betty, eager and full of a thousand questions, sat calling for -explanations. That is the good of a family party, there is always -someone ready to hear what you have to say. - -Bee went at once to the English-speaking waiter, and asked for Mr. -Leigh, whom the man, curious as all lookers-on are at a social drama -going on under their eyes, declared to be still in his room. She sent -him off instantly with a message, and stood in the hall awaiting his -return, angry and brave, like the rose in George Herbert’s poem, yet -soon getting shamefaced and troubled, as the people coming and going, -travellers, visitors, attendants, stared at her and brushed against her -as they passed. Bee never forgot all her life the gleam of the river at -the foot of the steps, of which she had a glimpse through the -doorway--the Rhine barges slowly crossing that little space of vision, -the little boats flitting across the gleam of the rosy morning, and the -strong flowing tide, the figures going up and down breaking the -prospect. - -The man came back to her after a time, looking half sympathetic, half -malicious, with the message that the gentleman was just going out. - -“Just going out!” She repeated the words half-consciously. “Was it -Aubrey that sent her that message? Aubrey--who yesterday would not let -her out of his sight, who followed her everywhere, saw every sign she -made, heard every word almost before it was spoken!” The surprise and -the pang together made her heart sick. She could not rush upstairs and -knock at his door and call him out imperatively, to tell her immediately -what it all meant--at least, though it occurred to her that this would -be the most natural thing to do, she did not. Intimidated by the -circumstances, by the half impertinence of the waiter, by the stare of -the people about, she reflected for a moment breathlessly that he must -come out this way, and that if she remained there she must see him. But -Bee’s instinct of a young woman, now for the first time awakened, made -her shrink from this. When she was only a little girl, so very short a -time ago, she did not mind who looked at her, who pushed past her. But -now everything was different! - -She went away, still holding her head high that nobody (above all not -Charlie, who was watching her through the glass of the verandah) should -guess that her courage was drooping, and going into the deserted -sitting-room, where last night that blow had fallen upon her, sat down -and wrote to her lover a hurried little note: - - - “Oh, Aubrey, what is the matter? Have you deserted me without a - word? Do you think I am like them, to take up any report? I don’t - know what report there is--I don’t know what it is, this terrible - thing that has come between us. What is it? I will take your word - and nobody else’s. I don’t believe you have done anything that is - wrong. Aubrey! come and tell me out of your own mouth. I told mamma - last night I would hear nothing unless you were there; but you were - gone away, they said. And now you send me word that you are going - out and can’t see me. Going out and can’t see _me_! What does it - all mean? - - “If it is some fad of honour, of not seeing me against _their_ - will--though I do think your first duty is to me, Aubrey, before - anyone else in the world--but if it should be so, mamma will be - down here at twelve o’clock--and I invite you to meet her, to hear - what is said, to answer for yourself and for me. If you have done - anything wrong, what does that matter? Don’t we all do wrong? And - why should it come between you and me? Am I without sin that I - should throw stones at you? Aubrey, you can’t throw everything away - without a word. You can’t desert me without a word. I can bear - anything--anything, rather than this. - -“Your BEE----.” - - - -Bee, poor child, shrank from intrusting this to the impertinent waiter, -who had a leer in his eye as if he were defending his own side from the -importunities of the other. She went out furtively into the hall and -studied the numbers of the rooms and the names of the tenants upon the -board, necessity quickening her perceptions, and then she stole -upstairs and gave her poor little appeal into the hands of the stout -chambermaid who watched over that part of the hotel. It was for the Herr -in No. 10, and the answer was to be brought immediately to the little -salon No. 20 downstairs. “Eine Antwort,” she said over and over again in -her imperfect speech. “Schnell, schnell!” This, with the aid of a -thaler--for it was before the days of the mark--produced perfect -understanding in the mind of the maid, who with becks and wreathed -smiles accepted the commission, and in a short time brought her back the -answer for which she waited with feverish anxiety. It was very much -shorter than her own. - - “I am not worthy to stand before you. I cannot and I must not take - advantage of your innocence; better I should disappear altogether - than wound your ears with what they say. But I will not since you - will it so. At twelve o’clock then, Bee, my darling, I will stand - up before your mother, and say what I can for myself. Bee, my own - dearest, my only hope!” - -This last was scrawled across the paper as if he had put it in after the -despair of the former part. It was this that the poor little girl fixed -upon--the sweet words to which she had been accustomed, which her heart -was fainting for. It was not, one would have said, a very cheerful note -for a love-letter. But Bee was ridiculously cheered by it. So long as -she was his own dearest, his hope, his darling--so long as there was no -change in his love for her--why then, in the long run, whatever was -said, everything must come right. - -I need not follow Bee to her mother’s bedside, when Mrs. Kingsward woke -and for the first moment did not remember what had happened. - -“Is that you, Bee?” she said, smiling, not thinking. - -“Are you better, mamma?” - -“Oh, yes, just in my usual----,” said Mrs. Kingsward. And then she -caught a fuller sight of her daughter’s face. Bee had none of her usual -pretty colour, the light in her eyes was like fire. The mother gave a -little feeble cry, and in a moment was no longer in her usual, but lost -in the feverish mists of a trouble far too great for her to bear. “Oh, -Bee! Oh, Bee!” - -“We had better not say anything about it, mamma, to agitate you. I have -told him you will be ready at twelve o’clock, that I may know what the -story is, and what he has to say.” - -Mrs. Kingsward struggled up to a sitting position. “At twelve o’clock? -No! I cannot, I cannot!” Then she dropped back upon her pillows sobbing, -“Oh, Bee, spare me; I am not equal to it. There is Charlie can read your -papa’s letter. Bee! Bee!” - -“Charlie!” cried Bee, with a flash of fury. “Who is Charlie, that he -should sit in judgment on Aubrey and me? If he has anything to do with -it, I tell you, mamma, I will go away. I will go with Aubrey. I will not -hear a word.” - -“Oh, Bee,” cried Mrs. Kingsward, holding out her hot, feverish hands, “I -am not fit for it! I am not fit for it! If I am to travel to-morrow--ask -Moulsey--I ought to stop in bed and be quiet all day.” - -“I don’t see that it matters,” said Bee, sternly, “whether we travel -to-morrow or in a week. To go home will be no pleasure to me.” - -“If we were there, then papa could manage it all himself; he is the -proper person. On a journey is not the time to settle things so -important. I will write and tell him I have put it all off, and have not -said anything, till he could do it himself.” - -“But that will not be true,” cried the young Rhadamanthus, inexorable, -with her blazing eyes. - -“O Bee! you are dreadfully, dreadfully hard upon me!” the poor young -mother said. This is the drawback of being so young a mother, just as -young as your grown-up children. It is very delightful, when all is -sunny and bright, but in a great emergency like this it is trying for -all parties when a girl’s mother is only, so to speak, a girl like -herself. Bee lifted up her absolute young head, and gave forth her -ultimatum unmoved. - -“Well, mamma, it must be as you choose. If you think my happiness is of -less consequence than the chance of a headache to yourself, I have -naturally nothing more to say.” - -A headache! That was all she knew. - -Mrs. Kingsward was ready by twelve o’clock, much against Moulsey’s will, -who dressed her mistress under protest. “I ain’t one to interfere with -what’s going on in a family,” said Moulsey, as she combed out the long -locks, tangled with the restlessness of a troubled night, which were as -silky and as smooth as Bee’s. “I’m only a servant, and I knows my place; -but you’re not fit to struggle among them young ones. The nursery -children, it’s all very well; if they’re naughty you whip them, or you -put them in a corner, and there’s a good cry and all right again. But -when it comes to a business with a young lady and a gentlemen, the -Colonel ought to have come himself, or he ought to have put it off till -we all got home.” - -“Oh, I wish, I wish he had!” Mrs. Kingsward said, sighing. “I am not in -the least what I used to be, Moulsey; don’t you think I am very -different from what I used to be? I have not half the strength.” - -“There often is,” said Moulsey, “a time when a lady isn’t so strong, -after all these children and everything. It takes a deal out of you, it -do. And I don’t hold much with them foreign cures. I’m one that stands -for home. And there’s where you ought to be, ma’am, whatever anyone may -say.” - -“I am sure it is where I wish to be,” said the poor lady, “but we must -not be unjust, Moulsey. My cure did me a great deal of good, and I liked -being out and seeing everything just as much as the girls.” - -“That is just it, ma’am,” said Moulsey; “you’re a deal too much the same -as the young ladies, and can’t make up your mind as you haven’t the -strength for it. I’m not one to ask any questions, but I can’t help -seeing there’s something wrong. Don’t you give in to Miss Bee in -everything. I wouldn’t go down to make up the quarrel if I was you. -Leave ’em to themselves, and it’ll all come right. Bless us, lovers’ -quarrels is nothing--it wouldn’t be half the fun if it wasn’t for that.” - -Moulsey knew very well this was no lovers’ quarrel; but it seemed to her -a good way of satisfying herself what it was. - -“Oh, if that were all!” sighed the poor lady. “Moulsey, you are an old -friend, and take an interest in the family. You have known Miss Bee -since ever she was born. I don’t know why I shouldn’t tell you. It is -no quarrel; it’s something the Colonel has heard about Mr. Leigh.” - -“All lies, ma’am, I don’t make no manner of doubt.” - -“Do you think so, Moulsey; oh, do you think so? Have you heard anything? -You often know more, hearing the servants speak, than we do. If you have -any light to throw on the subject, oh, do so, do! I shall be grateful to -you all my life.” - -“I don’t know as I have any light to throw. I knew as there was some -trouble at the time the poor young lady died--some friend of hers, as -Mr. Leigh, being a kind-hearted gentleman, couldn’t turn out of the -house--and it made a talk. But if there was anything wrong, you take my -word, ma’am, it was none of his fault.” - -“Ah, it’s so easy to say that, Moulsey; but the man must bear the -blame.” - -“I’ve always heard, ma’am, as it was the woman that got the blame; and -right enough, for they often deserve it the most,” Moulsey said. - -“Oh, I wish--I wish, whoever was to blame, that it was not I that had -to clear it up,” poor Mrs. Kingsward said. - - “Oh, cursed spite, - That ever I was born to set it right.” - -She would not have said this, poor lady. She would have thought it -swearing and unbecoming for a woman’s lips; still, Hamlet’s sentiment -was hers, with much stronger reason. She looked like anything but a -strong representative of justice as she went downstairs. Charlie had -come to give her his arm, and though he was very tender to her, Charlie -had no idea of sparing her any more than Bee. He, too, thought that it -was only the risk of a headache, and that a headache was no such great -matter. Charlie’s idea was, however, that what the governor said was, of -all things on earth, the most important to be carried out--especially -when it did not concern himself. - -Bee was sitting at the window looking out upon the river, seeing the -reflections flash and the boats pass. The steamer had just started with -its lively freight--the steamboat which had brought them down the stream -yesterday, with all its changing groups, and the pairs of German lovers -with their arms about each other in the beatitude of the betrothal. All -just the same, but how different, how different! She did not rise, but -only turned her head when her mother came in. She was on the other side. -She did not see, with so many other things in her head, how fragile Mrs. -Kingsward looked. Betty was the only one who perceived at all that mamma -was less strong than usual, and even Betty took no notice, for she, too, -was on the other side. As for Charlie, he stood behind her, a sort of -representative of executive force at the back of Justice, backing her -authority up. It was he who arranged her chair, her footstool, the shawl -Moulsey had insisted she should wear, and which Charlie, who knew -nothing about shawls, huddled up about her neck, not unlike the judge’s -ermine. He did it all, not with sympathetic touches as the girls would -have done had they not been on the other side, but rather with an eye to -her dignity as a representative of the law. - -And then, just as the hour of noon sounded from all the church clocks, -Aubrey came in. He was very pale, but dressed with care, no symptoms of -neglect about him, with an air of preparation which became a man who was -going to stand his trial. Bee jumped up from her seat and went up to -him, putting her hand through his arm, and Betty, half-frightened, with -a glance at her mother, offered him a timid hand. She sat down behind -them, on a chair that was ranged against the wall. The defendant’s side -was her side. She wanted to show that, and yet not to go against mamma. -Charlie took no notice at all of the new comer, but stood scowling, -looking at nobody, behind his mother’s chair. - -Mrs. Kingsward, frightened at her own dignity and breathless with -agitation, cried, “Oh, Mr. Leigh!” which was a kind of salutation. She -had some papers in her lap, over which her hands fluttered restlessly, -her husband’s letter, and something else beside, and she looked at the -group before her with a little dubious smile, asking pardon of the -culprit whom she had come here--oh, so much against her will--to try for -his life. - -“Now, mamma,” said Bee, in a cheerful voice, “we are quite ready, Aubrey -and I--” - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -Mrs. Kingsward’s opening speech was a wonder to hear. She sat and looked -at them all for a moment, trying to steady herself, but there was -nothing to steady her in what she saw before her--Aubrey and Bee, the -pair who had been so sweet to see, such a diversion in all -circumstances, so amusing in their mutual absorption, so delightful in -their romance. It all flashed back to her mind; the excitement of Bee’s -first proposal, the pleasure of seeing “her bairn respected like the -lave,” though Mrs. Kingsward might not have understood what these words -meant, the little triumph it was to see her child engaged at nineteen, -when everybody said there was nobody for the girls to marry--and now to -have that triumph turned into humiliation and dismay! And to think of -Bee’s bright face overcast, and her happiness over, and poor Aubrey -thrown out into the uttermost darkness. Had she seen Charlie it might -have given her some support, for Charlie was the impersonation of -immovable severity; but Betty’s wistful little face behind the other -pair, coming out from Aubrey’s shadow by moments to fix an appealing -look upon her mother, was not calculated to make her any stronger. She -cleared her throat--she tried hard to steady her voice. She said, “Oh, -my dear children,” faltering, and then the poor lady ended in a burst of -sobbing and tears. It gave her a little sting and stimulant to see -through her weeping that though little Betty ran towards her with kisses -and soothing, Bee took no notice, but stood hard and unaffected in her -opposition, holding close to Aubrey’s arm. Mrs. Kingsward indeed got no -sympathy except from little Betty. Charlie put his hand imperatively -upon her shoulder, recalling her to herself, and Bee never moved, -standing by the side of Aubrey Leigh. The mother, thus deserted, -plucked up a little spirit in the midst of her weakness. - -“Bee,” she said, “I do not think it is quite nice of you to stand there -as if your own people were against you. We are not against you. There -has been, I fear, a great mistake made, which Colonel Kingsward”--here -she turned her eyes to Aubrey--“has found out in--in time; though it is -a pity, a sad pity, that it was not found out before. If Mr. Aubrey had -only been frank and said at once--but I don’t see what difference that -would have made. Papa says that from what he has heard and discovered -things must not go any further. He is sorry, and so am I, that they have -gone so far, and the engagement must be broken off at once. You hear -what I say, Bee?” - -“I heard you say so last night, mamma, but I say it is my engagement, -and I have a right to know why. I do not mean to break it off----” - -“Oh, how can I make explanations--how can I enter into such a question? -I appeal to you, Mr. Aubrey--tell her.” - -“She ought not to ask any explanations. She is a minor, under age. My -father has a right to do whatever he pleases--and she has none to ask -why.” - -This was how Charlie reasoned on the height of his one-and-twenty years. -Charlie was the intolerable element in all this question. Aubrey cast a -look at him, and forcibly closed his own lips to keep in something that -was bursting forth. Bee defied him, as was natural, on the spot. “I will -not have Charlie put in his opinion,” she cried. “He has nothing to do -with me. Even if I obeyed papa, I certainly should not obey him.” - -“Let Aubrey say, himself,” said Mrs. Kingsward, “whether you ought to be -told everything, Bee.” - -“It is cruel to ask me,” said Aubrey, speaking for the first time. “If -Bee could know all--if you could know all, Mrs. Kingsward! But how could -I tell you all? Part of this is true, and part is not true. I could -speak to Colonel Kingsward more freely. I am going off to-night to -London to see him. It will free you from embarrassment, and it will give -me perhaps a chance. I did not want to put you to this trial. I am ready -to put myself unreservedly in Colonel Kingsward’s hands.” - -“Then,” said Bee, hastily, “it seems I am of no sort of importance at -all to anyone. I am told my engagement is broken off, and then I am told -I am not to know why, and then----. Go, then, Aubrey, as that is your -choice, and fight it out with papa, if you please.” She loosed her arm -from his, with a slight impulse, pushing him away. “But just mind -this--everybody,” she cried; “you may think little of Bee--but my -engagement shall not be broken by anybody but me, and it shall not be -kept on by anybody but me; and I will neither give it up nor will I hold -to it, neither one nor the other, until I know why.” - -Then the judge and the defendant looked each other in the face. They -were, as may be supposed, on opposite sides, but they were the only two -to consult each other in this emergency. Aubrey responded by a movement -of his head, by a slight throwing up of his hand, to the question in -Mrs. Kingsward’s eyes. - -“Then you shall know as much as I can tell you, Bee. Your father had a -letter last week, from a lady, telling him that she had a revelation to -make. The letter alarmed your father. He felt that he must know what it -meant. He could not go himself, but he sent Mr. Passavant, the lawyer. -The lady said that she had lived in Mr. Leigh’s house for years, in the -time of his late wife. She said Mr. Leigh had--had behaved very badly to -her.” - -“That I do not believe,” said Bee. - -The words flashed out like a knife. They made a stir in the air, as if a -sudden gleam had come into it. And then all was still again, a strange -dead quiet coming after, in which Bee perceived Aubrey silent, covering -his face with his hand. It came across her with a sudden pang that she -had heard somebody say this morning or last night--“He did not deny it.” - -“And that he had promised her--marriage--that he was engaged to her, as -good as--as good as married to her--when he had the cruelty--oh, my dear -child, my dear child!--to come to you.” - -Aubrey took his hand away from his white face. “That,” he said, in a -strange, dead, tuneless voice, “is not true.” - -“Oh, more shame to you, Aubrey, more shame to you,” cried Mrs. -Kingsward, forgetting her judicial character in her indignation as a -woman, “if it is not true!--” She paused a moment to draw her breath, -then added, “But indeed you were not so wicked as you say, for it is -true. And here is the evidence. Oh!” she cried, with tears in her eyes, -“it makes your conduct to my child worse; but it shows that you were not -then, not then, as bad as you say.” - -Bee had dropped into the chair that was next to her, and there sat, for -her limbs had so trembled that she could not stand, watching him, never -taking her eyes from him, as if he were a book in which the -interpretation of this mystery was---- - -“Never mind about me,” he said, hoarsely. “I say nothing for myself. -Allow me to be as bad as a man can be, but that is not true. And what is -the evidence? You never told me there was any evidence.” - -“Sir,” said Mrs. Kingsward, fully roused, “I told you all that was in my -husband’s letter last night.” - -“Yes--that she,” a sort of shudder seemed to run over him, to the keen -sight of the watchers--“that she--said so. You don’t know, as I do, that -_that_ is no evidence. But you speak now as if there was something -more.” - -She took a piece of folded paper from her lap. “There is this,” she -said, “a letter you wrote to her the morning you went away.” - -“I did write her a letter,” he said. - -Mrs. Kingsward held it out to him, but was stopped by Charlie, who put -his hand on her arm. “Keep this document, mother. Don’t put the evidence -against him into a man’s power. I’ll read it if Mr. Leigh thinks -proper.” - -Once more Aubrey and Bee together, with a simultaneous impulse, looked -at this intruder into their story. - -“Mamma! send him away. I should like to kill him!” said Bee within her -clenched teeth. - -“Be quiet, Charlie. Mr. Leigh, I am ready to put this or any other -evidence against you into your hands.” - -He bowed very gravely, and then stood once more as if he were made of -stone. Mrs. Kingsward faltered very much, her agitated face flushed. “It -begins,” she said, in a low fluttering voice, “My dear little wife----” - -Then there came a very strange sound into the agitated silence, for -Aubrey Leigh, on trial for more than his life, here laughed. “What more, -what more?” he said. - -“No, it is not that. It is--‘I don’t want my dear little wife to be -troubled about anything. It can all be done quite easily and quietly, -without giving an occasion for people to talk; a settlement made and -everything you could desire. I shall make arrangements about everything -to-day.’ It is signed A. L., and it is in your handwriting. Bee, you can -see it is in his handwriting; look for yourself.” - -Bee would not turn her head. She thought she saw the writing written in -fire upon the air--all his familiar turns in it. How well she knew the -A. L.; but she did not look at it--would not look. She had enough to do -looking at his face, which was the letter--the book she was studying -now. - -“No doubt it is my handwriting,” he said, “only it was addressed not to -any other woman, but to my wife.” - -“Your wife died two years ago, Mr. Leigh; and that is dated -Christmas--this year.” - -“That is a lie!” he cried; then restrained himself painfully. “You know -I don’t mean you--but the date and the assumption is entirely a lie. -Give me time, and I will tell you exactly when it was written. I -remember the letter. It was when I had promised Amy to provide for her -friend on condition that she should be sent away--for she made my house -miserable.” - -“And yet--and yet, Mr. Leigh----. Oh, don’t you see how things -contradict each other? She made your house miserable, and yet---- when -your wife was dead, and you were free----” - -He looked at her, growing paler and paler. “And yet!” he said. “I know -what you mean. That is the infernal art of it. My own folly has cut the -ground from beneath my feet, and put weapons into every hand against me. -I know--I know.” - -Again there came into Bee’s mind the words she had heard last night--“He -does not deny it.” And yet he was denying it with all his might! -Denying, and not denying--what? The girl’s brain was all in a maze, and -she could not tell. - -“You see?” said Mrs. Kingsward, gently. “Oh, I am sorry for you in my -heart. Perhaps you were led into--a connection that you feel not to -be--desirable. That I can understand. But that you should think you -could save yourself by means of an innocent girl, almost a child, and -impose yourself on a family that had no suspicions!--oh, Mr. Leigh, Mr. -Leigh! you ought to have died sooner than have done that!” - -He looked at her piteously for a moment, and then a dreadful sort of -smile came upon his face. “I allow,” he said, “that that would have been -the best.” - -And there fell a silence upon the room. The sun was shining outside, and -the sound of the water gurgling against the sides of boats, and of all -the commotion of the landing place, and of the hundreds of voices in the -air, and of the chiming of the clocks, came in and filled the place. -And just then there burst out a carillon from one of the steeples -setting the whole to music, harmonising all the discords, and sweeping -into this silence with a sudden rush of sound as if some bodily presence -had come in. It was the touch too much for all these excited and -troubled people. Mrs. Kingsward lay back in her chair and began to weep -silently. Aubrey Leigh turned away from where he was standing and leant -his head against the wall. As for Bee, she sat quite still, dazed, not -able to understand, but crushed out of all her youthful self-assertion -and determination to clear it all up. She to clear it up!--who did not -even understand it, who could not fathom what was meant. That there was -something more than met the eye, something that was not put into words, -seemed to show vaguely through the words that were said. But what it was -Bee could not tell. She could not understand it all. And yet that there -was a fatal obstacle rising up between her and her lover, something -which no one could disperse or clear away, not a mistake, not a -falsehood, not a thing that could be passed over triumphantly and -forgotten--not as youth is so quick to believe a mere severity, tyranny, -arbitrary conclusion of papa--she felt in every fibre of her frame. She -could not deny it or struggle against it; her very being seemed -paralysed. The meaning went out of her face, the absolute, certain, -imperious youthfulness died out of her. She who loved to have her own -way, who had just protested that she would neither give up nor hold fast -except by her own will and understanding, now sat dumb, vaguely staring, -seeing shadows pass before her and hearing of things which were -undeniable, mighty things, far more powerful than her little hot -resolutions and determinations. Bee had never yet come face to face with -any trouble which could not be smoothed away. There was her own -naughtiness, there were Charlie’s escapades at school and college--some -of which she had known were serious. But in a little while they had been -passed over and forgotten, and everything had been as before. One time -she remembered papa had threatened not to let Charlie go back to Harrow, -which was a dreadful thing, exposing him and his naughtiness to all the -world. But after a while papa had changed his mind, and everything had -gone smoothly as before. Could papa change his mind now? Would time make -it, even if he did, as it was before? Bee had not mental power enough to -think these things, or ask these questions of her own will. But they -went through her mind as people come in and go out by an open door. - -It was Aubrey who was the first to speak. The carillon stopped, or else -they got used to the sound and took no further notice of it, and he -collected himself and came forward again to the middle of the room. He -said, “I know it will be a relief that I should go away. There is an -afternoon train which I shall take. It is slow, but it does not matter. -I shall be as well there as anywhere--or as ill. I shall go direct to -Colonel Kingsward and lay my whole case before him. He will perhaps -confront me with my accuser--I hope so--if not, he will at least hear -what I have to say for myself.” - -“Oh, Mr. Leigh! Oh, Aubrey! I can’t wish you anything but well, -whatever--whatever may be done!” - -“Thank you, Mrs. Kingsward, I looked for nothing less from your kind -heart. Will you give me that letter?” - -She put it into his hands without the least hesitation, and he examined -it--with a sort of strained smile upon his face. “I should like to take -this back to Colonel Kingsward,” he said. Then added quickly with a -short laugh, “No, I forgot; there might be suspicions. Send it back to -him, please, by the first post, that he may have it when I get there.” -He gave the letter back, and then he looked round wistfully. “May I say -good-bye to Bee?” - -She got up at the words, feeling herself vaguely called upon--yet quite -dull, dumb, with all sorts of thoughts going and coming through those -wide-open doors of her mind--thoughts like strays which she seemed to -see as they passed. Even Aubrey himself appeared a ghost. She got up and -stood awaiting him when he approached her, not putting out a finger. -Nobody interfered, not even Charlie, who was fuming internally yet -somehow did not move. Aubrey went up to her and put his hands upon her -shoulders. Her unresponsiveness sent a chill to his heart. - -“Have you given me up, Bee?” he cried, “Already, already!” with anguish -in his voice. - -She could not say a word. She shook her head like a mute, looking at him -with her dazed eyes. - -“She does not understand it--not a word!” he said. - -Bee shook her head again. It was all she could do. No, she did not -understand, except that it was a kind of dying, something against which -nobody could struggle. And then he kissed her on her forehead as gravely -as though he had been her father; and the next moment was gone--was it -only out of the room, or out of the world, out of life? - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - -It was a slow train. The slowest train that there is, is, of course, -far, far quicker than any other mode of conveyance practicable in a land -journey, but it does not seem so. It seems as if it were delay -personified to the eager traveller, especially on the Continent. In -England, when it stops at a multiplicity of stations at which there is -nothing to do, it at least goes on again in most cases after it has -dropped its half-passenger or taken in its empty bag of letters. But -this can never be said of a German or even of a brisker Belgian train. -The one in which Aubrey was meandered about Liege, for instance, till he -had mastered every aspect of that smoky but interesting place. It -stopped for what looked like an hour at every little roadside station, -in order, apparently, that the guard might hold a long and excited -conversation about nothing at all with the head man of the place. And -all the while the little electric bell would go tingling, tingling upon -his very brain. Thus he made his slow and weary progress through the -afternoon and evening, stopping long at last at a midnight station -(where everything was wrapped in sleep and darkness) for the arrival of -the express, in which the latter portion of the journey was to be -accomplished more quickly. If there had been anything wanted to complete -the entire overthrow of a spirit in pain it was such an experience. All -was dismal beyond words at the place where he had to wait--one poor -light showing through the great universe of darkness, the dark big world -that encompassed it around--one or two belated porters wandering through -the blackness doing mysterious pieces of business, or pretending to do -them. A poor little wailing family--a mother and two children, put out -there upon a bench from some other train, one of the babies wailing -vaguely into the dark, the other calling upon “mamma, mamma,” driving -the poor mother frantic--were waiting like himself. It gave Aubrey a -momentary consolation to see something that appeared at least to the -external eye more forlorn than he. He remembered, too, that there had -once been a baby cry that went to his heart, and though all the -associations connected with that had now turned into gall and -bitterness, so that the sound seemed like a spear penetrating his very -being, and he walked away as far as the bounds of the station would -allow, to get, if possible, out of hearing of it--yet pity, a better -inspiration, at last gained the day. He went up and spoke to the woman, -and found that she was an English workman’s wife making her way home -with her children to a mother who was dying. They had turned her out -here, with her babies, to wait--ah, not for the express train which was -to carry on the gentleman, but for the slow, slow-creeping third-class -which only started in the morning, and which would, after other long -waits at other places, reach England sometime, but she could scarcely -tell when. - -“And must you pass the night here out in the cold?” said Aubrey. - -“It isn’t not to call a cold night, sir,” said the woman, meekly, “and -they’ve got plenty on to keep them warm.” - -“I’ll try and get them to open the waiting-room for you,” said Aubrey. - -“Oh, no, sir; thank you kindly, but don’t take the trouble--the rooms -are that stuffy. It’s better for them in the open air, and they’ll go to -sleep in a little while. Baby will be quite warm on my lap, and Johnny’s -lying against me.” - -“And what is to become of you in this arrangement?” said Aubrey, looking -pitifully, with eyes that had known the experiences both of husband and -father, upon this little plump human bed, which was to stand in the -place of down pillows for the children. - -“Oh, I’ll do very well, sir, when they go to sleep,” she said, looking -up at him with a smile. - -“And when does your train go?” - -“Not till six in the morning,” she replied; “but perhaps that’s all the -better, for I’ll be able to get them some bread and milk, and a good -wash before we start.” - -Well, it was not much of an indulgence for a man who was well off. He -might have thrown it away on any trifle, and nobody would have wasted a -thought on the subject. He got hold of one of the wandering ghosts of -porters, and got him, with a douceur, to change the poor woman’s cheap -ticket for her into one for the express, and commissioned him, if -possible, to get her a place in a sleeping carriage, where, I fear, she -was not likely to be at all a warmly welcomed addition to the luxurious -young men or delicate ladies in these conveyances. He saw that there was -one found for her which was almost empty when the train came up. He -scarcely knew if she were young or old--though indeed, as a matter of -fact, the poor little mother, bewildered by her sudden elevation among -the gentlefolks, and not quite sure that she would not have preferred to -remain where she was and pick up in the morning her natural third-class -train, was both young and pretty, a fact that was remarked by the one -young lady in the carriage, who saw the young man through the window at -her side, and recognised him in a flash of the guard’s lantern, with -deep astonishment to see him handing in such a woman and such children -to the privileged places. He disappeared himself into the dark, and -indeed took his place in the corner of a smoking carriage, where his -cigar was a faint soother of pain. In his human short-sightedness, poor -Aubrey also was consoled a little, I think, by the thought that this -poor fellow-passenger was comfortable--she and her children--and that -instead of slumbering uneasily on a bench, she was able to lay the -little things in a bed. It seemed to him a good omen, a little -relaxation of the bonds of fate, and he went away cheered a little and -encouraged by this simple incident and by the warmth of the kindness -that was in his heart. - -He spoke to them again on one or two occasions on the way, sent the poor -woman some tea in the morning, bought some fruit for the children, and -again on the steamboat crossing, when he listened to the account of how -they were going on, from Dover, with a certain interest. When they -parted at the train he shook hands with the mother, hoping she would -find her relation better, and put a sovereign into Johnny’s little fat -hand. The lady who had been in the sleeping carriage kept her eye upon -him all the time. She was not by any means a malicious or bad woman, but -she did not believe the poor woman’s story of the gentleman’s kindness. -She was, I am sorry to say, a lady who was apt to take the worst view of -every transaction, especially between men and women. People who do so -are bound in many cases to be right, and so are confirmed in their -odious opinion; but in many cases they are wrong, yet always hold to it -with a faith which would do credit to a better inspiration. “I thought -young Mr. Leigh was going to marry again,” she said to a friend whom she -met going up to town. - -“Oh, so he is! To the nicest girl--Bee Kingsward, the daughter of one of -my dearest friends--such a satisfactory thing in every way.” - -“Wasn’t there something,” said the lady of the sleeping carriage, “about -a woman, down at his place in the country?” - -“Oh, I don’t think there was ever anything against him. There was a -woman who was a great friend of his poor wife, and lived with them. The -wife was a goose, don’t you know, and could not be made to see what a -foolish thing it was. My opinion is that he never could abide the woman, -and I am sure she made mischief between them. But I believe that silly -little Mrs. Leigh--poor thing, we should not speak ill of those that are -gone--made him promise on her deathbed that this Miss Something-or-other -should not be sent away from the house. It was a ridiculous arrangement, -and no woman that respected herself would have done it. But she was -poor, and it’s a comfortable place, and, perhaps, as there was no -friendship between them she may have thought it was no harm.” - -“Perhaps she thought she would get over him in time and make him marry -her.” - -“Oh, I can’t tell what she thought! He rushed off in a hurry at a -moment’s notice, nobody knowing what he intended, after the poor baby -died, the very day of its funeral. Not much to be wondered at, poor -young man, after all he had gone through. I don’t know how things were -settled with Miss Lance, but I believe that she has gone at last. And I -am delighted to hear of his engagement. So will all his neighbours in -the county be.” - -“I should not like a daughter of mine to marry a man like that.” - -“Why? I wish a daughter of mine could have the chance. Everybody likes -him at home. Do you know anything of Aubrey Leigh?” - -He did not know in the least that this talk was going on as the train -went rushing on to town; his ears did not tingle. He was in the next -carriage, divided only by a plank from these two ladies in their -compartment. The woman who took the bad view of everything did not wish -him any harm. She did not even think badly of him. She thought it was -only human nature, and that young men will do that sort of thing, -however nice they may be, and whatever you may say of morals and so -forth. I do not think, though she had made that little conventional -speech, that she would at all have hesitated to give her own daughter to -Aubrey, provided that she had a daughter. His advantages were so -evident, and the disadvantages, after all, had so little to do with -actual life. - -Aubrey did not present himself before Colonel Kingsward that night. He -did not propose to follow him to Kingswarden, the old house in Kent, -which was the sole remnant of territorial property belonging to the -family. He wanted to have all his wits about him, to be cool and -self-possessed, and able to remember everything, when he saw the man who -had given him Bee and then had withdrawn her from his arms. He already -knew Colonel Kingsward a little, and knew him as a man full of -_bonhommie_, popular everywhere--a man of experience, who had been about -the world, who knew men. By this time Aubrey had recovered his spirits a -little. He thought it impossible that such a man, when a younger than -himself laid bare his heart to him, could fail to understand. It was -true that the Colonel was probably a martinet in morals as he was in his -profession, and Aubrey had that behind him which he could not deny. He -would not attempt to gloss it over, to make excuses for it. He would lay -his life in this man’s hand as if he had been his confessor. And -surely, surely the acknowledged sin would find absolution, the -extenuating circumstances would be considered, the lie with which that -accusation was accompanied would recoil upon the accuser. The young man -buoyed himself up with these thoughts through the long evening. He did -not go out or to his club, or anywhere where he was known. In September -there are not so many inducements to stray about London. He sat in his -room and thought of Bee, and wrote little letters to her, which were a -relief to his mind though he knew he could not send them. By this time -he reflected they must have started. They were beginning their journey -as he ended his. He hoped that Charlie, that lout, would have the sense -to take care of his mother, to see that she suffered as little as -possible, to prevent her from having any trouble--which I fear was not -the view at all that Charlie took of his duty to his mother. Aubrey, -like all outsiders, had a clearer view of Mrs. Kingsward’s condition -than her family had arrived at. He was very sorry for her, poor, -delicate, tender woman--and grieved to the bottom of his heart that this -trouble should have come upon her through him. Bee was different. There -would be so many ways, please God, if all went well--and he could not -bring himself to think that all would not go well--in which he could -make it up to his Bee. Finally, he permitted himself to write a little -letter to meet his darling on her return, and enclosed in it another to -Mrs. Kingsward, directed to Kingswarden. They would receive it when they -entered their house--and by that time, surely by that time, his letters -would not be any longer a forbidden thing. - -That morning it rained, and the London skies hung very low. The world -had the effect of a room with a low roof, stifling and without air. He -set out to walk to Colonel Kingsward’s office. I forget whether the -Intelligence Department of the War Office was in existence at that time, -or if it has always been in existence only not so much heard of as in -our vociferous days. If it did exist then, it was, of course, in Pall -Mall, as we all know. Aubrey set out to walk, but soon recollected that -muddy boots detracted from a man’s appearance, especially in the eyes of -a spick and span person like Colonel Kingsward, who never had a speck -upon any garment, and accordingly he got into a hansom. It did not go -any faster than the beating of his heart, and yet he could have wished -that it should only creep along like the heavier cabs. He would have put -off this interview now had he been able. To think that you are within an -hour at most of the moment when your life shall be settled for you -absolutely by another person’s will, and that your happiness or -unhappiness rest upon the manner in which he will look at the question, -the perception he will have of your difficulties, the insight into your -heart, is a terrible thing--especially if you know little of the person -who has thus become endowed, as it were, with the power of life and -death over you--do not know if his understanding is a large or limited -one, if he has any human nature in him, or only mere conventionality and -the shell of human nature. It is seldom, perhaps, that one man is thus -consciously in the power of another--and yet it must come to that more -or less, every day. - -Colonel Kingsward was in his room, seated at his writing table with -piles of books and maps, and masses of newspapers all round him. He was -an excellent linguist, and there were French papers and German papers, -Russian, Scandinavian--all kinds of strange languages and strange little -broadsheets, badly printed, black with excessive ink, or pale with -imperfect impression, on the floor and the table. He had a large paper -knife at his hand in ivory, with the natural brown upon it, looking like -a weapon which could cut a man, not to say a book, in pieces. He looked -up with an aspect which Aubrey, whose heart was in his mouth, could not -read--whether it was mere politeness or something more--and bade Mr. -Leigh be seated, putting aside deliberately as he did so the papers with -which he was engaged. And then he turned round with the air of a man who -says: Now you have my entire attention--and looked Aubrey in the face. -The young man was facing the light which came in from a large high -window reaching nearly to the roof. The elder man had his back half -turned from it, so that his regard was less easy to read. It was not -quite fair. Aubrey had everything against him; his agitation, his -anxiety, an expressive tell-tale face, and the light searching every -change that took place in it; whilst his opponent was calm as his own -paper knife, impassive, with a countenance formed to conceal his -emotions, and the light behind him. It was not an equal match in any -way. - -“I have come direct from Cologne,” Aubrey said. - -“Ah, yes. I believe my wife says so in her letter.” - -“You have news from them to-day? I hope that Mrs. Kingsward is better.” - -“My wife never at any time speaks much of her health. She was a little -fatigued and remained another day to rest.” - -“She is very delicate, sir,” said Aubrey. He did not know why, unless it -was reluctance to begin what he had to say. - -“I am perfectly acquainted with Mrs. Kingsward’s condition,” said the -Colonel, in a tone which was not encouraging. He added, “I don’t suppose -you took the trouble to come here, Mr. Leigh, in order to speak to me -about my wife’s health.” - -“No. It is true. I ought not to waste the time you have accorded me. I -do not need to tell you, Colonel Kingsward, what I have come about.” - -“I think you do,” said the Colonel, calmly. “My letter to my wife, which -I believe she communicated to you, conveyed all I had to say on the -matter. It was not written without reflection, nor without every -possible effort to arrive at the truth. Consequently, I have no desire -to re-open the subject. It is in my mind concluded and put aside.” - -“But you will hear me?” said Aubrey. “You have heard one statement, -surely you will hear the other. No man is condemned unheard. I have come -here to throw myself upon your mercy--to tell you my story. However -prejudiced you may be against me----” - -“A moment, Mr. Leigh. I have no prejudice against you. I am not the -judge of your conduct. I claim the right to decide for my daughter--that -is all. I have no prejudice or feeling against you.” - -“Colonel Kingsward,” cried Aubrey, “for God’s sake listen! Hear what I -have to say!” - -The Colonel looked at him again. Perhaps it was the passion of -earnestness in the young man’s face that touched him. Perhaps he felt -that it was unwise to leave it to be said that he had not heard both -sides. The end was that he waved his hand and said: - -“My time is not my own. I have no right to spend it on merely private -interests; but if you will make your story as short as possible I will -hear what you have to say.” - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - - -The story which Aubrey Leigh had to tell was indeed made as short as -possible. To describe the most painful crisis in your life, the moment -which you yourself shudder to look back at, which awakens in you that -fury of self-surprise, horror and wonder which a sudden departure from -all the habits of your life brings after it when it is guilt, is not an -easy thing; but it supplies terse expressions and rapidity of narration. -There is no desire to dwell upon the details, and to tell a story so -deeply affecting one’s self to a politely unsympathetic listener who -does not affect to be much interested or at all moved by the subtle -self-defence which runs through every such statement, is still more -conducive to brevity. Aubrey laid bare the tempest that had swept over -him with a breathless voice and broken words. He could not preserve his -equanimity, or look as if it were an easy thing for him to do. He made -the most hurried description of the visitor who had taken possession of -his house, saying not a word beyond the bare fact. It had been deeply -embarrassing that she should be there, though at first in the melancholy -of his widowerhood he had not thought of it, or cared who was in the -house. Afterwards he was prevented from doing anything to disturb her by -his promise to his dying wife. Then had come the anxiety about the baby, -the wavering of that little life in which the forlorn young father had -come to take a little pleasure. She had been very kind to the child, -watching over it, and when the little thing died, when the misery of the -fresh desolation, and the pity of it, and the overwhelming oppression of -the sad house had quite overcome the spirit of its young master, then -she had thrown herself upon him, with all the signs of a sudden passion -of sympathy and tenderness. Had any confessor skilled in the accounts of -human suffering heard Aubrey’s broken tale he could have found nothing -but truth in it, and would have recognised the subtle sequence of events -which had led to that downfall. But Colonel Kingsward, though not -unlearned in men, listened like a man of wood, playing with the large -paper-knife, and never looking towards the penitent, who told his story -with such a strain of the labouring breast and agonised spirit. Had a -young officer in whom he had no particular interest thus explained and -accounted for some dereliction of duty he might have understood or -sympathised. But he had no wish to understand Aubrey; his only desire -was to brush him off as quickly as possible, to be done with his -ridiculous story, to hear of him no more. He might be as little guilty -as he described himself. What then? Aubrey’s character was nothing to -Colonel Kingsward, except as it affected his daughter. He had cut him -off from all connection with his daughter, and it was now quite -immaterial to him whether the man was a weak fool or a deceiver. -Probably from as much as he heard while thus listening as little as he -could, Leigh was in the former class, and certainly he did not intend -to take a weak fool, who had shown himself to be at the mercy of any -designing woman, into his family as the husband of Bee. Give him the -benefit of the doubt, and allow that it had happened so, that the woman -was much more to blame than the man, and what then? A sturdy sinner on -the whole was not less but more easily pardoned than a weak fool. - -“This is all very well, Mr. Leigh,” Colonel Kingsward said, “and I am -sorry that you have thought it necessary to enter into these painful -details. They may be quite true. I will not offend you by doubting that -you believe them to be quite true. But how, then, do you account for the -letter which my wife, I believe, showed you, and which came direct from -the lady’s own hand to mine?” - -“The letter was a letter which I wrote to my wife two years ago. There -had been discussions between us on this very subject. I promised, on -condition that Miss Lance should leave us, to make such arrangements for -her comfort as were possible to me--to settle a yearly income on her, -enough to live on.” - -“Was that arrangement ever carried out?” - -“No; my wife became ill immediately after. I found her on my return in -Miss Lance’s arms, imploring that so long as she lived her friend should -not be taken from her. What could I do? And that prayer was changed on -my poor Amy’s deathbed to another--that I would never send Miss Lance -away; that she should always have a home at Forest-leigh and watch over -the child.” - -“I don’t wish to arouse any such painful recollections--especially as -they can be of no advantage to anyone--but how does this letter come to -have the date of last Christmas, more than a year after Mrs. Leigh’s -death?” - -“How can I tell that, sir? How can I tell how the devilish web was woven -at all? The note had no date, I suppose, and the person who could use it -for this purpose would not hesitate at such a trifle as to add a date.” - -“Mr. Leigh, I repeat the whole matter is too painful to be treated by -me. But how is it, if you regarded this lady with those sentiments, -that you should have in a moment changed them, and, to put the mildest -interpretation upon your proceedings, thus put yourself in her power?” - -The young man’s flushed and anxious face grew deadly pale. He turned his -eyes from the inquisitor to the high blank light pouring in from the -large window. “God knows,” he said, “that is what I cannot explain--or -rather, I should say, the devil knows!” he cried with vehemence. “I was -entirely off my guard--thinking, heaven knows, of nothing less.” - -“The devil is a safe sort of agency to put the blame on. We cannot in -ordinary affairs accept him as the scapegoat, Mr. Leigh--excuse me for -saying so. I will not refuse to say that I allow there may be excuses -for you, with a woman much alive to her own interests and ready for any -venture. You did write to her, however, on the day you left?” - -“I wrote to her, telling her the arrangement I had proposed to my wife, -in the very letter which she has sent to you--that I would carry it out -at once, and that I hoped she would perceive, as I did, that it was -impossible we should remain under the same roof, or, indeed, meet -again.” - -“That was on what date?” - -“The evening before my child’s funeral. Next day, as soon as it was -over, I left the house, and have never set foot in it again.” - -“Yet this lady, to whom you had, you say, sent such a letter, was at the -funeral, and stood at the child’s grave leaning on your arm.” - -“More than that,” cried Aubrey, with a gasp of his labouring breath, -“she came up to me as I stood there and put her arm, as if to support -me, within mine.” - -The Colonel could not restrain an exclamation. “By Jove,” he said, “she -is a strong-minded woman, if that is true. Do you mean to say that this -was after she had your letter?” - -“I suppose so. I sent it to her in the morning. I was anxious to avoid -any scene.” - -“And then, on your way to London, on that day, you went to your -solicitors, and gave instructions in respect to Miss Lance’s -annuity--which you say now had been determined on long before?” - -“It was determined on long before.” - -“But never mentioned to any one until that time.” - -“I beg your pardon; on the day on which I wrote that letter to my -wife I went direct to my lawyer and talked the matter over freely -with Mr. Morell, who had known me all my life, and knew all the -circumstances--and approved my resolution, as the best of two evils, he -said.” - -“This is the most favourable thing I have heard, Mr. Leigh. He will, of -course, be able to back you up in what you say?” - -“Mr. Morell!” Aubrey sprang to his feet with a start of dismay. “I -think,” he cried, “all the powers of hell must be against me. Mr. Morell -is dead.” - -They looked at each other for a moment in silence. A half smile came -upon the Colonel’s face, though even he was a little overawed by the -despair in the countenance of the young man. - -“I don’t know that it matters very much,” he said, “for, after all, Mr. -Leigh, your anxiety to get rid of your wife’s companion might have two -interpretations. You might have been sincerely desirous to free yourself -from a temptation towards another woman, which would have given Mrs. -Leigh pain. A man does not sacrifice two hundred a year without a strong -motive. And subsequent events make this a far more likely reason than -the desire to get rid of an unwelcome inmate.” - -“I cannot tell whether my motive was likely or not. I tell you, sir, -what it was.” - -“Ah, yes--but unfortunately without any corroboration--and the story is -very different from the other side. It appears from that that you wished -to establish relationship during your poor wife’s life, and that it was -the lady who was moved by pity for you in a moment of weakness--which is -much more according to the rule in such matters.” - -“It is a lie!” Aubrey cried. “Colonel Kingsward, you are a man--and an -honourable man. Can you imagine another man, with the same principles as -yourself, guilty of such villainy as that? Can you believe----” - -“Mr. Leigh,” said the other, “it is unnecessary to ask me what I can -believe; nor can I argue, from what I would do, as to what you would do. -That may be of good Christianity, you know, but it is not tenable in -life. Many men are capable enough of what I say; and, indeed, I do you -the credit to believe that you were willing to keep the temptation at a -distance--to make a sacrifice in order to ease the mind of your wife. I -show a great deal of faith in you when I say that. Another man might say -that Mrs. Leigh had exacted it from you as a thing necessary to her -peace.” - -Aubrey Leigh rose up again, and began to pace the room from one side to -the other. He could not keep still in his intolerable impatience and -scorn of the net which was tightening about his feet. Anger rose up like -a whirlwind in his mind; but to indulge it was to lose for ever the -cause which, indeed, was already lost. When he had gained control over -himself and his voice, he said, “We had neighbours; we had friends; our -life was not lived in a corner unknown to the world. There is my mother; -ask them--they all know----.” - -“Does anyone outside know what goes on between a husband and wife?” said -Colonel Kingsward. “Such discussions do not go on before witnesses. If -poor Mrs. Leigh----” - -“Sir,” cried Aubrey, stung beyond hearing, “I will not permit any man to -pity my wife.” - -“It was beyond my province I allow, but one uses the word for those who -die young. I don’t know why, for if all is true that we profess to -believe they certainly have the best of it. Well, if Mrs. Leigh, to -speak by the book, had any such burden on her mind, and really felt her -happiness to depend on the banishment of that dangerous companion, it is -not likely that she would speak of it either to your neighbours or to -your mother.” - -“Why not? My mother was of that mind, though not for that villainous -reason; my mother knew, everybody knew--everybody agreed with me in -wishing her gone. I appeal to all who knew us, Colonel Kingsward! There -is not a friend I have who did not compassionate me for Amy’s insensate -affection. God forgive me that I should say a word against my poor -little girl, but it was an infatuation--as all her friends knew.” - -“Don’t you think we are now getting into the region of the extravagant?” -Colonel Kingsward said. “I cannot send out a royal commission to take -the evidence of your friends.” - -Aubrey had to pause again to master himself. If this man, with his -contemptuous accents, his cool disdain, were not Bee’s father!