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Front. 
 
 ‘Oil! 1 have no siiecial (juality of liraiiia.’ 
 
 Page 53 
 
Miss NONENTITY 
 
 BY 
 
 L. T. MEADE 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 WIIJ3 KITTY,’ ‘the darling OF THE SCHOOL,’ ETC. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 
 LONDON : 38 Solio Square, W.l 
 
 W. & R. CHAMBERS, LIMITED 
 
 EDINBURGH: 339 High Street 
 
Printed in Great Britain. 
 
 W. & R. Chambers, Ltd., London and Edinburgh. 
 
OOITTEE'TS. 
 
 CHAPTBE PAGE 
 
 I. THE RANDALL SCHOLARSHIP 1 
 
 II. HE WILL TELL ME THE TRUTH 8 
 
 III. ‘I CANNOT DISREGARD YOUR FATHER’S WISH*. 15 
 
 IV. ‘SHE LITTLE KNOWS’ 22 
 
 V. SIR JOHN CARBERY... 31 
 
 VI. THE FRIEND WHO PAYS 42 
 
 VII. HEARING THE NEWS 45 
 
 VIII. ABOUT THE SCHOLARSHIP 49 
 
 IX. freeman’s cottages 60 
 
 X. A CONFIDENCE 71 
 
 XI. A GREAT SURPRISE 79 
 
 XII. THE TRANSFORMED KITCHEN 89 
 
 XIII. ‘STRAIGHT FROM THE SHOULDER’ 97 
 
 XIV. A DILEMMA 107 
 
 XV. PROFESSOR RODNEY 117 
 
 XVI. CLARISSA AND UNCLE TOM 125 
 
 XVII. ‘“yes” or “no” to-night’ 136 
 
 XVIII. BROWN-PAPER PARCELS 145 
 
 XIX. JENKINS MANOR 155 
 
 XX. THE PEARL RING 167 
 
 XXL PICKLED WALNUTS AND A PROFESSOR 183 
 
 XXII. MISS NONENTITY 203 
 
 XXIII. ‘dross’ 214 
 
 XXIV. A WAY OUT 225 
 
 XXV. VELVET AND BROCADE 231 
 
 XXVI. A LADY OF THE OLDEN TIME 242 
 
 XXVII. CONSEQUENCES 251 
 
 XXVIII. DISILLUSIONMENT 263 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHArTER PAGE 
 
 XXIX. ‘PAST BEARING’ 274 
 
 XXX. ‘THIS DAY WEEK’ 283 
 
 XXXI. A KITTEN WITH CLAWS ' 293 
 
 XXXII. MARTHA SEIZES HER OPPORTUNITY 310 
 
 XXXIII. A HEADSTRONG GIRL 322 
 
 XXXIV. A COUNTRY-COUSIN 330 
 
 XXXV. THE KITTEN TO THE RESCUE 843 
 
 XXXVI. JANET’S PARTY 346 
 
 XXXVII. PROFESSOR SARSON’S VIEW OF THE MATTER 355 
 
 XXXVIII. QUITE IN THE GOOD OLD STYLE 364 
 
MISS NONENTITY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE EANDALL SCHOLARSHIP. 
 
 LARISSA RODNEY’S cheeks were very 
 red, and her eyes bright. She walked 
 at a swinging pace down the little 
 High Street of the small town of Upton. 
 Presently she paused at a door with 
 a brass plate on it; on the plate were the words, 
 ‘Professor Rodney.’ She ran up the steps and rang 
 the bell. 
 
 ‘Mother will be pleased,’ she thought, as she drew 
 herself up, her eyes shining brighter than ever. 
 
 Almost immediately after the bell had sounded there 
 came quick, eager feet down the stairs ; they tripped 
 along the hall, and the door was opened a few inches. 
 
 ‘ Ah ! it ’s you,’ said a little girl inside the house. 
 ‘ Come in softly, Clare. You must not go into the 
 drawing-room at present; mother can’t see you for a 
 
 A 
 
2 
 
 THE EANDALL SCHOLARSHIP. 
 
 bit. You’re to come upstairs with me on tiptoe; 
 you ’re not to make any noise.’ 
 
 ‘ But why ? Is father worse ? ’ 
 
 ‘ I don’t know whether he is worse or better ; but 
 Mr Russell is with mother.’ 
 
 ‘ In the drawing-room ? ’ 
 
 ‘Yes. He’s been there for over half-an-hour, and 
 Kate has just taken tea in. I stood outside father’s 
 door and I heard him groaning. I don’t suppose he is 
 much better; but mother has been in the drawing- 
 room with Mr Russell for quite half-an-hour — indeed, 
 thirty-five minutes — I have measured by the clock.’ 
 
 ‘ Well, come along with me. Cissy,’ said Clarissa ; she 
 stood still for a moment to get over a sensation of 
 disappointment. ‘ I thought mother would be pleased ; 
 that it would make — would make — a difference.’ 
 
 ‘ Why, what is it V said the little sister. She stepped 
 back and gazed full up at Clarissa. ‘ Have you — have 
 you gone and done it ? ’ 
 
 ‘ I have gone and got it,’ said Clarissa. ‘ I have, 
 Janet — I have.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, Clare ! Oh, let ’s both of us go into the dining- 
 room and shut the door, and you can tell me. Sister 
 Agnes is with father, so he does not want anything ; 
 and mother can’t see you yet. Have you really ? ’ 
 
 ‘ I have really.’ 
 
 'When did you find out ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Just at the end of school. I was going away when 
 Miss Porter came in and said that Mr Chesney and 
 Miss Harlington wanted to see me. I went into the 
 big hall, and there were Miss Harlington and Mr 
 Chesney and Mr Edridge ; and Mr Edridge came for- 
 ward — you know his pompous way — and said : “ I 
 
THE RANDALL SCHOLARSHIP. 
 
 3 
 
 am happy to tell you, Clarissa Rodney, that you 
 have won the great Randall Scholarship. It will be 
 publicly announced to-morrow; but you would like 
 to take the good news home to your parents.” Those 
 were his exact words. My head seemed to swim and 
 the room to turn round; and then they all shook 
 hands with me, and congratulated me ; and Mr 
 Edridge said : “ This good news will please your 
 father ; and I trust he is much better.” ’ 
 
 ‘ What is the scholarship worth ? ’ asked J anet. 
 
 ‘ Worth ? Why, forty pounds a year for three years. 
 I wonder how soon they will pay me. I have heard 
 no particulars. Oh, I did so fear I should lose it ; 
 but now I am quite safe.’ 
 
 ‘So you are,’ said little Janet. ‘Fancy you having 
 forty pounds a year of your own ! ’ 
 
 ‘Yes; and I’ll spend some of it on you, Janet. 
 Come and kiss me, darling.’ 
 
 Clarissa, quite worn out with excitement, sank down 
 into the nearest chair. Janet rushed forward and flung 
 her arms round her sister’s neck. 
 
 ‘ I am so delighted,’ she cried ; ‘ and mother will be 
 pleased, and so will dad — that is when we can tell 
 him.’ 
 
 ‘It is stimulating,’ said Clarissa. She tossed her 
 hat off and gave Janet an affectionate hug. ‘ Yes,’ she 
 repeated, ‘ it is stimulating ; it makes my dreams come 
 true. It is very good for a girl like me when her 
 dreams come true.’ 
 
 ‘ And this morning you thought you wouldn’t get it,’ 
 said Janet. 
 
 ‘ You small kid, I have been in an agony of fear. I 
 wanted to know, and yet I dreaded to know. Quite a 
 
4 
 
 THE EANDALL SCHOLARSHIP. 
 
 dozen of us were up for it — especially Martha Moore; 
 Martha is twice as clever as I am.’ 
 
 ‘ That she is not,’ said little Janet. • 
 
 ‘ Oh yes, J aney, she is. How she failed I cannot 
 guess. She looked very gloomy when I told her. Miss 
 Harlington said it was to he publicly announced to- 
 morrow. But Miss Porter had got hold of the news, 
 and what did she do but drag me into the schoolroom, 
 and say before all the girls : “ I cannot keep it back ; I 
 really cannot. I am proud to introduce to you the 
 successful competitor for the Eandall Scholarship.” 
 Oh, the Simpsons did look black, and poor Martha 
 turned very white; but afterwards Annie Garnet and 
 Mary Spicer came up and shook hands with me ; and 
 of course the school cheered me ever so often. It is a 
 very great thing if our school wins that scholarship. 
 Mi.ss Porter said to me as I was going away : “ This is 
 important for you, Miss Rodney. This will make a 
 great difference — will it not ? ” “I think so,” I said, 
 but I hated her to make the remark. It ’s horrid to 
 be looked down upon. Oh, I do trust and hope father 
 will soon be better, and that our circumstances will 
 improve. There, kiddy, I cannot waste any more time 
 with you now. I must run upstairs and wash my 
 face and hands. Do you know, I am faint with 
 hunger ? I wish Kate could smuggle up an egg for 
 my tea.’ 
 
 ‘ I ’ll see to it ; you deserve it. I am proud of you,’ 
 said little Janet. 
 
 Clarissa went softly upstairs. She paused for an 
 instant on the drawing-room landing. The house in 
 the High Street which Professor Rodney and his 
 family occupied was an imposing one. It was a 
 
THE RANDALL SCHOLARSHIP. 
 
 5 
 
 square house, built of stone ; it had been built nearly 
 a hundred years ago, and there were rambling old 
 passages and wide landings and lofty rooms. One of 
 the rooms now had a curtain across the doorway ; and 
 as Clarissa bounded up the stairs, a girl about ten 
 years older than herself, in a nurse’s dress, came and 
 stood on the landing and put her finger to her lips. 
 
 ‘ Hush ! ’ she said. ‘ He is asleep.’ 
 
 ‘ Is he better ? ’ asked Clarissa. 
 
 ‘No.’ 
 
 Clarissa started back, and it seemed to her that her 
 throbbing, exultant heart went down into her boots. 
 
 ‘ May I sit with him. Sister Agnes ? ’ 
 
 ‘ No, not to-night. Mr Russell has just been here, 
 and is gone.’ 
 
 ‘ Why did he come ? Why did he go ? ’ asked 
 Clarissa. 
 
 ‘ Hush ! Your father has been arranging his affairs.’ 
 
 ‘Then, that means’ said the girl. She turned 
 
 white even to the very lips. 
 
 ‘ We hope it means nothing ; arranging one’s affairs 
 cannot hurry a soul out of the world one second before 
 God’s own time ; but you will understand that your 
 father must have no further excitement to-night. 
 What is the matter with you ? You don’t look well.’ 
 
 ‘ I was well — as well as could be — a few minutes 
 ago. I have great news. Sister Agnes, you are not 
 intellectual.’ 
 
 ‘ Why do you say that ? ’ 
 
 ‘ I mean you don’t take up that line ; but even you 
 must be glad to know that I have got the ’ 
 
 ‘ Hush, child ! I cannot listen to you. He is stir- 
 ring.’ 
 
6 
 
 THE RANDALL SCHOLARSHIP. 
 
 Sister Agnes turned and went into the sick-room; 
 she closed the door softly behind her. 
 
 Clarissa felt as if hope had vanished behind that 
 curtain. She doubled up her strong, capable hand' 
 and shook it in the direction of the curtain. 
 
 ‘ I hate Sister Agnes. Why should she keep me 
 away from father ? I hate her ; she has got no 
 heart.’ Clarissa stood still for a moment ; then she 
 rushed upstairs as fast as she could. Entering her 
 own room, she shut the door with a bang, and flung 
 herself, sobbing and quivering, on her knees by the 
 bedside. She was a great, strong, tempestuous crea- 
 ture, with a big heart and a keen intellect; and she 
 had never been broken-in in any way. This was her 
 first trouble, and she could not suppress her grief. 
 How very puzzling and bewildering that trouble 
 should come on the very day of her grand success 
 — the great success of her life ! It was cruel — very 
 cruel. 
 
 ‘Just for the cup to reach my lips, and then be 
 dashed away,’ she thought. ‘ Sister Agnes, if she did 
 not say the words “ No hope,” certainly looked them ; 
 I don’t believe I shall have father long.’ 
 
 These thoughts had scarcely passed through her 
 mind before the door was opened, and Mrs Rodney 
 came into the room. She was a thin, faded-looking 
 woman, with washed-out brown eyes which had once 
 been as radiant and keen and full of colour as Clarissa’s 
 own. Her cheeks were sunken. Her hair grew high 
 on her forehead, and receded on her temples. She 
 laid her hand on the girl’s arm. ‘ Gut up,’ she said. 
 
 ‘ What is the matter with you ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, mother ! Nothing.’ 
 
THE RANDALL SCHOLARSHIP. 
 
 7 
 
 ‘ What are you crying for ? ’ 
 
 ‘Nothing, mother.’ 
 
 ‘ Why did you bang the door ? You shook the 
 whole house. Your father was dropping asleep ; you 
 woke him. Sister Agnes is very angry.’ 
 
 ‘ Mother, darling, I didn’t mean it — I didn’t mean it,’ 
 said Clarissa, with another great sob. Then she stood 
 up quietly, looking straight at her mother. 
 
 Mrs Rodney crossed the room to the window, and 
 looked out. 
 
 ‘I wish you would learn thoughtfulness, Clarissa,’ 
 she said. ‘You are a very good girl, and of course I 
 depend on you a great deal; but you will never be 
 
 thoughtful. You always’ 
 
 ‘ Don’t scold me, mummy. Mother, perhaps you will 
 be interested. I have got it.’ 
 
 ‘ Got what ? ’ 
 
 ‘ The scholarship — the biggest of all, mother. 
 Twelve of the best scholars competed, and I have 
 won. None of them came near my marks; and, 
 
 mother, the scholarship is forty pounds a year ’ 
 
 Clarissa spoke to an empty room. Mrs Eodnej", 
 hearing a stir downstairs, had vanished. 
 
 ‘Well, that’s the last straw,’ thought the girl. 
 
 ‘ Even mother does not care.’ 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 HE WILL TELL ME THE TRUTH. 
 
 LAKE, it ’s quite a fresh egg, and there ’s 
 a toasted muffin too. The muffins were 
 got in for Sister Agnes — she likes them 
 for her tea ; but Kate smuggled one away 
 for you. Come downstairs now ; do you 
 greatly mind having your tea in the kitchen ? ’ 
 
 ‘Why in the kitchen, dear ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Because mother is fussing about. Mr Russell has 
 only just gone, and mother says that the doctor will 
 come and stay all night. A special dinner is to be laid 
 
 for him in the dining-room and Oh, you ’re fit 
 
 to drop, you darling. As you have won such a big 
 thing you must be petted ; and Kate has laid the 
 dearest little table just up in the bay-window in the 
 kitchen, and no one will look at you while you eat.’ 
 
 ‘ Why, it will be quite lovely,’ said Clarissa, recover- 
 ing her spirits on the spot. ‘ Yes, of course I ’ll come. 
 Oh, I am so hungry.’ 
 
 She was hungry. Her schoolgirl appetite had not 
 been appeased for many hours. At the thought of a 
 fresh egg and a muffin she forgot her disappointment 
 at the attitude of her mother and Sister Agnes, and 
 forgot, also, that a dark cloud was hanging over the 
 
HE WILL TELL ME THE TRUTH. 
 
 9 
 
 house. She rushed downstairs, Janet following her, to 
 the kitchen regions, where Kate and the cook gave 
 them both a hearty welcome. Clarissa ate her egg 
 and finished every crumb of the muffin; then she 
 was regaled with a jam tartlet, the cook bringing her 
 this dainty straight out of the oven. 
 
 ‘I am glad you are eating it,’ said the cook. ‘I 
 daren’t have given it to you if you had been upstairs ; 
 the missus would have been wild. I am always making 
 these fussy sort of things for Sister Agnes. She ’s so 
 particular about her food ; and if she isn’t kept in a 
 good humour, why, the master suffers, and that won’t 
 do.’ 
 
 ‘ Mary,’ said Clarissa, as she ate up her tartlet, and 
 turned with her keen, bright eyes to the red-faced 
 cook, ‘ you don’t think father is in danger ? ’ 
 
 ‘In danger is it, honey? Not a bit of it. His 
 illness is just having a turn, and the turn is rather 
 serious ; but he ’ll be as right as ever afore a week 
 is out. Haven’t I dreamt it, dear; and do Mary’s 
 dreams ever go wrong ? ’ 
 
 ‘ But Sister Agnes thinks, and the doctor thinks, and 
 mother thinks ’ 
 
 Cook interrupted Clarissa with a scornful laugh. 
 
 ‘ If twenty of ’em took the trouble to think, I ’d still 
 hold on to my dreams,’ she said. ‘ My dreams tell me 
 that the Professor will be as well as ever he was, and I 
 believe ’em. They say that the Professor will never 
 die in his bed ; that he ’ll die somewhere in his boots. 
 Do you think that I don’t hold with my dreams ? You 
 listen to me. Miss Clarissa. Them doctors think they 
 know a lot that’s hidden from ’em. God Almighty 
 don’t mean ’em to see everything ; and many a plain 
 
10 
 
 HE WILL TELL ME THE TRUTH. 
 
 truth comes to me in my dreams that the doctors know 
 nothing of. The master will die maybe in a railway 
 accident, but not in his bed; so don’t you worry, 
 
 ‘ But really,’ said little Janet, who was standing close 
 to Clarissa, ‘ your dreams are almost as bad as the other 
 thing, Mary. It would be awful to think of father 
 being killed in a railway accident.’ 
 
 ‘ I don’t say that he will,’ replied Mary. ‘ I only 
 know what my dreams tell me — that he ’ll die in his 
 boots. Now then. Miss Clare, if you have eaten up all 
 that tartlet, maybe you and little miss will leave the 
 kitchen. It would be as much as my place is worth if 
 the missus found you here.’ 
 
 ‘Do you believe in dreams?’ said Janet, squeezing 
 her sister’s hand as they went quietly upstairs to the 
 dining-room. 
 
 ‘ I do, and I don’t,’ said Clarissa. ‘ When I am with 
 Mary I believe them ; when I am with mother and 
 Sister Agnes I don’t.’ 
 
 ‘I believe ’em always,’ said Janet, ‘always and 
 always, day and night. I wish I could have a dream 
 about father ; then I ’d know the truth.’ 
 
 ‘ Stop,’ said Clarissa ; ‘ I have got a thought. Come 
 in here, kiddy.’ 
 
 She drew Janet into a small room at the back of the 
 dining-room. It was a dark and dismal room in the 
 daytime ; but at night, when the gas was lit, it was 
 cheerful enough. This was Clarissa’s own private 
 apartment ; she kept all her treasures here. It was a 
 somewhat unsavoury abode, for the girl had all kinds 
 of odd tastes, and kept mice and goldfish and birds in 
 the room ; and as she seldom allowed the window to be 
 
HE WILL TELL ME THE TRUTH. 
 
 11 
 
 opened on account of the draught affecting the birds, 
 or the door to be opened for fear the cat should come 
 in, the room was often insufficiently aired, and the 
 odours caused by the mice were not of the sweetest. 
 But what will not enthusiastic girls do and suffer 
 for the sake of the pets they adore ? Neither girl 
 now noticed that the room was close and yet cold, 
 and that the mice seemed more aggressive in their 
 unsavoury odours than usual. 
 
 ‘Yes,’ said Janet; ‘yes. What is it you want to 
 say, Clare ? ’ 
 
 ‘You’ve been watching all day — haven’t you, 
 kiddy ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Of course I have ; but mother did try to banish me. 
 I wish mother wouldn’t get so cold to you and me 
 because father is ill.’ 
 
 ‘ It will break her heart if he dies,’ said Clarissa. 
 ‘ He must not die.’ 
 
 ‘ But if God wills it ? ’ said little Janet. 
 
 ‘ He does not will it. Didn’t you hear what old 
 Mary said, that father was to die in his boots 1 ’ 
 
 ‘ I don’t think,’ said Janet, ‘ that God would tell 
 Mary. Why should He ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Why shouldn’t He ? ’ said Clarissa. 
 
 ‘Well, of course, why shouldn’t He ? repeated Janet. 
 ‘ Clare, how your eyes are shining ! ’ 
 
 ‘I want to know,’ said Clarissa. ‘You and I are 
 kept in the dark ; the whole house is full of mystery. 
 Mr Russell and mother and Sister Agnes are hiding 
 something, and father is hidden away from us both. 
 I want to get to the bottom of it all ; I want things to 
 be cleared up. When I am at school I don’t think 
 quite so much of the dreadful things happening at 
 
12 
 
 HE WILL TELL ME THE TRUTH. 
 
 home ; but when I am here they just haunt me. Why, 
 I had forgotten that scholarship even.’ 
 
 ‘ You can’t, when you speak of it to me.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, that ’s nothing. I have forgotten all the good 
 part of it. It does not give me any joy ; my heart 
 doesn’t beat a bit quicker, and I don’t feel as if I could 
 jump or skip. I ’m just as I was yesterday, only a 
 little worse. I have won the scholarship. I thought 
 yesterday that it meant everything ; now, having 
 succeeded, I find that it is nothing. Mother did not 
 even listen ; I told her, and she went out of the 
 room. You are the only person pleased ; nobody else 
 cares. I could cry ; but what ’s the use ? If I knew 
 about father I would bear up. I always felt that 
 there was something in me which could stand up 
 against trouble ; but when I am not told the truth I 
 don’t know what to think or what to do — it’s all 
 miserable.’ 
 
 ‘ Let’s go and ask mother this minute,’ said Janet. 
 
 ‘ What ’s the use ? She won’t tell us ; she will only 
 say we are thoughtless and selfish. But, Janet, you 
 have been about all day and listening ? ’ 
 
 ‘Not exactly listening,’ said Janet, colouring some- 
 what painfully, ‘ although I did stand outside the 
 curtain just for a quarter of a minute when Dr Bennett 
 paid his last visit to father, and I got behind a door 
 when he went downstairs. His back looked grave ; I 
 couldn’t see his face.’ 
 
 ‘ I ’ll see his face, I ’m determined,’ said Clarissa, 
 ‘before I go to bed to-night.’ 
 
 ‘ How can you ? Mother never gives us a chance.’ 
 
 ‘ I ’ll see him before mother does. She is sure to be 
 upstairs in father’s room.’ 
 
HE WILL TELL ME THE TRUTH. 
 
 13 
 
 ‘Yes; she always watches by father from nine until 
 past midnight,’ said Janet the practical. 
 
 ‘ Well, let ’s make a plan,’ said Clarissa. ‘ Dr Bennett 
 is coming to spend the night here ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Yes.’ 
 
 ‘You don’t happen to know when he will come ?’ 
 
 ‘ About half -past nine, I think.’ 
 
 ‘ It ’s hours to that yet, unfortunately ; but still it 
 will come — it will come if we have patience. Janet, 
 you are not to go to bed early.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, I am all right,’ said Janet, winking her big 
 bright eyes. ‘ I like staying up.’ 
 
 ‘Mother must think you have gone to bed. You are 
 to go up to your room and pretend to go to bed.’ 
 
 ‘ All right,’ said Janet. 
 
 ‘ But you are not to go. You are to come downstairs 
 when mother is well established in father’s room, and 
 that horrid Sister Agnes has shut herself in her room, 
 and you are to hide in the hall, and the very instant 
 you hear Dr Bennett’s step, before he has time to ring 
 the bell, you are to open the door to him.’ 
 
 ‘ How am I to know his step ? ’ 
 
 ‘ You ’ll have to listen hard ; you have often told me 
 you were good at sounds.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, I am very, and I think I know his step ; it is 
 firm, and he always runs up the three steps.’ 
 
 ‘Then listen for the man who runs up the three 
 steps, and let him in before he rings — do you hear ? ’ 
 
 ‘ I hear,’ said Janet. ‘ It ’s most exciting.’ 
 
 ‘ If he rings, Kate will come and open the door ; 
 and if she sees me talking to him she will go and 
 tell mother. We must prevent that. I want to see 
 him.’ 
 
14 
 
 HE WILL TELL ME THE TRUTH. 
 
 ‘ And when you do, what will you say ? ’ 
 
 ‘Take him in here and shut the door behind him, 
 and say, “ Dr Bennett, I must know the truth.” He 
 will tell me,’ said Clarissa. ‘ He won’t refuse to satisfy 
 me, and then, kiddy, you and I will know how to act,’ 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 ‘I CANNOT DISREGARD YOUR FATHER’S WISH.’ 
 
 IHE daring plan devised by Clarissa was 
 carried out to perfection by the practical 
 Janet. Janet was a most loving, affec- 
 tionate child of ten. She had more nerve, 
 in some respects, than Clarissa, and was 
 not so much afraid of her mother ; therefore, on 
 emergencies, she could act with great coolness and 
 precision. She went up to bed with the air of the 
 best little girl in the world, said her prayers with 
 perfect calmness, washed her face and hands, and 
 smoothed out the bed-clothes; but no further pre- 
 parations were made. She only slipped the coverlet 
 off the bed, then got in, and laid her little round head 
 on her white pillow ; next she put out the candle, 
 and ]ay perfectly quiet. Janet knew she would have 
 to stay quiet for the best part of an hour before ven- 
 turing downstairs ; for Mrs Rodney would not go to her 
 husband’s room till about a quarter to nine ; therefore 
 Janet could not possibly go downstairs to take up 
 her position as watcher in the hall until her father’s 
 door was quietly closed, and Sister Agnes — whom the 
 girl cordially detested— was heard going to her own 
 room. Janet found it hard to keep awake, and her 
 
16 ‘I CANNOT DISKEGARD YOUR FATHER’S WISH.’ 
 
 thouglits — although they were not as full of fear as 
 Clarissa’s — were sufficiently anxious to make her sad 
 and lonely. The one thing to which she clung with 
 absolute comfort was the dream of Mary the cook — 
 the dream that father was to die in his boots. 
 
 ‘ I ’ll hide all his boots to-morrow,’ thought Janet, 
 
 ‘ and then he cannot die. Oh dear, I wish the time 
 would go.’ 
 
 Even this slow hour did pass away, and Mrs Rodney 
 duly shut herself up in her husband’s room as head- 
 nurse, and Sister Agnes went to her room. 
 
 ‘ It is safe now,’ thought Janet, as she tumbled out 
 of bed and hurried downstairs. She had taken off her 
 shoes, so her little feet made no sound on the carpet. 
 
 Clarissa, looking pale and cross, with red patches on 
 her cheeks, was peeping round the door of her own 
 special sitting-room, in which the gas was burning. 
 
 ‘ The room doesn’t look so dusty when the gas is 
 lit,’ she whispered to her little sister. ‘It will soon 
 be half-past nine; he is sure to be punctual. The 
 last post has come, and no one else will dream of 
 coming to the door. You must stand with your hand 
 on the handle, and listen for all you ’re worth.’ 
 
 Janet nodded, and rushed to her post as watcher. 
 In a short time the expected steps were heard; and 
 before Dr Bennett had time to ring the bell the litUe 
 girl had the door wide open. 
 
 ‘ Come in softly,’ she said ; ‘ very softly, please.’ 
 
 ‘ Why so ? Is he worse ? ’ asked the doctor. 
 
 ‘ I don’t know ; it ’s Clarissa wants to see you. 
 Clare, here he is.’ 
 
 ‘Come at once,’ said Clarissa. She stretched out 
 her hand and took the doctor’s. 
 
M,N. 
 
 ‘Come into bed,’ said Janet. 
 
 Page -23 
 
‘I CANNOT DISREGARD YOUR FATHER’S WISH.’ 17 
 
 ‘You can go to bed, Janet,’ she said to her sister. 
 
 Janet turned away with a crimson face and anger 
 in her heart. She had done her duty skilfully; she 
 had got the doctor into the house so that no one 
 should hear him, and now she was to be sent off to 
 bed. It was hard of Clarissa. 
 
 ‘ Go to bed ; I ’ll come to you presently,’ said 
 Clarissa. Then Janet did go upstairs, a little com- 
 forted but not satisfied. 
 
 ‘ What is the meaning of this ? ’ said Dr Bennett, 
 when he found himself face to face with Clarissa in 
 the small, unwholesome back sitting-room. ‘ Dear me, 
 what a very unpleasant smell ! What do you keep 
 here ? ’ 
 
 ‘Never mind about the smell,’ said Clarissa; ‘that’s 
 all right.’ 
 
 ‘I assure you it is nothing of the kind; it is all 
 wrong. What do you keep here ? You ought not 
 to sit in a room like this. Let me open the window.’ 
 
 ‘Not for worlds,’ said Clarissa; ‘it will give Bully 
 asthma.’ 
 
 ‘ Bully ! Who is he ? ’ 
 
 ‘ My darling bullfinch. Please don’t mind the smell. 
 Do let me speak to you.’ 
 
 ‘I must go to my patient. I cannot stay unless 
 you require me for something very special.’ 
 
 ‘ It is very special,’ said Clarissa ; ‘ it ’s life or death 
 — that ’s what it is.’ 
 
 ‘ Life or death,’ muttered Dr Bennett. ‘ Why should 
 you talk in that intense way ? Little girls like 
 you ’ 
 
 ‘Little girl indeed,’ said Clarissa; ‘remember I 
 am sixteen.’ 
 
 Noneijtity. P 
 
18 ‘I CANNOT DISREGARD YOUR FATHER’S WISH.’ 
 
 ‘ Even so, I consider you quite a little girl.’ 
 
 ‘ I ’m head of the school anyway. I have just got 
 the scholarship.’ 
 
 ‘ Have you indeed — the Randall Scholarship ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Yes.’ 
 
 ‘ Let me congratulate you. This will be pleasant 
 
 news for your father, poor fellow, when ’ 
 
 ‘ Dr Bennett, that ’s what I want to ask you — it ’s 
 about father. The scholarship doesn’t matter. Noth- 
 ing matters. It ’s only father I ’m interested in.’ 
 
 ‘Well, child ? ’ 
 
 ‘ And mother won’t tell me, and Sister Agnes won’t 
 tell me; but I want the truth. You shall tell me; 
 you must — you shall.’ The girl clenched her hands, 
 and the crimson in her cheeks grew vivid and her 
 eyes bright. She went close to Dr Bennett, and 
 looked him in the face. ‘ You shall tell me,’ she 
 
 cried. ‘ I won’t be treated as a baby. Is father ’ 
 
 ‘ Well ? ’ asked the doctor. ‘ Well ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Is father to live or is he to die ? ’ 
 
 ‘ My dear Clarissa, my dear little girl, sit down. 
 You are trembling; you are not well. Sit down.’ 
 
