CHAPTER 44 A PARAGUN OF COBS Morton saw Mr. Jeb early next day and told him his desire to possess a perfect specimen of the genus Cobb. "'Have you any fancy about colour?' asked the surgeon, who knew the pedigree and merits of almost every horse within twenty miles of Osthorpe. "'I'm not particular as to that, but I should like a grey.' "'Grey's are more subject to heart disease than any other kind of horse,' said Mr. Jeb with a surgical air. "'I think I would risk that if I saw a perfect grey.' "'Well, I fancy I know where to put my hand upon the very thing you want, but the man who owns him will ask a stiffish price.' "'I am willing to give a good price if I can get value for my money.' Mr. Jeb then proceeded to relate the biography of the animal in question, how he had been bred by a gentleman farmer whose place was three miles on the other side of Highclear, how from his earliest cold-hood upwards he had been a thing of beauty and a joy to all the neighbourhood, how his legs were stronger than crowbars and his hindquarters a marvel of muscular development. Mr. Jeb gave the technical names to every joint as he ran over the Cobb's perfections.  "'However you won't mind that. Fifty pounds more or less won't matter to you.' "'Is he good-tempered?' asked Morton. "'Could a lady drive him?' "'Ah, baby-cud, an infant of two years old. He'd have nothing to do but sit behind him and hold the reins. Gentle as a sheep, manners perfect.' "'And why does his owner want to sell him?' asked Morton rather suspiciously. "'Oh, simply because he bred him to sell. The man is not exactly a dealer, but he has some fine grassland, and he makes money by horses when he can. He's kept this Cobb longer than he intended because he's too good for the neighbourhood. Nobody about here will give the price.' Mrs. Aspinall wanted him, but Mrs. Aspinall wanted to skin my friend Tilbury, and Tilbury wasn't to be had. "'I'd rather the Cobb eat his head off three times over,' he said to me, then I'd be due out of him. "'Well, I should like to see the Cobb,' said Morton. "'Of course you would. I'll drive you over to Tilbury's this afternoon, if you'll go.' "'I think I'd better drive you over,' said Morton, aware that Mr. Jeb's horses were generally screws, the gentleman knowing what was good, but not being able to afford himself the luxury of possession. "'I'll drive you in my dog-cart, and you must come back to tangly to dine if you've nothing better to do with yourself, but not a word about the Cobb before my women-kind.' I want the business kept quiet for the present.' "'Oh, precisely,' replied Jeb, I never talk about business before, ladies. The wheels of domestic life go so much smoother when the dear creatures are kept in a state of happy ignorance.' The two gentlemen were at Alderwood Farm by five o'clock, and Mr. Tilbury, being forewarned by a telegram from his friend the surgeon, was at home to receive them. He had the smart, knowing air peculiar to men who make money out of horse flesh, but he seemed honest with all, and the Cobb was obviously an honest horse. He was undoubtedly handsome—handsome as paint, Mr. Jeb called him—and he went through his paces without committing the smallest indiscretion. He had a kind eye, and lovingly reciprocated every attention that was shown him. "'I only wish I could afford to keep him for myself,' said Mr. Tilbury, gazing admiringly at the animal. "'But I can't—he's too good for me.' The Cobb's appearance being in every way satisfactory, his purchase was only a question of figures, and Morton Blake was inclined to be liberal. He offered Mr. Tilbury a check for only twenty pounds less than he asked, whereas that gentleman had provided himself with a wide margin for bargaining, and could very well have afforded to abate forty. The purchase was agreed on the spot, and provided always that the veterinary examination should prove satisfactory. "'Oh, I'm not afraid of that,' said Mr. Tilbury, with conscious rectitude. "'And what do you call him?' asked Morton. "'Tommy,' answered the farmer, "'I'm not fanciful about naming my stock. "'If I breed a horse, I call him Tommy, and all my mares are Polly, Bay Polly or Brown Polly, Grey Tommy or Rhone Tommy, as the case may be. It saves the world of trouble.'" The Cobb was to be examined by the High Clear Veterinary Surgeon that evening, and sent over to Tangley next morning. Morton had telegraphed to Mr. Dolina to put the carriage in hand immediately, trusting to the coach-builder's own taste to turn out a perfect article, so the whole business was in a fair way to completion. It seemed strange that so small a matter as this should have served to divert Morton's mind from that gloomy brooding upon one painful theme which had darkened his life for the last six months. Yet, so it was, his thoughts were full of Lizzie and her delight at receiving a gift so unexpected and so acceptable as the Cobb and carriage must need be. He had seen her trudge forth cheerily on many a sultry summer morning, to walk four or five miles along a dusty road on some errand of charity, while his sisters drove off to High Clear to make some frivolous purchase in millinery or fancy-work which they chose to consider indispensable to their existence. "'Oh, so sorry I can't drive you to your poor woman, Lizzie,' tiny would say, with that beaming good nature which is the happy gift of some selfish people, another time I might be going that way, but I know you adore walking.' And now Lizzie would have her own carriage and would be independent of these fine ladies. He was quite impatient for the arrival of the Cobb next morning and could hardly eat his breakfast so full were his thoughts of Lizzie and the pleasure in store for her. He was not going to wait for the carriage, but had made up his mind to present the Cobb immediately. Lizzie was devotedly fond of animals and would cherish and idolise him without doubt. "'I dare say auntie is right,' he said to himself, glancing at Lizzie, who was pouring out tea at the other end of the table, fresh and bright looking in her neat blue-and-white print gown, a garment which gave the laundrymaids little trouble and contrasted curiously with the cambrick frills, pleatings, puffings and embroidery of the breakfast gowns affected by Tiny and Horatia. "'That's one very nice point in Lizzie's character,' said Tiny complacently on one occasion. She knows her place and never tries to imitate us.' The blue-and-white striped gown, neatly fitting the neat figure, just short enough to show the neat little foot in its blue stocking and Cromwell shoe, the useful scissors and pincushion hanging from the black waistband, the black silk apron and plain linen collar, gave Lizzie the look of a Parisian grizzette, in the days when de Musée, grizzettes and the Cartier-latin, were in their glory. Morton looked at her with frank, brotherly admiration.  Andrew came in just as breakfast was finished and made a confidential announcement in his master's ear. Girls, cried Morton, rising hastily, I've bought a cob, and I want you to come and look at him. Tiny and her ratio were on their feet instantly, but Lizzie went on quietly with her knitting, which she carried about with her and proceeded with at all odd moments, like Mrs. Poiser. Is he for saddle, as Tiny, with an idea that he might carry her to Houn's next winter? No, for harness. Come, Lizzie, you must see him too. I want your opinion most especially. Since when has Lizzie become a great authority upon horse-flesh, asked Horatia with a sneer. She was very fond of Miss Hardman, as she told everybody, in her place, but that place was a lowly one, and Horatia's jealousy was up in arms at the idea of Lizzie's opinion being deferred to by the master of the house. Oh, people who are very fond of horses are generally pretty good judges of them, answered Morton carelessly. I'm particularly anxious to know what Lizzie thinks of this one. I can't imagine what you want with another horse, exclaimed Horatia captiously. Your hunters are kept to be looked at, and you work your dog-card horse so little that he's generally as wild as a hawk. Oh, never mind that, Horatia. This new animal is a particular fancy of mine. And I don't think you will any of you find fault with him. They were on their way to the stable-yard while this conversation was going on, and had by this time arrived on the scene where Gray Tommy was to show his paces. The stable-yard was by no means a bad place on a warm summer morning. The windows of stables and coachmen's rooms and saddle-room all bright with flowers, stalks, fuchsia, geraniums, and vinyonette. The yard as clean as a spinster's best parlor. The grooms lounging at open doors in their cool morning attire, the dogs straining at their chains, the horses rattling their headstalls in the dusky interior of the stables, and the morning sunlight agreeably tempered by the shadow of old limes and maples, which stretched their big branches across the wall that divided the stables from the shrubbery. A smart-looking groom had led over the cob, and now with an air of pride pulled off his clothing and exhibited him to his new owner. Tommy was in that lustrous and preternaturally sleek condition to which an accomplished dealer and nobody else is able to bring a horse. He arched his handsome neck and bent his beautiful head shyly, and then looked round with a startled air, as knowing that he was among strangers. Lizzie Hardman went straight up to him and patted his nose and made much of him. She would have done the same for any old wagon-horse on the farm, having an intense love of the equine race generally, without reference to breed or beauty. Well, Lizzie, how do you like him? asked Morton, smiling at her as she stood with her wavy brown hair resting on the cob's plump neck and her hand caressing his velvet muzzle. Horse and girl made a pretty picture in the morning light, and Morton thought how nice it would be to have them photographed just at this moment. I'm not the least bit of a judge, as you all know, answered Lizzie, without taking her eyes off the cob. But I think him absolutely beautiful, a paragon of cob's. Then suppose we call him Paragon instead of Tommy, said Morton, and then going close up to her, he added, I am very glad you like him, Lizzie, for I want you to be his mistress. You are a very active young lady, always going here and everywhere on some good office. I want you to accept the cob and a carriage I'm having built for him, as a small souvenir of all your goodness to me while I was ill. Nothing I can do, nothing I can say, could ever be enough to prove my gratitude, but the cob may just serve to remind you that I have been grateful. The girl looked at him in sheer amazement, as if she could hardly believe her ears. Then tears rushed to her eyes. She tried to speak and could not, and then she turned on her heel and ran across the yard and into the house as fast as her feet could carry her. What in the name of all that's reasonable is the matter with Lizzie? ejaculated Horatia, who had not been near enough to hear what Morton had said. Has she gone suddenly mad? If this is the effect of her love of horses, she'd better keep out of the stables. Oh, it's nothing, answered Morton, laughing in a somewhat embarrassed manner. The dear girl is needlessly sensitive to the smallest kindness. The cob is a present for her, and she's quite overcome at the idea of possessing him. Tiny came a step forward from the spot where she had been standing gracefully posed at Aunt Doriside, and contemplated her brother with her eyes open to their widest extent. This time it is you who are going mad, she exclaimed. That cob, pointing at the animal with extended finger, that cob, a present for Lizzie Hardman, you must be dreaming. I never felt myself wider awake. And what in mercy's name will she do with him? Well, I don't suppose she'll put him in her pocket or wish to keep him in the drawing-room, retorted Morton lightly. I should imagine she'll sit in the carriage I've ordered for her and drive him. And as she goes about a good deal, chiefly to do good to other people, and as she can rarely get the loan of your carriage, I imagine she will find him uncommonly useful. Tiny gave a long sigh, and looked at Horatia. Horatia echoed the sigh, and returned the look with interest. Auntie, said Tiny with charming insolence, I had no idea there was madness in the family. You ought to have told us, for then we might have been prepared for this outbreak of cobs and shays. You seem to forget what reason I have to be grateful to Lizzie, and how very small an expression of my gratitude this little offering is.  