---- but -he was so, and, therefore, must not be defied. He answered after a time -in a subdued voice. “Will you allow me--to send one or two of them to -tell you what they know. There is Fairfield, with whom you are -acquainted already, there is Lord Langtry, there is Vavasour, who was -with us constantly----” - -“To none of these gentlemen, I presume, would Mrs. Leigh be likely to -unfold her most intimate sentiments.” - -“Two of them have wives,” said Aubrey, determined to hold fast, “whom -she saw familiarly daily--country neighbours.” - -“I must repeat, Mr. Leigh, I cannot send out a royal commission to take -the evidence of your friends.” - -“Do you mean that you will not hear any evidence, Colonel -Kingsward?--that I am condemned already?--that it does not matter what I -have in my favour?” - -Colonel Kingsward rose to dismiss his suitor. “I have already said, Mr. -Leigh, that I am not your judge. I have no right to condemn you. Your -account may be all true; your earnestness and air of sincerity, I allow, -in a case in which I was not personally involved, would go far to making -me believe it was true. But what then? The matter is this: Will I allow -my daughter to marry a man of whom such a question has been raised? I -say no: and there I am within my clear rights. You may be able to clear -yourself, making out the lady to be a sort of demon in human shape. My -friend, who saw her, said she was a very attractive woman. But really -this is not the question. I am not a censor of public morals, and on the -whole it is a matter of indifference to me whether you are guiltless or -not. The sole thing is that I will not permit my daughter to put her -foot where such a scandal has been. I have nothing to do with you but -everything with her. And I think now that all has been said.” - -“That is, you will not hear anything more?” - -“Well--if you like to put it so--I prefer not to hear any more.” - -“Not if Bee’s happiness should be involved?” - -“My daughter’s happiness, I hope, does not depend upon a man whom she -has known only for a month. She may think so now. But she will soon know -better. That is a question into which I decline to enter with you.” - -“Men have died and worms have eaten them, but not for love,” said -Aubrey, with a coarse laugh. He turned as if to go away. “But you do not -mean that this is final, Colonel Kingsward---- not final? Not for ever? -Never to be revised or reconsidered---- even if I were as bad as you -think me?” - -“How needless is all this! I have told you your character does not -concern me--and I do not say that you are bad--or think so. I am sorry -for you. You have got into a rather dreadful position, Mr. Leigh, for a -young man of your age.” - -“And yet at my age you think I should be cut off for ever from every -hope of salvation!” - -“Not so; this is all extravagant--ridiculous! And if you will excuse me, -I am particularly busy this morning, with a hundred things to do.” - -Poor Aubrey would have killed with pleasure, knocked down and trampled -upon, the immovable man of the world who thus dismissed him; but to be -humble, even abject, was his only hope. “I will try, then, to find some -moment of leisure another time.” - -“It is unnecessary, Mr. Leigh. I shall not change my mind; surely you -must see that it is better for all parties to give it up at once.” - -“I shall never give it up.” - -“Pooh! one nail drives out another. You don’t seem to have been a -miracle of constancy in your previous relationships. Good morning. I -trust to hear soon that you have made as satisfactory a settlement of -other claims.” - - - - -CHAPTER X. - - -Other claims! What other claims? Aubrey Leigh went out of the office in -Pall Mall with these words circling through his mind. They seemed to -have nothing to do with that which occupied him, which filled every -thought. His dazed memory and imagination caught them up as he went -forth in the fury of suppressed anger, and the dizzy, stifled sensation -of complete failure. He had felt sure, even when he felt least sure, -that when it was possible to tell his tale fully, miserable story as it -was, the man to whom he humbled himself thus, not being a recluse or a -mere formalist--a man of the world--would at least, to some degree, -understand and perceive how little real guilt there might be even in -such a fault as he had committed. It was not a story which could be -repeated in a woman’s ears; but a man, who knew more or less what was in -man--the momentary lapses, the sudden impulses, the aberrations of -intolerable trouble, sorrow, and despair----. Aubrey did not take into -account the fact that there are some men to whom such a condition as -that into which he himself had fallen in the desolation of his silent -house--when death came a second time within the sad year, and his young -soul felt in the first sensation of despair that he could not bear it; -that he was a man signalled out by fate, to whom it was vain to -struggle, to whom life was a waste and heaven a mockery--was -inconceivable. Colonel Kingsward was certainly not a man like that. He -would have said to himself that the mother being gone it was only a -blessing and advantage that the child should go too, and he would have -withdrawn himself decorously to his London lodgings and his club, and -his friends would all have said that it was on the whole a good thing -for him, and that he was young, and his life still before him. So, -indeed, they had said of Aubrey, and so poor Aubrey had proved for -himself. Had there not been that terrible moment behind him, that -intolerable blackness and midnight of despair, in which any hand that -gripped his could lead him till the light of morning burst upon him, and -showed him whither in his misery he had been led! - -Satisfy other claims? The words blew like a noxious wind through his -brain. He laughed to himself softly as he went along. What claims had he -to satisfy? He had done all that honour and scorn could do to satisfy -the harpy who had dug her claws into his life. Should he try to -propitiate her with other gifts? No, no! That would be but to prolong -the scandal, to give her a motive for continuance, to make it appear -that he was in her power. He was in her power, alas, fatally as it -proved, if it should be so that she had made an end of the happiness of -his life. She had blighted the former chapter of that existence, -bringing out all that was petty in the poor little bride over whom she -had gained so complete an ascendancy, showing her husband Amy’s worst -side, the aspect of her which he might never have known but for that -fatal companion ever near. And now she had ruined him altogether--ruined -him as in old stories the Pamelas of the village were ruined by a -villain who took advantage of their simplicity. What lovely woman who -had stooped to folly could be more ruined than this unhappy young man? -He laughed to himself at this horrible travesty of that old familiar -eighteenth century tale. This was the _fin de siecle_ version of it, he -supposed--the version in which it was the designing woman who seized -upon the moment of weakness and the man who suffered shipwreck of -everything in consequence. There was a horrible sort of ridicule in it -which wrought poor Aubrey almost to madness. When the woman is the -victim, however sorely she may be to blame for her own disgrace, a sort -of pathos and romance is about her, and pity is winged with indignation -against the man who is supposed to have taken advantage of her weakness. -But when it is a man who is the victim! Then the mildest condemnation he -can look for is the coarse laugh of contempt, the inextinguishable -ridicule, to which even in fiction it is too great a risk to expose a -hero. He was no hero--but an unhappy young man fallen into the most -dreadful position in which man could be, shut out of all hope of ever -recovering himself, marked by the common scorn--no ordinary sinner, a -man who had profaned his own home, and all the most sacred prejudices of -humanity. He had felt all that deeply when he rushed from his house, a -man distraught not knowing where he went. And then morning and evening, -and the dews and the calm, and the freshness and elasticity inalienable -from youth had driven despair and horror away. He had felt it at last -impossible that all his life--a life which he desired to live out in -duty and kindness, and devotion to God and man--should be spoiled for -ever by his momentary yielding to a horrible temptation. He had thought -at first that he never could hold up his head again. But gradually the -impression had been soothed away, and he had vainly hoped that such a -thing might be left behind him and might be heard of no more. - -Now he was undeceived--now he was convinced that for what a man does he -must answer, not only at the bar of God, where all the secrets of the -heart are revealed, but also before men. There are times in which the -former judgment is more easy to think of than the latter--for God knows -all, everything that is in favour of the culprit, while men only know -what is against him. A man with sorrow in his heart for all his -shortcomings, can endure, upon his knees, that all-embracing gaze of -infinite understanding and pity. But to stand before men who -misconstrue, mis-see, misapprehend, how different a thing it is--who do -not know the end from the beginning, to whom the true balance and -perfect poise of justice is almost impossible--who can judge only as -they know, and who can know only the husk and shell of fact, the -external aspect of affairs by the side which is visible to them. All -these thoughts went through Aubrey’s mind as he went listlessly about -those familiar streets in their autumnal quiet, no crowd about, nothing -to interrupt the progress of the wayfarer. He went across the Green -Park, which is brown in the decadence of summer, almost as solitary as -if he had been in his own desolate glades at home. London has a -soothing effect sometimes on such a still, sunny autumn day, when it -seems to rest after the worry and heat and strain of all its frivolity -and folly. The soft haze blurs all the outlines, makes the trees too -dark and the sky too pale; yet it is sunshine and not fog which wraps -the landscape, even that landscape which lies between Pall Mall and -Piccadilly. It soothed our young man a little in the despair of his -thoughts. Surely, surely at eight-and-twenty everything could not be -over. Bee would in a year or two be the mistress of her own actions. She -was not a meek girl, to be coerced by her father. She would judge for -herself in such a dreadful emergency. After all that had passed, the -whole facts of the case would have to be submitted to her, which was a -thought that enveloped him as in flames of shame. Yet she would judge -for herself, and her judgment would be more like that of heaven than -like that of earth. A kind of celestial ray gleamed upon him in this -thought. - -And as for these other claims--well, if any claim were put forth he -would not shrink--would not try to compromise, would not try to hide -his shame under piles of gold. Now he had no motive for concealment, he -would face it out and have the question set straight in the eye of day. -To be sure, for a man to accuse a woman is against the whole -conventional code of honour. To accuse all women is the commonplace of -every day; but to put the blame of seduction upon one is what a man dare -not do save in the solitude of his chamber--or in such a private -inquisition as Aubrey had gone through that day. This is one of the -proofs that there is much to be said on both sides, and that it is the -unscrupulous of either side who has the most power to humble and to -destroy. But the bravado did him good for the moment--let her make her -claim, whatever that claim was, and he would meet it in the face of day! - -Other ideas came rapidly into Aubrey’s mind when he strolled listlessly -into his club, and almost ran against the friend in whose house he had -first met Colonel Kingsward, and through whom consequently all that had -afterwards happened had come about. “Fairfield!” he cried, with a gleam -of sudden hope in his eyes. - -“Leigh! You here?--I thought you were philandering on the banks of--some -German river or other. Well! and so I hear I have to congratulate you, -my boy--and I’m sure I do so with all my heart----” - -You might have done so a week ago, and I should have responded with all -mine. But you see me fallen again on darker days. Fate’s against me, it -seems, in every way.” - -“Why, what’s the matter?” cried his friend. “I expected to see you -triumphant. What has gone wrong? Not settlements already, eh?” - -“Settlements! They are free to make what settlements they like so far as -I am concerned.” - -“Kingsward’s a very cool hand, Aubrey. You may lose your head if you -like, but he always knows what he is about. You are an excellent -match----” - -“You think so,” said poor Aubrey, with a laugh. “Not badly off; a mild, -domestic fellow, with no devil in me at all. - -“I should not exactly say that. A man is no man without a spice of the -devil. Why, what’s the matter? Now I look at you, instead of a -victorious lover, you have the most miserable hang-dog----” - -“Hang-dog, that is it--a rope’s end, and all over. Hang it, no! I am not -going to give in. Fairfield, I don’t want to speak disrespectfully of -any woman.” - -“Is it Mrs. Kingsward who is too young, herself, to think of enacting -the part of mother-in-law so soon as this?” - -“Mrs. Kingsward is a sort of an angel, Fairfield, if it were not -old-fashioned to say so--and, alas, I fear, she will not enact any part -long, which is so much the worse for me.” - -“You don’t say so! That pretty creature, with all her pretty ways, and -her daughter just the same age as she! Poor Kingsward. Aubrey, if a man -shows a little impatience with your raptures in such circumstances, I -don’t think you ought to be hard upon him.” - -“I don’t believe he knows what are the circumstances, nor any of them. -It is not from that cause, Fairfield. You know Miss Lance, poor Amy’s -friend----” - -Once more he grew hot all over as he named her name, and turned his face -from his friend’s gaze. - -“Remember her! I should think so, and all you had to bear on that point, -old man. We have often said, Mary and I, that if ever there was a -hero----” - -“Fairfield! they have got up a tale that it was I who kept her at -Forest-leigh against poor Amy’s will, and that my poor wife’s life was -made miserable by my attentions to that fi----.” Fiend he would have -said, but he changed it to “woman,” which meant to him at that moment -the same thing. - -Fairfield stared for a moment--was he taking a new idea into his -commonplace mind? Then he burst into a loud laugh. “You can call the -whole county to bear witness to that,” he cried. “Attentions! Well, I -suppose you were civil, which was really more than anyone expected from -you.” - -“You know, and everybody knows, what a thorn in the flesh it was. My -poor Amy! Without that, there would have been no cloud on our life, and -it all arose from her best qualities, her tender heart, her -faithfulness----” - -A dubious shade came over Fairfield’s face. “Yes, no doubt; and Miss -Lance’s flattery and blandishments. Aubrey, I don’t mind saying it now -that you are well quit of her--that was a woman to persuade a fellow -into anything. I should no more have dared to keep her--especially -after--in my house, and to expose myself to her wiles----” - -“They never were wiles for me,” said Aubrey, again turning his head -away. It was true, true--far more true than the fatal contradiction of -it, which lay upon his heart like a stone. “I never came nearer to -hating any of God’s creatures than that woman. She made my life a burden -to me. She took my wife from me----. She---- I needn’t get dithyrambic -on the subject; you all know.” - -“Oh, yes, we all know; but you were too soft-hearted. You should have -risked a fit of tears from poor Mrs. Leigh--excuse me for saying so -now--and sent her away.” - -“I tried it a dozen times. Poor Amy would have broken her heart. She -threatened even to go with her. And they say women don’t make -friendships with each other!” - -Fairfield shrugged his shoulders a little. “I suffer myself from my -wife’s friends,” he said; “there’s always some ‘dear Clara’ or other -putting the table out of joint, making me search heaven and earth when -there’s anybody to dinner to find an odd man. But Mary has some----” -Sense, he was going to say, but stopped short. Mrs. Fairfield was one of -those who had concluded long ago that dear Amy was a little goose, taken -sad advantage of by her persistent friend. - -“Fairfield,” said Aubrey, “you could do me a great service if you would. -Colonel Kingsward has just told me that he can’t send out a royal -commission to examine my friends on this subject. You see him sometimes, -I suppose. I know you belong to one of his clubs. Still more, he’s at -his office all the morning, and you know him well enough to look in upon -him there.” - -“Well?” said Fairfield, dubiously. - -“Couldn’t you stretch a point for my sake, and go--and tell him the real -state of affairs in respect to Miss Lance, and how untrue it is, how -ridiculously untrue, that she was kept at Forest-leigh by any will of -mine? Why, it was a thing, as you have just said, that all the county -knew! An infatuation--and nothing less than the bane of my whole -married life.” - -“Yes, I know--everybody thought so,” Mr. Fairfield said. That new -idea--was it perhaps germinating faintly in his mind?--no one had -thought of any other explanation, but yet----” - -“If you were only to say so--only as much as that--that all my friends -recognised the state of the case.” - -“I could say that,” said Fairfield, with hesitation. “Don’t think me -unfriendly, Aubrey, but it’s a little awkward for a man to interfere in -another man’s affairs, and it’s not only your affairs that I know so -well, but you see Kingsward’s too----” - -“I am aware of that, Fairfield; still, to break off what I believe in my -heart would be for his daughter’s happiness too----” - -“To be sure there’s the young lady to be taken into consideration,” said -Fairfield, dubiously. - -It will be as well to carry this incident to its completion at once. Mr. -Fairfield at the last allowed himself to be convinced, and he went that -afternoon to the club, to which he still belonged by some early -military experiences, and where Colonel Kingsward was one of those who -ruled supreme. He knew exactly when to find him at the club, where he -strolled in after leaving his office, to refresh himself with a cup of -tea, or something else in its place. The intercessor went up to the -table at which the Colonel sat with the evening paper, and conversed for -a little on the topics of the day. After these had been run over, and -the prospects of war slightly discussed--for Colonel Kingsward had not -much respect for Mr. Fairfield’s opinion on that subject--the latter -gentleman said abruptly-- - -“I say, Kingsward, I am very sorry to hear there is some hitch in the -marriage which I was so glad to hear of last week.” - -“Ah, oh! So Leigh has been with you, I presume?” the Colonel replied. - -“Yes; and, upon my life, Colonel, there is not a word of truth in any -talk you may have heard about that Miss Lance----. We all know quite -well the whole business. You should hear Mary on the subject. Of course, -he can’t say to you, poor fellow, that his first wife was a little -queer, and that that woman made her her slave.” - -“No; it wasn’t to be expected that he would tell me that.” - -“But it’s true. She got completely the upper hand of that poor little -thing. The husband had no influence. I believe he hated her--like the -devil.” - -“You think so,” said the Colonel, with a strange smile, “yet it is a -curious thing that he endured her all the same, and also that a wife -should insist so in keeping another woman in her husband’s constant -company--and an attractive woman, as I hear.” - -“Oh! a devil of a woman,” cried Fairfield. “I was telling Aubrey I -should no more have ventured to expose myself to her blandishments----. -One of those sort of women, you know, that you cannot abide, yet who can -turn you round their little finger.” - -“And what did he say to that?” the Colonel asked, still with that smile. - -“Oh, he said she never had any charm for him--and I believe it--for what -with poor little Mrs. Leigh’s whims and vagaries, and the other’s -flatteries and adulation and complete empire over her, his life was -made a burden to him. You should hear Mary on that subject--none of the -ladies could keep their patience.” - -“Yet it appears Mr. Aubrey Leigh kept his---- until he got tired,” said -the Colonel. “Believe me, Fairfield, when there is such an unnatural -situation as that, there must be more in it than meets the eye.” - -Fairfield, a good, steady soul, who generally had his ideas suggested to -him, went away very serious from that interview. It was very strange -indeed that a woman should prefer her friend to her husband, and make -things wretched for him in order to keep her comfortable--it was very -curious that with a woman so much superior to Amy in the house, a woman -of the kind that turn men’s heads, that mild Aubrey Leigh, who was not -distinguished for force of character, should have never sought a -moment’s relief with her from poor Mrs. Leigh’s querulousness. Fairfield -accelerated his departure by an hour or two in order not to meet Aubrey -again before he had poured those strange doubts and suggestions into his -own Mary’s ears. - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - - -The party of travellers whose progress had hitherto been like that of a -party of pleasure, who had been interested in everything they saw, and -hailed every new place with delight, as if that had been the haven of -all their hopes, travelled home from Cologne in a very different spirit. -For one thing, it could not be concealed that Mrs. Kingsward was ill, -which was a thing that she herself and the whole family stoutly, one -standing by another, had hitherto been able to deny. She had not gone -far, not an hour’s journey, when she had to abandon her seat by the -window--where it had always been her delight to “see the country,” and -point out every village to her children--and lie down upon the temporary -couch which Moulsey prepared for her with shawls and cushions along one -side of the carriage. She cried out against herself as “self-indulgent” -and “lazy,” but she did not resist this arrangement. It effectually took -any pleasure that there might have been out of the journey: for Bee, as -may be supposed, though she was not melancholy, and would not admit, -even to Betty, in the closest confidence, that she was at all afraid of -the ultimate issue, was certainly self-absorbed, and glad not to be -called upon to notice the scenery, but allowed to subside into a corner -with her own thoughts. Charlie was in the opposite corner, exceedingly -glum, and not conversible. Bee would not speak to him or look at him, -and even Betty, that little thing, had said, “Oh, Charlie, how could you -be so nasty to Aubrey?” for her sole salutation that morning. He was not -sure even that his mother, though he had stood on her side and backed -her up, was pleased with him for it. She talked to him, it is true, -occasionally, and made him do little things for her, but rather in the -way in which a mother singles out the pariah of the family, the one who -is boycotted for some domestic offence, to show him that all are not -against him, than in the tone which is used to a champion and defender. -So it was not wonderful that Charlie was glum; but to see him in one -corner, biting or trying to bite the few hairs that he called his -moustache, with his brows bent down to his chin, and his chin sunk in -the collar of his coat--and Bee in another, very different--indeed, her -face glorified with dreams, and her eyes full of latent light, ready to -flash at out any moment--was not cheerful for the others. - -Mrs. Kingsward looked at them from one to another, and at little Betty -between busied in a little book, with that baffled feeling which arises -in the mind of a delicate woman when the strong individualities and -wills of her children become first developed before her, after that time -of their youth when all were guided by her decision, and mamma’s leave -was asked for everything. How fierce, how self-willed, how determined in -his opposition Charlie looked like his father, not to be moved by -anything! And Bee, how possessed by those young hopes of her own, which -the mother knew would be of no avail against the fiat gone forth against -her! Mrs. Kingsward knew her husband better than her children did. She -knew that having taken up his position he would not give in. And Bee, -with all that light of resistance in her eyes--Bee as little willing to -give in as he! The invalid trembled when she thought of the clash of -arms that would resound over her head--of the struggle which would rend -her cheerful house in two. She did not at all realise that the cheerful -days of that house were numbered--that soon it would be reduced into its -elements, as a somewhat clamorous, restless, too energetic brood of -children, with a father very self-willed, who hitherto had known nothing -of them but as happy and obedient creatures, whose individual -determinations concerned games and lessons, and who, so far as the -conduct of life was affected, were of no particular account. Mrs. -Kingsward was not yet aware that this was the dolorous prospect before -her household; she only thought, “How am I to manage them all?” and felt -her heart fail before Charlie’s ill humour and _parti pris_, and before -the bright defiance in Bee’s eyes. Poor Aubrey, whom she had learned to -look upon as one of her own, half a son, and half a brother--poor -Aubrey, who had gone so wrong, and yet had so many excuses for him, a -victim rather than a seducer--what was happening to Aubrey this fine -September morning? It made her heart sick in her bosom as she thought of -all these newly-raised conflicting powers, and she so little able to -cope with them. If she did not get strong soon, what would all these -children do? Charlie would go back to college, and would be out of it. -He had so strong a will, and was so determined to get on, that little -harm would happen to him--and besides, he was entirely in accord with -his father, which was a great matter. But Bee--Bee! It seemed to Mrs. -Kingsward that it was on the cards that Bee might take matters into her -own hands, and run away with her lover, if her father would not yield. -What else was there for these young creatures? Mrs. Kingsward knew that -she herself would have done so in the circumstances had _her_ lover -insisted; and she knew that he would no more have consented to such a -sentence--never, never!--than he had done to anything he disliked all -his life. And Bee was like him, though she had never hitherto been -anything but an obedient child. Mrs. Kingsward could not help picturing -to herself, as she lay there, the elopement--Bee’s room found empty in -the morning, the note left on the table, the so easy, so certain -explanation, which already she felt herself to be reading. And then her -husband’s wrath, his unalterable verdict on the criminal “never to enter -this house again!” Poor mother! She foresaw, as we all do, tortures for -herself, which she was never to be called upon to bear. - -As for Betty, it was the most tiresome journey in all her little -experiences. A long journey was generally fun to Betty. The scuffle of -getting away, of seeing that all the little packets were right, of -abusing Moulsey for hiding away the luncheon basket under the rugs and -the books in some locked bag, the trouble of securing a compartment, -arranging umbrellas and other things in the vacant seats to make believe -that every place was full, the watch at every station to prevent the -intrusion of strangers, the running from one side to another to see the -pretty village or old castle, or the funny people at the country -stations and the queer names--the luncheon in the middle of the day, -which was as good as a pic-nic--all these things much diverted Betty, -who loved the rapid movement through the air, and to feel the wind on -her face; but none of these delights were to be had to-day. She was in -one of the middle places, between Charlie, so glum and in a temper, and -Bee, lost in her own thoughts and without a word to say, and opposite to -mamma, who was so much more serious than usual, giving little Betty a -smile from time to time, but not able to speak loud enough to be heard -through the din of the train. She tried to read her book but it was not -a very interesting book, and it was short too, and evidently would not -last out half the journey. Betty was the only member of the party who -had a free mind. The commotion of the romance between Bee and Aubrey had -been pure amusement to her. It would be a bore if it did not end in a -speedy marriage, with all the excitement of the presents, the -trousseau, the dresses (especially the bridesmaids’ dresses), the -wedding day itself, the increased dignity of Betty as Miss Kingsward, -the pleasure of talking of “my married sister,” the pleasure of visiting -Bee, in her own house, and sharing all her grandeur as a county lady. To -miss all this would be a real trial, but Betty had confidence in the -fitness of things, and felt it was impossible that she should miss all -this. And she was at ease in her little mind, and the present dreariness -of this unamusing, unattractive journey hung all the more heavy upon her -consciousness now. - -They arrived next day, having slept at Brussels to break the journey for -Mrs. Kingsward, and the Colonel met them, as in duty bound, at Victoria. -He gave Charlie his hand, and allowed Bee and Betty to kiss him, but his -whole attention, as was natural, was for his wife. - -“You look dreadfully tired,” he said, with that half-tone of offence in -which a man shows his disappointment at the aspect of an invalid. “You -must have been worried on the journey to look so tired.” - -“Oh, no, I have not been at all worried on the journey--they have all -been so good, sparing me every fatigue; but it is a tiresome long way, -Edward, you know.” - -“Yes, of course, I know: but I never saw you look so tired before.” He -cast a reproachful look round upon the young people, who were all ready -to stand on the defensive. “You must have bothered your mother to -death,” he said. “I am sorry I did not come out for her myself--undoing -all the effect of her cure.” - -“Oh, you will see, I shall be all right when I get home,” Mrs. Kingsward -said, cheerfully. “As for the children, Edward, they have all been as -good as gold.” - -“You had better see to the luggage and bring your sisters home in a cab. -I can’t let mamma hang about here,” said the Colonel, in his peremptory -way. “Moulsey will come with us. I suppose you three have brains enough -to manage by yourselves?” - -Thus insulting his grown-up children, among whom a flame of indignation -lighted up, partially burning away their difficulties between -themselves, Colonel Kingsward half carried his wife to the carriage. “I -thought at first I should have waited at Kingswarden till you came back. -I am glad I changed my mind and came back to Harley Street,” he said. - -“Oh, is it to Harley Street we are going?” said Mrs. Kingsward, faintly. -“I had rather hoped for the country, Edward.” - -“You don’t look much like another twenty miles of a journey,” said her -husband. - -“Well, perhaps not. I own I shall be glad to be quiet,” the poor lady -said. What he wished had always turned out after a moment to be just -what his wife wished for all the years of their union. She even meekly -accepted the fact that the children--the nursery children, as they were -called--the little ones, who were no trouble but only a refreshment and -delight, would have been too much for her that first night. Secretly, -she had been looking forward to the touch and sight of her placid -smiling baby as the one thing that would do her good--and all those -large wet kisses of Johnny and Tommy and Lucy and little Margaret, and -the burst of delighted voices at the sight of mamma. “Yes, I believe it -would have been too much for me,” she said, with a look aside at -Moulsey, who, as on many a previous occasion, would dearly have loved to -box her master’s ears. “And I _do_ believe it would have been too much -for me,” Mrs. Kingsward added, when that confidential attendant put her -to bed. - -“Perhaps it would, ma’am,” Moulsey said. “They would have made a noise, -bless them--and baby will not go to anyone when he sees me--and -altogether I shall be more fit for them, Moulsey, after a good night’s -rest----” - -“If you get that, you poor dear,” said Moulsey, under her breath. But -her mistress did not hear that remark any more than many others which -Moulsey made in her own mind, always addressed to that mistress whom she -loved. “If he said dying would be good for you, you would say you were -sure of it, and that was what you wanted most,” the maid said within -herself. - -It must not, however, be supposed from this that Colonel Kingsward was -not a good husband. He had always been like a lover, though a somewhat -peremptory one, to his wife. And without him her young, gay, -pleasure-loving ways, her love of life and amusement might have made her -a much less successful personage, and not the example of every virtue -that she was. Had Mrs. Kingsward had the upper hand, the family would -have been a very different family, and its career probably a very -broken, tumultuous, happy-go-lucky career. It was that strong hand which -had controlled and guided her, which had been, as people say, the making -of Mrs. Kingsward; and though she feared his severity in the present -crisis, she yet felt the most unspeakable relief from the baffled, -helpless condition in which she had looked at her children, feeling -herself all unable to cope with them in the presence of papa. - -“I wonder if he thinks we are cabbages,” was Bee’s indignant exclamation -as he turned his back upon them. - -“Apparently,” said Charlie, coming a little out of his sullenness. “Look -here, you girls, get into this omnibus--happily we’ve got an -omnibus--with the little things, while I go to the Custom House to get -the luggage through.” - -“Betty, you get in,” said Bee. “I will go with you, Charlie, for I have -got mamma’s keys.” - -“Can’t you give them to me?” Charlie cast a gloomy look about, thinking -that Leigh might perhaps be somewhere awaiting a word, a thought which -now for the first time traversed Bee’s mind, too. - -“Then, Betty, you had better go with him, for he doesn’t know half the -boxes,” she said. - -“Oh, you can come yourself if you like,” said Charlie, feeling in that -case that this was the safest arrangement after all. - -“No, Betty had better go. Betty, you know Moulsey’s box and that new -basket that mamma brought me before we left the Baths.” - -“Come along yourself, quick, Bee.” - -“No, I shall stop in the omnibus.” - -“When you have made up your minds,” cried Betty, who had slipped out of -the vehicle at the first word. Betty thought it would be more fun to go -through the Custom House than to wait all the time cooped up here. - -And Bee had her reward; for Aubrey was there, waiting at a distance -till the matter was settled. “I should have risked everything and come, -even if the penalty had been a quarrel with Charlie,” Aubrey said, “but -I must not quarrel with anyone if I can help it. We shall have hard work -enough without that.” - -“You have seen papa?” - -“Yes, I have seen him: but I have not done myself much good, I fear,” -said Aubrey, shaking his head. “Bee, you won’t give me up whatever they -may say?” - -“Give you up? Never, Aubrey, till you give me up!” - -“Then all is safe, my darling. However things look now they can’t hold -out for ever. Lies must be found out, and then--in time--you will be -able to act for yourself.” - -“Do you think papa will stand to it like that, Aubrey?” - -Aubrey shook his head. He did not make any reply. - -“Tell me. Is it a lie?” she said. - -He bent down his head upon her hand, kissing it. - -“Not all,” he said, in an almost inaudible voice. “ I said that--at -Cologne----” - -“I did not understand,” said Bee. “No; it does not matter to me, -Aubrey--not so very much; but if you promised----” - -“I never promised--never! My only thought was to escape----” - -“Then I can’t think what you have done wrong. Aubrey, is she tall, with -dark hair, and beautiful dark eyes, and a way of looking at you as if -she would look you through and through?” - -“Bee!” he said, gripping her fast, as if someone had been about to decoy -her away. - -“And a mouth,” said Bee, “that is very pretty, but looks as if it were -cut out of steel? Then, I have seen her. She sat down by me one day in -the wood, when I was doing that sketch, and gave me such clever hints, -telling me how to finish it, till she made me hate it, don’t you know. -Is she horribly clever, and a good artist? and like that----” - -“Bee! What did that woman say to you?” - -“Nothing very much. Asked me about the people at the hotel, and if there -were any Leighs--not you, she pretended, but the Leighs of Hurst-leigh, -whom she knew. I thought it very strange at the time why she should ask -about the Leighs without knowing anything--and then I forgot all about -it. But to-day it came back to my mind, and I have been thinking of -nothing else. Aubrey--she is older than you are?” - -“Yes,” he said. - -“And she made you promise to marry her?” said Bee, half unconscious yet -half conscious of that wile of the cross-examiner, coming back to the -point suddenly. - -“Never, Bee, never for one moment in my misery! That I should have to -make such a confession to you!--but there was no promise nor thought of -a promise. I desired nothing--nothing but to escape from her. You don’t -doubt my word, Bee?” - -“No; I don’t doubt anything you say. But I think she is a dreadful woman -to get anybody in her power, Aubrey. My little drawing was for you. It -was the place we first met, and she told me how to do it and make it -look so much better. I am not very clever at it, you know; and then I -hated the very sight of it, and tore it in two. I don’t know why.” - -“I understand why. Bee, you will be faithful to me, whatever you are -told?” - -“Till I die, Aubrey.” - -“And never, never believe that for a moment my heart will change from -you.” - -“Not till I hear it from yourself,” she said, with a woeful smile. The -despair in him communicated itself to her, who had not been despairing -at all. - -“Which will never be--and when you are your own mistress, my -darling----” - -“Oh, we shan’t have to wait for that!” she cried, with a burst of her -native energy. “Dear Aubrey, they are coming back; you must go away.” - -“Till we meet again, darling?” - -“Till we meet again!” - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - - -Bee stole into her mother’s room as she went upstairs before that first -dinner at home which used to be such a joyous meal. How they had all -enjoyed it--until now. The ease and space, the going from room to room, -the delight in finding everything with which they were familiar, the -flowers in the vases (never were any such flowers as those at home!), -the incursions of the little ones shouting to each other, “Mamma’s come -home!” Even the little air of disorder which all these interruptions -brought into the orderly house was delightful to the young people. They -looked forward as to an ideal life, to beginning all their usual -occupations again and doing them all better than ever. “Oh, how nice it -is to be at home!” the girls had said to each other. Instead of those -hotel rooms, which at their best are never more than hotel rooms, a -_genre_ not to be mistaken, how delightful was the drawing-room at home, -with all its corners--Bee’s little table where she muddled at her -drawings, mamma’s great basket of needlework where everything could be -thrown under charitable cover, Betty’s stool on which she sat at the -feet of her oracle of the moment, whoever that might be, and all the -little duties to be resumed--the evening papers arranged for papa (as if -he had not seen enough of them in the daytime in his office!), the -flowers to see after, the little notes to write, all the pleasant -common-places of the home life. But to-night, for the first time, dinner -was a silent meal, hurried over--not much better than a dinner at a -railway station, with a sensation in it of being still on the road, of -not having yet reached their destination. The drawing-room was in brown -holland still, for they were all going on to Kingswarden to-morrow. The -house felt formal, uninhabited, as if they had come home to lodgings. -All this was bad enough; but the primary trouble of all was the fact -that mamma was upstairs--gone to bed before dinner, too tired to sit up. -Such a thing had never happened before. However tired she was, she had -always so brightened up at the sensation of coming home. - -And papa, though kind, was very grave. The happiness of getting his -family back did not show in his face and all his actions as it generally -did. Colonel Kingsward was very kind as a father, and very tender as a -husband; the severity of his character showed little at home. His wife -was aware of it, and so were the servants, and Charlie, I think, had -begun to suspect what a hand of iron was covered by that velvet glove. -But the girls had never had any occasion to fear their father. Bee -thought that the additional gravity of his behaviour was owing to -herself and her introduction of a new individual interest into the -family; so that, notwithstanding a touch of indignation, with which she -felt the difference, she was timid and not without a sense of guilt -before her father. Never had she been rebellious or disobedient before; -and she was both now, determined not to submit. This made her -self-conscious and rather silent; she who was always overflowing with -talk and fun and the story of their travels. Colonel Kingsward did not -ask many questions about that. What he did ask was all about “your -mother.” - -“She is not looking so well as when she went away,” he said. - -“Oh, papa, it’s only because she’s so tired,” cried little Betty. Betty -taking upon her to answer papa, to take the responsibility upon her -little shoulders! But Bee felt as if she could not say anything. - -“Do you really think so?” he said, turning to that confident little -speaker--to Betty. As if Betty could know anything about it! But Bee -seemed paralysed and could not speak. - -She stole, as I have said, into her mother’s room on her way upstairs, -but she had hardly time to say a word when papa came in to see if Mrs. -Kingsward had eaten anything, and how she felt now that she was -comfortably established in her own bed. It irritated Bee to feel herself -thus deprived of the one little bit of possible expansion, and stirred -her spirit. With her cheek to her mother’s, she said in her ear, “Mamma, -I saw Aubrey at the station,” with a thrill of pleasure and defiance in -saying that, though secretly, in her father’s presence. - -“Oh, Bee!” said Mrs. Kingsward, with a faint cry of alarm. - -“And he told me,” continued Bee, breathless in her whisper, “that papa -was firm against us.” - -“Bee! Bee!” - -“And we promised each other we should never, never give up, whatever -anyone might say.” - -“Oh, child, how dare you, how dare you?” Mrs. Kingsward said. - -How Bee’s heart beat! What an enlivening, inspiriting strain of -opposition came into her mind, making her cheeks glow and her eyes -flame! The whisper was, perhaps, a child’s device, perhaps a woman’s -weakness, but it exhilarated her beyond description to say all this in -the very presence of her father. There was a sensation of girlish -mischief in it as well as defiance, which relieved all the heavier -sentiments that had weighed down her heart. - -“What are you saying to your mother, Bee? She must not be disturbed. Run -away and let her rest. If we are to go back to Kingswarden to-morrow she -must get all the rest that is possible now.” - -“I was never the one to disturb mamma,” said Bee, bestowing another kiss -on her mother’s cheek. - -“Oh, be a good child, Bee!” pleaded Mrs. Kingsward, almost without -sound; for by this time the Colonel was hovering over the bed, with a -touch of suspicion, wondering what was going on between these two. - -“Yes, mamma dear, always,” said Bee, aloud. - -“What is she promising, Lucy? And what were you saying to her? Bee -should know better at her age than to disturb you with talk.” - -“Oh, nothing, Edward. She was only giving me a kiss, and I told her to -be a good child--as I am always doing; thinking to be heard, you know, -for so much speaking,” the mother said, with a soft laugh. - -“Bee has always been a sufficiently good child. I don’t think you need -trouble yourself on that point. The thing is for you to get well, my -dear, and keep an easy mind. Don’t trouble about anything; leave all -that to me, and try and think a little about yourself.” - -“I always do, Edward,” she said with a smile. - -He shook his head, but agitation had brought a colour to her cheeks, and -to persuade one’s-self that it is only fatigue that makes a beloved face -look pale is so easy at first, before any grave alarm has been roused. -Yet, Colonel Kingsward’s mind was not an easy one that night. He was _au -fond_, a severe man, very rigid as to what he thought his duty, taking -life seriously on the whole. His young wife, who loved pleasure, had -made him far more a man of society than was natural or indeed pleasing -to him; but he had thus got into that current which it is so difficult -to get out of without a too stern withdrawal, and his large young family -had warmed his heart and dressed his aspect in many smiles and graces -which did not belong to him by nature. The mixture of the rigid and the -yielding had produced nothing but good effects upon his character till -now. But there is no telling what a man is till the first conflict of -wills arises in his own household. Hitherto there had been nothing of -the kind. His children had amused him and pleased him and made him -proud. Their health, their prettiness, their infantile gaiety and -delight in every favour accorded to them had been all so many tributes -to his own supreme influence and power. Their very health was a standing -compliment to his own health and vigour, from whom they took their -excellent constitutions, and to the wonderful care and attention to -every law of health which he enforced in his house. Not a drain escaped -trapping, not a gas was left undisposed of where Colonel Kingsward was. -He had every new suggestion in his nursery that sanitary science could -bring up. “And look at the result!” he was in the habit of saying. Not a -pale face, not a headache, not an invalid member there. And among the -children he was as the sun in his splendour. Every delight rayed out -from him. The hour of his coming home was watched for; it was the -greatest treat for the little boys to go in the dogcart with Simmons, -the groom, to fetch papa from the station, while the others assembled at -the door as at a daily celebration to see him arrive. Charlie was now a -man grown, but he was a good boy, full of all right impulses, and there -had never been any difficulty with him. - -Thus Colonel Kingsward had been kept from all knowledge of those -contrarieties of nature which appear even in the most favoured regions. -He was of opinion that he surrounded his wife with every care, bore -everything for her, did not suffer the winds of heaven to visit her -cheek too roughly. And it was true. But he was not at all aware that she -saved him anything, or that his joyful omnipotence and security from -every fret and all opposition depended upon her more than on anything -else in the world. He did not know the little inevitable jars which she -smoothed away, the youthful wills growing into individuality which she -kept in check. Which was a pity, for the strong man was thus deprived of -the graces of precaution, and knew no more than the merest weakling -what, as his children grow into men and women, every man has to face and -provide against. If Colonel Kingsward was too arbitrary, too trenchant -in his measures, too certain that there was no will but his own to be -taken into account, the blame must thus be partially laid upon those -natural fictions of boundless love and duty and sweet affectionate -submission, which grow up in the nursery and reign as long as childhood -lasts--until a more potent force of self or will or love, comes in to -put the gentle dream to flight. - -It was thus that Colonel Kingsward considered the matter about Bee. It -had been, of course, necessary to cross Bee two or three times in her -life before. It had been necessary, or at least he had thought it -necessary, to send her to school; it had been thought expedient to keep -her back a year longer than she wished from appearing in the world. -These decisions had cost tears and a little struggle, but in a few days -Bee had forgotten all about them--or so, at least, her father thought. -And a lover--at nineteen--what was that but another plaything, a -novelty, a compliment, such as girls love? How could it mean anything -more serious? Why, Bee was a child--a little girl, an ornamental adjunct -to her mother, a sort of reflection, not to be detached for a long time -from that source of all that was delightful in her. Colonel Kingsward -had felt with a delighted surprise that the child and the mother did -“throw up” each other when he began to go out with them together. Bee’s -young beauty showing what mamma’s had been, and Mrs. Kingsward’s beauty -(so much higher and sweeter than any girl’s wild-rose bloom could be) -showing what in the after days her child would grow to. To cut these two -asunder for a stranger--another man, an intruding personality thrusting -himself between the child and her natural allegiance--was oppressive in -any shape. At the first word, indeed, and in the amusement furnished him -by the letters that had been poured upon him, Colonel Kingsward’s -consent had been given almost without thought. Aubrey Leigh was a good -match, he had a fine place, a valuable estate, and was well spoken of -among men. If Lucy was so absurd as to wish her daughter to marry; if -Bee, the silly child, was so foolish as to think of leaving her father’s -house for another, that was probably as good a one as she could have -chosen. I don’t know if fathers generally feel it a sort of desecration -when their young daughters marry. Some fathers do, and some brothers, as -if the creature pure by nature from all such thoughts were descending to -a lower place, and becoming such an one as themselves. Colonel Kingsward -was not, perhaps, visionary enough for such a view, yet he was slightly -shocked in his sentiment about the perfection of his own house by this -idea on his child’s part of leaving it for another. However, it was true -he had a very large family, and to provide so well for one of them at -the very outset of her career was a thing which was not to be despised. - -But when the second chapter of this romance, all so simple, so natural -in its first phase, opened out, and there appeared a dark passage -behind--a woman wronged who had a claim upon the man, a story, a -scandal--whether it were true or untrue!--Colonel Kingsward, in his -knowledge of the world, knew that it did not so much matter whether a -story was true or untrue. It stuck, anyhow; and years, generations -after, when, if false, it had been contradicted and exploded, and -acknowledged to be false, people still would shake their heads and say, -“Wasn’t there some story?” For this reason he was not very rigid about -the facts, part of which, at least, the culprit admitted. There was a -woman and there was a story, and all the explanations in the world could -not do away with these. What did it matter about the man? He, Colonel -Kingsward, was not Aubrey Leigh’s keeper. And as for Bee, there would be -some tears, no doubt, as when she was sent to school--a little passion -of disappointment, as when she was kept back for a whole year, from -seventeen to eighteen, in her “coming out”--but the tears and the -passion once over, things would go on the same as before. The little -girl would go back to her place, and all would be well. - -This was the man’s delusion, and perhaps it was a natural one, and he -was conscious of wishing to do the best thing for her, of saving her -from the after tortures which a wife has to endure whose husband has -proclivities towards strange women, and capabilities of being “led -away.” That was a risk that he could understand much better than she -could, at her age. The fellow might be proud of her, small blame to -him--he might strive to escape from disgraceful entanglements by such an -exceptionable connection as that of Colonel Kingsward, of Kingswarden, -Harley Street, and the Intelligence Department; he might be very much in -earnest and all that. He did not altogether blame the man; indeed, he -was willing enough to allow that he was not a bad fellow, and that he -was popular among his friends. - -But these were not enough in the case of a girl like Bee. And it was -certainly for her good that her father was acting. She had known the man -a month, what could he be to her in so short a time? This is the most -natural of questions, constantly asked, and never finding any sufficient -answer. Why should a girl in three or four weeks be so changed in all -her thoughts as to be ready to give up her father’s house, the place in -which she has all her associations, the company in which she has been -so happy, and go away to the end of the world, perhaps with a man whom -she has known only for a month? It is the commonest thing in the world, -but also the most mysterious, and Colonel Kingsward refused to believe -in it, as so many other fathers have done. Bee would cry, and her mother -would console her. She would fly into a childish passion, and struggle -against her fate--for a few days. She would swear that she would never, -never give up that new plaything, and the joy of parading it before the -other girls, who perhaps had not such toys to play with--but all that -nonsense would give way in a little to firm guidance and considerate -care, and the fresh course of amusement and pleasure which the winter -would bring. - -The winter is by no means barren to those who spend it habitually in -town. It has many distractions. There is the theatre, there are -Christmas gatherings without number, there are new dresses also to be -got for the same, perhaps a pretty new bonnet or two thrown in by a -penitent father, very sorry even in his own interests to give his -little girl pain. If all these pleasant things could not make up for the -loss of a man--of doubtful character, too--whom she had only known for a -month, Colonel Kingsward felt that it would be a strange thing indeed, -and altogether beyond his power to explain. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - - -It was not possible, however, to remove Mrs. Kingsward to Kingswarden -next day. She was too much fatigued even to leave her bed, and the -doctor who came to see her, her own familiar doctor who had sent her to -Germany to the celebrated bath, looked a little grave when he saw the -condition in which she had come home. “No fatigue, no excitement,” was -what he enjoined. She was to have nothing to excite, nothing to disturb -her--to go to the country? Oh, yes, but not for some days. To see the -children? Certainly, the children could not be kept from their mother; -but all in moderation, with great judgment, not too long at a time, not -too often. And above all she must not be worried. Nothing must be done, -nothing said to cross or vex her. When he heard from the Colonel a very -brief and studiously subdued version of a little family business which -had disturbed her--“I need not keep any secrets from you, doctor. The -fact is that someone wanted to marry my girl Bee, and that I made some -discoveries about him which obliged me to withdraw my consent.” The -doctor formed his lips into a whistle, to which he did not give vent. -“That accounts for it,” he said. - -“That accounts for--what?” cried Colonel Kingsward, not without -irritation. - -“For the state in which I find her. And mind my words, Kingsward, you’d -better let your girl marry anybody that isn’t a blackguard than risk -that sort of shock with your wife. Never forget that her life---- I mean -to say that she’s very delicate. Don’t let her be worried--stretch a -point--have things done as she wishes. You will find it pay best in the -end.” - -“For once you are talking nonsense, my dear fellow,” said Colonel -Kingsward; “my wife is not a woman who has ever been set upon having her -own way.” - -“Let her have it this time,” said the doctor, “and you’ll never repent -it. If she wants Bee to marry, let her marry. Bee is a dear little -thing, but her mother, Kingsward, her mother--is of far more consequence -to you than even she--” - -“That is a matter of course,” said Colonel Kingsward. “Lucy is of more -importance to me than all the world beside; but neither must I neglect -the interests of my child.” - -“Oh, bother the child,” cried the doctor, “let her have her lover; the -mother is what you must think of now.” - -“You seem tremendously in earnest, Southwood.” - -“So I am--tremendously in earnest. And don’t you work your mind on the -subject, but do what I say.” - -“Do you mean to say that my wife is in a--state of danger?” - -“I mean that she must be kept from worry--she must not be -contradicted--things must not be allowed to go contrary to her wishes. -Poor little Bee! I don’t say you are to let her marry a blackguard. But -don’t worry her mother about it--that is the chief thing I’ve got to -say.” - -“No, I shan’t worry her mother about it,” said the Colonel, shutting his -mouth closely as if he were locking it up. When Dr. Southwood was gone, -however, he stopped the two girls who were lingering about to know the -doctor’s opinion, and detaching Betty’s arm from about Bee’s waist drew -his eldest daughter into his study and shut the door. “I want to speak -to you, Bee,” he said. - -“Yes, papa.” In this call to her alone to receive some communication, -Bee, as may be imagined, jumped to a conclusion quite different from -what her father intended, and almost for the moment forgot mamma. - -“The doctor tells me that above everything your mother must be kept from -worry. Do you understand? In the circumstances it is extremely important -that you should know this.” - -“Papa,” she cried, half in indignation half in disappointment, “do you -think that I would worry her--in any circumstances?” - -“I think that girls of your age often think that no affairs are so -important as your own, and it is very likely that you may be of that -opinion, and I wish you to know what the doctor says.” - -“Is mamma--very ill?” Bee asked, bewildered. - -“He does not say so--only that she is not to be fretted or contradicted, -or disturbed about anything. I feel it necessary to warn you, Bee.” - -“Why me above the rest?” she cried. “Am I likely to be the one to worry -mamma?” - -“The others have no particular affairs of their own to worry her with. -There must be no private talks, no discussions, no endeavours to get her -upon what you may suppose to be your side.” - -Bee gave her father a glance of fire, but she felt that a little -prudence was necessary, and kept the tumult of feeling which was within -her as much as possible in her own breast. “I have always talked to -mamma of everything that was in my mind,” she said, piteously. “I don’t -know how I am to stop. She would wonder so if I stopped talking; and how -can I talk to her except of things that are in my mind?” - -“You must learn,” said the Colonel, “to think of her more than of -yourself.” He did not at all mean to prescribe to her a course of -conduct more elevated than that he meant to pursue himself, but then it -was only in action that he meant to carry out his purposes, he was not -afraid of committing himself in speech. - -Bee looked at him again with a gaze that asked a great many questions, -but she only answered, “I will try my very best, papa.” - -“If you do, I am sure you will succeed, my dear,” he said, in a gentler -tone. - -“Is that all?” she asked, hesitating. - -“That is all I want with you just now.” - -Bee turned away towards the door, and then she paused and made a step -back. - -“Papa!” - -“Yes, Bee.” - -“Would you mind telling me--I will not say a word to her--but oh, please -tell me--” - -“What is it?” said the Colonel. He went to his writing table, and -sitting down began to turn over his papers. His tone was slightly -impatient, his eyebrows slightly raised, as if in surprise. - -“Papa, you must know what it is. I know that you have seen--Mr. Leigh!” - -“How do you know anything about it? What have you to do with whom I have -seen? Run away. I do not mean to enter into any explanations on this -subject with you.” - -“Then with whom will you enter into explanations? You cannot speak to -mamma; she must not be worried. Papa, I am not a little girl now, to be -told to run away.” - -“You seem to be determined not to lose a moment in telling me so.” - -“I should not have told you so,” said Bee, looking at him over the high -back of his writing-table, “if you had not told me I was not to talk to -mamma.” - -He looked up at her, and their eyes met; both of them keenly, fiercely -blue, lit up with fires of combat. It is often imagined that blue eyes -are the softest eyes--but not by those who are acquainted with the kind -which belonged to the Kingswards, which might have been called -sapphires, if sapphires ever flash and cut the air as diamonds do. They -were not either so dark as sapphires--they were like nothing but -themselves, two pairs of blue eyes that might have been made to order, -so like were they to each other, and both blazing across that table as -if they would have set the house on fire. - -“That’s an excellent point,” he said. “I can’t deny it. What made you so -terrifically clever all at once?” - -There is nothing more stinging than to be called clever in the midst of -a discussion. Bee’s eyes seemed to set fire to her face, at least, which -flashed crimson upon her father’s startled sight. - -“When one has someone else to think of, someone’s interests to take care -of----” - -“Which are your own interests--and vastly more important than anything -which concerns your father and mother.” - -“I never said so--nor thought so, papa--but if they are different from -yours, that’s no reason,” said Bee, bold in words but faltering in -manner, “is it, why I should not think of them, if, as you say, they’re -my own interests, papa?” - -“You are very bold, Bee.” - -“What am I to do if I have no one to speak for me? Papa, Aubrey----” - -“I forbid you to speak with such familiarity of a man whom you have -nothing to do with, and whom you scarcely know.” - -“Papa, Aubrey--” cried Bee, with astonishment. - -Colonel Kingsward jumped up from his table in a fury of impatience. “How -dare you come and besiege me here in my own room with your Aubrey?--a -man whom you have not known a month; a stranger to the family.” - -“Papa, you must let me speak. You allowed me to be engaged to him. If -you had said ‘no’ at first, there might, perhaps, have been some reason -in it.” - -“Perhaps--some reason!” he repeated, with an angry laugh. - -“Yes, for even then it was not your own happiness that was in question. -It was I, after all, that was to marry him.” - -“And you think that is a reason for defying me?” - -“It is always said to be a reason--not for defying anybody--but for -standing up for what you call my own interests, papa--when they are -somebody else’s interests as well. You said we might be engaged--and we -were. And how can I let anyone, even you, say he is a stranger? He is my -_fiancé_. He is betrothed to me. We belong to each other. Whatever -anyone may say, that is the fact,” cried Bee, very rapidly, to get it -all out before she was interrupted. - -“It is not at all a cheerful or pleasant fact--if it changes my little -Bee, whom I thought I knew, to this flushed and brazen woman, fighting -for her----. Go, child, and don’t make an exhibition of yourself. Your -mother’s daughter! It is not credible--to assault me, your father, in my -own room, for the sake of----” - -“Papa! don’t you remember that it is said in the Bible you are not to -provoke your children to wrath? Mamma would have stood up for you, I -suppose, when she was engaged to you. I may be flushed,” cried Bee, -putting her hands to her blazing cheeks, “how could I help it? Forced to -talk to you, to ask you--on a subject that gives you a right to speak to -me, your own child, like that----” - -“I am glad you think I have a right to speak as the circumstances demand -to my own child,” said the Colonel, cooling down; “but why you should -be forced, as you say, to take up such an unbecoming and unwomanly -position is beyond my guessing.” - -“It is because I have no longer mamma to speak for me,” Bee said. - -The creature was not without skill. Now she came back to the point that -was not to be gainsaid. - -“We have had quite enough of this,” Colonel Kingsward replied. “Your -mother, as you are quite aware, never set up her will against mine. She -was aware, if you are not, that I knew the world better than she did, -and was more competent to decide. Your mother would never have stood up -to me as you have done.” - -“It would have been better, perhaps, sometimes, if she had,” cried Bee, -carried away by the tide of her excitement. Colonel Kingsward was so -astounded that he had scarcely power to be angry. He gazed at his -excited child with a surprise that was beyond words. - -“Oh, papa, papa! Forgive me! I never meant that; it came out before I -was aware.” - -“The thought must have been there or it could not have come out,” he -said. - -“Oh, no; there was no thought there. It may be so with you, but not with -us, papa. Words come into our mouths. We don’t think them; we don’t mean -to say--they only seem to--hook on to--something that went before; and -then they come out with a crash. Oh, forgive me, forgive me, papa!” - -“I suppose,” he said, with a half laugh, “that may be taken as a woman’s -exposition of her own style of argument.” - -“Don’t call me a woman,” she said, with her soft small voice, aggrieved -and wounded, drawing closer to him. “Oh, papa! I am only your little -girl after all.” - -“A naughty little girl,” he said, shaking his head. - -“And without mamma to speak for me,” added Bee. - -The Colonel laughed aloud. “You wily little natural lawyer!” he said; -but immediately became very grave, for underneath this burst of half -angry amusement Bee had given him a shock she did not know of. All -unaware of the edge of the weapons which she used with a certain -instinctive deftness, it did not occur to her that these words of hers -might penetrate not only deeper than she thought, but far deeper than -her own thoughts had ever gone. His wife’s worn face seemed suddenly to -appear before Colonel Kingsward’s eyes in a light which he had never -seen before, and the argument which this child used so keenly, yet so -ignorantly, pierced him like a knife. “Without mamma to speak for me!” -These words sounded very simple to Bee, a mischievous expedient to trap -him in the snare he had laid for her. But if the time should ever come -when they should be true! The Colonel was struck down by that arrow -flown at a venture. He went back to his table subdued, and sat down -there. “That will do,” he said, “that will do. Now run away and leave me -to my work, Bee.” - -She came up to him and gave him a timid kiss, which the Colonel accepted -quietly in the softening of that thought. She roamed about the table a -little, flicking off an imperceptible speck of dust with her -handkerchief, arranging some books upon the upper shelf of his bureau, -sometimes looking at him over that row of books, sometimes lingering -behind him as if doing something there. He did not interfere with her -movements for a few minutes, in the _attendrissement_ of his thoughts. -Without a mother to speak for her! Poor little girl, if that should ever -be so! Poor little children unconscious in their nursery crying for -mamma; and, oh, worse than all, himself without his Lucy, who had made -all the world sweet to him! He was a masterfull man, who would stand to -his arms in any circumstances, who would not give in even if his heart -was broken; but what a strange, dull, gloomy world it would be to him if -the children had no mother to speak for them! He made a sudden effort to -shake off that thought, and the first thing that recalled him to himself -was to hear Bee, having no other mischief, he supposed, to turn her hand -to, heaping coals upon the little bit of fire which had been lighted for -cheerfulness only. - -“Bee,” he cried, “are you still there? What are you doing? The room is -like an oven already, and you are making up a sort of Christmas fire.” - -“Oh, I am so sorry--I forgot,” cried Bee, putting down the shovel -hastily. “I thought it wanted mending--for you always like a good fire.” - -“Not in September,” he said, “and such weather; the finest we have had -since July. Come, cease this fluttering about--you disturb me--and I -have a hundred things to do.” - -“Yes, papa.” Bee’s little figure stole from behind him in the meekest -way. She stopped in her progress towards the door to give a touch to the -flowers on a side table; and then she went slowly on, going out. She had -got her hand upon the handle of the door, and Colonel Kingsward thanked -heaven he had got rid of her for the moment, when she turned round, -eyeing him closely again though keeping by that means of escape. “Papa,” -she said, softly, “after all the talk we have been having--you perhaps -don’t remember that--you have never--answered my question yet.” - -“What question?” he said sharply. - -Bee put her hands together like a child, she looked at him beseechingly, -coaxingly, like that child returning to its point, and then she said -still more softly, “About Aubrey, dear papa!” - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - - -I will not attempt to follow in detail the course of that autumn. It was -a fine season, and Mrs. Kingsward was taken to her home in the country -and recovered much of her lost health in the serene ending of the month -and the bright days of October, which was a model October--everything -that month ought to be. The trees had scarcely begun to take any -autumnal colouring upon them when they reached Kingswarden--a house -which stood among the Surrey hills; an old house placed not as modern -houses are, pitched upon hillsides, or at points where there is “a -view.” The old Kingswards had been moved by no such ridiculous modern -sentiments. They had planted their mansion in a sheltered spot, where it -would be safe from the winds that range over the country and all the -moorland heights. The gates opened upon a wild country road with an -extravagant breadth of green pathway and grassy bank on either -side--enough to have made a farmer swear, but very pleasant to the eye -and delightful to a horse’s feet, as well as to the pedestrians, whether -they were tramps or tourists, who walked or rode on bicycles--the latter -class only--from London to Portsmouth. The house was old, red, and -straggling, covered with multitudes of creepers. Sheets of purple -clematis--the Jackmanni, if anybody wishes to know; intolerable name for -such a royal garment of blossom--covered half-a-dozen corners, hanging -down in great brilliant wreaths over old ivy and straggling Virginia -creeper and the strong stalks of the climbing roses, which still bore -here and there a flower. Other sheets of other flowers threw themselves -about in other places as if at their own sweet will, especially the wild -exuberance of the Traveller’s Joy; though I need not say that this -wildness was under the careful eye of the gardener, who would not let it -go too far. I cannot attempt to tell how many other pleasant and -fragrant and flowery things there were which insisted on growing in that -luxurious place, even to the fastidious Highland creeper, which in that -autumn season was the most gay, luxuriant, and delightful of all. The -flowers abounded like the children, not to be checked, as healthy and as -brilliant, in the fine, peaty soil and pure air. The scent of the -mignonette, which in this late season straggled anywhere, seemed to fill -half the country round. The borders were crowned with those autumn -flowers which make up as well as they can for their want of sweetness by -lavish wealth of colour--the glowing single dahlias, which this -generation has had the good sense to re-capture from Nature after the -quilled and rosetted artificial things which the gardeners had -manufactured out of them, and the fine scarlet and blue of the salvias, -and the glory of all those golden tribes of the daisy kind that now make -our borders bright, instead of the old sturdy red geranium, which once -sufficed for all the supplies of autumn, an honest servant but a poor -lord. I prefer the sweetness of the Spring, when every flower has a soul -in it, and breathes it all about in the air, that is full of hope. But -as it cannot always be Spring, that triumph of bright hues is something -to mask the face of winter with until the time when the tortured and -fantastic chrysanthemum reigns alone. - -This was the sort of garden they had at Kingswarden; not shut off in a -place by itself, but bordering all the lawns, which were of the velvet -it takes centuries to perfect. The immediate grounds sloped a little to -the south, and beyond them was a very extensive, if somewhat flat, -prospect, ending on the horizon in certain mild blue shadows which were -believed to be hills. There was not much that could be called a park at -Kingswarden. The few farms which Colonel Kingsward possessed pressed his -little circle of trees rather close; but as long as the farms were let -the family felt they could bear this. It gave them a comfortable feeling -of modest natural wealth and company; the yeomen keeping the squire -warm, they in their farmsteadings, he in the hall. - -And the autumn went on in its natural course, gaining colour as it began -to lose its greenness and the days their warmth. The fruit got all -gathered in after the corn, the apple trees that had been such a sight, -every bough bent down with its balls of russet or gold, looked shabby -and worn, their season done, the hedges ran over with their harvest, -every kind of wild berry and feathery seedpod, wild elderberries, hips -and haws, the dangerous unwholesome fruit of the nightshade, the -triumphant wreaths of bryony of every colour, green, crimson, and -purple. The robins began to appear about Kingswarden, hopping about the -lawns, and coming very near the dining-room windows after breakfast, -when the little tribe of the nursery children had their accustomed -half-hour with mamma, and delighted in nothing so much as to crumble the -bread upon the terrace and tempt the redbreasts nearer and nearer. When, -quite satisfied and comforted about his wife’s looks, Colonel Kingsward -went off to the shooting, this little flock of children trailed after -mamma wherever she went, a little blooming troop. By this time Charlie -had gone back to Oxford, and the little ones liked to have the run of -the lawns outside and the sitting rooms within, with nothing more -alarming than Betty to keep them in order. It is to be feared that the -relaxation of discipline which occurred when papa was absent was -delightful to all those little people, and neither was Mrs. Kingsward -sorry now and then to feel herself at full ease--with no necessity -anywhere of further restraint than her own softened perceptions of -family decorum required. It was a moment in which, if that could be -said, she was self-indulgent--sometimes not getting up at her usual -hour, but taking her breakfast in her room, with clusters of little boys -and girls all over her bed, and over the carpet, sharing every morsel, -climbing over her in their play. And when she went out to drive she had -the carriage full of them; and when she took her stroll about the -grounds they were all about, shouting and racing, nobody suggesting that -it would be “too much for her,” or sending them off because they -disturbed mamma. She was disturbed to her heart’s content while the -Colonel was away. She said, “You know this is very nice for a time, but -it would not do always,” to her elder daughter: but I think that she saw -no necessity, except in the return of her husband, why it should not -do, and she enjoyed herself singing to them, dancing (a very little) -with them, playing for them as only the mother of a large family ever -can play, that simple dance music which is punctuated and kept in -perfect time by her heart as much as by her ear. For myself, I know the -very touch upon the piano of a woman who is the orchestra of the -children, who makes their little feet twinkle to the music. There is no -band equal to it for harmony, and precision, and go. They enjoyed the -freedom of having no one to say, “Hush, don’t make such a noise in the -house,” of the absence of all the disturbable people, “the gentlemen,” -as the servants plainly said, “being away” more, Mrs. Kingsward -sometimes thought, with a faint twinge of conscience, than it was right -they should enjoy anything in the absence of papa. Charlie was quite as -bad as papa, and declared that they made his head ache, and that no -fellow could work with such a row going on; it made the little carnival -all the more joyous that he was out of the way. - -Bee had spent the six weeks since their return in a sort of splendour of -girlish superiority and elation, of which her mother had not been -unobservant, though nothing had been said between them. I am not sure -that Bee did not enjoy the situation more than if Aubrey had been at -Kingswarden wooing her all day long, playing tennis with her, riding -with her--in every way appearing as her accepted lover. Circumstances -had saved her from this mere vulgarity of beatitude, and she felt that -in the very uncertainty of their correspondence, which was -private--almost secret, and yet not clandestine--there was a wonderful -charm, a romance and tinge of the unhappy and desperate, while yet -everything within herself was happy and triumphant. It had never been -said, neither by the Colonel nor by his wife (who had said nothing at -all), that Bee was not to write letters to Aubrey nor to receive letters -from him. I cannot imagine how Colonel Kingsward, in bidding her -understand that all was over between Aubrey and herself, did not make a -condition of this. But probably he thought her too young and simple to -maintain any such correspondence, and her lover too little determined, -too persuadeable, to begin it. When Bee had received her lover’s first -letter it had been under her father’s very eyes. It had come at -breakfast between two girl-epistles, and Colonel Kingsward would not -have been guilty of the pettiness of looking at his daughter’s -correspondence for any inducement yet before him. She had the tremendous -thrill and excitement of reading it in his very sight, which she did not -hesitate to do, for the sake of the bravado, feeling her ears tingle and -the blood coursing in her veins, never imagining that he would not -observe, and setting her young slight strength like a rock in momentary -expectation of a question on the subject. But no question came. Colonel -Kingsward was looking at the papers, and at the few letters which came -to him at his house. The greater part of his correspondence went to the -office. He took it very quietly, and he never remarked Bee at all, which -was little less than a miracle, she thought. And it was very well for -her that this was one of the mornings on which mamma did not come -downstairs. - -This immense excitement was a little too strong for ordinary use, and -Bee so arranged it afterwards that her letters came by a later post, -when she could read them by herself in her room. The servants knew -perfectly well of this arrangement--the butler who opened the post bag -at Kingswarden, and the maid who carried Miss Bee’s letters -upstairs--but neither father nor mother thought of it. That is, I will -not answer for Mrs. Kingsward. She perhaps had her suspicions; but, if -her husband did not forbid correspondence, she said to herself that it -was not her business to do so. It seemed to her that nothing else could -keep Bee so bright. Her disappointment, the shock of the severance, must -have affected her otherwise than appeared if she had not been buoyed up -by some such expedient. As for the Colonel, he thought nothing about it. -He thought that, as for love, properly so called, the thing was -preposterous for a girl of her years, and that the foolish business had -been all made up of imaginative novelty, and the charm of the position, -which had flattered and dazzled the girl. Now that she had returned to -all her old associations and occupations, the pretty bubble had floated -away into the air. It had not been necessary even to burst it--it had -dispersed of itself, as he said to himself he always knew it would. Thus -he deceived himself with the easiest mind and did not interfere. - -Mrs. Kingsward had come upon her daughter seated out on the lawn under -the great walnut tree, reading one of these letters, one morning when -she had gone out earlier than usual, on an exceptionally fine day. Bee -had thrust it away hastily into her pocket and came forward with burning -cheeks when she heard her mother’s voice--but it was not till some time -later that Mrs. Kingsward spoke. The day had kept up its morning -promise. It was one of those warm days that sometimes come in October, -breathing the very spirit of that contented season, when all things have -come to fruition and the work of the year is done, and its produce -garnered into the barns. Now we may sit and rest, is the sentiment of -the much toiling earth--all the labour being over, the harvest done, -and no immediate need yet to rise again and plough. The world hangs -softly swaying in space, the fields are fallow, the labourer rests. The -sunshine lay warm upon the velvet grass, the foliage, thinned by one -good blast a week ago, gave just shade enough, not too much; the -tea-table was set out upon the lawn--the little horde had gone off -shouting and skirmishing through the grounds, Betty at the head of them, -supposed captain and controller, virtually ringleader, which comes to -much the same thing. The air so hushed and silent in itself, half drowsy -with profound peace, was just touched and made musical by their shouts, -and Bee and her mother, with this triumphant sound of a multitude close -by, were alone. - -“Bee,” Mrs. Kingsward said, “I have long wanted an opportunity to speak -to you.” - -“Yes, mamma,” she said, looking up with a rush of blood to her heart, -feeling that the moment had come. But she would not have been Bee if she -had not put a little something of her own into the thick of the crisis. -“There were plenty of opportunities--we have been together all day.” - -“You know what I mean,” said Mrs. Kingsward. “Bee, I saw you reading a -letter this morning.” - -“Yes, mamma.” - -“Who was it from?” - -Bee looked her mother in the face. “I have never made any secret of it,” -she said. “I have read them openly before papa--I never would pretend -they were anything different. Of course it was from Aubrey, mamma.” - -“Oh, Bee!” said her mother. “You have never told me what your father -said to you that morning. He told me that it was all over and done -with--that he would never listen to another word on the subject.” - -“That was what he told me.” - -“Oh, Bee, Bee! and yet----” - -“Stop a moment, mamma! He never said I was not to write; he never said -there was to be no correspondence. Had he said so, I should have, at -least, considered what it was best to do.” - -“Considered what was best! But you were not the judge. I hope you would -have obeyed your father, Bee.” - -“I cannot say, mamma. You must remember that it is my case and not his. -I don’t know what I should have done. But it was not necessary, for he -said nothing about it.” - -“Bee, my dear child, he may have said nothing; but you know very well -that when he said it was entirely broken off he meant what he said.” - -“Papa is very capable of saying what he means,” said Bee. “I did not -think it was any business of mine to inquire what might be his secret -meaning. Mamma, dear, don’t be vexed; but, oh, that would have been too -hard! And for Aubrey, too.” - -“I think much less of Aubrey that he should carry on a clandestine -correspondence with a girl like you.” - -“Clandestine!” cried Bee, with blazing eyes. “No more clandestine than -your letters that come by the post with your own name upon them. If -Aubrey did not scorn anything that is clandestine, I should. There is -nothing like that between him and me.” - -“I never supposed you would be guilty of any artifice, Bee; but you are -going completely against your father--making a fool of him, -indeed--making it all ridiculous--when you carry on a correspondence, as -if you were engaged, after he has broken everything off.” - -“I am engaged,” said Bee, very low. - -“What do you say? Bee, this is out of the question. I shall have to tell -your father when he comes back. “Oh! child, child, how you turn this -delightful time into trouble. I shall be obliged to tell your father -when he comes back.” - -“Perhaps it will be your duty, mamma,” said Bee, the colour going out of -her face; “and then I shall have to consider what is mine,” she said. - -“Oh, Bee, Bee! Oh! how hard you make it for me. Oh! how I wish you had -never seen him, nor heard of him,” Mrs. Kingsward cried. - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - - -This communication made a little breach between Bee and her mother and -planted a thorn in Mrs. Kingsward’s breast. She had been getting on so -well; the quiet (which meant the riot of the seven nursery children and -all their troublesome ways) had been doing her so much good, and the -absence of every care save that Johnny should not take cold, and Lucy -eat enough dinner--that it was hard upon her thus to be brought back in -a moment to another and a more pressing kind of care. However, after an -hour or two’s estrangement from Bee, which ended in a fuller expansion -than ever of sympathy between them--and a morning or two in which Mrs. -Kingsward remembered as soon as she awoke that it would be her duty to -tell her husband and break up the pleasant peace and harmony of the -household--the sweetness of that _dolce far niente_ swept over her again -and obliterated or at least blurred the outline of all such troublous -thoughts. Colonel Kingsward sent a hasty telegram to say that he was -going on somewhere else for another ten days’ shooting, and that, though -she exclaimed at first with a countenance of dismay, “Oh, children, papa -is not coming home for another week!” in reality gave a pang of relief -to her mind. Gliding into her being, she scarcely knew how, was an -inclination to take every day as it came without thinking of -to-morrow--which was perfectly natural, no doubt, and yet was an -unconscious realisation of the fact, which as yet she had never put into -words, nor had suggested to her, that those gentle days were numbered. -Her husband’s delay was in one way like a reprieve to her. She had, like -all simple natures, a vague faith in accident, in something that might -turn up--“perhaps the world may end to-night”--something at least might -happen in another ten days to make it unnecessary for her to disturb -the existing state of affairs and throw new trouble into the house. She -did not waver at first as to her duty, though nothing in the world could -be more painful; and Bee did not say a word to change her mother’s -resolution. Bee had always been aware that as soon as it was known the -matter must come to another crisis--and the scorn with which she -regarded the idea of doing anything clandestine prevented her even from -asking that her secret should be kept. It was not in her mind but in her -mother’s that those faint doubtings at last arose--those half -entertained thoughts that a letter or two could do no harm; that the -correspondence would drop of itself when it was seen between the two -that there was no hope in it; and that almost anything would be better -than a storm of domestic dispeace and the open rebellion in which Mrs. -Kingsward felt with a shudder Bee would place herself. How are you to -break the will of a girl who will not be convinced, who says it is not -your, but her affair? - -No doubt that was true enough. It was Bee, not Colonel Kingsward, whose -happiness was concerned. According to all the canons of poetry and -literature in general, which in such matters permeate theoretically the -general mind when there is no strong personal instinct to crush them, -Bee had right on her side--and her mother’s instinct was all on the side -of poetry and romance and Bee. She had not the courage to cut short that -correspondence, not clandestine though unrevealed, which kept the girl’s -heart alive, and was not without attractions to the mother also, into -whose ear it might be whispered now and then (with always a faint -protest on her part) that Aubrey had better hopes, that he had a -powerful friend who was going to speak for him. If they really meant to -be faithful to each other--and there was no doubt that was what they -meant--they must win the day in the end; and what harm would it do in -the meantime that they should hear of each other from time to time? -Whereas, if she betrayed the secret, there would at once be a dreadful -commotion in the house, and Bee would confront her father and tell him -with those blazing eyes, so like his, that it was her affair. Mrs. -Kingsward knew that her husband would never stoop to the manœuvre of -intercepting letters, or keeping a watch upon those that his daughter -received; and what can you do to a girl who says that? She shrank more -than any words could say from the renewal of the conflict. She had been -so thankful to believe that it had passed over and all things settled -into peace while she was ill. Now that she was better her heart sank -within her at the thought of bringing it all on again, which would also -make her ill again she was convinced. Yet, at the same time, if she -could not persuade Bee to give it up of herself (of which there was no -hope whatever), then she must, it was her duty, inform her husband. But -her heart rose a little at that ten days’ reprieve. Perhaps the world -might end to-night. Something might happen to make it unnecessary in -those ten days. - -And something did happen, though not in any way what Mrs. Kingsward -could have wished. - -Colonel Kingsward’s return was approaching very near when on one of -those bright October afternoons a lady from the neighbourhood--nay, it -was the clergywoman of the parish, the Rector of Kingswarden’s wife, the -very nearest of all neighbours--came to call. She had just returned from -that series of visits which in the autumn is--with all who respect -themselves--the natural course of events. Mrs. Chichester was a woman of -good connection, of “private means,” and more or less “in society,” so -that she carried out this programme quite as if she had been a great -lady. She had an air of importance about her, which seemed to shadow -forth from her very entrance something that she had to say--an unusual -gravity, a look of having to make up her mind to a certain action which -was not without difficulty. There passed a glance between Mrs. Kingsward -and Bee, in which they said to each other, “What is it this time?” as -clearly as words could have said; for, to be sure, they were well -acquainted with this lady’s ways. She sat for a little, and talked of -their respective travels since they had last met; and of the pleasant -weeks she had passed at Homburg, where so many pleasant people were -always to be met after the London season; and then she lightly touched -on the fact that she had come over early in September, and since then -had been staying at a number of country places, with the dear Bishop, -and at Lady Grandmaison’s, and with old Sir Thomas down in Devonshire, -and so on. - -“Or,” she concluded, with a disproportionate emphasis on that apparently -unimportant word, “I should have been to see you long ago.” - -There was a significance in this which again made Mrs. Kingsward and Bee -exchange a look--a laughing glance--as of those who had heard the phrase -before. When, however, she had asked some questions about Mrs. -Kingsward’s health, and expressed the proper feeling--sorry to hear she -had been so poorly; delighted that she was so much better--Mrs. -Chichester departed from her established use and wont. Instead of -beginning upon the real object of her visit, after she had taken her cup -of tea, with a “Now,” (also very emphatic) “I want to interest you in -something I have very much at heart,”--which was generally a -subscription, a society, a bazaar, a missionary meeting, or something of -the sort--Mrs. Chichester bent forward and said, in a half whisper, “I -have something I want very much to talk to you about. Could I speak to -you for a moment--alone?” - -Bee was much surprised, but took her part with promptitude. “You want to -get rid of me,” she said. “I shall go out on to the terrace, mamma, and -you can call me from the window when you want me. I shall be sure to -hear.” - -There was another look between them, always with a laugh in it, as she -stepped out of the open window, with a book in her hand, a look which -repeated, “What can it be, now?” with the same amusement as at first, -but with more surprise. Bee made a circuit round the lawn with her book, -one finger shut in it to mark the place; looking at the flowers, as one -does who knows every plant individually, and notes each bud that is -opening, and which are about to fall. She calculated within herself how -long the dahlias would last, and that the Gloire de Dijon roses must be -cut to-morrow, as she pursued her way towards the walnut tree, under -which she meant to place herself. But Bee had not been there many -minutes before she felt a little shiver creep over her. It was getting -rather cold in this late October to sit out of doors, when the sun was -already off the garden, and she had, as girls say, “nothing on.” She got -up again, and made her way round to a garden bench which was set against -the wall of the house, at the spot where the sunshine lasted longest. -There was still a level ray of ruddy light pouring on that seat, and Bee -forgot, or rather never thought, that it was close to the drawing-room -window. Her mind was not much exercised about Mrs. Chichester’s secret, -which probably concerned the mothers and babies of the parish, and which -she certainly had no curiosity to hear. Besides, no doubt, the visitor -had told by this time all the private details there were to tell. Bee -sat down upon the bench, taking no precautions to disguise the sound of -her footsteps, and opened her book. She was not an enthusiastic student, -though she liked a novel as well as anyone; but her eyes strayed from -it to the great width of the horizon in front of her, and the ruddy -glory in the west, in which was just about to disappear that last long -golden ray of the sun. - -Then she heard a low cry--an exclamation, stifled, yet full of horror. -Was it mamma? What could the clergywoman be saying to bring from mamma’s -lips such a cry? Bee--I cannot blame her--pricked up her ears. Mrs. -Kingsward was not strong enough to be disturbed by horrors with which -she had nothing to do. - -“Oh, I cannot believe it; I cannot believe it!” she said. - -“But,” said the other voice, with that emphasis at which Bee had laughed -so often, “I can assure you it is true. I saw him myself shaking hands -with the woman at the station. I might not have believed Miss Tatham’s -story, but I saw with my own eyes that it was Mr. Leigh. I had met him -at Sir Thomas’s the year before--when he was still in deep mourning for -his wife, you know.” - -“Mr. Leigh! So it was something about Aubrey! Then it was Bee’s -business still more than her mother’s, and she listened without any -further thought. - -“But,” said Mrs. Kingsward, as if taking courage, “you must be mistaken; -oh, not about seeing him shake hands with a woman--why shouldn’t he -shake hands with a woman? He is very friendly with everybody. Perhaps he -knew her, and there is nothing to find fault with in that.” - -“Now,” said Mrs. Chichester, solemnly, “should I have mentioned it had -it been confined to that? I only told you of that as a proof. The thing -is that he put in this woman--a common woman, like a servant--into a -sleeping carriage--you know what those sleeping carriages cost; a -perfect fortune; far too much for any comfort there is in them--in the -middle of the night, with her two children. The woman behaved quite -nicely, Miss Tatham says, and looked shocked to be put in with a lady, -and blushed all over her face, and told that ridiculous story to account -for it. Poor thing! One can only be sorry for her. Probably some poor -thing deceived, and thinking she was to be made a lady of. But I know -what you must think of the man, Mrs. Kingsward, who could do such a -thing on his way from staying with your own family, even if there had -been no more in it than that.” - -“But Mr. Leigh is very kind--kind to everybody--it might have been -nothing but charity.” - -“Charity--in an express train sleeping carriage! Well, I confess I never -heard of charity like that. Gentlemen generally know better than to -compromise themselves for nothing in that sort of way. They are more -afraid of risking themselves in railway carriages and that kind of thing -than girls are--much more afraid. And if you remember, Mrs. Kingsward, -what kind of reputation Mr. Leigh had in his poor wife’s time--keeping -that Miss Lance all the time in her very house under her eyes.” - -“I have always heard that it was Mrs. Leigh who insisted upon keeping -Miss Lance----” - -“Is it likely?” said Mrs. Chichester. “I ask you, knowing what you do of -human nature? And then a thing to happen like this on his very way -home--when he had just left you and poor little Bee. Oh, it is -shameless, shameless! I could not contain myself when I heard of it. And -then it was said that the Colonel had broken off the engagement, and I -thought it would be a comfort to you to know that other things were -occurring every day, and that it was the only thing to do.” - -“It is no comfort to me--and I cannot--I cannot believe it!” - -“Dear Mrs. Kingsward, you always take the best view; but if you had seen -him, as I did, holding the woman’s hand, bending over her with such a -look!--I was afraid he would kiss her, there, before everybody. And I, -knowing of the engagement, and that he had just left you--before Miss -Tatham said a word--I sat and stared, and couldn’t believe my eyes. It -was the tenth of September, and he had left Bee, hadn’t he, the night -before?” - -“I never remember dates,” said Mrs. Kingsward, querulously. - -“I do,” replied the visitor, “and I took the trouble to find out. At -least, I found out by accident, through someone who saw him at the -club, and who had just discovered the rights of that story about Miss -Lance. Oh, I trust you will not be beguiled by his being a good _parti_, -or that sort of thing, to trust dear Bee in such hands! Marriage is -always rather a disenchantment; but think what it would be in such a -case--a man that can’t be trusted to travel between Cologne and London -without----” - -“I don’t believe it! I don’t believe it!” said Mrs. Kingsward; and Bee -heard that her mother had melted into tears. - -“That is as good as saying you don’t believe me, who saw it with my own -eyes,” said the visitor, getting up. “Indeed, I didn’t mean at all to -distress you, for I thought that, as everything was broken off--I -thought only if you had any doubts, as one has sometimes after one has -settled a thing--that to know he was a man like that, with no respect -for anything, who could leave his _fiancée_, and just plunge, -plunge--there is no other word for it----” - -It was evident that Mrs. Kingsward, reduced to helplessness, here made -no effort either to detain her visitor or to contradict her further, or -indeed to make any remark. There was a step or two across the room, and -then Mrs. Chichester said again--“Good-bye, dear. I am very sorry to -have distressed you--but I couldn’t leave you in ignorance of such a -thing for dear Bee’s sake; that is the one thing to be thankful for in -the whole matter, that Bee doesn’t seem to mind a bit! She looks just as -bright and just as nice as if nothing had happened. She can’t have cared -for him! Only flattered, I suppose, and pleased to have a proposal--as -those little things are, poor things. We should all thank heaven on our -knees that there’s no question of a broken heart in Bee’s case----” - -She might not have been so sure of that had she seen the figure which -came through the window the moment the door had closed upon her--Bee -with her blue eyes blazing wildly out of her white face, and strange -passion in every line both of features and form. - -“What is the meaning of it?” she said, briefly, with dry lips. - -“Oh, Bee, you have heard it all!” - -“I have heard enough--what does it mean, mamma?” - -Mrs. Kingsward roused herself, dried her eyes, and went forward to Bee -with outstretched arms; but the girl turned away. “I don’t want to be -petted. I want to know what--what it means,” she said. - -“I don’t believe it,” cried Mrs. Kingsward. - -“Give a reason; don’t say things to quiet me. Oh, keep your arms away, -mamma! Don’t pet me as if I wanted that! Why don’t you believe it? And -if you did believe it--what does it mean--what does it mean?” - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - - -Bee’s look of scared and horrified misery was something new in Mrs. -Kingsward’s experience. The girl had not known any trouble. Her father’s -rejection of her lover and the apparent break between them had been in -reality only another feature in the romance. She had almost liked it -better so. There had been no time to pine, to feel the pain of -separation. It was all the more like a poem, like what every love story -should be, that this breaking off should have come. - -And now, all at once, without any warning! The worst of it was that Bee -had only heard a part of the story, the recapitulation of it. Mrs. -Chichester had given the accused more or less fair play. She had given -an imperfect account of the explanation, the story the woman had -told--as was almost inevitable to a third party, but she had given it to -the best of her ability, not meaning to deceive, willing enough that he -should have the benefit of the doubt, or perhaps that the judgment upon -him should be all the more hard, because of his attempt to mingle deceit -with his sin, and throw dust in the eyes of any possible spectators. -This was the way in which it had appeared to herself, but she was not -unfair. She told the story which had been told to the astonished lady -upon whose solitude the little party had been obtruded in the middle of -the night, and who had heard it perhaps even imperfectly at first hand -mingled with the jolting and jarring of the train and the murmur of the -children. And yet Mrs. Chichester had repeated it honestly. - -But Bee had not heard that part of the tale. She had heard only the -facts of the case which had presented to her inexperienced young mind -the most wild and dreadful picture. Her lover, who had just left her, -whom she had promised to stand by till death, suddenly appeared to her -in the pale darkness of the midnight with a woman and children hanging -on to him--belonging to him, as appeared. Where had he met them? How had -he arranged to meet them? When her hand had been in his, when he had -been asking from her that pledge till death, had he just been arranging -all that--giving them that rendezvous--settling how they were to meet, -and where? A horror and sickness came over poor Bee. It made her head -swim and her limbs tremble. To leave her with her pledge in his ears, -and to meet, perhaps at the very outset of his journey, the woman with -the children--a common sort of woman, like a servant. As if that made -any difference! If she had been a duchess it would have been all the -same. He must have met her fresh from Bee’s presence, with his farewell -to the girl whom he had pretended to love still on his lips. She could -not think so clearly. Was this picture burnt in upon her mind? She -seemed to see the dim, half-lighted carriage, and Aubrey at the door -putting the party in. And then at Dover, in the daylight, shaking hands -with his companion, bending over her as if he meant to kiss her! These -two pictures took possession of Bee’s mind completely. And all this just -when he had left Bee--between his farewell to her and his interview with -her father! If she had heard of the story which the woman had told to -the startled Miss Tatham in the dim sleeping carriage, from which, -looking out, she had recognised Aubrey Leigh, it might have made a -difference. But that story had not been told in Bee’s hearing. And Mrs. -Kingsward did not know this, but supposed she had heard the whole from -beginning to end. - -Bee’s mother, to tell the truth, after the first shock, was glad of that -unconscious eaves-dropping on Bee’s part; for how could she have told -her? Indeed, the story was too gross, too flagrant to be believed by -herself. She felt sure that there must be some explanation of it other -than the vulgar one which was put upon it by these ladies; but she knew -very well that the same interpretation would be put upon it by her -husband, and many other people to whom Aubrey’s innocent interference in -such a case would have seemed much less credible than guilt. Guilt is -the thing that generally rises first as the explanation of everything, -to the mind, both of the man and woman of the world. The impossibility -of a man leaving a delicate flower of womanhood like Bee, whose first -love he had won, in order to fall back at once into the bonds of a -common intrigue, and provide for the comfort of his paramour, who had -been waiting for him on the journey, would not prove so great to most -people as the impossibility that he, as a stranger, would step out of -his way to succour a poor little mother and children whom he had never -seen before, and risk thereby a compromising situation. - -The latter was the thing which would have seemed unutterably ridiculous -and impossible to Colonel Kingsward. A first-class sleeping carriage -secured for a mere waif upon his way, whom he had never seen before and -never would see again! The fellow might be a fool, but he was not such a -fool as that. Had the woman even been old and ugly the Colonel would -have laughed and shrugged his shoulders at Aubrey’s bad taste; but the -woman was pretty and young. A long-standing affair, no doubt; and, of -course, it was quite possible, nay likely, that she was being sent, poor -creature, to some retreat or other, where she would be out of the way -with her children. - -Mrs. Kingsward knew, as if she had heard him say these words, how her -husband would speak. And who was she, with not half his experience of -the world, to maintain a different opinion? Yet she did so. She thought -it was like Aubrey to turn the poor woman’s lingering, melancholy -journey into a quick and comfortable one, out of pure kindness, without -thought of compromising himself any more than of having any recompense -for what he did. But she did not know that Bee knew nothing of this -explanation of the story. When she found that her child evidently -thought nothing of that, but received at once the darker miserable tale -into her mind, she was startled, but not perhaps astonished. Bee was -young to think the worst of anybody, but at the same time it is by far -the commonest way of thinking, and the offence was one against herself, -which gives a sharper edge to everything. And then she knew what was -going on in Bee’s mind chiefly by guesswork, for the girl said little. -The colour went out of her face, her eyes sometimes gave a gleam of -their old fire, but mostly had a strange set look, as if they were fixed -on something not visible to the ordinary spectator. She sat all the -evening through and never spoke. This was not so noticeable while the -children were still about with their perpetual flow of observations and -flood of questions; but when they went off in detachments to bed, and -the two elder girls were left alone with their mother, Bee’s silence -fell upon the others like a cloud. Betty, who knew nothing, after a few -minutes rushed away upstairs to find refuge in the nursery, and then -Mrs. Kingsward was left alone, face to face with this silent figure, so -unlike Bee, which neither moved nor spoke. She had scarcely the courage -to break the dreadful silence, but yet it had to be broken. Poor Mrs. -Kingsward’s heart began to beat violently against her breast as it had -not done since her return home. - -“Bee!” she said. “Bee!” - -Already the pumping of her heart had taken away her breath. - -“Yes, mamma.” - -“Oh! Bee, what--what are you going to do?” - -“To do, mamma?” - -“Oh! don’t repeat my words after me, but give me some sort of an answer. -Betty may be back again in a moment. What are you going to do?” - -“What can I do?” the girl said, in a low voice. - -“I can’t suppose but that you have been thinking about it--what else -could you be thinking of, poor child? For my part, I don’t believe it. -Do you hear me, Bee?” - -“Yes--I heard you say that before, mamma.” - -“And that is all you think of what I say! My darling, you can’t remain -like this. The first thing your father will ask will be, ‘What has -happened?’ I cannot bear that you should give up--without a word.” - -Mrs. Kingsward had disapproved of the correspondence, had felt that it -would be incumbent upon her to tell her husband of it, but yet in this -unforeseen emergency she forgot all that. - -“Without a word! What words could I say? You don’t suppose I could -discuss it with him--ask if it was true? If it’s true, there isn’t a -word to say, is there? And if it isn’t true it would be an insult to ask -him. And so one way or another it is all just done with and over. And I -wish you would leave me quiet, mamma.” - -“Done with and over! Without a word--on a mere story of something that -took place on a journey!” - -“Oh! leave me quiet, mamma. Do you think I need to be reminded of that -journey? As if I did not see it, and the lamps burning, and hear the -very wheels!” - -“Bee, dear, how can I leave you quiet? Do you mean just to let it break -off like that, without a word, without giving him the chance to -explain?” - -“I thought,” said Bee, with a faint satirical smile, for, indeed, her -heart was capable of all bitterness, “that it was broken off completely -by papa, and all that remained was only--what you called clandestine, -mamma.” - -“I did not call it clandestine. I knew you would do nothing that was -dishonourable. And it is true that it was--broken off. But, Bee! Bee! -you don’t seem to feel the dreadful thing this is. After all that has -passed, to let it drop in a moment, without saying a word!” - -“I thought it was what I ought to have done, as soon as papa’s will was -made known.” - -“Oh! Bee, you will drive me mad. And I have got no breath to speak. So -you ought, perhaps--but you have not, when perhaps there was a reason. -And now, for a mere chance story, and without giving him--an -opportunity--to speak for himself.” - -Bee raised her face, now crimson as it had before been pale. - -“How could I put any questions on such a thing? How could it be -discussed between him and me? To think of it is bad enough, but to speak -of it--mamma! How do I know, even, what words to say?” - -“In that case, every engagement would be at the mercy of any slanderer, -if the girl never could bring herself to ask what it meant.” - -“I am not any girl,” cried poor Bee, with a quiver of her lip. “I am -just myself. I don’t think very much of myself any more than you do, but -I can’t change myself. Oh, let me alone, let me alone, mamma!” - -Mrs. Kingsward was very much excited. Her nostrils grew pinched and -dilated in the struggle for breath; her lips were open and panting from -the same cause. She was caught in that dreadful contradiction of -sentiment and feeling which is worse than any unmingled catastrophe. She -had been rent asunder before this by her desire to shield her daughter, -yet the sense of her duty to her husband remained, and now it was the -correspondence which she seemed to be called upon to defend almost at -peril of her life; that actually clandestine, at least secret -correspondence, of which she could not approve, which she was bound to -cut short. And yet to cut it short like this was something which she -could not bear. She threw aside the work with which she had been -struggling and fixed her eyes on Bee, who did not look at her nor see -how agitated her expression was. - -“If you can do this, I can’t,” she said. “I will write to him. The -other dreadful story may be true, for anything I know. And that, of -course, is enough. But this one I don’t believe, if an angel from Heaven -told it me. He shall at least have the chance of clearing himself!” - -“I don’t know,” said Bee, “what the other dreadful story was. I thought -it was only pretending to love--some other woman; and then--pretending -to love _me_”--she broke off into a little hoarse laugh. The offence of -it was more than Bee could bear. The insult--to suffer (she said to -herself) was one thing--but to be insulted! She laughed to think what a -fool she had been; how she had been taken in; how she had said--oh, like -the veriest credulous fool--“Till death.” - -“He was not pretending to love you. What went before I know not, but -with you he was true.” - -“One before--and one after,” said Bee, rising in an irrepressible rage -of indignation. “Oh, mamma, how can we sit quietly and discuss it, as -if--as if it were a thing that could be talked about? Am I to come in -between--two others--two---- I think it will make me mad,” the girl -cried, stamping her foot. How does a man dare to do that--to insult a -girl--who never sought him nor heard of him, wanted nothing of him--till -he came and forced himself into her life!” - -“Oh! Bee, my darling,” cried the mother, going up to her child with -outstretched arms. - -“Don’t touch me, don’t touch me, don’t pet me; I cannot bear it. Let me -stand by myself. I am not a little thing like Lucy to be caught up and -kissed till I forget. I don’t want to forget. There is nothing that can -ever be done to me, if I were to live to an hundred, to put this out of -my head.” - -“Bee, be patient with me for a moment. I have lived longer than you -have. What went before could be no offence to you, whatever it was. It -might be bad, but it was no offence to you. And this--I don’t believe -it----” - -Bee was far too much self-absorbed to see the labouring breath, the pink -spot on each cheek, the panting which made her mother’s fine nostrils -quiver and kept her lips apart, or that she caught at the back of a -chair to support herself as she stood. - -“I don’t know why--you shouldn’t believe it. I don’t believe it; I see -it, I hear it,” cried Bee. “It’s like a story--and I thought these -things were always stories, things made up to keep up the interest in a -book---- I’m the--deceived heroine, the one that’s disappointed, don’t -you know, mamma? We’ve read all about her dozens of times. But she -generally makes a fuss over it,” the girl said, with her suffocating -laugh. “I shall make--no fuss---- Mamma! What is the matter, mamma?” - -Nothing more was the matter than the doctor could have told Mrs. -Kingsward’s family long ago--a spasm of the heart. She stumbled backward -to the sofa, and flung herself down before consciousness forsook her. -Did consciousness forsake her at all? Bee rushing to the bell, making -its violent sound peal through the house, then flinging herself at her -mother’s feet, and calling to her in the helplessness of utter -ignorance, “Mamma, mamma!” did not think that she was unconscious. -Broken words fell from her in the midst of her gasps for breath, then -there was a moment of dread stillness. By this time the room seemed to -be full of people--Bee did not know who was there--and then there -suddenly appeared out of the mist Moulsey with a glass and teaspoon in -her hands. - -“Go away, all of you,” cried Moulsey, “she’ll be better directly--open -all the windows and take a fan and fan her, Miss Bee.” - -The blast of the cold October night air came in like a flood, Bee seemed -to come out of a horrible dream in the waft of air brought by the fan -which she was herself waving to and fro--and in a little time, as -Moulsey said, Mrs. Kingsward was better. The labouring breath which had -come back after that awful moment of stillness gradually calmed down and -became softer with an occasional long drawn sigh, and then she opened -her eyes and said, with a faint smile, “What is it? What is it?” She -looked round her for a moment puzzled--and then she said, “Ah! you are -fanning me,” with a smile to Bee, but presently, “How cold it is! I -don’t think I want to be fanned, Moulsey.” - -“No, ma’am, not now. And White is just a-going to shut all the windows. -The fire was a bit too hot, and you know you never can bear it when the -room gets too hot.” - -“No, I never can bear it,” Mrs. Kingsward said, in a docile tone. She -followed the lead of any suggestion given to her. “I must have got -faint--with the heat.” - -“That was just it,” said Moulsey. “When you have a fire in the -drawing-room so early it looks so cheerful you’re apt to pile it too -high without thinking--for it ain’t really cold in October, not cold -enough to have a fire like that. You want it for cheerfulness, ma’am, -more than for heat. A big bit of wood that will make a nice blaze, and -very little coal, as is too much for the season, is what your -drawing-room fire should be.” - -Mrs. Kingsward gradually came to herself during this long speech, which -no doubt was what Moulsey intended. But she said she felt a little weak, -and that she would keep on the sofa until it was time to go to bed. The -agitation she had gone through seemed to have passed from her mind. -“Read me a little of that story,” she said, pointing to a book on the -table. “We left off last night at a most interesting part. Read me the -next chapter, Bee.” - -Bee sat down beside her mother’s sofa and opened the book. It was not a -book of a very exciting kind it may be supposed, when it was thus read a -chapter at a time, without any one of the party opening it from evening -to evening to see how things went on. But as it happened at this point -of the story, the heroine had found out that her lover was not so -blameless as she thought, and was making up her mind to have nothing to -do with him. Bee began to read with an indignation beyond words for both -hero and heroine, who were so pale, so colourless, beside her own story. -To waste one’s time reading stuff like this, while the tide of one’s own -passion was ten times stronger! She did not think very much of her -mother’s faint. It was, no doubt, the too large fire, as Moulsey said. - - END OF FIRST VOLUME. - - TILLOTSON AND SON, PRINTERS, BOLTON. - - * * * * * - -Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber: - -ali the _wohlgeborne_=> all the _wohlgeborne_ {pg 13} - -goose’ to me,” said Bettty=> goose’ to me,” said Betty {pg 26} - -Will gou go=> Will you go {pg 90} - -consent had been been given=> consent had been given {pg 197} - -down ths shovel hastily=> down the shovel hastily {pg 217} - -her husband aud break up=> her husband and break up {pg 235} - - - - - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The Sorceress; v. 1 of 3, by Margaret Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SORCERESS; V. 1 OF 3 *** - -***** This file should be named 51617-0.txt or 51617-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/1/6/1/51617/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: The Sorceress; v. 1 of 3 - -Author: Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: April 1, 2016 [EBook #51617] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SORCERESS; V. 1 OF 3 *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - -</pre> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<p class="c">THE SORCERESS.