 ‘ I won’t. I can’t. You must — you shall — speak.’ 
 There was a slight sound upstairs, the sound of 
 a dragging step which began slowly to descend the 
 stair. 
 
 Clarissa gave a cry. ‘ It ’s mother, and she will 
 prevent me. You shall tell me, you shall. I’ll scream 
 if you don’t. I can’t stand it any longer; this sus- 
 pense is awful.’ 
 
 The dragging step on the stairs sounded nearer. 
 ‘You shall tell me,’ repeated Clarissa. 
 
 ‘ Hush ! ’ said Dr Bennett — ‘ hush ! I will come 
 
‘I CANNOT DISREGARD TOUR FATHER’S WISH,’ 19 
 
 back in a moment. I must go and speak to your 
 mother.’ 
 
 ‘ She won’t let you come back. Oh, it is all lost. If 
 you would only tell me.’ 
 
 But Dr Bennett had opened the door and gone 
 out. 
 
 ‘ So you have come,’ said Mrs Rodney in a surprised 
 tone. ‘ I thought I heard voices. May I ask who you 
 are talking to ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Your eldest daughter, Clarissa. She is not well. I 
 will be with you in a few moments.’ 
 
 ‘ You must come at once. Of course Clarissa is quite 
 well ; I can attend to her. He seems very weak.’ 
 
 ‘ I ’ll be with you in a moment. There can be no 
 imminent change. Will you go upstairs, please ? I 
 will speak to your little daughter ; she must be 
 soothed.’ 
 
 Clarissa, listening at the other side of the closed 
 door, held her breath with anxiety. Would her 
 mother insist on hurrying Dr Bennett behind that 
 heavy curtain before he told her what she anxiously 
 desired to know, or would the doctor’s words prevail ? 
 
 The next instant she had given a sigh of ecstasy, 
 as the slow and heavy steps were heard ascending, 
 and the doctor returned to the unwholesome room. 
 
 ‘Now,’ he said, ‘you must be very quick. Your 
 father wants me immediately.’ 
 
 ‘I will try to be quick. It is difficult, but I will 
 try. Dr Bennett, is my father in danger ? ’ 
 
 The doctor’s expression showed that he was dis- 
 pleased or uneasy. He was evidently unwilling to 
 be questioned. The straight lips shut firmly, and 
 the direct gray eyes were fixed on Clarissa’s face. 
 
20 ‘I CANNOT DISKEGARD YOUR FATHER’S WISH.’ 
 
 Drawing himself slightly up and facing her, he 
 stretched out one hand and laid it on the handle of 
 the door. 
 
 Clarissa knew that he was about to say something', 
 and then withdraw from the room. She was afraid he 
 would leave before the question she had asked was 
 answered ; so, with a quick movement, she ran and 
 stood with her back to the door, pushing the doctor 
 aside as she did so. 
 
 ‘ I am not going to be afraid of you,’ she said. ‘ Is 
 my father in danger ? ’ 
 
 ‘ There are symptoms,’ said the doctor then slowly, 
 ‘ which ’ 
 
 ‘ Go on, please. Don’t go round it, but go straight 
 at it. Speak straightforwardly and tell me exactly 
 what is going to happen.’ 
 
 ‘There are symptoms,’ repeated the doctor, raising 
 his hand as if to ward off something, ‘ which I do not 
 like, but which a specialist — a very great specialist — 
 might avert.’ 
 
 ‘ Now, you are puzzling me extremely,’ said Clarissa. 
 
 ‘ I know most things that a girl of sixteen ought to 
 know ; but what do you mean by a great specialist ? ’ 
 
 ‘ A man who makes a study of a certain science, 
 art, or trade, so deeply and so thoroughly that he 
 knows more about it than most of his fellowmen. 
 Your father is suffering from a somewhat obscure 
 disease, which is giving him very great agony and 
 terrible weakness. There is a man in town who has 
 made that disease his special study; if he saw your 
 father he might suggest something to alleviate and 
 cure, and his life might be spared.’ 
 
 ‘ Then why doesn’t he see him ? ’ said Clarissa. She 
 
‘I CANNOT DISREGARD YOUR FATHER’S WISH.’ 21 
 
 left her position near the door now, and came up to 
 Dr Bennett. ‘ What awful madness this is,’ she said. 
 ‘If there’s a man who can cure father, why doesn’t 
 father see him ? ’ 
 
 ‘I have begged your father to do so, and have 
 assured him that if all the circumstances of the case 
 were known Sir John Carbery would come here for 
 a small fee.’ 
 
 ‘ But what do fees matter ? ’ interrupted Clarissa. 
 ‘ Send for him at once^ — at once. It is life or death. 
 Please send for him at once.’ 
 
 ‘I cannot do so, for your father forbids me. I 
 spoke to him very gravely about the whole matter 
 yesterday. He said, “ Sir John Carbery ’s visit would 
 cost from thirty -five to forty guineas. I will not 
 have that spent on a mere chance.” Miss Clarissa, I 
 cannot disregard your father’s wish, I ’ll do my best 
 to pull him through, not only for your mother’s sake 
 and for yours and your little sister’s, but for his own ; 
 he is one of the best, the most excellent men I have 
 ever met. Now, you must not keep me another 
 moment. I only wish to tell you clearly that it is 
 impossible for me to disregard your father’s wishes.’ 
 
 With these last words Dr Bennett pushed Clarissa 
 gently aside and went out of the room, closing the 
 door behind him. She heard him going upstairs, and 
 then she fell on her knees and raised her tearful face 
 to heaven. 
 
 ‘Please, God, show me a way,’ she cried. ‘The 
 great, great doctor must come. Please, God, show me 
 a way.’ 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 ‘SHE LITTLE KNOWS.’ 
 
 ANET and Clarissa slept in the same room. 
 It was late ; but Janet’s eyes were wide 
 open as she peeped at Clarissa out of 
 the big bed. Clarissa came noisily into 
 the room, put her candle on the chest of 
 drawers, and began to undress. 
 
 ‘ Well ? ’ said Janet. 
 
 ‘ What are you lying awake for, kiddy ? You know 
 it is very bad for you ; you ’ll be stupid over your 
 lessons to-morrow, and you ’ll go down a place in 
 class.’ 
 
 ‘ I don’t care. What a funny look you have got 
 on your face ! Is anything the matter ? ’ 
 
 ‘ I have got both good and bad news. I have got 
 the truth out of the doctor.’ 
 
 ‘ Well, do say. They have been moving about so 
 much downstairs that I have been terrified. Do say.’ 
 
 ‘ Father is ill, but I don’t think he is dying, at least 
 not at present ; and the case is not hopeless. That 
 is the news. It is bad enough, but it might be 
 worse.’ 
 
 ‘I don’t see that it is so very good,’ said Janet; 
 ‘but I wish you’d tell me more particulars’ 
 
‘she little knows." 
 
 23 
 
 ‘I don’t know them myself, kiddy. Shall I get 
 into bed and talk to you further ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Do if you like.’ 
 
 ‘ I am rather cold,’ said Clarissa. ‘ I am trembling 
 all over. I don’t want to give way.’ 
 
 ‘ Come into bed,’ said Janet, ‘ and I ’ll snuggle up to 
 you and put my arms round your neck. It ’s a great 
 comfort — isn’t it, Clare ? — that you and I have one 
 another. We are often rather lonely — aren’t we ? 
 But when we are together we are never lonely.’ 
 
 ‘ That is quite true, darling.’ 
 
 ‘It’s because mother is so cold,’ continued Janet. 
 ‘I know she is the very best of mothers — every 
 one says so ; and she keeps the house in such perfect 
 order, and makes the money go so far. Father says 
 there never was such a wife ; but why doesn’t she — 
 why doesn’t she sometimes — oh, I wish she would — 
 even cry ? ’ said little Janet. ‘ I wish she would even 
 scold, but she is just ’ 
 
 ‘Don’t speak against mother; it isn’t right,’ said 
 Clarissa. ‘ I have felt cross with her ; but I don’t 
 feel cross to-night. I have got a plan in my head.’ 
 
 ‘ What is that ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Wouldn’t it be grand ? ’ said Clarissa. 
 
 ‘ What would be grand ? ’ 
 
 ‘ If I pulled father round.’ 
 
 Janet, who had crept up close to Clarissa, and was 
 about to put her arms round her neck, instead of 
 doing so laid one soft, small hand on her sister’s 
 forehead. 
 
 ‘ Have you a very bad headache ? ’ Janet asked. 
 ‘ Are you talking nonsense ? Aren’t you a little bit 
 queer, Clare ? ’ 
 
24 
 
 ‘SHE LITTLE KNOWS.’ 
 
 ‘ No, I ’m not queer at all ; I am talking in sober 
 earnest. The doctor said that father is suffering from 
 something which even he does not quite understand ; 
 and he says, too, that there is a great man in London 
 who might be able to cure him, but father has not 
 got money enough to pay for the great man to come 
 and visit him. Now, I tell you what I mean to do. 
 I mean to spend some of my scholarship on getting 
 this great doctor to see father. I mean to do it. I 
 stayed in the room with the birds and the mice, and 
 thought it all out. I mean to do it at once.’ 
 
 ‘ But how can you ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Remember, it is forty pounds a year. I ’ll have to 
 ask one of the Governors to let me have all one year’s 
 money at once. Of course he ’ll do it. I may not 
 get it for a month ; but I think I can manage that. 
 I shall spend the money on the great doctor. He 
 will come and see father, and father will get well.’ 
 
 ‘It does sound exciting,’ said Janet. ‘When is he 
 to come ? ’ 
 
 ‘ That is the thing that puzzles me most. He ought 
 to come immediately, and I don’t believe I can trust 
 Dr Bennett. Dr Bennett might refuse me, and I do 
 not wish to run the risk. I must see Sir John 
 Carbery — that is the name of the specialist — and I 
 must promise to pay him. I have planned everything. 
 Dr Bennett will be surprised, and mother too; but I 
 will see Sir John and tell him that he is only to say 
 to Dr Bennett, “ A friend sent me,” and they will never 
 guess, Janey, that I am the friend — never. You ’ll 
 
 keep it an awful secret — won’t you, Janey ? ’ 
 
 ‘ That I will. I do think, Clare, you are about the 
 noblest girl in all the world.’ 
 
‘SHE LITTLE KNOWS.’ 
 
 25 
 
 ‘ Oh, I am nothing of the sort,’ replied Clarissa ; but 
 she had a pleased sensation about her heart when 
 her little sister praised her, and she pressed up 
 closely to the warm little figure and allowed the 
 comfort of Janet’s sympathetic presence to go through 
 her. 
 
 ‘ There is one thing that puzzles me,’ she said. ‘ I 
 must go to London to see the doctor, and I have not 
 got the money.’ 
 
 ‘ No more you have. What is to be done ? ’ said 
 Janet. ‘It will cost many shillings to go to London 
 — won’t it ? ’ 
 
 ‘It takes two hours to go from here to London, 
 and the return journey third-class will cost fifteen 
 shillings. I looked it all up in the ABC time- 
 table before I came upstairs. A train leaves here 
 at ten o’clock in the morning, and it reaches London 
 at twelve. I shall drive straight to the doctor’s house, 
 and beg of him to come down if possible to-morrow, 
 for there really is not an hour to be lost. I can 
 manage the whole thing in school-hours, and mother 
 will not know. Of course I shall be punished at 
 school the next day ; but what does that matter ? 
 In about a month’s time, or perhaps sooner, they 
 will give me my forty pounds, and I ’ll send the 
 necessary money to Sir John Carbery. I will tell 
 him quite frankly that I mean to pay him in about 
 a month, and I am certain he will wait that time, for 
 doctors are always so kind. Now, the one puzzling 
 thing that you and I have got to do before we sleep 
 to-night, Janet, is to think out some way of getting 
 the fifteen shillings.’ 
 
 ‘ There ’s money in the missionary-box — plenty,’ 
 
26 
 
 ‘SHE LITTLE KNOWS.’ 
 
 replied Janet. ‘Do you think it would be wrong to 
 take it ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Of course it wouldn’t,’ answered Clarissa ; ‘ it is a 
 splendid thought of yours, and it settles everything.. 
 Mother won’t know, and when I get my scholarship 
 money I ’ll be able to pay back what I borrowed. I 
 shall want a little more than the fifteen shillings, so I 
 will take a sovereign. Dr Bennett said when he was 
 talking about Sir John Carbery that his fee would 
 probably be thirty-five guineas, so there will be 
 enough over to pay for everything else. Oh dear, I 
 do feel happy. What a grand, magnificent thing it 
 is that I got the scholarship.’ 
 
 ‘Yes, it is quite grand,’ said little Janet. 
 
 The girls talked for some time longer. Hope was 
 sitting rosy and joyous at the foot of their bed, and 
 they did not guess or even think of any difl&culties 
 ahead. Presently they both dropped off to sleep, 
 and in the morning were greeted by the information 
 that their father had spent a slightly better night, 
 and that Dr Bennett had gone home. 
 
 Clarissa hastily rose and dressed. Janet followed 
 her example. 
 
 ‘Now, Janey,’ said the elder sister, ‘whatever 
 happens you must keep your own counsel. You must 
 not get a sort of confused look on your face when 
 the great doctor’s visit is spoken of afterwards. You 
 know you often do look very silly, and as if you 
 were bursting with the whole secret; you must not 
 have that sort of look, and you must on no account 
 turn red.’ 
 
 ‘ It ’s one of my awful trials that I do get so per- 
 fectly scarlet,’ said Janet. ‘I get flushed almost for 
 
‘SHE LITTLE KNOWS,’ 
 
 27 
 
 nothing if mother happens to look at me when I 
 think she is going to be displeased about anything; 
 in especial, if mother is thinking down deep in her 
 heart that I have done something naughty, even 
 though I have not done the naughty thing, I do flush 
 up so — it’s perfectly dreadful — and then mother is 
 certain sure I have done it. I ’d best get out of the 
 room when the doctor is talked of ; that ’s the only 
 thing for me to do.’ 
 
 ‘ It is a very tiresome habit, and you ought to break 
 yourself oflT it,’ said Clarissa. 
 
 Janet gave a sigh. ‘ I would if I could,’ she replied. 
 ‘ I ’d like to consult a doctor about it — I ’d like to ask 
 him if there is a cure for getting scarlet when you 
 don’t want to get scarlet. Do you think he ’d 
 laugh ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Of course he would, kiddy. It ’s just because you 
 are nervous. You must not be nervous any more ; 
 and you have got to keep my secret.’ 
 
 Janet gave another sigh, and proceeded with her 
 toilet. ‘ What about the missionary -box ? ’ she asked 
 as she was preparing to leave the room. 
 
 ‘ You had better fetch it.’ 
 
 ‘ It ’s in father’s dressing-room. How am I to get 
 in ? ’ asked Janet. 
 
 You must go in, and you must take it, and you 
 must be quick. You must put it back again after- 
 wards. I ’ll have to open it and take out the money, 
 and I must be very sharp. School begins at nine, 
 and it ’s nearly eight now.’ 
 
 Janet slipped downstairs. 
 
 The missionary-box was quite an institution in the 
 family. Every Sunday money was dropped into it. 
 
28 
 
 'SHE LITTLE KNOWS.’ 
 
 Whatever else was neglected on the day of rest this 
 little observance, started by Mrs Rodney when the 
 children were very young, was never forgotten. The 
 missionary-box held sixpences and shillings, and even 
 half-crowns; and always at the beginning of the 
 winter it was opened, and the collection sent to the 
 missionaries. The children had come to regard the 
 missionary-box with a sort of awe; they would as 
 soon neglect to eat their dinner as to put their offering 
 through its narrow slit. It always stood on the top 
 of the chest of drawers in father’s dressing-room. 
 
 Janet ran into the room now. She was just going 
 to see her father, when the nurse came out. 
 
 ‘ He is asleep,’ she said ; ‘ you must not see him at 
 present.’ 
 
 ‘ All right,’ replied Janet ; ‘ but is he better ? ’ 
 
 ‘ He is very slightly better.’ 
 
 Sister Agnes left the room ; and Janet, looking after 
 her, snatched up the missionary-box. She trusted to 
 be able to carry it to Clarissa’s room without any 
 one seeing her, and the next moment had achieved 
 her object. 
 
 ‘ It ’s awfully dangerous,’ said Janet ; ‘ but I have 
 done it. Open it quick — quick, and take out what 
 you want. I hope it isn’t wrong to take the money 
 from the poor missionaries.’ 
 
 ‘ Of course it is not wrong,’ said Clarissa, ‘ for I am 
 only borrowing it. Give me a knife ; I ’ll have to 
 open it ju.st here.’ 
 
 ‘ But can you glue it down again ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Yes ; fly for the glue-pot. Get cook to heat it.’ 
 
 Again Janet rushed through the house. When she 
 returned with the glue Clarissa had removed a whole 
 
‘SHE LITTLE KNOWS.’ 
 
 29 
 
 sovereign from the missionary-box in shillings, six- 
 pences, and half-crowns. 
 
 ‘ Now we must fasten it down,’ she said. ‘ We must 
 trust that no one has noticed that it was removed 
 from father’s dressing-room ; and you must^ manage to 
 slip it back after breakfast, Janet.’ 
 
 ‘ But I shall be off to school then.’ 
 
 ‘You must do it first. You know Sister Agnes 
 always comes downstairs for her breakfast ; there will 
 be no one in the dressing-room.’ 
 
 ‘ I ’ll manage it somehow, Clare. It ’s awfully 
 dangerous — the whole thing is.’ 
 
 ‘ It ’s worth going through for the sake of saving 
 father,’ said Clarissa. ‘ I shall be thankful, more than 
 thankful, if I can carry out this splendid plan.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, it will be magnificent of you to save father’s 
 life,’ said the little girl. 
 
 They both went downstairs. Breakfast proceeded. 
 Mrs Rodney was present, and was slightly more 
 hopeful. 
 
 ‘Your father has spent a night of great sufiering, 
 but he is rather easier this morning,’ she said. 
 
 ‘ Can I see him, mother, just for a minute or two ? ’ 
 asked Clarissa. 
 
 ‘No, my dear child, not now; perhaps this evening. 
 Janet dear, you must not see father either this morn- 
 ing ; he is dosing, and I do not wish him to be 
 disturbed. — Sister Agnes, do have another egg; you 
 must be so tired after your weary night.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, I am nicely rested, thank you, Mrs Rodney,’ 
 said Sister Agnes in the tone which always made 
 Janet inclined to stamp her foot. 
 
 ‘ She is so like an iceberg,’ thought Janet. ‘ I wish 
 
30 
 
 ‘SHE LITTLE KNOWS,’ 
 
 I could shake her. I quite hate her. I have heard 
 of nice nurses ; but she ’s not one,’ 
 
 Sister Agnes seemed to read these thoughts' as she 
 fixed her cold gray eyes on Janet, and pursed up her 
 mouth in a superior manner. 
 
 ‘ Clarissa,’ said her mother, ‘ what was that you told 
 me yesterday about a scholarship ? Is it true that 
 you have got the Randall Scholarship ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Quite true, mother,’ answered Clarissa, turning first 
 red and then pale. 
 
 ‘ She ’s blushing too,’ thought little Janet. ‘ I ’ll 
 speak to her about it afterwards. I ’m not the only 
 one.’ 
 
 ‘I am pleased with you,’ said Mrs Rodney. ‘It 
 
 will be a help in your education — that is, if ’ she 
 
 sighed. 
 
 ‘Poor mother,’ thought Clarissa, ‘she little knows 
 what I mean to do with it. She little, little knows.’ 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 SIR JOHN CARBERY. 
 
 ITH the money she had abstracted from 
 the missionary-box Clarissa purchased a 
 ticket, and took the ten o’clock train to 
 London. She had been very lucky ; at 
 least she thought so. She was obliged 
 to go in her usual school dress, and her school dress was 
 decidedly shabby ; but she did not mind that. She 
 scarcely even regarded the hole in one of her brown cloth 
 gloves ; she hoped the eminent doctor would not notice 
 it when she visited him. During the first part of tlm 
 journey she was in high spirits, for she was stimulated 
 by the success of the preliminary steps of her adven- 
 ture. She had taken a third-class ticket for her 
 journey. The carnage was empty when she left 
 Upton ; but it gradually filled as the train stopped 
 at the various stations. Clarissa’s companions seemed 
 to take an interest in her ; and one tired, sad-looking 
 lady offered her some sandwiches from a supply which 
 she had for herself. Clarissa accepted one or two, and 
 then the lady entered into conversation, 
 
 ‘ Is any one coming to meet you at Paddington ? ’ 
 asked the lady. ‘ Are you going back to school ? But 
 it is not the half-term yet.’ 
 
32 
 
 SIR JOHN CARBERY. 
 
 ‘ No, I am not going to school, and there is no one 
 coming to meet me,’ answered Clarissa, flushing and 
 feeling very uncomfortable. If only Janet could see 
 her now ! 
 
 ‘ Can I help you in any way when you get to town V 
 
 At first the girl was inclined to say ‘ No, thank you,’ 
 but she suddenly remembered — what a goose she was 
 not to have thought of it before ! — that she had not the 
 slightest idea where Sir John Carbery lived. Perhaps 
 this lady, who certainly looked kind and had a pleasant 
 manner, could tell her. 
 
 ‘I am going,’ said Clarissa slowly, ‘to see Sir John 
 Carbery.’ 
 
 ‘ What ! the doctor — the great specialist ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Yes,’ Clarissa replied, nodding her head, and with 
 some difficulty keeping back her tears. ‘I want to 
 see him at once ; I want to ask him to see my father, 
 who is ill.’ 
 
 ‘ Poor child,’ said the lady. ‘ My dear,’ she continued 
 after a pause, ‘ my name is Miss Napier, and I happen 
 to know Sir John Carbery. I was ill once, and he did 
 me a great deal of good. I can tell you his address. 
 I am sorry for you ; but why are you sent to him ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Because father is ill — didn’t I say so ? I want him 
 to see my father.’ 
 
 Miss Napier tried not to express any of the curiosity 
 which began to well up in her heart; she saw that 
 Clarissa looked tired and sad. Till now she had not 
 taken much notice of the girl ; but, looking her all 
 over, she noted the shabby frock, the worn-out jacket 
 which was much too small for the growing girl, the 
 hole in the brown glove. Then she glanced at Clarissa’s 
 face, which, notwithstanding its anxiety, was bright 
 
SIR JOHN CARBERY. 
 
 33 
 
 and wore a charming expression. The girl’s face was 
 most intelligent, with its broad brow and clear, well- 
 opened eyes ; the complexion was of a soft cream, but 
 the slightest emotion caused the colour to come vividly 
 into the cheeks. 
 
 ‘Quite a lady,’ thought Miss Napier; ‘but it is 
 strange that this child, for she is no more, should be 
 sent up to town on such an errand.’ 
 
 Clarissa looked full at the lady while these thoughts 
 were passing through her mind. Clarissa’s face seemed 
 to say, ‘ No, I am not going to confide in you ; but I 
 want you to help me.’ 
 
 ‘ The girl has not even told me her name,’ thought 
 Miss Napier. ‘ I certainly would like to do something 
 for her.’ 
 
 By-and-by the journey came to an end, and the 
 train ran swiftly into Paddington Station. Clarissa 
 got out, and Miss Napier followed her. 
 
 ‘ I will put you in a cab if you will permit me,’ said 
 the lady, ‘ and give the driver the address of my 
 friend’s house.’ 
 
 ‘ Thank you,’ answered the girl. 
 
 Miss Napier called a cabman from a group standing 
 near, and the next moment Clarissa was in a hansom. 
 She had never been in London before ; she felt rather 
 confused as she looked around. 
 
 ‘ I wish the town was not quite so busy, and I wish 
 I did not feel so frightened,’ thought the girl. ‘ Oh, of 
 course, I ’ll go through it ; but I wish I didn’t so long 
 for Miss Napier to come with me.’ 
 
 ‘ Suppose we share this hansom ? My house is half- 
 way to the doctor’s,’ said the lady suddenly. She 
 certainly had the faculty of reading thoughts. The 
 
 Nonentity. C 
 
34 
 
 SIR JOHN CABBERY. 
 
 next moment they had left the station and were 
 speeding along the highroad, past Whiteley’s and 
 other interesting places. Miss Napier talked quietly, 
 and soon drew the fact from Clarissa that this was 
 her first visit to London. 
 
 ‘ It is rather dangerous for you — is it not ? ’ she 
 remarked ; ‘ I wonder your mother let you come up.’ 
 Clarissa was silent for a moment. Then, looking 
 full at Miss Napier, she said : 
 
 ‘You would like me to tell you everything; hut I 
 can’t. Please believe that I am not doing wrong. 
 Father is ill, and I am detei'mined to save him.’ 
 
 ‘ Brave child,’ replied Miss Napier. Something like 
 a lump rose in her throat ; then, after a pause, she 
 continued : ‘You cannot have a kinder friend than 
 Sir John Carbery ; and if you think it doubtful that 
 he will do what you wish, please mention my name. 
 Just say you met Jane Napier on your way to town. 
 You need not say more ; the words Jane Napier will 
 just be sufficient. He will do anything in his power 
 for you for my sake.’ 
 
 Miss Napier blushed as she spoke. Soon afterwards 
 the cab drew up at her own house. Here she bade 
 Clarissa a kind good-bye, said something to the cab- 
 man, and the girl was borne out of sight. Clarissa 
 was now too excited to feel even nervous ; her heart 
 was beating quickly, but her manner was composed 
 when the cab arrived at Sir John Carbery ’s house in 
 Grosvenor Street. The cabman pulled up short, and 
 the girl dismounted. She fumbled in her pocket for 
 her purse. 
 
 ‘ If you please, miss,’ said the man, ‘ I have been paid 
 already ; and the lady has given directions that I am 
 
SIR JOHN CARBERT. 
 
 35 
 
 to wait for you, miss. It don’t matter how long you 
 stay ; it ’s all settled, miss.’ He smiled at Clarissa, 
 who got first red and then felt angry, and then deter- 
 mined to say nothing more about it. 
 
 ‘ Perhaps God meant it. Miss Napier was very kind, 
 and I will send her back the money when I get my 
 scholarship,’ thought the girl. 
 
 Clarissa rang the bell of the great house ; when 
 the servant appeared she asked if she could see Sir 
 John Carbery. 
 
 ‘ Will you step in, miss ? My master has just seen 
 his last patient. I don’t know if he will have time to 
 see any one else.’ 
 
 Clarissa found herself in a spacious hall magnifi- 
 cently furnished. She was shown into a dining-room, 
 where a cloth was laid for lunch. A moment later 
 the man returned. 
 
 ‘ Will you come this way ? ’ 
 
 Clarissa followed him down a long, thickly-carpeted 
 passage. He threw open a door which led into an 
 anteroom, walked past Clarissa, opened another door, 
 and announced, ‘ The young lady, sir.’ 
 
 ‘ It is funny that he never even asked my name,’ 
 thought the girl. She went in, knowing that her face 
 was white, and with a wild feeling in her heart. 
 Suppose Sir John Carbery refused her — suppose he 
 said, ‘ I cannot possibly go to your father in such an 
 informal way ; ’ but there was no use in thinking of 
 her fears now. She was facing the lion, and had to 
 make the most of her opportunity. 
 
 ‘ Sit down — won’t you ? ’ said Sir J ohn in a kind 
 tone. Clarissa looked up at Ifim and saw a tall, slender 
 man, with hair rapidly turning gray, keen eyes, and a 
 
36 
 
 SIR JOHN CARBERY. 
 
 firm mouth. He looked intently at her ; hut the next 
 moment turned away, opened a drawer, took out a 
 paper, pushed in the drawer again, and turned the key 
 in the lock. He was giving his young visitor time to 
 recover from her trepidation. 
 
 'Now, what can I do for you ? ’ he asked. 
 
 ' I ought to tell you that my name is Clarissa 
 Rodney,’ began the girl. 
 
 ‘ Are you suffering ? Have you come to tell me 
 your symptoms ? ’ 
 
 ‘ I have not. I have come because — because I am in 
 trouble, and I hope — I just hope — that you — that you 
 will help me.’ 
 
 ‘ Speak out, my child,’ said Sir John. ‘ First of all, 
 tell me how old you are ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Sixteen. I am only a schoolgirl.’ 
 
 ‘You look like a schoolgirl,’ said Sir John, and he 
 smiled slightly. 
 
 That smile reassured Clarissa. Her heart began to 
 beat less rapidly, and she tried to collect her thoughts. 
 ‘It is about father,’ she said. ‘Father is very ill. I 
 do not know what is the matter ; but his own doctor 
 says that if there is a man in the wide world who can 
 cure him you are that person.’ 
 
 ‘ Where does your father live ? ’ 
 
 ‘At Upton.’ 
 
 ‘ Upton in shire ? ’ 
 
 ‘Yes.’ 
 
 ‘ And his name is ? ’ 
 
 ‘ His name is Professor Rodney. He is the Professor 
 of Literature at the college for men at Upton.’ 
 
 Sir John opened a book which lay near and wrote 
 a few words in it. 
 
SIR JOHN CAEBERY. 
 
 37 
 
 ‘ And what is your doctor’s name ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Dr Bennett.’ 
 
 ‘ If he thinks I can cure your father, why does he 
 not send for me ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Because we are very poor. Your fee would he 
 large ; Dr Bennett told me so last night. He said 
 that he was most anxious that father should see you ; 
 hut that father had absolutely made up his mind not 
 to go to the expense.’ 
 
 ‘ And you have come to plead with me to visit your 
 father for nothing ? Is that so ? ’ 
 
 ‘ It is not so.’ Clarissa stood up ; there was a proud 
 light in her eyes although her lips trembled. ‘ I want 
 you to come and I want to pay you myself. I shall 
 have the money in a month’s time. Will you wait for 
 it just for one month, and will you trust me ? Will 
 you please trust me although I am only a young girl ? 
 Will you come and see father and save his life ? ’ 
 
 ‘ You must tell me more about this.’ 
 