All I can say is, you never gave me a horse, and that you were extremely disagreeable when I asked you to let me ride Butterfly to Hounds. I think you are both disagreeable and ill-bred, Tiny, said Dora Blake. I could not have believed that you could be capable of such an exhibition of bad feeling. Oh, of course, Auntie! I always knew that Lizzie was your favourite, but I thought erasier and I stood first in Morton's estimation.  The grooms had happily retired into the background with the cob while this discussion was in progress. Tiny and erasier went into the shrubbery, their cheeks crimson, to talk over Morton's absurd conduct. Miss Blake went straight to Lizzie's room. She found the girl crying as if her heart were broken and almost hysterical. My dear Lizzie, this is too foolish! I know it is, aren't you, dear? answered Lizzie, strangling a final sob with a great effort. How Morton, how you all must despise me! But indeed, I couldn't help it. The surprise, the idea that he had thought so much of my paltry services, his delicate consideration in choosing the very present which I should most delight in, quite overcame me. I could not for the life of me of help making a fool of myself. And now I will sit down quietly and write Morton a few lines thanking him as well as I can for his dear gift. Oh, the lovely creature, and to be my very own! Oh, it's too much!  Oh, dear Auntie, I know that I am here through your charity. You've done everything in the world to make me forget that fact, but the fact remains all the same. What right of I to horses and carriages and to all the luxuries I enjoy? None would ever! I owe everything to your bounty. I won't hear such a word, Lizzie! You are my niece, my daughter, by adoption. I took your life into my keeping when you were almost a baby, and I took upon myself the duty of making you happy. And I have been completely happy with you, dearest. I'm always wondering why Providence has been so good to me. And you are always proving your gratitude to Providence by your goodness to other people, Lizzie. Don't write to Morton, dear. That would be ever so much too formal. Just go down to his study and tell him quietly that you are pleased with his gift. I will, said Lizzie, looking as if it were a tremendous ordeal. Oh! I surely you're not afraid of him? Afraid of him? No. But I am afraid of my own feelings. The words were most innocently spoken, yet they set door a break, wondering. Oh! God forbid that this attention of Morton should prove cruel kindness, she thought. But my Lizzie is too strong-minded for any idle sentiment. She would never care for a man who did not care for her. Lizzie ran down to the hall, opened the study door, and looked in. Morton was not at his desk, in his usual absorbed attitude, with books and papers about him. He was standing by the open window, looking idly out at the garden, where the butterflies were skimming across the roses, and the bees humming drowsily in the big white lilies. Morton, I've come to thank you for your gift. I was so surprised just now that I could find no words to express my gratitude. My dear Lizzie, gratitude is all on my side. I am deeply obliged by your goodness to me, and the cob is the most trifling expression of my regard. Had I followed my own inclination I should have offered you something better worth having. But I thought perhaps you might imagine I wanted to extinguish the obligation, and believe me, I do not. I am willing to be your debtor to the end of my life. There is no debt, faulted Lizzie, pale and grave, and with a troubled air which Morton could not help seeing. Can you suppose that I was not glad to be of some small use in this house, where my life has been made so pleasant? I shall love the cob, Paragon I think you said he was to be called, with all my heart. Love him, and make him work for you. Remember you are to be his sole mistress. He shall have the loose box at the end of the yard, and Thomas, who is a kind of protégé of my aunts, I believe, shall be your own particular groom. Lizzie murmured a few more words of thankfulness, and then gladly made her escape, touched beyond measure by Morton's kindness, and in no wise foreseeing the pain it was to bring upon her. But it was not long before the evil effects of Morton's gush of gratitude became painfully obvious to the innocent Paragon's mistress. Clementine and Horacea resented Lizzie's possession of the cob, as if it had been an act of arrogance and self- assertion upon her own part. They kept some slight curb upon their tongues before Aunt Dora. They were careful not to push their insolence too far in the hearing of their brother. But when they had poor Lizzie all to themselves, they gave full vent to their jealous displeasure in hints and innuendos which were a great deal worse to bear than the plainest speech. Lizzie possessed more than the common share of self-command. She had schooled herself in years gone by to endure a good deal of quiet insolence from the sisters, who in the white frock and blue sash period of their existence had taken pains to assert their superiority to their aunt's dependent, all in the most amiable and affectionate manner loving their dear Lizzie fondly in her place. As they grew up, selfishness and self-assertion had become the habit of their minds, encouraged by their aunts on selfishness and Lizzie's willingness to take the lowest place. It had seemed to them the most natural thing in the world, a part of the original scheme of creation, as it were, that they should enjoy all the luxuries of life and that Lizzie should do without them. They even went so far as to declare that they envied her her simpler taste and her more active habits, her love of long walks, and indifference to evening parties. I really think you could go through life wearing cotton gloves and hardly mind, said Tiny, with contemptuous wonder. I really believe I could, answered Lizzie, who had made away with a quarter's allowance in buying a widow's only son his discharge from the Hussar regiment in which he had foolishly enlisted. Well, dear, you may wear them as long as you please, provided you don't put them on when you are coming out with me, replied Tiny playfully. The very sight of a cotton glove sets my teeth on edge. The new carriage from Avonmore arrived at Tangley about a week after the advent of the cob. It was a park-phaeton, a marvel of neatness combined with elegance, the colouring subdued in sober, the outline perfect grace. Well, my dear Morton, said Horatio with a sigh, when the Avonmore carriage had been surveyed by the assembled family.  I have not the least objection to your giving Mr. Dolina an order for a carriage to morrow, my dear Horatio. There is plenty of room on the premises, and you can afford to gratify any whim of that kind. A disinclination to spend her own money, when she could possibly have her desires gratified at anybody else's expense, was a marked characteristic of Horatio's practical mind. Indeed, it was perhaps in this line that her business capacity showed itself. The sisters each possessed a handsome sum in the funds, but while tiny selfishness took the form of a lavish expenditure on her own whims and fancies, and generally landed her in insolvency before the half-year was out, Horatio's regard for her own interest was demonstrated by her strict prudence, and had enabled her already to make various small investments on her own account. So Morton's sisters went on driving their chestnut ponies, and the carriage which had been elegant enough in its day, but which had a shabby air when contrasted with Mr. Dolina's masterpiece, and Envy rankled in their breasts, and black care held on behind as they drove.  He was as sensible as a Christian, said the grooms, and they might have gone so far as to say that he was more sensible than many Christians, for he had a placid nature, did his work cheerfully, and trotted along the country lanes at an honest equal pace, like a cop who was glad to earn his salt. The better Paragon behaved, the more angry Horatio and Clementine felt about him. If he had turned out a screw, if he had been a confirmed jibber, and had backed the pony carriage into a ditch, if Lizzy had been utterly unable to drive him, they might have become reconciled to the cobs' existence, and might have looked upon the whole business as a subject for good human ridicule, but as it was, the angry fire in each girlish breast, suppressed and smouldering, grew every day fiercer and more ready to burst into flame. At length came the conflagration. Miss Blake had driven over to High Clear to lunch with Lady Ritherdon, and Lizzy was alone with the two girls. The afternoon had turned out wet, whereby Clementine, who had prepared an elaborate costume for a lawn-party, and was denied the delight of exhibiting herself in it, was in a fretful and dissatisfied mood, thinking that the world in a general way had gone wrong. The rain was a steady downpour, offering no hope of cessation or diminution, a cold, uncomfortable rain which made all the world look one dull gray. "'I never felt so shivery in my life,' said Tiny, with a wistful glance at an arrangement in ferns and peacock's feathers which occupied the place of the winter logs. "'Why can't we have a fire? Why must we sit shivering just because it happens to be July?' "'I don't think the housemaids would like it,' faulted Lizzy, who had learnt from Aunt Dora to be very considerate of the servants. "'I will not have my ferns and feathers disturbed for any one,' said Horatia, who always claimed possession of any article which her hands had helped to arrange, or her mind to plan. I laboured for a whole day in getting up a nice effect, and I won't have the fireplace touched.' "'You laboured indeed,' cried Tiny, "'you mean you looked on while other people worked, and then claimed the merit of the whole transaction?' "'Of the peacock's feathers were my own particular idea,' protested Horatia. "'Of course. Nobody but a strong-minded creature like you would ever have brought such unlucky things into the