</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="316" height="500" alt="" title="" /> -</div> - -<h1>THE SORCERESS.</h1> - -<p class="c"><span class="eng">A Novel.</span><br /> -<br /><br /> -<small>BY</small> -<br /> -<big>M R S. O L I P H A N T,</big><br /> -<small>AUTHOR OF<br /> -“THE CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD,”<br /> -“THE CUCKOO IN THE NEST,”<br /> -ETC., ETC.</small><br /> -<br /> -<i>IN THREE VOLUMES.</i><br /> -<br /> -VOL. I.<br /> -<br /> -LONDON:<br /> -F. V. WHITE & Co.,<br /> -31, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND, W.C.<br /> -1893.<br /> -<br /> -<small>(<i>ALL RIGHTS RESERVED</i>)</small><br /> -<br /> -<small>PRINTED BY<br /> -TILLOTSON AND SON, BOLTON,<br /> -LONDON, NEW YORK, AND BERLIN.</small> -</p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary="" -style="border:4px double black;"> - -<tr><td class="c"><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS: <a href="#CHAPTER_I"><b>CHAPTER I., </b></a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_II"><b> II., </b></a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_III"><b> III., </b></a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IV"><b> IV., </b></a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_V"><b> V., </b></a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VI"><b> VI., </b></a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VII"><b> VII., </b></a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VIII"><b> VIII., </b></a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IX"><b> IX., </b></a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_X"><b> X., </b></a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XI"><b> XI., </b></a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XII"><b> XII., </b></a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIII"><b> XIII., </b></a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIV"><b> XIV., </b></a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XV"><b> XV., </b></a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVI"><b> XVI.</b></a></td></tr> -</table> -<p><a name="page_1" id="page_1"></a></p> - -<h1>THE SORCERESS.</h1> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> was the most exciting event which had ever occurred in the family, -and everything was affected by it.</p> - -<p>Imagine to yourselves such a young family, all in the very heyday of -life, parents and children alike. It is true that Mrs. Kingsward was -something of an invalid, but nobody believed that her illness was -anything very serious, only a reason why she should be taken abroad, to -one place after another, to the great enjoyment of the girls, who were -never so happy as when they were travelling and gaining, as they said, -experience of life. She was not yet forty, while Charlie was<a name="page_2" id="page_2"></a> twenty-one -and Bee nineteen, so that virtually they were all of the same age, so to -speak, and enjoyed everything together—mamma by no means put aside into -the ranks of the dowagers, but going everywhere and doing everything -just like the rest, and as much admired as anyone.</p> - -<p>To be sure she had not been able to walk about so much this time, and -had not danced once, except a single turn with Charlie, which brought on -a palpitation, so that she declared with a laugh that her dancing days -were over. Her dancing days over! Considering how fond she had always -been of dancing, the three young people laughed over this, and did not -take the least alarm. Mamma had always been the ringleader in -everything, even in the romps with the little ones at home. For you must -not think that these three were all of the family by any means.</p> - -<p>Bee and Betty were the eldest of I can’t at this moment tell how many, -who were safe in the big nursery at Kingswarden under the charge (very -partial) of papa, and the strict and steady rule of nurse, who was a -personage of high authority in the house. Papa<a name="page_3" id="page_3"></a> had but lately left “the -elder ones,” as he called them, including his pretty wife—and had gone -back to his work, which was that of an official at the Horse Guards, in -some military department of which I don’t even know the name, for I -doubt whether the Intelligence Department, which satisfies all the -necessities of description, had been invented in those days.</p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward was a distinguished officer, and the occasion of great -<i>éclat</i> to the little group when he showed himself at their head, -drawing round him a sort of cloud of foreign officers wherever he went, -which Bee and Betty appreciated largely, and to which Mrs. Kingsward -herself did not object; for they all liked the clank of spurs, as was -natural, and the endless ranks of partners, attendants in the gardens, -and general escort and retinue thus provided. It was not, however, among -these officers, red, blue, green, and white—of all the colours in the -rainbow—that Bee had found her fate. For I need scarcely say it was a -proposal which had turned everything upside down and filled the little -party with excitement.<a name="page_4" id="page_4"></a></p> - -<p>A proposal! The first in the family! Mamma’s head was as much turned by -it as Bee’s. She lay on the sofa in her white dressing gown, so flushed -with happiness and amusement and excitement, that you would have -supposed it was she who was to be the bride.</p> - -<p>And then it was so satisfactory a thing all round. If ever Mrs. -Kingsward had held anyone at arm’s length in her life it was a certain -captain of Dragoons who had clanked about everywhere after her daughters -and herself for three weeks past. The moment they had appeared anywhere, -even at the springs, where she went to drink her morning glass of -disagreeable warm water, at the concert in the afternoon, in “the rooms” -at night, not to speak of every picnic and riding party, this tall -figure would jump up like a jack-in-a-box. And there was no doubt that -the girls were rather pleased than otherwise to see him jump up. He was -six foot two at least, with a moustache nearly a yard long, curling in a -tawny and powerful twist over his upper lip. He had half-a-dozen medals -on his breast; his uniform was<a name="page_5" id="page_5"></a> a compound of white and silver, with a -helmet that literally blazed in the sun, and his spurs clanked louder -than any other spurs in the gardens. The only thing that was wanting to -him was a very little thing—a thing that an uninstructed English person -might not have thought of at all—but which was a painful thing in his -own troubled consciousness, and in that of the regiment, and even was -doubtful to the English friends who had picked up, as was natural, all -the prejudices of the class into which their own position brought them.</p> - -<p>Poor Captain Kreutzner, I blush to say it, had no “Von” to his name. -Nobody could deny that he was a distinguished officer, the hope of the -army in his branch of the service; but when Mrs. Kingsward thought how -the Colonel would look if he heard his daughter announced as Madame -Kreutzner <i>tout court</i> in a London drawing-room, her heart sank within -her, and a cold perspiration came out upon her forehead. “And I don’t -believe Bee would care,” she cried, turning to her son for sympathy.</p> - -<p>Charlie was so well brought up a young<a name="page_6" id="page_6"></a> man that he cared very much, and -gave his mother all the weight of his support. His office it was to -beguile Captain Kreutzner as to the movements of the party, to keep off -that bold dragoon as much as was possible; when, lo! all their -precautions were rendered unnecessary by the arrival of the real man -from quite another quarter, at once, and in a moment cutting the Captain -out!</p> - -<p>There was one thing Mrs. Kingsward could never be sufficiently thankful -for in the light of after events, and that was, that it was Colonel -Kingsward himself who introduced Mr. Aubrey Leigh to the family. He was -a young man who was travelling for the good of his health, or rather for -the good of his mind, poor fellow, as might be seen at a glance. He was -still in deep mourning when he presented himself at the hotel, and his -countenance was as serious as his hatband. Nevertheless, he had not been -long among them before Bee taught him how to smile, even to laugh, -though at first with many hesitations and rapid resuming of a still -deeper tinge of gravity, as if asking pardon of some beloved object for -whom he would<a name="page_7" id="page_7"></a> not permit even himself to suppose that he had ceased to -mourn. This way he had of falling into sudden gravity continued with him -even when it was evident that every decorum required from him that he -should cease to mourn. Perhaps it was one of the things that most -attracted Bee, who had a touch of the sentimental in her character, as -all young ladies had in those days, when Mrs. Hemans and L. E. L. were -the favourite poets whom young ladies were expected to read. Well -brought up girls were not permitted, I need not say, to read Byron. -Shelley was a name of fear, and the poems of Mr. Thomas Campbell, not to -say Mr. Thomas Moore (carefully selected) were likely to promote that -quality.</p> - -<p>The pale young man, with his black coat, his hatband, his look of -melancholy, drove out the image of the Captain at once from Bee’s mind. -She had perhaps had enough of captains, fine uniforms, spurs, and all. -They had become what modern levity calls a drug in the market. They made -<i>Fenster</i> parade all day long under her windows; they thronged upon her -steps in the gardens;<a name="page_8" id="page_8"></a> they tore the flounces from her tarlatan into -pieces at the balls. It was something far more original to sit out in -the moonlight and look at the moon with a sorrowful young hero, who -gradually woke up into life under her hand. Poor, poor boy!—so young -and so melancholy!—who had gone through so much!—who was really so -handsome when the veil of grief began to blow away!—who had such a -pretty name!</p> - -<p>Bee was only nineteen. She had mocked and charmed and laughed at a whole -generation of young officers, thinking of nothing but picnics and dinner -parties and balls. She wanted something new upon which to try her little -hand—and now it was thrown, just when she felt the need, in her way. -She had turned a young fool’s head several times, so that the operation -had lost its charm. But to bring a sad man back to life, to drive away -sorrow, to teach him to hold up his head again, to learn how sweet it -was to live and smile, and ride and run about this beautiful world, and -wake every day to a new pleasure—that was something she felt worthy of -a woman’s powers. And she did<a name="page_9" id="page_9"></a> it with such effect that Mr. Aubrey Leigh -went on improving for three weeks more, and finally ended up with that -proposal which was to the Kingsward family in general the most amusing, -the most exciting, the most delightful incident in the world.</p> - -<p>And yet, of course, it was attended with a certain amount of anxiety -which in her—temporarily—invalid state was not very good for mamma. -Everybody insisted on all occasions that it was a most temporary state, -and that by the end of the summer she would be all right—the -palpitations quite calmed down, the flush—which made her so pretty—a -little subdued, and herself as strong as ever. But in the meantime this -delightful romantic incident, which certainly acted upon her like a -glass of champagne, raising her spirits, brought her some care as well. -Her first interview was of course with Bee, and took place in the -privacy of her chamber, where she cross-examined her daughter as much as -was compatible with the relations between them—- which indeed were -rather those of companions and comrades than of mother and daughter.<a name="page_10" id="page_10"></a></p> - -<p>“Now, Bee, my dear child,” she said, “remember you have always been a -little rover, and Mr. Leigh is so quiet. Do you think you really, -really, can devote yourself to him, and never think of another man all -your life?”</p> - -<p>“Mamma,” said Bee, “if you were not such a dear I should think you were -very insulting. Another man! Why, where should I find another man in the -world that was fit to tie Aubrey’s shoe?”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Mrs. Kingsward, dubiously; but she added, after a moment, -“You know, darling, that’s not quite the question. If you did find in -the after ages a man that perhaps was—fit to tie Mr. Leigh’s shoe?”</p> - -<p>“Why in all this world, <i>petite mère</i>, will you go on calling him Mr. -Leigh?”</p> - -<p>“Well, well,” said Mrs. Kingsward; “but I don’t feel,” she said again, -after a moment’s hesitation, “that I ought to go so far as to call him -Aubrey until we have heard from papa.”</p> - -<p>“What could papa find to object to?” said Bee. “Why, it was he who -introduced him to us! We should not have known Aubrey,<a name="page_11" id="page_11"></a> and I should -never have been the happiest girl in the world, if it had not been for -papa. Dear papa! I know what he’ll say: ‘I can’t understand, my dear, -why you should hesitate for a moment. Of course, you don’t suppose I -should have introduced Mr. Leigh to my family without first -ascertaining, &c., &c.’ That, of course, is what papa will say.”</p> - -<p>“I dare say you are right, Bee. It is quite what I expect, for, of -course, a man with girls knows what it is, though for my part I confess -I always thought it would be a soldier—Captain Kreutzner or Otto -von——”</p> - -<p>“Mamma!” cried Bee, almost violently, light flashing out of the blue -eyes, which were so bright even on ordinary occasions as to dazzle the -beholder—you may imagine what fire came out of them now—“as if I -should ever have looked twice at one of those big, brainless, clinking -and clanking Germans. (N.B.—Mr. Aubrey Leigh was not tall.) No! Though -I may like foreigners well enough because it’s amusing to talk their -language and to feel that one has such an advantage in knowing German -and all that—yet, when it comes to be a question of spending one’s -life, an Englishman for me!”<a name="page_12" id="page_12"></a></p> - -<p>Thus, it will be seen, Bee forestalled the patriotic sentiments of a -later generation by resolving, in spite of all temptations, to belong to -other nations—to select an Englishman for her partner in life. It is -doubtful, however, how far this virtuous resolution had existed in her -mind before the advent of Aubrey Leigh.</p> - -<p>“I am sure I am very glad, Bee,” said her mother, “for I always had a -dread that you would be snatched off somewhere to—Styria or Dalecarlia, -or heaven knows where—(these were the first out-of-the-way names that -came to Mrs. Kingsward’s mind; but I don’t know that they were -altogether without reference or possibilities), where one would have had -no chance of seeing you more than once in two or three years. I am very -thankful it is to be an Englishman—or at least I shall be,” she added, -with a sigh of suspense, “as soon as I have heard from papa——”</p> - -<p>“One would think, <i>Mütterchen</i>, that you were frightened for papa.”</p> - -<p>“I shouldn’t like you ever to try and go against him, Bee!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no,” said Bee, lightly, “of course I<a name="page_13" id="page_13"></a> shouldn’t think of going -against him—is the inquisition over?—for I promised,” she said, with a -laugh and a blush, “to walk down with Aubrey as far as the river. He -likes that so much better than those noisy blazing gardens, with no -shade except under those stuffy trees—and so do I.”</p> - -<p>“Do you really, Bee? I thought you thought it was so nice sitting under -the trees——”</p> - -<p>“With all the <i>gnadige</i> Fraus knitting, and all the <i>wohlgeborne</i> Herrs -smoking. No, indeed, I always hated it!” said Bee.</p> - -<p>She jumped up from where she had been sitting on a stool by her mother’s -sofa, and took her hat, which she had thrown down on the table. It was a -broad, flexible, Leghorn hat, bought in Florence, with a broad blue -ribbon—the colour of her eyes, as had often been said—floating in two -long streamers behind. She had a sash of the same colour round the -simple waist of her white frock. That is how girls were dressed in the -early days of Victoria. These were the days of simplicity, and people -liked it, seeing it was the fashion, as much as they liked crinolines<a name="page_14" id="page_14"></a> -and chignons when such ornamental arrangements “came in.” It does not -become one period to boast itself over another, for fashion will still -be lord—or lady—of all.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kingsward looked with real pleasure at her pretty daughter, -thinking how well she looked. She wore very nearly the same costume -herself, and she knew that it also looked very well on her. Bee’s eyes -were shining, blazing with brightness and happiness and love and fun and -youth. She was not a creature of perfect features, or matchless beauty, -as all the heroines were in the novels of her day, and she was conscious -of a great many shortcomings from that high standard. She was not tall -enough—which, perhaps, however, in view of the defective stature of Mr. -Aubrey Leigh was not so great a disadvantage—and she was neither fair -enough nor dark enough for a Minna or a Brenda, the definite and -distinct blonde and brunette, which were the ideal of the time; and she -was not at all aware that her irregularity, and her mingling of styles, -and her possession of no style in particular, were her great charms. She -was not a great<a name="page_15" id="page_15"></a> beauty, but she was a very pretty girl with the -additional attraction of those blue diamonds of eyes, the sparkle of -which, when my young lady was angry or when she was excited in any more -pleasurable way, was a sight to see.</p> - -<p>“All that’s very well, my dear,” said Mrs. Kingsward, “but you’ve never -answered my question: and I hope you’ll make quite, quite sure before -it’s all settled that you do like Aubrey Leigh above everybody in the -world.”</p> - -<p>“<i>A la bonne heure</i>,” said Bee; “you have called him Aubrey at last, -without waiting to know what papa will say:” with which words she gave -her mother a flying kiss, and was gone in a moment, thinking very -little, it must be allowed, of what papa might say.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kingsward lay still for a little, and thought it all over after Bee -was gone. She knew a little better than the others what her Colonel was, -and that there were occasions on which he was not so easy to deal with -as all the young ones supposed. She thought it all over from the moment -that young Mr. Leigh had appeared on the scene. What<a name="page_16" id="page_16"></a> a comfort it was -to think that it was the Colonel himself who had introduced him! Of -course, as Bee said, before presenting anyone to his wife and family, -Colonel Kingsward would have ascertained, &c., &c. It was just how he -would write no doubt. Still, a man may introduce another to his wife and -family without being ready at once to accept him as a son-in-law. On the -other hand, Colonel Kingsward knew well enough what is the possible -penalty of such introductions. Young as Bee was, she had already -attracted a good deal of attention, though this was the first time it -had actually come to an offer. But Edward must surely have thought of -that. She was, though it seemed so absurd, and though Bee had laughed at -it, a little afraid of her husband. He had never had any occasion to be -stern, yet he had it in him to be stern; and he would not hesitate to -quench Bee’s young romance if he thought it right. And, on the other -hand, Bee, though she was such a little thing, such a child, so full of -fun and nonsense, had a spirit which would not yield as her mother’s -did. Mrs. Kingsward drew another long<a name="page_17" id="page_17"></a> fluttering sigh before she got up -reluctantly in obedience to her maid, who came in with that other white -gown, not unlike Bee’s, over her arm, to dress her mistress. She would -have liked to lie still a little longer, to have finished the book she -was reading, to have thought over the situation—anything, indeed, to -justify her in keeping still upon the couch and being lazy, as she -called it. Poor little mother! She had not been lazy, nor had the chance -of being lazy much in her life. She had not begun to guess why it was -she liked it so much now.<a name="page_18" id="page_18"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">I have</span> now to explain how it was that Mr. Aubrey Leigh was so -interesting and so melancholy, and thus awoke the friendship and -compassion, and secured the ministrations of the Kingsward family. He -was in deep mourning, for though he was only eight-and-twenty he was -already a widower, and bereaved beside of his only child. Poor young -man! He had married with every appearance of happiness and prosperity, -but his wife had died at the end of the first year, leaving him with a -baby on his inexperienced hands. He was a young man full of feeling, -and, contrary to the advice of all his friends, he had shut himself up -in his house in the country and dedicated himself to his child. -Dedicated himself to a baby two months old!<a name="page_19" id="page_19"></a></p> - -<p>There was nobody who did not condemn this unnecessary self-sacrifice. He -should have gone away; he should have left the child in the hands of its -excellent nurse, under the supervision of that charming person who had -been such a devoted nurse to dear Mrs. Leigh, and whom the desolate -young widower had not the courage to send away from his house. Her -presence there was a double reason, people said, why he should have gone -away. For though his sorrow and trouble was so great that nobody for a -moment supposed that he had any idea of such a thing, yet the presence -of a lady, and of a lady still called by courtesy a young lady, though -older than himself, and who could not be treated like a servant in his -house, was embarrassing and not very seemly, everybody said. Suggestions -were made to her that she should go away, but then she answered that she -had nowhere to go to, and that she had promised to dear Amy never to -forsake her child. The country ladies about who took an interest in the -young man thought it was “just like” dear Amy, who had always been a -rather<a name="page_20" id="page_20"></a> silly young woman, to exact such a promise, but that Miss Lance -would be quite justified in not keeping it, seeing the child had plenty -of people to look after her—her grandmother within reach and her father -dedicating himself to her.</p> - -<p>Miss Lance, however, did not see her duty in the same way; indeed, after -the poor little child died—and there was no doubt she had been -invaluable during its illness, and devoted herself to it as she had done -to its mother—she stayed on still at Leigh Court, though now at last -poor Aubrey was persuaded to go away. The mind of the county was -relieved beyond description when at last he departed on his travels. -These good people did not at all want to get up any scandal in their -midst. They did not very much blame Miss Lance for declining to give up -a comfortable home. They only felt it was dreadfully awkward and that -something should be done about it, though nobody knew what to do. He had -left home nearly six months before he appeared at the Baths with that -letter to Mrs. Kingsward in his pocket, and the change and the travel -had done him good.<a name="page_21" id="page_21"></a></p> - -<p>A young man of twenty-eight cannot go mourning all the days of his life -for a baby of eight months old, and he had already begun to “get over” -the death of his wife before the second event occurred. This troublous -beginning of his life had left him very sad, with something of the -feeling of a victim, far more badly treated than most in the beginning -of his career. But this is not like real grief, which holds a man’s -heart with a grip of steel. And he was in the stage when a man is ready -to be consoled when Bee’s blue eyes first flashed upon him. The -Kingswards had received him in these circumstances with more <i>abandon</i> -than they would have done in any other. He was so melancholy; his -confidences, when he began to make them, were so touching; his waking up -to interest and happiness so delightful to see. And thus, before anyone -had thoroughly realized it, the deed was done. They knew nothing about -Miss Lance—as how should they?—and what could she have had to do with -it if they had known?</p> - -<p>So there really was nothing but that doubt of Colonel Kingsward’s -approval to<a name="page_22" id="page_22"></a> alloy the pleasure of the party, and it was only Mrs. -Kingsward who thought of it. Charlie pooh-poohed the idea altogether. “I -think I should know my father better than anyone,” the young man said, -with much scorn of his mother’s hesitation. He was very fond and very -proud of his mother, but felt that as a man himself, he probably -understood papa better than the ladies could. “Of course he will -approve; why shouldn’t he approve? Leigh is a very decent fellow, though -I don’t think all the world of him, as you girls do. Papa, of course, -knew exactly what sort of a fellow he was; a little too quiet—not Bee’s -sort at all. No, you may clamour as you like, but he’s not in the least -Bee’s sort——”</p> - -<p>“I’m supposed to prefer a noisy trooper, I believe,” said Bee.</p> - -<p>“Well, I should have said that was more like it—but mind you, the -governor would never have sent us out a man here who was not good enough -for anything. Oh, I understand the old boy!”</p> - -<p>“Charlie, how dare you?” cried his mother; but the horror was modified -by a<a name="page_23" id="page_23"></a> laugh, for anything more unlike an old boy than Colonel Kingsward -it would not have been very easy to conceive.</p> - -<p>“Well, mamma, you wouldn’t have me call him my honoured father, would -you?” the young man said. He was at Oxford, and he thought himself on -the whole not only by far the most solid and serious member of the -present party, but on the whole rather more experienced in the world -than the gentleman whom in the bosom of the family he still condescended -to call “papa.”</p> - -<p>As for little Betty, who up to this time had been Bee’s shadow, and who -had not yet begun to feel herself <i>de trop</i>, she, no more than her -sister, was moved by any of these cares. She was wholly occupied in -studying the new thing which had suddenly started into being before her -eyes. Betty was of opinion that it was entirely got up for her amusement -and instruction. When she and Bee were alone, she never ceased in her -interrogatory. “Oh, Bee, when did you first begin to think about him -like that? Oh, Bee, how did you first find out that he was thinking -about you? Oh, Bee, don’t you<a name="page_24" id="page_24"></a> mind that he was once in love before?” -Such were the questions that poured in an incessant stream into Bee’s -ears. That young lady was equal to them all, and she was not unwilling -to let her sister share more or less in the new enlightenment that had -come to herself.</p> - -<p>“When did I first begin to think of him?” she said. “Oh, Betty, the -first minute I saw him coming through the garden with Charlie to speak -to mamma! There were all those horrid men about, you remember, in those -gaudy uniforms, and their swords and spurs, and so forth—such dreadful -bad taste in foreigners always to be in uniform——”</p> - -<p>“But, Bee,” cried Betty, “why, I’ve heard you say——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, never mind what you’ve heard me say! I’ve been silly, I suppose, in -my day, like almost everybody. Aubrey says he cannot think how they can -live, always done up in those hot, stiff clothes—none of the ease of -Englishmen about them.”</p> - -<p>“Papa says they are such soldier-like men,” says little Betty, who had -not been converted from the <i>regime</i> of the officers, like Bee.<a name="page_25" id="page_25"></a></p> - -<p>“Oh, well, papa—he is an officer himself, but he never wears his -uniform when he can help it, you know.”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Betty, “you may say what you like—for my part, I do love a -nice uniform. I don’t want ever again to dance with a man in a black -coat. But Bee, you’re too bad—you won’t say a word, and I want so to -know how it all came about. What put it into your head? And what did you -say to one another? And was it he that began first—or was it you?”</p> - -<p>“You little dreadful thing,” said Bee; “how could a girl ever begin? It -shows how little you know! Of course he began; but we didn’t begin at -all,” she said, after a pause, “it just came—all in a moment when I -wasn’t thinking, and neither was he.”</p> - -<p>“Do you mean to say that he didn’t intend to propose to you?” said -Betty, growing pale.</p> - -<p>“Oh!” said Bee, impatient, “as if proposing was all! Do you think he -just came out with it point blank—‘Miss Kingsward, will you marry me?’ ”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Betty: “what did he say then if he didn’t say that?”<a name="page_26" id="page_26"></a></p> - -<p>“Oh, you little goose!” said Bee.</p> - -<p>“I am sure if he had said ‘Oh, you little goose’ to me,” said Betty, “I -should never have spoken a word to him again.”</p> - -<p>“It is no use talking to little girls,” said Bee, with a sigh. “You -don’t understand; and, to be sure, how could you understand—at your age -and all?”</p> - -<p>“Age!” said Betty, indignant, “there is but fifteen months between us, -and I’ve always done everything with you. We’ve always had on new things -together, and gone to the same places and everything. It is you that are -very unkind now you have got engaged; and I do believe you like this big -horrid man better than me.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you little goose!” said Bee, again.</p> - -<p>“No, it isn’t a big but a little, horrid man. I made a mistake,” said -Betty, “not like Captain Kreutzner that you used to like so much. It’s -small people you care for now; not your own nice people like me and -mamma, but a man that you had never heard the name of when you first -came here, and now you quote and praise him, and make the most -ridiculous fuss about him, even to<a name="page_27" id="page_27"></a> Charlie, who is far -nicer-looking!—and won’t even tell your sister what he says!”</p> - -<p>This argument came to so high a tone that mamma called out from her room -to know what was amiss. “It does not become you girls to carry on your -old scuffles and quarrels,” she said, “now that one of you, at least, is -so grown up and about to take upon herself the responsibilities of -life.”</p> - -<p>“Is Aubrey a responsibility?” Betty whispered in her sister’s ears.</p> - -<p>“Oh, you little silly thing!” Bee replied; and presently Mrs. -Kingsward’s maid came in to say that Mr. Leigh was in the sitting-room, -and would Miss Bee go to him as her mistress was not ready; for this was -the little fiction that was kept up in those days before Colonel -Kingsward’s letter had been received. It will be seen, however, that it -was but a fiction, and that as a matter of fact there was very little -restraint put on the young people’s intercourse. “You must not consider -that anything is settled; you must not think there’s any engagement,” -Mrs. Kingsward had said. “Indeed, indeed, I cannot take upon me to -sanction anything till<a name="page_28" id="page_28"></a> I hear from her papa.” But virtually they met as -much as they liked, and even indulged in little talks apart, and -meetings by themselves, before Mrs. Kingsward was ready; so that as a -matter of fact this restriction did very little harm.</p> - -<p>And in due time Colonel Kingsward’s letter was received, and it was not -unfavourable. The Colonel said that, on the whole, he should have -preferred it had Mr. Leigh waited till they had all returned home. It -would have been a seemly forbearance, and saved Mrs. Kingsward a great -deal of anxiety; but as matters stood and as his dear wife approved, and -he heard nothing but good of Mr. Leigh, he would not withdraw the -provisional consent which she seemed to have given. “It will be -expedient in the circumstances that you should all return home as soon -as possible, that I may go into matters with the young man,” the Colonel -added in that part of his letter which was not intended to be read to -Aubrey Leigh. And he added, as Bee had prophesied, “You might have been -sure that I should not introduce a young man to my<a name="page_29" id="page_29"></a> family, and to -yourself, my dear, without ascertaining previously,” etc., etc., just as -Bee had said. He added, “Of course I never contemplated anything of this -sort: but one can never tell what may happen when young people are -thrown together. The property is a good one, and the young man -unexceptionable, from all I can hear.” Then Mrs. Kingsward’s mind was -set at ease. It seemed to Bee that her father might have said something -on the subject of her happiness, and acknowledged Aubrey to be something -more than an unexceptionable young man. It was inconceivable, she -thought to herself, how cool people are when they come to that age. The -property good, and the young man unexceptionable—was that all? Did papa -take no more interest than that? But at all events the engagement was -now quite permitted and acknowledged, and they might walk out together -all day, and dance together all night, without a word said; for which -Bee forgave and instantly forgot—it was really of so little -importance—the coolness of papa.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kingsward’s “cure” was over, and<a name="page_30" id="page_30"></a> by this time most people were -leaving the Bath. Our party made their preparations for leaving too, in -the pleasantest way. It was not to be at all a rapid journey, which -would not have been good for Mrs. Kingsward. They were to make their way -at leisure from one beautiful old city to another across the breadth of -Germany, staying a day here and a day there, travelling for the most -part in a large, old-fashioned carriage, such as was the custom then, -with a wide-hooded seat in front, like the <i>banquette</i> of a French -diligence, in which two people could be extremely happy, seeing the -scenery much better than those inside could do, or perhaps not seeing -the scenery at all, but occupying each other quite as agreeably with the -endless talk of lovers, which is not interesting to anybody but -themselves. Before they set out upon this journey, however, which was to -hold so great a place in Bee’s life, a little incident occurred to her -which did not appear to be of very much consequence, but which made some -impression on her mind at the time, and vaguely appeared afterwards to -throw light on various other events. The<a name="page_31" id="page_31"></a> German Bath at which the -little story of her love took place is surrounded with woods—woods of a -kind that are never seen anywhere else, though they are the special -feature of German Baths. They are chiefly composed of fir trees, and -they are arranged upon the most strictly mathematical principles, with -that precision which is dear to the German mind, row upon row standing -close together, as if they had been stuck in so at their present height, -with so many cubit feet of air to each, as in the London lodging-houses. -They are traversed by broad roads, with benches at intervals, and at -each corner there is a wooden board on which is painted indications how -to find the nearest <i>restauration</i> where beer is to be had, and the veal -of the country—for the German, in his hours of ease and amusement, has -continual occasion to be “restored.”</p> - -<p>Bee had gone out early in the morning to make a little sketch of an -opening in the trees through which a village spire was visible. There -were not many points for the artist in landscape, especially one of such -moderate powers as Bee, and she was very<a name="page_32" id="page_32"></a> anxious to finish this to -present it, I need scarcely say, to Aubrey, as a memento of the place. -Probably there was some other sentimental reason—such as that they had -first spoken words of special meaning there, or had first exchanged -looks that were of importance in their idyll, or some other incident of -equal weight. She was seated on one of the benches, with her little -colour box and bottle of water, giving the finishing touches to her -sketch. Sooth to say, Bee was no great performer, and the ranks of the -dark trees standing arithmetically apart to permit of that little -glimpse of distance, were too much for her. They looked in her sketch -like two dark green precipices rather than like trees, and had come to a -very difficult point, when a lady coming along by one of the side walks, -round the corner past the <i>restauration</i>, suddenly sat down by Bee’s -side and startled her a little. She was not a girl who was easily -frightened, but the suddenness of the apparition out of the silent -morning when she had thought nobody was in sight was a little startling -and made her hand shake.<a name="page_33" id="page_33"></a></p> - -<p>“I hope I am not intruding upon you,” the lady said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no!” said Bee, looking up with her bright face. She was as fresh as -the morning in her broad Leghorn hat with the blue ribbon, and her eyes -that danced and sparkled. The stranger by her side was much older than -Bee. She was a handsome woman; dark, with fine eyes, too, a sidelong -look in them, and a curious half smile which was like La Gioconda, that -famous picture Bee had seen in the Louvre, as we all have. She thought -of La Gioconda at once, when she looked up into the lady’s face. She was -entirely dressed in black, and there could not have been found anywhere -a more perfect contrast to Bee.</p> - -<p>They got into conversation quite easily, for Bee was a girl who loved to -talk. The lady gave her several hints about her little picture which Bee -knew enough to know were dictated by superior knowledge, and then they -got talking quite naturally about the place and the people who were -there. After they had discussed the society and the number of English -people at the Bath, and<a name="page_34" id="page_34"></a> Bee had disclosed the hotel at which she was -staying, and many details of her innocent life, which she was not at all -conscious of disclosing—the stranger began to inquire about various -people. It was not by any means at once that she introduced the name of -Leigh; not indeed till she had been over the Reynoldses, and the -Gainsboroughs, and the Collinses, under Bee’s exultant guidance and fine -power of narrative; then she said tentatively, that there was she -believed, at one of the hotels, a family of Leighs.</p> - -<p>“Oh!” cried Bee, her countenance flushing over with a sudden brilliant -delightful blush, which seemed to envelop her from top to toe. She had -been looking up into her companion’s face so that the stranger got the -full benefit of this sudden resplendent change of colour. She then -turned very demurely to her sketch, and said meekly, “I don’t know any -family, but there is a Mr. Leigh at our hotel.”</p> - -<p>“Oh,” said the lady, but in a very different tone from Bee’s startled -“oh!” She said it coldly, as if recording a fact. “I thought,” she said, -“it was the Leighs of Hurstleigh,<a name="page_35" id="page_35"></a> friends of mine. I may have been -deceived by seeing the name in the lists.”</p> - -<p>“But I think, indeed I am sure, that Mr. Aubrey Leigh is connected with -the Leighs of Hurstleigh,” Bee said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, a young man, a widower, an inconsolable; I think I remember hearing -of him. Is that the man?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know if he is an inconsolable,” cried Bee, with a quick -movement of anger and then she thought how foolish that was, for of -course a stranger like this could have no unkind meaning. She added with -great gravity, “It is quite true that he has been married before.”</p> - -<p>Poor little Bee, she was not at all aware how she was betraying herself. -She was more vexed and indignant than words can say, when the woman (who -after all could not be a lady) burst into a laugh. “Oh! I think I can -see how matters stand with Aubrey Leigh,” this impertinent intruder -cried.<a name="page_36" id="page_36"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> was just two days after the interview in the wood described above, -that the Kingsward party got under weigh for home, accompanied, I need -not say, by Aubrey Leigh. Bee had not told him of that chance meeting, -restrained I do not know by what indefinite feeling that he would not -care to hear of it, and also by the sensation that she had as good as -told the lady, who was so disagreeable and impertinent as to laugh, what -change had taken place in Aubrey’s sentiments, and what she had herself -to do with that change. It was so silly, oh, so silly of her, and yet -she had said nothing, or next to nothing. And there was no reason why -she should not have said whatever she pleased, now that the engagement -was fully acknowledged<a name="page_37" id="page_37"></a> and known; indeed, if that woman were in any -society at all, she must have heard of it, seeing that, as Bee was -aware, not without pleasure, it had afforded a very agreeable diversion -to the floating community, a pleasant episode in the tittle-tattle of -the gardens and the wells. Bee had no absurd objection to being talked -of. She knew that in her condition of life, which was so entirely -satisfactory as a condition, everything that concerned a family was -talked over and universally known. It was a thing inevitable to a -certain position, and a due homage of society to its members. But -somehow she did not mention it to Aubrey, nor, indeed, to anyone, which -was a very unusual amount of reticence. She did not even give him the -sketch, though it was finished. She had been quite grateful for that -person’s hints at the time, and eagerly had taken advantage of them to -improve her drawing; but it seemed to her, when she looked at it now, -that it was not her own at all, that the other hand was so visible in it -that it would be almost dishonest to call it hers. This, of course, was -wholly fantastic,<a name="page_38" id="page_38"></a> for even supposing that person to have given valuable -hints, she had never touched the sketch, and Bee alone had carried them -out. But, anyhow, her heart sickened at it, and she thrust it away at -the very bottom of the box that Moulsey was packing. She had no desire -to see the horrid thing again.</p> - -<p>In a day or two, however, Bee had altogether forgotten that interview in -the wood. She had so many things to occupy her mind. There were few -railways in those days, and the party had a long way to travel before -they came to Cologne, where that method of travelling began. They all -felt that common life would re-commence there and their delightful -wandering would be over. In the meantime, there was a long interval of -pleasure before them. The early breakfast at the hotel in the first -hours of the autumnal morning, the fun of packing everyone away in the -big coach, the books to be brought out to fill up corners, both of time -and space, and “Murray” then alone in his glory, with no competitive -American, no Badæker, no Joanne, to share his reign—spread out open at -the right place, so that mamma<a name="page_39" id="page_39"></a> inside should be able to lay her finger -at once upon any village or castle that struck her—and above all the -contrivances to be carried out for securing the <i>banquette</i>, as Bee -said, for “ourselves,” made a lively beginning. Charlie and Betty -sometimes managed to secure this favourite place if the attention of the -others flagged for a moment, and though mamma generally interposed with -a nod or a whisper to restore it to the privileged pair, sometimes she -was mischievous too, and consented to their deprivation, and desired -them for once to keep her company inside. She generally, however, -repented of this before the day was over, and begged that their -favourite seat might be restored to them.</p> - -<p>“For they are really no fun at all,” the poor lady said. “I might as -well have two images from Madame Tussaud’s.”</p> - -<p>“It had been a little hard upon Aubrey at the moment of their departure -to find half the garrison round the carriage, and bouquets enough to -fill a separate vehicle thrust into every corner, the homage of those -warriors to the gracious ladies. He had been very cross,<a name="page_40" id="page_40"></a> and had made a -great exhibition of himself, especially when Captain Kreutzner’s faggot -of forget-me-nots, tied with a ribbon like that on Bee’s hat, had been -presented with indescribable looks. What did the fellow mean by bringing -forget-me-nots? He wanted to pitch it out of the window as soon as they -were fairly started.</p> - -<p>“What an idiotic custom!” he cried. “What do the fools think you want -with such loads of flowers when you are starting on a journey?”</p> - -<p>“Why, it is just then you do want them,” cried Betty, who had a dozen or -so to her own share, “to smell sweet and show us how much our friends -think of us.”</p> - -<p>“They will not smell sweet very long, and then what will your friends -think of you?” said the angry lover.</p> - -<p>Was it possible that Bee was detaching a little knot of the blue flowers -to put in her waistband? Bee, Bee! his own property, who had no right so -much as to look at another man’s flowers! And what did she do, seeing -the cloud upon his face, but arrange another little bouquet, which, -with<a name="page_41" id="page_41"></a> her sweetest smile—the little coquette—she endeavoured to put -into his, Aubrey’s, button-hole! He snatched them out of her hand in a -sort of fury. “Do you want me never to forget that heavy brute of a -German?” he cried, in his indignation. “You may put him near your heart, -but I should like to kick him!” These very natural sentiments made Bee -laugh—which was cruel: but then poor Captain Kreutzner had been blotted -out of her life some time ago, and knew his fate, and had really no -right whatever to present her with these particular flowers. His lovely -bouquet with its blue ribbon was given to a girl in the first village, -and awakened the still more furious jealousy of another swain who was -less easily appeased than Aubrey; but this <i>ricochet</i> was not thought of -by the first and principal pair.</p> - -<p>There was not perhaps so many remarkable features in that journey as if -it had been through Italy. There were great plains to traverse, where -the chief sights were cottages and farmhouses, women going by with great -loads of freshly cut grass full of flowers on their heads, fodder for -the home-dwelling<a name="page_42" id="page_42"></a> cows—or men carrying their hops clinging to the -pole, to be picked at home, or long straggling branches of the tobacco -plant; and in the evening the postillion would whip up his horses, and -Charlie in the <i>banquette</i>, or John, the manservant, in the rumble, -would tootle upon a horn which the former had acquired clandestinely -before the party set out—as they dashed through a village or little -town with lighted windows, affording them many a flying peep of the -domestic life of those tranquil places. And in the middle of the day -they stopped to rest somewhere, where the invariable veal was to be -found at some Guest-house a little better than the ordinary, where -perhaps a bigger village stood with all its high peaked stream: and at -night rattled into an old walled town with shadowy high houses which -belonged to the fourteenth century, and had not changed a whit since -that time. There they stayed a day or two, varying the confinement of -the coach by a course through everything that was to be seen, setting -out in a party through the roughly-paved streets, but parting company -before long, so that Aubrey and<a name="page_43" id="page_43"></a> Bee would find themselves alone in the -shelter of a church or in an insignificant corner by the walls, while -the others pursued their sightseeing conscientiously.</p> - -<p>“As for me, what I like is the general aspect,” said Bee, with an air of -superiority. “I don’t care to poke into every corner, and Aubrey knows -the history, which is the chief thing.”</p> - -<p>“Are they talking all the time of the history?” said Betty, overawed.</p> - -<p>But this perhaps, was not the opinion of Charlie and mamma. No, they did -not care very much for the history. People are bad travellers in that -stage of life. They are too much interested in their own history. They -went about like a pair of Philistines through all these ancient streets, -talking of nothing but the things of to-day. The most serious part of -their talk was about the home in the depths of England in which they -were henceforth to spend their lives. Aubrey had ideas about -re-furnishing—about making everything new. It would be impossible to -tell the reader how bad was the taste of the time, and with what -terrible articles of<a name="page_44" id="page_44"></a> furniture he proposed to replace the spindle legs -and marquetry of his grandfathers. But then these things were the -fashion, and supposed to be the best things of the time. To hear them -talking of sofas and curtains, and of the colour for the boudoir and the -hangings of the drawing-room in the midst of all those graceful old -places, was inconceivable. You would have said the stupidest, -unimpressionable pair, talking of ugly modern English furniture, when -they should have been noting the old world of Nuremberg—the unchanging -mediæval city. But you must remember that the furniture was only a -symbol of their love and their new life, and all the blessedness of -being together, and the endless delights of every day. The sofas and the -curtains meant the <i>Vita Nuova</i>, and the refurnishing of the old house a -beautiful fabric of all the honour and the joy of life.</p> - -<p>Then came the great river, and the progress down its shining stream, and -between those beautiful banks, where again they made several pauses to -enjoy the scenery. The Rhine is not now the river it was then. It was -still the great river of<a name="page_45" id="page_45"></a> romance in those days—Byron had been there, -and the young people remembered Roland and his tower, with his love in -the white convent opposite, and felt a shudder at the thought of the -Lorelei as they floated under the high and gloomy bank. I doubt, -however, whether the lovers thought much even of these things. They were -busy just now about the gardens, which Bee was fully minded to remodel -and fill with everything that was new and delightful in the way of -flowers.</p> - -<p>“I shall have masses of colour about the terrace, and every spot -covered. I wonder which you like best, majolica vases or rustic -baskets?” Bee was saying, when her mother called her to point out the -Platz and Bishop Hatto’s tower.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, mamma, it’s very pretty. But you like clematis, Aubrey, for -the balustrade—to wind in and out of the pillars. Yes, yes, I can see -it well enough. I like every kind of clematis, even the common one, the -traveller’s joy—and it would hang down, you know, over that old bit of -wall you told me of. Do go forward, Aubrey, and let<a name="page_46" id="page_46"></a> them see you are -taking an interest. I do see it all quite well, and it is very romantic, -and we are quite enjoying it I can assure you, mamma.”</p> - -<p>This was how they made their way down stream; in the moonlight nights -they ceased to talk of practical matters, and went back to the history -of their loves.</p> - -<p>“Do you remember, Bee, that first time in the wood——?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Aubrey, don’t you recollect that drive coming back in the -dark—before I knew——?”</p> - -<p>“But you always did know from the very beginning, Bee?”</p> - -<p>“Well, perhaps I suspected—and used to think——”</p> - -<p>“You darling, what did you think?—and did you really care—as early as -that?”</p> - -<p>They went on like this whatever happened outside, giving a careless -glance at the heights, at the towers, at the robbers’ castle above and -the little villages below; not so much as looking at them, and yet -remembering them ever after, enclosing the flow of their young lives, as -it were, in that strong<a name="page_47" id="page_47"></a> flowing of the Rhine, noting nothing and yet -seeing everything with the double sight which people possess at the -highest moment and crisis of their career. They came at length to -Cologne, where this enchanted voyage was more or less to end. To be -sure, they were still to be together; but only in the railway, with all -the others round them, hearing more or less what they said. They said -good-bye to the Rhine with a little sentiment, a delightful little -sadness full of pleasure.</p> - -<p>“Shall we ever be so happy again?” said Bee, with a sigh.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, my sweet, a hundred times, and happier, and happier,” said the -young man; and thus they were assured it was to be.</p> - -<p>I don’t think any of them ever forgot that arrival at Cologne. They came -into sight of the town just in the evening, when the last glow of sunset -was still burning upon the great river, but lights beginning to show in -the windows, and glimmering reflected in the water. The Cathedral was -not completed then, and a crane, like some strange weird animal stood -out against the sky upon the<a name="page_48" id="page_48"></a> top of the tower. The hotel to which they -were going had a covered terrace upon the river with lights gleaming -through the green leaves. They decided they would have their table -there, and dine with all that darkling panorama before their eyes -through the veil of the foliage, the glowing water, the boats moving and -passing, with now and then a raft coming down from the upper stream, and -the bridge of boats opening to give passage to a fuming fretting -steamboat. Aubrey and Bee went hand in hand up the steps; nobody noticed -in the half dark how close they were together. They parted with a close -pressure of warm hands.</p> - -<p>“Don’t be long, darling,” he said, as they parted, only for a moment, -only to prepare a little for the evening, to slip into a fresh dress, to -take out a new ribbon, to make one’s youthful self as fair as such -unnecessary adjuncts permitted.</p> - -<p>But what did Aubrey care for a new ribbon? The only blue he thought of -was that in Bee’s eyes.</p> - -<p>I do not think she was more than ten minutes over these little changes. -She<a name="page_49" id="page_49"></a> dressed like a flash of lightning, Betty said, who could not find -her own things half so quickly, Moulsey being occupied with mamma. Such -a short moment not worth counting, and yet enough, more than enough, to -change a whole life!</p> - -<p>Bee ran down as light as air to the sitting-room which had been engaged -for the party. She felt sure that Aubrey would hurry, too, so as to have -a word before dinner, before the rest were ready—as if the whole day -had not been one long word, running through everything. She came lightly -to the door of the room in her fresh frock and her blue ribbons, walking -on air, knowing no shadow of any obstacle before her or cloud upon the -joyful triumphant sky. She did not even hear the sound of the subdued -voices, her faint little sob, strangest of all sounds at such a moment, -which seemed to come out to meet her as she opened the door. Bee opened -it wondering only if Aubrey were there, thinking of some jibe to address -to him about the length of time men took to their toilettes, if she -happened to be ready first.<a name="page_50" id="page_50"></a></p> - -<p>She was very much startled by what she saw. Her mother, still in her -travelling dress, sat by the table with a letter open in her hands. She -had not made any preparation for dinner—she, usually so dainty, so -anxious to get rid of the cloaks and of the soils of the journey. She -had taken off her hat, which lay on the table, but was still enveloped -in the shawl which she had put on to keep off the evening chills. As for -Aubrey, he was exactly as he had been when they parted with him, except -that all the light had gone out of his face. He was very pale, and he, -too, had a letter in his hand. He uttered a stifled exclamation when he -saw Bee at the door, and, lifting his arms as though in protest against -something intolerable, walked away to the other end of the room.