 Sir John got up now, walked to the door, opened it, 
 and called to his servant : ‘ Tell Lady Carbery not to 
 wait lunch.’ Then he came back and sat down in quite 
 a cosy, confidential way opposite Clarissa. ‘ You can 
 tell me now,’ he said. ‘ Tell me the whole story ; take 
 your own time. I am not in any special hurry.’ 
 
 Clarissa did tell her story ; at least she told part of 
 it. She described her father’s illness and some of its 
 symptoms, and her mother’s despair, and her own agony 
 of mind. Then she told Sir John what Dr Bennett 
 had said to her the night before. ‘ Father will not 
 send for you because he cannot pay,’ said the girl. 
 ‘ Father is about the proudest man I ever met. Even 
 if you did make him well it would almost kill him if 
 
38 
 
 SIR JOHN CARBERY. 
 
 he knew you had come to visit him except with the 
 full fee, and your fee is ’ 
 
 Sir John hastily turned over the pages of an ABC 
 time-table which lay near him. 
 
 ‘ To Upton,’ he said, ‘ my fee would be thirty-five 
 guineas.’ 
 
 ‘ That ’s exactly what Dr Bennett said. Father has 
 not got thirty-five guineas to give.’ 
 
 ‘ There are some things which pay better than 
 money,’ said Sir John. ‘ There is such a thing as pluck. 
 Sometimes a doctor is paid by the pluck, the courage, 
 the filial affection of those who implore his services. 
 Suppose you pay me in that way, little girl ; suppose 
 that signifies thirty-five — nay, more than thirty-five — 
 guineas to me ! ’ 
 
 ‘ It cannot be done,’ said Clarissa ; ‘ father would 
 inquire. He is a very keen man of business even 
 now, and he would inquire, and he would never for- 
 give me ; besides, it is not necessary. I have won a 
 prize at school — a great prize of forty pounds. You 
 can scarcely believe it; but I have, and I am going 
 to pay you out of that. Won’t it be splendid ? All 
 I ask you to do is this — wait for the money till I 
 give it to you. Perhaps you will have to wait a 
 month.’ 
 
 ‘Oh, that would be quite convenient,’ said Sir John. 
 
 ‘ Thank you ; and when will you come to Upton ? ’ 
 
 ‘ The sooner the better, if it is a serious case. You 
 see you have practically told me nothing. I can only 
 conjecture that your father’s symptoms point to my 
 own speciality, but that is all I know.’ 
 
 ‘ Dr Bennett will tell you.’ 
 
 ‘ But Dr Bennett is the doctor who has the charge of 
 
sm JOHN CAEBERY. 
 
 39 
 
 the case. I cannot presume to interfere with him 
 unless he himself asks me to do so.’ 
 
 Clarissa thought for a moment. 
 
 ‘ I ’ll manage it,’ she said. ‘ I ’ll take the very next 
 train back, and I ’ll go to Dr Bennett’s house, and he 
 will send for you.’ 
 
 ‘ The moment he does so I will be sure to come.’ 
 
 ‘ But I am not going to tell Dr Bennett what I told 
 you,’ said Clarissa ; ‘ it would not do.’ 
 
 ‘ Then how am I to appear ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Let me think.’ 
 
 Sir John interrupted her. ‘The stratagem of all 
 this is so magnificent that it arouses my keenest 
 interest,’ he said. ‘ I am to visit a remarkable man, 
 whom I know by reputation, who is very ill ; and you, 
 his daughter, are to pay me in a month’s time, and he 
 must never know that you are doing this. Is that 
 what I am to understand ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Quite so. You have taken it in splendidly,’ said 
 Clarissa. 
 
 ‘ Then you may leave the matter in my hands with 
 the utmost confidence,’ replied Sir John. ‘ I will visit 
 your father as soon as I hear from Dr Bennett, and I 
 will say that a very special friend of your father’s has 
 called on me, and has asked me to visit him, and that 
 this friend is paying me the fee.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, thank you,’ said Clarissa. ‘ How good you are ! ’ 
 ‘ I am glad I am able to help you. There is just one 
 thing more. Miss Eodney ; there is no huny about the 
 fee. I should like to do this service for you for 
 nothing; but that I see would not suit you. Only, 
 pray, let me have the money when it best suits your 
 convenience.’ 
 
40 
 
 SIR JOHN CARBERY. 
 
 ‘I shall have it myself in a month/ said Clarissa 
 confidently, ‘ and you shall be paid at once. Oh, I can 
 never thank you enough. I feel pure that you will 
 cure my father.’ 
 
 ‘ The matter is in God’s hands, my dear girl,’ said the 
 doctor. He rose and conducted Clarissa into the hall. 
 
 ‘ How did you come ? ’ he inquired. 
 
 ‘ In a hansom ; and, oh ! such a strange thing hap- 
 pened. I met a lady in the train, a total stranger to 
 me, a Miss Napier, and she said I was to mention her 
 name to you ’ 
 
 ‘ What ! Jane Napier ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Yes. She said I was to tell you that she was Jane 
 Napier.’ 
 
 ‘ One of my oldest friends. When does your train 
 go back ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Half-past two. I shall be a little late returning 
 home ; but mother won’t notice. She doesn’t notice 
 anything now, except father and what concerns him. 
 When I told her that I had got the big prize yesterday 
 she scarcely noticed. She only thinks of father.’ 
 
 ‘That is quite natural. I hope to see your father 
 early to-morrow. You must get Dr Bennett to send 
 me a wire to-night. For that matter, if it were 
 essential, I could come down by a night train.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh ! you are very good.’ 
 
 ‘They are lunching in the dining-room. You must 
 have something before you return to Upton. Come, 
 I insist upon it ; if you don’t eat I shall have two 
 patients instead of one.’ 
 
 Sir John opened the door of the dining-room. 
 
 ‘ My dear,’ he said to a sweet-faced lady with white 
 hair who was seated at the table, ‘ this is a young 
 
SIE JOHN CARBEEY. 
 
 41 
 
 friend of mine. Miss Clarissa Rodney ; she knows 
 Jane Napier, — Sit down, Miss Rodney, won’t you ? — 
 She is in a hurry to catch her train, Susan, and I think 
 a glass of wine and a — yes, a cutlet, would sustain 
 her.’ 
 
 Lady Carbery was as kind as her husband, and saw 
 to Clarissa’s wants. Ten minutes later the girl was 
 bowling back in her hansom to Paddington Station. 
 Never did a girl travel through London with a lighter 
 or more thankful heart. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE FRIEND WHO PAYS. 
 
 BENNETT was thoroughly amazed 
 when he saw Clarissa and heard what 
 she had done; hut he promised secrecy, 
 and arranged to telegraph for Sir John 
 Carhery. 
 
 ‘ I will ask Sir John to come down to-night/ he said. 
 'I am more convinced than ever that he can put 
 matters straight; and the patient has been in great 
 suffering all day. Oh no, I won’t mention your part 
 of the matter. You cannot even tell me the name of 
 the friend ? ’ 
 
 ‘No, I cannot tell you ; I can only say that the 
 friend is going to pay, and that Sir John will come.’ 
 
 ‘ You speak as though you had seen him.’ 
 
 ‘ How could I have seen him ? ’ said Clarissa, turning 
 aside. 
 
 ‘ I won’t betray your secret,’ said Dr Bennett. ‘ Now 
 go home ; you look quite fagged.’ 
 
 Clarissa did hurry home. There she poured into the 
 faithful Janet’s ears the story of her day’s adventure. 
 
 ‘ Oh, Janey ! I am quite certain Sir John will cure 
 father ; and he is so nice, and so kind.’ 
 
 ‘ Mother’s eyes looked quite red when she came down 
 
THE FRIEND WHO PAYS. 
 
 43 
 
 to dinner to-day/ said little Janet. ‘ I was home from 
 school, but she didn’t notice me a bit. She never 
 asked why I came home. I came because I had a 
 cold. I am sure father is very ill ; he has been in 
 great pain.’ 
 
 ‘I am certain Sir John will relieve him,’ said 
 Clarissa. ‘There is Dr Bennett coming up the steps. 
 Oh ! he is coming in here. No ; I am not going away 
 unless mother tells me to go.’ 
 
 Dr Bennett came in, nodded to both the girls, and a 
 moment later Mrs Rodney entered the room. 
 
 ‘ I have come to give you a piece of good news,’ said 
 Dr Bennett. He glanced at Clarissa, who kept her 
 seat. 
 
 ‘ If mother tells me to go,’ thought Clarissa, ‘ I will 
 say that if the doctor has important news about father 
 I must hear it.’ 
 
 Mrs Rodney, however, was past thinking of Clarissa. 
 Her anxious eyes, brimful of all the eager love of 
 her heart, were fixed upon the doctor’s face. ‘ Good 
 news ? ’ she said. ‘ But you have not seen him since 
 the middle of the day, and his sufferings have been 
 terrible. Oh ! Dr Bennett, you must be mistaken.’ 
 
 ‘ The man who on all God’s earth can relieve him, 
 will be here by midnight,’ was the doctor’s reply. 
 
 ‘ What ! Sir John Carbery ? But you know my 
 husband’s wishes. Dr Bennett, I am surprised at 
 you.’ 
 
 ‘ I have just had information that a friend of your 
 husband’s is going to pay the doctor — a friend he will 
 not mind owing this great service to. Under the 
 circumstances, it is your husband’s bounden duty to 
 accept the possibility of relief,’ was Dr Bennett’s 
 
44 
 
 THE FRIEND WHO PAYS. 
 
 remark. ‘ Anyhow, my dear lady, the matter is 
 settled, and Sir Jolui arrives at midnight/ 
 
 ‘ Well, I am sure, I am relieved,’ replied Mrs Rodney. 
 She sank down on the nearest chair, and burst into 
 tears. 
 
 ‘ I will go up and see my patient,’ said Dr Bennett. 
 
 When the doctor left the room Clarissa stole up to 
 her mother. Mrs Rodney was crying just as if her 
 heart would break ; the girl put her arms round 
 her mother’s neck. ‘ Let us pray to God, mother,’ 
 she whispered. 
 
 ‘ Oh ! my child, my child,’ said Mrs Rodney. ‘ Oh ! 
 Clare, if he is taken from me I shall die too.’ 
 
 ‘ Mother, I am sure he won’t be taken. I am sure 
 God will help us. He has sent Sir John Carbery. 
 Oh ! mother ’ 
 
 ‘ It does seem amazing,’ said Mrs Rodney. ‘ Do you 
 know, I have been praying about it all day. Clare, 
 dear, don’t talk to me — don’t ask me many questions ; 
 but if you like to pray, do so. You are only a child, 
 and do not understand the position. Now I must go 
 back to your father. Stay here and give poor little 
 Janet her tea. Be good children, both of you; and 
 efface yourselves, my loves ; that is the kindest thing 
 to do just now.’ 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 HEAEING THE NEWS. 
 
 is all right,’ Clarissa told Janet. ‘I 
 am certain Sir John will be able to 
 cure father. If you had heard him you 
 would be as confident as I am. Mother 
 says we are to efface ourselves. If I 
 had effaced myself to-day where would father be ? 
 But it ’s all right, and I don’t mind.’ 
 
 ‘ Let ’s have a fire in our bedroom, and sit there,’ 
 said Janet. ‘ Let ’s sit there all night until we know 
 what Sir John Carbery says of him.’ 
 
 Clarissa thought over this plan, and finally agreed 
 to it. She and Janet lit the fire in the desolate bed- 
 room, and Janet stole down to the kitchen and coaxed 
 cook to give her a little tempting supper, which they 
 might eat by-and-hy. 
 
 As they sat by the fire, talking of many things, as 
 eager girls will, Janet said over and over again, ‘ You 
 are lucky to have got that scholarship. If mother 
 doesn’t find out about the money being taken from 
 the missionary-box you ’ll be the happiest girl that 
 ever lived, Clarissa.’ 
 
 Clarissa owned that she was almost in that condi- 
 tion that night ; and at midnight, when little Janet 
 
46 
 
 HEAEING THE NEWS. 
 
 was tired out and was sound asleep in bed, the elder 
 girl stole out of the room and leaned over the banisters 
 listening with her heart in her mouth, for she heard 
 the sound of wheels coming down the silent street, and 
 they stopped outside the hall-door. Clarissa flew to 
 the lobby window, pulled aside the blind, and saw Dr 
 Bennett and Sir John Carbery enter the house. There 
 was a short interval of silence, and then she heard 
 footsteps on the stairs and the door of her father’s 
 room closed. Then there was profound silence — a 
 silence that might be felt. 
 
 Clarissa stood and waited, wishing her heart would 
 not beat as it did, and wishing she could quiet the 
 overwhelming anxiety which troubled her. Presently 
 steps were heard in the sick-room, and Sister Agnes 
 bustled out, looking important and excited. She ran 
 upstairs to fetch something, and passed Clarissa crouch- 
 ing down on the stairs. 
 
 ‘ Oh ! do go to bed, child,’ she said. 
 
 ‘ But how is he ? Please tell me.’ 
 
 ‘ Sir John thinks he may get better. He is going to 
 do something to relieve him at once. Don’t keep me.’ 
 
 Sister Agnes’s voice sounded kinder than usual, and 
 Clarissa’s heart swelled with hope. 
 
 In about an hour the doctors went downstairs, but 
 Mrs Rodney remained in the sick-room, with Sister 
 Agnes to help her. 
 
 ‘ I ’ll do it,’ thought Clarissa. ‘ I must — I will know 
 the worst.’ 
 
 She ran downstairs. There was a light streaming 
 from under the dining-room door. Clarissa pushed 
 the door open and entered; she went straight up to 
 Sir John. 
 
HEAKING THE NEWS. 
 
 47 
 
 ‘Please tell me — ^please tell me — I can bear it, she 
 said. 
 
 The eminent doctor looked full into her eyes, his 
 own eyes dancing with the knowledge of the secret 
 they held between them. ‘ Your father will get well,’ 
 he said. — ^ Good Heavens ! what ails the child ? ’ he 
 continued, for Clarissa, quite overcome, had fallen in a 
 faint on the floor. Dr Bennett lifted her up, put her 
 on a sofa, and gave her a restorative. ‘ Now you must 
 go straight to bed,’ he said. ‘ There is no time in this 
 house to have two invalids. You must get into bed 
 and go to sleep. I will take you upstairs.’ He did 
 so. Clarissa felt ashamed of herself, but was too 
 weak to resist him. 
 
 ‘That’s a flne girl,’ said Sir John Carbery when Dr 
 Bennett had returned. ‘ I have never met any one 
 with more sensibility and more common-sense.’ 
 
 ‘ Why, do you know her ? ’ asked the doctor. ‘ I 
 mean have you seen her before ? ’ 
 
 ‘ I can tell you nothing except that she is a fine girl. 
 If ever she wants a friend commend her to me. I 
 should not like to let such a girl go out of my life ; 
 she would make a splendid nurse herself some day. 
 Well, Bennett, I must hurry now to catch the early 
 train to town. You must go on with the line of treat- 
 ment I have indicated, and write to me if there is any 
 change. Oh ! by the way, the friend who has asked 
 me to come down to-day will not mind how many 
 more visits I pay to Upton. Have no hesitation 
 in sending for me if the symptoms which I was able 
 to relieve to-night occur again. Now I really must be 
 ofi:’ 
 
 Clarissa in bed, with tears in her eyes and a weight 
 
48 
 
 HEAKING THE NEWS. 
 
 removed from her heart, heard the doctors go away in 
 the carriage. 
 
 ‘ Oh, thank God ! ’ she said, turning to her little 
 sister. ‘ I do want always, all my days, to be ' a 
 good girl, just because He helped me so much now.’ 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 ABOUT THE SCHOLARSHIP. 
 
 Randall Scholarship was the great 
 m of every self-respecting girl attend- 
 ig the celebrated day-school at Upton, 
 he pupils numbered between five and 
 X hundred, and the institution was con- 
 ducted on the most approved modern principles. 
 
 The Randall Scholarship was a gift to the school by 
 an eccentric old gentleman quite a hundred and fifty 
 years ago. The school in those days was very little 
 more than a dame-school. Now a company had taken 
 up the institution and conducted it most successfully. 
 The teachers were all capable men and women, well 
 paid for their services ; and as the terms were low, girls 
 from the surrounding country flocked to the big school. 
 Clarissa had been a pupil there since she was ten years 
 old, and had worked her way from the lower to the 
 upper school, where she was now in the sixth form. 
 Though clever in a way, and in some things even 
 brilliant, the idea that she might compete successfully 
 for the Randall Scholarship had never occurred to her 
 mind. There were scholarships in the school worth 
 even sixty pounds a year ; but the prestige of the 
 Randall Scholarship carried all before it, for the 
 
 Nonentity. D 
 
50 
 
 ABOUT THE SCHOLARSHIP. 
 
 founder had imposed many conditions with regard to 
 thoroughness of work, the character of the girl who 
 competed, her term work, her influence in the school, 
 &c. Only the most promising pupils could try for 
 this prize, and then only after passing several pre- 
 liminary examinations. 
 
 Step by step Clarissa had qualified herself for the final 
 efibrt ; and when it came to the last her name stood at 
 the head of the list. She was extremely delighted, and 
 the immediate result has already been described. To 
 win so large a sum of money, and to be able immedi- 
 ately to put that money to the use she deemed the 
 highest, almost turned her head. She was determined, 
 however, to guard her secret most carefully. No one 
 must know how she would spend those forty pounds. 
 
 The day-school was located in a very noble pile of 
 buildings. There was a splendid hall, and the school- 
 rooms of various sizes were all fitted on the best and 
 newest principles. The girls whose parents did not 
 live at Upton occupied houses of residence, which 
 were each under the care of a mistress and a staff 
 of teachers. The accommodation in each house was 
 restricted to fifty girls. 
 
 Clarissa lived with her parents. Professor Rodney 
 was not only Professor of Literature at the men’s 
 college; he also taught at the large public school for 
 boys, as well as at the girls’ school. He was a remark- 
 ably clever man, and had a wonderful gift for foreign 
 languages. Clarissa had acquired her knowledge of 
 German from her father. 
 
 Janet was not yet an inmate of the great school, but 
 was at a preparatory school, and hoped to join the 
 day-school within the year. 
 
ABOUT THE SCHOLARSHIP. 
 
 51 
 
 On the morning following the consultation with Sir 
 John Carbeiy, Clarissa went otf to school in high 
 spirits. She would have to account for her absence 
 the day before ; but she had forgotten all about this 
 until she reached the school and confronted the teacher 
 who had the charge of the roll-call. 
 
 ‘ You were absent yesterday, Clarissa,’ said Miss 
 Purcell. ‘ Were you ill ? What was the reason ?’ 
 
 ‘ I was not ill,’ replied Clarissa. 
 
 ‘ Then, why did you not attend ? ’ 
 
 ‘ I cannot tell you.’ 
 
 ‘ You cannot tell me ; that is not a polite answer. I 
 must insist on getting a reason for your absence.’ 
 
 ‘ My father was ill. I cannot tell you more.’ 
 Clarissa’s face was pale and looked troubled. 
 
 Miss Purcell was silent for a moment, then she said, 
 ‘ I shall have to exact the usual forfeit. I am sorry, of 
 course, that your father was ill; but you ought to 
 have asked permission to absent yourself.’ 
 
 Clarissa slightly bent her head and took her place in 
 class. The usual work of the school went on, and at 
 eleven o’clock several of the girls went into the large 
 playground, where they paced up and down, each girl 
 with her special friend. A girl who was fond of 
 Clarissa now came up to her. 
 
 ‘It was a great pity you were away yesterday,’ 
 she said. ‘ The Trustees were present, and all the 
 Governors came into the school. You were asked for 
 by every one. Miss Harlington sent for you, and was 
 much annoyed when she heard you were absent ; she 
 was very nearly sending to your house to desire you 
 to come over at once.’ 
 
 ‘ What a blessing she didn’t,’ thought Clarissa, with 
 
52 
 
 ABOUT THE SCHOLAKSHIP. 
 
 a little gasp at the thought of the danger she had 
 escaped. 
 
 ‘ What is the matter with you, . Clare ? You look 
 queer and excited, yet pleased ; you look quite worn- 
 out,’ said Mary Lancaster, gazing affectionately at her 
 friend. 
 
 ‘We have had a great deal of trouble at home. Of 
 course you know father has been dangerously ill.’ 
 
 ‘ How is he now ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Better. A great specialist came from London last 
 night and saw him, and gave him relief. Sir John 
 Carbery thinks he will get well. Oh, Mary, if he had 
 died ! ’ 
 
 Mary gave her friend’s arm a squeeze. 
 
 ‘ Does your father know that you have won the 
 scholarship ? ’ she asked. 
 
 ‘ I have not seen him for two days ; I was not 
 allowed.’ 
 
 ‘ He will be pleased when you tell him.’ 
 
 ‘ I sha’n’t worry him about it yet.’ 
 
 ‘ What is it ? ’ cried a merry-voiced girl who came 
 up at that instant. Her name was Agnes Martin. 
 ‘ Oh, there you are, Clare,’ she continued. Aren’t all 
 your people delighted ? I am proud even to know 
 you. They say you are the youngest girl who has 
 ever gained the Randall. Your name is to be published 
 in the papers, and ’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, I hope not,’ said Clarissa. 
 
 ‘ My goodness ! aren’t you pleased ? I should be as 
 proud as Punch. When I told father your name was 
 at the top of the list, he said, “ Well, Agnes, if you 
 ever get to such an honourable position I shall give 
 
ABOUT THE SCHOLARSHIP. 
 
 53 
 
 ‘ What ? ’ cried Mary. ‘You do look excited, Agnes.’ 
 
 ‘ Why, ten pounds. He said he would give me ten 
 pounds to spend as I liked. I could buy a bicycle. 
 You may be sure I will have a good try for the 
 scholarship next year. The pity of it is that I have 
 not got brains like yours, Clarissa.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh ! I have got no special quality of brains,’ 
 replied Clarissa. ‘ The marks for foreign languages 
 were very high ; and of course, as father’s daugh- 
 ter’ She turned aside, her lips quivering. She 
 
 had a memory of the father she loved helping her 
 evening after evening, putting difficulties straight, 
 smoothing out what puzzled and worried, and helping 
 her to grasp the keynote of each language. 
 
 ‘Well,’ said Mary, ‘it is all right; you are a genius, 
 and you have succeeded. You ’ll be able to take every 
 class you like now in the school, for your education is 
 to be completely paid for.’ 
 
 ‘ What do you mean ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Have you not read the new rule ? You must have. 
 The money used to be given to the girls — it was last 
 time ; but that is all changed. The money is now 
 spent by the Governors on education, and the gainer of 
 the scholarship does not touch a penny of it. Well, 
 it ’s all the same of course ; she gets the benefit, and 
 the kudos, and all the rest. — Why, how white you 
 are ; what is the matter ? ’ 
 
 ‘ I — I don’t understand,’ said poor Clarissa. 
 
 ‘ How stupid of you ; the whole thing is explained 
 in the regulations. The Trustees had the power to 
 alter the old rules ; and as they disapproved of the use 
 made of the money by the last holder, who spent it 
 in some unworthy way — I forget how : travelling in 
 
54 
 
 ABOUT THE SCHOLARSHIP. 
 
 Italy, I think — the value o£ the scholarship is now 
 expended by the Governors only on the education of 
 the holder. Dear me, I didn’t know you cared foi’ 
 money so much for itself.’ 
 
 ‘ Nor do I. Don’t talk to me for a minute or two. 
 I have a headache. I am more tired than I had any 
 idea of.’ 
 
 She leaned up against the wall. Just then the great 
 bell rang and the girls returned to class. In spite of 
 every effort, Clarissa was absent-minded during that 
 afternoon. The work in itself was specially interest- 
 ing and quite to her taste. She was a keen student of 
 literature, and was now studying the magnificent 
 literature of the reign of Queen Elizabeth ; but not 
 even Shakespeare’s noblest utterances had power to 
 take her attention off the agonising thought which 
 ever whispered in her perplexed brain : ‘You promised 
 Sir John Carbery what you cannot give him.’ 
 
 ‘ But I must keep my word,’ thought poor Clarissa ; 
 ‘ whatever happens I must — I will. He trusted me, 
 and I cannot fail him. I must go to the Governors 
 and explain.’ 
 
 Then it occurred to her that perhaps, after all, her 
 friend had made a mistake. Why should she know 
 more about the scholarship than Clarissa herself ? 
 The rules had been given to each girl who competed, 
 and Clarissa with the others had been supposed to 
 read them. As a matter of fact, she had been so 
 eager getting up her different subjects that she had 
 scarcely glanced at them. She knew that the value 
 of the scholarship was forty pounds a year for three 
 years, and remembered also that when a girl much 
 older than herself had won the coveted prize, the 
 
ABOUT THE SCHOLARSHIP. 
 
 55 
 
 amount was paid to her in cash on a certain day 
 once every year. She had not observed that the 
 rules had been changed, and that the scholarship was 
 no longer to he paid in cash. Clarissa had worked 
 hard — very hard — to win the prize. 
 
 How proud she had been when her triumph was 
 announced ! She had held her head high, and looked 
 around her with sparkling eyes. 
 
 In her elation she had not even time to notice 
 that what was such joy and delight to her was the 
 bitterness of death to others. There was one girl in 
 particular whose face had turned very white — she 
 had leant up against the nearest wall and the next 
 moment left the room. Her name was Martha Moore. 
 She was a girl of about Clarissa’s age, and had 
 struggled as hard if not harder than Clarissa herself 
 for the scholarship. She came back after a moment 
 and congratulated her friend — doing it right heartily. 
 
 Clarissa did not notice this at the time, but she 
 remembered it now, and a sense of strong discomfort 
 came over her as she recalled the expression of 
 Martha’s white face in the moment of her own great 
 victory. Martha had certainly worked for this prize 
 with feverish intensity. She had stayed in school 
 during play hours, had worked late at night, had 
 thought of nothing but the scholarship ; nevertheless, 
 she had lost and Clarissa had won. 
 
 ‘ After all, no one wanted it as I did,’ thought the 
 girl ; ‘ but for it I might now be fatherless. Oh, what 
 will become of me if what Agnes says is correct ? ’ 
 
 Clarissa determined to set her mind at rest at once. 
 Accordingly, immediately after school, she went round 
 to the side-entrance and rang the bell of the head- 
 
56 
 
 ABOUT THE SCHOLARSHIP. 
 
 mistress’s private door. Very few girls ever called 
 to see Miss Harlington except by appointment; and 
 Clarissa knew it was a daring thing to go to see her 
 uninvited. ‘But whatever happens I must know the 
 worst/ she thought. 
 
 The servant who opened the door said that Miss 
 Harlington was at tea; but if Miss Rodney liked to 
 wait she would see her in a few minutes. 
 
 Clarissa was shown into a room at one side of the 
 hall. This room contained little furniture except well- 
 filled bookshelves. At another time the girl would 
 have pounced upon a book and lost herself immedi- 
 ately in its contents ; but now she was too restless to 
 read. In about a quarter of an hour the servant came 
 back to inform Clarissa that Miss Harlington would 
 see her. She was conducted into a large, cheerful 
 room. 
 
 ‘Well, Miss Rodney,’ said the head-mistress, ‘take a 
 chair, won’t you ? I shall finish this note very soon.’ 
 
 Miss Harlington was seated at her writing-table. 
 She was a tall woman with a fine face and command- 
 ing presence. Her hair, which was dark mixed with 
 gray, was worn over a pillow ; she had a long face, 
 very keen eyes, and a shrewd mouth ; her manner 
 could be both kind and also very cold. She did not 
 particularly wish to see Clarissa at that moment, yet 
 she was proud of her pupil — the girl who had won the 
 Randall Scholarship. 
 
 ‘ Now, my dear,’ said Miss Harlington, as she dis- 
 missed the servant with the note she had just written, 
 
 ‘ what have you to say ? By the way, I am sorry 
 your father is ill. Miss Purcell reported to me that 
 you were absent yesterday on account of his illness. 
 
ABOUT THE SCHOLAKSHIP. 
 
 57 
 
 She was annoyed at your neglecting the rule, how- 
 ever, to send notice of your absence. Perhaps you 
 have come to apologise ; if so, you are forgiven. I 
 trust Mr Rodney is better to-day.’ 
 
 ‘ Father is better, thank you,’ replied Clarissa ; ‘ we 
 have a little ’ — her lips quivered — ‘ hope to-day.’ 
 
 ‘ Indeed,’ said Miss Harlington. She looked up, and 
 the kindly expression grew in her eyes. 
 
 ‘Come near the fire, dear,’ she said; ‘it is cold. 
 Please explain to me what you mean by saying j^ou 
 have hope to-day. I did not know your father’s illness 
 was dangerous.’ 
 
 ‘ Father has been dangerously ill,’ replied Clarissa, 
 speaking slowly. ‘ Yesterday he saw a specialist, who 
 gives hope ; the specialist thinks he can cure him. He 
 would not have been cured if he had not seen this 
 great doctor.’ 
 
 ‘ What a mercy he did see him ! How thankful 
 we ought to be for our great physicians,’ said Miss 
 Harlington. ‘ But now, my dear, what is your special 
 business ? If you came to apologise for your want of 
 thought yesterday, it was nice of you to think of 
 doing so, and just what I should expect of a girl who 
 has distinguished herself as you have done.’ 
 
 ‘ But I didn’t come to apologise,’ said Clarissa bluntly. 
 
 ‘ Oh, indeed.’ The kindly, stimulating light went 
 out of Miss Harlington’s eyes. ‘ What did you come 
 for ? ’ she asked. 
 
 ‘ To ask you a question with regard to the Randall 
 Scholarship.’ 
 
 ‘ You have won the scholarship ; that is the main 
 thing. It is forty pounds a year, and the arrangement 
 is that the money is to be devoted altogether to your 
 
58 
 
 ABOUT THE SCHOLARSHIP. 
 
 education ; the Trustees will pay for any extra classes 
 you may care to join — that is, they will pay up to 
 forty pounds, which practically means that your, 
 education will be free at this school.’ 
 
 ‘ But I want — I mean that I hoped — that the money 
 would be paid to me. I don’t want to spend it on 
 classes ; I wanted the money for itself.’ 
 
 ‘ What do you mean ? ’ 
 
 ‘ I mean this : I understood when I won the scholar- 
 ship that I should receive forty pounds.’ 
 