house. I haven't had a moment's peace since you did it. My last new gown but one was an utter failure. My cruel work at a standstill, because no fancy shop in the universe can match my wool, and in short everything at six as in sevens.' "'Why not have a fire in the work-room, Tiny,' suggested Lizzie good-naturedly. "'We might all go up there for afternoon tea. It would be ever so snug and comfortable.' The work-room was an upstairs den which had once been the school-room, a good-sized airy room enough, but the repository for all the shabbiest furniture in the house. Here Lizzie worked for her dorkest society, sometimes made a gown for herself, and often assisted the maid in altering a ball-dress for the frivolous Tiny, or making a cheap costume for the economical Horatia. It was a very comfortable room, but it was very shabby, and it had of late years been in some manner Lizzie's own particular domain. "'Oh, thank you for the brilliant suggestion,' said Tiny. "'No, your room is very nice, no doubt, but I like rather more elegant surroundings, and as long as I am allowed to occupy the drawing-room I shall do so, even if Horatia's selfishness and your consideration for the house-maid deny me the comfort of a fire. I don't suppose we shall long enjoy the right to call any room in the manor-house our own.' "'Oh, what can you mean?' asked Lizzie, looking up, laughingly from her work. "'What domestic revolution are you anticipating? Do you think Morton is going to turn the manor-house into a philanstery, or a convalescent hospital?' "'Oh, no. I believe his madness will take another turn,' answered Tiny. Tilting her chair, so as to command a good view of her in-step set off by the Madame Ango-Boot, which she was to have exhibited at the garden-party. "'His lunacy will take a matrimonial form.'" The malicious intention of the words was unmistakable. Lizzie's bright young face crimsoned. "'I don't think you need have any apprehension on that score. Your brother is not likely to forget Miss Courtney for a long time to come,' she said quietly. "'Oh, if he were left to himself, I daresay he might prove a bright example of constancy, and go down to his grave a bachelor. But is it not Thackery who says that any young woman may marry any young man, provided that she makes up her mind to have him? I believe Thackery knew the seamy side of human nature too well to be mistaken.' "'Very likely,' answered Lizzie, trying to be cool and indifferent in her tone, though her cheeks were poppy-red. "'But I'm not aware that any young woman has made up her mind about Morton.' "'Are you not?' cried Thiny, then you must be more simple than a cheap-faced dressed in shepherdess. I know who has made up her mind to have him. When a young woman foregoes rest and sleep and food and comfort to watch by a young man's sick bed, when she hangs about him in his convalescence like a mother over a sick baby, when she follows him and flatters him and fosters his fads and his crotchets and openly patently adores him before the eyes of all people, when she, by so doing, establishes a claim upon his gratitude which culminates in cobs and carriages, don't you think the lookers-on must be very blind and very dense if they cannot see how the play is going to end?' Lady Hardman started to her feet, pale as death, her eyes flashing, a whole lap full of baby garments scattered on the carpet, her vigorous young frame trembling from head to foot. "'What!' she exclaimed, "'Are you mean enough, base enough, vile enough to think that when I was doing what I knew and felt to be my duty, I was trying to worm myself into your brother's affection, in order that he might in some weak moment ask me to be his wife?' "'I am not going to beat about the bush, if tiny is. That is precisely what we both think you're doing,' said Horatia. "'Then I'll not live under the same roof with you another day,' cried Lizzie, gathering up the baby petticoats and cottons and scissors which she had flung down in her roth. "'Oh, does that mean we're to go?' said Horatia with her strong-minded air. "'You know what it means well enough.  You've made me feel that in a hundred ways which have wounded my self-respect, and only your dear aunt's love and—her voice faltered a little here—and Morton's kindness have reconciled me to my position, but you have now made it unbearable. "'Good-bye.' "'And where are you going?' "'That's my business. I'm going away from Tangly Manor,' answered Lizzie proudly as she walked towards the door. "'And what are we to do with your cob?' asked Tiny. "'Is he to be sent after you by the carrier?' Lizzie deigned no reply to this flippant question.  The two girls looked at each other in silence for half a minute or so, with something like consternation in their faces. "'Do you think she means to go?' asked Tiny. "'Of course not. She thinks she'll frighten us by getting into a passion, and that we shall apologise and let her carry on her artful scheme to the end. "'If she really were to go, you know there would be no end of a row without Dora, and even Morton might be angry,' said Tiny, looking frightened and feeling that she'd gone too far.  "'She knows a great deal too well on which side her bread is buttered.' "'There are some people who would eat their bread without butter when their pride is at stake,' mused Tiny. "'And I have a notion that Lizzie is proud, though she has contrived to keep her pride under till this afternoon.' "'She will not go,' asserted Horatia. "'I tell you, my dear, a person in her position always studies self-interest before anything. Of course she knows that Aunt Dora means to leave her decently provided for. She would not risk offending, aren't she? And then where is she to go, do you suppose, to her vulgar factory people at Blackfoot, while she could not endure them for an hour after having lived with us? Don't alarm yourself, Clementine. She will go to her room and sulk for the rest of the day, I dare say, and to-morrow we shall have a tearful apology.' "'I hope it will all come right,' faltered the cowardly Tiny.  "'Do you want old Hardman's daughter for your sister-in-law? It would come to that if you went and humbled yourself to her. If she does go, it would be a very good riddance. I'm not afraid of Morton, if you are, and I will bear the brunt of his displeasure when he finds his devoted nurse and flatterer and eminuensis missing.' "'And if she doesn't claim Paragon, I shall ride him,' said Tiny. "'He will carry me beautifully.'" CHAPTER 45 What is the key to the enigma? There was some trepidation in Clementine's breast when she returned to the drawing-room after dressing for dinner, and found Dora Blake sitting at her favourite window reading the morning paper, while Morton walked up and down the open space on the other side of the room. "'Well, auntie dear, did you enjoy your day with the old Fogues at Highclear?' inquired Tiny with an attempt at her accustomed sprightliness. "'I always enjoy myself with old friends,' answered Miss Blake. "'Oh, you're such a devoted old dear, I find Sir Nathaniel dreadfully heavy in hand.' "'What's become of Lizzie?' asked Miss Blake. "'I went to her room just now and found it empty. Is she out?' "'Oh, hardly in such weather as this, I should think,' said Morton. Paragon is in his stable and ready to kick it to pieces in his exuberant freshness. I've just been offering him the consolation of a bunch of clover.' "'Then where can she be?' exclaimed Miss Blake, wonderingly. "'The gong will sound in a minute, and she's always a pattern of punctuality.' The gong sounded almost immediately, but Miss Hardman did not appear. Clementine felt herself turning pale. Horatia reared her head, ready for a fight. Both felt that a crisis was at hand. As they crossed the hall to the dining-room, Andrew slid up to Aunt Dora with a secret insinuating air, and offered her a letter on a salver. "'Good heavens,' she exclaimed, "'It's from Lizzie. What ever can the girl mean by writing to me?' "'Is Miss Hardman upstairs?' "'No, ma'am,' she went out two hours ago. "'On foot, and in such weather?' She had her waterproof, ma'am, and a handbag. "'A bag? Where could she be going?  "'My dearest friend, forgive me for taking a step which I feel unavoidable. I am obliged to leave, tangley, and for ever. Pray do not suppose that my love for you is one I owe to the less, because I feel myself compelled to live the rest of my life away from you. I shall never forget your goodness, and I hope you will let me see you as often as we can meet without inflicting trouble upon you or humiliation upon me. When I can think and write more calmly I will try to explain my conduct, but I cannot now. I feel that you will trust me well enough to be sure I shall do nothing wrong and nothing foolish. I am going to find a home among respectable working people, the only kind of home to which I am entitled. I have one favour to ask you, and that is to tell no one at tangley the contents of this letter. You are always loving, always grateful, Lizzie.' They had all seated themselves at the dinner-table before Aunt Dora opened her letter, and every eye had been upon her as she read. Her face was clouded over with a look of the deepest displeasure before she came to the bottom of the page, but she said never a word, and put the letter quietly in her pocket, as if there were nothing particular in the communication. Morton said grace, and began to dispense the soup. And pray, how does Lizzie explain her mysterious disappearance? he asked carelessly. The indifference of his tone was reassuring to his sisters, who had been goaded to desperation by the idea that he was really falling in love with their aunt's protégé. Quite satisfactorily, she's gone to see some of her Blackford friends. On foot, with a handbag and at a moment's notice, exclaimed Morton, what in heaven's name could have induced her to behave in such a way? Oh, no doubt there was a good reason for her conduct. She is not a person to act upon a foolish impulse. Her letter is too hurried to explain her motives, but I feel sure that what she has done was wisely done. I've a good mind to go after her directly. I've dined and see what it all means, said Morton, with a great deal more concern than his sister's light. What's her address in Blackford? She has not given me any address, replied Aunt Dorre quietly. No address? No explanation? The thing is incredible. She promises to write me a full account of her movement shortly. Pray don't flurry yourself, Morton. Lizzie is a thoroughly sensible girl and knows how to take care of herself. If she were as wise as Minerva, I should still say that she acted foolishly to-day, replied Morton, staring blankly at a dish of salmon cutlets, without the least idea that Andrew was waiting for him to distribute them. Why could she not consult me, or you, before she went off to these unknown relations? Why could she not drive to the station? Imagine her tramping to High Clear through the mud and rain with a bag on her arm. It's too absurd. If you don't mean to eat any dinner yourself, Morton, you may at least let us get on with ours, said Horatia, with subdued displeasure. She was a young lady never wanting in the courage of her opinions. She was prepared to defend her treatment of Miss Hardman, should she be called upon to do so. The dinner proceeded, but in a very uncomfortable