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Bee,” said Mrs. Kingsward, “Oh, go away, my dear, go away! I -mean—get something to eat, you and Charlie, and Betty, and then get to -bed. Get to bed! I am too tired to take anything, and I am going -upstairs at once.”</p> - -<p>“I thought you had been upstairs, mamma,<a name="page_51" id="page_51"></a> half-an-hour ago. What is the -matter? You look like a ghost, and so does Aubrey. Has anything -happened? Mamma, you won’t look at me, and Aubrey turns his back. What -have I done? Is it anything about me?”</p> - -<p>“What nonsense, child!” said Mrs. Kingsward, with a pretence at a smile. -“What could you have to do with it? We have both—Mr. Leigh and -myself—found letters, and we are busy reading them. I am sure the -dinner must be served. We ordered it in the balcony, don’t you remember? -Run away and make Charlie and Betty sit down at once. I am too tired. -Moulsey will run down in a little and get something for me.”</p> - -<p>“Mamma,” said Bee, “you cannot make up a story. Something has happened, -I am sure of it; and it is something about me.”</p> - -<p>“Nonsense, child! Go away and have your dinner. I would come if I could. -Don’t you see what a budget of letters I have got? And some of them I -must answer to-night.”</p> - -<p>“Have you letters, too, Aubrey?” said Bee, in her amazement, standing -still as she had paused, arrested by the sight of them, just within the -door.<a name="page_52" id="page_52"></a></p> - -<p>“Bee, I must beg you will not put any questions; go and do what I tell -you; your brother and sister will be coming downstairs. Yes, of course, -you can see that Mr. Leigh has his letters to read as well as I.”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Leigh! I wonder if we have all gone mad, or what is the matter? -Aubrey! tell me—you, at least, if mamma won’t. You must have had a -quarrel. Mamma, why do you call him Mr. Leigh?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, for goodness sake, Bee, go away.”</p> - -<p>“I am not going away,” cried the girl. “You have had a quarrel about -something. Come, mamma, you must not quarrel with Aubrey—if he has done -something wrong or said something silly, I will answer for him, he never -intended it. Aubrey, what do you mean, sir, turning your back both on -mamma and me? Come here, quick, and ask her pardon, and say you will -never do it again.”</p> - -<p>Poor little Bee’s heart was fluttering, but she would not allow herself -to believe there was anything really wrong. She went close up to her -mother and stood by her, with a hand upon her shoulder. “Aubrey!” she -said, “never mind if you are wrong or not,<a name="page_53" id="page_53"></a> come and beg mamma’s pardon, -and she will forgive you. There must not—there must not—oh, it is too -ridiculous!—be anything wrong between mamma and you. Aubrey!”</p> - -<p>He turned round slowly and faced them both with a face so pale that Bee -stopped short with a gasp, and could not say a word more. Mrs. Kingsward -had buried her face in her hands. Bee looked from one to the other with -a dismay which she could not explain to herself. “Oh, what is the -matter? What is the matter?” she said.<a name="page_54" id="page_54"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">There</span> was no merry dinner that night in the verandah of the hotel under -the clinging wreaths of green. Mrs. Kingsward went up to her room still -with her heavy shawl about her shoulders which she had forgotten, though -it added something to her discomfort—followed by Bee, pale and rigid, -offering no help, following her mother like an angry shadow. Charlie and -Betty met them on the stairs and stood aside in consternation, unable to -conceive what had happened. Mrs. Kingsward gave them a sort of troubled -smile and said: “Get your dinner, dears; don’t wait for us. I am too -tired to come down to-night.”</p> - -<p>“But, mamma——” they both began in remonstrance.<a name="page_55" id="page_55"></a></p> - -<p>“Go down and get your dinner,” said Mrs. Kingsward, peremptorily.</p> - -<p>As for Bee, she did not look at them at all. Her eyes were fierce with -some sentiment which Betty could not divine, and angry, blazing, as if -they might have set light to the hotel.</p> - -<p>Little Betty pressed against Charlie’s side as they went down, startled -and alarmed. “Bee has had a quarrel with mamma,” she whispered, in tones -of awe.</p> - -<p>“That’s impossible,” said Charlie.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, it’s not impossible. There was once——”</p> - -<p>It comforted them both a little in the awful circumstances that such a -thing had perhaps happened before. They went very silently and much cast -down to that table in the verandah, whither obsequious waiters beckoned -them, and contemplated with dismay all the plates laid, all the glitter -of the lamps and the glasses.</p> - -<p>“I suppose we must not wait for them as they said so,” said Charlie, -sitting down in his place at the bottom of the table. “Tell Mr. -Leigh—that is the other gentleman—that we are ready.”<a name="page_56" id="page_56"></a></p> - -<p>“The other gentleman, sir,” said the waiter, who was the pride of the -establishment for his English, “has gone out.”</p> - -<p>“Gone out!” said Charlie. He could only stare at Betty and she at him, -not knowing what to think.</p> - -<p>“He has had his letters, too, sir,” said the waiter in a significant -tone.</p> - -<p>His letters! What could that have to do with it? Charlie also had had -his letters, one of them a bill which he did not view with any -satisfaction; but even at twenty-one a man already learns to disguise -his feelings, and sits down to dinner cheerfully though he has received -a bill by the post. Charlie’s mind at first could not perceive any -connection between Bee’s withdrawal upstairs and Aubrey’s disappearance. -It was Betty who suggested, sitting down very close to him, that it -looked as if Aubrey and Bee had quarrelled too.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps that is what it is,” she said, as if she had found out a -satisfactory reason. “Lovers always quarrel; and mamma will have taken -Aubrey’s part, and Bee will be so angry, and feel as if she could never -forgive him. There, that is what it must be.”<a name="page_57" id="page_57"></a></p> - -<p>“A man may quarrel with his sweetheart,” said Charlie, severely, “but he -needn’t spoil other people’s dinner for that;” however, they comforted -themselves that this was the most likely explanation, and that all would -come right in the morning. And they were very young and hungry, having -eaten nothing since the veal at one o’clock. And these two made on the -whole a very satisfactory meal.</p> - -<p>The scene upstairs was very different. Mrs. Kingsward sent Moulsey away -on pretence of getting her some tea, and then turned to her daughter who -stood by the dressing-table and stared blankly, without seeing anything, -into those mysterious depths of the glass which are so suggestive to -people in trouble. She said, faintly, “Bee, I would so much rather you -would not ask me any more questions to-night.”</p> - -<p>“That is,” said Bee, “you would like to send me away to be miserable by -myself without even knowing what it is, while you will take your -sleeping draught and forget it. How can you be so selfish, mamma? And -you have made my Aubrey join in the conspiracy<a name="page_58" id="page_58"></a> against me—my Aubrey -who belongs to me as papa does to you. If you are against us it is all -very well, though I can’t imagine why you should be against us—but at -least you need not interfere between Aubrey and me.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, my dear child, my poor darling!” said Mrs. Kingsward, wringing her -hands.</p> - -<p>“It is all very well to call me your poor child, when it is you that are -making me poor,” said Bee.</p> - -<p>She kept moving a little, first on one foot then on the other, but -always gazing into the glass which presented the image of an excited -girl, very pale, but lit up with a sort of blaze of indignation, and -unable to keep still. It was not that girl’s face, however, that Bee was -gazing at, but at the dim world of space beyond in which there were -faint far-away reflections of the light and the world. “And if you think -you will get rid of me like this, and hang me up till to-morrow without -knowing what it is, you are mistaken, mamma. I will not leave you until -you have told me. What is it? What has papa got in his head? What does -he say in that<a name="page_59" id="page_59"></a> horrid—horrid letter? I wish I had known when I gave it -to you I should have thrown it into the river instead of ever letting it -come into your hands.”</p> - -<p>“Bee, you must know that this passion is very wrong and very improper. -You ought not to face me like that, and demand an answer. I am your -mother,” said Mrs. Kingsward, but with a falter which was all unlike -that assumption of authority, “and I have no need to tell you anything -more than I think is for your good.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! I know where that comes from,” cried Bee; “that’s papa’s thunder! -that’s what he has told you to say! You don’t believe, yourself, that -you have a right to hang up a poor girl over some dreadful, dreadful -abyss, when she was so happy and never suspected anything.” Here Bee’s -voice faltered for a moment, but she quickly recovered herself. “And to -drag her away from the one person that could support her, and to cut the -ground from under her feet, and never to tell her what it means!”</p> - -<p>It was at this point that Moulsey, with a little discreet cough to -herald her approach,<a name="page_60" id="page_60"></a> came into the room, bearing a tray with tea, and a -little cover from which came a faint but agreeable odour. Mrs. Kingsward -was in great trouble about her child, but she was much exhausted and in -want of physical support, and it did seem to her hard that she might not -be permitted to eat the smallest of cutlets before embarking on a scene -such as she knew this would be. Oh, why didn’t papa come and say it -himself, when there was so much that was dreadful to say?</p> - -<p>“Shall I fetch something for Miss Bee, too?” said Moulsey. “It ain’t a -good thing for a young creature to go without her dinner. If she’s not -going down, ma’am, as would be much the best, I’ll just run and fetch a -little something for Miss Bee too.”</p> - -<p>“Indeed, indeed, Bee, Moulsey is right. Think how miserable the others -will feel all alone, and thinking something has happened. Do go down, -darling, and strengthen yourself with a little food, and take a glass of -wine just for once to please me. And after that you shall be told -everything—all that I know.”</p> - -<p>Bee grew paler and paler, standing there<a name="page_61" id="page_61"></a> before the glass, and her eyes -blazed more and more. “It is as bad as that, then!” she said under her -breath to herself, and then went away from where she was standing to the -further end of the room. “I shall wait here, mamma, till you have had -your tea. I know you want it. Oh, go away Moulsey! Let me alone! No, you -shall not bring me anything! or, if you do, I will throw it out of the -window,” she said, stamping her foot. The dark end of the room seemed -suddenly lighted up by a sort of aurora borealis, with the fire of poor -Bee’s burning eyes and the flashes here and there of her white -frock—oh, poor white frock! put on in the sunshine of life and -happiness to please her love, and now turned into a sort of sacrificial -robe.</p> - -<p>“Take it away, Moulsey; I can’t eat anything—I can’t, indeed—no more -than Miss Bee—”</p> - -<p>“But you must, ma’am,” said Moulsey. “Miss Bee’s young; she’s had -nothing to drain away her strength. But it’s far different with you, -after all your family and so weak as you are. If Miss Bee were a real -good girl, as I always thought her, she’d go away and<a name="page_62" id="page_62"></a> get something -herself just for her poor mamma’s sake, and leave you alone for a moment -to get a little peace and rest.”</p> - -<p>“There is no rest for me,” murmured the poor lady. “Oh, papa, papa, why -didn’t you come and tell them yourself?”</p> - -<p>These piteous tones went to Bee’s heart. They moved her half with -contempt, half with compassion—with something of that high indignant -toleration of weakness which is one kind of pity. If mamma could eat and -drink at such a moment, why shouldn’t she be left to do it? The girl -started up and left the room in the quick flashing impulse of her -passion. She walked up and down in the corridor outside, her arms folded -over her high-beating, tumultuous heart. Yes, no doubt she was going to -be miserable, all her happiness was cut down and withered away, but in -her present passionate impulse of resistance and gathering of all her -forces to resist the catastrophe, which she did not understand, it could -scarcely be said that she was wretched yet. What was it—what was it? -she was saying to herself. It might still be something that would pass -away, which<a name="page_63" id="page_63"></a> would be overcome by the determined, impassioned stand -against it, which Bee felt that it was in her to make. The thing that -was worst of all, that stole away her courage, was that Aubrey had -failed her. He should have been there by her side whatever happened. He -ought not to have abandoned her. No doubt he thought it was more -delicate, more honourable, more something or other; and that it was his -duty to leave her to brave it alone. It must have been one of those -high-flown notions of honour that men have. Honour! to leave a girl to -fight for herself and him, alone—but, no doubt, that was what had -seemed right in his eyes. Bee walked up and down in the half-lighted -passage, sometimes almost pushing against someone going up or down, -waiters or chambermaids or surprised guests, who looked after her when -she had passed; but she did not take any notice of them, and she heard -as she passed her mother’s door little sounds of tea-cups and dishes, -and Moulsey’s voice saying “A little more,” and her mother’s faint -replies. Poor mamma! After all, what ever it was, it could not be her -affair as it<a name="page_64" id="page_64"></a> was Bee’s. She would be unhappy about it, but not all -unhappy. She had the others, who were all right. She had papa. It would -not shatter her to pieces even if one of the children was to be -shipwrecked. It was the shipwrecked one only who would be broken to -pieces. For the first time in her life Bee felt the poignant sensation, -the jealous pride, the high, desolate satisfaction of suffering. The -others could all eat and do the ordinary things. She was elevated over -all that, silent as on a Peak in Darien. She felt almost a kind of -dreadful pleasure in the situation, smiling to herself at the sounds of -her mother’s little meal. She could dine while Bee was miserable. They -could all dine—Charlie (which was natural), Betty, even Aubrey. She had -no doubt that he, too, must be seated, feeling as a man does that dinner -must go on whatever happens, at the table downstairs.</p> - -<p>After a while, which seemed a long time to Bee, Moulsey came out with -the tray. She was startled, and exclaimed under her breath at the -appearance of the girl walking up and down in the corridor: “I did -think<a name="page_65" id="page_65"></a> you would have had the sense to go and join the others, Miss -Bee.” Bee was too much uplifted, too distant on her high pinnacle of -martyrdom, to make any reply, but when Moulsey ventured to add a word of -advice, to the effect that she must be careful of her mamma and not -weary her with questions and she so tired and so weak, the girl flashed -forth all her heart of indignation. “She has eaten her cutlet, it -appears,” cried Bee. “I should think she may answer my questions.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” cried the maid, who had the privileges of an old servant, “you -have got a heart without pity. You are just like your papa!”</p> - -<p>Bee swept past her into the room, where poor Mrs. Kingsward, who after -all had eaten but a morsel, sat lying back in an easy chair awaiting the -dreadful conflict which she knew was coming. Poor lady, she had lost all -her brightness, that pretty grace of the young mother among her grown up -children, which prompted so many compliments. She lay back in her easy -chair, feeling as she said “any age”—as old as any woman on the edge of -the grave, not knowing how she was<a name="page_66" id="page_66"></a> to bear the onslaught that was -coming, and how she was to say what had to be said. He had borne it far -better than Bee—poor Aubrey, poor Aubrey! whom she must not call Aubrey -any more. He had not denied anything, he had fallen as it were at her -feet, like a house that had been undermined and had no sound -foundations, but Bee was different. Bee was a tower that had -foundations—a girl that was able to stand up even to papa, and why—why -had he not come to give forth his sentence in his own way?</p> - -<p>Bee came forward flashing into the light, in that white frock which -shone, and with those eyes that blazed through all the neutral tints in -the room. She did not sit down, which would have been a little relief, -but seized a chair and stood with her hand upon the back, leaning upon -it.</p> - -<p>“I hope, mamma,” she said, pitiless, “that you liked your tea, and ate -something—and that you are better now.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Bee!” cried the poor lady; if there is one reproach more dreadful -than another it is this of being able to eat when you ought<a name="page_67" id="page_67"></a> to be -overwhelmed with trouble.” Mrs. Kingsward could scarcely keep from -crying at the imputation. And Bee, I fear, knew that it was the -unkindest thing that could be said.</p> - -<p>“Now, mamma,” she resumed, almost stonily, “it is time that you should -tell me what has happened. We arrived here all quite happy—it is just -an hour ago——” here Bee’s voice shook a little, but she commanded it -with an effort—“I ran up to dress for dinner, and when I came back in -about ten minutes I found you and Aubrey—with your letters—looking as -if you had both been dead and buried while I was away. You wouldn’t -answer me, and he never said a word. You had done something to him in -that little time to make him turn away from me, and yet you will not -tell me what it is. Here I am alone,” said Bee, once more with a quiver -in her voice. “Aubrey ought to be standing by me. I suppose he is having -his dinner downstairs, too, and thinking no more of me. I just stand -alone, nobody caring in all the world. What is the meaning of it, -mamma?”<a name="page_68" id="page_68"></a></p> - -<p>“Bee, you are very hard upon me. And poor Aubrey, he is having no -dinner—of that I am sure.”</p> - -<p>“You called him Mr. Leigh downstairs.”</p> - -<p>“So I did, and so I must, and all of us; but I cannot have you speaking -of him like that, poor, poor fellow; and just for this once—— Oh, Bee, -my darling, don’t stand and look at me so! I would rather have died than -say it either to him or to you. Your papa has been hearing I don’t know -what, and he has changed his mind about Mr. Leigh altogether, and says -it must not be.”</p> - -<p>“What must not be?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Bee! Oh, don’t take it so hard! Don’t look like that! -Your—your—engagement, my darling. Have patience; oh, have patience! He -has heard something. Men hear things that we would never hear. And he -doesn’t deny it. Oh! he doesn’t deny it. I had a hope that he would -contradict it at once, and flare up in a rage like you, and say it -wasn’t true. But he doesn’t deny it—poor boy, poor boy! And after that, -how can I say one word to papa?”<a name="page_69" id="page_69"></a></p> - -<p>“My engagement?” said Bee, in a hoarse voice. She had been staring at -her mother as in a dream—only partially hearing, not understanding at -all the rest that was said. “My engagement? He gave his consent. It was -all settled. You would not allow us till the letter came, but then it -was consent.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes, dear. That was at first. He consented at first because—and -now it appears he has heard something—someone has called upon him—he -has discovered—and he writes to me that it must be broken off. Oh, Bee, -don’t think my heart doesn’t bleed for you. I think it will kill me. He -says it must be broken off at once.”</p> - -<p>“Who says so?” said Bee, in her passion. “He! One would think you were -speaking of God—that can say ‘Yes’ to-day and ‘No’ to-morrow, and build -things up and then snatch them down. But I will not have it! I am not a -doll, to be put in one position and then in another, as anybody pleases. -My engagement! It is mine; it is not his.”</p> - -<p>“Bee, think; it is papa you are speaking of. Dear, I feel for you—I -feel for you! but so does he. Oh, my darling, you don’t know<a name="page_70" id="page_70"></a> what you -are saying. Do you think he would do anything to make you unhappy if he -could help it—your papa, Bee, who has been so good to you all your -life?”</p> - -<p>“I do not care how good he has been. He is not good now. How will it -harm him? He sits at home, and he thinks he can do as he pleases. But -not with me. It is my affair more than it is his. He thinks he can break -his word and it doesn’t matter—but I have given my word, and it does -matter. Break my engagement!” cried Bee, her young bosom swelling, the -sob rising in her throat that would soon choke her voice. “It is mine -and not his; and nobody in the world shall break it. You can tell him -so, mamma, or I will write myself and tell him so. I am not a wax image -to take any shape he pleases. Who is he? He is not God——”</p> - -<p>“Bee—he is your father——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, my father! Yes, I do whatever he tells me. If he says I am to fetch -anything I run like a little dog. I have never been disobedient. But -this—this is different. I am not a child any longer. And, mamma, not -for him nor for anyone—not even for you will I take back my word.”<a name="page_71" id="page_71"></a></p> - -<p>“Bee! You make me say a great deal more than I meant to say. I thought -you would have been a good child and seen that papa must know best. My -poor, poor little girl, there is worse behind. Mr. Leigh, whom we all -thought so much of——”</p> - -<p>“Aubrey,” Bee managed to say, though for no other word could she command -her voice.</p> - -<p>“Darling, he has deceived us. He is not what he seems. He has done, oh, -so wrong—there have been things—that you ought never to hear——”</p> - -<p>“Stop!” said Bee. She had to speak in monosyllables with her labouring -breath. “Wait!—not behind his back.” She rushed to the bell and rung it -so wildly that both waiter and chambermaid appeared in alarm, with -Moulsey rushing in calling for a doctor, and saying that her lady was -going to faint. Bee pushed the woman aside and turned to the waiter, who -stood anxious at the door. “Mr. Leigh!” she cried, impatiently; “the -gentleman—who was with us: tell him—to come here.”</p> - -<p>“The tall young gentleman?” said the waiter.<a name="page_72" id="page_72"></a></p> - -<p>“No—the other: tell him he is to come here—instantly—this moment.”</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon, miss,” said the man. “The other gentleman? He have -been gone away this half-hour.”</p> - -<p>“Gone away!” she cried. And it seemed to Bee that the blackness of -darkness closed over her and the room and everything in it. She did not -faint, oh no, no such happiness—but everything grew dark, and through -the dark she heard her own voice speaking—speaking, and did not know -what she said.<a name="page_73" id="page_73"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">But</span> Aubrey had not gone away. He had gone out in the dizziness of a -great downfall, scarcely knowing how to keep his feet steady as he -wandered along the dark street, not knowing where he went. The landscape -that had charmed them all so much—was it scarcely an hour ago?—the -lamps reflected in the water; the verandah, with its wreaths of green; -the brilliant yet mysterious glimmer of the moon, made his heart sink to -look at them now. He strayed off into the darkest of the narrow streets, -into the great gloom of the cathedral shadow, where he could see nothing -but a poor light twinkling here and there, making the darkness visible. -Oh! how certain it is that, however sweet they may seem, your sins will -find you out! Oh! how more than certain if you have let yourself be<a name="page_74" id="page_74"></a> -dragged down once, only once, in a spotless life, that the one fault -will be made into the central fact of your whole existence. If he had -been a bad, dissipated man, it would have been only fair. But this poor -young fellow was like the young man whom our Lord loved though he went -away. All good things he had kept from his youth up—but once, only -once, half distracted by grief, and by the desire which is so natural to -escape from grief, and by infernal temptation, he had fallen—oh, there -was no need to tell him how he had fallen! Had it not been the canker in -his soul ever since? And now this one thing, this miserable, -much-repented fault, which revolted, disgusted, horrified himself, was -brought up against him as if it were the pattern upon which he had -shaped his life.</p> - -<p>And now, what was left for him but to fall down, down into the -unfathomable abyss? The distracted feelings with which he had broken -away from home, the horror and dismay that at once belonged to his -natural grief and made the burden of it a thousand times harder to bear, -all rushed back upon<a name="page_75" id="page_75"></a> him, whirling him down and down to dimmer and more -awful depths. He had partially healed himself in the intolerableness of -his trouble by travel and change, and the arbitrary forgetfulness which -comes from absence and the want of any association which could call back -to him what was past; and then the touch of Bee’s soft, girlish hand, -the sound of her voice, had suddenly called him back into an enchanted -land where everything had again become possible. He had hesitated for -some time, wondering if he might dare—he who had a secret smirch upon -him which nobody suspected—to avail himself of this way of salvation. -The reader will think that he had not hesitated very long—poor -Aubrey—seeing that the introduction, the acquaintance, the love, the -engagement had all occurred within the small space of one month; but to -the brooding spirit the hours of one interminable day are long enough -for a chronicle. Something like the phenomena of love at first sight had -occurred in the bleeding yet young heart, which had felt itself cut -loose from all the best associations of life. Deliverance, recreation,<a name="page_76" id="page_76"></a> -the new beginning of life and all its possibilities had gleamed upon him -in Bee’s blue eyes. Her appearance swept away everything that was dark -and ominous in his life. Did he dare to ask for her hand, to set out -again to make himself a new career? He had worked at that question -almost from the first day, discussing it with himself for the three -weeks preceding their engagement, waking and sleeping, almost without -intermission; and then in a moment he had forgotten all controversy, and -let forth without intention the words that had been lying, so to speak, -on the threshold of his lips—and in that moment all the clouds had been -swept away. He was only eight and twenty after all—so young to have -such a past behind him, and what so natural as that his life should -begin again—begin now as for the first time? He had hesitated in the -first fervour of his betrothal whether he should not tell all his story. -But there was no one to tell it to but Mrs. Kingsward—a lady, even a -young lady, not looking much older than Bee herself. That is one of the -drawbacks of a young mother. She was still in the<a name="page_77" id="page_77"></a> sphere of the girls, -not in that of the old ladies whom Heaven has ordained to represent the -mothers of the race. How could he tell to her the story of that -entanglement? If Colonel Kingsward had been there, Aubrey was of opinion -that he would have made a clean breast of everything to him. But I think -it very likely that he might not have done so. He would have intended -it, and he would have put it off from day to day; and then he knew how -lightly men of the world look upon such matters. What would have -horrified Mrs. Kingsward would probably call forth nothing but a -pooh-pooh from her husband. Aubrey, as it proved, was mistaken there, -for Colonel Kingsward had ideas of his own, not always corresponding to -those of the ordinary man of the world; but no doubt had he heard the -story from that side and not from the other, he would have regarded it -in a very different light.</p> - -<p>But it was too late—too late for these reflections now. The fiat had -gone forth, the sentence had been pronounced beyond appeal. Oh, Bee, -Bee, she was too good for<a name="page_78" id="page_78"></a> him; too fresh, too bright, unsullied by the -world, for a man who had gone through so much already although he was -still young enough. He who had loved and married—though, oh, how -differently!—poor little Amy, who was nobody, whom he had liked for her -yielding sweetness, sweetness which had cost him so dear—he who had -been a father, who had lost his way in life amid the fogs of death and -grief—how had he now dared to think that such a girl as Bee should -dedicate her fresh young life to restore him again to the lost -possibilities of his? It seemed to him the greatest presumption, the -most dreadful, cynical, almost blasphemous attempt. It was the way of -the world—to think that any woman, however good, might be sacrificed to -the necessities of a man’s restoration whatever he had done; everybody -thought so, his own mother even. But he, Aubrey, should have known -better—he should have known that even at his best he could never have -been good enough for Bee, and to think that he had dared now when he was -no longer at his best! What a fool, what a fool he had been! He had come -to be able to endure the <a name="page_79" id="page_79"></a>daylight and “get on” well enough when he had -arrived at the Bath and seen her first. Why had he not contented himself -with that, knowing that he had no right to expect more? And now there -was nothing—nothing before him but a plunge into the unutterable -darkness—darker than ever, without any hope—worse almost, if worse -were possible, than when he had fled from his home.</p> - -<p>He did not know how long he had been roaming about the dark town -pondering all these dreadful thoughts. When he went back to the hotel, -which he finally did, worn out, not knowing where else to go, one -reproachful waiter, with eyes that said he ought to have been in bed -long ago, was waiting for him with a curt demand what he would have to -eat, and all the house, except that deserted eating-room, where one -light twinkled—reproachful, like the waiter—was shut up. He went to -his room when he had swallowed some brandy, which was the only thing he -could find to put a little warmth into his chilled limbs and despairing -heart, and threw himself miserable upon his bed, where I have no doubt -he slept, though he was not<a name="page_80" id="page_80"></a> aware of it—as Bee did, though she had no -intention of doing so.</p> - -<p>The only one who was really a sufferer in this respect was poor Mrs. -Kingsward, who was ill, and who had been far more agitated than her -feeble strength could bear. She it was who lay and wondered all through -the night what she must do. Was he really gone without a word, thus -proving how much he was in the wrong, and how right the Colonel was? It -would have saved her from a great deal of embarrassment, but I do not -think Mrs. Kingsward wished that Aubrey might have really gone. It was -too summary, it was not natural, it would show Colonel Kingsward to have -been too right. Oh! she believed he was right! She did not doubt that -his decision was for the best any more than she doubted that it was -inexorable: but still the heart revolted a little, and she hoped that he -might not be proved so unutterably right as that. And poor Bee—poor -little Bee! She did not know, poor child, that there were bitters in the -sweetest cup—that if she had twenty years of Aubrey she would not -probably have thought quite<a name="page_81" id="page_81"></a> so much of him as now—that nobody was -perfect, which was a conviction that had been forced upon Mrs. -Kingsward’s own mind, though it was not a strong one, by the passage of -the years. And then the poor lady went off into perplexed considerations -of what she personally must do. Must he leave them all at once, travel -home in a different carriage, avoid them at the stations, not venture to -come near their table when they dined on the way? It would seem so -ridiculous, and it would be so embarrassing after their very close -intercourse. But men never thought of these little things. She felt sure -that the Colonel would expect her never to let the two meet again. And -how could she do that when they were both travelling the same way? -Besides, was it fair, was it just, would Bee endure it—never to see him -again?</p> - -<p>Bee woke up in all the energy of despair. It burst upon her in the first -moment of her waking that he had gone away, that it was all over; but -her mind, when it had time to think, rejected that idea; he would not, -could not have gone without a word, without even<a name="page_82" id="page_82"></a> saying farewell, -without asking her—anything, anything—to forgive him or to forget him, -or to be faithful to him, or not to believe what was said against him. -One or other of these things Aubrey must say to her before he went away. -Therefore, he could not have gone away, and everything was still -possible. In her passion and pride she had refused last night to let her -mother tell her what it was. She had resolved that Aubrey should be -present, that he should hear the accusation against him, that he should -give his own explanation—that was only just, she said to herself—the -poorest criminal had a right to that! And Aubrey should have it. He -should not, whatever papa said and whatever mamma said, be condemned -unheard. She dressed in great haste and rang the bell energetically to -ascertain if he had come back. But the chambermaid who answered Bee’s -bell was stupid and could not understand what Herr it was about whom the -young lady questioned her so closely. Had he come back? Oh, yes, she -believed all the Herren had come back; there was not a bed to be had in -the house. But what Herr was<a name="page_83" id="page_83"></a> it whom the gracious young lady sought. -The old gentleman in the next room, who was so ill? She heard that he -was a little better this morning—or the young Herr in number ten, or -the Herr whose eyes were so bad, who was going to the great doctor at -Dusseldorf? Perhaps poor Bee’s German was at fault. She was still -attempting to make the matter clear when Moulsey came in with the news -that Mrs. Kingsward was very poorly, and had not slept at all, a -statement which Betty, rushing in half-dressed, confirmed anxiously. -“Mamma has had a very bad night; and what is the matter, Bee, that we -are all at sixes and sevens, and why did you lock your door? I came up -as soon as I could—as soon as Charlie would let me. He said it was -dreadful, nobody coming down; and that we must eat through the dinner -for the sake of appearances. And Aubrey never showing neither, and me -obliged to sleep in mamma’s room because you had locked the door.”</p> - -<p>“I want to know,” said Bee, “whether Aubrey came back last night.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, how should I know?” said Betty,<a name="page_84" id="page_84"></a> “and why shouldn’t he come back? -Of course he must have come back. Is he going anywhere else but home? I -wish people would not get letters,” said the girl. “You are all so -ridiculous since those letters came last night. Letters are nice when -they are nice. But, oh! how much nicer it was yesterday morning when you -had none, and we were all quite happy, and mamma well, and Aubrey and -you as funny as you could be!”</p> - -<p>There flashed upon Bee as she spoke the whole bright panorama of -yesterday. Not a cloud in the sky nor a trouble in the world. Mamma as -fresh as the morning, the river shining, the steamboat thrilling through -the water with a shiver of pleasure in its wooden sides, every group -adding amusement, and they themselves affording it, no doubt, to the -rest. How conscious they had been when they laughed under their breath -at the young German pairs, that they themselves were lovers too, quite -as happy, if not so demonstrative. Oh! yesterday—yesterday! You might -as well say last century for anything that resembled it now. Bee turned -almost<a name="page_85" id="page_85"></a> fiercely to Moulsey, who stood looking on with that air of -knowing all about it which so often exasperated the girls, and requested -her to go downstairs immediately and ask if Mr. Leigh had come back. -Moulsey hesitated and protested that the chambermaid would know. “And -you that know the language, Miss Bee.”</p> - -<p>“Go down directly and inquire if Mr. Leigh has come back. You know the -waiter that speaks such good English as well as I do,” said Bee, -peremptorily. And Moulsey could do nothing but obey.</p> - -<p>Yes, Mr. Leigh had come back; he had occupied his room, but was not yet -up so far as the attendants knew. There came such a change on Bee’s face -at this news as startled both the curious observers. The light grew less -fierce, more like the usual sunny brightness in her eyes. A softening -came over her face. Her colour flashed back. “I want to know when mamma -is coming downstairs,” she said. “Moulsey—or no, stop. I’ll go myself -and see.”</p> - -<p>Moulsey was so roused that she caught the young lady by the arm. “If it -was your<a name="page_86" id="page_86"></a> papa himself, my lady shan’t be disturbed,” she said. “And not -by you, Miss Bee, as are the cause of it all; not if you should put a -knife into me afore her door.”</p> - -<p>“How dare you say I am the cause of it all?”</p> - -<p>“Because it’s the truth,” said the enraged maid. “She was worrited -enough before by those letters, and you coming in like the wind, like -your papa himself, as I always said you were his living image; and -stopping her in the middle of her little bit of cutlet that would have -given her strength, and questioning of her like a drum-major, and pacing -up and down outside the door like a wild beast. Mind my words: you don’t -know, none of you, how little strength my poor lady’s got. And you’re -all so masterful, every one, with mamma here and mamma there, and you’ll -not find out till it’s too late——”</p> - -<p>“But mamma’s better,” cried Betty. “She has taken her cure, and she’s -all right till next year.”</p> - -<p>“I only wish as you may all find it so, miss,” said Moulsey, folding her -arms across her broad chest and shaking her head.<a name="page_87" id="page_87"></a></p> - -<p>Bee was awe-struck for a moment by this speech, but she knew that -Moulsey was always a croaker, and it was quite true about the cure. She -paused a little uncertain, and then she resumed in a subdued voice—</p> - -<p>“I never want to disturb mamma. But Moulsey, we’ve got to leave here -to-day.”</p> - -<p>“That can’t be,” said Moulsey, decisively. “My lady is not fit to travel -after such a bad night, and I won’t have it,” she said. “The doctor has -put my lady into my hands, and he says ‘She’s not to be overtired. Mind, -I don’t respond for nothing if she’s overtired.’ And she just shan’t -go—that’s flat. And you may all say what you like, and your papa, too.”</p> - -<p>“Not to-day?” said Bee, with another change of countenance. It flashed -upon her that another day’s delay would give time for all the -explanations in which she could not help hoping. Her excited pulses -calmed down a little. She was not alarmed about her mother. Had she been -so, it would no doubt have given her thoughts another direction. But Bee -knew nothing of illness, much less anything of death. She was not -afraid<a name="page_88" id="page_88"></a> of them. In her experience people might be ill occasionally, but -they always got better. Mamma, too, would be better presently, when she -got up; and then they could all meet, and the letters and the whole -matter could be discussed. And it seemed to be impossible—impossible -that from this some better conclusion could be arrived at. There had -been so much confusion last night, when it burst upon them like a -thunderstroke. When looked at calmly, without flurry or haste, the -better moment would bring better views, and who could say that all might -not yet be well?<a name="page_89" id="page_89"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Emboldened</span> by this thought Bee went downstairs to breakfast, which was -spread again in the verandah in the warm sunshine of the autumnal -morning. The new hope, though it were a forlorn one, restored her -youthful appetite as well as her courage, and her coffee and roll were a -real restorative after the long fast and agitated night. But there was -no appearance of Aubrey, neither at the table nor in the passages, nor -anywhere about. He seemed to have disappeared as if he had never been. -When Charlie came down from his mother’s room, where he had been shut up -with her for some time, Bee, who had no particular respect for Charlie’s -opinion or inclination to allow him any authority over herself, such as -an elder<a name="page_90" id="page_90"></a> brother is sometimes supposed to have, began at once to -question him. “Where is Aubrey?” she said. “Why doesn’t he come to -breakfast? Will you go and look for Aubrey, Charlie?”</p> - -<p>“Indeed, I will do no such thing,” said Charlie, almost roughly. “I hope -he has had the sense to go away. I should just like to see him come -calmly down to breakfast as if nothing had happened. If he came, then I -can answer for it, you should not be allowed to say a word to him, Bee.”</p> - -<p>“Who should prevent me?” cried Bee, looking up with her eyes on fire and -her nostrils dilating. She had not noticed before what a cloud was upon -Charlie’s face and how heavy and scowling were his brows. She added, -springing up, “We shall soon see about that. If you think I shall do -what you tell me, or condemn any man unheard——”</p> - -<p>“The cad! He never denied it. You can ask mamma.”</p> - -<p>“I will not ask anyone but Mr. Leigh,” said Bee, throwing back her head; -“and I advise you to mind your own business, and<a name="page_91" id="page_91"></a> not to call names that -may come back upon yourself.”</p> - -<p>“Stop where you are, Bee. I never went out into the world under false -pretences. A man is a cad when he does that.”</p> - -<p>“I shall not stop for you, nor anyone but my parents,” said Bee, in a -splendid flush of anger, her countenance glowing, her eyes blazing. -“Stand out of my way. Oh, if that is all, and you want to make a scene -for the edification of the tourists, I can go in by the other door.”</p> - -<p>And she did so, leaving Charlie standing flushed and angry, but quite -unable, it need scarcely be said, to coerce his sister. To make an -attempt of this kind, which comes to nothing, is confusing and -humiliating. He looked round angrily for a moment to see if it were -possible to intercept her, then, yielding to necessity, sat down where -Betty, eager and full of a thousand questions, sat calling for -explanations. That is the good of a family party, there is always -someone ready to hear what you have to say.</p> - -<p>Bee went at once to the English-speaking waiter, and asked for Mr. -Leigh, whom the<a name="page_92" id="page_92"></a> man, curious as all lookers-on are at a social drama -going on under their eyes, declared to be still in his room. She sent -him off instantly with a message, and stood in the hall awaiting his -return, angry and brave, like the rose in George Herbert’s poem, yet -soon getting shamefaced and troubled, as the people coming and going, -travellers, visitors, attendants, stared at her and brushed against her -as they passed. Bee never forgot all her life the gleam of the river at -the foot of the steps, of which she had a glimpse through the -doorway—the Rhine barges slowly crossing that little space of vision, -the little boats flitting across the gleam of the rosy morning, and the -strong flowing tide, the figures going up and down breaking the -prospect.</p> - -<p>The man came back to her after a time, looking half sympathetic, half -malicious, with the message that the gentleman was just going out.</p> - -<p>“Just going out!” She repeated the words half-consciously. “Was it -Aubrey that sent her that message? Aubrey—who yesterday would not let -her out of his sight, who followed her everywhere, saw every sign she<a name="page_93" id="page_93"></a> -made, heard every word almost before it was spoken!” The surprise and -the pang together made her heart sick. She could not rush upstairs and -knock at his door and call him out imperatively, to tell her immediately -what it all meant—at least, though it occurred to her that this would -be the most natural thing to do, she did not. Intimidated by the -circumstances, by the half impertinence of the waiter, by the stare of -the people about, she reflected for a moment breathlessly that he must -come out this way, and that if she remained there she must see him. But -Bee’s instinct of a young woman, now for the first time awakened, made -her shrink from this. When she was only a little girl, so very short a -time ago, she did not mind who looked at her, who pushed past her. But -now everything was different!</p> - -<p>She went away, still holding her head high that nobody (above all not -Charlie, who was watching her through the glass of the verandah) should -guess that her courage was drooping, and going into the deserted -sitting-room, where last night that blow had fallen upon her, sat down -and wrote to her lover a hurried little note:<a name="page_94" id="page_94"></a></p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“Oh, Aubrey, what is the matter? Have you deserted me without a -word? Do you think I am like them, to take up any report? I don’t -know what report there is—I don’t know what it is, this terrible -thing that has come between us. What is it? I will take your word -and nobody else’s. I don’t believe you have done anything that is -wrong. Aubrey! come and tell me out of your own mouth. I told mamma -last night I would hear nothing unless you were there; but you were -gone away, they said. And now you send me word that you are going -out and can’t see me. Going out and can’t see <i>me</i>! What does it -all mean?</p> - -<p>“If it is some fad of honour, of not seeing me against <i>their</i> -will—though I do think your first duty is to me, Aubrey, before -anyone else in the world—but if it should be so, mamma will be -down here at twelve o’clock—and I invite you to meet her, to hear -what is said, to answer for yourself and for me. If you have done -anything wrong, what does that matter? Don’t we all do wrong? And -why should it come between you and me? Am I without sin that I -should throw stones at you? Aubrey, you can’t throw everything away -without a word. You can’t desert me without a word. I can bear -anything—anything, rather than this.</p> - -<p class="r"> -“Your <span class="smcap">Bee</span>——.”</p> -</div> - -<p>Bee, poor child, shrank from intrusting this to the impertinent waiter, -who had a leer in his eye as if he were defending his own side from the -importunities of the other. She went out furtively into the hall and -studied the numbers of the rooms and the names of the tenants upon the -board, necessity<a name="page_95" id="page_95"></a> quickening her perceptions, and then she stole -upstairs and gave her poor little appeal into the hands of the stout -chambermaid who watched over that part of the hotel. It was for the Herr -in No. 10, and the answer was to be brought immediately to the little -salon No. 20 downstairs. “Eine Antwort,” she said over and over again in -her imperfect speech. “Schnell, schnell!” This, with the aid of a -thaler—for it was before the days of the mark—produced perfect -understanding in the mind of the maid, who with becks and wreathed -smiles accepted the commission, and in a short time brought her back the -answer for which she waited with feverish anxiety. It was very much -shorter than her own.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“I am not worthy to stand before you. I cannot and I must not take -advantage of your innocence; better I should disappear altogether -than wound your ears with what they say. But I will not since you -will it so. At twelve o’clock then, Bee, my darling, I will stand -up before your mother, and say what I can for myself. Bee, my own -dearest, my only hope!”</p></div> - -<p>This last was scrawled across the paper as if he had put it in after the -despair of the former part. It was this that the poor little girl fixed -upon—the sweet words to which<a name="page_96" id="page_96"></a> she had been accustomed, which her heart -was fainting for. It was not, one would have said, a very cheerful note -for a love-letter. But Bee was ridiculously cheered by it. So long as -she was his own dearest, his hope, his darling—so long as there was no -change in his love for her—why then, in the long run, whatever was -said, everything must come right.</p> - -<p>I need not follow Bee to her mother’s bedside, when Mrs. Kingsward woke -and for the first moment did not remember what had happened.</p> - -<p>“Is that you, Bee?” she said, smiling, not thinking.</p> - -<p>“Are you better, mamma?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, just in my usual——,” said Mrs. Kingsward. And then she -caught a fuller sight of her daughter’s face. Bee had none of her usual -pretty colour, the light in her eyes was like fire. The mother gave a -little feeble cry, and in a moment was no longer in her usual, but lost -in the feverish mists of a trouble far too great for her to bear. “Oh, -Bee! Oh, Bee!”</p> - -<p>“We had better not say anything about it,<a name="page_97" id="page_97"></a> mamma, to agitate you. I have -told him you will be ready at twelve o’clock, that I may know what the -story is, and what he has to say.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kingsward struggled up to a sitting position. “At twelve o’clock? -No! I cannot, I cannot!” Then she dropped back upon her pillows sobbing, -“Oh, Bee, spare me; I am not equal to it. There is Charlie can read your -papa’s letter. Bee! Bee!”</p> - -<p>“Charlie!” cried Bee, with a flash of fury. “Who is Charlie, that he -should sit in judgment on Aubrey and me? If he has anything to do with -it, I tell you, mamma, I will go away. I will go with Aubrey. I will not -hear a word.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Bee,” cried Mrs. Kingsward, holding out her hot, feverish hands, “I -am not fit for it! I am not fit for it! If I am to travel to-morrow—ask -Moulsey—I ought to stop in bed and be quiet all day.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t see that it matters,” said Bee, sternly, “whether we travel -to-morrow or in a week. To go home will be no pleasure to me.”</p> - -<p>“If we were there, then papa could manage<a name="page_98" id="page_98"></a> it all himself; he is the -proper person. On a journey is not the time to settle things so -important. I will write and tell him I have put it all off, and have not -said anything, till he could do it himself.”</p> - -<p>“But that will not be true,” cried the young Rhadamanthus, inexorable, -with her blazing eyes.</p> - -<p>“O Bee! you are dreadfully, dreadfully hard upon me!” the poor young -mother said. This is the drawback of being so young a mother, just as -young as your grown-up children. It is very delightful, when all is -sunny and bright, but in a great emergency like this it is trying for -all parties when a girl’s mother is only, so to speak, a girl like -herself. Bee lifted up her absolute young head, and gave forth her -ultimatum unmoved.</p> - -<p>“Well, mamma, it must be as you choose. If you think my happiness is of -less consequence than the chance of a headache to yourself, I have -naturally nothing more to say.”</p> - -<p>A headache! That was all she knew.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kingsward was ready by twelve o’clock, much against Moulsey’s will, -who<a name="page_99" id="page_99"></a> dressed her mistress under protest. “I ain’t one to interfere with -what’s going on in a family,” said Moulsey, as she combed out the long -locks, tangled with the restlessness of a troubled night, which were as -silky and as smooth as Bee’s. “I’m only a servant, and I knows my place; -but you’re not fit to struggle among them young ones. The nursery -children, it’s all very well; if they’re naughty you whip them, or you -put them in a corner, and there’s a good cry and all right again. But -when it comes to a business with a young lady and a gentlemen, the -Colonel ought to have come himself, or he ought to have put it off till -we all got home.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I wish, I wish he had!” Mrs. Kingsward said, sighing. “I am not in -the least what I used to be, Moulsey; don’t you think I am very -different from what I used to be? I have not half the strength.”</p> - -<p>“There often is,” said Moulsey, “a time when a lady isn’t so strong, -after all these children and everything. It takes a deal out of you, it -do. And I don’t hold much with them foreign cures. I’m one that stands -for home. And there’s where you<a name="page_100" id="page_100"></a> ought to be, ma’am, whatever anyone may -say.”</p> - -<p>“I am sure it is where I wish to be,” said the poor lady, “but we must -not be unjust, Moulsey. My cure did me a great deal of good, and I liked -being out and seeing everything just as much as the girls.”</p> - -<p>“That is just it, ma’am,” said Moulsey; “you’re a deal too much the same -as the young ladies, and can’t make up your mind as you haven’t the -strength for it. I’m not one to ask any questions, but I can’t help -seeing there’s something wrong. Don’t you give in to Miss Bee in -everything. I wouldn’t go down to make up the quarrel if I was you. -Leave ’em to themselves, and it’ll all come right. Bless us, lovers’ -quarrels is nothing—it wouldn’t be half the fun if it wasn’t for that.”</p> - -<p>Moulsey knew very well this was no lovers’ quarrel; but it seemed to her -a good way of satisfying herself what it was.</p> - -<p>“Oh, if that were all!” sighed the poor lady. “Moulsey, you are an old -friend, and take an interest in the family. You have known Miss Bee -since ever she was born.<a name="page_101" id="page_101"></a> I don’t know why I shouldn’t tell you. It is -no quarrel; it’s something the Colonel has heard about Mr. Leigh.”</p> - -<p>“All lies, ma’am, I don’t make no manner of doubt.”</p> - -<p>“Do you think so, Moulsey; oh, do you think so? Have you heard anything? -You often know more, hearing the servants speak, than we do. If you have -any light to throw on the subject, oh, do so, do! I shall be grateful to -you all my life.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know as I have any light to throw. I knew as there was some -trouble at the time the poor young lady died—some friend of hers, as -Mr. Leigh, being a kind-hearted gentleman, couldn’t turn out of the -house—and it made a talk. But if there was anything wrong, you take my -word, ma’am, it was none of his fault.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, it’s so easy to say that, Moulsey; but the man must bear the -blame.”</p> - -<p>“I’ve always heard, ma’am, as it was the woman that got the blame; and -right enough, for they often deserve it the most,” Moulsey said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I wish—I wish, whoever was to<a name="page_102" id="page_102"></a> blame, that it was not I that had -to clear it up,” poor Mrs. Kingsward said.</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Oh, cursed spite,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">That ever I was born to set it right.”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>She would not have said this, poor lady. She would have thought it -swearing and unbecoming for a woman’s lips; still, Hamlet’s sentiment -was hers, with much stronger reason. She looked like anything but a -strong representative of justice as she went downstairs. Charlie had -come to give her his arm, and though he was very tender to her, Charlie -had no idea of sparing her any more than Bee. He, too, thought that it -was only the risk of a headache, and that a headache was no such great -matter. Charlie’s idea was, however, that what the governor said was, of -all things on earth, the most important to be carried out—especially -when it did not concern himself.</p> - -<p>Bee was sitting at the window looking out upon the river, seeing the -reflections flash and the boats pass. The steamer had just started with -its lively freight—the steamboat which had brought them down the stream -yesterday, with all its changing<a name="page_103" id="page_103"></a> groups, and the pairs of German lovers -with their arms about each other in the beatitude of the betrothal. All -just the same, but how different, how different! She did not rise, but -only turned her head when her mother came in. She was on the other side. -She did not see, with so many other things in her head, how fragile Mrs. -Kingsward looked. Betty was the only one who perceived at all that mamma -was less strong than usual, and even Betty took no notice, for she, too, -was on the other side. As for Charlie, he stood behind her, a sort of -representative of executive force at the back of Justice, backing her -authority up. It was he who arranged her chair, her footstool, the shawl -Moulsey had insisted she should wear, and which Charlie, who knew -nothing about shawls, huddled up about her neck, not unlike the judge’s -ermine. He did it all, not with sympathetic touches as the girls would -have done had they not been on the other side, but rather with an eye to -her dignity as a representative of the law.</p> - -<p>And then, just as the hour of noon sounded from all the church clocks, -Aubrey came in.<a name="page_104" id="page_104"></a> He was very pale, but dressed with care, no symptoms of -neglect about him, with an air of preparation which became a man who was -going to stand his trial. Bee jumped up from her seat and went up to -him, putting her hand through his arm, and Betty, half-frightened, with -a glance at her mother, offered him a timid hand. She sat down behind -them, on a chair that was ranged against the wall. The defendant’s side -was her side. She wanted to show that, and yet not to go against mamma. -Charlie took no notice at all of the new comer, but stood scowling, -looking at nobody, behind his mother’s chair.