 ‘ You receive the worth of forty pounds.’ 
 
 ‘ But that is not at all the same thing to me. I 
 needed the money.’ 
 
 ‘You thought you would be paid by cheque, for 
 instance ? ’ 
 
 ‘Well, a cheque, or in gold or notes; it doesn’t 
 matter how.’ 
 
 ‘ It was very silly of you not to look at the rules ; 
 the conditions are clearly stated in them. Here is a 
 copy ; you may look it over now.’ 
 
 ‘ Thank you ; you are quite sure ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Quite, quite sure. It was silly of you not to read 
 the rules.’ 
 
 ‘ I am afraid it was very silly.’ 
 
 Miss Harlington looked long at Clarissa. Clarissa’s 
 eyes were downcast, and her face was very white. 
 The idea occurred to the head-mistress just for a 
 moment to draw the girl out. She was not a vain 
 girl, nor a silly one ; she could not want the money for 
 any unworthy purpose. That she did want it, and for 
 itself, and very urgently too, was quite evident. Miss 
 Harlington would have inquired further, and this story 
 need never have been written but for an interruption 
 
ABOUT THE SCHOLAESHIP. 
 
 59 
 
 — the servant entered to say that a great professor 
 had called, and wished to see Miss Harlington. She 
 forgot all about poor Clarissa in this fresh interest. 
 
 ‘My dear,’ said the head -mistress, ‘I think I have 
 explained. Your lessons during the remainder of your 
 stay at school will be delightful. The best teachers 
 will instruct you ; and the honour of having gained 
 the Randall Scholarship is always yours, remember.’ 
 
 ‘ Then it is quite hopeless ? ’ said Clarissa. 
 
 ‘ What do you mean ? ’ 
 
 ‘ I cannot have the money ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Certainly not. Please don’t be stupid. Take these 
 rules with you. Good-bye.’ 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 FREEMANS COTTAGES. 
 
 ARTHA MOORE was on her way from 
 school to her humble home; Clarissa 
 was also hurrying home with a feeling 
 at her heart of dismay which she could 
 neither overcome nor get rid of. Martha 
 Moore was a tall and very thin girl of about sixteen 
 years of age ; but she looked older, for her pale face 
 was careworn, and a look of anxiety was never absent 
 from her eyes. She was very plainly dressed. Her 
 short serge skirt, a little draggled and untidy, was 
 longer behind than in front, and as she walked along 
 the muddy road it now and then touched the ground 
 and made the backs of her boots wet and uncomfort- 
 able ; her coat was old-fashioned, and had sleeves a 
 great deal too large ; and she wore a plain round felt 
 hat, which, being pushed far back, revealed the great 
 breadth of her forehead and the sweep of her thick 
 eyebrows. Plodding on, swinging one arm in a some- 
 what awkward manner, Martha soon left the town 
 behind her, and was now in a somewhat lonely part 
 of the country. Loneliness, however, had no terrors 
 for her ; she only quickened her steps, and presently 
 turning aside from the highroad, passed through a 
 
freeman’s cottages. 
 
 61 
 
 turnstile, and went down a narrow lane. This lane 
 led downhill, and as the road was in a shocking 
 condition, Martha held up her flopping skirts. She 
 was cold, and the expression in her gray eyes was 
 almost that of a hunted creature. Presently she 
 reached a row of about half-a-dozen very small and 
 humble-looking houses, known as Freeman’s Cottages. 
 Each house had a tiny rustic gate in front, and a 
 narrow pathway ran up to the little porch between 
 flower-beds ; but there was not a flower in blossom 
 now — winter had cast its numbing influence over the 
 earth. Passing through the porch, the girl entered a 
 small kitchen. 
 
 ‘ Here I am, mother. I am later than usual. I ’ll 
 come downstairs in a minute or two when I have 
 changed my dress,’ she called out as she ran up 
 the very narrow stairs to a room under the roof. 
 Here she quickly got into an old summer dress much 
 too small, brushed back her somewhat scanty brown 
 hair from her forehead, washed her face and hands, 
 and then joined her mother in the little sitting- 
 room. 
 
 ‘Well, how are you?’ she asked with a sort of 
 quick eagerness. The woman addressed was seated 
 by the fire ; she was in a sort of rocking-chair, and 
 a glance showed that she was lame. 
 
 ‘ Have you done it ? ’ said Martha. ‘ Has she 
 gone ? ’ 
 
 ‘ She won’t go ; she is crying in the kitchen. I wish 
 you would go and speak to her, Patty. She says 
 she will stay without any wages. She does not want 
 to leave me. You must speak to her.’ 
 
 ‘ Of course I must ; it ’s very ridiculous of her to 
 
62 
 
 FllEEMANS COTTAGES. 
 
 go on like that. I can easily manage ; it only means 
 getting up an hour earlier in the morning, and sitting- 
 up a little later at night. I can leave everything in 
 readiness for you. She must go.’ 
 
 ‘Are you quite, quite certain? Just sit down for 
 a moment,’ said Mrs Moore. 
 
 Martha sat down on the nearest chair. 
 
 ‘ Oh, mother, must we discuss it again ? ’ she asked. 
 
 ‘This place is so lonely, I sometimes feel quite 
 nervous when I am by myself for so many hours. 
 I have been wondering if it is worth it all.’ 
 
 ‘ Worth it all ? ’ repeated Martha. ‘ I mean to get 
 that scholarship next year. Nothing will deter me. 
 If we keep Annie I cannot continue at the school. 
 She must go. I have money in hand to pay her 
 wages, and she had better go to-night.’ 
 
 ‘Very well, darling; very well. I am very sorry 
 that I said anything to annoy you, Patty.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, it is nothing, mother.’ 
 
 Martha rose. A curious change came over her face. 
 She went up to her mother, and bent down and kissed 
 her. 
 
 ‘ I am sorry I am cross,’ she said. ‘ It will only last 
 for a couple of days, then I shall be quite cheery and 
 my old self again. Forgive me, mother. I am trying 
 to get through a labyrinth, and sometimes I am 
 puzzled.’ 
 
 ‘ My poor, brave, darling child,’ said Mrs Moore. 
 
 Martha went into the kitchen. 
 
 ‘ Are you there, Annie ? ’ she said. 
 
 ‘Yes, miss,’ said a voice ; and a girl with red cheeks 
 and a freckled face, who had been seated in the 
 chimney-corner with her apron flung over her head, 
 
freeman’s cottages. 
 
 63 
 
 now rose, revealing eyes nearly swollen out of all 
 recognition with crying. 
 
 ‘You can’t mean that I am to go, Miss Mai-tha ? ’ 
 she said. ‘You can’t mean that I am to leave the 
 missus, and her lame and not able to do a thing for 
 herself ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Yes ; I do mean it.’ 
 
 ‘ But you can’t be so cruel, miss ? You are away at 
 school all day, and the missus has no one in the 
 house. I am willing to stay without wages — I am 
 indeed, miss. I don’t mind if I don’t get anything 
 for six months or a yeaj. My bits of duds will last, 
 and I don’t mind — I don’t really, miss.’ 
 
 ‘ Listen, Annie,’ said Martha. She went up to the 
 girl and put her hand on her arm. ‘ Please under- 
 stand,’ she said, ‘ that this hurts me quite as much as 
 it does you ; hut it is a pain that we must both go 
 through. You must go — because we must economise, 
 and there is no other way — if I am to continue at 
 school ; and I must continue there until my education 
 is finished. Now, I didn’t think I could speak to you 
 so plainly ; but I have done so.’ 
 
 An awed expression came over Annie’s face ; a con- 
 fidence from Miss Martha was indeed somethin^ to be 
 
 O 
 
 proud of. 
 
 ‘Very well, miss,’ she said in a humble tone; ‘and 
 ’tain’t that you ’re loving your mother less, miss ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Loving her less ? ’ said Martha. ‘ I never loved so 
 much. Now, pack up your things. Here ’s a shilling 
 for you over and above your wages.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, I wouldn’t touch it, miss ; and I don’t want the 
 wages. Must I go to-night, miss ? ’ 
 
 ‘Yes; you have only a short distance to go; and I 
 
64 
 
 freeman’s cottages. 
 
 would rather begin at once. First, show me how you 
 manage the range. I was never very good at ranges ; 
 but I must understand now. Do I pull out this 
 damper when I want to heat the oven, and this when 
 I wish to heat the water in the bath ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Oh no, miss ; you are quite wrong. This is the 
 damper for the bath, and this for the oven.’ 
 
 Annie quite recovered herself as she exhibited her 
 superior skill. Soon the two girls were chatting 
 happily, and Annie even laughed once or twice. 
 
 ‘ You ’re almost the best girl I ever met,’ said 
 Martha ; ‘ and I shall give you an excellent character 
 when any one comes to ask about you.’ 
 
 ‘ Thank you, miss ; but who wouldn’t be good with 
 a lady like your mother, and with you too, Miss 
 Martha ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Don’t praise me,’ said Martha. ‘ I am often what 
 I ought not to be, and I feel — oh, Annie, I feel — so 
 savage just now.’ 
 
 ‘ Do you indeed, miss ? Why, then, I feel just the 
 same.’ 
 
 ‘ Shake hands,’ said Martha suddenly. Annie 
 stretched out her rough, toil-worn hand ; she clasped 
 Martha’s, which was very slim and very white. 
 
 ‘ Oh ! ’ she said with a sudden fit of compunction, 
 and the tears filling her eyes, ‘ you ’ll spoil your 
 beautiful hands. You will, if you go blacking the 
 grate, and pottering in the oven, and cleaning the 
 saucepans. You must wear gloves. Promise me as 
 yoTi ’ll wear gloves.’ 
 
 ‘ I have a couple of old pairs, and I will take your 
 advice. I don’t want to have my hands spoilt,’ said 
 Martha. 
 
freeman’s cottages. 
 
 65 
 
 Annie laughed when Martha said this. ‘ Until I do 
 get a place, may I come over to see the missus once 
 a day or so ? ’ she queried. 
 
 ‘ I would rather you didn’t.’ 
 
 ‘ That do seem cruel, Miss Martha,’ replied the girl. 
 
 ‘Well, come twice a week; but you will get a place 
 soon — you cannot afford to be idle. Now, pack up. 
 You can come in and say good-bye to mother to- 
 morrow, if you like.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, that ’s much better, Miss Martha. God bless 
 you,’ said Annie, and then scrambled upstairs to her 
 loft of a bedroom. She soon came down, dragging 
 her small wooden box after her. 
 
 ‘You can leave the box here till to-morrow,’ said 
 Martha. 
 
 ‘ Thank you kindly, miss. Me and my brother will 
 fetch it in the course of the morning, when I come 
 to say good-bye to the missus.’ 
 
 ‘ That is all right. Now go.’ 
 
 Annie went lingeringly as far as the door. She 
 turned and looked at Martha. ‘Mayn’t I kiss your 
 white ’and ? ’ she said. 
 
 Martha smiled and held out her hand. ‘ I am not 
 worth it, Annie,’ she said. ‘ I am a failure.’ 
 
 ‘You’ll be a big success yet; mark my words,’ said 
 Annie. 
 
 The little maid-of-all-work went out into the night. 
 There she gave her small, stout person a vigorous 
 shake. 
 
 ‘ I ’ates the girl as took the scholarship from our 
 Miss Moore,’ was her mental soliloquy. Then she ran 
 across the common in the direction of a row of work- 
 men’s small cottages about half a mile away. 
 
 Nonentity. E 
 
66 
 
 freeman’s cottages^ 
 
 Meanwhile Martha looked round the little cottage 
 
 o 
 
 with a bewildered expression. 
 
 ‘ I don’t understand the stove, and I know nothing 
 about cooking, and mother cannot do anything for 
 herself ; but I ’ll manage,’ she thought. Then she 
 pounced upon a worn copy of Mrs Beeton’s cookery- 
 book, which stood on a shelf near the kitchen- 
 range. ‘ I will study this when mother is in bed,’ she 
 thought. She went into the little parlour, and said : 
 
 ‘ Mother dear, I have managed about Annie ; she has 
 gone.’ 
 
 ‘ What ? ’ said Mrs Moore ; ‘ gone, and never said 
 good-bye to me ! ’ 
 
 ‘ She will come to-morrow to do that. Poor girl ! 
 she is very affectionate, and very well meaning. Now 
 then, I have a proposal to make.’ 
 
 ‘ What is that, my darling ? ’ 
 
 ‘ That you and I, just for the present, until we can 
 afford to keep a little servant again, make the kitchen 
 our sitting-room.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, Patty, your poor father, if he were alive ’ 
 
 Patty stamped her foot with impatience. ‘ What- 
 ever father thought when he was alive, he must have 
 changed his opinions now,’ she said. ‘ The one thing 
 that must seem all-important to him now is that we 
 should live honourably, and be clear of debt, and that 
 I should by some means or other go on with my 
 education. You will be much warmer in the kitchen ; 
 you can have your chair in such a position that you 
 can open the oven door — I will arrange it so. You 
 can see that the fire does not go out, and we shall 
 save both fuel and light. Come, I am going to move 
 you in now ; we can have supper in the kitchen. I 
 
freeman’s cottages. 
 
 67 
 
 will take the rug from this room and put it in front 
 of the stove. You don’t know how much you will 
 enjoy it.’ 
 
 ‘ You are a wonderful girl,’ said Mrs Moore. 
 
 Martha, though wiry, was slender; so she assisted 
 her mother, with some difficulty, into the little kitchen. 
 This apartment was really much more cheerful than 
 the parlour, and Mrs Moore smiled and looked quite 
 pleased as Martha moved about. 
 
 ‘ I must get supper,’ said the girl, ‘ and you must 
 teach me. I remember my father saying before he 
 died that you were an excellent cook in your time. 
 Now, what will you have ? ’ 
 
 ‘What shall I have for supper? Well, what is 
 there ? ’ 
 
 ‘ I don’t know. I ’ll have a look round,’ said Martha, 
 going to the cupboard and surveying the contents 
 critically. ‘ These provisions have got to last as long 
 as possible,’ thought the girl ; ‘ but there is not much.’ 
 
 This certainly was true. A number of potatoes on 
 the floor, with a few turnips and onions, constituted 
 the store of vegetables. The groceries were at a 
 decidedly low ebb: there was but a handful of tea 
 in the caddy, and the coffee canister was empty ; but 
 there was a little sugar, a few raisins, and also a 
 little flour. There was a loaf of fresh bread, which 
 looked quite inviting, a pat of butter, a small piece 
 of bacon, and also half-a-dozen fresh eggs. 
 
 ‘ Come,’ said Martha, ‘ we ’ll have a good meal to 
 commemorate the new regime. Now, mother, you will 
 have to teach me. I am going to give you bread and 
 butter, a fresh egg, and a rasher of bacon for your 
 supper.’ 
 
68 
 
 freeman’s cottages. 
 
 ‘ I have not had such a meal for months and 
 months/ said Mrs Moore. 
 
 ‘You are going to have it to-night. How would 
 you like your egg ? Boiled or poached ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, boiled, my darling — boiled. You won’t be able 
 to manage a poached egg for some time, and it 
 would be a sad pity to waste these. Our neighbour, 
 Mrs Martin, brought them in to-day as a present ; she 
 said she thought that you looked very peaky, and she 
 wanted you to eat them all.’ 
 
 ‘ That I won’t,’ murmured the girl under her breath. 
 ‘Well, mother, it is quite easy to boil the egg — is it 
 not ? Oh dear, I do wonder where Annie keeps the 
 saucepans ? ’ 
 
 The saucepans, by no means too clean, were found 
 in a tiny scullery just outside the kitchen. Martha, 
 under her mother’s directions, prepared the meal. The 
 kettle boiled, the one egg — nothing would induce 
 Martha to boil two — was soon cooked to a turn. 
 Martha cut a rasher off the bacon, and proceeded to 
 toast it in front of the fire. 
 
 ‘ I will not touch my egg nor my bacon, although I 
 confess I am very hungry,’ said Mrs Moore, ‘ unless you 
 also have a similar meal.’ 
 
 ‘ I ’ll have a rasher of bacon, mother ; as to eggs, I 
 don’t like them,’ said Martha, blushing as she uttered 
 the untruth. She adored eggs, and would like any 
 form of nourishment in her present half - starved 
 condition. 
 
 The simple meal was soon ready, and mother and 
 daughter sat down. Martha washed up the tea-things 
 afterwards, and put everything tidily away. 
 
 ‘ Now,’ she said, ‘ when will you be ready for bed ? ’ 
 
freeman’s cottages. 
 
 69 
 
 ‘ Oh, not yet. These long nights weary me so.’ 
 
 ‘ I have been thinking over every thing,’ said Martha. 
 ‘We must do without a servant — that’s plain. It will 
 be no trial after the first day or two. It will rather 
 be very much to our advantage. We shall feel that 
 our little money is all our own ; but there will be 
 certain difficulties to overcome. The winter promises 
 to be a cold one ; coals will not be cheap, and we don’t 
 want fires in too many rooms. Nor is that all. It 
 was difficult for Annie and me between us to get you 
 upstairs at night and downstairs again in the morning. 
 Now I propose that you make the little parlour your 
 bedroom. I will put a chair-bed there. You know 
 the door opens into the kitchen, and the warmth from 
 the stove will get in and make the room quite com- 
 fortable. What do you say ? ’ 
 
 ‘I never thought that I should live to see the day 
 when I should want even a parlour,’ said Mrs Moore, 
 tears coming for a moment to her eyes. 
 
 ‘ But you will never live to see the day when we are 
 in debt, when we are absolutely in money difficulties. 
 Oh, mother darling, that would be a much worse day.’ 
 
 ‘ So it would. Yes, Martha, I Avill go there,’ said the 
 mother. 
 
 ‘That is right. You really are a splendid mother. 
 Some mothers would be a drag ; but you are never a 
 drag.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, my poor darling, and I quite lame and utterly 
 helpless.’ 
 
 ‘ Never mind. When I get the scholarship, which I 
 shall get next year, I will take you to London, and you 
 shall get the best advice. Now, stay where you are. 
 I am going to bring down your bed at once.’ 
 
70 
 
 freeman’s cottages. 
 
 The next half-hour saw the active young mistress 
 of the house very busy. By the end of that time Mrs 
 Moore’s bed was placed in a comfortable position in 
 the little parlour; and, tired and excited, but pleased,' 
 she was glad to retire to it. 
 
 ‘ I will shut the kitchen door until I go up to bed,’ 
 said Martha finally. ‘ I have a few things to do first. 
 Good-night, mother; sleep well. We have done the 
 wisest thing : we have resolved to deny ourselves and 
 also to go straight forward.’ 
 
 ‘ You are a very brave girl,’ said Mrs Moore. ‘ I was 
 so certain you would be crushed for evermore, for this 
 scholarship meant so much to you.’ 
 
 ‘ I would have been crushed if you had opposed me.' 
 answered the girl. ‘ Now, sleep well.’ 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 A CONFIDENCE. 
 
 ARTHA was up betimes in the morning to 
 tidy the house. She had to acknow- 
 ledge to herself that she had but scant 
 knowledge of housework and still less 
 aptitude ; she did her work clumsily 
 and — it must be owned — not half so well as the little 
 maid Annie. Nevertheless, Martha managed to get 
 her mother’s breakfast, to dress her, and assist her into 
 the kitchen. Then, after laying some coals handy, 
 seeing that Mrs Moore’s chair was so placed that she 
 could reach the oven to open it and take out her 
 dinner, which was already placed there, that she had 
 water and food at hand, Martha, promising to be 
 back as soon as possible, left for school, rather more 
 untidy than usual. 
 
 Martha Moore was never noticeable for the excel- 
 lence or becomingness of her dress. She did not know 
 now, as she walked along the country lanes, that there 
 was a smudge across her cheek, that her dark gray 
 eyes had a weary expression, and that her collar bore 
 evidence of having been worn yesterday. She was 
 thinking out several problems. 
 
 Martha’s way to the Drummond Day-school led past 
 
72 
 
 A CONFIDENCE. 
 
 the Rodneys’ house ; she looked up at it as she went 
 past, and a great bitterness burned in her heart. It 
 was a large, solid-looking house. ‘ Why should Clarissa 
 Rodney have got the scholarship ? I am convinced I 
 answered every question just as well as she did,’ 
 thought the girl. ‘ Well, never mind, I hate myself 
 for feeling envy and spite ; I didn’t know it was in 
 me. I was born to work hard. If it wasn’t for 
 mother’s lameness I think I could bear anything.’ 
 
 Just then the hall door of the big house opened, and 
 Clarissa, in her very neat costume, came out, saw 
 Martha, and ran down the steps to greet her. 
 
 ‘ If you are going to school, we may as well walk 
 there together,’ said Clarissa. . 
 
 Martha made a valiant effort to check the feeling of 
 jealousy at her heart. ‘ Yes,’ she replied, colouring. 
 
 Clarissa looked at her. ‘ Pei’haps you would rather 
 not walk with me ? ’ she queried. ‘ I shall quite under- 
 stand if you don’t.’ 
 
 ‘ Why should I not walk with you ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, because I have won what — what you wanted.’ 
 
 ‘ I did want it very badly,’ said Martha ; ‘ there is no 
 use pretending I did not. I wanted it, and I hoped I 
 should get it.’ 
 
 ‘ I wish with all my heart you had,’ said Clarissa. 
 ‘ It ’s of no possible use to me.’ 
 
 Martha gave her a wistful glance up and down, 
 noticing the neatly-made dress, the perfectly-fitting 
 coat, the gloves, the nicely-arranged hair. Of course, 
 Clarissa was thinking of the money-value of the scholar- 
 ship. Martha was also thinking of the money-value. 
 
 ‘ I can understand that,’ said Martha ; ‘ but you 
 cannot help being rich.’ 
 
A CONFIDENCE. 
 
 73 
 
 ‘ Rich ? ’ said Clare. ‘ What do you mean ? ’ 
 
 ‘ You are rich ; you must be. You live in that great 
 house.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh ! ’ said Clare with a laugh. ‘ Is that all ? ’ 
 
 ‘We live in one of the tiny Freeman’s Cottages, 
 in perhaps the most unhealthy part of Upton,’ said 
 Martha; ‘hut never mind, I don’t want to speak of 
 myself. Only, if you did not want the scholarship 
 because you are so rich, I wish you had never entered 
 for it.’ 
 
 ‘ But we are not rich. At this present moment I am 
 in the utmost difficulty about money,’ Clarissa replied, 
 looking Martha all over. ‘ Tell me frankly, do you out 
 and out hate me ? ’ 
 
 ‘ There are times when I do,’ replied Martha ; ‘ but 
 not when I am with you.’ 
 
 ‘ Then that is honest, and I thank you for being so 
 frank.’ 
 
 ‘ I should not hate you at all — because I know jmu 
 are cleverer than I am, and I always respect talent — if 
 it were not for mother,’ said Martha. 
 
 ‘ Your mother ? Ah ! I should never have cared 
 for the scholarship had it not been for my father. 
 At any rate, I should never have won it but for 
 him.’ 
 
 ‘Oh, I know of Professor Rodney,’ said Martha in 
 a tone of awe. ‘ He is a great linguist, and his won- 
 derful knowledge of literature quite dazzles me. No 
 wonder you wrote such a splendid theme ; and all your 
 answers were so convincing, and your papers on German 
 and French grammar were almost without a flaw. I 
 am not jealous of you — I am never jealous of you — 
 when 1 am with you.’ 
 
74 
 
 A CONFIDENCE. 
 
 Clarissa looked at her eagerly. ‘ Listen ! ’ she said. 
 ‘I wish you had the scholarship.’ 
 
 ‘ There is no good wishing,’ Martha replied ; but the 
 colour flooded her pale cheeks. 
 
 ‘ Oh ! I wish with all my heart you had it. It is of 
 no use to me. I did something. I must confide in 
 you. I know you won’t tell.’ 
 
 ‘ Of course I won’t,’ Martha exclaimed, feeling 
 intensely flattered at this confidence. 
 
 ‘ I have always liked you in the distance,’ con- 
 tinued Clarissa ; ‘ but we have not been real friends 
 
 because Oh ! I don’t know why ; but we have not. 
 
 Only, let us be real friends in the future. You think 
 I am the happiest girl in the world, because I have got 
 what you longed for ; in reality I am so absolutely 
 miserable that I must tell some one or I shall be ill.’ 
 
 ‘I will never, never tell unless you give me leave,’ 
 Martha repeated. 
 
 ‘ I am certain you are honourable. I see it in your 
 face.’ 
 
 ‘I think I am,’ Martha said quietly with a proud 
 note in her voice. 
 
 Clarissa took out a small gun-metal watch which her 
 father had given her on her last birthday. ‘We have 
 five minutes before we need go to school,’ she said. 
 ‘ We can go round by Kipton Square. We won’t meet 
 any of the other girls. May I put my hand through 
 your arm ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Do,’ replied Martha, and .she felt her heart boat 
 faster. It was very kind of Clarissa. Martha felt 
 low down just then ; but in her heart of hearts she 
 knew that in every sense of the word she was 
 Clarissa’s equal. 
 
A CONFIDENCE. 
 
 75 
 
 Clarissa’s next words seemed to point to this fact. 
 'Being poor is nothing; it’s character that tells. I 
 know you have got character, and I know you have 
 got intellect. Why, you have a splendid forehead ; it 
 is so broad, and your eyes have so much expression in 
 them. You will do wonders in the future. There is 
 one special thing about you, too, which I like tremend- 
 ously.’ 
 
 These delicious words were like balm to Martha’s 
 sore heart. ‘ What is the one thing ? ’ she inquired ; 
 and her eyes were very soft as she glanced at Clarissa 
 Rodney. 
 
 ‘ You know how to deny yourself.’ 
 
 ‘ I have always been denying myself,’ Martha 
 murmured. ‘If I hadn’t learnt that poor lesson I 
 shouldn’t be good for much. I am just sixteen. I 
 have never had a life of luxury, never since father 
 died.’ 
 
 ‘ How old were you then ? ’ 
 
 ‘ He died when I was between nine and ten years 
 old. In his lifetime we had a good house and a couple 
 of servants ; since then we have had a small house 
 and no servant to speak of.’ 
 
 ‘ I must come and see you some day. You interest 
 me more and more each moment you speak.’ 
 
 ‘You had better not come; our house is too poor.’ 
 
 ‘ I love cottages.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, it ’s worse than a cottage ; and we don’t keep 
 any servant now.’ 
 
 ‘No servant!’ exclaimed Clarissa. ‘You are at 
 school all day ! How do you manage ? ’ 
 
 ‘I can answer that question in about a fortnight. 
 At present I have not even begun to manage. We 
 
76 
 
 A CONFIDENCE. 
 
 parted with the servant last night; 1 have done the 
 work myself this morning.’ 
 
 ‘ Martha, do you mind ? ’ asked Clarissa very gently ; 
 ‘there is a great smudge across your cheek. May I 
 wipe it off?’ 
 
 ‘ Oh ! thank you,’ answered Martha. ‘ I suppose I 
 got it when I was blacking the stove.’ 
 
 ‘ Did you say that your mother would have to 
 remain all day alone in one of Freeman’s Cottages ? 
 Did you mean that when you told me you had sent 
 the servant away ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Yes ; that is what I meant. There, Clarissa, it is 
 past talking about. If you have anything to tell me, 
 you must do so at once, for the school-bell will ring in 
 a few minutes.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh dear ! ’ cried Clarissa, ‘ I wish you could help 
 me. You don’t know what a terrible scrape I have 
 got into.’ 
 
 ‘You may trust me,’ said Martha. ‘I trusted you 
 when I told you about mother and the servant.’ 
 
 ‘Then that settles it,’ Clarissa decided. ‘You shall 
 hear everything. Nobody else knows except my 
 darling little sister Janet. This morning when I was 
 dressing I told Janey that I must talk things over 
 with a girl about my own age ; and, when I prayed 
 this morning, I asked God to give me a friend to 
 confide in. Then the moment I opened the hall-door 
 there you were passing by, and I knew at once 
 that you were the very girl. Had I not met you 
 I should have told Mary Lancaster, who is my 
 special companion; but I know you are better 
 qualified, for you have suffered, and you still suffer, 
 yourself.’ 
 
A CONFIDENCE. 
 
 77 
 
 ‘You had better be quick in telling me,’ Martha 
 said with a smile. 
 
 ‘Well, this is what has happened. Father — my 
 darling, my dearest father — was at the point of death. 
 The doctor said that only one thing could cure him — 
 he must see a great specialist from London ; but father 
 would not hear of it because he had not sufficient 
 money to pay him. “I cannot pay him without 
 defrauding others,” said father ; “ so that settles the 
 matter.” Our doctor. Dr Bennett, told me all that, 
 Martha ; and when I questioned him further he stated 
 that Sir John Carbery, the great specialist, would 
 charge a fee of thirty-five guineas.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh ! ’ exclaimed Martha with a gasp. 
 
 ‘Nearly the whole of my scholarship — you under- 
 stand ? ’ 
 
 ‘Yes.’ 
 
 ‘Well, I made up my mind to get the doctor to see 
 father, and I went to Loudon myself the day before 
 yesterday, and saw him. Oh ! he was so kind, and I 
 arranged everything with him. I told him he must 
 never, never tell who had really paid him, and I asked 
 him to wait for his money for a month. He came, 
 Martha, and saw father, and put right all that was 
 wrong ; and now my darling, darling father is recover- 
 ing, and we shall not lose him. But, listen ! oh, listen ! 
 I cannot pay the doctor, for the rules with regard to 
 the scholarship are changed, and the successful candi- 
 date does not get the forty pounds at all — she receives 
 the worth of the money in payment of the expense of 
 her education. That is according to the rules, of course 
 — but somehow I was so eager competing that I did 
 not trouble to read them ; and as I knew that Agnes 
 
78 
 
 A CONFIDENCE. 
 
 Hart, the last girl who gained the scholarship, had the 
 money to spend, I expected the same, so this news 
 comes upon me now as a stunning blow. What am I 
 to do 1 I feel almost mad. Oh ! Martha, don’t you 
 pity me ? ’ 
 
 Before replying to this query Martha fixed her big 
 gray eyes on Clarissa’s face, and gave her hand a 
 squeeze. Then she answered ; ‘ I have never heard a 
 story exactly like yours before, and I cannot tell you 
 yet whether I pity you or not. To-morrow morning I 
 will speak to you about this.’ 
 