manner. Andrew, the butler, was one of those old servants who know the family affairs almost better than the family themselves know them. His subordinate was his nephew, an honest rustic, supposed to have no more comprehension of or interest in passing events than if he had been a cellaret or a plate-warmer. So there was no restraint upon conversation on account of the presence of these two. Yet conversation flagged woefully. Aunt Dora looked pale and unhappy, and could hardly eat anything. The two girls indulged in brief spurts of unnatural vivacity. Morton was obviously out of temper. He neither ate nor drank, but vented his ill-humour in abuse of the dinner. Well again, ejaculated savagely, duck, none for me, hideously indigestible, what can vickers mean by ducks and veal? Is she going out of her mind? I cannot understand her conduct. Did she go by the omnibus, do you think? Are you talking of the cook or of Lizzie? asked Horatia. Lizzie, of course. She must have caught the odd-thought bus at the crossroads. Really girl, as if she couldn't have gone in the brawl. She might not wish to appropriate all the carriages, said tiny spitefully, and to leave no address. How are we to send her letters or luggage? She must have been beside herself when she went. Auntie, can you offer any explanation of her conduct? I don't think we need discuss it at this moment, and said Miss Blake quietly, feeling that this one particular subject should be kept sacred even from the confidential Andrew. Morton pitched and shored and flunk himself back in his chair, turning at stony eye upon the tart and pudding which offered him, and refusing to be comforted with salad or cheese straws. Clementine nibbled her cheese straw and trifled with her glass of claret, just as if dinner were going on in the most cheerful manner, and to Morton's impatience it seemed an hour or so before Andrew had solemnly scraped up the last crumb in his silver shovel, and had reconciled his mind to the necessity of leaving the room. At last, however, he was gone, and the family were alone at the festive board, where the decanters and derby fruit-dishes reflected themselves in the shining oak, just as they had done when Jeffrey Blake first dined in his new house. Morton lent with folded arms on the table, and looked straight at his aunt. Now, he said decidedly, the servants are gone, and we can have this matter out. What is the key to the enigma? Lizzie would never dream of leaving this house in such a manner without some powerful motive. What is that motive? Has she been summoned away to some relative's death bed? Has she been called away to nurse someone? Her letter does not say so. What other reason can she possibly have? Please let me see her letter. I don't think I shall be justified in showing you the letter. It is written hurriedly, and with evident agitation, and was intended for my eyes alone. Do you think I shall find fault with the spelling, or because the eyes are not dotted, asked Morton, with an angry laugh? I have a right to see that letter. I really cannot recognise that right, Morton, answered Dora Blake, with just the faintest ray of pleasure in her countenance, which till this moment had been full of care. Lizzie is all the world to me, but she can be very little to you, although you have been good enough to give her the shelter of your roof, just as you would have done had she been a pet dog of mine. What nonsense you talk, cried Morton, jumping up from his chair. I have no patience with such absurdity. She is a great deal to me. My adopted sister, my companion, my true and faithful friend. Very little to me, indeed. While she has been my right hand for the last three months, I shall hardly know what to do with myself without her. Tiny and Horatia looked at each other across the table. The elder read, and the younger pale, with vexation. Their worst fears were confirmed. That ridiculous gift of cobb and carriage was only the forerunner of other more fateful offerings—their brother's hearts, hand, and fortune. Horatia took up the gauntlet. What might think you might contrive to exist without an adopted sister, when Providence has blessed you with two actual sisters, who are just sufficiently well educated to read aloud and write from dictation, she said with a ninja-dare? But neither of which sisters would put herself out of the way for the space of one summer morning to oblige me, answered Morton. Because a real sister has no motive for such toad-eating, cried Clementine, bristling with offended dignity, because a real sister has no end to gain by flattery and civility. I dare say, if I were a penniless dependent like Lizzie Hardman, I might be capable of just as much meanness in the hope of getting a rich husband, though I am sure I should hate myself for it. Morton's eyes flashed honest indignation at his sister as he listened to her viparous speech. I think I can understand now why Lizzie went off all in a hurry, he exclaimed. The letter, please, Aunt Dora. He had walked round the table and was standing by his aunt's side holding out his hand for the letter with an authoritative air. She gave it him without a word. There is not a syllable about a summons from her Blackford friends, he said, when he had slowly read the letter. And she talked about leaving Tangly forever. She could only have come to such a decision because she was wretched here, and a week ago she was the gayest and brightest of us all, full of life and spirits as happy as the day was long. Had she any quarrel with you, auntie? Quarrel with me?  She is all that is good. And yet she deserts you at a moment's notice. That seems extraordinary. But I think your sisters may be able to explain it, said Dora. I think so too, said Morton, glancing angrily at Clementine. I left you both in the drawing-room with Lizzie after luncheon. You must know what put into her head to go off in this way. I only know that she got into a furious passion at something that Horry or I said to her, mere chaff, and bounced out of the room like a termigant, and so tiny with an innocent air. She is usually so good-tempered—surely chaff, as you elegantly call it, could never have provoked her into leaving Aunt Dora. Oh, she's very sweet-tempered to you, said Horatia, but she is not quite so amiable to us.  I know how Lizzie has borne with you both. Oh, then there has been need of forbearance on Lizzie's part! Morton inquired, determined to sift this social mystery to the bottom. I know that Lizzie has been made to feel her dependent position here, ever since she was old enough to be sensitive, said Aunt Dora. Then my sisters have been very despicable, cried Morton indignantly. Dependent indeed! Then she has been the most valuable person in the house—after you, Aunt Dora—valuable in the house and out of it, the mainspring of other people's comfort, and that she should be tyrannised over by two young ladies who have not an unselfish thought whose rule of life is the indulgence of their own whims. It is shameful, and I am ashamed of having such sisters. The two girls rose simultaneously as if they had been moved by the same clockwork. I think it is we who ought to have gone away, exclaimed Horatia. Evidently we are not wanted here, and the sooner we find another home the better. It is fortunate for us that Papa has left us incomes which at least make us independent. I suppose even we may be allowed the use of the braum to drive us to Highclear tomorrow morning. You can make fools of yourselves in any manner most agreeable to you, answered Morton coolly, as he went out through one of the French windows that opened onto the lawn. He had never been more angry. He had hardly ever been more agitated. His sense of right and justice was outraged by the thing that had been done. It galled him to think that he had two such vulgar young women for his sisters. I suppose it is an innate cadishness which must come out somewhere, he said to himself in bitterness of spirit, the taint of the gutter, the original sin of low birth. And then he thought of Lizzie, his faithful nurse, his sympathising companion, the only woman who had entered into all his plans and understood his views. Dulcy had been very fond of him as a lover, but she had not cared a jot about him as a political economist. Cultured and well-read as she was, in the whole range of elegant and imaginative literature, she was horribly uninformed about the needs and the sufferings of mankind, the government of the land in which she lived. She considered political economy as a driest dust-something outside the circle of her life and thoughts, like logarithms or Sanskrit, and she had always yawned a little when her lover expounded his philanthropic theories. Lizzie had shown herself so intelligent, not pretending an interest but really feeling it, helping him with ideas as well as with sympathy, telling him without scruple the weak points in his schemes, the flaws in his arguments, she had forced him to respect her as well as be grateful to her. And now she had been driven out of his house, goaded to desperation by the malicious speech of two unmanly girls. So greater wrong was not to be permitted. It must be set right, somehow, and immediately. He roamed about the garden for half an hour, feeling that he could hardly endure existence in the house that held his vixenish sisters. And he wasted half an hour in the stable, devoting the greater part of the time to fondling the cob, who had been bedded down for the night and stood up to his knees in golden straw. It was striking nine when Morton went slowly back to the house, where the lamp had only just been taken into the city-rooms. He did not go to the drawing-room, but to his aunt Dora's room, feeling that she was likely to prefer solitude to the society of her nieces. His instinct had not misled him. Miss Blake was at her Davenport, writing in the soft light of her shaded lamp. "'Auntie, what are you going to do about Lizzie?' asked Morton, seating himself near his aunt and coming to the point at once. "'I am at this moment writing to her uncle, Joseph Hardman. I fancy she must have gone to his house. I can think of no other place to which she could go. It is Joseph Hardman.' A mechanic. He is employed at a foundry, I believe. Lizzie's two sisters were brought up by his wife, and her brother lives with his uncle, too. I believe that Lizzie, in her quiet, unobtrusive way, has always been very good to her uncle and his wife, as well as to her brother and sisters. Morton looked at his watch. It would be too late to telegraph, even if I were to ride to High Clear on the fastest horse in the stable, he said with a sigh. Ever so much too late. But the letter will do as well as a telegram. There's no need for desperate hurry. Lizzie is such a thoroughly sensible girl that she is sure to manage her life properly, even away from us. "'But there is need for hurry,' cried Morton impetuously. "'She must not think that you and I consent to her leaving tangly. Not for a day, not for an hour longer than can be helped. She must not be allowed to suppose that she has been turned out of doors. My poor Lizzie, the gentlest, most self-denying creature. He was almost unmanned at the thought of how badly she'd been treated, and his eyes were moist as he started up from his chair and began to pace the room. Have you the remotest notion