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kingsward, frightened at her own dignity and breathless with -agitation, cried, “Oh, Mr. Leigh!” which was a kind of salutation. She -had some papers in her lap, over which her hands fluttered restlessly, -her husband’s letter, and something else beside, and she looked at the -group before her with a little dubious smile, asking pardon of the -culprit whom she had come here—oh, so much against her will—to try for -his life.</p> - -<p>“Now, mamma,” said Bee, in a cheerful voice, “we are quite ready, Aubrey -and I<a name="page_105" id="page_105"></a>—”</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Mrs. Kingsward’s</span> opening speech was a wonder to hear. She sat and looked -at them all for a moment, trying to steady herself, but there was -nothing to steady her in what she saw before her—Aubrey and Bee, the -pair who had been so sweet to see, such a diversion in all -circumstances, so amusing in their mutual absorption, so delightful in -their romance. It all flashed back to her mind; the excitement of Bee’s -first proposal, the pleasure of seeing “her bairn respected like the -lave,” though Mrs. Kingsward might not have understood what these words -meant, the little triumph it was to see her child engaged at nineteen, -when everybody said there was nobody for the girls to marry—and now to -have that triumph turned into<a name="page_106" id="page_106"></a> humiliation and dismay! And to think of -Bee’s bright face overcast, and her happiness over, and poor Aubrey -thrown out into the uttermost darkness. Had she seen Charlie it might -have given her some support, for Charlie was the impersonation of -immovable severity; but Betty’s wistful little face behind the other -pair, coming out from Aubrey’s shadow by moments to fix an appealing -look upon her mother, was not calculated to make her any stronger. She -cleared her throat—she tried hard to steady her voice. She said, “Oh, -my dear children,” faltering, and then the poor lady ended in a burst of -sobbing and tears. It gave her a little sting and stimulant to see -through her weeping that though little Betty ran towards her with kisses -and soothing, Bee took no notice, but stood hard and unaffected in her -opposition, holding close to Aubrey’s arm. Mrs. Kingsward indeed got no -sympathy except from little Betty. Charlie put his hand imperatively -upon her shoulder, recalling her to herself, and Bee never moved, -standing by the side of Aubrey Leigh. The mother, thus deserted, -plucked<a name="page_107" id="page_107"></a> up a little spirit in the midst of her weakness.</p> - -<p>“Bee,” she said, “I do not think it is quite nice of you to stand there -as if your own people were against you. We are not against you. There -has been, I fear, a great mistake made, which Colonel Kingsward”—here -she turned her eyes to Aubrey—“has found out in—in time; though it is -a pity, a sad pity, that it was not found out before. If Mr. Aubrey had -only been frank and said at once—but I don’t see what difference that -would have made. Papa says that from what he has heard and discovered -things must not go any further. He is sorry, and so am I, that they have -gone so far, and the engagement must be broken off at once. You hear -what I say, Bee?”</p> - -<p>“I heard you say so last night, mamma, but I say it is my engagement, -and I have a right to know why. I do not mean to break it off——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, how can I make explanations—how can I enter into such a question? -I appeal to you, Mr. Aubrey—tell her.”</p> - -<p>“She ought not to ask any explanations. She is a minor, under age. My -father has a<a name="page_108" id="page_108"></a> right to do whatever he pleases—and she has none to ask -why.”</p> - -<p>This was how Charlie reasoned on the height of his one-and-twenty years. -Charlie was the intolerable element in all this question. Aubrey cast a -look at him, and forcibly closed his own lips to keep in something that -was bursting forth. Bee defied him, as was natural, on the spot. “I will -not have Charlie put in his opinion,” she cried. “He has nothing to do -with me. Even if I obeyed papa, I certainly should not obey him.”</p> - -<p>“Let Aubrey say, himself,” said Mrs. Kingsward, “whether you ought to be -told everything, Bee.”</p> - -<p>“It is cruel to ask me,” said Aubrey, speaking for the first time. “If -Bee could know all—if you could know all, Mrs. Kingsward! But how could -I tell you all? Part of this is true, and part is not true. I could -speak to Colonel Kingsward more freely. I am going off to-night to -London to see him. It will free you from embarrassment, and it will give -me perhaps a chance. I did not want to put you to this trial. I am ready -to<a name="page_109" id="page_109"></a> put myself unreservedly in Colonel Kingsward’s hands.”</p> - -<p>“Then,” said Bee, hastily, “it seems I am of no sort of importance at -all to anyone. I am told my engagement is broken off, and then I am told -I am not to know why, and then——. Go, then, Aubrey, as that is your -choice, and fight it out with papa, if you please.” She loosed her arm -from his, with a slight impulse, pushing him away. “But just mind -this—everybody,” she cried; “you may think little of Bee—but my -engagement shall not be broken by anybody but me, and it shall not be -kept on by anybody but me; and I will neither give it up nor will I hold -to it, neither one nor the other, until I know why.”</p> - -<p>Then the judge and the defendant looked each other in the face. They -were, as may be supposed, on opposite sides, but they were the only two -to consult each other in this emergency. Aubrey responded by a movement -of his head, by a slight throwing up of his hand, to the question in -Mrs. Kingsward’s eyes.</p> - -<p>“Then you shall know as much as I can<a name="page_110" id="page_110"></a> tell you, Bee. Your father had a -letter last week, from a lady, telling him that she had a revelation to -make. The letter alarmed your father. He felt that he must know what it -meant. He could not go himself, but he sent Mr. Passavant, the lawyer. -The lady said that she had lived in Mr. Leigh’s house for years, in the -time of his late wife. She said Mr. Leigh had—had behaved very badly to -her.”</p> - -<p>“That I do not believe,” said Bee.</p> - -<p>The words flashed out like a knife. They made a stir in the air, as if a -sudden gleam had come into it. And then all was still again, a strange -dead quiet coming after, in which Bee perceived Aubrey silent, covering -his face with his hand. It came across her with a sudden pang that she -had heard somebody say this morning or last night—“He did not deny it.”</p> - -<p>“And that he had promised her—marriage—that he was engaged to her, as -good as—as good as married to her—when he had the cruelty—oh, my dear -child, my dear child!—to come to you.”</p> - -<p>Aubrey took his hand away from his white<a name="page_111" id="page_111"></a> face. “That,” he said, in a -strange, dead, tuneless voice, “is not true.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, more shame to you, Aubrey, more shame to you,” cried Mrs. -Kingsward, forgetting her judicial character in her indignation as a -woman, “if it is not true!—” She paused a moment to draw her breath, -then added, “But indeed you were not so wicked as you say, for it is -true. And here is the evidence. Oh!” she cried, with tears in her eyes, -“it makes your conduct to my child worse; but it shows that you were not -then, not then, as bad as you say.”</p> - -<p>Bee had dropped into the chair that was next to her, and there sat, for -her limbs had so trembled that she could not stand, watching him, never -taking her eyes from him, as if he were a book in which the -interpretation of this mystery was——</p> - -<p>“Never mind about me,” he said, hoarsely. “I say nothing for myself. -Allow me to be as bad as a man can be, but that is not true. And what is -the evidence? You never told me there was any evidence.”</p> - -<p>“Sir,” said Mrs. Kingsward, fully roused, “I told you all that was in my -husband’s letter last night.”<a name="page_112" id="page_112"></a></p> - -<p>“Yes—that she,” a sort of shudder seemed to run over him, to the keen -sight of the watchers—“that she—said so. You don’t know, as I do, that -<i>that</i> is no evidence. But you speak now as if there was something -more.”</p> - -<p>She took a piece of folded paper from her lap. “There is this,” she -said, “a letter you wrote to her the morning you went away.”</p> - -<p>“I did write her a letter,” he said.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kingsward held it out to him, but was stopped by Charlie, who put -his hand on her arm. “Keep this document, mother. Don’t put the evidence -against him into a man’s power. I’ll read it if Mr. Leigh thinks -proper.”</p> - -<p>Once more Aubrey and Bee together, with a simultaneous impulse, looked -at this intruder into their story.</p> - -<p>“Mamma! send him away. I should like to kill him!” said Bee within her -clenched teeth.</p> - -<p>“Be quiet, Charlie. Mr. Leigh, I am ready to put this or any other -evidence against you into your hands.”</p> - -<p>He bowed very gravely, and then stood<a name="page_113" id="page_113"></a> once more as if he were made of -stone. Mrs. Kingsward faltered very much, her agitated face flushed. “It -begins,” she said, in a low fluttering voice, “My dear little wife——”</p> - -<p>Then there came a very strange sound into the agitated silence, for -Aubrey Leigh, on trial for more than his life, here laughed. “What more, -what more?” he said.</p> - -<p>“No, it is not that. It is—‘I don’t want my dear little wife to be -troubled about anything. It can all be done quite easily and quietly, -without giving an occasion for people to talk; a settlement made and -everything you could desire. I shall make arrangements about everything -to-day.’ It is signed A. L., and it is in your handwriting. Bee, you can -see it is in his handwriting; look for yourself.”</p> - -<p>Bee would not turn her head. She thought she saw the writing written in -fire upon the air—all his familiar turns in it. How well she knew the -A. L.; but she did not look at it—would not look. She had enough to do -looking at his face, which was the letter—the book she was studying -now.<a name="page_114" id="page_114"></a></p> - -<p>“No doubt it is my handwriting,” he said, “only it was addressed not to -any other woman, but to my wife.”</p> - -<p>“Your wife died two years ago, Mr. Leigh; and that is dated -Christmas—this year.”</p> - -<p>“That is a lie!” he cried; then restrained himself painfully. “You know -I don’t mean you—but the date and the assumption is entirely a lie. -Give me time, and I will tell you exactly when it was written. I -remember the letter. It was when I had promised Amy to provide for her -friend on condition that she should be sent away—for she made my house -miserable.”</p> - -<p>“And yet—and yet, Mr. Leigh——. Oh, don’t you see how things -contradict each other? She made your house miserable, and yet—— when -your wife was dead, and you were free——”</p> - -<p>He looked at her, growing paler and paler. “And yet!” he said. “I know -what you mean. That is the infernal art of it. My own folly has cut the -ground from beneath my feet, and put weapons into every hand against me. -I know—I know.”<a name="page_115" id="page_115"></a></p> - -<p>Again there came into Bee’s mind the words she had heard last night—“He -does not deny it.” And yet he was denying it with all his might! -Denying, and not denying—what? The girl’s brain was all in a maze, and -she could not tell.</p> - -<p>“You see?” said Mrs. Kingsward, gently. “Oh, I am sorry for you in my -heart. Perhaps you were led into—a connection that you feel not to -be—desirable. That I can understand. But that you should think you -could save yourself by means of an innocent girl, almost a child, and -impose yourself on a family that had no suspicions!—oh, Mr. Leigh, Mr. -Leigh! you ought to have died sooner than have done that!”</p> - -<p>He looked at her piteously for a moment, and then a dreadful sort of -smile came upon his face. “I allow,” he said, “that that would have been -the best.”</p> - -<p>And there fell a silence upon the room. The sun was shining outside, and -the sound of the water gurgling against the sides of boats, and of all -the commotion of the landing place, and of the hundreds of voices in the -air, and of the chiming of the clocks,<a name="page_116" id="page_116"></a> came in and filled the place. -And just then there burst out a carillon from one of the steeples -setting the whole to music, harmonising all the discords, and sweeping -into this silence with a sudden rush of sound as if some bodily presence -had come in. It was the touch too much for all these excited and -troubled people. Mrs. Kingsward lay back in her chair and began to weep -silently. Aubrey Leigh turned away from where he was standing and leant -his head against the wall. As for Bee, she sat quite still, dazed, not -able to understand, but crushed out of all her youthful self-assertion -and determination to clear it all up. She to clear it up!—who did not -even understand it, who could not fathom what was meant. That there was -something more than met the eye, something that was not put into words, -seemed to show vaguely through the words that were said. But what it was -Bee could not tell. She could not understand it all. And yet that there -was a fatal obstacle rising up between her and her lover, something -which no one could disperse or clear away, not a mistake, not a -falsehood, not a thing that could be<a name="page_117" id="page_117"></a> passed over triumphantly and -forgotten—not as youth is so quick to believe a mere severity, tyranny, -arbitrary conclusion of papa—she felt in every fibre of her frame. She -could not deny it or struggle against it; her very being seemed -paralysed. The meaning went out of her face, the absolute, certain, -imperious youthfulness died out of her. She who loved to have her own -way, who had just protested that she would neither give up nor hold fast -except by her own will and understanding, now sat dumb, vaguely staring, -seeing shadows pass before her and hearing of things which were -undeniable, mighty things, far more powerful than her little hot -resolutions and determinations. Bee had never yet come face to face with -any trouble which could not be smoothed away. There was her own -naughtiness, there were Charlie’s escapades at school and college—some -of which she had known were serious. But in a little while they had been -passed over and forgotten, and everything had been as before. One time -she remembered papa had threatened not to let Charlie go back to Harrow, -which was a dreadful<a name="page_118" id="page_118"></a> thing, exposing him and his naughtiness to all the -world. But after a while papa had changed his mind, and everything had -gone smoothly as before. Could papa change his mind now? Would time make -it, even if he did, as it was before? Bee had not mental power enough to -think these things, or ask these questions of her own will. But they -went through her mind as people come in and go out by an open door.</p> - -<p>It was Aubrey who was the first to speak. The carillon stopped, or else -they got used to the sound and took no further notice of it, and he -collected himself and came forward again to the middle of the room. He -said, “I know it will be a relief that I should go away. There is an -afternoon train which I shall take. It is slow, but it does not matter. -I shall be as well there as anywhere—or as ill. I shall go direct to -Colonel Kingsward and lay my whole case before him. He will perhaps -confront me with my accuser—I hope so—if not, he will at least hear -what I have to say for myself.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mr. Leigh! Oh, Aubrey! I can’t wish you anything but well, -whatever—whatever may be done!”<a name="page_119" id="page_119"></a></p> - -<p>“Thank you, Mrs. Kingsward, I looked for nothing less from your kind -heart. Will you give me that letter?”</p> - -<p>She put it into his hands without the least hesitation, and he examined -it—with a sort of strained smile upon his face. “I should like to take -this back to Colonel Kingsward,” he said. Then added quickly with a -short laugh, “No, I forgot; there might be suspicions. Send it back to -him, please, by the first post, that he may have it when I get there.” -He gave the letter back, and then he looked round wistfully. “May I say -good-bye to Bee?”</p> - -<p>She got up at the words, feeling herself vaguely called upon—yet quite -dull, dumb, with all sorts of thoughts going and coming through those -wide-open doors of her mind—thoughts like strays which she seemed to -see as they passed. Even Aubrey himself appeared a ghost. She got up and -stood awaiting him when he approached her, not putting out a finger. -Nobody interfered, not even Charlie, who was fuming internally yet -somehow did not move. Aubrey went up to her and put his hands upon her<a name="page_120" id="page_120"></a> -shoulders. Her unresponsiveness sent a chill to his heart.</p> - -<p>“Have you given me up, Bee?” he cried, “Already, already!” with anguish -in his voice.</p> - -<p>She could not say a word. She shook her head like a mute, looking at him -with her dazed eyes.</p> - -<p>“She does not understand it—not a word!” he said.</p> - -<p>Bee shook her head again. It was all she could do. No, she did not -understand, except that it was a kind of dying, something against which -nobody could struggle. And then he kissed her on her forehead as gravely -as though he had been her father; and the next moment was gone—was it -only out of the room, or out of the world, out of life?<a name="page_121" id="page_121"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> was a slow train. The slowest train that there is, is, of course, -far, far quicker than any other mode of conveyance practicable in a land -journey, but it does not seem so. It seems as if it were delay -personified to the eager traveller, especially on the Continent. In -England, when it stops at a multiplicity of stations at which there is -nothing to do, it at least goes on again in most cases after it has -dropped its half-passenger or taken in its empty bag of letters. But -this can never be said of a German or even of a brisker Belgian train. -The one in which Aubrey was meandered about Liege, for instance, till he -had mastered every aspect of that smoky but interesting place. It -stopped for what looked like an hour at every little roadside<a name="page_122" id="page_122"></a> station, -in order, apparently, that the guard might hold a long and excited -conversation about nothing at all with the head man of the place. And -all the while the little electric bell would go tingling, tingling upon -his very brain. Thus he made his slow and weary progress through the -afternoon and evening, stopping long at last at a midnight station -(where everything was wrapped in sleep and darkness) for the arrival of -the express, in which the latter portion of the journey was to be -accomplished more quickly. If there had been anything wanted to complete -the entire overthrow of a spirit in pain it was such an experience. All -was dismal beyond words at the place where he had to wait—one poor -light showing through the great universe of darkness, the dark big world -that encompassed it around—one or two belated porters wandering through -the blackness doing mysterious pieces of business, or pretending to do -them. A poor little wailing family—a mother and two children, put out -there upon a bench from some other train, one of the babies wailing -vaguely into the dark, the other calling upon “mamma, mamma,” driving<a name="page_123" id="page_123"></a> -the poor mother frantic—were waiting like himself. It gave Aubrey a -momentary consolation to see something that appeared at least to the -external eye more forlorn than he. He remembered, too, that there had -once been a baby cry that went to his heart, and though all the -associations connected with that had now turned into gall and -bitterness, so that the sound seemed like a spear penetrating his very -being, and he walked away as far as the bounds of the station would -allow, to get, if possible, out of hearing of it—yet pity, a better -inspiration, at last gained the day. He went up and spoke to the woman, -and found that she was an English workman’s wife making her way home -with her children to a mother who was dying. They had turned her out -here, with her babies, to wait—ah, not for the express train which was -to carry on the gentleman, but for the slow, slow-creeping third-class -which only started in the morning, and which would, after other long -waits at other places, reach England sometime, but she could scarcely -tell when.</p> - -<p>“And must you pass the night here out in the cold?” said Aubrey.<a name="page_124" id="page_124"></a></p> - -<p>“It isn’t not to call a cold night, sir,” said the woman, meekly, “and -they’ve got plenty on to keep them warm.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll try and get them to open the waiting-room for you,” said Aubrey.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, sir; thank you kindly, but don’t take the trouble—the rooms -are that stuffy. It’s better for them in the open air, and they’ll go to -sleep in a little while. Baby will be quite warm on my lap, and Johnny’s -lying against me.”</p> - -<p>“And what is to become of you in this arrangement?” said Aubrey, looking -pitifully, with eyes that had known the experiences both of husband and -father, upon this little plump human bed, which was to stand in the -place of down pillows for the children.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I’ll do very well, sir, when they go to sleep,” she said, looking -up at him with a smile.</p> - -<p>“And when does your train go?”</p> - -<p>“Not till six in the morning,” she replied; “but perhaps that’s all the -better, for I’ll be able to get them some bread and milk, and a good -wash before we start.”</p> - -<p>Well, it was not much of an indulgence for<a name="page_125" id="page_125"></a> a man who was well off. He -might have thrown it away on any trifle, and nobody would have wasted a -thought on the subject. He got hold of one of the wandering ghosts of -porters, and got him, with a douceur, to change the poor woman’s cheap -ticket for her into one for the express, and commissioned him, if -possible, to get her a place in a sleeping carriage, where, I fear, she -was not likely to be at all a warmly welcomed addition to the luxurious -young men or delicate ladies in these conveyances. He saw that there was -one found for her which was almost empty when the train came up. He -scarcely knew if she were young or old—though indeed, as a matter of -fact, the poor little mother, bewildered by her sudden elevation among -the gentlefolks, and not quite sure that she would not have preferred to -remain where she was and pick up in the morning her natural third-class -train, was both young and pretty, a fact that was remarked by the one -young lady in the carriage, who saw the young man through the window at -her side, and recognised him in a flash of the guard’s lantern, with -deep<a name="page_126" id="page_126"></a> astonishment to see him handing in such a woman and such children -to the privileged places. He disappeared himself into the dark, and -indeed took his place in the corner of a smoking carriage, where his -cigar was a faint soother of pain. In his human short-sightedness, poor -Aubrey also was consoled a little, I think, by the thought that this -poor fellow-passenger was comfortable—she and her children—and that -instead of slumbering uneasily on a bench, she was able to lay the -little things in a bed. It seemed to him a good omen, a little -relaxation of the bonds of fate, and he went away cheered a little and -encouraged by this simple incident and by the warmth of the kindness -that was in his heart.</p> - -<p>He spoke to them again on one or two occasions on the way, sent the poor -woman some tea in the morning, bought some fruit for the children, and -again on the steamboat crossing, when he listened to the account of how -they were going on, from Dover, with a certain interest. When they -parted at the train he shook hands with the mother, hoping she would -find her relation better,<a name="page_127" id="page_127"></a> and put a sovereign into Johnny’s little fat -hand. The lady who had been in the sleeping carriage kept her eye upon -him all the time. She was not by any means a malicious or bad woman, but -she did not believe the poor woman’s story of the gentleman’s kindness. -She was, I am sorry to say, a lady who was apt to take the worst view of -every transaction, especially between men and women. People who do so -are bound in many cases to be right, and so are confirmed in their -odious opinion; but in many cases they are wrong, yet always hold to it -with a faith which would do credit to a better inspiration. “I thought -young Mr. Leigh was going to marry again,” she said to a friend whom she -met going up to town.</p> - -<p>“Oh, so he is! To the nicest girl—Bee Kingsward, the daughter of one of -my dearest friends—such a satisfactory thing in every way.”</p> - -<p>“Wasn’t there something,” said the lady of the sleeping carriage, “about -a woman, down at his place in the country?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I don’t think there was ever anything against him. There was a -woman<a name="page_128" id="page_128"></a> who was a great friend of his poor wife, and lived with them. The -wife was a goose, don’t you know, and could not be made to see what a -foolish thing it was. My opinion is that he never could abide the woman, -and I am sure she made mischief between them. But I believe that silly -little Mrs. Leigh—poor thing, we should not speak ill of those that are -gone—made him promise on her deathbed that this Miss Something-or-other -should not be sent away from the house. It was a ridiculous arrangement, -and no woman that respected herself would have done it. But she was -poor, and it’s a comfortable place, and, perhaps, as there was no -friendship between them she may have thought it was no harm.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps she thought she would get over him in time and make him marry -her.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I can’t tell what she thought! He rushed off in a hurry at a -moment’s notice, nobody knowing what he intended, after the poor baby -died, the very day of its funeral. Not much to be wondered at, poor -young man, after all he had gone through. I don’t know how things were -settled with Miss<a name="page_129" id="page_129"></a> Lance, but I believe that she has gone at last. And I -am delighted to hear of his engagement. So will all his neighbours in -the county be.”</p> - -<p>“I should not like a daughter of mine to marry a man like that.”</p> - -<p>“Why? I wish a daughter of mine could have the chance. Everybody likes -him at home. Do you know anything of Aubrey Leigh?”</p> - -<p>He did not know in the least that this talk was going on as the train -went rushing on to town; his ears did not tingle. He was in the next -carriage, divided only by a plank from these two ladies in their -compartment. The woman who took the bad view of everything did not wish -him any harm. She did not even think badly of him. She thought it was -only human nature, and that young men will do that sort of thing, -however nice they may be, and whatever you may say of morals and so -forth. I do not think, though she had made that little conventional -speech, that she would at all have hesitated to give her own daughter to -Aubrey, provided that she had a daughter. His advantages were<a name="page_130" id="page_130"></a> so -evident, and the disadvantages, after all, had so little to do with -actual life.</p> - -<p>Aubrey did not present himself before Colonel Kingsward that night. He -did not propose to follow him to Kingswarden, the old house in Kent, -which was the sole remnant of territorial property belonging to the -family. He wanted to have all his wits about him, to be cool and -self-possessed, and able to remember everything, when he saw the man who -had given him Bee and then had withdrawn her from his arms. He already -knew Colonel Kingsward a little, and knew him as a man full of -<i>bonhommie</i>, popular everywhere—a man of experience, who had been about -the world, who knew men. By this time Aubrey had recovered his spirits a -little. He thought it impossible that such a man, when a younger than -himself laid bare his heart to him, could fail to understand. It was -true that the Colonel was probably a martinet in morals as he was in his -profession, and Aubrey had that behind him which he could not deny. He -would not attempt to gloss it over, to make excuses for it. He would lay -his life in this<a name="page_131" id="page_131"></a> man’s hand as if he had been his confessor. And -surely, surely the acknowledged sin would find absolution, the -extenuating circumstances would be considered, the lie with which that -accusation was accompanied would recoil upon the accuser. The young man -buoyed himself up with these thoughts through the long evening. He did -not go out or to his club, or anywhere where he was known. In September -there are not so many inducements to stray about London. He sat in his -room and thought of Bee, and wrote little letters to her, which were a -relief to his mind though he knew he could not send them. By this time -he reflected they must have started. They were beginning their journey -as he ended his. He hoped that Charlie, that lout, would have the sense -to take care of his mother, to see that she suffered as little as -possible, to prevent her from having any trouble—which I fear was not -the view at all that Charlie took of his duty to his mother. Aubrey, -like all outsiders, had a clearer view of Mrs. Kingsward’s condition -than her family had arrived at. He was very sorry for her, poor,<a name="page_132" id="page_132"></a> -delicate, tender woman—and grieved to the bottom of his heart that this -trouble should have come upon her through him. Bee was different. There -would be so many ways, please God, if all went well—and he could not -bring himself to think that all would not go well—in which he could -make it up to his Bee. Finally, he permitted himself to write a little -letter to meet his darling on her return, and enclosed in it another to -Mrs. Kingsward, directed to Kingswarden. They would receive it when they -entered their house—and by that time, surely by that time, his letters -would not be any longer a forbidden thing.</p> - -<p>That morning it rained, and the London skies hung very low. The world -had the effect of a room with a low roof, stifling and without air. He -set out to walk to Colonel Kingsward’s office. I forget whether the -Intelligence Department of the War Office was in existence at that time, -or if it has always been in existence only not so much heard of as in -our vociferous days. If it did exist then, it was, of course, in Pall -Mall, as we all know. Aubrey set out to walk, but<a name="page_133" id="page_133"></a> soon recollected that -muddy boots detracted from a man’s appearance, especially in the eyes of -a spick and span person like Colonel Kingsward, who never had a speck -upon any garment, and accordingly he got into a hansom. It did not go -any faster than the beating of his heart, and yet he could have wished -that it should only creep along like the heavier cabs. He would have put -off this interview now had he been able. To think that you are within an -hour at most of the moment when your life shall be settled for you -absolutely by another person’s will, and that your happiness or -unhappiness rest upon the manner in which he will look at the question, -the perception he will have of your difficulties, the insight into your -heart, is a terrible thing—especially if you know little of the person -who has thus become endowed, as it were, with the power of life and -death over you—do not know if his understanding is a large or limited -one, if he has any human nature in him, or only mere conventionality and -the shell of human nature. It is seldom, perhaps, that one man is thus -consciously in the power of another—and yet it must come to that more -or less, every day.<a name="page_134" id="page_134"></a></p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward was in his room, seated at his writing table with -piles of books and maps, and masses of newspapers all round him. He was -an excellent linguist, and there were French papers and German papers, -Russian, Scandinavian—all kinds of strange languages and strange little -broadsheets, badly printed, black with excessive ink, or pale with -imperfect impression, on the floor and the table. He had a large paper -knife at his hand in ivory, with the natural brown upon it, looking like -a weapon which could cut a man, not to say a book, in pieces. He looked -up with an aspect which Aubrey, whose heart was in his mouth, could not -read—whether it was mere politeness or something more—and bade Mr. -Leigh be seated, putting aside deliberately as he did so the papers with -which he was engaged. And then he turned round with the air of a man who -says: Now you have my entire attention—and looked Aubrey in the face. -The young man was facing the light which came in from a large high -window reaching nearly to the roof. The elder man had his back half -turned from it, so that his regard<a name="page_135" id="page_135"></a> was less easy to read. It was not -quite fair. Aubrey had everything against him; his agitation, his -anxiety, an expressive tell-tale face, and the light searching every -change that took place in it; whilst his opponent was calm as his own -paper knife, impassive, with a countenance formed to conceal his -emotions, and the light behind him. It was not an equal match in any -way.</p> - -<p>“I have come direct from Cologne,” Aubrey said.</p> - -<p>“Ah, yes. I believe my wife says so in her letter.”</p> - -<p>“You have news from them to-day? I hope that Mrs. Kingsward is better.”</p> - -<p>“My wife never at any time speaks much of her health. She was a little -fatigued and remained another day to rest.”</p> - -<p>“She is very delicate, sir,” said Aubrey. He did not know why, unless it -was reluctance to begin what he had to say.</p> - -<p>“I am perfectly acquainted with Mrs. Kingsward’s condition,” said the -Colonel, in a tone which was not encouraging. He added, “I don’t suppose -you took the trouble to come here, Mr. Leigh, in order to speak to me -about my wife’s health.”<a name="page_136" id="page_136"></a></p> - -<p>“No. It is true. I ought not to waste the time you have accorded me. I -do not need to tell you, Colonel Kingsward, what I have come about.”</p> - -<p>“I think you do,” said the Colonel, calmly. “My letter to my wife, which -I believe she communicated to you, conveyed all I had to say on the -matter. It was not written without reflection, nor without every -possible effort to arrive at the truth. Consequently, I have no desire -to re-open the subject. It is in my mind concluded and put aside.”</p> - -<p>“But you will hear me?” said Aubrey. “You have heard one statement, -surely you will hear the other. No man is condemned unheard. I have come -here to throw myself upon your mercy—to tell you my story. However -prejudiced you may be against me——”</p> - -<p>“A moment, Mr. Leigh. I have no prejudice against you. I am not the -judge of your conduct. I claim the right to decide for my daughter—that -is all. I have no prejudice or feeling against you.”</p> - -<p>“Colonel Kingsward,” cried Aubrey, “for God’s sake listen! Hear what I -have to say!”<a name="page_137" id="page_137"></a></p> - -<p>The Colonel looked at him again. Perhaps it was the passion of -earnestness in the young man’s face that touched him. Perhaps he felt -that it was unwise to leave it to be said that he had not heard both -sides. The end was that he waved his hand and said:</p> - -<p>“My time is not my own. I have no right to spend it on merely private -interests; but if you will make your story as short as possible I will -hear what you have to say.”<a name="page_138" id="page_138"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> story which Aubrey Leigh had to tell was indeed made as short as -possible. To describe the most painful crisis in your life, the moment -which you yourself shudder to look back at, which awakens in you that -fury of self-surprise, horror and wonder which a sudden departure from -all the habits of your life brings after it when it is guilt, is not an -easy thing; but it supplies terse expressions and rapidity of narration. -There is no desire to dwell upon the details, and to tell a story so -deeply affecting one’s self to a politely unsympathetic listener who -does not affect to be much interested or at all moved by the subtle -self-defence which runs through every such statement, is still more -conducive to brevity. Aubrey laid bare the tempest<a name="page_139" id="page_139"></a> that had swept over -him with a breathless voice and broken words. He could not preserve his -equanimity, or look as if it were an easy thing for him to do. He made -the most hurried description of the visitor who had taken possession of -his house, saying not a word beyond the bare fact. It had been deeply -embarrassing that she should be there, though at first in the melancholy -of his widowerhood he had not thought of it, or cared who was in the -house. Afterwards he was prevented from doing anything to disturb her by -his promise to his dying wife. Then had come the anxiety about the baby, -the wavering of that little life in which the forlorn young father had -come to take a little pleasure. She had been very kind to the child, -watching over it, and when the little thing died, when the misery of the -fresh desolation, and the pity of it, and the overwhelming oppression of -the sad house had quite overcome the spirit of its young master, then -she had thrown herself upon him, with all the signs of a sudden passion -of sympathy and tenderness. Had any confessor skilled in the accounts of -human suffering heard<a name="page_140" id="page_140"></a> Aubrey’s broken tale he could have found nothing -but truth in it, and would have recognised the subtle sequence of events -which had led to that downfall. But Colonel Kingsward, though not -unlearned in men, listened like a man of wood, playing with the large -paper-knife, and never looking towards the penitent, who told his story -with such a strain of the labouring breast and agonised spirit. Had a -young officer in whom he had no particular interest thus explained and -accounted for some dereliction of duty he might have understood or -sympathised. But he had no wish to understand Aubrey; his only desire -was to brush him off as quickly as possible, to be done with his -ridiculous story, to hear of him no more. He might be as little guilty -as he described himself. What then? Aubrey’s character was nothing to -Colonel Kingsward, except as it affected his daughter. He had cut him -off from all connection with his daughter, and it was now quite -immaterial to him whether the man was a weak fool or a deceiver. -Probably from as much as he heard while thus listening as little as he -could, Leigh was in the former<a name="page_141" id="page_141"></a> class, and certainly he did not intend -to take a weak fool, who had shown himself to be at the mercy of any -designing woman, into his family as the husband of Bee. Give him the -benefit of the doubt, and allow that it had happened so, that the woman -was much more to blame than the man, and what then? A sturdy sinner on -the whole was not less but more easily pardoned than a weak fool.</p> - -<p>“This is all very well, Mr. Leigh,” Colonel Kingsward said, “and I am -sorry that you have thought it necessary to enter into these painful -details. They may be quite true. I will not offend you by doubting that -you believe them to be quite true. But how, then, do you account for the -letter which my wife, I believe, showed you, and which came direct from -the lady’s own hand to mine?”</p> - -<p>“The letter was a letter which I wrote to my wife two years ago. There -had been discussions between us on this very subject. I promised, on -condition that Miss Lance should leave us, to make such arrangements for -her comfort as were possible to me—to<a name="page_142" id="page_142"></a> settle a yearly income on her, -enough to live on.”</p> - -<p>“Was that arrangement ever carried out?”</p> - -<p>“No; my wife became ill immediately after. I found her on my return in -Miss Lance’s arms, imploring that so long as she lived her friend should -not be taken from her. What could I do? And that prayer was changed on -my poor Amy’s deathbed to another—that I would never send Miss Lance -away; that she should always have a home at Forest-leigh and watch over -the child.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t wish to arouse any such painful recollections—especially as -they can be of no advantage to anyone—but how does this letter come to -have the date of last Christmas, more than a year after Mrs. Leigh’s -death?”</p> - -<p>“How can I tell that, sir? How can I tell how the devilish web was woven -at all? The note had no date, I suppose, and the person who could use it -for this purpose would not hesitate at such a trifle as to add a date.”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Leigh, I repeat the whole matter is too painful to be treated by -me. But how is<a name="page_143" id="page_143"></a> it, if you regarded this lady with those sentiments, -that you should have in a moment changed them, and, to put the mildest -interpretation upon your proceedings, thus put yourself in her power?”</p> - -<p>The young man’s flushed and anxious face grew deadly pale. He turned his -eyes from the inquisitor to the high blank light pouring in from the -large window. “God knows,” he said, “that is what I cannot explain—or -rather, I should say, the devil knows!” he cried with vehemence. “I was -entirely off my guard—thinking, heaven knows, of nothing less.”</p> - -<p>“The devil is a safe sort of agency to put the blame on. We cannot in -ordinary affairs accept him as the scapegoat, Mr. Leigh—excuse me for -saying so. I will not refuse to say that I allow there may be excuses -for you, with a woman much alive to her own interests and ready for any -venture. You did write to her, however, on the day you left?”</p> - -<p>“I wrote to her, telling her the arrangement I had proposed to my wife, -in the very letter which she has sent to you—that I<a name="page_144" id="page_144"></a> would carry it out -at once, and that I hoped she would perceive, as I did, that it was -impossible we should remain under the same roof, or, indeed, meet -again.”</p> - -<p>“That was on what date?”</p> - -<p>“The evening before my child’s funeral. Next day, as soon as it was -over, I left the house, and have never set foot in it again.”</p> - -<p>“Yet this lady, to whom you had, you say, sent such a letter, was at the -funeral, and stood at the child’s grave leaning on your arm.”</p> - -<p>“More than that,” cried Aubrey, with a gasp of his labouring breath, -“she came up to me as I stood there and put her arm, as if to support -me, within mine.”</p> - -<p>The Colonel could not restrain an exclamation. “By Jove,” he said, “she -is a strong-minded woman, if that is true. Do you mean to say that this -was after she had your letter?”</p> - -<p>“I suppose so. I sent it to her in the morning. I was anxious to avoid -any scene.”</p> - -<p>“And then, on your way to London, on that day, you went to your -solicitors, and gave instructions in respect to Miss Lance<a name="page_145" id="page_145"></a>’s -annuity—which you say now had been determined on long before?”</p> - -<p>“It was determined on long before.”</p> - -<p>“But never mentioned to any one until that time.”</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon; on the day on which I wrote that letter to my wife I -went direct to my lawyer and talked the matter over freely with Mr. -Morell, who had known me all my life, and knew all the -circumstances—and approved my resolution, as the best of two evils, he -said.”</p> - -<p>“This is the most favourable thing I have heard, Mr. Leigh. He will, of -course, be able to back you up in what you say?”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Morell!” Aubrey sprang to his feet with a start of dismay. “I -think,” he cried, “all the powers of hell must be against me. Mr. Morell -is dead.”</p> - -<p>They looked at each other for a moment in silence. A half smile came -upon the Colonel’s face, though even he was a little overawed by the -despair in the countenance of the young man.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know that it matters very much,” he said, “for, after all, Mr. -Leigh, your<a name="page_146" id="page_146"></a> anxiety to get rid of your wife’s companion might have two -interpretations. You might have been sincerely desirous to free yourself -from a temptation towards another woman, which would have given Mrs. -Leigh pain. A man does not sacrifice two hundred a year without a strong -motive. And subsequent events make this a far more likely reason than -the desire to get rid of an unwelcome inmate.”</p> - -<p>“I cannot tell whether my motive was likely or not. I tell you, sir, -what it was.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, yes—but unfortunately without any corroboration—and the story is -very different from the other side. It appears from that that you wished -to establish relationship during your poor wife’s life, and that it was -the lady who was moved by pity for you in a moment of weakness—which is -much more according to the rule in such matters.”</p> - -<p>“It is a lie!” Aubrey cried. “Colonel Kingsward, you are a man—and an -honourable man. Can you imagine another man, with the same principles as -yourself, guilty of such villainy as that? Can you believe——”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Leigh,” said the other, “it is<a name="page_147" id="page_147"></a> unnecessary to ask me what I can -believe; nor can I argue, from what I would do, as to what you would do. -That may be of good Christianity, you know, but it is not tenable in -life. Many men are capable enough of what I say; and, indeed, I do you -the credit to believe that you were willing to keep the temptation at a -distance—to make a sacrifice in order to ease the mind of your wife. I -show a great deal of faith in you when I say that. Another man might say -that Mrs. Leigh had exacted it from you as a thing necessary to her -peace.”</p> - -<p>Aubrey Leigh rose up again, and began to pace the room from one side to -the other. He could not keep still in his intolerable impatience and -scorn of the net which was tightening about his feet. Anger rose up like -a whirlwind in his mind; but to indulge it was to lose for ever the -cause which, indeed, was already lost. When he had gained control over -himself and his voice, he said, “We had neighbours; we had friends; our -life was not lived in a corner unknown to the world. There is my mother; -<a name="page_148" id="page_148"></a>ask them—they all know——.”</p> - -<p>“Does anyone outside know what goes on between a husband and wife?” said -Colonel Kingsward. “Such discussions do not go on before witnesses. If -poor Mrs. Leigh——”</p> - -<p>“Sir,” cried Aubrey, stung beyond hearing, “I will not permit any man to -pity my wife.”</p> - -<p>“It was beyond my province I allow, but one uses the word for those who -die young. I don’t know why, for if all is true that we profess to -believe they certainly have the best of it. Well, if Mrs. Leigh, to -speak by the book, had any such burden on her mind, and really felt her -happiness to depend on the banishment of that dangerous companion, it is -not likely that she would speak of it either to your neighbours or to -your mother.”</p> - -<p>“Why not? My mother was of that mind, though not for that villainous -reason; my mother knew, everybody knew—everybody agreed with me in -wishing her gone. I appeal to all who knew us, Colonel Kingsward! There -is not a friend I have who did not compassionate me for Amy’s insensate<a name="page_149" id="page_149"></a> -affection. God forgive me that I should say a word against my poor -little girl, but it was an infatuation—as all her friends knew.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t you think we are now getting into the region of the extravagant?” -Colonel Kingsward said. “I cannot send out a royal commission to take -the evidence of your friends.”</p> - -<p>Aubrey had to pause again to master himself. If this man, with his -contemptuous accents, his cool disdain, were not Bee’s father!—— but -he was so, and, therefore, must not be defied. He answered after a time -in a subdued voice. “Will you allow me—to send one or two of them to -tell you what they know. There is Fairfield, with whom you are -acquainted already, there is Lord Langtry, there is Vavasour, who was -with us constantly——”</p> - -<p>“To none of these gentlemen, I presume, would Mrs. Leigh be likely to -unfold her most intimate sentiments.”</p> - -<p>“Two of them have wives,” said Aubrey, determined to hold fast, “whom -she saw familiarly daily—country neighbours.”</p> - -<p>“I must repeat, Mr. Leigh, I cannot send<a name="page_150" id="page_150"></a> out a royal commission to take -the evidence of your friends.”</p> - -<p>“Do you mean that you will not hear any evidence, Colonel -Kingsward?—that I am condemned already?—that it does not matter what I -have in my favour?”</p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward rose to dismiss his suitor. “I have already said, Mr. -Leigh, that I am not your judge. I have no right to condemn you. Your -account may be all true; your earnestness and air of sincerity, I allow, -in a case in which I was not personally involved, would go far to making -me believe it was true. But what then? The matter is this: Will I allow -my daughter to marry a man of whom such a question has been raised? I -say no: and there I am within my clear rights. You may be able to clear -yourself, making out the lady to be a sort of demon in human shape. My -friend, who saw her, said she was a very attractive woman. But really -this is not the question. I am not a censor of public morals, and on the -whole it is a matter of indifference to me whether you are guiltless or -not. The sole thing is that I will not permit my daughter<a name="page_151" id="page_151"></a> to put her -foot where such a scandal has been. I have nothing to do with you but -everything with her. And I think now that all has been said.”</p> - -<p>“That is, you will not hear anything more?”</p> - -<p>“Well—if you like to put it so—I prefer not to hear any more.”</p> - -<p>“Not if Bee’s happiness should be involved?”</p> - -<p>“My daughter’s happiness, I hope, does not depend upon a man whom she -has known only for a month. She may think so now. But she will soon know -better. That is a question into which I decline to enter with you.”</p> - -<p>“Men have died and worms have eaten them, but not for love,” said -Aubrey, with a coarse laugh. He turned as if to go away. “But you do not -mean that this is final, Colonel Kingsward—— not final? Not for ever? -Never to be revised or reconsidered—— even if I were as bad as you -think me?”</p> - -<p>“How needless is all this! I have told you your character does not -concern me—<a name="page_152" id="page_152"></a>and I do not say that you are bad—or think so. I am sorry -for you. You have got into a rather dreadful position, Mr. Leigh, for a -young man of your age.”</p> - -<p>“And yet at my age you think I should be cut off for ever from every -hope of salvation!”</p> - -<p>“Not so; this is all extravagant—ridiculous! And if you will excuse me, -I am particularly busy this morning, with a hundred things to do.”</p> - -<p>Poor Aubrey would have killed with pleasure, knocked down and trampled -upon, the immovable man of the world who thus dismissed him; but to be -humble, even abject, was his only hope. “I will try, then, to find some -moment of leisure another time.”</p> - -<p>“It is unnecessary, Mr. Leigh. I shall not change my mind; surely you -must see that it is better for all parties to give it up at once.”</p> - -<p>“I shall never give it up.”</p> - -<p>“Pooh! one nail drives out another. You don’t seem to have been a -miracle of constancy in your previous relationships. Good morning. I -trust to hear soon that you have made as satisfactory a settlement of -other claims.”<a name="page_153" id="page_153"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Other</span> claims! What other claims? Aubrey Leigh went out of the office in -Pall Mall with these words circling through his mind. They seemed to -have nothing to do with that which occupied him, which filled every -thought. His dazed memory and imagination caught them up as he went -forth in the fury of suppressed anger, and the dizzy, stifled sensation -of complete failure. He had felt sure, even when he felt least sure, -that when it was possible to tell his tale fully, miserable story as it -was, the man to whom he humbled himself thus, not being a recluse or a -mere formalist—a man of the world—would at least, to some degree, -understand and perceive how little real guilt there might be even in -such a fault as he had committed. It was not a story<a name="page_154" id="page_154"></a> which could be -repeated in a woman’s ears; but a man, who knew more or less what was in -man—the momentary lapses, the sudden impulses, the aberrations of -intolerable trouble, sorrow, and despair——. Aubrey did not take into -account the fact that there are some men to whom such a condition as -that into which he himself had fallen in the desolation of his silent -house—when death came a second time within the sad year, and his young -soul felt in the first sensation of despair that he could not bear it; -that he was a man signalled out by fate, to whom it was vain to -struggle, to whom life was a waste and heaven a mockery—was -inconceivable. Colonel Kingsward was certainly not a man like that. He -would have said to himself that the mother being gone it was only a -blessing and advantage that the child should go too, and he would have -withdrawn himself decorously to his London lodgings and his club, and -his friends would all have said that it was on the whole a good thing -for him, and that he was young, and his life still before him. So, -indeed, they had said of Aubrey, and so poor Aubrey had proved<a name="page_155" id="page_155"></a> for -himself. Had there not been that terrible moment behind him, that -intolerable blackness and midnight of despair, in which any hand that -gripped his could lead him till the light of morning burst upon him, and -showed him whither in his misery he had been led!</p> - -<p>Satisfy other claims? The words blew like a noxious wind through his -brain. He laughed to himself softly as he went along. What claims had he -to satisfy? He had done all that honour and scorn could do to satisfy -the harpy who had dug her claws into his life. Should he try to -propitiate her with other gifts? No, no! That would be but to prolong -the scandal, to give her a motive for continuance, to make it appear -that he was in her power. He was in her power, alas, fatally as it -proved, if it should be so that she had made an end of the happiness of -his life. She had blighted the former chapter of that existence, -bringing out all that was petty in the poor little bride over whom she -had gained so complete an ascendancy, showing her husband Amy’s worst -side, the aspect of her which he might never have known but for that -fatal companion<a name="page_156" id="page_156"></a> ever near. And now she had ruined him -altogether—ruined him as in old stories the Pamelas of the village were -ruined by a villain who took advantage of their simplicity. What lovely -woman who had stooped to folly could be more ruined than this unhappy -young man? He laughed to himself at this horrible travesty of that old -familiar eighteenth century tale. This was the <i>fin de siecle</i> version -of it, he supposed—the version in which it was the designing woman who -seized upon the moment of weakness and the man who suffered shipwreck of -everything in consequence. There was a horrible sort of ridicule in it -which wrought poor Aubrey almost to madness. When the woman is the -victim, however sorely she may be to blame for her own disgrace, a sort -of pathos and romance is about her, and pity is winged with indignation -against the man who is supposed to have taken advantage of her weakness. -But when it is a man who is the victim! Then the mildest condemnation he -can look for is the coarse laugh of contempt, the inextinguishable -ridicule, to which even in fiction it is too great a risk to expose a<a name="page_157" id="page_157"></a> -hero. He was no hero—but an unhappy young man fallen into the most -dreadful position in which man could be, shut out of all hope of ever -recovering himself, marked by the common scorn—no ordinary sinner, a -man who had profaned his own home, and all the most sacred prejudices of -humanity. He had felt all that deeply when he rushed from his house, a -man distraught not knowing where he went. And then morning and evening, -and the dews and the calm, and the freshness and elasticity inalienable -from youth had driven despair and horror away. He had felt it at last -impossible that all his life—a life which he desired to live out in -duty and kindness, and devotion to God and man—should be spoiled for -ever by his momentary yielding to a horrible temptation. He had thought -at first that he never could hold up his head again. But gradually the -impression had been soothed away, and he had vainly hoped that such a -thing might be left behind him and might be heard of no more.</p> - -<p>Now he was undeceived—now he was convinced that for what a man does he -must<a name="page_158" id="page_158"></a> answer, not only at the bar of God, where all the secrets of the -heart are revealed, but also before men. There are times in which the -former judgment is more easy to think of than the latter—for God knows -all, everything that is in favour of the culprit, while men only know -what is against him. A man with sorrow in his heart for all his -shortcomings, can endure, upon his knees, that all-embracing gaze of -infinite understanding and pity. But to stand before men who -misconstrue, mis-see, misapprehend, how different a thing it is—who do -not know the end from the beginning, to whom the true balance and -perfect poise of justice is almost impossible—who can judge only as -they know, and who can know only the husk and shell of fact, the -external aspect of affairs by the side which is visible to them. All -these thoughts went through Aubrey’s mind as he went listlessly about -those familiar streets in their autumnal quiet, no crowd about, nothing -to interrupt the progress of the wayfarer. He went across the Green -Park, which is brown in the decadence of summer, almost as solitary as -if he had been in his own desolate<a name="page_159" id="page_159"></a> glades at home. London has a -soothing effect sometimes on such a still, sunny autumn day, when it -seems to rest after the worry and heat and strain of all its frivolity -and folly. The soft haze blurs all the outlines, makes the trees too -dark and the sky too pale; yet it is sunshine and not fog which wraps -the landscape, even that landscape which lies between Pall Mall and -Piccadilly. It soothed our young man a little in the despair of his -thoughts. Surely, surely at eight-and-twenty everything could not be -over. Bee would in a year or two be the mistress of her own actions. She -was not a meek girl, to be coerced by her father. She would judge for -herself in such a dreadful emergency. After all that had passed, the -whole facts of the case would have to be submitted to her, which was a -thought that enveloped him as in flames of shame. Yet she would judge -for herself, and her judgment would be more like that of heaven than -like that of earth. A kind of celestial ray gleamed upon him in this -thought.