 ‘ Why not after school to-day ? ’ asked Clarissa. 
 
 ‘ I must hurry back home ; I shall not have an 
 instant — not an instant— to speak to anybody ; but I 
 will come early to-morrow morning, and we can meet 
 as we met to-day, and then I will tell you what I 
 really think.’ 
 
 ‘ How slowly and wisely you speak,’ Clarissa 
 remarked ; ‘ but it is hard to wait for good advice for 
 twenty-four hours.’ 
 
 ‘ I don’t suppose I shall be able to give you any 
 advice; but I shall be able to tell you what I think. 
 Now, there is the bell. We must hurry.’ 
 
 The girls entered through the wide school-gates ; 
 they joined a procession of girls all going to their 
 respective class-rooms. Clarissa and Martha parted at 
 the main entrance. Martha’s face wore a queer, half- 
 wistful, half-triumphant smile which puzzled Clarissa 
 not a little. 
 
 ‘Yet I am glad that I told her,’ was Clarissa’s 
 thought. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 A GREAT SURPRISE. 
 
 EFORE leaving for school, Martha had 
 made her mother thoroughly comfortable 
 for the day ; so Mrs Moore settled down 
 in her rocking-chair and looked around 
 her. She was a woman of not quite forty 
 years of age. In youth she must have been pretty ; 
 she had still the remains of good looks on her woi-n, 
 very pale face. Eight years before this story opens 
 she had met with a bad accident — had hurt her hip, 
 and since then had scarcely been able to walk. The 
 necessary confinement and want of exercise had 
 reduced the sparkling, bright-eyed, rosy-faced woman 
 into a pale, shadowy creature. But Martha thought 
 her mother was beautiful still ; her mother’s face 
 suited her as no other face ever could. The two were 
 companions in the best sense of the word — they never 
 quarrelled, they never disputed ; but Martha took the 
 lead. Had Mrs Moore been told when her husband 
 died that by the time her daughter was sixteen she 
 would be completely ruled by the vigorous, intelligent 
 girl she would have laughed and said, ‘ When that day 
 comes to pass I shall not know myself.’ But the day 
 
80 
 
 A GREAT SURPRISE. 
 
 had arrived, and Mrs Moore knew now that she was 
 under Martha’s thumb. 
 
 ‘Not tliat I mind,’ she said to herself; ‘the girl has 
 the wisdom of twenty ordinary girls. It is not every 
 girl who would deny herself every scrap of pleasure 
 and comfort and take the entire care of this little 
 house on her shoulders, and do all her studies as well. 
 It is true it is a bit lonely for me. I miss little Annie ; 
 she was commonplace, but she was good and faithful ; 
 she brought me the gossip of the neighbours, and did 
 her work well. Dear ! dear ! I see dust in that distant 
 corner. There will be more dust there to-morrow, and 
 more the next day and the next, and soon the one 
 recommendation the poor little place possesses will 
 have vanished. It is impossible for Martha to keep 
 everything clean. In the first place, she has not the 
 time ; in the second place, she has not the wit. It is 
 plain to any one who studies the order of creation that 
 the Lord does not give the same wits to everybody ; 
 He keeps several sets of wits, and deals them out 
 according to the characters He is putting into the 
 world. Now, Martha has got intellect and a grand 
 mind. She can work and study and think and 
 acquire ; she is her father’s daughter out and out. It 
 is splendid to see her when she is taking up a new 
 line of thought, to observe the kindling light in her eyes 
 and the flush on her cheeks and the expression of her 
 mouth ; but give her a room to dust and the result is 
 quite awful. Now that we have no help she will have 
 all the dustino- — she who has got no wit for it — and 
 all the cleaning, and all the cooking ; for I am nothing 
 better than a log. Well, after all, she is a brave child, 
 and would rather face discomfort than debt. She says 
 
A GREAT SURPRISE. 
 
 81 
 
 that, with our small means, now that she has lost that 
 scholarship — although how she lost it beats me — we 
 cannot manage if we keep Annie, so poor Annie is 
 away. I wish some neighbour would lend me a lot of 
 old novels — anything to pass the time.’ 
 
 Mrs Moore looked round her kitchen, and watched 
 the hands of the eight-day clock travelling slowly on 
 their accustomed day’s round. The hands of the old 
 clock did their duty valiantly ; they never paused nor 
 faltered nor hesitated ; but how slow they were, and 
 how weary and discontented Mrs Moore became ! It 
 was all very well for Martha, who was working hard 
 at school, and had the keen interest of making up for 
 her deficiencies of this year, and of knowing that she 
 would win the Randall Scholarship next term ; but for 
 the mother, with nothing to do and no bright Annie 
 to chat to, the time did go very slowly indeed. 
 
 ‘ I wonder I submit to it,’ she muttered inaudibly. 
 
 Just then there came a tap at the back door, and 
 a neighbour, Mrs Martin, who had brought her the 
 eggs the day before, opened it, looked in, and said, 
 
 ‘ Where ’s that Annie of yours ? I have been ringing 
 at the front door for the last three or four minutes. I 
 think the bell is broken, for I could not hear a sound. 
 How are you, Mrs Moore ? My goodness ! what are 
 you sitting in the kitchen for ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Come in, please, Mrs Martin,’ said Mrs Moore. Mrs 
 Martin was the most gossipy of the neighbours ; she 
 was the sort of woman the more thrifty people in this 
 row of small cottages rather avoided, for she wasted 
 their time and retailed little items of intelligence from 
 house to house, and thus did no end of mischief. But 
 Mrs Moore in her present weary condition was very 
 
 Nonentity. J' 
 
82 
 
 A GREAT SURPRISE. 
 
 glad to see her. ‘ Come in and sit for a moment, will 
 you ? Martha is at school as usual and — Annie has 
 gone.’ 
 
 ‘ Annie gone ! ’ exclaimed Mrs Martin, pricking up 
 her ears at this intelligence. ‘ Why, I thought she was 
 that devoted ’ 
 
 ‘ It wasn’t her fault, poor child. I haven’t thanked 
 you yet for the eggs, Mrs Martin ; they are very nice.’ 
 
 ‘You’re welcome to ’em,’ replied Mrs Martin, ‘and I 
 have brought you a couple of apples. I thought you 
 might fancy a baked apple.’ As she spoke she laid 
 tliree or four large rosy-cheeked apples on the little 
 kitchen table. ‘ Dear ! dear ! and are you all alone ? 
 Have you got another servant ? I had better come 
 and stay with you and help you to tidy up a bit.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh ! we are quite tidy,’ answered Mrs Moore. 
 ‘ Martha saw to that.’ 
 
 Mrs Martin had a hawk’s eyes for dust. Poor Mrs 
 Moore quite trembled. ‘I do hope she won’t look 
 under the table in the corner,’ she thought. ‘ Patty 
 will be disgraced for evermore if Mrs Martin sees the 
 way she swept the floor this morning.’ 
 
 Mrs Martin did not notice the dust, ‘ I tell you 
 what,’ she remarked. ‘The Higginses, just over the 
 hill, have got a girl they want trained. I don’t doubt 
 they would let her come to you for five or six pounds 
 a year ; only you would have to do the training. 
 However, with nothing to occupy you but just sitting 
 in your chair, you might be able to manage that. I 
 am very busy to-day ; but I ’ll find time to go round 
 to the Higginses and tell them to send Jane over for 
 you to interview.’ 
 
 ‘No, thank you,’ answered Mrs Moore. ‘Annie 
 
A GKEAT SURPRISE. 
 
 83 
 
 would have stayed if we could have kept her. The 
 fact is, we cannot afford it.’ 
 
 Mrs Martin’s eyes lit up with a curious mingling of 
 sorrow for the neighbour and satisfaction at the 
 interesting piece of news she would have to retail to 
 all the other neighbours. 
 
 ‘ Have you lost any of your money ? ’ she asked. 
 ‘ Dear, dear, and you were never too flush. I am 
 sorry.’ 
 
 ‘No, we have not lost any. We are just as well off 
 as we ever were, or just as badly off I should say ; but 
 Patty hoped to have got a valuable scholarship at the 
 school, and she was disappointed.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh ! my daughter goes to the day-school too,’ said 
 Mrs Martin. ‘ It is said that Miss Clarissa Rodney, 
 quite a rich girl, got the scholarship.’ 
 
 ‘ Yes ; she is the daughter of Professor Rodney. Miss 
 Clarissa Rodney is very clever; she must be, if she 
 can beat my Patty,’ replied the widow. 
 
 ‘Well, I am sorry ; and it’s very unnatural of that 
 girl to ask you to do without a servant. You had best 
 have Annie back ; you cannot manage alone. Who 
 is to answer the bell for you, and to take any 
 messages ? It ’s not safe. I ’ll make it my business 
 to come round this evening and have a talk with 
 Patty myself.’ 
 
 ‘ I shall be glad to see you, Mrs Martin ; but you 
 will do no good. When Martha makes up her mind 
 she sticks to it.’ 
 
 ‘ Well, I call it a shame. Here, shall I put one of 
 these apples into the oven before I go ? ’ asked Mrs 
 Martin. 
 
 ‘ No, thank you. Patty has arranged my dinner. 
 
84 
 
 A GREAT SURPRISE. 
 
 There is nothing you need do ; but I thank you most 
 kindly.’ 
 
 Mrs Martin muttering not a little, and bestowing 
 glances of compassion upon Mrs Moore, presently took 
 her leave. 
 
 ‘ I never liked her so little as I liked her to-day,’ 
 thought the widow ; then leaning back in her chair, 
 she fell into a fit of musing which was anything but 
 cheerful. ‘ I must have Annie back,’ was her thought. 
 ‘ I cannot endure this loneliness.’ 
 
 The clock still continued to tick out the minutes 
 with malicious slowness. Mrs Moore determined to 
 take her dinner out of the oven at twelve o’clock. 
 
 ‘ It ’s an hour earlier than Annie gives it to me ; but 
 I never knew such a long morning, never in the whole 
 course of my life,’ she thought. 
 
 The widow now amused herself watching the- clock. 
 She was tired of knitting, and the moment the eight- 
 day clock struck twelve she leant forward, opened the 
 oven-door, and took out the plate of warmed-up 
 potatoes and bacon which Martha had prepared for 
 her. It was not at all well done, and the dinner looked 
 anything but tempting. Mrs Moore, however, was 
 thankful for small mercies; she drew the table 
 towards her, helped herself to salt, poured out a glass 
 of water, and took up her knife and fork. She was 
 just in the act of putting the first mouthful of the 
 food to her lips when she heard steps coming round 
 from the front entrance to the back. ‘ Annie — it ’s 
 Annie come to say good-bye. I shall be glad to see 
 her,’ thought the widow. ‘ She ’ll do a bit of washing 
 up I know if I ask her, and she ’ll tell me the gossip.’ 
 
 The steps which now approached nearer and nearer 
 
A GREAT SURPRISE. 
 
 85 
 
 were not the least like Annie’s. They were the firm, 
 measured steps of a man. 
 
 Mrs Moore bent forward, and her heart heat a trifle 
 fast. Was it possible that a tramp, knowing of her 
 lonely condition, had appeared on the premises ? Oh ! 
 what should she do ? How mad, how cruel of Patty 
 to have left her in such a predicament. She was just 
 about (by the aid of her crutches) to cross the kitchen 
 floor and turn the big key in the lock when the latch 
 was lifted, and a man looked in round the half-open 
 door. He was a big, burly-looking man, with scanty 
 reddish hair, gray, bushy whiskers, and twinkling blue 
 eyes. He glanced with an almost comical expression 
 at the rocking-chair in which Mrs Moore was seated, 
 then with a hasty exclamation rushed forward. 
 
 ‘ Why, Polly ! ’ he exclaimed, ‘ Polly ! By all that ’s 
 wonderful, Polly, what are you doing there ? What is 
 it you are trying to eat ? Don’t you know me. Poll, 
 my girl ? Don’t you know me ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Thomas ! ’ she cried. She let both her hands fall 
 to her sides ; her face, which had been white as death, 
 now grew prettily pink, and her eyes brightened. 
 
 ‘ It can’t be you, Tom ? ’ 
 
 ‘ But it is — it is,’ said the man. ‘ Kiss me, Polly, for 
 the sake of old times. I have come back safe and 
 sound and — I ’ve made my pile.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, Tom ! I thought you were dead.’ 
 
 ‘ No such thing. I thought too much of you for 
 that to happen. Give us another kiss, little sister. 
 It ’s good to see you, that it is, although you are 
 altered.’ Then the man came up to the rocking-chair, 
 bent over Mrs Moore, took her slim white hands in 
 his, and kissed her with much heartiness. 
 
86 
 
 A GREAT SURPRISE. 
 
 ‘ I am the wanderer home again/ he said ; ‘ but, I 
 say, what on earth are you doing in this queer sort of 
 place ? I know your husband is dead ; but you have 
 a girl. You wrote to me about her — you told me — 
 well, what I am not likely to forget. Oh, my dear 
 Polly ! there are a lot of threads to pick up.’ 
 
 ‘ So there are, Tom ; but the sight of you when I 
 made sure you were dead has given me a turn. I feel 
 quite faint.’ 
 
 ‘ Have a glass of water. There now, you ’ll be 
 better. What is that thing you are trying to eat ? ’ 
 
 ‘ My dinner.’ 
 
 ‘ Uncommon messy it looks. I thought I ’d have a 
 bit of dinner with you myself ; but that compound on 
 the plate doesn’t look inviting. I ought to have sent 
 you a wire ; but I only landed last night, and thought 
 I ’d come straight on. Your last letter was dated three 
 years back ; but I didn’t suppose you ’d be doing much 
 in the moving line.’ 
 
 ‘ No ; we have been in this little cottage, Patty and 
 I, for seven years. And are you well, Tom, and have 
 you really come back for good ? ’ 
 
 ‘ I have a long story to tell,’ replied the man ; ‘ but 
 may I take off my greatcoat ? It is warm in here. 
 You don’t mind if I stay and chat with you a bit ? I 
 can scarcely believe my eyes. It is twelve years since 
 I saw you last. You look as if more than twelve 
 years had gone over your head, Matilda. You ’re not 
 improved. I may as well be frank. When I saw you 
 last you were as bonny a slip of a girl as the eye of 
 man could rest on ; now you are an old woman.’ 
 
 ‘ I have had trouble since,’ she replied, ‘ a great deal 
 of trouble. My husband, my dear good George, was 
 
87 
 
 A GREAT SURPRISE. 
 
 taken from me, and after that we were poor, and we 
 came to this house. I’d like you to see the child, 
 Tom.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh ! she ’ll keep,’ said the man. ‘ It ’s you I want 
 to talk to. I have come back with a good bit of 
 money, and I mean to stay in the old country if I can 
 be made comfortable.’ As he spoke he threw back 
 his head and gazed around him. ‘ I thought maybe 
 you ’d put me up,’ he said. 
 
 ‘ We really have no room for you here, although I 
 am sure Martha ’ 
 
 ‘ Ah ! yes. Martha ! It was good of you to name 
 her after my mother; it was the sort of thing I am 
 not likely to forget. So you have only one child ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Only one, bless her ! as fine and clever and nice- 
 looking a girl as the heart of woman could desire.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh ! it goes without saying that you should praise 
 your only chick ; but we ’ll hear about her later,’ said 
 the man. ‘ Now then, Polly, I have come back, and I 
 mean to make things comfortable for you. I have 
 been thinking about you all the time I was away. I 
 have never forgotten that you were good to me when 
 I was a poor, miserable, rough, headstrong, disagree- 
 able boy. My father thought nothing of me when he 
 married again, and I couldn’t have borne life if it 
 hadn’t been for you. You were a pretty, bright little 
 thing in those days, and I was fond of you, although 
 I seldom showed it. The one person that I worshipped, 
 however, out and out, was my mother. My mother 
 died when I was only seven years old, and I had a 
 sort of feeling that when my father married again he 
 had done her a cruel injustice, and you — you, poor 
 little mite — used to let me talk of her to you. No one 
 
88 
 
 A GREAT SURPRISE. 
 
 else would, but you were never tired of it ; and when 
 you had a daughter, only one, you called her after my 
 mother, although her name is a bit old-fashioned, and 
 not up to date. So now, here ’s my hand on it, Polly — 
 you ’ll want for nothing now that I have come home ; 
 you and that girl of yours shall have all that money 
 can buy. This cottage won’t suit my views, nor will 
 it suit your views long. What are you sitting in the 
 kitchen for ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Because ’ said Mrs Moore. ‘ Oh ! is it true, 
 
 Tom ? It can’t be true. It is like a story-book tale, 
 that you have come back rich, and you are going to 
 take ’ 
 
 ‘ I am going to take a big house, and put you in 
 it, and that giid of yours, and do for you both. The 
 only encumbrance will be your humble servant. I ’ll 
 want a place in that establishment. I ’ll be master, 
 but you ’ll be mistress. I ’m not a marrying man, my 
 dear ; there ’s no fear of my turning you out because 
 of a fine lady-wife appearing on the scene. All I ask 
 is that I may be master, but for the rest you and the 
 girl can do as you please.’ 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE TRANSFOEMED KITCHEN. 
 
 UGH as a Mrs Moore’s step-brother, 
 Thomas Jenkins, was still rough as a 
 man ; but the kind heart, which had 
 looked out of his blue eyes as a little 
 lad, was still there ; and Mrs Moore 
 felt a sense of intense comfort in his presence. 
 
 ‘ It is like old times,’ she said. ‘ You might poke up 
 the fire a bit, if you have not forgotten the way ? ’ 
 
 ‘ I should just think I hawen’t. Hadn’t I to do for 
 myself when I was in Austi'alia ? When I was up in 
 the bush, do you think I could get a servant to do a 
 hand’s-turn for me? No; it was Jenkins to the fore, 
 or nobody ; and you may be quite certain I didn’t 
 want for anything. But I say, Polly, you are not 
 going to eat that stuff on your plate ? ’ 
 
 ‘ It is cold now ; but you have been better than any 
 dinner to me, Tom. It is pleasant to have you home 
 once again.’ 
 
 ‘ Home to stay, if you please. I wonder what that 
 Martha of yours will say to it. You call her Martha, 
 do you ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Mostly Patty.’ 
 
 ‘ Better and better,’ cried the man, slapping his knee 
 
90 
 
 THE TRANSFORMED KITCHEN. 
 
 with a loud bang. ‘ My mother was Patty to those 
 who knew her. I declare to you, Polly, there never 
 was a more faithful step-sister than you ; but you ’ll 
 reap your reward now. I say, why shouldn’t we both 
 have a bit of something tasty to eat ? I ’m no end of 
 a cook. I ’ll go out and be back again in a twinkling.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh no, Tom ; you had better not. Martha will be 
 in by-and-by, and I know she ’ll find something. We 
 can have a cosy little supper all together then. You 
 had better go out for your own dinner, Tom.’ 
 
 ‘I’ll dine with you or not at all.’ Tom Jenkins 
 once again put on his overcoat, placed his hat firmly on 
 his head, and disappeared. He banged the kitchen- 
 door after him ; and Mrs Moore, the pink spots of 
 colour on each cheek, sat and wondered at the curious 
 and strange turn in the wheel of fortune. Of course 
 she was delighted ; she had always been fond of Tom. 
 She knew that he was rough ; but she had liked him 
 when a little fellow. He had been good to her, for she 
 was a delicate little thing in those days. The little 
 sister who had come with the second marriage had been 
 the one and only thing to soothe the heart of the angry 
 boy ; and as she grew older he had told her many 
 tales of his own mother — who had been a rough sort of 
 woman enough, but well meaning — and whom the boy 
 now idealised. 
 
 When Polly Jenkins had married a man slightly 
 above her in the social scale she had thought in a 
 queer, vague sort of way of the woman whom every 
 one else in the world, except Tom, had forgotten. 
 So Mrs Moore called her own child after Tom’s 
 mother. Now she wondered what that child would 
 say when she returned. 
 
THE TRANSFORMED KITCHEN, 
 
 91 
 
 ‘ She cannot but be delighted,’ thought Mrs Moore. 
 ‘ Tom has come back wealthj^ He wants a big house, 
 and we are to live in it with him ; and all he asks is 
 that he is to be master. That is fair enough. Of 
 course, Patty will be charmed. How can she help it ? 
 
 No more money cares, no more Oh, I do declare ! 
 
 there he is back.’ 
 
 Tom Jenkins returned in a noisy way. He had filled 
 a basket with provisions. There were two bottles of 
 stout, a great piece of rump-steak, a bag of onions, and 
 some potatoes. 
 
 ‘ Now for the frying-pan,’ he said. ‘ I know how to 
 cook a steak to a turn. You have got bread in the 
 house, I hope ? ’ 
 
 ‘ I ’ll see to things. Do sit still, Tom ; it will do me 
 good to move a bit,’ said Mrs Moore, stretching out her 
 hand for her crutch as she spoke. 
 
 ‘You sit where you are,’ replied Jenkins, seizing 
 the crutch and putting it at the other side of the 
 room. ‘We’ll just fancy, Polly, that you and I are 
 kids again, and that I ’m doing a bit of cooking on 
 the sly. Don’t you I’emember the old days ? Ha ! ha ! 
 I ’ve done a good bit of cooking between then and 
 now.’ 
 
 So Jenkins raked out the fire and made it glowing 
 and clear, placed the gridiron on the top, and laid the 
 steak on to grill. He grilled onions with it, and boiled 
 potatoes; and the little kitchen was filled with a 
 pungent and savoury smell. Then he warmed plates 
 by the fire, and put bread and butter and salt on the 
 table. Drawing the cork of a bottle of stout, and 
 pouring out a glass for his sister and another for 
 himself, he remarked, ‘Now, that’s better. I’ll go 
 
92 
 
 THE TRANSPOflMEt) KITCHEN. 
 
 out presently and bring in something for supper. This 
 dinner is prime.’ 
 
 He ate with gusto ; and Mrs Moore reflected with 
 some comfort that Patty would not be back for two or 
 three hours yet, and gave herself up to the enjoyment 
 of her dinnei*. In the course of the meal Annie 
 appeared on the scene. 
 
 ‘Who’s yon little maid?’ said Jenkins, turning to 
 look at Annie, as in wild amazement, with her eyes 
 round as globes, she gazed at the two. A savoury 
 smell in that kitchen where everything was so sparse, 
 so simple, so poor ! A large, rough -looking, burly man 
 eating a prodigious meal in the company of gentle Mrs 
 Moore ! 
 
 Annie rubbed her eyes to assure herself it was not 
 a dream. 
 
 ‘ This is the dear little servant I used to have, but 
 who has left me,’ said Mrs Moore. ‘ Come in, Annie ; 
 you have come to say good-bye ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Why did you leave your mistress, may I ask ? ’ said 
 Tom Jenkins. ‘ Don’t stay there by the door. Come 
 along in, and stand in front of me, and let me get a 
 good look at you.’ 
 
 Annie did come forward in a shy way. 
 
 ‘You ain’t such a bad little lass,’ said Jenkins, ‘not 
 by no means ; and why did you go away from Mrs 
 Moore ? I don’t favour people who are not true to 
 their employers.’ 
 
 ‘ If you please, sir,’ said Annie, ‘ I didn’t want to go ; 
 I didn’t really.’ 
 
 ‘ It was because ’ began Mrs Moore. 
 
 ‘You mean to say you have not got a servant?’ 
 interrupted Jenkins, 
 
THE TRANSFORMED KITCHEN, 
 
 93 
 
 ‘ It doesn’t matter, dear ; it doesn’t really.’ 
 
 ‘I am quite willing to be engaged on the spot as 
 cook ; but I don’t care for the washing-up business. — 
 Can’t you stay, little girl ? ’ Tom asked, turning to 
 Annie. 
 
 ‘ That I can, sir, if — if I may,’ 
 
 ‘ Say no more about it. Go into the scullery, or 
 whatever you call that place, and turn to your duties. 
 You’re my servant now. I am responsible for your 
 wages. I don’t know that I ’ll keep you long. I ’ll 
 say nothing about that until I see what you ’re worth ; 
 but you ’re my servant in future ; and the better you 
 serve Mrs Moore the better you’ll please me. You 
 understand that — eh ? ’ 
 
 ‘Yes, sir,’ said Annie. 
 
 ‘Annie,’ said Mrs Moore, ‘this gentleman is my 
 brother come back from Australia.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh ! ma’am, I am glad,’ replied Annie, and the 
 creases vanished from her anxious forehead and 
 dimples surrounded her mouth. She had read 
 
 romances, and had often thought of impossible brothers 
 and cousins and uncles coming back from un- 
 known regions with bags of gold in their pockets. 
 Such things were true after all; they were not all 
 dreams. Here was a real stranger from the other 
 side of the world, who had returned with lots of 
 money ; he knew what was right, and that it was 
 impossible for a lady to live without a servant, so he 
 had reinstated the girl in the place she loved. 
 
 The meal proceeded merrily, and when it was over 
 Jenkins stood up and stretched himself. 
 
 ‘ I ’ll go for a walk now,’ he said, ‘ and come back 
 when that Patty of yours is home. I ’d like to see 
 
94 
 
 THE TRANSFORMED KITCHEN. 
 
 her, and give her a kiss for her mother’s sake. If 
 she ’s a girl after my own heart, there will be few 
 things I won’t do for her. Now then, Polly, ta ! ta ! 
 for the present. You have enjoyed your meal — eh ? ’ 
 
 ‘Yes, very much indeed, dear Tom,’ replied Mrs 
 Moore. 
 
 Again he left the cottage noisily. His quick, 
 measured steps were heard as he crossed the little 
 plot outside ; and then he vanished in the direction of 
 the village street. 
 
 ‘ Oh, ma’am,’ exclaimed Annie, ‘ it ’s too wonderful 
 to be true.’ 
 
 ‘ But it is true, Annie, and we ’ll never be in diffi- 
 culties again. Only I wonder — I wonder — what Patty 
 will say ! ’ 
 
 ‘ He seems a very kind gentleman,’ said Annie. ‘ He 
 gave me half-a-crown — he did really, ma’am ; you can 
 take it off my wages. I don’t want nothing but to 
 live with you ; but my box ain’t gone, and I ’ll take it 
 back again to my little attic. Oh, ma’am, I am so 
 happy ! ’ _ 
 
 ‘ That ’s right, Annie ; so am I. I want you to light 
 the fire in the parlour, and to make the room look as 
 nice as possible, and then to help me to get back 
 there. Patty will be pleased, and it will be half the 
 battle if she sees me in the parlour when she comes 
 home.’ 
 
 ‘ I ’ll do my very be.st, ma’am,’ replied Annie. 
 
 So the parlour was dusted and a bright fire lit. 
 Mrs Moore had her rocking-chair removed there ; 
 helped by Annie, she then put on her best Sunday 
 dress, and there she sat in state waiting for her brother 
 and for her daughter. It was almost too wondei'ful — 
 
THE TEANSFORMED KITCHEN. 
 
 95 
 
 like a fairy tale; if only Martha was satisfied, then, 
 indeed, there was a golden future before the widow. 
 
 Jenkins had promised to return about six o’clock; 
 he said he would bring a lot of provisions with him. 
 Punctual to the moment, he appeared again at the 
 cottage, followed by a boy loaded with brown paper 
 parcels. 
 
 ‘ Here we are ! ’ Jenkins exclaimed boisterously ; 
 ‘ lay ’em here. — Hullo ! where ’s your missus gone ? ’ 
 he asked, turning to Annie. 
 
 ‘ Missus is in the parlour, of course, sir,’ replied 
 Annie. 
 
 ‘ The parlour ? ’ Jenkins raised his hand to his fore- 
 head and pushed hack his rough hair. ‘ Then that ’s 
 all right. But I liked best to have her in the kitchen 
 somehow,’ the man muttered under his breath. ‘ We 
 used to snuggle up in the chimney-corner when she 
 and I were young ’uns — she a little mite of three or 
 four at the most, and I a big lad. Well, never mind, 
 we must take things as we find ’em.’ 
 
 Jenkins paid the boy, who straightway vanished ; 
 then he and Annie had a consultation. 
 
 Annie thought Jenkins quite a gentleman, and so 
 regal in his ways. ‘ More than bounteous,’ was her 
 opinion ; ‘ downright kingly.’ 
 
 The parcels were found to contain many things 
 which had never appeared in this humble kitchen 
 before ; groceries of various sorts and descriptions, 
 cheese, meat, vegetables, different kinds of fruits, a 
 nicely-trussed chicken, a ham, and many other dainties. 
 
 ‘We’ll do,’ Jenkins said, looking at Annie; ‘and if 
 you don’t know how to cook, I ’ll manage. I ’ll cook 
 the dinner to-night. I want to have a nice dinner 
 
96 
 
 THE TRANSFORMED KITCHEN. 
 
 for your mistress and for Miss Patty. Miss Patty 
 is a very hearty, merry sort of girl — eh ? A merry, 
 larky sort of girl — eh ? ’ 
 
 Jenkins looked full at Annie as he spoke. 
 
 ‘Well, sir,’ replied Annie in a dubious tone. 
 
 ‘ Eh ? What are you hesitating about ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Oh yes, sir,’ Annie added quickly ; ‘ yes, sir.’ 
 
 ‘ Then that ’s all right. I don’t want none of your 
 grand, stuck-up misses ; but if Patty is worthy of her 
 name, why ’ 
 
 ‘What would you like me to cook for dinner, sir ?’ 
 
 ‘ You lay the table — I know nothing about that ; and 
 I ’ll cook the dinner,’ he replied. 
 
 ‘ Oh ! but really, sir ! ’ 
 
 ‘ No words, my girl. I doubt if you could do a fowl 
 to please me ; and as to the ham, we can’t boil it in 
 time, but we ’ll have rashers from it ; and there ’s some 
 more stout here. I’ll get in wine to-morrow. Now 
 then, let ’s turn to.’ 
 
 Jenkins took off his coat, turned up his sleeves, and 
 soon the most ravishing odours filled the small kitchen. 
 