of what it is my sisters dislike in her, or why they've treated her so infamously?' he asked presently. "'Infamously' is rather too strong a word,' said his aunt, smiling at his vehemence. They have never been particularly kind to her, and they've always taken pains to let her feel the distinction between her position and their own, in spite of all I could do to bring them up on a perfectly equal footing. Perhaps they've resented my affection for her, though heaven knows my heart is big enough to hold all three. In your illness I think they have been inclined to be jealous of your regard for her, and to fancy that you prefer her to them.' "'I do, infinitely,' said Morton. She is worth a ship-load of such girls. She's one in a thousand. Next to Dulcy she is the sweetest woman I ever met. But why should they be jealous of a girl whom I regard as an adopted sister?' Miss Blake's heart, which had glowed with triumph at the beginning of Morton's speech, was somewhat chilled by the conclusion. "'Well, your gift of the carriage,' she began. "'Oh, surely they're not mean enough to grudge her that?' I remember Clementine went on about the cob in a very ridiculous way, but I thought that was only her fun. I fancy it was just such fun as that which drove Lizzy out of the house. A high-spirited, sensitive girl would hardly stay in any man's house, if she were accused of setting her cap at him,' answered Aunt Dora, with eyes bent watchfully on her nephew's perturbed countenance. "'Setting her cap at me?' "'Too ridiculous,' ejaculated Morton. "'Why, everybody who knows anything about me must know that I've done with all matrimonial schemes, that courtship and marriage are a closed volume in the book of my life.' A young man does sometimes, once in a century or so, get cured of such a sorrow as yours, Morton, and find perfect happiness where he least thought to win it. I am not that kind of man, and Lizzy knows it. I've talked more freely to her than to any one else. I've treated her more like a brother than a sister. It's utterly shameful and wicked if those girls have teased her with insinuations of that kind. There's not the slightest ground for them either in her conduct or mine. "'Oh, I know that,' admitted Aunt Dora meekly. "'However, I shall go to Blackford to-morrow and find out this Joe's of Hardman's house, and bring Lizzy home with me.  "'What do I care for their suspicions?' "'Or might you not even compromise Lizzy in the minds of other people? You know your own feelings, and that she can never be more to you than an adopted sister, but other people will insist upon having their own ideas, and on disseminating them. Had you not better let me fetch Lizzy from Blackford?' "'Oh, yes, that would be better. Lizzy would like that better, no doubt. I had that plan in my mind when I came in just now. If you will go to-morrow, dearest Auntie, and insist on her coming home with you immediately, I shall be eternally grateful.' He gave his aunt a most affectionate hug by way of earnest. "'My dear Morton, there's no occasion for gratitude,' she said, smiling up at him in the lamplight. "'I'm much more anxious to have Lizzy home than you can possibly be. It is very kind of you to be so warmly interested in her welfare.' "'Well, I should be a brute if I could feel less warmly, after all her goodness to me,' replied Morton.'  Pride gave her a kind of spurious force. She had always been a girl of resolute will, able to conquer difficulties, to set a curb upon feeling, to achieve and to endure. But never in the past had she so much needed courage and determination as she needed them to-day. She had made up her mind that to remain another day in Morton Blake's house would be to sacrifice womanly honour and self-respect. She had been openly charged in the grossest words with scheming to win him for her husband. Her only justification in the eyes of these insolent girls, her only possible assertion of her own dignity, lay in immediate departure, in putting herself out of Morton's reach for the rest of her life. "'Or at any rate till I'm old and grey,' she said to herself, as she put on her neat little felt hat and comfortable waterproof ulster. Perhaps thirty or forty years hence when I fought my way through this difficult world, and gained a decent position by my own labour, I may feel justified in seeking him out, and asking him to take up the thread of our broken friendship. He'll be famous by that time, I hope. A cabinet minister, the saviour of his country, perhaps. Oh, how proud I should be of his reputation, even when my feelings were blunted by age and hard work. Her nerves were strung to their utmost tension. Her brain was in that excited state in which vivid thoughts and fancies follow each other in swiftest succession. Poor Morton, she thought with a sigh, as she paused absently in the task of packing her travelling-bag. I believe he will miss me a little. If it was painful to think of leaving Morton, how much more bitter must be the thought of leaving her friend and protectress, the woman who had given her all and mother's love and thoughtful care, all a sister's sympathy and companionship? Lizzie dared not let her mind dwell upon the idea of separation from Aunt Dora. She sustained herself with the hope that their parting need not be life-long. They might meet and be together at times and seasons. It was only her severance from Morton, which must be lasting. Not for the world would I let those cruel girls think that I was acting apart, that I was only playing at going away, she said to herself, I must act in such a way as to make them know and feel that I am thorough. Even in her flurry and confusion of mind, she was able to think rationally of the plan of her future life. She had received her quarters allowance from Miss Blake only a few days ago, and she had the whole amount in hand, five and twenty pounds. With that sum in her pocket she felt equal to finance the situation until she could find some kind of remunerative employment for her head or her hands. Without either arrogance or vanity, she knew that she was clever with both hands and head. It was an unknown thing for her to be setting out on a journey alone, and it was with a strange and desolate feeling that she stood at the crossroads, bag and umbrella in hand, waiting till the omnibus from Osthorpe should come blundering and creaking along the muddy lane, and heave to under the signpost yonder. The coachman, pulling up his horse with a sudden clutch of the reins, astonished at the unwonted spectacle of a passenger. Yes, it was strange and dreary to be alone, but lovingly as she had leaned on Aunt Dora in the past, Lizzie Hardman had learned long ago to think and work for herself, and she had a brave independent spirit. I had rather bare separation from all I love than be thought capable of meanness, she said to herself. Adjolting half-hours' progress in the mouldy little omnibus, which smelt of poultry-yard and stable, and then she found herself at the high-clear station, an unlovely building, offering nothing cheering for the eye to rest upon, save the pictured presentment of a newly developed watering-place, unknown to the mind of man, but provided with a bay of golden sand, a crescent of Italian villas, a squadron of gaily-painted bathing machines, emerald verger on the very edge of the beach, and sky and sea of sapphire hue. It remained for the adventurous spirit who tried this happy hunting-ground to discover that the Italian villas were still in Skeleton, while the existing settlement was a squalid fishing village, that the drainage was a disgrace to a civilised community, the golden sand a snare, and the sapphire sea a delusion. The hard men looked at the vivid attractions of St. Clement on the ooze without seeing them, and then she walked up and down the dismal little platform, and wished that the Osthorp omnibus had not been so over-considerate in giving its passengers a wide margin of leisure before the starting of the train. But the bell rang at last, and with the help of a friendly porter, Lizzy found a comfortable corner in a second-class carriage. She had always travelled first-class hitherto, but she began her new life in the economic manner in which she would be obliged to continue it. I ought to have gone third-class, she said to herself, as she counted the change out of half a sovereign, and found that her ticket had cost her two intents, but I've never been accustomed to sitting with dirty people. I shall have to educate myself down to my altered circumstances. Perhaps after all, when I have once got over the pain of parting from those I love, I may be happier as a lonely wave fighting my way in the world than I could ever have been as a dependent in Morton's house. Oh, those girls! How they've made me suffer! She looked back at her life during the last four years, since she and Morton's sisters had grown to womanhood, and she almost wandered at herself for her patient endurance of all the petty slights and deliberate snubs that Clementine and Horatia had inflicted upon her. I hope I'm not mean-spirited for having borne it all so tamely, she thought. But no, I had auntie's love to make up for all their unkindness. It was auntie's pleasure I had to study. To have resented such small injuries would have been only temper and false pride. But it never insulted me until to-day. She sat looking out of the window at a country which was altogether new to her. She had never been at Blackford since her infancy. Aunt Dora had thought it well to make the severance between Lizzie and her brother and sisters as complete as possible. She was to occupy a different place in the world. By and by, after her adopted mother's death, when she should find herself amply provided for, she might be as bountiful as she liked to her family, but she could never be one of them. Education, surroundings, associations would make a gulf between them. There was no pride or hardness in Dora Blake's nature, but she felt that half measures here would be a mistake. You must not think me unkind, darling, she said one day, when Lizzie had asked permission to go to Blackford and see her brother and sisters, who wrote her such nice letters in a copper plate hand, with very few faults in spelling, and who were always so prettily grateful for her presence. But when I took you for my adopted daughter, I told your poor father that you were to belong to me entirely, that my relations were to be your relations, that you were to be a Blake and not a Hardman, and that I should hold myself responsible for your prosperity and happiness in life. She can never be more than a friend at a distance to her brother and sisters, I told him. Your father was quite willing that it should be so. He told me that he gave you to me as a free gift, for the love of his father's bosom friend and companion, Jeffrey Blake, and that you should be as much my own property as if you were a little Negro girl bought in an African marketplace. Lizzie had obeyed her adopted mother, submitting to be guided by her superior wisdom, yet not without regret for the brothers and sisters who were never to have any intimate share in her life. All the kindness that it was in her power to show them, she had freely given, and her letters had been full of affection for the kindred whose faces she had never seen. Thus it was that the