</p> - -<p>And as for these other claims—well, if any claim were put forth he -would not shrink<a name="page_160" id="page_160"></a>—would not try to compromise, would not try to hide -his shame under piles of gold. Now he had no motive for concealment, he -would face it out and have the question set straight in the eye of day. -To be sure, for a man to accuse a woman is against the whole -conventional code of honour. To accuse all women is the commonplace of -every day; but to put the blame of seduction upon one is what a man dare -not do save in the solitude of his chamber—or in such a private -inquisition as Aubrey had gone through that day. This is one of the -proofs that there is much to be said on both sides, and that it is the -unscrupulous of either side who has the most power to humble and to -destroy. But the bravado did him good for the moment—let her make her -claim, whatever that claim was, and he would meet it in the face of day!</p> - -<p>Other ideas came rapidly into Aubrey’s mind when he strolled listlessly -into his club, and almost ran against the friend in whose house he had -first met Colonel Kingsward, and through whom consequently all that had -afterwards happened had come about. “Fairfield!” he cried, with a gleam -of sudden hope in his eyes.<a name="page_161" id="page_161"></a></p> - -<p>“Leigh! You here?—I thought you were philandering on the banks of—some -German river or other. Well! and so I hear I have to congratulate you, -my boy—and I’m sure I do so with all my heart——”</p> - -<p>You might have done so a week ago, and I should have responded with all -mine. But you see me fallen again on darker days. Fate’s against me, it -seems, in every way.”</p> - -<p>“Why, what’s the matter?” cried his friend. “I expected to see you -triumphant. What has gone wrong? Not settlements already, eh?”</p> - -<p>“Settlements! They are free to make what settlements they like so far as -I am concerned.”</p> - -<p>“Kingsward’s a very cool hand, Aubrey. You may lose your head if you -like, but he always knows what he is about. You are an excellent -match——”</p> - -<p>“You think so,” said poor Aubrey, with a laugh. “Not badly off; a mild, -domestic fellow, with no devil in me at all.</p> - -<p>“I should not exactly say that. A man is no man without a spice of the -devil. Why, what’s the matter? Now I look at you,<a name="page_162" id="page_162"></a> instead of a -victorious lover, you have the most miserable hang-dog——”</p> - -<p>“Hang-dog, that is it—a rope’s end, and all over. Hang it, no! I am not -going to give in. Fairfield, I don’t want to speak disrespectfully of -any woman.”</p> - -<p>“Is it Mrs. Kingsward who is too young, herself, to think of enacting -the part of mother-in-law so soon as this?”</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Kingsward is a sort of an angel, Fairfield, if it were not -old-fashioned to say so—and, alas, I fear, she will not enact any part -long, which is so much the worse for me.”</p> - -<p>“You don’t say so! That pretty creature, with all her pretty ways, and -her daughter just the same age as she! Poor Kingsward. Aubrey, if a man -shows a little impatience with your raptures in such circumstances, I -don’t think you ought to be hard upon him.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t believe he knows what are the circumstances, nor any of them. -It is not from that cause, Fairfield. You know Miss Lance, poor Amy’s -friend——”</p> - -<p>Once more he grew hot all over as he named her name, and turned his face -from his friend’s gaze.<a name="page_163" id="page_163"></a></p> - -<p>“Remember her! I should think so, and all you had to bear on that point, -old man. We have often said, Mary and I, that if ever there was a -hero——”</p> - -<p>“Fairfield! they have got up a tale that it was I who kept her at -Forest-leigh against poor Amy’s will, and that my poor wife’s life was -made miserable by my attentions to that fi——.” Fiend he would have -said, but he changed it to “woman,” which meant to him at that moment -the same thing.</p> - -<p>Fairfield stared for a moment—was he taking a new idea into his -commonplace mind? Then he burst into a loud laugh. “You can call the -whole county to bear witness to that,” he cried. “Attentions! Well, I -suppose you were civil, which was really more than anyone expected from -you.”</p> - -<p>“You know, and everybody knows, what a thorn in the flesh it was. My -poor Amy! Without that, there would have been no cloud on our life, and -it all arose from her best qualities, her tender heart, her -faithfulness——”</p> - -<p>A dubious shade came over Fairfield’s face. “Yes, no doubt; and Miss -Lance’s flattery<a name="page_164" id="page_164"></a> and blandishments. Aubrey, I don’t mind saying it now -that you are well quit of her—that was a woman to persuade a fellow -into anything. I should no more have dared to keep her—especially -after—in my house, and to expose myself to her wiles——”</p> - -<p>“They never were wiles for me,” said Aubrey, again turning his head -away. It was true, true—far more true than the fatal contradiction of -it, which lay upon his heart like a stone. “I never came nearer to -hating any of God’s creatures than that woman. She made my life a burden -to me. She took my wife from me——. She—— I needn’t get dithyrambic -on the subject; you all know.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, we all know; but you were too soft-hearted. You should have -risked a fit of tears from poor Mrs. Leigh—excuse me for saying so -now—and sent her away.”</p> - -<p>“I tried it a dozen times. Poor Amy would have broken her heart. She -threatened even to go with her. And they say women don’t make -friendships with each other!”</p> - -<p>Fairfield shrugged his shoulders a little. “I suffer myself from my -wife’s friends,” he<a name="page_165" id="page_165"></a> said; “there’s always some ‘dear Clara’ or other -putting the table out of joint, making me search heaven and earth when -there’s anybody to dinner to find an odd man. But Mary has some——” -Sense, he was going to say, but stopped short. Mrs. Fairfield was one of -those who had concluded long ago that dear Amy was a little goose, taken -sad advantage of by her persistent friend.</p> - -<p>“Fairfield,” said Aubrey, “you could do me a great service if you would. -Colonel Kingsward has just told me that he can’t send out a royal -commission to examine my friends on this subject. You see him sometimes, -I suppose. I know you belong to one of his clubs. Still more, he’s at -his office all the morning, and you know him well enough to look in upon -him there.”</p> - -<p>“Well?” said Fairfield, dubiously.</p> - -<p>“Couldn’t you stretch a point for my sake, and go—and tell him the real -state of affairs in respect to Miss Lance, and how untrue it is, how -ridiculously untrue, that she was kept at Forest-leigh by any will of -mine? Why, it was a thing, as you have just said, that all the county -knew! An infatuation—and<a name="page_166" id="page_166"></a> nothing less than the bane of my whole -married life.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I know—everybody thought so,” Mr. Fairfield said. That new -idea—was it perhaps germinating faintly in his mind?—no one had -thought of any other explanation, but yet——”</p> - -<p>“If you were only to say so—only as much as that—that all my friends -recognised the state of the case.”</p> - -<p>“I could say that,” said Fairfield, with hesitation. “Don’t think me -unfriendly, Aubrey, but it’s a little awkward for a man to interfere in -another man’s affairs, and it’s not only your affairs that I know so -well, but you see Kingsward’s too——”</p> - -<p>“I am aware of that, Fairfield; still, to break off what I believe in my -heart would be for his daughter’s happiness too——”</p> - -<p>“To be sure there’s the young lady to be taken into consideration,” said -Fairfield, dubiously.</p> - -<p>It will be as well to carry this incident to its completion at once. Mr. -Fairfield at the last allowed himself to be convinced, and he went that -afternoon to the club, to which he<a name="page_167" id="page_167"></a> still belonged by some early -military experiences, and where Colonel Kingsward was one of those who -ruled supreme. He knew exactly when to find him at the club, where he -strolled in after leaving his office, to refresh himself with a cup of -tea, or something else in its place. The intercessor went up to the -table at which the Colonel sat with the evening paper, and conversed for -a little on the topics of the day. After these had been run over, and -the prospects of war slightly discussed—for Colonel Kingsward had not -much respect for Mr. Fairfield’s opinion on that subject—the latter -gentleman said abruptly—</p> - -<p>“I say, Kingsward, I am very sorry to hear there is some hitch in the -marriage which I was so glad to hear of last week.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, oh! So Leigh has been with you, I presume?” the Colonel replied.</p> - -<p>“Yes; and, upon my life, Colonel, there is not a word of truth in any -talk you may have heard about that Miss Lance——. We all know quite -well the whole business. You should hear Mary on the subject. Of course, -he can’t say to you, poor fellow, that his first<a name="page_168" id="page_168"></a> wife was a little -queer, and that that woman made her her slave.”</p> - -<p>“No; it wasn’t to be expected that he would tell me that.”</p> - -<p>“But it’s true. She got completely the upper hand of that poor little -thing. The husband had no influence. I believe he hated her—like the -devil.”</p> - -<p>“You think so,” said the Colonel, with a strange smile, “yet it is a -curious thing that he endured her all the same, and also that a wife -should insist so in keeping another woman in her husband’s constant -company—and an attractive woman, as I hear.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! a devil of a woman,” cried Fairfield. “I was telling Aubrey I -should no more have ventured to expose myself to her blandishments——. -One of those sort of women, you know, that you cannot abide, yet who can -turn you round their little finger.”</p> - -<p>“And what did he say to that?” the Colonel asked, still with that smile.</p> - -<p>“Oh, he said she never had any charm for him—and I believe it—for what -with poor little Mrs. Leigh’s whims and vagaries, and the other’s -flatteries and adulation and complete<a name="page_169" id="page_169"></a> empire over her, his life was -made a burden to him. You should hear Mary on that subject—none of the -ladies could keep their patience.”</p> - -<p>“Yet it appears Mr. Aubrey Leigh kept his—— until he got tired,” said -the Colonel. “Believe me, Fairfield, when there is such an unnatural -situation as that, there must be more in it than meets the eye.”</p> - -<p>Fairfield, a good, steady soul, who generally had his ideas suggested to -him, went away very serious from that interview. It was very strange -indeed that a woman should prefer her friend to her husband, and make -things wretched for him in order to keep her comfortable—it was very -curious that with a woman so much superior to Amy in the house, a woman -of the kind that turn men’s heads, that mild Aubrey Leigh, who was not -distinguished for force of character, should have never sought a -moment’s relief with her from poor Mrs. Leigh’s querulousness. Fairfield -accelerated his departure by an hour or two in order not to meet Aubrey -again before he had poured those strange doubts and suggestions into his -own Mary’s ears.<a name="page_170" id="page_170"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> party of travellers whose progress had hitherto been like that of a -party of pleasure, who had been interested in everything they saw, and -hailed every new place with delight, as if that had been the haven of -all their hopes, travelled home from Cologne in a very different spirit. -For one thing, it could not be concealed that Mrs. Kingsward was ill, -which was a thing that she herself and the whole family stoutly, one -standing by another, had hitherto been able to deny. She had not gone -far, not an hour’s journey, when she had to abandon her seat by the -window—where it had always been her delight to “see the country,” and -point out every village to her children—and lie down upon the temporary -couch which Moulsey<a name="page_171" id="page_171"></a> prepared for her with shawls and cushions along one -side of the carriage. She cried out against herself as “self-indulgent” -and “lazy,” but she did not resist this arrangement. It effectually took -any pleasure that there might have been out of the journey: for Bee, as -may be supposed, though she was not melancholy, and would not admit, -even to Betty, in the closest confidence, that she was at all afraid of -the ultimate issue, was certainly self-absorbed, and glad not to be -called upon to notice the scenery, but allowed to subside into a corner -with her own thoughts. Charlie was in the opposite corner, exceedingly -glum, and not conversible. Bee would not speak to him or look at him, -and even Betty, that little thing, had said, “Oh, Charlie, how could you -be so nasty to Aubrey?” for her sole salutation that morning. He was not -sure even that his mother, though he had stood on her side and backed -her up, was pleased with him for it. She talked to him, it is true, -occasionally, and made him do little things for her, but rather in the -way in which a mother singles out the pariah of the family, the one<a name="page_172" id="page_172"></a> who -is boycotted for some domestic offence, to show him that all are not -against him, than in the tone which is used to a champion and defender. -So it was not wonderful that Charlie was glum; but to see him in one -corner, biting or trying to bite the few hairs that he called his -moustache, with his brows bent down to his chin, and his chin sunk in -the collar of his coat—and Bee in another, very different—indeed, her -face glorified with dreams, and her eyes full of latent light, ready to -flash at out any moment—was not cheerful for the others.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kingsward looked at them from one to another, and at little Betty -between busied in a little book, with that baffled feeling which arises -in the mind of a delicate woman when the strong individualities and -wills of her children become first developed before her, after that time -of their youth when all were guided by her decision, and mamma’s leave -was asked for everything. How fierce, how self-willed, how determined in -his opposition Charlie looked like his father, not to be moved by -anything! And Bee, how possessed by those young hopes of her<a name="page_173" id="page_173"></a> own, which -the mother knew would be of no avail against the fiat gone forth against -her! Mrs. Kingsward knew her husband better than her children did. She -knew that having taken up his position he would not give in. And Bee, -with all that light of resistance in her eyes—Bee as little willing to -give in as he! The invalid trembled when she thought of the clash of -arms that would resound over her head—of the struggle which would rend -her cheerful house in two. She did not at all realise that the cheerful -days of that house were numbered—that soon it would be reduced into its -elements, as a somewhat clamorous, restless, too energetic brood of -children, with a father very self-willed, who hitherto had known nothing -of them but as happy and obedient creatures, whose individual -determinations concerned games and lessons, and who, so far as the -conduct of life was affected, were of no particular account. Mrs. -Kingsward was not yet aware that this was the dolorous prospect before -her household; she only thought, “How am I to manage them all?” and felt -her heart fail before Charlie’s ill humour and <i>parti pris</i>,<a name="page_174" id="page_174"></a> and before -the bright defiance in Bee’s eyes. Poor Aubrey, whom she had learned to -look upon as one of her own, half a son, and half a brother—poor -Aubrey, who had gone so wrong, and yet had so many excuses for him, a -victim rather than a seducer—what was happening to Aubrey this fine -September morning? It made her heart sick in her bosom as she thought of -all these newly-raised conflicting powers, and she so little able to -cope with them. If she did not get strong soon, what would all these -children do? Charlie would go back to college, and would be out of it. -He had so strong a will, and was so determined to get on, that little -harm would happen to him—and besides, he was entirely in accord with -his father, which was a great matter. But Bee—Bee! It seemed to Mrs. -Kingsward that it was on the cards that Bee might take matters into her -own hands, and run away with her lover, if her father would not yield. -What else was there for these young creatures? Mrs. Kingsward knew that -she herself would have done so in the circumstances had <i>her</i> lover -insisted; and she knew that he would no<a name="page_175" id="page_175"></a> more have consented to such a -sentence—never, never!—than he had done to anything he disliked all -his life. And Bee was like him, though she had never hitherto been -anything but an obedient child. Mrs. Kingsward could not help picturing -to herself, as she lay there, the elopement—Bee’s room found empty in -the morning, the note left on the table, the so easy, so certain -explanation, which already she felt herself to be reading. And then her -husband’s wrath, his unalterable verdict on the criminal “never to enter -this house again!” Poor mother! She foresaw, as we all do, tortures for -herself, which she was never to be called upon to bear.</p> - -<p>As for Betty, it was the most tiresome journey in all her little -experiences. A long journey was generally fun to Betty. The scuffle of -getting away, of seeing that all the little packets were right, of -abusing Moulsey for hiding away the luncheon basket under the rugs and -the books in some locked bag, the trouble of securing a compartment, -arranging umbrellas and other things in the vacant seats to make believe -that every place was full, the watch at every station to prevent<a name="page_176" id="page_176"></a> the -intrusion of strangers, the running from one side to another to see the -pretty village or old castle, or the funny people at the country -stations and the queer names—the luncheon in the middle of the day, -which was as good as a pic-nic—all these things much diverted Betty, -who loved the rapid movement through the air, and to feel the wind on -her face; but none of these delights were to be had to-day. She was in -one of the middle places, between Charlie, so glum and in a temper, and -Bee, lost in her own thoughts and without a word to say, and opposite to -mamma, who was so much more serious than usual, giving little Betty a -smile from time to time, but not able to speak loud enough to be heard -through the din of the train. She tried to read her book but it was not -a very interesting book, and it was short too, and evidently would not -last out half the journey. Betty was the only member of the party who -had a free mind. The commotion of the romance between Bee and Aubrey had -been pure amusement to her. It would be a bore if it did not end in a -speedy marriage, with all the excitement of the<a name="page_177" id="page_177"></a> presents, the -trousseau, the dresses (especially the bridesmaids’ dresses), the -wedding day itself, the increased dignity of Betty as Miss Kingsward, -the pleasure of talking of “my married sister,” the pleasure of visiting -Bee, in her own house, and sharing all her grandeur as a county lady. To -miss all this would be a real trial, but Betty had confidence in the -fitness of things, and felt it was impossible that she should miss all -this. And she was at ease in her little mind, and the present dreariness -of this unamusing, unattractive journey hung all the more heavy upon her -consciousness now.</p> - -<p>They arrived next day, having slept at Brussels to break the journey for -Mrs. Kingsward, and the Colonel met them, as in duty bound, at Victoria. -He gave Charlie his hand, and allowed Bee and Betty to kiss him, but his -whole attention, as was natural, was for his wife.</p> - -<p>“You look dreadfully tired,” he said, with that half-tone of offence in -which a man shows his disappointment at the aspect of an invalid. “You -must have been worried on the journey to look so tired.”<a name="page_178" id="page_178"></a></p> - -<p>“Oh, no, I have not been at all worried on the journey—they have all -been so good, sparing me every fatigue; but it is a tiresome long way, -Edward, you know.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, of course, I know: but I never saw you look so tired before.” He -cast a reproachful look round upon the young people, who were all ready -to stand on the defensive. “You must have bothered your mother to -death,” he said. “I am sorry I did not come out for her myself—undoing -all the effect of her cure.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you will see, I shall be all right when I get home,” Mrs. Kingsward -said, cheerfully. “As for the children, Edward, they have all been as -good as gold.”</p> - -<p>“You had better see to the luggage and bring your sisters home in a cab. -I can’t let mamma hang about here,” said the Colonel, in his peremptory -way. “Moulsey will come with us. I suppose you three have brains enough -to manage by yourselves?”</p> - -<p>Thus insulting his grown-up children, among whom a flame of indignation -lighted up, partially burning away their difficulties between -themselves, Colonel Kingsward half<a name="page_179" id="page_179"></a> carried his wife to the carriage. “I -thought at first I should have waited at Kingswarden till you came back. -I am glad I changed my mind and came back to Harley Street,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, is it to Harley Street we are going?” said Mrs. Kingsward, faintly. -“I had rather hoped for the country, Edward.”</p> - -<p>“You don’t look much like another twenty miles of a journey,” said her -husband.</p> - -<p>“Well, perhaps not. I own I shall be glad to be quiet,” the poor lady -said. What he wished had always turned out after a moment to be just -what his wife wished for all the years of their union. She even meekly -accepted the fact that the children—the nursery children, as they were -called—the little ones, who were no trouble but only a refreshment and -delight, would have been too much for her that first night. Secretly, -she had been looking forward to the touch and sight of her placid -smiling baby as the one thing that would do her good—and all those -large wet kisses of Johnny and Tommy and Lucy and little Margaret, and -the burst of delighted voices at the sight of mamma.<a name="page_180" id="page_180"></a> “Yes, I believe it -would have been too much for me,” she said, with a look aside at -Moulsey, who, as on many a previous occasion, would dearly have loved to -box her master’s ears. “And I <i>do</i> believe it would have been too much -for me,” Mrs. Kingsward added, when that confidential attendant put her -to bed.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps it would, ma’am,” Moulsey said. “They would have made a noise, -bless them—and baby will not go to anyone when he sees me—and -altogether I shall be more fit for them, Moulsey, after a good night’s -rest——”</p> - -<p>“If you get that, you poor dear,” said Moulsey, under her breath. But -her mistress did not hear that remark any more than many others which -Moulsey made in her own mind, always addressed to that mistress whom she -loved. “If he said dying would be good for you, you would say you were -sure of it, and that was what you wanted most,” the maid said within -herself.</p> - -<p>It must not, however, be supposed from this that Colonel Kingsward was -not a good husband. He had always been like a lover,<a name="page_181" id="page_181"></a> though a somewhat -peremptory one, to his wife. And without him her young, gay, -pleasure-loving ways, her love of life and amusement might have made her -a much less successful personage, and not the example of every virtue -that she was. Had Mrs. Kingsward had the upper hand, the family would -have been a very different family, and its career probably a very -broken, tumultuous, happy-go-lucky career. It was that strong hand which -had controlled and guided her, which had been, as people say, the making -of Mrs. Kingsward; and though she feared his severity in the present -crisis, she yet felt the most unspeakable relief from the baffled, -helpless condition in which she had looked at her children, feeling -herself all unable to cope with them in the presence of papa.</p> - -<p>“I wonder if he thinks we are cabbages,” was Bee’s indignant exclamation -as he turned his back upon them.</p> - -<p>“Apparently,” said Charlie, coming a little out of his sullenness. “Look -here, you girls, get into this omnibus—happily we’ve got an -omnibus—with the little things, while I go to the Custom House to get -the luggage through.”<a name="page_182" id="page_182"></a></p> - -<p>“Betty, you get in,” said Bee. “I will go with you, Charlie, for I have -got mamma’s keys.”</p> - -<p>“Can’t you give them to me?” Charlie cast a gloomy look about, thinking -that Leigh might perhaps be somewhere awaiting a word, a thought which -now for the first time traversed Bee’s mind, too.</p> - -<p>“Then, Betty, you had better go with him, for he doesn’t know half the -boxes,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, you can come yourself if you like,” said Charlie, feeling in that -case that this was the safest arrangement after all.</p> - -<p>“No, Betty had better go. Betty, you know Moulsey’s box and that new -basket that mamma brought me before we left the Baths.”</p> - -<p>“Come along yourself, quick, Bee.”</p> - -<p>“No, I shall stop in the omnibus.”</p> - -<p>“When you have made up your minds,” cried Betty, who had slipped out of -the vehicle at the first word. Betty thought it would be more fun to go -through the Custom House than to wait all the time cooped up here.</p> - -<p>And Bee had her reward; for Aubrey was<a name="page_183" id="page_183"></a> there, waiting at a distance -till the matter was settled. “I should have risked everything and come, -even if the penalty had been a quarrel with Charlie,” Aubrey said, “but -I must not quarrel with anyone if I can help it. We shall have hard work -enough without that.”</p> - -<p>“You have seen papa?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I have seen him: but I have not done myself much good, I fear,” -said Aubrey, shaking his head. “Bee, you won’t give me up whatever they -may say?”</p> - -<p>“Give you up? Never, Aubrey, till you give me up!”</p> - -<p>“Then all is safe, my darling. However things look now they can’t hold -out for ever. Lies must be found out, and then—in time—you will be -able to act for yourself.”</p> - -<p>“Do you think papa will stand to it like that, Aubrey?”</p> - -<p>Aubrey shook his head. He did not make any reply.</p> - -<p>“Tell me. Is it a lie?” she said.</p> - -<p>He bent down his head upon her hand, kissing it.<a name="page_184" id="page_184"></a></p> - -<p>“Not all,” he said, in an almost inaudible voice. “ I said that—at -Cologne——”</p> - -<p>“I did not understand,” said Bee. “No; it does not matter to me, -Aubrey—not so very much; but if you promised——”</p> - -<p>“I never promised—never! My only thought was to escape——”</p> - -<p>“Then I can’t think what you have done wrong. Aubrey, is she tall, with -dark hair, and beautiful dark eyes, and a way of looking at you as if -she would look you through and through?”</p> - -<p>“Bee!” he said, gripping her fast, as if someone had been about to decoy -her away.</p> - -<p>“And a mouth,” said Bee, “that is very pretty, but looks as if it were -cut out of steel? Then, I have seen her. She sat down by me one day in -the wood, when I was doing that sketch, and gave me such clever hints, -telling me how to finish it, till she made me hate it, don’t you know. -Is she horribly clever, and a good artist? and like that——”</p> - -<p>“Bee! What did that woman say to you?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing very much. Asked me about the people at the hotel, and if there -were any<a name="page_185" id="page_185"></a> Leighs—not you, she pretended, but the Leighs of Hurst-leigh, -whom she knew. I thought it very strange at the time why she should ask -about the Leighs without knowing anything—and then I forgot all about -it. But to-day it came back to my mind, and I have been thinking of -nothing else. Aubrey—she is older than you are?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he said.</p> - -<p>“And she made you promise to marry her?” said Bee, half unconscious yet -half conscious of that wile of the cross-examiner, coming back to the -point suddenly.</p> - -<p>“Never, Bee, never for one moment in my misery! That I should have to -make such a confession to you!—but there was no promise nor thought of -a promise. I desired nothing—nothing but to escape from her. You don’t -doubt my word, Bee?”</p> - -<p>“No; I don’t doubt anything you say. But I think she is a dreadful woman -to get anybody in her power, Aubrey. My little drawing was for you. It -was the place we first met, and she told me how to do it and make it -look so much better. I am not very clever at it, you know; and then I -hated the<a name="page_186" id="page_186"></a> very sight of it, and tore it in two. I don’t know why.”</p> - -<p>“I understand why. Bee, you will be faithful to me, whatever you are -told?”</p> - -<p>“Till I die, Aubrey.”</p> - -<p>“And never, never believe that for a moment my heart will change from -you.”</p> - -<p>“Not till I hear it from yourself,” she said, with a woeful smile. The -despair in him communicated itself to her, who had not been despairing -at all.</p> - -<p>“Which will never be—and when you are your own mistress, my -darling——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, we shan’t have to wait for that!” she cried, with a burst of her -native energy. “Dear Aubrey, they are coming back; you must go away.”</p> - -<p>“Till we meet again, darling?”</p> - -<p>“Till we meet again!”<a name="page_187" id="page_187"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Bee</span> stole into her mother’s room as she went upstairs before that first -dinner at home which used to be such a joyous meal. How they had all -enjoyed it—until now. The ease and space, the going from room to room, -the delight in finding everything with which they were familiar, the -flowers in the vases (never were any such flowers as those at home!), -the incursions of the little ones shouting to each other, “Mamma’s come -home!” Even the little air of disorder which all these interruptions -brought into the orderly house was delightful to the young people. They -looked forward as to an ideal life, to beginning all their usual -occupations again and doing them all better than ever. “Oh, how nice<a name="page_188" id="page_188"></a> it -is to be at home!” the girls had said to each other. Instead of those -hotel rooms, which at their best are never more than hotel rooms, a -<i>genre</i> not to be mistaken, how delightful was the drawing-room at home, -with all its corners—Bee’s little table where she muddled at her -drawings, mamma’s great basket of needlework where everything could be -thrown under charitable cover, Betty’s stool on which she sat at the -feet of her oracle of the moment, whoever that might be, and all the -little duties to be resumed—the evening papers arranged for papa (as if -he had not seen enough of them in the daytime in his office!), the -flowers to see after, the little notes to write, all the pleasant -common-places of the home life. But to-night, for the first time, dinner -was a silent meal, hurried over—not much better than a dinner at a -railway station, with a sensation in it of being still on the road, of -not having yet reached their destination. The drawing-room was in brown -holland still, for they were all going on to Kingswarden to-morrow. The -house felt formal, uninhabited, as if they had come home to<a name="page_189" id="page_189"></a> lodgings. -All this was bad enough; but the primary trouble of all was the fact -that mamma was upstairs—gone to bed before dinner, too tired to sit up. -Such a thing had never happened before. However tired she was, she had -always so brightened up at the sensation of coming home.</p> - -<p>And papa, though kind, was very grave. The happiness of getting his -family back did not show in his face and all his actions as it generally -did. Colonel Kingsward was very kind as a father, and very tender as a -husband; the severity of his character showed little at home. His wife -was aware of it, and so were the servants, and Charlie, I think, had -begun to suspect what a hand of iron was covered by that velvet glove. -But the girls had never had any occasion to fear their father. Bee -thought that the additional gravity of his behaviour was owing to -herself and her introduction of a new individual interest into the -family; so that, notwithstanding a touch of indignation, with which she -felt the difference, she was timid and not without a sense of guilt -before her father. Never had she been rebellious or disobedient<a name="page_190" id="page_190"></a> before; -and she was both now, determined not to submit. This made her -self-conscious and rather silent; she who was always overflowing with -talk and fun and the story of their travels. Colonel Kingsward did not -ask many questions about that. What he did ask was all about “your -mother.”</p> - -<p>“She is not looking so well as when she went away,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, papa, it’s only because she’s so tired,” cried little Betty. Betty -taking upon her to answer papa, to take the responsibility upon her -little shoulders! But Bee felt as if she could not say anything.</p> - -<p>“Do you really think so?” he said, turning to that confident little -speaker—to Betty. As if Betty could know anything about it! But Bee -seemed paralysed and could not speak.</p> - -<p>She stole, as I have said, into her mother’s room on her way upstairs, -but she had hardly time to say a word when papa came in to see if Mrs. -Kingsward had eaten anything, and how she felt now that she was -comfortably established in her own bed. It irritated Bee to feel herself -thus deprived of the one little<a name="page_191" id="page_191"></a> bit of possible expansion, and stirred -her spirit. With her cheek to her mother’s, she said in her ear, “Mamma, -I saw Aubrey at the station,” with a thrill of pleasure and defiance in -saying that, though secretly, in her father’s presence.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Bee!” said Mrs. Kingsward, with a faint cry of alarm.</p> - -<p>“And he told me,” continued Bee, breathless in her whisper, “that papa -was firm against us.”</p> - -<p>“Bee! Bee!”</p> - -<p>“And we promised each other we should never, never give up, whatever -anyone might say.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, child, how dare you, how dare you?” Mrs. Kingsward said.</p> - -<p>How Bee’s heart beat! What an enlivening, inspiriting strain of -opposition came into her mind, making her cheeks glow and her eyes -flame! The whisper was, perhaps, a child’s device, perhaps a woman’s -weakness, but it exhilarated her beyond description to say all this in -the very presence of her father. There was a sensation of girlish -mischief in it as well as defiance, which relieved all the<a name="page_192" id="page_192"></a> heavier -sentiments that had weighed down her heart.</p> - -<p>“What are you saying to your mother, Bee? She must not be disturbed. Run -away and let her rest. If we are to go back to Kingswarden to-morrow she -must get all the rest that is possible now.”</p> - -<p>“I was never the one to disturb mamma,” said Bee, bestowing another kiss -on her mother’s cheek.</p> - -<p>“Oh, be a good child, Bee!” pleaded Mrs. Kingsward, almost without -sound; for by this time the Colonel was hovering over the bed, with a -touch of suspicion, wondering what was going on between these two.</p> - -<p>“Yes, mamma dear, always,” said Bee, aloud.</p> - -<p>“What is she promising, Lucy? And what were you saying to her? Bee -should know better at her age than to disturb you with talk.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, nothing, Edward. She was only giving me a kiss, and I told her to -be a good child—as I am always doing; thinking to be heard, you know, -for so much speaking,” the mother said, with a soft laugh.<a name="page_193" id="page_193"></a></p> - -<p>“Bee has always been a sufficiently good child. I don’t think you need -trouble yourself on that point. The thing is for you to get well, my -dear, and keep an easy mind. Don’t trouble about anything; leave all -that to me, and try and think a little about yourself.”</p> - -<p>“I always do, Edward,” she said with a smile.</p> - -<p>He shook his head, but agitation had brought a colour to her cheeks, and -to persuade one’s-self that it is only fatigue that makes a beloved face -look pale is so easy at first, before any grave alarm has been roused. -Yet, Colonel Kingsward’s mind was not an easy one that night. He was <i>au -fond</i>, a severe man, very rigid as to what he thought his duty, taking -life seriously on the whole. His young wife, who loved pleasure, had -made him far more a man of society than was natural or indeed pleasing -to him; but he had thus got into that current which it is so difficult -to get out of without a too stern withdrawal, and his large young family -had warmed his heart and dressed his aspect in many smiles and graces -which did not belong<a name="page_194" id="page_194"></a> to him by nature. The mixture of the rigid and the -yielding had produced nothing but good effects upon his character till -now. But there is no telling what a man is till the first conflict of -wills arises in his own household. Hitherto there had been nothing of -the kind. His children had amused him and pleased him and made him -proud. Their health, their prettiness, their infantile gaiety and -delight in every favour accorded to them had been all so many tributes -to his own supreme influence and power. Their very health was a standing -compliment to his own health and vigour, from whom they took their -excellent constitutions, and to the wonderful care and attention to -every law of health which he enforced in his house. Not a drain escaped -trapping, not a gas was left undisposed of where Colonel Kingsward was. -He had every new suggestion in his nursery that sanitary science could -bring up. “And look at the result!” he was in the habit of saying. Not a -pale face, not a headache, not an invalid member there. And among the -children he was as the sun in his splendour. Every delight rayed out -from him. The<a name="page_195" id="page_195"></a> hour of his coming home was watched for; it was the -greatest treat for the little boys to go in the dogcart with Simmons, -the groom, to fetch papa from the station, while the others assembled at -the door as at a daily celebration to see him arrive. Charlie was now a -man grown, but he was a good boy, full of all right impulses, and there -had never been any difficulty with him.</p> - -<p>Thus Colonel Kingsward had been kept from all knowledge of those -contrarieties of nature which appear even in the most favoured regions. -He was of opinion that he surrounded his wife with every care, bore -everything for her, did not suffer the winds of heaven to visit her -cheek too roughly. And it was true. But he was not at all aware that she -saved him anything, or that his joyful omnipotence and security from -every fret and all opposition depended upon her more than on anything -else in the world. He did not know the little inevitable jars which she -smoothed away, the youthful wills growing into individuality which she -kept in check. Which was a pity, for the strong man was thus deprived of -the graces of<a name="page_196" id="page_196"></a> precaution, and knew no more than the merest weakling -what, as his children grow into men and women, every man has to face and -provide against. If Colonel Kingsward was too arbitrary, too trenchant -in his measures, too certain that there was no will but his own to be -taken into account, the blame must thus be partially laid upon those -natural fictions of boundless love and duty and sweet affectionate -submission, which grow up in the nursery and reign as long as childhood -lasts—until a more potent force of self or will or love, comes in to -put the gentle dream to flight.</p> - -<p>It was thus that Colonel Kingsward considered the matter about Bee. It -had been, of course, necessary to cross Bee two or three times in her -life before. It had been necessary, or at least he had thought it -necessary, to send her to school; it had been thought expedient to keep -her back a year longer than she wished from appearing in the world. -These decisions had cost tears and a little struggle, but in a few days -Bee had forgotten all about them—or so, at least, her father thought. -And a lover—at nineteen<a name="page_197" id="page_197"></a>—what was that but another plaything, a -novelty, a compliment, such as girls love? How could it mean anything -more serious? Why, Bee was a child—a little girl, an ornamental adjunct -to her mother, a sort of reflection, not to be detached for a long time -from that source of all that was delightful in her. Colonel Kingsward -had felt with a delighted surprise that the child and the mother did -“throw up” each other when he began to go out with them together. Bee’s -young beauty showing what mamma’s had been, and Mrs. Kingsward’s beauty -(so much higher and sweeter than any girl’s wild-rose bloom could be) -showing what in the after days her child would grow to. To cut these two -asunder for a stranger—another man, an intruding personality thrusting -himself between the child and her natural allegiance—was oppressive in -any shape. At the first word, indeed, and in the amusement furnished him -by the letters that had been poured upon him, Colonel Kingsward’s -consent had been given almost without thought. Aubrey Leigh was a good -match, he had a fine place, a valuable estate, and was well spoken of<a name="page_198" id="page_198"></a> -among men. If Lucy was so absurd as to wish her daughter to marry; if -Bee, the silly child, was so foolish as to think of leaving her father’s -house for another, that was probably as good a one as she could have -chosen. I don’t know if fathers generally feel it a sort of desecration -when their young daughters marry. Some fathers do, and some brothers, as -if the creature pure by nature from all such thoughts were descending to -a lower place, and becoming such an one as themselves. Colonel Kingsward -was not, perhaps, visionary enough for such a view, yet he was slightly -shocked in his sentiment about the perfection of his own house by this -idea on his child’s part of leaving it for another. However, it was true -he had a very large family, and to provide so well for one of them at -the very outset of her career was a thing which was not to be despised.</p> - -<p>But when the second chapter of this romance, all so simple, so natural -in its first phase, opened out, and there appeared a dark passage -behind—a woman wronged who had a claim upon the man, a story, a -scandal—whether it were true or untrue!—Colonel<a name="page_199" id="page_199"></a> Kingsward, in his -knowledge of the world, knew that it did not so much matter whether a -story was true or untrue. It stuck, anyhow; and years, generations -after, when, if false, it had been contradicted and exploded, and -acknowledged to be false, people still would shake their heads and say, -“Wasn’t there some story?” For this reason he was not very rigid about -the facts, part of which, at least, the culprit admitted. There was a -woman and there was a story, and all the explanations in the world could -not do away with these. What did it matter about the man? He, Colonel -Kingsward, was not Aubrey Leigh’s keeper. And as for Bee, there would be -some tears, no doubt, as when she was sent to school—a little passion -of disappointment, as when she was kept back for a whole year, from -seventeen to eighteen, in her “coming out”—but the tears and the -passion once over, things would go on the same as before. The little -girl would go back to her place, and all would be well.</p> - -<p>This was the man’s delusion, and perhaps it was a natural one, and he -was conscious of wishing to do the best thing for her, of saving<a name="page_200" id="page_200"></a> her -from the after tortures which a wife has to endure whose husband has -proclivities towards strange women, and capabilities of being “led -away.” That was a risk that he could understand much better than she -could, at her age. The fellow might be proud of her, small blame to -him—he might strive to escape from disgraceful entanglements by such an -exceptionable connection as that of Colonel Kingsward, of Kingswarden, -Harley Street, and the Intelligence Department; he might be very much in -earnest and all that. He did not altogether blame the man; indeed, he -was willing enough to allow that he was not a bad fellow, and that he -was popular among his friends.</p> - -<p>But these were not enough in the case of a girl like Bee. And it was -certainly for her good that her father was acting. She had known the man -a month, what could he be to her in so short a time? This is the most -natural of questions, constantly asked, and never finding any sufficient -answer. Why should a girl in three or four weeks be so changed in all -her thoughts as to be ready to give up her father’s house, the place in -which<a name="page_201" id="page_201"></a> she has all her associations, the company in which she has been -so happy, and go away to the end of the world, perhaps with a man whom -she has known only for a month? It is the commonest thing in the world, -but also the most mysterious, and Colonel Kingsward refused to believe -in it, as so many other fathers have done. Bee would cry, and her mother -would console her. She would fly into a childish passion, and struggle -against her fate—for a few days. She would swear that she would never, -never give up that new plaything, and the joy of parading it before the -other girls, who perhaps had not such toys to play with—but all that -nonsense would give way in a little to firm guidance and considerate -care, and the fresh course of amusement and pleasure which the winter -would bring.</p> - -<p>The winter is by no means barren to those who spend it habitually in -town. It has many distractions. There is the theatre, there are -Christmas gatherings without number, there are new dresses also to be -got for the same, perhaps a pretty new bonnet or two thrown in by a -penitent father, very sorry<a name="page_202" id="page_202"></a> even in his own interests to give his -little girl pain. If all these pleasant things could not make up for the -loss of a man—of doubtful character, too—whom she had only known for a -month, Colonel Kingsward felt that it would be a strange thing indeed, -and altogether beyond his power to explain.<a name="page_203" id="page_203"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> was not possible, however, to remove Mrs. Kingsward to Kingswarden -next day. She was too much fatigued even to leave her bed, and the -doctor who came to see her, her own familiar doctor who had sent her to -Germany to the celebrated bath, looked a little grave when he saw the -condition in which she had come home. “No fatigue, no excitement,” was -what he enjoined. She was to have nothing to excite, nothing to disturb -her—to go to the country? Oh, yes, but not for some days. To see the -children? Certainly, the children could not be kept from their mother; -but all in moderation, with great judgment, not too long at a time, not -too often. And above all she must not be worried. Nothing must be done, -nothing<a name="page_204" id="page_204"></a> said to cross or vex her. When he heard from the Colonel a very -brief and studiously subdued version of a little family business which -had disturbed her—“I need not keep any secrets from you, doctor. The -fact is that someone wanted to marry my girl Bee, and that I made some -discoveries about him which obliged me to withdraw my consent.” The -doctor formed his lips into a whistle, to which he did not give vent. -“That accounts for it,” he said.</p> - -<p>“That accounts for—what?” cried Colonel Kingsward, not without -irritation.</p> - -<p>“For the state in which I find her. And mind my words, Kingsward, you’d -better let your girl marry anybody that isn’t a blackguard than risk -that sort of shock with your wife. Never forget that her life—— I mean -to say that she’s very delicate. Don’t let her be worried—stretch a -point—have things done as she wishes. You will find it pay best in the -end.”</p> - -<p>“For once you are talking nonsense, my dear fellow,” said Colonel -Kingsward; “my wife is not a woman who has ever been set upon having her -own way.”<a name="page_205" id="page_205"></a></p> - -<p>“Let her have it this time,” said the doctor, “and you’ll never repent -it. If she wants Bee to marry, let her marry. Bee is a dear little -thing, but her mother, Kingsward, her mother—is of far more consequence -to you than even she—”</p> - -<p>“That is a matter of course,” said Colonel Kingsward. “Lucy is of more -importance to me than all the world beside; but neither must I neglect -the interests of my child.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, bother the child,” cried the doctor, “let her have her lover; the -mother is what you must think of now.”</p> - -<p>“You seem tremendously in earnest, Southwood.”</p> - -<p>“So I am—tremendously in earnest. And don’t you work your mind on the -subject, but do what I say.”</p> - -<p>“Do you mean to say that my wife is in a—state of danger?”</p> - -<p>“I mean that she must be kept from worry—she must not be -contradicted—things must not be allowed to go contrary to her wishes. -Poor little Bee! I don’t say you are to let her marry a blackguard. But -don’t worry her mother about it—that is the chief thing I’ve got to -say.”<a name="page_206" id="page_206"></a></p> - -<p>“No, I shan’t worry her mother about it,” said the Colonel, shutting his -mouth closely as if he were locking it up. When Dr. Southwood was gone, -however, he stopped the two girls who were lingering about to know the -doctor’s opinion, and detaching Betty’s arm from about Bee’s waist drew -his eldest daughter into his study and shut the door. “I want to speak -to you, Bee,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Yes, papa.” In this call to her alone to receive some communication, -Bee, as may be imagined, jumped to a conclusion quite different from -what her father intended, and almost for the moment forgot mamma.</p> - -<p>“The doctor tells me that above everything your mother must be kept from -worry. Do you understand? In the circumstances it is extremely important -that you should know this.”</p> - -<p>“Papa,” she cried, half in indignation half in disappointment, “do you -think that I would worry her—in any circumstances?”</p> - -<p>“I think that girls of your age often think that no affairs are so -important as your own, and it is very likely that you may be of that<a name="page_207" id="page_207"></a> -opinion, and I wish you to know what the doctor says.”</p> - -<p>“Is mamma—very ill?” Bee asked, bewildered.</p> - -<p>“He does not say so—only that she is not to be fretted or contradicted, -or disturbed about anything. I feel it necessary to warn you, Bee.”</p> - -<p>“Why me above the rest?” she cried. “Am I likely to be the one to worry -mamma?”</p> - -<p>“The others have no particular affairs of their own to worry her with. -There must be no private talks, no discussions, no endeavours to get her -upon what you may suppose to be your side.”</p> - -<p>Bee gave her father a glance of fire, but she felt that a little -prudence was necessary, and kept the tumult of feeling which was within -her as much as possible in her own breast. “I have always talked to -mamma of everything that was in my mind,” she said, piteously. “I don’t -know how I am to stop. She would wonder so if I stopped talking; and how -can I talk to her except of things that are in my mind?”</p> - -<p>“You must learn,” said the Colonel, “to<a name="page_208" id="page_208"></a> think of her more than of -yourself.” He did not at all mean to prescribe to her a course of -conduct more elevated than that he meant to pursue himself, but then it -was only in action that he meant to carry out his purposes, he was not -afraid of committing himself in speech.</p> - -<p>Bee looked at him again with a gaze that asked a great many questions, -but she only answered, “I will try my very best, papa.”</p> - -<p>“If you do, I am sure you will succeed, my dear,” he said, in a gentler -tone.</p> - -<p>“Is that all?” she asked, hesitating.</p> - -<p>“That is all I want with you just now.”</p> - -<p>Bee turned away towards the door, and then she paused and made a step -back.</p> - -<p>“Papa!”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Bee.”</p> - -<p>“Would you mind telling me—I will not say a word to her—but oh, please -tell me—”</p> - -<p>“What is it?” said the Colonel. He went to his writing table, and -sitting down began to turn over his papers. His tone was slightly -impatient, his eyebrows slightly raised, as if in surprise.</p> - -<p>“Papa, you must know what it is. I know that you have seen—Mr. Leigh!”<a name="page_209" id="page_209"></a></p> - -<p>“How do you know anything about it? What have you to do with whom I have -seen? Run away. I do not mean to enter into any explanations on this -subject with you.”</p> - -<p>“Then with whom will you enter into explanations? You cannot speak to -mamma; she must not be worried. Papa, I am not a little girl now, to be -told to run away.”</p> - -<p>“You seem to be determined not to lose a moment in telling me so.”</p> - -<p>“I should not have told you so,” said Bee, looking at him over the high -back of his writing-table, “if you had not told me I was not to talk to -mamma.”</p> - -<p>He looked up at her, and their eyes met; both of them keenly, fiercely -blue, lit up with fires of combat. It is often imagined that blue eyes -are the softest eyes—but not by those who are acquainted with the kind -which belonged to the Kingswards, which might have been called -sapphires, if sapphires ever flash and cut the air as diamonds do. They -were not either so dark as sapphires—they were like nothing but -themselves, two pairs of blue eyes that might have been made to order, -so like were they<a name="page_210" id="page_210"></a> to each other, and both blazing across that table as -if they would have set the house on fire.</p> - -<p>“That’s an excellent point,” he said. “I can’t deny it. What made you so -terrifically clever all at once?”</p> - -<p>There is nothing more stinging than to be called clever in the midst of -a discussion. Bee’s eyes seemed to set fire to her face, at least, which -flashed crimson upon her father’s startled sight.</p> - -<p>“When one has someone else to think of, someone’s interests to take care -of——”</p> - -<p>“Which are your own interests—and vastly more important than anything -which concerns your father and mother.”</p> - -<p>“I never said so—nor thought so, papa—but if they are different from -yours, that’s no reason,” said Bee, bold in words but faltering in -manner, “is it, why I should not think of them, if, as you say, they’re -my own interests, papa?”</p> - -<p>“You are very bold, Bee.”</p> - -<p>“What am I to do if I have no one to speak for me? Papa, Aubrey——”</p> - -<p>“I forbid you to speak with such familiarity<a name="page_211" id="page_211"></a> of a man whom you have -nothing to do with, and whom you scarcely know.”</p> - -<p>“Papa, Aubrey—” cried Bee, with astonishment.</p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward jumped up from his table in a fury of impatience. “How -dare you come and besiege me here in my own room with your Aubrey?—a -man whom you have not known a month; a stranger to the family.”</p> - -<p>“Papa, you must let me speak. You allowed me to be engaged to him. If -you had said ‘no’ at first, there might, perhaps, have been some reason -in it.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps—some reason!” he repeated, with an angry laugh.</p> - -<p>“Yes, for even then it was not your own happiness that was in question. -It was I, after all, that was to marry him.”</p> - -<p>“And you think that is a reason for defying me?”</p> - -<p>“It is always said to be a reason—not for defying anybody—but for -standing up for what you call my own interests, papa—when they are -somebody else’s interests as well. You said we might be engaged—and<a name="page_212" id="page_212"></a> we -were. And how can I let anyone, even you, say he is a stranger? He is my -<i>fiancé</i>. He is betrothed to me. We belong to each other. Whatever -anyone may say, that is the fact,” cried Bee, very rapidly, to get it -all out before she was interrupted.</p> - -<p>“It is not at all a cheerful or pleasant fact—if it changes my little -Bee, whom I thought I knew, to this flushed and brazen woman, fighting -for her——. Go, child, and don’t make an exhibition of yourself. Your -mother’s daughter! It is not credible—to assault me, your father, in my -own room, for the sake of——”</p> - -<p>“Papa! don’t you remember that it is said in the Bible you are not to -provoke your children to wrath? Mamma would have stood up for you, I -suppose, when she was engaged to you. I may be flushed,” cried Bee, -putting her hands to her blazing cheeks, “how could I help it? Forced to -talk to you, to ask you—on a subject that gives you a right to speak to -me, your own child, like that——”</p> - -<p>“I am glad you think I have a right to speak as the circumstances demand -to my<a name="page_213" id="page_213"></a> own child,” said the Colonel, cooling down; “but why you should -be forced, as you say, to take up such an unbecoming and unwomanly -position is beyond my guessing.”</p> - -<p>“It is because I have no longer mamma to speak for me,” Bee said.