 It was on this scene that Martha, tired from her 
 long walk and day of study, entered. 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 ’BAIGHT FROM THE SHOULDER.’ 
 
 effectually had the .story of Clarissa 
 Rodney appealed to Martha Moore that 
 she could think of nothing else all the 
 way home; Clarissa’s difficulty had shut 
 out, for the time being, her own anxieties. 
 From childhood Martha had devoted herself to thinking 
 for others. Her father had been ill for two or three 
 years before he died ; and although quite a little child, 
 she was accustomed to keep quiet for his sake, to sit 
 near him for hours without speaking, to get his 
 slippers for him, and to see that the book he liked best 
 was close by his side. Shortly before his death her 
 father had put his hand on the girl’s broad forehead, 
 had looked into the wonderfully deep gray eyes, and 
 had said, ‘ Look after your mother. Don’t forget that 
 I leave your mother as my most solemn charge to 
 you.’ 
 
 The mother was delicate at the time, and soon after 
 Mr Moore’s death she became very feeble. Though 
 she was gentle and refined, she was socially by no 
 means her husband’s equal. 
 
 Patty closely resembled her father. Mrs Moore 
 
 Nonentity. Gj. 
 
98 
 
 ‘STIIAIGHT FROM THE SHOULDER.’ 
 
 knew this, and was troubled as she speculated on the 
 girl’s reception of the new arrival. 
 
 ‘ Of course she will be sensible about it,’ thought the 
 widow. ‘ She has always tried to please me — she 
 would not hurt me now.’ 
 
 Patty, still thinking of Clarissa Rodney, and wonder- 
 ing what she should say to her the next morning, and 
 how she should best advise her, lifted the latch and 
 entered the kitchen. She came round by the back 
 way on purpose. Had she been less engrossed in 
 thought, she would have observed, even before crossing 
 the threshold, the bright light shining from the little 
 lattice window, and the sound of voices. Perhaps, too, 
 a whiff of the delicious odours of cooking might have 
 greeted her nostrils. As it was, she stood blinking in 
 the light of the warm, bright kitchen, and unable for a 
 moment to realise where she was. Had she in her 
 dreamlike way taken the wrong turning, and gone 
 into somebody else’s house ? 
 
 ‘ Why, where ’s mother ? ’ she inquired ; ‘ and 
 
 who’ She hesitated and stood still. A large 
 
 man with red hair pushed back from his forehead, 
 the moisture streaming from his face, his shirt sleeves 
 rolled up above the elbows, was bending over the 
 kitchen-range ; he was in the act of dexterously 
 turning a delicious ham-rasher. A heap of fried 
 potatoes lay in a warm dish over a pot of boiling 
 water, and a fowl done to a turn was already reposing 
 on a dish. 
 
 ‘ Has mother gone out of her mind ? What — what 
 has happened ? ’ thought Patty. 
 
 ‘ I say ! one minute, my girl, one minute,’ cried 
 Jenkins. He popped the rasher of bacon on the dish 
 
‘STRAIGHT FROM THE SHOULDER.’ 
 
 99 
 
 where the fowl lay, threw down the knife and fork he 
 held in his hand, and came towards Martha. 
 
 ‘ So you ’re Martha ! So you ’re Patty ! So you ’re 
 the little girl I have been working for, and toiling for, 
 and thinking of ! Give me a kiss, my pretty — a good, 
 hearty smack. I ’m your Uncle Tom.’ 
 
 Now, of course, Patty had heard of her Uncle Tom, 
 her mother’s step-brother, who lived at the other side 
 of the world. As a child .she had heard of him, and 
 from time to time her mother had mentioned his name. 
 As a child she had thought of him with awe. She 
 used to call him, under her breath. Vice Versa, for with 
 him everything was reversed : he had winter when she 
 had summer ; he had long days when she had short ; 
 he was cold when she was hot ; doubtless he was rich 
 and she was poor. Of late years, however, she had 
 seldom thought of him, for he had not written ; and 
 her mother surmised that poor Thomas had fared badly 
 in the colonies, had made no money, and M'as probably 
 dead. Martba used to listen with a certain respect and 
 even intei’est to her mother’s old reminiscences of her 
 half-brother, Thomas Jenkins ; but when she saw this 
 rough-looking man — rougher-looking than any man she 
 was in the habit of seeing — and when he demanded 
 a kiss, her emotions were far fi’om pleasurable. An 
 angry flush mounted to her forehead. 
 
 ‘ I don’t know you. I am surprised to see you,’ .she 
 said. She did not give the kiss, but walked haughtily 
 from the kitchen into the little parlour. 
 
 Mrs Moore, in her very best costume, was seated bolt 
 upright in the rocking-chair. The table in the centre 
 of the room had been laid for dinner by the excited 
 servant-maid. 
 
100 
 
 'STRAIGHT FROM THE SHOULDER.’ 
 
 Martha closed the door behind her. 
 
 ‘ What does this mean, mother ? ’ she said. ‘ What 
 has happened ? I left you this morning in the kitchen 
 without a servant ; I come back to find Annie here, 
 you back in the parlour, a great dinner in preparation, 
 and a — a man here, mother.’ 
 
 ‘Your Uncle Tom, darling, my step-brother — your 
 Uncle Thomas who has come back, Martha. It is 
 delightful, dear child. AVe shall be rich in the 
 future.’ 
 
 ‘Rich!’ exclaimed Martha in a tone of disgust; 
 ‘ rich with him I ’ 
 
 ‘ Have you seen him, my darling ? Oh, I know he 
 is just a little rough ; but he has a kind heart. You 
 won’t — you won’t turn against him, Martha. If your 
 father were alive ’ 
 
 Martha put up her hand to her head. She said 
 wearily, ‘ I don’t understand. I am tired and — and 
 dazed. I see you have everything you want for the 
 present. I ’ll go up to my room.’ 
 
 There was a little staircase which led from the 
 parlour to the bedrooms beyond ; Martha used it now. 
 It was a way of escape from the kitchen, with its 
 odious occupant and its coarse superabundance. She 
 entered her own little room, so very tiny, bare, and 
 starved-looking ; and turning the key in the lock, flung 
 herself face downwards on the bed. 
 
 ‘ Oh, I can’t bear it ! ’ she muttered ; ‘ he wanted me 
 to kiss him. To kiss him ! Oh, it is horrible ! I can’t 
 bear it.’ 
 
 Tears slowly came into her eyes as she thought of 
 her father, so gentle, so I’efined, so scholarly. She lit a 
 candle, put it on the dressing-table, and hastily opened 
 
‘STRAIGHT FROM THE SHOULDER.’ 
 
 101 
 
 a little morocco case which contained his portrait. 
 Her tears fell on the picture. 
 
 ‘ You would not expect me to appreciate him ? ’ she 
 thought, mentally addressing the face, with its gray 
 eyes and sensitive mouth. ‘ I did all you asked me ; I 
 did all — all. I have always put mother first ; but you 
 never thought of this : that he would come back — a 
 man like that, and that I should have to — to act as 
 though I liked him. I cannot do it, father. I don’t 
 mind a bit how poor we are ; but don’t, don’t expect 
 me to like riches of that sort.’ 
 
 There was a tap at her door. 
 
 ‘ If you please. Miss Martha, supper ’s ready,’ called 
 the excited voice of Annie. 
 
 Martha crossed the room, opened the door, and stood 
 on the threshold. 
 
 ‘ Please tell mother,’ she said, ‘ that I have a head- 
 ache, and have gone to bed. I am not at all hungry.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, but Miss Martha, really it is such a beautiful 
 supper ; and he ’s the most bounteous, wonderful gen- 
 tleman. He ’s given me half-a-crown ; and I can do 
 without any wages from your mother. He says I am 
 to stay here, and he ’ll pay my wages ; and I ’m that 
 
 happy. Oh, Miss Martha ’ 
 
 But Annie spoke to empty air, for Martha had .shut 
 her bedroom door and locked it. 
 
 Downstairs Mrs Moore waited with keen anxiety. 
 
 ‘ Come in, Annie,’ she said as the girl appeared. 
 ‘ Did you tell Miss Martha ; is she coming dowm ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Now don’t you fret, ma’am. Miss Martha has got 
 a bit of a headache. Pride I call it, for a more delight- 
 fully kind gentleman never lived. It’s his red hair, 
 I ’m thinking, ma’am. Miss Martha never could abide 
 
102 ‘STRAIGHT FROM THE SHOULDER.’ 
 
 red hair ; and I know, for mother told me, that there ’s 
 a dye that turns it black. Maybe, ma’am, you could 
 get the gentleman to use it. I ’d run to town and get 
 a bottle. I would this very night if you wished it.’ 
 
 ‘ Don’t talk nonsense, Annie. Bring in supper.’ 
 
 Mrs Moore’s happy expectation had failed, and she 
 now felt more depressed than usual. If Martha chose 
 to behave in this way, all her beautiful castle in the 
 air might tumble about her ears. She forgot that 
 Martha could not be expected to look on Uncle Tom as 
 she did. Martha had no memories of tender early 
 days, nor could she know how kind was the heart 
 which beat beneath that rough exterior. 
 
 Thomas Jenkins had, however, a peculiarity of 
 character : he could be very kind, and he could also be 
 very sulky — as morose as a bear with a sore head. He 
 came in now as Annie placed the fowl, the ham, and 
 the vegetables on the table. He had washed his hands 
 at the sink, pulled down his shirt sleeves, and put on 
 his coat ; he had looked at his own reflection in the 
 little square of glass which Annie had placed for her 
 convenience in the tiny scullery, and had said to him- 
 self that he was quite as presentable a man as could 
 be found in the length and breadth of England. He 
 entered his sister’s presence and looked eagerly round. 
 
 ‘ Well,’ he said, ‘ dinner is served. Where ’s the 
 lass ? ’ 
 
 ‘ She ’s tired, Thomas ; she ’s not coming down to- 
 night. The child is working very hard just now, and 
 has a headache.’ 
 
 ‘ Polly, when you begin to talk nonsense I don’t like 
 you half so well as when you were the downright 
 truthful little thing you were ages and ages ago. Let 
 
‘STRAIGHT FROM THE SHOULDER.’ 103 
 
 US fall to, whether Martha chooses to be here or not. 
 The chicken is done to a turn ; let me help you to the 
 liver- wing. You like liver- wing; you always did as a 
 little tot.’ 
 
 Mrs Moore had to own that even if Martha did 
 choose to absent herself the liver-wing of a tender 
 chicken would be a tasty morsel. 
 
 Jenkins carved to perfection. He helped his sister 
 to some of the good things provided, and took a 
 comfortable meal himself ; but he spoke very little. 
 There was a cloud on his brow, and his blue eyes 
 were somewhat perturbed. He occasionally looked 
 round him, and once or twice muttered words which 
 Mrs Moore could not catch. 
 
 Annie flew in and out of the room, her cheeks blazing 
 and her heart on fire with pride and happiness. 
 
 ‘ If only Miss Martha wouldn’t make herself dis- 
 agreeable — if only Miss Martha wouldn’t make herself 
 quite such a goose ! — what a delightful evening this 
 would be.’ 
 
 ‘There,’ said Jenkins, pushing back his chair, ‘you 
 can remove the things, Annie. There ’s a nice leg of 
 the chicken for yourself, my girl ; take a good supper.’ 
 
 ‘ Thank you, sir,’ replied Annie, as she took every- 
 thing away. 
 
 Jenkins ordered some hot water and glasses to be 
 brought in. He had bought a bottle of wine, and now 
 proceeded to brew what he called sherry -negus for his 
 sister. 
 
 All this time he did not allude to Martha. Annie in 
 the kitchen meanwhile was hastily preparing a tempt- 
 ing little meal. The leg of the chicken, all that was 
 left of that succulent bird, was put upon a plate for 
 
104 ‘STEAIC4HT FROM THE SHOULDER.’ 
 
 Martha. Annie even ventured to cut from the new 
 liain a tender rasher, which she did to a turn. With 
 these she went softly upstairs, and knocked at 
 Martha’s door, saying, ‘ If you please. Miss Martha, do 
 open.’ 
 
 Martha did open. There stood Annie with the tray 
 of delicious food. Martha had scarcely tasted food that 
 day, and a sick longing came over her when she saw 
 the dainties. 
 
 ‘ No,’ she said. ‘ My head aches ; I cannot eat. I ’ll 
 be all right in the morning. Take it all away, Annie.’ 
 
 ‘Oh, if you only would, miss; it’s beautiful. I 
 never seed the missus so happy. If you only would 
 come downstairs, even to the kitchen. Do take a bite 
 of the fowl, miss.’ 
 
 ‘ I ’m not hungry,’ Martha replied, knowing as she 
 spoke that she was telling a lie. Annie, tears filling 
 her eyes, returned to the kitchen with the rejected 
 supper. There were certainly times when Miss Moore 
 was a very troublesome young lady. 
 
 Meanwhile, Jenkins, having finished his glass of 
 sherry and water, turned to his sister, and remarked, 
 ‘Well, Polly, this is rather an impact — eh ? ’ 
 
 ‘ What do you mean ? ’ she answered. 
 
 ‘ I mean the girl. She don’t take after you, if she 
 has been named ten times after my blessed mother.’ 
 
 ‘ She takes after her father,’ Mrs Moore replied with 
 a touch of pride in her tone. ‘You never saw him 
 you know, Tom.’ 
 
 ‘ I never wanted to,’ muttered Tom Jenkins. 
 
 ‘ He was a wonderful man, Tom, quite wonderful, 
 and a great scholar ; he had a most gifted mind. He 
 was a most ' 
 
‘STRAIGHT FROM THE SHOULDER.’ 
 
 105 
 
 ‘A most airitied gent. I know the sort,’ muttered 
 Jenkins under his breath. 
 
 ‘ You would like, perhaps, to see his portrait ? It ’s 
 there on my writing-table. Bring it to me.’ 
 
 Jenkins looked at Mrs Moore. He saw that, happy 
 as she was, she was fretting. 
 
 ‘ If that girl dares to give her trouble, I ’ll knock her 
 pride out of her. She has got to know that I ’m her 
 master ; if she don’t, we won’t stable our horses long 
 together — that ’s a certain fact.’ These were Uncle 
 Tom’s thoughts as he crossed the room and looked at 
 the photogi’aph of the late Mr Moore, remarking in- 
 audibly, ‘ a conceited snob,’ and then returning to his 
 cliair. 
 
 ‘ I can see, Polly,’ he resumed, ‘ that your girl takes 
 after her father. You ’re right there. She has got the 
 same twist of the lip. Now, to be frank with you, I 
 don’t take to that sort ; they ’re not homely enough for 
 me — they ’ve too many airs for your humble servant. 
 I hoped that, being named after the mother, she 
 might have got a bit of her nature; but hopes are 
 doomed to be shattered in this world — eh, Polly ? 
 Poor old girl, I don’t blame you ; but now you ’ve got 
 to listen. If that proud miss isn’t agreeable to what 
 I have to propose, why, I go ; and if I go, I take my 
 money with me. I can’t stand a young miss who won’t 
 even give her own uncle a kiss when he asks for it.’ 
 
 ‘ She w^as surprised, Tom ; she wasn’t expecting to 
 see you. You don’t know what a good girl she is, and 
 how clever. She’ll be all right in the morning, and 
 you ’ll like her very much when you know her.’ 
 
 ‘ Maybe so, Polly, and I don’t want to annoy you or 
 to make you anxious, my dear; but I don’t feel like 
 
106 
 
 ‘STRAIGHT FROM THE SHOULDER.’ 
 
 loving her at present. She’s given me a slap just 
 when I was feeling my happiest and most amiable. I 
 know I ’m a rough fellow, but I have got a kind heart ; 
 and if a girl is worth her salt she ought to meet her 
 own uncle half-way. She gave me a cruel hit, straight 
 from the shoulder, when she came into that kitchen 
 to-night, and I ’ve not forgotten it. I ’ll leave you 
 now, Polly, and I ’ll come back in the morning — and if 
 by then young miss has humbled herself, and is willing 
 to take the good I ’m willing to offer, all will be well ; 
 if not — why, Polly, I ’m sorry, but I ’ll go elsewhere 
 and take my bag of gold with me. Now, good-night, 
 my dear. It was a pleasure to see you, and you did a 
 kindness to me which I shall never forget when you 
 named that girl after my mother ; but as to her being 
 like mother, bless my dear mother’s memory ! she could 
 no more have done what that impudent hussy did to- 
 night than she could have flown. Good-night to you, 
 Polly. Don’t fret, old girl.’ 
 
 Jenkins rose, kissed his sister, went into the kitchen, 
 had a laughing, joking word with Annie, whose admira- 
 tion for him was unbounded, and presentl}" left the 
 house. 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 A DILEMMA. 
 
 alone, Mrs Moore reflected long over 
 advisability of having a talk with 
 daughter that evening. She had but 
 raise her crutch and knock on the 
 ing to summon Martha to her pres- 
 ence ; she was tempted to do so, for the house was 
 quiet now, and the comfortable sensation of her good 
 dinner still lingered. The atmosphere of Thomas 
 Jenkins, that excellent though rough step-brother, 
 seemed to pervade the place. After careful considera- 
 tion, however, she wisely refrained. 
 
 ‘ I ’ll let the girl sleep over it,’ she thought. ‘ I can’t 
 understand her conduct in keeping away and annoy- 
 ing me because Tom happens to have red hair and a 
 somewhat rough manner. I can’t understand her; but 
 all the same I am proud of my girl. She resembles 
 her father, and her father was a man of good family. 
 Martha is a lady, every inch of her; she has been 
 brought up as one. Poor Tom, of course, can’t com- 
 prehend her ways.’ 
 
 With the aid of Annie, who was still loquacious and 
 excited, Mrs Moore returned to her own room for the 
 night. She went to bed and dreamed golden dreams ; 
 
108 
 
 A DILEMMA. 
 
 and in the morning summoned Annie once more to 
 assist her downstaii’s to breakfast in time to meet 
 Martha before she started for school. 
 
 Martha came in at the last moment, buttoning her 
 jacket. Her worn-out sailor hat was placed somewhat 
 crookedly on her head, and altogether she looked 
 slovenly. 
 
 ‘ Ah ! Patty,’ said her mother, ‘ give me a kiss, 
 darling. Your head is better — is it not ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Thank you, mother,’ replied Martha, ‘ my head is 
 quite well.’ 
 
 Mrs Moore looked the girl all over with anxious 
 eyes ; but Patty’s eyes were averted. She sat down, 
 poured out a cup of tea, and drank it off without any 
 remark ; even a newly-opened tin of sardine.s, and 
 some fresh eggs, hot and tempting, which graced the 
 table, were unnoticed. She cut a thick piece of bread 
 and buttered it ; the bread was stale, but Martha ate it 
 with the relish of a youthful and very keen appetite. 
 
 ‘You are so fond of sardines; do have one, darling,’ 
 said the mother. 
 
 ‘ Not this morning, mother, thank you.’ 
 
 ‘ Nor an egg ? Mrs Martin brought those eggs, so 
 perhaps you wouldn’t mind eating one.’ 
 
 Martha suddenly smiled. The situation seemed to 
 her to be on the verge of the grotesque. In another 
 instant she would have laughed ; in two minutes she 
 might find herself in hysterics. So she jumped up 
 hastily, saying, ‘ Not even one of Mrs Martin’s eggs. 
 I have no time. Good-bye, dear mother.’ Then she 
 ran up to her mother and bent to kiss her. 
 
 Mrs Moore took both of the girl’s hands and 
 clasped them nervously. ‘ Martha,’ she said, ‘ need 
 
A DILEMMA. 
 
 109 
 
 you go so early ? You never go as early as this, 
 and I came down on purpose.’ 
 
 ‘ I cannot stay now, mother. I am starting a little 
 earlier than usual because I have to meet a girl, one 
 of my school companions, who is in trouble.’ 
 
 ‘ What girl ? ’ asked Mrs Moore. 
 
 ‘ Her name is Clarissa Rodney.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh ! the daughter of the Professor. They are rich 
 people. Need you worry about their cares ? There 
 is a woman in trouble here, and she is your mother, 
 and you neglect her for a stranger.’ 
 
 ‘ I must see the girl, mother ; I promised. I am 
 sorry you are in trouble ; I did not know it.’ 
 
 ‘ Martha, you must just listen to one remark. I 
 should be quite the happiest woman in England 
 to-day, the least anxious woman, the most thankful 
 woman, the woman with the brightest, most assured 
 future before her, if it were not for you.’ 
 
 ‘For me, mother? Oh, mother, need we speak of 
 this now ? ’ 
 
 ‘ We have to face it, Martha. If you refuse to — to 
 meet my brother, Thomas Jenkins, he goes and leaves 
 us just as we were. Our future rests with you, and 
 you had better know it. He is hurt at the way you 
 treated him last night. He has a heart of gold, and 
 he has gold in his pocket too, and will spend it on us. 
 If you refuse we lose everything. We shall be poor — 
 starving ; you cannot do what you want, you will 
 be always crippled in resources; and I love him, 
 Patty. I don’t see his roughness as you do, but I 
 see the love shining beneath. He was brought up 
 roughly, poor fellow, and he lived a rough life. He 
 cannot be blamed for not having the polish he never 
 
110 
 
 A DILEMMA. 
 
 had an opportunity of getting ; and he would be — oh ! 
 so proud of 3^ou, and fond of you.’ 
 
 ‘ I cannot stay now, mother. I have heard every 
 word. I will let you know to-night. Good-bye, 
 mother; good-bye.’ 
 
 Martha stooped and kissed her mother; a sudden 
 tear splashed on the mother’s face. The next instant 
 she had left the house, and was walking quickly 
 to school, her heart beating so fast that once or 
 twice she stopped in fear of suffocation. 
 
 ‘ How can I attend to my work this morning ? 
 How can I do all that I desire when this horror, this 
 nightmare, oppresses me ? ’ she thought. ‘ Though I 
 am going to meet Clarissa I have not given her trouble 
 any consideration. Oh ! what is to be done ? ’ 
 
 Then an inspiration came to Martha. She stopped 
 and smiled ; some of her burden seemed to roll away. 
 It was this : ‘ Suppose, this morning, Clarissa and I 
 change places. Yesterday she told me of her diffi- 
 culty, and pretty formidable it is in all conscience. 
 Suppose to-day I tell her mine. I will.’ 
 
 Martha hurried on her way ; she quickened her 
 steps to a run. She had a kind of premonition that 
 Clarissa would be watching for her behind one of the 
 blinds of the windows of the tall house. This con- 
 jecture was correct, for the very instant she crossed 
 to the side of the street where Professor Rodney’s 
 house stood, the hall door was opened, and Clarissa 
 ran down the steps and came eagerly across to 
 Martha Moore, holding out her hand. 
 
 ‘ We have a quarter of an hour and more. How 
 good of you ! ’ she cried. ‘ Have you thought — have 
 you considered ? ’ 
 
A DILEMMA. 
 
 Ill 
 
 ‘ I am dreadfully sorry, Clarissa,’ said Martha. ‘ I 
 did think a little — a little in the night, and a little 
 yesterday between classes; but I — I have a trouble 
 of my own. May I tell it to you, Clarissa ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Of course you may,’ said Clarissa. ‘ My alfairs 
 don’t press awfully yet. I told the doctor I would 
 not pay him for quite a month, so he won’t expect it. 
 Father is getting better. Oh, it is wonderful how 
 much better he is ! I have just seen him, and he 
 kissed me, with the old look in his eyes. I wish you 
 knew my father, Martha.’ 
 
 ‘ I am not likely to know him,’ replied Martha with 
 regret. 
 
 ‘ Why not ? ’ asked Clarissa. ‘ My father would take 
 a great interest in a clever girl like you. Oh, Martha ! 
 you have got such a nice face ; but I wish you were 
 a wee bit more particular about your dress. I know, 
 of course, you are poor ; but you could wear your hat 
 
 straight, and brush the mud olf your skirt, and ’ 
 
 Clarissa coloured, wondering at her own audacity. 
 ‘ I know you are horribly pi’oud ; but you don’t mind 
 my telling you ? The fact is, I want to be your friend 
 — a real friend.’ 
 
 'Don’t say any more until you know the story,’ 
 said Martha. ‘ I don’t pretend,’ she added, her voice 
 trembling, ‘ that the thought of having you as a 
 friend, a real friend, would not bring such joy and 
 sunshine into my life that — — But, there, I never 
 had a friend like you. I have always been poor, and 
 only the poorer girls in the school seem to take any 
 notice of me ; and — I can’t help it, Clarissa — the 
 poor girls at our school — well, I don’t care for them. 
 It ’s not because they are poor ; but they are shabby 
 
112 
 
 A DILEMMA. 
 
 in soul too, and I can’t stand shabby-souled people. 
 I never could.’ 
 
 ‘ Of course you can’t,’ said Clarissa, who thought 
 this a most high-sounding and noble speech. She 
 linked her hand through Martha’s arm. ‘ Let ’s go 
 slowly. I like you better each moment I talk to you ; 
 and now please tell me what your trouble is ; it can’t 
 be worse than mine at any rate.’ 
 
 ‘I don’t know about that. There must be an end 
 to your trouble some day or other ; but it seems to 
 me there never can be an end to mine — never.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, Martha ! what has happened ? Is your mother 
 — the mother you love so much — very ill ? ’ cried 
 Clarissa. 
 
 ‘ No ; she is well, and .she is happy. At least, she 
 would be happy if it were not for me. But there, I 
 must tell you, and I must be quick about it. That 
 horrid school-bell will ring, and we will have to go 
 in ; and if I don’t relieve my mind first, why, I ’ll do 
 something desperate — that ’s all.’ 
 
 ‘You do look queer,’ said Clarissa ; ‘ your face is 
 almost green, and the shadows under your eyes are 
 quite too black for beauty. I believe you don’t eat 
 half enough.’ 
 
 ‘If I do what I suppose will be considered right 
 I shall have plenty to eat in the future,’ Martha 
 replied. ‘ You won’t have to complain of that, nor 
 of my shabby dress either. I shall be rich — yes, what 
 is considered rich. But I am quite sure you will then 
 pass on one side of the street and I on the other. 
 You will nod to me, perhaps at first kind-heartedly ; 
 but soon you will be sorry to know me, and sorry that 
 I am at the same school with you. It will be quite 
 
A DILEMMA. 
 
 113 
 
 natural for you to act in that way, and I shall not 
 blame you.’ 
 
 ‘ Now, indeed, you talk riddles,’ said Clarissa. ‘ Did 
 you lose your wits in the night ? Are you quite 
 well ? ’ 
 
 ‘ I will tell you the story. Yesterday we were the 
 poorest of the poor. We were so dreadfully poor that 
 I got mother to send our only servant away; and 
 mother is lame and cannot do anything herself. I got 
 her rocking-chair into the kitchen, and put her dinner 
 in the oven, where she could reach it ; and on the 
 way to school I wondered how even with all these 
 economies we were ever to pay our way. Then I 
 met you, and you talked to me of your own trouble ; 
 it helped me to forget mine, and I thought of you 
 a good deal during the day. It was so good of you 
 to confide in me. All the way home last night I was 
 thinking of you, and wondering in what way I could 
 possibly help you; but I did not see any way. You 
 occupied all my thoughts, and I was proud that a girl 
 like you should make a friend of me. I got home 
 and opened the kitchen door. I expected to see 
 mother sitting, perhaps, in the dark, and the fire nearly 
 out, and the whole place dismal ; and I thought how 
 quickly I would light the lamp, and rake up the fire, 
 and get the very best supper I could for my darling 
 mother.’ 
 
 ‘Well, you expected to see a dismal, dark kitchen. 
 What did you see ? ’ asked Clarissa. 
 
 ‘ What did I see ? ’ repeated Martha, suddenly 
 springing from her companion’s side and facing her. 
 
 ‘ I saw this : the kitchen full of light, the stove almost 
 red hot, a number of dishes about, with roast chicken 
 
 Nonentity. H 
 
114 
 
 A DILEMMA. 
 
 on one, fried potatoes on another, and there was a 
 smell of frying pervading the whole house. Worse 
 than all, there was a great red-haired man, with his 
 sleeves up to his elbows, frying ham.’ 
 
 ‘ It sounds quite funny and delicious,’ said Clarissa, 
 laughing. 
 
 ‘Funny! Delicious! Is that what you think? 
 Wait till you hear.’ 
 
 ‘ Well, anyhow, it almost gives me an appetite,’ 
 Clarissa replied. ‘You must have enjoyed your 
 supper.’ 
 
 Martha paused for a moment and looked full at 
 her school companion. 
 
 ‘ Well, go on,’ Clarissa continued. ‘ You have made 
 me frightfully curious.’ 
 
 ‘The man wiped his hands and turned, saying 
 “ Hullo ! ” He came up to me, and what do you think 
 he said? “I’m your Uncle Tom Jenkims, come back 
 from Australia ; give me a kiss.” Those were his 
 words.’ 
 
 Martha paused. She had come to a sort of anti- 
 climax ; she could not explain any further, particu- 
 larly as she saw evidence of suppressed laughter in 
 Clarissa’s eyes. 
 
 ‘If you laugh I shall hate you as much as ever I 
 liked you,’ she cried with emphasis. 
 
 ‘Oh, I won’t, not after a minute; but you put it 
 so funnily. Did you kiss him ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Kiss him ? No ! I remembered my father, who 
 was a gentleman ; and I left the room and went into 
 the parlour where mother was in her very best dress. 
 Mother was as pleased as anybody could be, and I 
 asked her what it meant. She told me that my uncle 
 
A DILEMMA. 
 
 115 
 
 had come back, and was giving us supper. Then I 
 went upstairs to my room.’ 
 
 ‘And you didn’t have any of the delicious supper 
 after all ? ’ 
 
 ‘Not quite. I am proud, as proud as you are, 
 Clarissa.’ 
 
 ‘ I never knew that I was specially proud,’ answered 
 Clarissa. ‘ I don’t think I should have been so 
 desperately proud as to refuse that supper. I am so 
 fond of roast chicken ; and as to rashers of ham — 
 oh ! don’t describe things too minutely, Martha.’ 
 
 ‘ I won’t ; but now I have told you my trouble.’ 
 
 ‘ Only, I don’t see where the trouble comes in.’ 
 
 ‘ That horrid man, who is my uncle — my step-uncle, 
 my mother’s half-brother — has come back rich, very 
 rich, and he evidently means to live with us and 
 to ’ 
 
 ‘ Well, and what then ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Can’t you see for yourself ? Could you endure 
 such a man always near you ? ’ 
 
 ‘ I have not seen him. I cannot say until I see him.’ 
 ‘ Clarissa, you astonish me. I thought you would 
 have been sympathetic.’ 
 