country between High Clear and Blackford was new to her, and she watched the passing landscape with curious eyes. For some time the scenery was purely pastoral, low-lying meadows, meandering streams, a wooded hillside in the far distance, watermills, sleepy villages, all the poetry of rustic life. Then the whole character of the scene changed all at once, and Lizzie beheld a district which was to her as a new world, a sudden revelation of ugliness under a smoke-tarnished sky. Brickfields, chemical works, tall chimney shafts, gas-works, bone-burning works, all the hideousness of a manufacturing neighbourhood, but worst of all was the baneful atmosphere, tainted with all the variety of nauseous odours, dull with smoke, oppressive to the lungs, depressing to the spirits, thick and slab like the witch's gruel, an atmosphere in which hope and joy must surely drop their wings and expire like a pigeon in an exhausted receiver. And now the open wastes, the brick-fields were all gone, and the train was panting its slow way over the crowded housetops of a dingy city. And now it was in the smoke-begrime terminus, doors were slamming, porters shouting, and Lizzie Hardman knew that she had reached her destination. Having nothing but her bag to carry, she would not indulge in the luxury of a cab. She had never been in London or any really large town, her travels having been confined to sundry excursions to pretty seaside places and to the English lakes with Aunt Dora. She had therefore no idea of distances, and fancied that her Uncle Joseph's house could not be far off. She asked a porter to direct her to Milton Street. Well, that'll be in the potteries, answered the man. It's a longish way. Hadn't you better have a fly? Oh, no, thank you. I'm a good walker. The man directed her. It sounded a long way, and after she'd come to the ultima-fuel of his direction she was to inquire of somebody else, who would instruct her in the rest of the way. The rain was over, the sun was setting, a magnificent sunset in the country, no doubt, but here only a lurid patch of red gleaming a thwart a bank of lowering cloud. Lizzie walked briskly down long, smoky street, where shabby shops and shabby are private houses alternated, and where the dirtiest children her eye had ever beheld were at play in the gutters. Her souls sank within her at the foulness, the unlovely sights which greeted her on every side, and as she trudged bravely along, following the porter's direction, now passing the blackened wall of her factory, and now walking beside the slate-coloured water of her canal, she kept repeating wildly with maddening iteration and to the beat of her own footsteps, God made the country and man made the town. It was a weary way to the district known as the Potters, which seemed to have been so christened for no particular reason save the whim of the builder, in as much as there were no Potters in the place. To Lizzie it seemed the longest walk she had ever taken in the whole course of her life, and yet her light footsteps had carried her many a mile by lane and meadow, by heath and hill. The narrow monotonous streets seemed interminable. Of the factories and ironworks, the bone burning and the soap boiling, there appeared no end. Lizzie fancied she must have been travelling through that dull grey world for hours, when a foundry clock struck the third quarter after eight, and she knew that it was only three quarters of an hour since she had left the terminus. And now she was at the end of her journey. This was Milton Street in the Potteries, evidently a new district, a raw, bare-looking street, tolerably wide, tolerably clean and tidy, but hideously flat and monotonous, never a porch, or veranda, or jutting window, to diversify the plain brick fronts of the square eight-roomed houses, never a flowering creeper to beautify the dull brickwork. Lizzie knocked at the door of twenty-seven, her Uncle Joseph's number. Her heart beat hard and fast as she stood waiting for admission. How would her kindred receive her? Would they be warm and loving to her in her desolation? Would they reproach her for having kept herself aloof from them in the past? It was a painful ordeal to meet those of her own flesh and blood, so near and yet so distant, strangers whose faces she had never seen within her memory, sisters who had been nestled in the same motherly bosom. I hope they'll love me a little in spite of everything, she said to herself. CHAPTER 47. From Darkness into Light Within ten days of that balmy summer afternoon, on which Morton Blake had sat beside Mrs. Green's deathbed, and heard from dying lips a story of the past, the church bell was toiling heavily upon the sultry July air, and a modest funeral train was slowly winding its way across the level fields to the old church yard. They were taking poor, tired out Lucy to her last rest. The widower led the little procession, serious for once, in his useless, frivolous life, holding sad, sensible Matthew by the hand. The girl grave with a sense of new responsibilities, but tearless, though her pallid cheeks bore the traces of many tears. The little ones followed, stumbling over the clover and sorrel bloom, looking about them with vague wonder, as if surprised to see the flowers so bright and the sky so blue, while their poor mammy was being carried to the black, ugly pit-hole of the nature of which last resting place, they had derived somewhat pagan views from the conversation of the small servant maid. And lastly, with the youngest girl's chubby hand in hers, came Dulcy, robed in black with sweet, mournful face and downcast eyes. Mr. Hallamond started a little when he saw Dulcy in the group of humble mourners. His heart thrilled at this latest proof of her tenderness, her sympathy with all human sorrow. This was true Christianity, an unconscious imitation of the divine master, who never turned from human sorrow, who was never deaf to the mourner's cry. What a lovely world this would be if all women were of her mold, he thought. Death would indeed lose its sting. There would be tempered with joy. Later when they were standing by the open grave, and the clods of clay fell with dismal sound, upon the coffin lid, poor Maddie's fortitude suddenly gave way. She flung herself down by the edge of the grave with a shrill, despairing cry, mother, mother! Then Dulcy gently raised her from the ground and held her in her arms, the streaming eyes hidden on her shoulder, till the last sad words had been spoken, when she drew the sobbing girl away, keeping her arm round her, while they walked slowly to the gate. Oh, let me stop, let me stop! cried Maddie. I am not going to leave her there, all alone. Dear child, she is not there. Maddie is not alone. She is in paradise with the happy souls that rest from their labours, waiting for the coming of their God. You know she is not there, Maddie. You know that the soul cannot die, that if you do your duty here, you will see her and be happy with her in heaven. Yes, I know, I know, sob, Maddie. I try to believe, but it is very hard, after having seen her in her coffin, not to remember that she is lying there, in that dark hall.  Not today, dear, we will both go to-morrow and take some flowers for her grave. You must come home with me now. Hadn't I better go with the little ones, if I mustn't go with her? No, dear, your father will take care of them. Mr. Green, will you let Maddie go home with me for an hour or two?  So Dulcey let Maddie across the fields to fair view, comforting her with sweet, hopeful words as they went along, once Maddie embarrassed her by a sudden question. Yes, Miss, I know what you are telling me is all true, but if it was your father who was lying in that grave, do you think the thought of seeing him in heaven after years and years, when you are an old woman, would make up to you for the loss of him now? Not just at first, perhaps, Maddie, but I think the hope would be brighter and stronger every day if I could believe that my father were sure of heaven, added Dulcey, in a low voice. Oh, Miss Courtney, a gentleman like your papa would never do anything wrong, protested Maddie, with conviction, almost as if she would have said, of such is the kingdom of heaven. They went into Dulcey's morning room, where the sun was shining through the stained glass in the old Tudor window, and where the octagon table stood ready with tea things and cakes and strawberries in white china baskets, never had Maddie's eyes beheld such a table, a feast so delicately tempting, yet so arcadian in its simplicity, the brightness of the room, with its variety of color, dazzled the girl's eyes. She forgot even her grief in her wonder at this glimpse of an unknown world, the world of wealth and taste. Dulcey made her little friend sit down in one of the low basket chairs by a tiny tea table, and then she waited upon her and petted her, and coasted her to eat a few strawberries, and to drink a refreshing cup of tea, while she was kneeling at Maddie's side, tempting her languid amputite with pound cake and big strawberries, Scroop opened the door and ushered in Mr. Hellermond. Dulcey started to her feet instantly, and seated herself somewhat shyly at the tea table. Her cheeks died with unnecessary blushes. I have come to beg a cup of tea, said Mr. Hellermond, and to have a chat with Sir Everett, if he is at home. He is at home, but I am taking tea an hour earlier than usual on Maddie's account. Will you go to Papa's study for your talk? Yes, when you have given me some tea. So Maddie, Miss Blake tells me you are going to stay at Osterthop with us, and that you hope some day to be mistress at our school. Maddie smiled faintly at this idea, which seemed to her to suggest the wildest ambition. Miss Blake has been very kind to us, she said. She is going to let us keep the cottage, and we are all to live here, instead of going back to poor father, and she will call every day to look after us till I am old enough to take care of the little ones quite by myself. Are you glad to stay here? Very, very glad. Father will come to see us once a month. He says he would come oftener, but he can't afford the railway fare, you know. He is to bring Miss Blake as much money as he can, to pay for our food and different things, and she will make up what is wanted. Don't worry yourself about money matters, Maddie. They will be made easy to you, said Dulcey, looking lovingly at the serious little face. So age my premature knowledge and premature care. Arthur Hallamond stayed with them for nearly an hour, cheering Maddie by his kindness, and exercising as soothing and influence upon Dulcey's spirits, though she would scarcely have owned as much. An indescribable sense of peace stole over her mind as she sat by the open window, looking idly across the rich summer landscape, and listening to Arthur Hallamond's voice as he talked of his day's experiences in and about Ostthorpe. He spent the greater part of every day in visiting among his parishioners, most thoroughly fulfilling the promise of his first sermon that he would be one with them in their griefs and in their joys. He kept his evenings only for his books, which were the delight of his life. At last he rose, very reluctantly, and wished Dulcey, goodbye. I may not see you when I leave, your father, he said, and though she was longing to ask him to come back to the morning room when his business in the study was over, she had not courage to utter the simple request that would have ensured his return. There must be something formidable about him, though he is so kind, she thought, for I cannot help feeling afraid of him.  