</p> - -<p>The creature was not without skill. Now she came back to the point that -was not to be gainsaid.</p> - -<p>“We have had quite enough of this,” Colonel Kingsward replied. “Your -mother, as you are quite aware, never set up her will against mine. She -was aware, if you are not, that I knew the world better than she did, -and was more competent to decide. Your mother would never have stood up -to me as you have done.”</p> - -<p>“It would have been better, perhaps, sometimes, if she had,” cried Bee, -carried away by the tide of her excitement. Colonel Kingsward was so -astounded that he had scarcely power to be angry. He gazed at his -excited child with a surprise that was beyond words.</p> - -<p>“Oh, papa, papa! Forgive me! I never meant that; it came out before I -was aware.”<a name="page_214" id="page_214"></a></p> - -<p>“The thought must have been there or it could not have come out,” he -said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no; there was no thought there. It may be so with you, but not with -us, papa. Words come into our mouths. We don’t think them; we don’t mean -to say—they only seem to—hook on to—something that went before; and -then they come out with a crash. Oh, forgive me, forgive me, papa!”</p> - -<p>“I suppose,” he said, with a half laugh, “that may be taken as a woman’s -exposition of her own style of argument.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t call me a woman,” she said, with her soft small voice, aggrieved -and wounded, drawing closer to him. “Oh, papa! I am only your little -girl after all.”</p> - -<p>“A naughty little girl,” he said, shaking his head.</p> - -<p>“And without mamma to speak for me,” added Bee.</p> - -<p>The Colonel laughed aloud. “You wily little natural lawyer!” he said; -but immediately became very grave, for underneath this burst of half -angry amusement Bee had given him a shock she did not know of. All -unaware of the edge of the weapons which<a name="page_215" id="page_215"></a> she used with a certain -instinctive deftness, it did not occur to her that these words of hers -might penetrate not only deeper than she thought, but far deeper than -her own thoughts had ever gone. His wife’s worn face seemed suddenly to -appear before Colonel Kingsward’s eyes in a light which he had never -seen before, and the argument which this child used so keenly, yet so -ignorantly, pierced him like a knife. “Without mamma to speak for me!” -These words sounded very simple to Bee, a mischievous expedient to trap -him in the snare he had laid for her. But if the time should ever come -when they should be true! The Colonel was struck down by that arrow -flown at a venture. He went back to his table subdued, and sat down -there. “That will do,” he said, “that will do. Now run away and leave me -to my work, Bee.”</p> - -<p>She came up to him and gave him a timid kiss, which the Colonel accepted -quietly in the softening of that thought. She roamed about the table a -little, flicking off an imperceptible speck of dust with her -handkerchief, arranging some books upon the upper shelf<a name="page_216" id="page_216"></a> of his bureau, -sometimes looking at him over that row of books, sometimes lingering -behind him as if doing something there. He did not interfere with her -movements for a few minutes, in the <i>attendrissement</i> of his thoughts. -Without a mother to speak for her! Poor little girl, if that should ever -be so! Poor little children unconscious in their nursery crying for -mamma; and, oh, worse than all, himself without his Lucy, who had made -all the world sweet to him! He was a masterfull man, who would stand to -his arms in any circumstances, who would not give in even if his heart -was broken; but what a strange, dull, gloomy world it would be to him if -the children had no mother to speak for them! He made a sudden effort to -shake off that thought, and the first thing that recalled him to himself -was to hear Bee, having no other mischief, he supposed, to turn her hand -to, heaping coals upon the little bit of fire which had been lighted for -cheerfulness only.</p> - -<p>“Bee,” he cried, “are you still there? What are you doing? The room is -like an oven already, and you are making up a sort of Christmas fire.”<a name="page_217" id="page_217"></a></p> - -<p>“Oh, I am so sorry—I forgot,” cried Bee, putting down the shovel -hastily. “I thought it wanted mending—for you always like a good fire.”</p> - -<p>“Not in September,” he said, “and such weather; the finest we have had -since July. Come, cease this fluttering about—you disturb me—and I -have a hundred things to do.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, papa.” Bee’s little figure stole from behind him in the meekest -way. She stopped in her progress towards the door to give a touch to the -flowers on a side table; and then she went slowly on, going out. She had -got her hand upon the handle of the door, and Colonel Kingsward thanked -heaven he had got rid of her for the moment, when she turned round, -eyeing him closely again though keeping by that means of escape. “Papa,” -she said, softly, “after all the talk we have been having—you perhaps -don’t remember that—you have never—answered my question yet.”</p> - -<p>“What question?” he said sharply.</p> - -<p>Bee put her hands together like a child, she looked at him beseechingly, -coaxingly,<a name="page_218" id="page_218"></a> like that child returning to its point, and then she said -still more softly, “About Aubrey, dear papa!”<a name="page_219" id="page_219"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">I will</span> not attempt to follow in detail the course of that autumn. It was -a fine season, and Mrs. Kingsward was taken to her home in the country -and recovered much of her lost health in the serene ending of the month -and the bright days of October, which was a model October—everything -that month ought to be. The trees had scarcely begun to take any -autumnal colouring upon them when they reached Kingswarden—a house -which stood among the Surrey hills; an old house placed not as modern -houses are, pitched upon hillsides, or at points where there is “a -view.” The old Kingswards had been moved by no such ridiculous modern -sentiments. They had planted their mansion in a sheltered spot, where it -would be safe from the winds that<a name="page_220" id="page_220"></a> range over the country and all the -moorland heights. The gates opened upon a wild country road with an -extravagant breadth of green pathway and grassy bank on either -side—enough to have made a farmer swear, but very pleasant to the eye -and delightful to a horse’s feet, as well as to the pedestrians, whether -they were tramps or tourists, who walked or rode on bicycles—the latter -class only—from London to Portsmouth. The house was old, red, and -straggling, covered with multitudes of creepers. Sheets of purple -clematis—the Jackmanni, if anybody wishes to know; intolerable name for -such a royal garment of blossom—covered half-a-dozen corners, hanging -down in great brilliant wreaths over old ivy and straggling Virginia -creeper and the strong stalks of the climbing roses, which still bore -here and there a flower. Other sheets of other flowers threw themselves -about in other places as if at their own sweet will, especially the wild -exuberance of the Traveller’s Joy; though I need not say that this -wildness was under the careful eye of the gardener, who would not let it -go too far. I cannot attempt to tell how many other<a name="page_221" id="page_221"></a> pleasant and -fragrant and flowery things there were which insisted on growing in that -luxurious place, even to the fastidious Highland creeper, which in that -autumn season was the most gay, luxuriant, and delightful of all. The -flowers abounded like the children, not to be checked, as healthy and as -brilliant, in the fine, peaty soil and pure air. The scent of the -mignonette, which in this late season straggled anywhere, seemed to fill -half the country round. The borders were crowned with those autumn -flowers which make up as well as they can for their want of sweetness by -lavish wealth of colour—the glowing single dahlias, which this -generation has had the good sense to re-capture from Nature after the -quilled and rosetted artificial things which the gardeners had -manufactured out of them, and the fine scarlet and blue of the salvias, -and the glory of all those golden tribes of the daisy kind that now make -our borders bright, instead of the old sturdy red geranium, which once -sufficed for all the supplies of autumn, an honest servant but a poor -lord. I prefer the sweetness of the Spring, when every flower has a soul -in it, and breathes it all<a name="page_222" id="page_222"></a> about in the air, that is full of hope. But -as it cannot always be Spring, that triumph of bright hues is something -to mask the face of winter with until the time when the tortured and -fantastic chrysanthemum reigns alone.</p> - -<p>This was the sort of garden they had at Kingswarden; not shut off in a -place by itself, but bordering all the lawns, which were of the velvet -it takes centuries to perfect. The immediate grounds sloped a little to -the south, and beyond them was a very extensive, if somewhat flat, -prospect, ending on the horizon in certain mild blue shadows which were -believed to be hills. There was not much that could be called a park at -Kingswarden. The few farms which Colonel Kingsward possessed pressed his -little circle of trees rather close; but as long as the farms were let -the family felt they could bear this. It gave them a comfortable feeling -of modest natural wealth and company; the yeomen keeping the squire -warm, they in their farmsteadings, he in the hall.</p> - -<p>And the autumn went on in its natural course, gaining colour as it began -to lose its greenness and the days their warmth. The<a name="page_223" id="page_223"></a> fruit got all -gathered in after the corn, the apple trees that had been such a sight, -every bough bent down with its balls of russet or gold, looked shabby -and worn, their season done, the hedges ran over with their harvest, -every kind of wild berry and feathery seedpod, wild elderberries, hips -and haws, the dangerous unwholesome fruit of the nightshade, the -triumphant wreaths of bryony of every colour, green, crimson, and -purple. The robins began to appear about Kingswarden, hopping about the -lawns, and coming very near the dining-room windows after breakfast, -when the little tribe of the nursery children had their accustomed -half-hour with mamma, and delighted in nothing so much as to crumble the -bread upon the terrace and tempt the redbreasts nearer and nearer. When, -quite satisfied and comforted about his wife’s looks, Colonel Kingsward -went off to the shooting, this little flock of children trailed after -mamma wherever she went, a little blooming troop. By this time Charlie -had gone back to Oxford, and the little ones liked to have the run of -the lawns outside and the sitting rooms within, with nothing<a name="page_224" id="page_224"></a> more -alarming than Betty to keep them in order. It is to be feared that the -relaxation of discipline which occurred when papa was absent was -delightful to all those little people, and neither was Mrs. Kingsward -sorry now and then to feel herself at full ease—with no necessity -anywhere of further restraint than her own softened perceptions of -family decorum required. It was a moment in which, if that could be -said, she was self-indulgent—sometimes not getting up at her usual -hour, but taking her breakfast in her room, with clusters of little boys -and girls all over her bed, and over the carpet, sharing every morsel, -climbing over her in their play. And when she went out to drive she had -the carriage full of them; and when she took her stroll about the -grounds they were all about, shouting and racing, nobody suggesting that -it would be “too much for her,” or sending them off because they -disturbed mamma. She was disturbed to her heart’s content while the -Colonel was away. She said, “You know this is very nice for a time, but -it would not do always,” to her elder daughter: but I think that she saw -no<a name="page_225" id="page_225"></a> necessity, except in the return of her husband, why it should not -do, and she enjoyed herself singing to them, dancing (a very little) -with them, playing for them as only the mother of a large family ever -can play, that simple dance music which is punctuated and kept in -perfect time by her heart as much as by her ear. For myself, I know the -very touch upon the piano of a woman who is the orchestra of the -children, who makes their little feet twinkle to the music. There is no -band equal to it for harmony, and precision, and go. They enjoyed the -freedom of having no one to say, “Hush, don’t make such a noise in the -house,” of the absence of all the disturbable people, “the gentlemen,” -as the servants plainly said, “being away” more, Mrs. Kingsward -sometimes thought, with a faint twinge of conscience, than it was right -they should enjoy anything in the absence of papa. Charlie was quite as -bad as papa, and declared that they made his head ache, and that no -fellow could work with such a row going on; it made the little carnival -all the more joyous that he was out of the way.<a name="page_226" id="page_226"></a></p> - -<p>Bee had spent the six weeks since their return in a sort of splendour of -girlish superiority and elation, of which her mother had not been -unobservant, though nothing had been said between them. I am not sure -that Bee did not enjoy the situation more than if Aubrey had been at -Kingswarden wooing her all day long, playing tennis with her, riding -with her—in every way appearing as her accepted lover. Circumstances -had saved her from this mere vulgarity of beatitude, and she felt that -in the very uncertainty of their correspondence, which was -private—almost secret, and yet not clandestine—there was a wonderful -charm, a romance and tinge of the unhappy and desperate, while yet -everything within herself was happy and triumphant. It had never been -said, neither by the Colonel nor by his wife (who had said nothing at -all), that Bee was not to write letters to Aubrey nor to receive letters -from him. I cannot imagine how Colonel Kingsward, in bidding her -understand that all was over between Aubrey and herself, did not make a -condition of this. But probably he thought her too young and<a name="page_227" id="page_227"></a> simple to -maintain any such correspondence, and her lover too little determined, -too persuadeable, to begin it. When Bee had received her lover’s first -letter it had been under her father’s very eyes. It had come at -breakfast between two girl-epistles, and Colonel Kingsward would not -have been guilty of the pettiness of looking at his daughter’s -correspondence for any inducement yet before him. She had the tremendous -thrill and excitement of reading it in his very sight, which she did not -hesitate to do, for the sake of the bravado, feeling her ears tingle and -the blood coursing in her veins, never imagining that he would not -observe, and setting her young slight strength like a rock in momentary -expectation of a question on the subject. But no question came. Colonel -Kingsward was looking at the papers, and at the few letters which came -to him at his house. The greater part of his correspondence went to the -office. He took it very quietly, and he never remarked Bee at all, which -was little less than a miracle, she thought. And it was very well for -her that this was one of the<a name="page_228" id="page_228"></a> mornings on which mamma did not come -downstairs.</p> - -<p>This immense excitement was a little too strong for ordinary use, and -Bee so arranged it afterwards that her letters came by a later post, -when she could read them by herself in her room. The servants knew -perfectly well of this arrangement—the butler who opened the post bag -at Kingswarden, and the maid who carried Miss Bee’s letters -upstairs—but neither father nor mother thought of it. That is, I will -not answer for Mrs. Kingsward. She perhaps had her suspicions; but, if -her husband did not forbid correspondence, she said to herself that it -was not her business to do so. It seemed to her that nothing else could -keep Bee so bright. Her disappointment, the shock of the severance, must -have affected her otherwise than appeared if she had not been buoyed up -by some such expedient. As for the Colonel, he thought nothing about it. -He thought that, as for love, properly so called, the thing was -preposterous for a girl of her years, and that the foolish business had -been all made up of imaginative novelty, and the charm of the<a name="page_229" id="page_229"></a> position, -which had flattered and dazzled the girl. Now that she had returned to -all her old associations and occupations, the pretty bubble had floated -away into the air. It had not been necessary even to burst it—it had -dispersed of itself, as he said to himself he always knew it would. Thus -he deceived himself with the easiest mind and did not interfere.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kingsward had come upon her daughter seated out on the lawn under -the great walnut tree, reading one of these letters, one morning when -she had gone out earlier than usual, on an exceptionally fine day. Bee -had thrust it away hastily into her pocket and came forward with burning -cheeks when she heard her mother’s voice—but it was not till some time -later that Mrs. Kingsward spoke. The day had kept up its morning -promise. It was one of those warm days that sometimes come in October, -breathing the very spirit of that contented season, when all things have -come to fruition and the work of the year is done, and its produce -garnered into the barns. Now we may sit and rest, is the sentiment of -the much toiling<a name="page_230" id="page_230"></a> earth—all the labour being over, the harvest done, -and no immediate need yet to rise again and plough. The world hangs -softly swaying in space, the fields are fallow, the labourer rests. The -sunshine lay warm upon the velvet grass, the foliage, thinned by one -good blast a week ago, gave just shade enough, not too much; the -tea-table was set out upon the lawn—the little horde had gone off -shouting and skirmishing through the grounds, Betty at the head of them, -supposed captain and controller, virtually ringleader, which comes to -much the same thing. The air so hushed and silent in itself, half drowsy -with profound peace, was just touched and made musical by their shouts, -and Bee and her mother, with this triumphant sound of a multitude close -by, were alone.</p> - -<p>“Bee,” Mrs. Kingsward said, “I have long wanted an opportunity to speak -to you.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, mamma,” she said, looking up with a rush of blood to her heart, -feeling that the moment had come. But she would not have been Bee if she -had not put a little something of her own into the thick of the crisis. -“There were plenty of opportunities—we have been together all day.”<a name="page_231" id="page_231"></a></p> - -<p>“You know what I mean,” said Mrs. Kingsward. “Bee, I saw you reading a -letter this morning.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, mamma.”</p> - -<p>“Who was it from?”</p> - -<p>Bee looked her mother in the face. “I have never made any secret of it,” -she said. “I have read them openly before papa—I never would pretend -they were anything different. Of course it was from Aubrey, mamma.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Bee!” said her mother. “You have never told me what your father -said to you that morning. He told me that it was all over and done -with—that he would never listen to another word on the subject.”</p> - -<p>“That was what he told me.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Bee, Bee! and yet——”</p> - -<p>“Stop a moment, mamma! He never said I was not to write; he never said -there was to be no correspondence. Had he said so, I should have, at -least, considered what it was best to do.”</p> - -<p>“Considered what was best! But you were not the judge. I hope you would -have obeyed your father, Bee.”<a name="page_232" id="page_232"></a></p> - -<p>“I cannot say, mamma. You must remember that it is my case and not his. -I don’t know what I should have done. But it was not necessary, for he -said nothing about it.”</p> - -<p>“Bee, my dear child, he may have said nothing; but you know very well -that when he said it was entirely broken off he meant what he said.”</p> - -<p>“Papa is very capable of saying what he means,” said Bee. “I did not -think it was any business of mine to inquire what might be his secret -meaning. Mamma, dear, don’t be vexed; but, oh, that would have been too -hard! And for Aubrey, too.”</p> - -<p>“I think much less of Aubrey that he should carry on a clandestine -correspondence with a girl like you.”</p> - -<p>“Clandestine!” cried Bee, with blazing eyes. “No more clandestine than -your letters that come by the post with your own name upon them. If -Aubrey did not scorn anything that is clandestine, I should. There is -nothing like that between him and me.”</p> - -<p>“I never supposed you would be guilty of any artifice, Bee; but you are -going completely<a name="page_233" id="page_233"></a> against your father—making a fool of him, -indeed—making it all ridiculous—when you carry on a correspondence, as -if you were engaged, after he has broken everything off.”</p> - -<p>“I am engaged,” said Bee, very low.</p> - -<p>“What do you say? Bee, this is out of the question. I shall have to tell -your father when he comes back. “Oh! child, child, how you turn this -delightful time into trouble. I shall be obliged to tell your father -when he comes back.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps it will be your duty, mamma,” said Bee, the colour going out of -her face; “and then I shall have to consider what is mine,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Bee, Bee! Oh! how hard you make it for me. Oh! how I wish you had -never seen him, nor heard of him,” Mrs. Kingsward cried.<a name="page_234" id="page_234"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">This</span> communication made a little breach between Bee and her mother and -planted a thorn in Mrs. Kingsward’s breast. She had been getting on so -well; the quiet (which meant the riot of the seven nursery children and -all their troublesome ways) had been doing her so much good, and the -absence of every care save that Johnny should not take cold, and Lucy -eat enough dinner—that it was hard upon her thus to be brought back in -a moment to another and a more pressing kind of care. However, after an -hour or two’s estrangement from Bee, which ended in a fuller expansion -than ever of sympathy between them—and a morning or two in which Mrs. -Kingsward remembered as soon<a name="page_235" id="page_235"></a> as she awoke that it would be her duty to -tell her husband and break up the pleasant peace and harmony of the -household—the sweetness of that <i>dolce far niente</i> swept over her again -and obliterated or at least blurred the outline of all such troublous -thoughts. Colonel Kingsward sent a hasty telegram to say that he was -going on somewhere else for another ten days’ shooting, and that, though -she exclaimed at first with a countenance of dismay, “Oh, children, papa -is not coming home for another week!” in reality gave a pang of relief -to her mind. Gliding into her being, she scarcely knew how, was an -inclination to take every day as it came without thinking of -to-morrow—which was perfectly natural, no doubt, and yet was an -unconscious realisation of the fact, which as yet she had never put into -words, nor had suggested to her, that those gentle days were numbered. -Her husband’s delay was in one way like a reprieve to her. She had, like -all simple natures, a vague faith in accident, in something that might -turn up—“perhaps the world may end to-night”—something at least might -happen in another ten days to<a name="page_236" id="page_236"></a> make it unnecessary for her to disturb -the existing state of affairs and throw new trouble into the house. She -did not waver at first as to her duty, though nothing in the world could -be more painful; and Bee did not say a word to change her mother’s -resolution. Bee had always been aware that as soon as it was known the -matter must come to another crisis—and the scorn with which she -regarded the idea of doing anything clandestine prevented her even from -asking that her secret should be kept. It was not in her mind but in her -mother’s that those faint doubtings at last arose—those half -entertained thoughts that a letter or two could do no harm; that the -correspondence would drop of itself when it was seen between the two -that there was no hope in it; and that almost anything would be better -than a storm of domestic dispeace and the open rebellion in which Mrs. -Kingsward felt with a shudder Bee would place herself. How are you to -break the will of a girl who will not be convinced, who says it is not -your, but her affair?</p> - -<p>No doubt that was true enough. It was<a name="page_237" id="page_237"></a> Bee, not Colonel Kingsward, whose -happiness was concerned. According to all the canons of poetry and -literature in general, which in such matters permeate theoretically the -general mind when there is no strong personal instinct to crush them, -Bee had right on her side—and her mother’s instinct was all on the side -of poetry and romance and Bee. She had not the courage to cut short that -correspondence, not clandestine though unrevealed, which kept the girl’s -heart alive, and was not without attractions to the mother also, into -whose ear it might be whispered now and then (with always a faint -protest on her part) that Aubrey had better hopes, that he had a -powerful friend who was going to speak for him. If they really meant to -be faithful to each other—and there was no doubt that was what they -meant—they must win the day in the end; and what harm would it do in -the meantime that they should hear of each other from time to time? -Whereas, if she betrayed the secret, there would at once be a dreadful -commotion in the house, and Bee would confront her father and tell him -with those blazing eyes,<a name="page_238" id="page_238"></a> so like his, that it was her affair. Mrs. -Kingsward knew that her husband would never stoop to the manœuvre of -intercepting letters, or keeping a watch upon those that his daughter -received; and what can you do to a girl who says that? She shrank more -than any words could say from the renewal of the conflict. She had been -so thankful to believe that it had passed over and all things settled -into peace while she was ill. Now that she was better her heart sank -within her at the thought of bringing it all on again, which would also -make her ill again she was convinced. Yet, at the same time, if she -could not persuade Bee to give it up of herself (of which there was no -hope whatever), then she must, it was her duty, inform her husband. But -her heart rose a little at that ten days’ reprieve. Perhaps the world -might end to-night. Something might happen to make it unnecessary in -those ten days.</p> - -<p>And something did happen, though not in any way what Mrs. Kingsward -could have wished.</p> - -<p>Colonel Kingsward’s return was approaching<a name="page_239" id="page_239"></a> very near when on one of -those bright October afternoons a lady from the neighbourhood—nay, it -was the clergywoman of the parish, the Rector of Kingswarden’s wife, the -very nearest of all neighbours—came to call. She had just returned from -that series of visits which in the autumn is—with all who respect -themselves—the natural course of events. Mrs. Chichester was a woman of -good connection, of “private means,” and more or less “in society,” so -that she carried out this programme quite as if she had been a great -lady. She had an air of importance about her, which seemed to shadow -forth from her very entrance something that she had to say—an unusual -gravity, a look of having to make up her mind to a certain action which -was not without difficulty. There passed a glance between Mrs. Kingsward -and Bee, in which they said to each other, “What is it this time?” as -clearly as words could have said; for, to be sure, they were well -acquainted with this lady’s ways. She sat for a little, and talked of -their respective travels since they had last met; and of the pleasant -weeks she had passed at<a name="page_240" id="page_240"></a> Homburg, where so many pleasant people were -always to be met after the London season; and then she lightly touched -on the fact that she had come over early in September, and since then -had been staying at a number of country places, with the dear Bishop, -and at Lady Grandmaison’s, and with old Sir Thomas down in Devonshire, -and so on.</p> - -<p>“Or,” she concluded, with a disproportionate emphasis on that apparently -unimportant word, “I should have been to see you long ago.”</p> - -<p>There was a significance in this which again made Mrs. Kingsward and Bee -exchange a look—a laughing glance—as of those who had heard the phrase -before. When, however, she had asked some questions about Mrs. -Kingsward’s health, and expressed the proper feeling—sorry to hear she -had been so poorly; delighted that she was so much better—Mrs. -Chichester departed from her established use and wont. Instead of -beginning upon the real object of her visit, after she had taken her cup -of tea, with a “Now,” (also very emphatic) “I want<a name="page_241" id="page_241"></a> to interest you in -something I have very much at heart,”—which was generally a -subscription, a society, a bazaar, a missionary meeting, or something of -the sort—Mrs. Chichester bent forward and said, in a half whisper, “I -have something I want very much to talk to you about. Could I speak to -you for a moment—alone?”</p> - -<p>Bee was much surprised, but took her part with promptitude. “You want to -get rid of me,” she said. “I shall go out on to the terrace, mamma, and -you can call me from the window when you want me. I shall be sure to -hear.”</p> - -<p>There was another look between them, always with a laugh in it, as she -stepped out of the open window, with a book in her hand, a look which -repeated, “What can it be, now?” with the same amusement as at first, -but with more surprise. Bee made a circuit round the lawn with her book, -one finger shut in it to mark the place; looking at the flowers, as one -does who knows every plant individually, and notes each bud that is -opening, and which are about to fall. She calculated within herself how -long the dahlias would last, and<a name="page_242" id="page_242"></a> that the Gloire de Dijon roses must be -cut to-morrow, as she pursued her way towards the walnut tree, under -which she meant to place herself. But Bee had not been there many -minutes before she felt a little shiver creep over her. It was getting -rather cold in this late October to sit out of doors, when the sun was -already off the garden, and she had, as girls say, “nothing on.” She got -up again, and made her way round to a garden bench which was set against -the wall of the house, at the spot where the sunshine lasted longest. -There was still a level ray of ruddy light pouring on that seat, and Bee -forgot, or rather never thought, that it was close to the drawing-room -window. Her mind was not much exercised about Mrs. Chichester’s secret, -which probably concerned the mothers and babies of the parish, and which -she certainly had no curiosity to hear. Besides, no doubt, the visitor -had told by this time all the private details there were to tell. Bee -sat down upon the bench, taking no precautions to disguise the sound of -her footsteps, and opened her book. She was not an enthusiastic student, -though she liked a novel as well as anyone;<a name="page_243" id="page_243"></a> but her eyes strayed from -it to the great width of the horizon in front of her, and the ruddy -glory in the west, in which was just about to disappear that last long -golden ray of the sun.</p> - -<p>Then she heard a low cry—an exclamation, stifled, yet full of horror. -Was it mamma? What could the clergywoman be saying to bring from mamma’s -lips such a cry? Bee—I cannot blame her—pricked up her ears. Mrs. -Kingsward was not strong enough to be disturbed by horrors with which -she had nothing to do.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I cannot believe it; I cannot believe it!” she said.</p> - -<p>“But,” said the other voice, with that emphasis at which Bee had laughed -so often, “I can assure you it is true. I saw him myself shaking hands -with the woman at the station. I might not have believed Miss Tatham’s -story, but I saw with my own eyes that it was Mr. Leigh. I had met him -at Sir Thomas’s the year before—when he was still in deep mourning for -his wife, you know.”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Leigh! So it was something about<a name="page_244" id="page_244"></a> Aubrey! Then it was Bee’s -business still more than her mother’s, and she listened without any -further thought.</p> - -<p>“But,” said Mrs. Kingsward, as if taking courage, “you must be mistaken; -oh, not about seeing him shake hands with a woman—why shouldn’t he -shake hands with a woman? He is very friendly with everybody. Perhaps he -knew her, and there is nothing to find fault with in that.”</p> - -<p>“Now,” said Mrs. Chichester, solemnly, “should I have mentioned it had -it been confined to that? I only told you of that as a proof. The thing -is that he put in this woman—a common woman, like a servant—into a -sleeping carriage—you know what those sleeping carriages cost; a -perfect fortune; far too much for any comfort there is in them—in the -middle of the night, with her two children. The woman behaved quite -nicely, Miss Tatham says, and looked shocked to be put in with a lady, -and blushed all over her face, and told that ridiculous story to account -for it. Poor thing! One can only be sorry for her. Probably some poor -thing deceived, and thinking she was to be<a name="page_245" id="page_245"></a> made a lady of. But I know -what you must think of the man, Mrs. Kingsward, who could do such a -thing on his way from staying with your own family, even if there had -been no more in it than that.”</p> - -<p>“But Mr. Leigh is very kind—kind to everybody—it might have been -nothing but charity.”</p> - -<p>“Charity—in an express train sleeping carriage! Well, I confess I never -heard of charity like that. Gentlemen generally know better than to -compromise themselves for nothing in that sort of way. They are more -afraid of risking themselves in railway carriages and that kind of thing -than girls are—much more afraid. And if you remember, Mrs. Kingsward, -what kind of reputation Mr. Leigh had in his poor wife’s time—keeping -that Miss Lance all the time in her very house under her eyes.”</p> - -<p>“I have always heard that it was Mrs. Leigh who insisted upon keeping -Miss Lance——”</p> - -<p>“Is it likely?” said Mrs. Chichester. “I ask you, knowing what you do of -human nature? And then a thing to happen like this<a name="page_246" id="page_246"></a> on his very way -home—when he had just left you and poor little Bee. Oh, it is -shameless, shameless! I could not contain myself when I heard of it. And -then it was said that the Colonel had broken off the engagement, and I -thought it would be a comfort to you to know that other things were -occurring every day, and that it was the only thing to do.”</p> - -<p>“It is no comfort to me—and I cannot—I cannot believe it!”</p> - -<p>“Dear Mrs. Kingsward, you always take the best view; but if you had seen -him, as I did, holding the woman’s hand, bending over her with such a -look!—I was afraid he would kiss her, there, before everybody. And I, -knowing of the engagement, and that he had just left you—before Miss -Tatham said a word—I sat and stared, and couldn’t believe my eyes. It -was the tenth of September, and he had left Bee, hadn’t he, the night -before?”</p> - -<p>“I never remember dates,” said Mrs. Kingsward, querulously.</p> - -<p>“I do,” replied the visitor, “and I took the trouble to find out. At -least, I found out by accident, through someone who saw him<a name="page_247" id="page_247"></a> at the -club, and who had just discovered the rights of that story about Miss -Lance. Oh, I trust you will not be beguiled by his being a good <i>parti</i>, -or that sort of thing, to trust dear Bee in such hands! Marriage is -always rather a disenchantment; but think what it would be in such a -case—a man that can’t be trusted to travel between Cologne and London -without——”</p> - -<p>“I don’t believe it! I don’t believe it!” said Mrs. Kingsward; and Bee -heard that her mother had melted into tears.</p> - -<p>“That is as good as saying you don’t believe me, who saw it with my own -eyes,” said the visitor, getting up. “Indeed, I didn’t mean at all to -distress you, for I thought that, as everything was broken off—I -thought only if you had any doubts, as one has sometimes after one has -settled a thing—that to know he was a man like that, with no respect -for anything, who could leave his <i>fiancée</i>, and just plunge, -plunge—there is no other word for it——”</p> - -<p>It was evident that Mrs. Kingsward, reduced to helplessness, here made -no effort either to detain her visitor or to contradict<a name="page_248" id="page_248"></a> her further, or -indeed to make any remark. There was a step or two across the room, and -then Mrs. Chichester said again—“Good-bye, dear. I am very sorry to -have distressed you—but I couldn’t leave you in ignorance of such a -thing for dear Bee’s sake; that is the one thing to be thankful for in -the whole matter, that Bee doesn’t seem to mind a bit! She looks just as -bright and just as nice as if nothing had happened. She can’t have cared -for him! Only flattered, I suppose, and pleased to have a proposal—as -those little things are, poor things. We should all thank heaven on our -knees that there’s no question of a broken heart in Bee’s case——”</p> - -<p>She might not have been so sure of that had she seen the figure which -came through the window the moment the door had closed upon her—Bee -with her blue eyes blazing wildly out of her white face, and strange -passion in every line both of features and form.</p> - -<p>“What is the meaning of it?” she said, briefly, with dry lips.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Bee, you have heard it all!”<a name="page_249" id="page_249"></a></p> - -<p>“I have heard enough—what does it mean, mamma?”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kingsward roused herself, dried her eyes, and went forward to Bee -with outstretched arms; but the girl turned away. “I don’t want to be -petted. I want to know what—what it means,” she said.</p> - -<p>“I don’t believe it,” cried Mrs. Kingsward.</p> - -<p>“Give a reason; don’t say things to quiet me. Oh, keep your arms away, -mamma! Don’t pet me as if I wanted that! Why don’t you believe it? And -if you did believe it—what does it mean—what does it mean?”<a name="page_250" id="page_250"></a></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Bee’s</span> look of scared and horrified misery was something new in Mrs. -Kingsward’s experience. The girl had not known any trouble. Her father’s -rejection of her lover and the apparent break between them had been in -reality only another feature in the romance. She had almost liked it -better so. There had been no time to pine, to feel the pain of -separation. It was all the more like a poem, like what every love story -should be, that this breaking off should have come.</p> - -<p>And now, all at once, without any warning! The worst of it was that Bee -had only heard a part of the story, the recapitulation of it. Mrs. -Chichester had given the accused more or less fair play. She had given -an imperfect<a name="page_251" id="page_251"></a> account of the explanation, the story the woman had -told—as was almost inevitable to a third party, but she had given it to -the best of her ability, not meaning to deceive, willing enough that he -should have the benefit of the doubt, or perhaps that the judgment upon -him should be all the more hard, because of his attempt to mingle deceit -with his sin, and throw dust in the eyes of any possible spectators. -This was the way in which it had appeared to herself, but she was not -unfair. She told the story which had been told to the astonished lady -upon whose solitude the little party had been obtruded in the middle of -the night, and who had heard it perhaps even imperfectly at first hand -mingled with the jolting and jarring of the train and the murmur of the -children. And yet Mrs. Chichester had repeated it honestly.</p> - -<p>But Bee had not heard that part of the tale. She had heard only the -facts of the case which had presented to her inexperienced young mind -the most wild and dreadful picture. Her lover, who had just left her, -whom she had promised to stand by till<a name="page_252" id="page_252"></a> death, suddenly appeared to her -in the pale darkness of the midnight with a woman and children hanging -on to him—belonging to him, as appeared. Where had he met them? How had -he arranged to meet them? When her hand had been in his, when he had -been asking from her that pledge till death, had he just been arranging -all that—giving them that rendezvous—settling how they were to meet, -and where? A horror and sickness came over poor Bee. It made her head -swim and her limbs tremble. To leave her with her pledge in his ears, -and to meet, perhaps at the very outset of his journey, the woman with -the children—a common sort of woman, like a servant. As if that made -any difference! If she had been a duchess it would have been all the -same. He must have met her fresh from Bee’s presence, with his farewell -to the girl whom he had pretended to love still on his lips. She could -not think so clearly. Was this picture burnt in upon her mind? She -seemed to see the dim, half-lighted carriage, and Aubrey at the door -putting the party in. And then at Dover, in the daylight, shaking hands -with his companion, bending over her<a name="page_253" id="page_253"></a> as if he meant to kiss her! These -two pictures took possession of Bee’s mind completely. And all this just -when he had left Bee—between his farewell to her and his interview with -her father! If she had heard of the story which the woman had told to -the startled Miss Tatham in the dim sleeping carriage, from which, -looking out, she had recognised Aubrey Leigh, it might have made a -difference. But that story had not been told in Bee’s hearing. And Mrs. -Kingsward did not know this, but supposed she had heard the whole from -beginning to end.</p> - -<p>Bee’s mother, to tell the truth, after the first shock, was glad of that -unconscious eaves-dropping on Bee’s part; for how could she have told -her? Indeed, the story was too gross, too flagrant to be believed by -herself. She felt sure that there must be some explanation of it other -than the vulgar one which was put upon it by these ladies; but she knew -very well that the same interpretation would be put upon it by her -husband, and many other people to whom Aubrey’s innocent interference in -such a case<a name="page_254" id="page_254"></a> would have seemed much less credible than guilt. Guilt is -the thing that generally rises first as the explanation of everything, -to the mind, both of the man and woman of the world. The impossibility -of a man leaving a delicate flower of womanhood like Bee, whose first -love he had won, in order to fall back at once into the bonds of a -common intrigue, and provide for the comfort of his paramour, who had -been waiting for him on the journey, would not prove so great to most -people as the impossibility that he, as a stranger, would step out of -his way to succour a poor little mother and children whom he had never -seen before, and risk thereby a compromising situation.</p> - -<p>The latter was the thing which would have seemed unutterably ridiculous -and impossible to Colonel Kingsward. A first-class sleeping carriage -secured for a mere waif upon his way, whom he had never seen before and -never would see again! The fellow might be a fool, but he was not such a -fool as that. Had the woman even been old and ugly the Colonel would -have laughed and shrugged his shoulders at Aubrey’s bad taste; but the<a name="page_255" id="page_255"></a> -woman was pretty and young. A long-standing affair, no doubt; and, of -course, it was quite possible, nay likely, that she was being sent, poor -creature, to some retreat or other, where she would be out of the way -with her children.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kingsward knew, as if she had heard him say these words, how her -husband would speak. And who was she, with not half his experience of -the world, to maintain a different opinion? Yet she did so. She thought -it was like Aubrey to turn the poor woman’s lingering, melancholy -journey into a quick and comfortable one, out of pure kindness, without -thought of compromising himself any more than of having any recompense -for what he did. But she did not know that Bee knew nothing of this -explanation of the story. When she found that her child evidently -thought nothing of that, but received at once the darker miserable tale -into her mind, she was startled, but not perhaps astonished. Bee was -young to think the worst of anybody, but at the same time it is by far -the commonest way of thinking, and the offence was one against herself, -which<a name="page_256" id="page_256"></a> gives a sharper edge to everything. And then she knew what was -going on in Bee’s mind chiefly by guesswork, for the girl said little. -The colour went out of her face, her eyes sometimes gave a gleam of -their old fire, but mostly had a strange set look, as if they were fixed -on something not visible to the ordinary spectator. She sat all the -evening through and never spoke. This was not so noticeable while the -children were still about with their perpetual flow of observations and -flood of questions; but when they went off in detachments to bed, and -the two elder girls were left alone with their mother, Bee’s silence -fell upon the others like a cloud. Betty, who knew nothing, after a few -minutes rushed away upstairs to find refuge in the nursery, and then -Mrs. Kingsward was left alone, face to face with this silent figure, so -unlike Bee, which neither moved nor spoke. She had scarcely the courage -to break the dreadful silence, but yet it had to be broken. Poor Mrs. -Kingsward’s heart began to beat violently against her breast as it had -not done since her return home.</p> - -<p>“Bee!” she said. “Bee!”<a name="page_257" id="page_257"></a></p> - -<p>Already the pumping of her heart had taken away her breath.</p> - -<p>“Yes, mamma.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! Bee, what—what are you going to do?”</p> - -<p>“To do, mamma?”</p> - -<p>“Oh! don’t repeat my words after me, but give me some sort of an answer. -Betty may be back again in a moment. What are you going to do?”</p> - -<p>“What can I do?” the girl said, in a low voice.</p> - -<p>“I can’t suppose but that you have been thinking about it—what else -could you be thinking of, poor child? For my part, I don’t believe it. -Do you hear me, Bee?”</p> - -<p>“Yes—I heard you say that before, mamma.”</p> - -<p>“And that is all you think of what I say! My darling, you can’t remain -like this. The first thing your father will ask will be, ‘What has -happened?’ I cannot bear that you should give up—without a word.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kingsward had disapproved of the correspondence, had felt that it -would be incumbent upon her to tell her husband of it,<a name="page_258" id="page_258"></a> but yet in this -unforeseen emergency she forgot all that.</p> - -<p>“Without a word! What words could I say? You don’t suppose I could -discuss it with him—ask if it was true? If it’s true, there isn’t a -word to say, is there? And if it isn’t true it would be an insult to ask -him. And so one way or another it is all just done with and over. And I -wish you would leave me quiet, mamma.”</p> - -<p>“Done with and over! Without a word—on a mere story of something that -took place on a journey!”</p> - -<p>“Oh! leave me quiet, mamma. Do you think I need to be reminded of that -journey? As if I did not see it, and the lamps burning, and hear the -very wheels!”</p> - -<p>“Bee, dear, how can I leave you quiet? Do you mean just to let it break -off like that, without a word, without giving him the chance to -explain?”</p> - -<p>“I thought,” said Bee, with a faint satirical smile, for, indeed, her -heart was capable of all bitterness, “that it was broken off completely -by papa, and all that remained was only—what you called clandestine, -mamma.”<a name="page_259" id="page_259"></a></p> - -<p>“I did not call it clandestine. I knew you would do nothing that was -dishonourable. And it is true that it was—broken off. But, Bee! Bee! -you don’t seem to feel the dreadful thing this is. After all that has -passed, to let it drop in a moment, without saying a word!”</p> - -<p>“I thought it was what I ought to have done, as soon as papa’s will was -made known.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! Bee, you will drive me mad. And I have got no breath to speak. So -you ought, perhaps—but you have not, when perhaps there was a reason. -And now, for a mere chance story, and without giving him—an -opportunity—to speak for himself.”</p> - -<p>Bee raised her face, now crimson as it had before been pale.</p> - -<p>“How could I put any questions on such a thing? How could it be -discussed between him and me? To think of it is bad enough, but to speak -of it—mamma! How do I know, even, what words to say?”</p> - -<p>“In that case, every engagement would be at the mercy of any slanderer, -if the girl never could bring herself to ask what it meant.”<a name="page_260" id="page_260"></a></p> - -<p>“I am not any girl,” cried poor Bee, with a quiver of her lip. “I am -just myself. I don’t think very much of myself any more than you do, but -I can’t change myself. Oh, let me alone, let me alone, mamma!”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kingsward was very much excited. Her nostrils grew pinched and -dilated in the struggle for breath; her lips were open and panting from -the same cause. She was caught in that dreadful contradiction of -sentiment and feeling which is worse than any unmingled catastrophe. She -had been rent asunder before this by her desire to shield her daughter, -yet the sense of her duty to her husband remained, and now it was the -correspondence which she seemed to be called upon to defend almost at -peril of her life; that actually clandestine, at least secret -correspondence, of which she could not approve, which she was bound to -cut short. And yet to cut it short like this was something which she -could not bear. She threw aside the work with which she had been -struggling and fixed her eyes on Bee, who did not look at her nor see -how agitated her expression was.</p> - -<p>“If you can do this, I can’t,” she said.<a name="page_261" id="page_261"></a> “I will write to him. The -other dreadful story may be true, for anything I know. And that, of -course, is enough. But this one I don’t believe, if an angel from Heaven -told it me. He shall at least have the chance of clearing himself!”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know,” said Bee, “what the other dreadful story was. I thought -it was only pretending to love—some other woman; and then—pretending -to love <i>me</i>”—she broke off into a little hoarse laugh. The offence of -it was more than Bee could bear. The insult—to suffer (she said to -herself) was one thing—but to be insulted! She laughed to think what a -fool she had been; how she had been taken in; how she had said—oh, like -the veriest credulous fool—“Till death.”</p> - -<p>“He was not pretending to love you. What went before I know not, but -with you he was true.”</p> - -<p>“One before—and one after,” said Bee, rising in an irrepressible rage -of indignation. “Oh, mamma, how can we sit quietly and discuss it, as -if—as if it were a thing that could be talked about? Am I to come in -<a name="page_262" id="page_262"></a>between—two others—two—— I think it will make me mad,” the girl -cried, stamping her foot. How does a man dare to do that—to insult a -girl—who never sought him nor heard of him, wanted nothing of him—till -he came and forced himself into her life!”</p> - -<p>“Oh! Bee, my darling,” cried the mother, going up to her child with -outstretched arms.</p> - -<p>“Don’t touch me, don’t touch me, don’t pet me; I cannot bear it. Let me -stand by myself. I am not a little thing like Lucy to be caught up and -kissed till I forget. I don’t want to forget. There is nothing that can -ever be done to me, if I were to live to an hundred, to put this out of -my head.”</p> - -<p>“Bee, be patient with me for a moment. I have lived longer than you -have. What went before could be no offence to you, whatever it was. It -might be bad, but it was no offence to you. And this—I don’t believe -it——”</p> - -<p>Bee was far too much self-absorbed to see the labouring breath, the pink -spot on each cheek, the panting which made her mother’s fine nostrils -quiver and kept her lips apart, or that she caught at the back of a -chair to support herself as she stood.<a name="page_263" id="page_263"></a></p> - -<p>“I don’t know why—you shouldn’t believe it. I don’t believe it; I see -it, I hear it,” cried Bee. “It’s like a story—and I thought these -things were always stories, things made up to keep up the interest in a -book—— I’m the—deceived heroine, the one that’s disappointed, don’t -you know, mamma? We’ve read all about her dozens of times. But she -generally makes a fuss over it,” the girl said, with her suffocating -laugh. “I shall make—no fuss—— Mamma! What is the matter, mamma?”</p> - -<p>Nothing more was the matter than the doctor could have told Mrs. -Kingsward’s family long ago—a spasm of the heart. She stumbled backward -to the sofa, and flung herself down before consciousness forsook her. -Did consciousness forsake her at all? Bee rushing to the bell, making -its violent sound peal through the house, then flinging herself at her -mother’s feet, and calling to her in the helplessness of utter -ignorance, “Mamma, mamma!” did not think that she was unconscious. -Broken words fell from her in the midst of her gasps for breath, then -there was a moment of dread stillness. By this time<a name="page_264" id="page_264"></a> the room seemed to -be full of people—Bee did not know who was there—and then there -suddenly appeared out of the mist Moulsey with a glass and teaspoon in -her hands.</p> - -<p>“Go away, all of you,” cried Moulsey, “she’ll be better directly—open -all the windows and take a fan and fan her, Miss Bee.”</p> - -<p>The blast of the cold October night air came in like a flood, Bee seemed -to come out of a horrible dream in the waft of air brought by the fan -which she was herself waving to and fro—and in a little time, as -Moulsey said, Mrs. Kingsward was better. The labouring breath which had -come back after that awful moment of stillness gradually calmed down and -became softer with an occasional long drawn sigh, and then she opened -her eyes and said, with a faint smile, “What is it? What is it?” She -looked round her for a moment puzzled—and then she said, “Ah! you are -fanning me,” with a smile to Bee, but presently, “How cold it is! I -don’t think I want to be fanned, Moulsey.”</p> - -<p>“No, ma’am, not now. And White is just a-going to shut all the windows. -The fire<a name="page_265" id="page_265"></a> was a bit too hot, and you know you never can bear it when the -room gets too hot.”</p> - -<p>“No, I never can bear it,” Mrs. Kingsward said, in a docile tone. She -followed the lead of any suggestion given to her. “I must have got -faint—with the heat.”</p> - -<p>“That was just it,” said Moulsey. “When you have a fire in the -drawing-room so early it looks so cheerful you’re apt to pile it too -high without thinking—for it ain’t really cold in October, not cold -enough to have a fire like that. You want it for cheerfulness, ma’am, -more than for heat. A big bit of wood that will make a nice blaze, and -very little coal, as is too much for the season, is what your -drawing-room fire should be.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kingsward gradually came to herself during this long speech, which -no doubt was what Moulsey intended. But she said she felt a little weak, -and that she would keep on the sofa until it was time to go to bed. The -agitation she had gone through seemed to have passed from her mind. -“Read me a little of that story,” she said, pointing to a book on the -table. “We left off last night at a most interesting part. Read me the -next chapter, Bee.”<a name="page_266" id="page_266"></a></p> - -<p>Bee sat down beside her mother’s sofa and opened the book. It was not a -book of a very exciting kind it may be supposed, when it was thus read a -chapter at a time, without any one of the party opening it from evening -to evening to see how things went on. But as it happened at this point -of the story, the heroine had found out that her lover was not so -blameless as she thought, and was making up her mind to have nothing to -do with him. Bee began to read with an indignation beyond words for both -hero and heroine, who were so pale, so colourless, beside her own story. -To waste one’s time reading stuff like this, while the tide of one’s own -passion was ten times stronger! She did not think very much of her -mother’s faint. It was, no doubt, the too large fire, as Moulsey said.</p> - -<p class="c"> <br /> -END OF FIRST VOLUME.<br /> -</p> - -<p><a name="page_267" id="page_267"></a> </p> - -<p><a name="page_268" id="page_268"></a> </p> - -<p class="c"><small> -TILLOTSON AND SON, PRINTERS, BOLTON.</small> -</p> - -<p><a name="transcrib" id="transcrib"></a></p> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="" -style="padding:2%;border:3px dotted gray;"> -<tr><th class="c">Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:</th></tr> -<tr><td class="c">ali the <i>wohlgeborne</i>=> all the <i>wohlgeborne</i> {pg 13}</td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">goose’ to me,” said Bettty=> goose’ to me,” said Betty {pg 26}</td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">Will gou go=> Will you go {pg 90}</td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">consent had been been given=> consent had been given {pg 197}</td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">down ths shovel hastily=> down the shovel hastily {pg 217}</td></tr> -<tr><td class="c">her husband aud break up=> her husband and break up {pg 235}</td></tr> -</table> - -<hr class="full" /> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The Sorceress; v. 1 of 3, by Margaret Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SORCERESS; V. 1 OF 3 *** - -***** This file should be named 51617-h.htm or 51617-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/1/6/1/51617/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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