 ‘Perhaps I shall be sympathetic when I see him. 
 There are plenty of coarse and vulgar people in the 
 world ; but he may not be that sort. He may be 
 rough without being coarse, and he may be unpolished 
 without being vulgar. Father once explained the 
 distinction, and I now consider very carefully before 
 I pronounce any person really vulgar, and really 
 coarse.’ 
 
 ‘ There ’s the school-bell, Clarissa. I don’t think 
 you have comforted me much.’ 
 
116 
 
 A DILEMMA. 
 
 ‘ I wish I could comfort you ; but your news has 
 quite astonished me. I tell you what, Martha : may 
 I come home with you this evening ? It would be 
 a great treat to me, and I could see your uncle for 
 myself, and afterwards I might be able to advise you.’ 
 
 ‘ Would you really ? ’ asked Martha. ‘ Mother would 
 be delighted, and of course there will be plenty now 
 in the house.’ 
 
 The school-bell rang loudly. The girls entered 
 through the gates, which were immediately closed 
 behind them. 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 PEOFESSOR RODNEY. 
 
 NLY a few girls living near the big school 
 went home to lunch; the majority had 
 that meal at the school. Clarissa, for 
 reasons of economy, always went home 
 in the middle of the day; Mrs Rodney 
 thought it was cheaper to lunch at home than to pay 
 a shilling a day for the school-dinner. Clarissa was 
 often annoyed at this, as it prevented her enjoying 
 the society of the companions she really cared about. 
 
 To-day, however, she ran all the way, excited at 
 the thought of supping with Martha Moore in the 
 evening. She knew her mother would give her leave ; 
 but that sanction was necessary if she would go with 
 an easy conscience. 
 
 Mrs Rodney was at home ; she was also in a good 
 humour. The Professor was rapidly regaining health 
 and strength ; he was even allowed to sit up 
 for a few minutes at a time, and Sister Agnes had 
 assisted him not half-an-hour before to the sofa in 
 his room. He had enjoyed his dinner, consisting of a 
 little chicken and a glass of strong Burgundy, and 
 was now examining with languid interest some books 
 which had arrived by post. 
 
118 
 
 PROFESSOR RODNEY. 
 
 Therefore, Mrs Rodney, her heart at rest with regard 
 to her great anxiety, was disposed to be lenient 
 towards her lesser cares. She termed her daughters 
 her ‘lesser cares;’ and neither Clarissa nor Janet 
 enjoyed the designation. 
 
 Janet alwaj^s dined at the preparatory school she 
 attended; so Clarissa now entered the big dining- 
 room in her somewhat noisy fashion. ‘ Mother, here 
 I am ! ’ she cried. 
 
 ‘ Is not that a self-evident fact, my dear ? ’ replied the 
 mother. ‘ Take off your hat and push back your hair ; 
 it is a little untidy. Here is a leg of chicken for you.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, how very nice, mother ! I so seldom get 
 chicken, and I do enjoy it.’ She sat down to the 
 table and helped herself to potatoes. Then suddenly 
 raising her eyes, a sparkle of fun shining in their 
 dark depths, Clarissa said, ‘ Mother, do you know 
 I met a girl to-day who absolutely cried because 
 she was offered chicken and ham for supper ? ’ 
 
 ‘ She must be a particularly silly, fanciful girl,’ 
 replied Mrs Rodney. ‘ Pray don’t tell me any more 
 about her. I am glad to be able to inform you, Clare, 
 that your father is decidedly better to-day.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, good news ! ’ cried Clarissa. ‘ Has the doctor 
 seen him ? ’ 
 
 ‘Yes; and do you know that wonderful doctor. Sir 
 John Carbery, is coming here again on Thursday.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, mother, is he really ? ’ 
 
 ‘ He is ; it is all arranged. He wrote to Dr Bennett 
 proposing it himself ; and the payment of the fee is 
 
 arranged. I suppose the same friend, Mr ’ 
 
 Clarissa jumped suddenly to her feet. ‘ I cannot stay 
 any longer.’ 
 
PEOFESSOE EODNEY. 
 
 119 
 
 ‘ Not stay, my dear ? Absurd/ 
 
 ‘ I want to run up and see father — may I ? I have 
 had as much as I can eat.’ 
 
 ‘ Your appetite is falling off. This is most provok- 
 ing, just when I happened to have a specially nice 
 lunch for you. You need not expect much of a 
 dinner to-night, because ’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, mother, I was coming to that. Martha Moore, 
 quite one of our very nicest girls — so refined, mother, 
 and so clever — has asked me to sup with her. May I 
 go, mother, please ? ’ 
 
 ‘ May you go ? I have never heard you speak of 
 — what name did you say ? ’ 
 
 ‘Moore, mother — Martha Moore. She is a very 
 nice girl, mother ; I am sure you would like 
 her.’ 
 
 ‘ And where does she live ? ’ 
 
 ‘In one of Freeman’s Cottages, just outside the 
 town.’ 
 
 ‘ It is a good way off ; but I believe I can send one 
 of the servants for you. Yes, my dear, go by all 
 means.’ 
 
 ‘Thank you so much, mother. You will tell Janey, 
 won’t you, that I won’t be in until late ? ’ 
 
 ‘If I remember it, dear. Now, don’t stay too long 
 with your father; he cannot stand more than a few 
 minutes’ conversation with any one. Be sure you 
 don’t tire him.’ 
 
 Clarissa replied that she would be careful, and left 
 the room, trembling slightly. So Sir John Carbery 
 meant to pay them a second visit. Should she, or 
 should she not, tell him how her affairs stood ? Oh 1 
 she could not. She could not face this kind, great. 
 
120 PROFESSOR RODNEY. 
 
 clever doctor, and tell him that after all she had 
 broug'ht him here on false pretences, had in fact 
 told him that she would do something she could not 
 do. Doubtless his fee was not much to him ; but 
 Clarissa felt her honour was a great deal to her. 
 
 ‘ I will pay him,’ thought the girl ; ‘ but how am 
 I to get the money ? I am not responsible for the 
 second visit, I know ; but he must have the thirty- 
 five guineas I promised him — he must. It would kill 
 me to fail in my word.’ 
 
 She pressed her hand to her forehead. The gaiety 
 she had felt for a moment or two deserted her now, 
 and the memory of the herculean task which lay 
 before her pressed heavily. She was now in her 
 father’s room, the largest and best bedroom in the 
 house. Clarissa pushed aside the curtain which was 
 stretched across the door ; her slim young figure, her 
 anxious and bright face made a charming picture, 
 framed in the doorway. 
 
 The Professor, lying on a sofa, looked up, and 
 smiled when he saw her. His eyes and the girl’s 
 were very much alike. He spoke in a low voice: 
 ‘ Ah, Clare ! this is good. I have longed to see you. 
 How much time can you give the old father ? ’ 
 
 ‘ As many minutes as ever I can spare from school, 
 pater.’ 
 
 Mr Rodney glanced at the clock on the mantel- 
 piece. ‘ It is half-past one ; when does school begin ? ’ 
 he asked. 
 
 ‘ At two, father,’ Clarissa replied. ‘ I can run there 
 in ten minutes. I can stay for twenty beautiful 
 whole minutes with you, if you will have me.’ 
 
 ‘ I do not think I shall particularly want to send 
 
PROFESSOR RODNEY. 
 
 121 
 
 you away, Clarissa. I have been thinking, and it is 
 bad for me to think. It will divert my mind to talk 
 to you. Take this low chair.’ 
 
 But Clarissa did not. She flung herself on her 
 knees by the sofa, and then tumbled to a sitting 
 posture on the floor, one of her hands clasped in 
 the very long, slender hand of the man she adored. 
 Presently she raised the slim fingers, and pressed them 
 to her lips. 
 
 ‘ If you had died ! If you had died ! ’ thought the 
 girl. Her whole heart swelled within her. She had 
 difficulty in keeping back her tears. 
 
 ‘ What is the matter ? ’ asked the Professor, looking 
 at her. ‘ Out with your thoughts, my little girl.’ 
 
 ‘I was thinking, father, that if you had not got 
 better ’ 
 
 ‘ If I had died, for instance ? ’ said Mr Rodney 
 quietly. 
 
 ‘ I believe I would have died too, father.’ 
 
 ‘You think so, my child,’ he answered. He paused 
 for a moment, then laid his hand softly on her head. 
 ‘ You think so ; hut you would have lived. You would 
 have felt grieved for a time — all affectionate girls do, 
 when such a bereavement is sent to them ; but you 
 would have got over the grief, and been a happy girl 
 again, and a brave woman, and followed in those of 
 my steps which are worthy to walk in.’ 
 
 ‘ They are all worthy, my dear, darling father,’ 
 murmured the girl. 
 
 ‘ No, my child ; I am only human, and I have often 
 done things and felt things and said things I ought 
 not to have felt or said or done. The best in me, I 
 trust, you would have adopted, and the worst — God 
 
122 
 
 PROFESSOR RODNEY, 
 
 would have buried the worst out of sight. But never 
 mind, Clare, I am better ; and it is by the agency of 
 that wonderful physician. Sir John Carbery. I could 
 not possibly have sent for him ; but Providence raised 
 up a friend in my need.’ 
 
 Clarissa felt agitated. The Professor was gazing 
 across the room. 
 
 ‘ The pain is gradually diminishing,’ he continued ; 
 ‘every day I mount a little step higher on the hill 
 to perfect health. The disease has been mastered. 
 In three months I expect to be as well and strong as 
 ever. Now that the worst symptoms have decidedly 
 disappeared, I shall be able to resume the work which 
 delights me, and I can, if necessary, give you some 
 special lessons in languages and literature.’ 
 
 ‘ By the way, father, there is one other girl I wish 
 you would coach,’ said Clare. 
 
 ‘ I dare say I could take a private pupil.’ 
 
 ‘ But I want you to take her for nothing — for 
 charity, for love of me.’ 
 
 ‘ I would do more than that for love of you. But 
 what is the girl’s name ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Martha Moore. She is so nice, and she is wonder- 
 fully clever. You would enjoy imparting some of 
 your information to her. I know she is a girl after 
 your own heart.’ 
 
 ‘ She must be a girl worthy of encouragement, par- 
 ticularly if you speak so highly of her. I think I 
 remember her. By the way, she and you were both 
 competing for the Randall Scholarship ? ’ 
 
 ‘Yes, father.’ Clarissa moved uneasily. 
 
 ‘ I recall her face — a sallow girl, with big gray eyes, 
 a nice face, and very untidy in her person,’ 
 
PEOFESSOR RODNEY. 
 
 123 
 
 ‘Oh yes, that is poor Martha to the life. She is 
 such a funny mixture. I am going to tea with her 
 to-night. May I tell her that when you are really 
 better you will give her lessons with me during next 
 term ? ’ 
 
 ‘You may. You can both come to my study. I 
 shall not he allowed to take much exercise for some 
 time.’ 
 
 Clarissa patted her father’s hand. ‘ That is my own 
 good darling daddy,’ she said. ‘ You always contrive 
 to make me happy, and to give me a stimulus.’ 
 
 ‘By the way, Clare, you might come to me some 
 evenings now to help me with my annotations of the 
 Greek Testament. You have a very pretty taste for 
 Greek, and a pure accent.’ 
 
 Clarissa coloured under these words of praise. 
 
 ‘Yes, I am getting much better,’ continued Mr 
 Rodney. ‘It is such a relief to your mother. For my 
 part, I should have been absolutely willing had the 
 result of this severe illness been otherwise; but she, 
 dear soul ’ 
 
 ‘We won’t talk of it, father. You are getting 
 better. It is God’s will that you should live and help 
 a lot of people,’ cried the girl with enthusiasm. 
 
 ‘ I have been thinking,’ Mr Rodney said slowly, 
 ‘ that it must have been my old friend Sarson — George 
 Sarson — who got Carbery to visit me. It was the 
 sort of thing Sarson would do, and of course he would 
 not let me know about it. I shall have to thank 
 him very delicately. I had a line from him this 
 morning, offering to come and see me. He will be 
 here in a week or two. — Why, what’s the matter, 
 Clare ? Are you well ? I never saw you so nervous. 
 
124 
 
 PROFESSOR RODNEY. 
 
 Believe me, my dear, want of calm is a very bad 
 sign. I have always taught you to take things with 
 equanimity, not to give yourself away. I have en- 
 deavoured to instil into you lessons of ’ 
 
 ‘ Father, I really must go. You are getting quite 
 pink in the cheeks, and that dreadful Sister Agnes 
 will scold. I must go — I know I must.’ 
 
 Clarissa bent down and kissed her father. As she 
 was leaving the room she heard him murmur again : 
 ‘It must have been George Sarson, and he did it 
 very delicately — very delicately — just like him. I 
 shall endeavour to thank him.’ 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 CLARISSA AND UNCLE TOM. 
 
 HEN she got back to school, Clarissa 
 had just time to shout across the play- 
 ground to Martha Moore : ‘ I am coming 
 with you this evening, Martha. Be sure 
 you wait for me after school.’ 
 
 Martha nodded, and her face flushed with pleasure. 
 ‘ Clarissa will be a shield between me and — and that 
 dreadful other person,’ she thought. 
 
 The two girls met when school was over, and im- 
 mediately started on their walk to Freeman’s Cottages. 
 The evening happened to be very flne ; and although 
 it was winter now a young moon was shedding a 
 tender radiance in the sky. They walked briskly, 
 their lips moving quickly, and many eager utterances 
 came from their young hearts. 
 
 Clarissa told her friend what her father had said 
 that afternoon. ‘ It will do him good,’ she concluded, 
 
 ‘ and it will be easier for him to give lessons to two 
 girls than one. You are not to pay anything for 
 the lessons, Martha, because — because I love you, and 
 I want you to be a very special friend of mine; 
 and we will work at those subjects we care most for 
 side by side and hand in hand. I do hate myself 
 
126 
 
 CLARISSA AND UNCLE TOM. 
 
 when I remember that I took the scholarship from 
 you, as you must want it even more than I do.’ 
 
 ‘ I always thought you were very rich,’ said Martha 
 bluntly. ‘ You live in such a big house, and your 
 father is a great man, respected and looked up to. 
 It seems rather ridiculous that you should say you 
 have not money enough.’ 
 
 ‘ It is difficult, I know, to explain,’ replied Clarissa, 
 ‘ for we do live in a big house ; but then the house 
 goes with the Professorship, and father must live in 
 it whether he likes it or not. We have a position 
 to keep up, and that is what makes things so hard. 
 You may be quite certain that unless we were very 
 poor father and mother would not have hesitated to 
 send for Sir John Carbery.’ 
 
 ‘ I wish with all my heart I could help you about 
 that,’ said Martha. ‘ It is terrible for you ; but here 
 we are just at home. Perhaps my dreadful uncle will 
 not be present.’ 
 
 ‘ I hope he will. I want to see him very much 
 indeed.’ 
 
 Mrs Moore had been informed that Martha was 
 bringing a schoolfellow home with her. A girl living 
 in a cottage near by, who had gone home early, had 
 brought a note telling her of the visitor. Both 
 mistress and maid were much excited at the infor- 
 mation. 
 
 ‘ The daughter of the great Professor Rodney, Annie. 
 We must have a nice supper, and it will be easy on 
 this occasion — will it not ? ’ 
 
 ‘By the kindness of the good gentleman, we can 
 make it quite easy,’ the maid replied. 
 
 So the parlour was swept and dusted until not 
 
CLAKISSA AND UNCLE TOM. 
 
 127 
 
 the faintest shadow of that enemy to domestic com- 
 fort — dust — could be seen anywhere. The little lamp 
 
 was trimmed and burning brightly, and the red cur- 
 tains were drawn across the lattice windows. The 
 fire blazed up, too, and the best damask cloth was 
 spread on the centre table. Annie had garnished 
 that lovely rosy ham, which was now duly boiled and 
 fit for eating ; the tea was infused ; and, having even 
 ventured to try a recipe for particularly appetising 
 hot tea-cakes, she had just placed them on the 
 table when the latch of the kitchen door was raised 
 and the two girls entered. 
 
 Mrs Moore, dressed in her best, was waiting in the 
 parlour to receive Clarissa and make much of her, 
 and Martha looked round her with a sense of relief 
 when she perceived that no red-haired Uncle Tom 
 was to be seen. 
 
 She hurried her friend upstairs, to take off her 
 hat and coat, and afterwards interviewed Annie. 
 ‘I thought — I somehow expected — that Mr Jenkins 
 would be in,’ she said. 
 
 ‘He ain’t here, miss, I mourn to say,’ replied the 
 girl in a very solemn tone, her blue eyes shining 
 mistily in the midst of her freckled face. 
 
 ‘ Why do you speak in that extraordinary voice ? ’ 
 Martha inquired. 
 
 ‘ Because me and the missus, we has been a-fretting 
 over it,’ replied Annie. ‘There, miss; there ain’t no 
 use in hiding our feelings. The missus and me 
 we have been downright fretting. We have been 
 listening for a footfall all day, that has never 
 come nigh us. It’s a good footfall, and it means 
 victuals and wages ; it means comforts and kind 
 
128 
 
 CLARISSA AND UNCLE TOM. 
 
 words and riches, Miss Martha; and they as turns 
 up their noses at these good things, why, Miss Martha, 
 they ain’t to be pitied. If they turn away the good 
 things of life given by those nearest to them they ’re 
 to be blamed. Miss Martha. I said as I would say 
 it, even if I did so with a bursting heart ; and now 
 it ’s out, miss ; and if you will go in and eat some 
 of the hot cakes made with Mr J enkins’s butter, and 
 some of the ham bought with his money, and the 
 tea with cream in it, and all the other good things, 
 why, eat them. Miss Martha — eat them, and don’t 
 keep the missus waiting.’ 
 
 Martha did not feel called upon to make any 
 reply to this remarkable speech. Had she done so 
 she would have said something she might have 
 regretted ; therefore, returning to the little parlour, 
 she sat down before the tea-tray and poured out the 
 tea. 
 
 Clarissa was seated close to the widow, chatting 
 away in her pleasantest and most lively style. 
 
 ‘ But I thought your step-brother had come back ? ’ 
 she said presently. ‘ Martha told me Mr Jenkins had 
 just returned from Australia. I am quite curious 
 to see him.’ 
 
 Martha flashed an angry glance at her friend, but 
 Clarissa took no notice of it. 
 
 ‘I am sorry to say my dear brother has not been 
 in to-day,’ replied Mrs Moore. There was a slight 
 tremulousness in her voice, which she sincerely hoped 
 Martha did not notice. 
 
 ‘ Come, mother,’ said Martha a little brusquely, for 
 she could scarcely keep in her sense of annoyance, 
 ‘ the tea will be spoilt. Shall we begin ? ’ 
 
CLARISSA AND UNCLE TOM. 
 
 129 
 
 ‘ If you please, my love,’ said Mrs Moore in a gentle 
 voice. 
 
 The three ladies now surrounded the tea-table, and 
 Annie whisked in and out, pleased and proud to 
 attend on them. 
 
 Clarissa owned to herself that whatever might be 
 Martha Moore’s poverty, she had seldom enjoyed a 
 more delicious meal. The cakes were so good that 
 Annie was praised to her face, whereupon she became 
 almost purple, and her blue eyes shone as bright as 
 stars. The ham was also done to a turn, the cream 
 was delicious, the tea of good quality. 
 
 Mrs Moore felt now that truly Tom was atoning 
 for any roughnesses he might have in his manner 
 by the liberal provision he had made for them. 
 
 At last the repast was over; and when the tea- 
 things were cleared away the three sat round the 
 cosy fire. It was just at this moment — just when 
 Martha had forgotten all about Mr Jenkins, and 
 Clarissa was much interested in remarks made by 
 Mrs Moore with regard to her late husband — that 
 a step, firm and yet hui’ried, was heard on the gravel 
 outside. The new-comer stopped at the back-door, 
 the latch was lifted, and Martha knew, even before 
 he was announced by the triumphant Annie, that 
 Thomas Jenkins had once more put in an appear- 
 ance. Mrs Moore also knew it, and turned a rosy, 
 almost a frightened, red. The only one quite calm 
 and indifferent when the Australian entered the room 
 was Clarissa Rodney. 
 
 ‘ Here I am,’ said Jenkins. ‘ I thought I would look 
 round. Evening, Polly ; glad to see you, old girl. 
 Ah, how do you do, Martha ? ’ 
 
 Nonentity. J 
 
130 
 
 CLARISSA AND UNCLE TOM. 
 
 He kissed his sister, nodded fiercely to his niece, 
 and then looked with surprise at Clarissa. 
 
 Now was Clarissa’s opportunity. She had never 
 looked better than she did at this moment as she 
 rose, came a step forward, and said at once, ‘I am 
 so glad you have come, Mr Jenkins. I have been 
 longing to hear something about Australia, something 
 from one who has been there ; and you have been 
 in Queensland — have you not ? I want to hear about 
 the gold-mines. It is on account of father; he is 
 working up a lecture on the subject.’ 
 
 ‘ Let me introduce you, Tom dear,’ said Mrs Moore, 
 looking with gratitude at Clarissa. ‘ This young lady’s 
 name is Mi.ss Clarissa Rodney, and her father is a 
 very distinguished Professor of University College, 
 London. He lives at Upton, and gives lectures at 
 several of the schools. — Miss Rodney, this is my 
 brother, Mr Thomas Jenkins.’ 
 
 Jenkins bowed awkwardly, his rough face crim- 
 soned all over. After a moment’s hesitation he held 
 out his hand, saying briskly, ‘ I shall be glad, I ’m 
 sure, miss, to give you any information in my power.’ 
 Then he dropped into a chair by Clarissa’s side. She 
 took no notice of his rough manner, but began im- 
 mediately to question him. At first her interest was 
 more or less assumed ; but it quickly became real. 
 Jenkins was neither very rough nor uncouth when 
 he lost his nervousness. He quickly lost it in the 
 presence of this tactful girl. He gave her just the 
 information she wanted. 
 
 ‘ You must come and see my fathei',’ she said at 
 last. ‘ He is to give a course of lectures on gold- 
 mines — the boring process, and the sifting, and all 
 
CLARISSA AND UNCLE TOM. 
 
 131 
 
 the rest. Will you come when he is better, Mr 
 Jenkins ? ’ 
 
 ‘Delighted,’ said Jenkins, ‘that is, if I can tell a 
 learned person like your father anything he wants 
 to know ; hut I am a rough sort of man, one who 
 has seen the seamy side — eh, Polly ? No one knows 
 better than you do about that.’ 
 
 ‘ Please, Martha,’ said Clarissa suddenly, ‘ will you 
 come over here and let us both ask your uncle ques- 
 tions ? ’ 
 
 ‘ I am afraid, miss,’ said J enkins, ‘ that move of 
 yours won’t work, for Martha don’t care to talk to 
 me. I can see that well enough, and she ’s not going 
 to deny it.’ 
 
 Martha jumped up hastily; tears filled her eyes; 
 she ran into the kitchen. 
 
 ‘ He ’s come back, miss,’ said Annie, ‘ and I ’m 
 that thankful. Why, Miss Martha, what is the 
 matter ? ’ 
 
 ‘I am going upstairs,’ said Martha. ‘Don’t tell 
 any one.’ 
 
 ‘ Going upstairs,’ echoed Annie. ‘ Then that you 
 ain’t.’ She ran forward, shut the kitchen door, locked 
 it, and put the key in her pocket. 
 
 ‘ Miss Martha,’ she said, ‘ you ain’t a-going to upset 
 everything. If you had only seen the missus all 
 this live-long day, a-fretting and a-thinking of you, 
 
 and a-thinking of him, and torn between the love 
 
 she has for you, her only child, and the love she 
 
 has for him, you ’d go straight back again now. Miss 
 
 Martha — and you will, won’t you ? ’ 
 
 ‘ He doesn’t like me,’ cried Martha. ‘ It ’s not my 
 fault to-night, Annie. I would have been civil, 
 
132 
 
 CLARISSA AND UNCLE TOM. 
 
 Clarissa showed me how ; but, oh ! he is nothincr to 
 her — he is not her uncle. She can see him just as 
 little as she likes ; but I — I must live with him.’ 
 
 ‘Sit in this easy-chair, miss, and talk to me. You 
 have got to bear with him ; you have got to be 
 content, and to find out the good in him, and to 
 shut your eyes to the roughnesses. For my part. 
 Miss Martha, I think him no end of a bounteous 
 gentleman. I like him, miss ; I do truly.’ 
 
 ‘ He is not your uncle,’ said Martha. She did not 
 know why she confided in Annie ; but she could not 
 help herself, for Annie was not only sympathetic but 
 she was also determined, and her remarks were so full 
 of sense that it was impossible to be angry with her. 
 
 ‘ He ain’t nothing to me compared to what he is 
 to you, miss,’ continued Annie. ‘ I ’m right glad to be 
 back again, and to serve the missus, for there never 
 was a lady like her — never, and to serve you, miss, 
 too; but I can get other places, because the missus 
 will always give me a good word, and I can rise in 
 my wages, and go on to be better and better, until 
 I am parlour-maid in quite a big house, with, maybe, 
 a footman to help me. But you. Miss Martha, it ’s 
 all downhill with you if you don’t accept what the 
 good God has sent you ; and if the gentleman is 
 a bit rough, you have got to put up with it for 
 your mother’s sake.’ 
 
 Meanwhile Clarissa, having finished her conversa- 
 tion, rose. ‘ I must go now,’ she said. 
 
 ‘ You cannot go back alone, dear,’ said Mrs Moore. 
 ‘Mother promised to send a servant for me; but 
 I am afraid she has forgotten. I don’t mind at all 
 going back by myself,’ said Clarissa. 
 
CLARISSA AND UNCLE TOM. 
 
 133 
 
 ‘Nothing of the sort, miss,’ said Jenkins. ‘If you 
 will accept my humble escort I shall be very pleased 
 to walk into town with you.’ 
 
 ‘ You are more than kind,’ replied the girl. ‘ I shall 
 be very glad indeed if you will.’ Clarissa now got 
 up, kissed Mrs Moore, who asked her to come again, 
 and then ran into the kitchen, where Martha, shame- 
 faced and miserable, was seated in a sulky attitude 
 near the fire. ‘ Oh, Martha ! ’ she exclaimed, ‘ he is so 
 good, and he has a heart of gold. I knew, somehow, 
 that he had.’ 
 
 Martha could not bring herself to reply. Clarissa- 
 put on her hat and jacket, and a moment later went 
 out of the house with Jenkins. The man’s face had 
 beamed with pleasure while he was talking to Mrs 
 Moore and Clarissa ; but he frowned heavily as he 
 passed through the kitchen, and would not even 
 glance in Martha’s direction. 
 
 Soon Clarissa and he were walking over the sloppy 
 road towards town, Jenkins gallantly holding an 
 umbrella over the girl. 
 
 ‘ To tell you the truth, Miss Rodney,’ he remarked, 
 ‘I am a bit sorry I ever came back. I might have 
 sent help to my sister and stayed away myself ; but 
 there, I am only human after all.’ 
 
 ‘ Mrs Moore is so very glad to have you ! ’ exclaimed 
 Clarissa. ‘ You only need to look into her face to see 
 that.’ 
 
 ‘But there is another person who is not glad to 
 have me,’ replied Jenkins almost with a snarl, ‘and 
 that girl is the one, miss, I have thought most about 
 — I’ll be frank with you, miss, I can’t get round 
 your name — I never heard the like of it b^efore. If 
 
134 
 
 CLARISSA AND UNCLE TOM. 
 
 you were my niece I ’d call you ’Rissy — yes, ’Rissy 
 would be easy enough to say ; but whatever you are 
 called, I could manage with a girl like you. You 
 would be kind to a man even though he was a bit 
 rough ; but she is not. She hates me. She doesn’t 
 care for all the good I could do her. She hates me.’ 
 
 ‘ I wish you wouldn’t think so. I wish you wouldn’t 
 form such an opinion hastily,’ Clarissa ventured to 
 reply, and then she stopped. After a pause, she re- 
 sumed, ‘You don’t know what a nice girl Martha 
 really is.’ 
 
 ‘ Nice ! I wish she was not quite so nice,’ said the 
 man. 
 
 ‘But she is good and brave; she has got just those 
 qualities you must admire. She has had a very hard 
 time, and has endured great poverty.’ 
 
 'Much she minds that, selfish minx! She would 
 rather have her mother — my poor, good-natured, 
 kind-hearted Polly, the little sister I used to dote 
 on — wanting the necessaries of life than she would 
 sacrifice the smallest bit of her pride. I tell you 
 what, miss, that is the sort of girl I can’t abide. 
 I wish your father and my sister could change 
 daughters, and then all would be well.’ 
 
 ‘ But as that cannot be, Mr Jenkins, will you have 
 patience with Martha, and just feel that it is a little 
 difficult for her to fall at once into your ways.’ 
 
 ‘ Then you think me rough too ? ’ 
 
 ‘ I think you are very interesting and kind,’ replied 
 Clarissa, ‘ and I like you — yes, I like you very much ; 
 you must remember that your rough life in Australia 
 has made you somewhat of a stranger to our English 
 wajs. But I can say honestly I like you for 3murself.’ 
 
CLARISSA AND URCLE TOM. 
 
 135 
 
 ‘That is right, miss. I never met a nicer, more 
 pleasant young lady than you are. You ’re not too 
 proud to be seen with me — are you ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Of course not. What a ridiculous idea ! ’ 
 
 ‘ Well, but the lass is ; the lass don’t want me. 
 Now, I tell you what : I don’t intend to spend my 
 money unless I spend it ea.sily and freely ; and either 
 the girl is willing to accept me as I am, and to live 
 the life I mark out for her to live, or I go and leave 
 the mother and the girl both to their fate. I ’ll have 
 no half -measures. Here we are at your house, miss, 
 and I am obliged to you for listening to me so 
 patiently.’ 
 
 ‘ I am quite sure things will come right in the 
 end,’ said Clarissa. ‘ I will have a talk with Martha.’ 
 
 ‘It might do good if you would. Thank you 
 heartily.’ 
 