She had been so completely at ease with her, so calmly kind that she found it difficult to believe that this was the same man who had so passionately declared his love, his perfect tranquility of manner reassured her. And though she could not feel quite at her ease in his presence, she had no fear of his troubling her peace. By pressing his suit any further, I hope he will always be my friend, she said to herself, I will not forfeit his friendship for the world. Mr. Hellerman found Sir Everett in the book room. He was sitting at his writing-table in front of the open window. Books and papers were before him, but he was utterly idle, looking out at the landscape over which the yellow light was changing to the softer hues of evening. He held out his hand to Arthur Hallamond without a word. A curious friendship had grown up between the two men. The elder seemed to lean upon the younger as upon a favorite son. Sir Everett, the proud, solitary man, who in twenty years had not made a single friend, had given friendship and confidence without stint to the newcomer. But there are men of rare qualities of mind and heart who have a magnetic power in winning friendship, and it may be that Arthur Hallamond was one of these. You are not looking well, Sir Everett, he said gently, as he slipped into a chair by the baronet side. I am not well. I am never liked to be well. Don't let us waste words upon my wretched health, but I will talk about it. I think you are using yourself very cruelly. You ought to be driving about the country with Miss Courtney, or basking in the sunshine on your lawn.  I have no wish to lengthen my days. Not for your daughter's sake, not even for Dulcy's sake. We have drifted far apart of late. I am no longer necessary to her happiness. She will be happier more at peace when I am gone.  For her sake life ought to be dear to you. Oh, Sir Everett, I think you must have read my heart before now. You must feel that I could not have been so often in your daughter's society without learning to love her. She has grown dearer to me than anything else in life, except duty. I am a poor man entirely dependent on a profession that may not give me more than bread and cheese till my hair is gray. And Dulcy is an heiress, yet I am so sure of my power to make her happy, to guard her from all care and sorrow, to make her life bright and fair and full of meaning for her that I am not ashamed to ask you to help me to win her. I am not afraid to offer myself as your son in law.  I should like you to marry her, he said at last, with the liberation. There was a time when I had what people call higher views. I wanted my dear one to be the future countess of Bloch, Mardine. Belleville is a fine, frank, open-hearted fellow, and I believe he would have made her a good husband. But that is hopeless. He doesn't care a straw about him, and she never will. He is just one of those excellent, generous-hearted young men who never can win a woman's love. If he were a plausible scoundrel he might have a better chance. But you, yes you, would make her happy. You would be staunch and true. You would love and honor her to the end of your life, or hers, for her own sake. Do not speak of her fortune. The thought of that has no influence upon me. Wealth has never given me happiness, and it could never of itself make her happy. But you and she together would use money as a means of happiness for many. Yes, she would be happy with you, I believe, Hallamond. If the respect she now feels for you could ever deepen into love, let her tell me that she loves you, and you may marry her as soon afterwards as you like. My most urgent prayer is to see her happily married before I die. I thank you with all my soul, cried Arthur Hallamond, grasping Sir Everett's hand. You are the noblest, the most generous-minded of men. Do not thank me till you know more. As my daughter's future husband, for I believe you may win her if you try. There is a page of my history that you ought to know. Be so good as to see that the door is closed, and then come back to your chair. I will tell you what I mean. The two men were closeted till the gong sounded for dinner. Dulcey wondering what had kept her father's guests so long. They did not dine till eight o'clock, at this time of year, so as to get the most enjoyment out of the summer weather. The gong had sounded for nearly ten minutes when Sir Everett and Arthur Hallamond came into the morning room, where Dulcey was sitting in a despondent attitude before the piano, one hand resting idly on the keys, the other supporting her drooping head. Dulcey, take Mr. Hallamond's arm, said her father. He is going to spend the evening with us. He started up with a brightening face, and obeyed her father without a word. Mr. Hallamond saw the lovely change in her counterance, and his heart glowed at the thought that she was pleased and cheered by his reappearance.  Oh, Dulcey, Dulcey, it is well for you to submit to fate, he said to himself, as they crossed the hall, for I mean you to be mine. It was long since there had been such a happy dinner for Dulcey, yet Mr. Hallamond was grave and even absent in his manner, as if his mind was overcrowded with thought, and her father was no brighter than usual. The joy and peace in Dulcey's heart had arisen within her in some mysterious way. She knew not from what source this new sense of gladness came, but she could not hide from herself that she was glad. She looked across the table shyly, and met the curate's earnest gaze, and her drooping eyelids hardly dared to lift themselves during the rest of the meal. Yet it seemed to her as if the warmth of that dark glance were on her, like sunlight, all the time, filling her heart with the rapture of life's summer. After dinner they went back to the morning room, and Dulcey was glad to take refuge at her piano. How tremendously her fingers touched the first notes of that favorite nocturne, then how the passion of the music added new force to this strange new gladness in her soul, till every note seemed to vibrate within her as if the melody were the very breath of her life, an emmation of her own mind. The room was dimly lighted by two lamps under velvet shades, just as much light as made darkness visible. Dulcey played on, believing that her father was still seated yonder in his low-arm chair by the wide-tiled hearth, where a group of choice ferns replaced the winter logs. She had scarcely lifted her eyes from the notes since she had placed herself at the piano. But presently, while her hands were gliding over the keys in a slow legato movement, Mr. Hallamond seated himself at her side, and laid his hands upon hers. She looked up, startled and blushing, and saw that her father's chair was empty, and that she and Arthur Hallamond were alone. Dulcey, my darling, you are playing exquisitely, but for me, tonight, there is more music in your voice than in all Chopin ever wrote. My dearest love, look up. I have been talking to your father, and he has given me leave to win you, if I can, and I mean to do it. He has done more than that. He has told me that it will make him happy to see you, my wife. He can say that, cried Dulcey, shuddering away from the arm that would have drawn her to her lover's breast. My father can ask any honorable man to marry his daughter. Knowing what he knows, what I know, my dearest, he has confided in me. He has told me all. All? Yes, he has told me the dark secret of his life, and I am deeply sorry for him. Sorry for him? Yes, one cannot help being sorry for him. What must I feel, who have loved him and been loved by him all these years? But will God have compassion upon him, as we have? Can his sin find pardon? I can, it will. If he is sincerely penant, as I believe he is, God will assuredly pardon. But to let that innocent man suffer, was not that a terrible sin? It was a sin, but I do not believe your father would have let his life be sacrificed had there been no commutation of his sentence. Remember the penalty Vargas actually paid was only the just punishment of his actual guilt. How good you are!  Yes, I know he is penant. Twenty years of sorrow, that is a long atonement, is it not? God will accept that atonement, love. O, to thank that, to believe that, after all I have suffered for the last few months, said Dulcey, it is like coming from darkness into light. And Dulcey, my beloved, are you going to leave me in darkness? This world would be very dark for me without you. My dearest, is my case hopeless? I fancy tonight that I saw a ray of hope in your eyes. Her eyelids were lowered obstinately, while her left hand strayed idly over the keys. Lightly touching the melody she had just been playing.  It nestled there as if it had found its most natural shelter. Dulcey, does this mean that I am to be happier than I ever pictured to myself in my wildest dreams?  Are you not afraid of marrying such a weathercock? I fear nothing but my own unworthiness. Dulcey, you have made me unutterably happy. Please, don't despise me, she murmured softly, but I am afraid I love you better than ever. I loved Morton. End of Chapter forty-seven, Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. Chapter forty-eight of Just As I Am, This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C., Just As I Am, by Mary Elizabeth Brayden. Chapter forty-eight in the bosom of her family. Number twenty-five was the only house which in some wise broke the monotony of Milton Street in the Potteries. It was a house of an original character, inasmuch as it had no ground floor, where the parlor floor and basement should have been, there was an archway leading into a builder's yard. The street door opened on a space just large enough to accommodate the door mat, and give standing room to the person who entered, beyond their rows with startling abruptness, a steep flight of uncarpeted wooden stairs. A pretty-looking girl with an honest face opened the door in answer to Lizzie's knock. She was dressed in well-worn stuffed gown, one of those neutral and sternly aesthetic hues, which high art has provided for even the humblest wearers. But in spite of high art it was a very ugly gown, and assuredly the vivid poos or grassy green where at modern taste shutters would have been more cheerful to look upon in the dull black-forged atmosphere. The breast of the young woman's gown was embroidered with a varied selection of pins and needles, the latter with threads hanging to them, and she had that worn, worried look which is apt to be produced by a prolonged application to needlework. Lizzie felt that this must be her dressmaking sister, but the words she wanted to say died upon her lips, somehow and she stood looking at the girl dumbly, not knowing how to begin. Is Miss Hardman at home? She faltered at last. Yes, aunts upstairs, did you want to see her? I think you must be Jessie, said Lizzie, taking the girl's hand. That's my name, answered Jessie, withdrawing her hand, and looking sharply at the stranger, whom she began to suspect as a person of weak intellect, or perhaps a lunatic. What's your business, please, Miss?  Your sister, your own sister, Lizzie. Lore, cried Jessie, giving her an impulsive hug. Lizzie, my gracious me! She shrieked almost hysterically, and you've come to see us at last, after all these years. Aunt said you never would, you was far too proud, but I said you would.  Won't I crow over aunt? Here the vivacious Jessie snapped her fingers in mingled derision and delight. Lo, how glad I am, she exclaimed again, and Lizzie felt that, although vulgar, the girl was delightfully affectionate. Come upstairs, Liz, and have tea or something. Help pale and fagged, you look. You gave me such a scare just now. I thought you had a wild way with you, and that you weren't right in the upper story. A loose slate, you know, as brother Bill calls it. When a brother's name is William, need-affection call him Bill. Lizzie winced a little, feeling that no one with such a name would be welcome at Tangly Manor. Lizzie galloped upstairs, making a tremendous noise in her high spirits. Aunt, she said, flinging open the door of the back room, and ushering in Lindsay. Here's a rum start. Do you know who this is? Mrs. Hartman was pouring over a penny periodical, seated on a low wooden stool at an open door, which looked out on a clumsy wooden balcony, whence a flight of wooden steps descend to the narrow bit of yard which the builder could spare from his business premises for the accommodation of his tenants. The room was a kitchen, its chief furniture a deal table, a dresser of the same wood, a much worn and frayed horse-chair couch, a few oddments in the way of chairs, and a very respectable old eight-day clock, which pretended to record the movements of the heavenly bodies and the progress of the seasons, as well as the hours of the day and night, and aiming at too much did nothing correctly. Just to say, the kitchen was in an advanced stage of litter, and Mrs. Hartman looked as if she had not brushed her hair for a long time.  But the room and the people altogether had an aspect of absolute vulgarity which filled Lizzie's soul with pain, yet, as her sister was warm-hearted and affectionate, she felt that she had reason to be thankful and glad. She might have received me coldly, and reproached me for having kept aloof from her so long, thought Lizzie. Mrs. Hartman flung aside her cereal, and jumped up to do honour to the stranger. I suppose it's the lady Miss Pinscher recommended, she said, smiling blandly at the supposed customer. No, it isn't, old lady, ain't we clever? It's somebody I'm better pleased to see than all Miss Pinscher's customers, though they was to let me buy all their linings and trimmings, and was never to grumble at my charging eighteen pence for sundries. It's my sister, my sister Liz, and ain't we pretty, turning the reluctant Lizzie around as on a pivot? And haven't we a nice figure, and ain't we the lady from tip to toe? Oh, you dear old Liz, I'm that pleased! Lizzie gave her sister another hug, and then began to unbutton Lizzie's ulster. What a stylish cut! Taylor made, oh, warrant, none of your draper's slops. That's just like our Jess, said Miss Hartman, smiling approval at her elder niece. She's all art. Never was such a girl for art. What, cried Lizzie, delighted? Do you draw or paint, Jesse? Have you really a taste for art? Nor no, child, cried Mrs. Hartman. We've no artist here, nor we don't want. I say your sister Jess has an art in a thousand. There ain't many a sister made to keep her distance as she's been made that would show so much art tonight. Give me art, ejaculated Mrs. Hartman. There's nothing like it. Lizzie began to understand that she must learn a new language in her new home, a language of erratic aspirants. Well, my dear, said Mrs. Hartman, I'm glad to see you now. You have come. Better late than never, but you'll have to take us in the rough. If you'd have wrote or telegrammed to us, we'd have things nice for you, or as nice as they can be in a working man's house. Light the fire and get her a cup of tea, aunt, and don't stand drawing there, said Jesse, without the least idea of disrespect. Please don't put yourself out of the way on my account, said Lizzie, feeling herself an intruder. I can do very well without tea, a little milk and water, and a slice of bread and butter. Nonsense child, you shall have a cozy cup of tea and a nice light cake. We'll sit down together and enjoy ourselves a bit. Jess and I are regular pigs for tea and hot cake.  Jesse whisked a jug off its nail and was halfway down the wooden stairs before Lizzie knew what she was doing. Mrs. Hardman lighted the fire and gave Lizzie the bellows to blow, and then bustled about the kitchen, filling the kettle, making cakes, and setting out the tea tray on a comfortable little round table. She did everything with a wonderful alcarity, which contrasted curiously with her lazy attitude when Lizzie entered the room. She was a woman whose life was spent in spurts of activity and long intervals of idleness. Her cakes were made and in the oven. Her kettle was singing gaily. The littered appearance of the kitchen was reduced to something like tidiness, while Lizzie knelt before the fire, languidly moving the bellows and wondering at her aunt's quickness. Lizzie came back with the milk jug after an absence of a quarter of an hour.  Mrs. Bond had got a new baby, and they made me go upstairs to look at it, such a might. Where is my sister Mary, asked Lizzie, who had been too agitated to make the inquiry sooner? Doesn't she live with you now, Aunt? Why, of course she does, Liz, but she doesn't come home over early of a summer evening. When she leaves the workshop, she likes to take a walk by the canal with her young man. I suppose you know she's keeping company. She told me she was engaged, faltered Lizzie. She's a proofreader at the office of the Blackford Chronicle, a very respectable young man. My, what that young man knows, he would make you stare, though I suppose you've plenty of book learning. I am very glad she has chosen such a nice person. He's getting five and thirty shillings a week already, said Jesse, and it's to be raised to two pounds very soon, and then they're going to get married. They'll take a house in Monksgate, close to the office, such sweet little houses, only six and six pence a week, gas late on, green Venetians, and everything. I think our pole is a lucky girl. Our pole? It was almost worse than Bill. And William, is he at home, asked Lizzie. He's gone to the theatre with father to see Mr. Mount Mercy take Claude Melnook, replied Mrs. Hartman. Have you ever seen Mount Mercy's Claude Monocke? I never saw a play in my life, said Lizzie. Your thing? Well, I never. Me and Jess must take you. We're rare ones for the theatre. You can't give us enough of it. Oh, I do love the Lady of Lions, said Jess, with an ecstatic air. Mount Mercenery is heavenly as Claude. You'd never forget the way he walks, a stage, with such a grand sweep of his legs, and such a graceful bend of his knees, and the loveliest hessin' boots with gold tassels. And his amlic, exclaimed Mrs. Hartman, amlet ante not amlac, corrected Jesse, you do pronounce name so queerly. Well, I say him as my ear catches him, Jess. I'm no scholar'd. Jess had been taking the hotcakes out of the oven, and buttering them while she talked. The tea was drawn, the candles were lighted, they had been sitting in the firelight hither too. The little kitchen, with its litter swept out of sight, had a comfortable look. Jess insisted upon the visitor occupying the armchair, a Windsor chair with a chins-covered cushion. She poured out the tea, and ministered to her sister, lovingly. Lizzie had eaten a light luncheon at half-past one o'clock, and had not broken her fast since, so the tea and light cake seemed positively delicious, and it was nice to be weighted upon, and made much of by an affectionate sister. She wondered at herself for feeling almost at home in this humble kitchen, with these kindred of hers, who murdered the Queen's English so cruelly, and all whose ideas were different from her own. And it is with people like this my life is to be spent in future, she thought, as she sipped her tea and let her tired head rest against the back of the chair. I have done with refined society, with the grace and beauty of life. I must be a worker among other workers, all of them too busy to cultivate refinement of manners. Well perhaps it is better to sit in a kitchen where one is loved and thought much of than to inhabit a fine house upon sufferance, and have one's self-respect wounded twenty times a day. And how long have they given you leave to stay with us, Liz, asked Mrs. Hardman, when she had finished her first cup of tea and made herself needlessly greasy with a cake. I have left tangly for good aunt. I want you and my uncle to put me in the way of earning my living, answered Lizzie quietly. What, cried Mrs. Hardman, you've been and gone and run away from the lady as adopted you and promised your poor father to provide for you and some after death.  I can't believe it of you. Money isn't everything in the world, aunt. It's nine-tenths of everything, answered Mrs. Hardman, and you could leave a beautiful home and kind friends all for some tantrums, I suppose. Lizzie tried to explain her position, without touching on the actual charge that had been brought against her. She told her aunt how she had been wounded by the unkindness of Morton's sisters, how they had accused her of being mean and underhanded in the pursuit of her own interest. Little tantrums, nothing but tantrums, exclaimed Mrs. Hardman, contemptuously. Of course they was jealous of you. That was what you had to look for, but what did that matter to you so long as the old lady was fond of you and stood by you? You should have given them as good as they brought. It's no use talking about it, aunt. I bore their unkindness as long as I could, but today it became just a little too bad. She burst into tears and let her head fall on her sister's shoulder, that affectionate young person having knelt by her side to caress and comfort her a few minutes before. Dear aunt, don't you say another word to her, said Jesse. Don't you see she's right down upset. If you go on at her, so she'll think she's not welcome here, and be sorry she ever came to such nasty relations. She's as welcome as the flowers in May, and she ought to know that, replied Mrs. Hardman with dignity, as if her personal character were a sufficient guarantee. But when I see her flying in the face of her own good fortune, I must up and tell her so. If I may stay here for a day or two, I shall be very grateful, said Lizzie Meekly. A day or two you may stay for a year, Liz. There's no one will grudge you, your bite, and sup. Thank you, dear aunt, but I will only take advantage of your kindness just for a few days while I look about me and make up my mind how to begin life for myself. I have had no quarrel with Miss Blake. I love her dearly, and shall so love her to my dying day, but I can never go back to tangly manner. It strikes me there's a lover at the bottom of this, said Mrs. Hardman, looking earnestly at her niece. Yes, of course there is. See how she blushes. You're too bad, aunt, said Jesse, indingly, teasing her like this when she's tired and low.   End of Chapter 48, Recording by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C.