 ‘You won’t forget to come and see my father, Mr 
 Jenkins ? I am certain what you have to say about 
 the gold-mines would interest him greatly. Will you 
 come next week ? ’ 
 
 ‘Any day you like to name. Miss Rodney; and I 
 am much obliged to you.’ 
 
 Jenkins turned on his heel, grunting with secret 
 satisfaction. 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 ‘“yes” or “no” to-night.’ 
 
 E stood still for a little on the wet road 
 after he left Clarissa. He was think- 
 ing hard. Suddenly, with a significant 
 whistle, he turned on his heel and 
 retraced his steps to Freeman’s Cottages. 
 
 Mrs Moore had not expected to see him again that 
 night; and Martha, pale and with traces of tears 
 round her eyes, was talking gently to her mother 
 when they heard that crunch on the gravel — that 
 heavy, quick, manly step — the latch of the kitchen 
 door was rattled, for Annie had drawn the bolt pre- 
 paratory to going to bed; and Jenkins was again 
 in their midst. 
 
 ‘ I want to say a word to your mistress, Annie ; but 
 you need not sit up, my girl. Go to bed, and sweet 
 dreams to you. Hei'e’s a trifle for yon,’ said Jenkins, 
 slipping a crown-piece into the willing girl’s palm. 
 
 Annie felt so excited about the mine of wealth 
 which seemed suddenly to have opened for her that 
 she scarcely knew what she was doing; and before 
 she had time to recover from her astonishment, Jenkins 
 had vanished into the parlour. 
 
 ‘ Here I am,’ he exclaimed. ‘ I know I am not 
 
‘“yes” or “no” to-night.’ 
 
 137 
 
 welcome. Stay where you are, Martha.’ He turned 
 as he addressed this fierce remark to his niece. ‘ Stay 
 where you are. It rests with you whether I come 
 here as a welcome and honoured friend and patron 
 and benefactor, and all the rest, or whether you and 
 your poor mother never see my face again. It rests 
 with you. Things have come to a pretty pass when 
 a girl flouts her own flesh and blood.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, I don’t ! ’ Martha replied. 
 
 ‘I say you do. You have the same blood in your 
 veins — yes, though I am only step-brother to your 
 mother — you have. You have it on the grandfather’s 
 side, and you can’t get out of it, however hard you may 
 try ; and now you have got to listen to a plain truth. 
 — Don’t turn so white, Polly. It ’s much better to have 
 this out, and you ’ll sleep easier when all is said and 
 done.’ 
 
 ‘ But I have been talking to Martha, and she ’ 
 
 began Mrs Moore ; but her gentle voice was scarcely 
 heard in the hubbub raised by Jenkins’s strident 
 tones. 
 
 ‘ I have come here,’ he said, ‘ to make a plain pro- 
 posal. It can be accepted by you two, or declined by 
 you two. It is “ yes ” or “ no ; ” and it is “ yes ” or 
 “ no ” to-night.’ 
 
 ‘ Well, .sit down anyhow, Tom,’ said Mrs Moore. 
 
 Martha rose and motioned him to a chair by the fire. 
 
 ‘Keep your seat,’ said Jenkins; ‘I am in no humour 
 to sit. I ’m bitter hurt — yes, that ’s what I am, bitter 
 hurt — and I never thought, not for a single moment, 
 that the little girl named after my mother — the best 
 woman that ever breathed in the whole of God’s earth 
 — would be the one to plant a sword in me. But there, 
 
188 
 
 yes” or “no” to-night.’ 
 
 it ’s done, and no amount of undoing will ever put it 
 right again. All the same, I don’t bear no malice — 
 that is, if things are made clear and square in the 
 future. So now, you two, Pollj^ and Martha, have got 
 to listen to me, Thomas Jenkins.’ 
 
 ‘ I do wish you would sit, Tom,’ came Mrs Moore’s 
 plaintive voice again. 
 
 ‘ Oh, let me be, Polly. Can’t you see when a man ’s 
 roused he must have some vent for his emotions. If I 
 stamp up and down your parlour it will be Martha, 
 here, you have to blame for it. But now, then, to 
 terms. I find you, Polly, in extreme poverty. You 
 are living in a house a great deal too small for you.’ 
 
 ‘ It is not,’ said Martha at that moment. 
 
 ‘ I ’ll thank you to hear me out, miss ; you must not 
 interrupt. Your turn to speak will come presently. — ■ 
 I say, Polly, you are living in a house that is not fit 
 for my sister ; and if you care to make terms you 
 won’t be here long. The house is too small, and the 
 ways of the house are too mean ; the food is not the 
 right sort, nor the servant the kind that ought to 
 wait upon you. I am willing to change everything. 
 I am more than willing:— anxious — to take a bm house 
 in any part of the country you two like best. I am 
 willing to furnish it according to your notions. My 
 ideas are heavy and solid ; gilt and crimson, and carpets 
 with good decided patterns, and curtains of rep, and 
 antimacassars and wool mats. My mother adored 
 wool mats. That’s my idea; but I am not proud, I 
 am not wayward, and I ’ll give in. I ’ll furnish so as to 
 please that young miss there, and I ’ll get in servants 
 as many as you, Polly, think desirable. I ’ll pay the 
 piper. I ’ll pay for all tlie food and all tlie house-rent. 
 
yes” or “no” to-night.’ 
 
 139 
 
 and what the furniture costs, and the wages of the 
 servants ; and you, Polly, can keep your pittance for 
 pocket-money. As to Martha there, she can get the 
 very best education her heart desires, and she can pick 
 and choose her friends, and she can come in and out 
 just as she likes. She is welcome to any amusement 
 she fancies, horses and all the rest ; and she can buy 
 just the dresses that please her, and I will give her 
 what pocket-money a young lady ought to have. She 
 shall help me to entertain my visitors ; and you, Pollj^, 
 looking elegant as a picture, shall sit at the head of my 
 table. I am not thinking of getting married, or any 
 nonsense of that sort ; I am thinking of having a home 
 for my little Polly, and a home for the girl called after 
 my mother. I will set to work on the matter the 
 moment you, Polly, and you, Martha, say the word. 
 I won’t cast up bygones to you. Miss Patty — no, that 
 I won’t. I have a broad mind, although I am rough. 
 All you two have to do is to say, “We will accept the 
 goods you bring us, and we will ” — well, Polly, you at 
 least will — “ love you ; ” and the girl — the lass — will 
 keep a civil tongue in her head. The only thing I 
 require is a civil tongue from the lass, and the acknow- 
 ledgment that I am master.’ 
 
 Martha moved restlessly when Jenkins uttered the 
 last sentence. The colour had come into her cheeks, 
 and her gray eyes were very bright. Tears were not 
 far off. Another moment and she would have broken 
 down, rushed forward, and flung herself into her uncle’s 
 arms ; but his last words, and the fierce, defiant tone in 
 which he uttered them, pulled her up short. 
 
 ‘ Yes,’ he said, ‘ that is the rub — I am master. You 
 have to acknowledge that yoii owe it all to me ; both 
 
140 
 
 yes” or “no” to-night.’ 
 
 of you have to feel it down deep in your hearts. I 
 will not be hard, and I will not be nasty ; but I am to 
 be master, girl, just as your father would be. When 
 you marry, if you marry to please me, you shall have 
 a tidy fortune to take to your husband. Until then, 
 you do what I wish. You need not think I ’ll be hard ; 
 l )ut I shall be master. I am always present when your 
 friends come — that is, when I wish to be present ; and 
 I always take the foot of the table. In short, the 
 house is mine, and you live with me, you put up with 
 me, you bear with me. It is worth your while. That 
 is my proposal.’ 
 
 He paused for an instant. Martha made an effort 
 to speak, but her mother held up a warning finger. 
 
 ‘ Don’t talk in a hurry,’ said Jenkins. ‘ That is one 
 side. Now I will tell you the other.’ 
 
 Thomas Jenkins by this time had worked off some 
 of the steam, as he expressed it. He had been pacing 
 the room fiercely while he was talking. Now he stood 
 still, thrust his hands deeply into his trousers pockets, 
 lowered his brows, and looked straight ahead. 
 
 ‘ I see a picture,’ he began ; ‘ it is a wonderful picture, 
 and very vivid. It is of a little girl, a pretty little 
 tot ; her name is Polly. She is neglected a bit, poor 
 little mite, and runs to a lad, a rough lad with red hair ; 
 and he takes her in his arms and cossets her. The 
 little ’un likes it, and strokes his face ; and the lad lets 
 out to the little ’un that he is lonely, that he has no one 
 to pet him, and that he likes her to do it. Then the 
 little ’un falls asleep in his arms. That ’s one bit of 
 the picture. Again I see that same picture, but altered. 
 The little ’un is a girl, slim and tall and pretty — very 
 pretty and very genteel-looking. The lad is big too, 
 
yes” or “no” to-night/ 
 
 141 
 
 and very rough — an ugly youth, with uncouth features, 
 wide mouth, freckles on his face, and red hair to crown 
 his poll ; but the girl is fond of him, and sees no ugli- 
 ness in him, and they talk — oh, how they talk ! They 
 sit in a corner — the great, rough overgrown lad, the 
 hulk of a boy and the nice little slender lass ; and the 
 lass says, “ Tell me more about your mother, Tom,” 
 and Tom’s heart swells within him as he talks of his 
 mother. Ay, she was a good woman; she was a 
 woman who never thought anything too small for her 
 to notice. She was a woman as kind as could be, 
 gentle and loving and faithful ; she was the mother 
 of the boy, and the boy he just worshipped her. She 
 had no fine-lady airs and no beauty to boast of ; but 
 she had a big mother-heart, and that seems to me to 
 be the best thing in all the wide world for a woman to 
 have. The mother was in her grave, and the lad had 
 fretted ever since ; and it was only when talking to his 
 little sister that he got any comfort out of life. She 
 loved him, and she liked him to talk of his mother. 
 That ’s another bit of the pictm-e. 
 
 ‘ Now I see another picture. The lad is away from 
 home, in a strange land ; he is with the gold-diggers, 
 and the life is rough as rough can be. He has worked 
 hard all day, and got only cuffs for his trouble. He 
 goes out of the way of his comrades — he is a young 
 man now, and ugly at that — and takes a letter out of 
 his pocket and reads it. The letter is from his little 
 sister. It is the next best thing to being with her; 
 and the letter tells him that the little sister is married, 
 and has a husband and a baby of her own, and that 
 she has called the baby Martha, after his mother. 
 Nobody knows what that means to the lad ; he is 
 
142 
 
 YKS” OR “no” TO-NiaHT.’ 
 
 almost crazy with delight and with love for his little 
 sister, and he takes a great vow under the silent 
 heavens and the twinkling stars that he will give up 
 his life to his sister, and work for her and the baby 
 called after his mother. 
 
 ‘Well,’ continued Jenkins, ‘he has kept that vow; 
 he has worked for the sister and the baby. He never 
 wrote, thinking it better not. It was queer perhaps ; 
 but it was his Avay. He had piled up gold on gold 
 until his fortune was big and deep and high ; and when 
 his pile was made he sold his shares of the mine and 
 came back to England, and found his sister Polly. 
 Yes, Polly, I fovind you,’ continued Jenkins, ‘much the 
 same as usual, with the same tender heart and the 
 same love for me ; but you were down in the world, 
 my girl — down in the world. You told me again that 
 you had called your child after my mother, and I 
 blessed you. Then the girl herself came on the scene.’ 
 
 Hei’e Jenkins broke off abruptly. After a pause he 
 resumed the narrative. 
 
 ‘ I ’ll say nothing more about that. We all know 
 what happened then. Well, I have made my offer, 
 and you can refuse it ; but before you do refuse, listen 
 to what I say. There is that in me, Thomas Jenkins, 
 which will go out. My heart is big enough, although 
 it is rough, and there is a fire in it; but that fire can 
 be put out. Once it is out, why, I turn tail. You, 
 Polly, must choose either the girl you have brought 
 into the world, or me. If you give the girl up, and 
 have nothing more to do with her, you shall come 
 with me, little sister, and I will tend you to the end ; 
 but if you don’t give the girl up, why, you stick to 
 her and you do without me. You are just as you were 
 
YES ” OR “ NO ” TO-NIGHT.’ 
 
 143 
 
 before. I take it that’s what you two will choose, 
 only I ’d like to know to-night. I ’ll go away — God 
 knows where — it don’t matter ; but you ’ll never be 
 troubled wdth me, either of you, again. I want you 
 both to choose to-night. Now, Polly, you speak first.’ 
 
 Here Jenkins dropped into a chair. He was leaning 
 half across the little table, and his eyes, burning like 
 two live coals, were fixed on his sister’s face. 
 
 ‘ Is it me, or is it Martha, Polly lass ? Is it your 
 big rough brother, or is it your girl — which ? Don’t 
 look at her, don’t consult with her ; answer my ques- 
 tion : which shall it be ? I ’ll ask the lass herself to 
 answer her own question later.’ 
 
 Mrs Moore’s face was death-like. 
 
 ‘ I love you, Tom,’ she said. ‘ I ’d be glad to go with 
 you, and to cast in my lot with you ; but, Tom, I 
 don’t love you as well as the child. If the child does 
 not agree, Tom, I must stay with her. I cannot help 
 it.’ Mrs Moore burst into tears, and covered her face 
 with her hands. 
 
 Martha rose quickly and threw her arms round her 
 mother’s neck, and the mother laid her head on the 
 daughter’s breast. 
 
 ‘ Mother,’ said the girl, ‘ you were always unselfish ; 
 now I will be unselfish too. If Uncle Tom will take 
 me as I am, he will never again have cause to com- 
 plain. If I feel dissatisfied, he will never know. — I 
 will do my utmost. Uncle Tom, to be a good niece to 
 you. Will you kiss me now. Uncle Tom ? ’ continued 
 Martha. ‘ Will you give me the kiss I refused 
 yesterda}^ ? ’ 
 
 ‘You are enough to puzzle a man,’ said Thomas 
 Jenkins after a pause. ‘ I never thought you would 
 
144 
 
 ‘“yes” or “no” to-night/ 
 
 yield like this. Well, it’s all right. We’ll see about 
 a house at once.’ He went up to Martha, put his arm 
 round her waist, drew her close to him, and kissed her 
 in a fierce, passionate way ; then, leaving her, he bent 
 over Polly. 
 
 ‘ I ’m right glad that I won’t lose you, little sister,’ 
 he exclaimed. 
 
 ‘ I have yielded,’ thought Martha. ‘ He doesn’t love 
 me. He would have loved me if I had acted differently 
 yestei’day. It is dreadful to have to yield to a man 
 like him when he does not even love you ; but I have 
 done it. I hope I have done right.’ 
 
CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 BROWN-PAPER PARCELS. 
 
 ARLY next morning Thomas Jenkins went 
 to London. His note to his sister briefly- 
 stated that he would return in time for 
 supper, and that he had gone to town 
 on business. He travelled third-class. 
 Jenkins looked just what he was — a rough and very 
 homely personage. He was dressed in the clothes he 
 had worn in Australia ; they were of homespun tweed, 
 and were badly made, the trousers baggy and the coat 
 ill-fitting. During the journey to town he was in a 
 brown study, and took no notice of any of his fellow- 
 travellers ; on arrival at Paddington he hired a four- 
 wheeler and drove at once to a post-office, where he 
 asked for the London Directory. When this was 
 handed to him he began a search. He was looking 
 for the address of a fashionable tailor. 
 
 ‘ I don’t know anything about a proper fit-out,’ he 
 mused ; ‘ I couldn’t tell from Adam whether a coat 
 was a good cut or a bad one. How am I to manage ? ’ 
 He entered the names and addresses of a number of 
 tailors in his note-book, and presently he strolled into 
 a hotel, and ordered lunch. While partaking of this 
 the idea suddenly occurred that he might confide in 
 
 Nonentity. J 
 
UQ 
 
 BKOWN-PAPER PARCELS. 
 
 the waiter, a stylish young man, tall and well-dressed, 
 and with irreproachable manners. 
 
 ‘I say,’ cried Tom Jenkins, ‘a word with you.’ As 
 he spoke he slipped a half-crown into the M^aiter’s 
 hand. Jenkins’s idea of getting through life was to 
 pave the way on all possible occasions, if not with gold 
 at least with silver. ‘ Look you here,’ he repeated, ‘ I 
 don’t want any one to listen. This room isn’t half- 
 full at the present moment. I want to have a bit of 
 conversation with you.’ 
 
 ‘ Of course, dr,’ answered the waiter in surprise. 
 
 ‘ What can I do for you, sir ? ’ 
 
 ‘I’m a rough party,’ continued Jenkins ; ‘ but I am 
 solid.’ 
 
 ‘Yes, sir,’ replied the waiter, with a twinkle in his 
 eyes. 
 
 ‘ I am solid in more senses than one,’ replied Jenkins. 
 ‘ I am solid in the purse-line. Now, you understand ? ’ 
 
 The waiter’s tone became very respectful. ‘ I think 
 I understand, sir,’ he answered. 
 
 ‘ I want a swell rig-out — you understand ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Yes, sir.’ 
 
 ‘I want to spend my money so that the young 
 girls I meet — my nieces and others — shall say of me, 
 “ There ’s a gentleman ; there ’s a man of position ; 
 there ’s a man worth knowing.” That ’s what I want. 
 Now, who will do the needful ? That ’s what I have 
 to ask you. Who is the best barber to go to ? Who is 
 the best tailor ? You must have many gentlemen 
 come in here, and you must know something about 
 tailors.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh yes, sir,’ replied the waiter. ‘ There is a first- 
 rate establishment in Conduit Street.’ 
 
BROWN-PAPER PARCELS. 
 
 147 
 
 ‘ Where ’s Conduit Street ? ’ asked Thomas J enkins. 
 
 The waiter described the locality of Conduit Street. 
 Jenkins thanked him. He was next told where to get 
 his hair cut in the most approved style ; then he 
 started off intent on business. 
 
 Arrived at the shop in Conduit Street, Jenkins 
 immediately announced that he wished to be rigged 
 out like a gentleman, and asked for an interview 
 with the head-tailor. One of the principals, believing 
 that money was to be made out of this uncouth 
 individual, came forward, and Jenkins asked his 
 advice. 
 
 Mr Burdett assured Mr Jenkins that he could not 
 do better than put himself absolutely into the hands 
 of his house. ‘ We will make you several suits in 
 the most fashionable styles,’ he said. 
 
 ‘ That is right ; that is just what I want,’ replied 
 Jenkins, rubbing his hands gleefully. ‘This sort of 
 rig isn’t the go — is it ? ’ 
 
 ‘ No, sir,’ answered Mr Burdett. He enumerated 
 various suits Mr Jenkins would require for different 
 occasions ; and finally large orders were given. Before 
 leaving, Jenkins was adorned in a ready-made suit, 
 which — though it was not a perfect fit — was much 
 better and more suitable than the suit he had just 
 discarded. He left the tailor’s establishment fully 
 satisfied that the change in his outward appearance 
 had raised him quite ten inches in the social scale. 
 He then went to a hairdresser’s for further renova- 
 tions. Finally he surveyed his face and figure in 
 a large mirror, and was convinced that there was 
 not a more presentable man than Thomas Jenkins to 
 be found in the City of London. ‘ The lass won’t 
 
148 
 
 BUOWN-PAPER PARCELS. 
 
 scorn me now/ he said to himself. ‘I don’t mind 
 what Polly thinks. I’d like to sit in the old suit 
 and talk to Polly by the hour; but I can’t abear 
 the scorn in the eye of that lass. She shall soon 
 change her tune, that she shall.’ He then hurried 
 off to make several purchases. 
 
 Though Jenkins had gone up to London third-class 
 he returned first, bringing many packages — square 
 parcels and bulky parcels of all sorts and sizes with 
 him. He arrived at Upton by the nine o’clock train, 
 and drove straight to Freeman’s Cottages. He was 
 too much of a fine gentleman to condescend to carry 
 his own parcels now, so he shouted to a boy to hold 
 the horse, and the cabby followed him along the 
 gravel-path, and they both stopped outside the back- 
 door. Neither would Jenkins condescend to raise 
 the latch; he knocked, and Annie, in some astonish- 
 ment, opened the door wide. 
 
 Mrs Moore and Martha were expecting him, and 
 a nice supper had been prepared. Martha, quietly 
 dressed and with a sad expression of face, was doing 
 her utmost to reconcile herself to the new conditions. 
 She had been thinking all day of the advantages which 
 would accrue to her in the education her uncle had 
 promised ; and she also had very definite ideas with 
 regard to helping Clarissa Rodney out of her dilemma. 
 Uncle Tom should not be their benefactor only ; he 
 should be Clarissa’s also. She started when his knock 
 was heard at the door. 
 
 ‘ That cannot be Uncle Tom,’ remarked Mrs Moore ; 
 ‘ he would lift the latch and come in. It wouldn’t be 
 a bit like him to knock in that fashion.’ 
 
 When Annie opened the door she started back. 
 
BROWN-PAPER PARCELS. 
 
 149 
 
 ‘ No, sir, my mistress cannot see any one to-night,’ 
 she cried. — ‘Oh, lor’! Mr Jenkins, you’ll forgive me, 
 sir ; but I didn’t know you.’ 
 
 ‘Stand back, my girl, and let the man in with the 
 parcels,’ said Jenkins. He strode majestically into 
 the kitchen, and relieved the cabman of the packages. 
 
 Martha stood in amazement at the parlour door. 
 She really did not recognise Uncle Tom when he 
 went up to her, and said in a stilted way, ‘ Here I 
 am, Martha. Good evening.’ He shook hands but 
 did not kiss her ; then he went into the parlour 
 where Mrs Moore was waiting for him. 
 
 ‘I’m done up a bit, Polly,’ he said. ‘Neither you 
 nor Martha will have cause to be ashamed of the 
 brother and uncle from Australia. How do you like 
 my new suit, Polly — eh ? It ’s very genteel — isn’t 
 
 it?’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, it is a very nice suit indeed, Tom,’ replied Mrs 
 Moore. 
 
 Martha struggled to repress a laugh. She secretly 
 thought that Uncle Tom was not improved by his 
 West End clothes; and she almost felt that she liked 
 him best in his rough colonial outfit. Nevertheless, 
 his own joy was excessive, and his face beamed. 
 
 ‘ There won’t be a finer gentleman than me in the 
 length and breadth of England when a month or two 
 have gone by,’ Jenkins continued. ‘ Now we must 
 hurry over the meal, for there are parcels to be opened.’ 
 
 ‘ Parcels ? ’ queried Mrs Moore. 
 
 ‘Yes. I have got something for you, and something 
 for the lass, and a trifle for the little maid-of-all-work. 
 I like that little maid. We ’ll be house-hunting to- 
 morrow ; and I mean to get the furniture from one of 
 
150 
 
 BROWN-PAPER PARCELS. 
 
 tlie grandest shops in London. I ’m rich. You don’t 
 realise, either of you, that I am more than just w'ell-off. 
 I am rich, downright rich. I can do every single thing 
 you desire, and I ’m here to do it ; that ’s my sole 
 object in life. Now then, help away, Martha. Those 
 eggs look very nice. Yes, I ’ll have a cup of tea, 
 please. Sugar, did you say ? — three lumps, please, and 
 let them be large. No, I’m not at all tired; but I 
 have had a very busy day. It ’s exciting work 
 spending money in the way you had meant to spend 
 it while you were piling it up. I have had a pleasant 
 day — very pleasant.’ 
 
 At supper Jenkins talked loudly of his day’s adven- 
 tures; in particular he apostrophised the waiter at 
 the hotel, and said it was his intention to send that 
 individual a five-pound note before a week was out. 
 
 Martha’s amazement grew greater moment by 
 moment; she tried, however, not to show too much 
 excitement, but even she was not proof against the 
 fascination of the parcels. 
 
 The tea-things were cleared away, the red cloth 
 placed on the little table, and Annie was desired to 
 bring in the packages. 
 
 ‘ I ’d have liked just to bundle them up under 
 my arm and sweep them in myself,’ said Tom ; ‘ but 
 I mustn’t. I ’m a different man now ; I am in a 
 different position. I am a gentleman now; and the 
 proper English gentleman don’t do nothing for him- 
 self. It will be very slow work doing nothing for 
 the rest of my days — I who have done everything, 
 from cooking a chop to building a house ; but I ’ll 
 do it to please you, Martha and Polly.’ 
 
 ‘ But, really, Uncle Tom,’ began Martha, ‘ I don’t 
 
BROWN-PAPER PARCELS. 
 
 151 
 
 imagine — I don’t think an English gentleman is quite 
 of that opinion.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, come, stop that,’ said Uncle Tom. ' I have 
 learned my lesson, and I am going through with it. 
 I ’ll be a fine gentleman, fine enough to please you, my 
 lass, all the rest of my life.’ 
 
 Annie, trembling with excitement, appeared with 
 the parcels, which were laid on the table and opened 
 one after the other by Martha. The contents of 
 those parcels were enough to amaze any one who 
 had not discovered the secret workino-s of Uncle 
 
 O 
 
 Tom’s kind heart, for he had certainly not failed 
 to spend money freely during his day in town. Mrs 
 Moore was supplied with a rose-coloured silk dress — 
 many yards of rose-coloured silk. 
 
 ‘ Because you fancied that colour — don’t you re- 
 member, Polly ? — when you were a little ’un. “ Dress 
 me like the roses,” was your cry, my pretty dove. So 
 here ’s a silk dress the colour of the roses, and it shall 
 be trimmed with white lace, and you shall wear it 
 when you get up in the morning and all day long. 
 You’ll look sweet in it, Polly, to my way of thinking.’ 
 Poor Mrs Moore, who was still wearing black for 
 her husband, quite shuddered at the thought of appear- 
 ing in rose-coloured silk. There was nothing for it, 
 however, but to accept, with apparent heartiness, the 
 garment intended for her. 
 
 ‘ It is kind of you, Tom,’ she said. ‘ How sweet of 
 you to remember my early fancies.’ 
 
 ‘ Ay, ay. I ’m sweet, am I ? ’ answered Tom. ‘ I 
 thought I was, or that I’d be getting so. Now then, 
 that ’s one of your presents. There ’s more to follow 
 — plenty more ; but now it ’s Martha’s turn. My 
 
152 
 
 BROWN-PAPER PARCELS. 
 
 little girl, I have had dreams about you in the bush. 
 Many and many a time when I have lain on the 
 bare ground looking up at the twinkling stars, I 
 have thought of little Martha at home, and my 
 picture of you was always to see you in sky-blue. 
 So here ’s a sky-blue silk for you — plenty of it ; 
 and you shall trim it any way you fancy. When 
 it is worn out you shall get another, and when 
 that is worn out you shall have yet another. The 
 mother in rose-colour, the daughter in sky-blue. 
 That is the realisation of a dream.’ 
 
 Martha, whose complexion was very sallow, and who 
 knew that of all colours under the sun sky-blue would 
 suit her least, felt nearly as confused as her mother. 
 Thomas Jenkins, however, was so much elated by his 
 own ideas of the realisation of his dreams that he did 
 not observe the cloud which fell upon the spirits of 
 both ladies. 
 
 But Annie, who stood in the background, and 
 whom no power on earth could have forced into the 
 kitchen, made up for any lack of demonsti’ation by 
 her own rapturous expressions of delight. 
 
 ‘ Well, never in all my born days did I see anything 
 more lovely. Oh, Mr Jenkins, you are a bounteous 
 gentleman, sir ! It ’s too good to believe that you has 
 come home and a fortune in your hand.’ 
 
 ‘That’s it, Annie,’ said Jenkins, who felt in his heart 
 that he ought to have told the little maid-of-all-work 
 to keep her place; but in reality he found her so 
 absolutely in sympathy with him that he would not 
 have removed her from the scene for worlds. 
 
 ‘ Here ’s your parcel, Annie, and I hope you will like 
 it.’ 
 
BEOWN-PAPER PARCELS. 
 
 158 
 
 This parcel was the sort which would have been 
 given to a poor girl in the days when Jenkins was 
 young. He remembered that his mother had alwaj^s 
 tried to clothe the poor in a dingy sort of brown 
 wincey ; and Annie, who at least expected a gay 
 cashmere for herself, felt a little crestfallen as brown 
 wincey of a shade inclining to yellow, and some 
 crimson flannel and coarse calico, tumbled out of 
 her parcel. 
 
 ‘ There you are,’ said Jenkins ; ‘ you ’ll be warm now 
 — eh ? You won’t have to go to your mother for any 
 clothes for a good bit.’ 
 
 ‘Oh no, sir,’ answered Annie; ‘and they’i’e very 
 suitable, sir.’ 
 
 ‘ I hope so, my girl. I hope everything is suitable 
 that I have brought home to-night.’ 
 
 The other parcels contained more presents of another 
 kind, equally correct and proper. There was a case 
 with some bottles of rare old port, to put colour into 
 Mrs Moore’s cheeks, as her brother expressed it ; and, 
 in addition, there was a workbox for Mrs Moore of 
 a most elaborate design, and a writing-case with 
 silver clasps for Martha ; and next, there was a 
 square box full of reels of cotton and packets of 
 needles and cases of pins, and other useful articles, 
 such as scissors and thimble, for Annie. 
 
 ‘I mustn’t put her out of her place,’ whispered 
 Jenkins to his sister. ‘ I remember the sort of things 
 my mother gave to the poor.’ 
 
 There was one packet, however, which remained 
 unopened. 
 
 ‘ What is that. Uncle Tom ? ’ asked Martha. 
 
 ‘ It is for the pretty girl you brought here with you,’ 
 
154 
 
 BROWN-PAPER PARCELS. 
 
 replied Thomas Jenkins; ‘it contains books she may 
 fancy. I thought I would give them to her. She 
 is a very nice girl, and she took my fancy. She’s 
 what I call a genteel sort of girl ; she has no nonsense 
 about her. I like her well. It would have suited 
 me to have brought her a check silk dress, and I 
 thought of doing so ; but I wasn’t sure what pattern 
 would take her fancy. I’ll give her one some day, 
 however. I ’m nuts on that girl ; I like her un- 
 commonly well. She shall be your guest whenever 
 you like, Patty. But now, my dears — my dear sister 
 Polly and my niece Patty — let’s turn to business. 
 We go house-hunting in the morning. — You can leave 
 us, Annie. You can measure your wincey dress, and 
 your red flannel, and your calico, and make all your 
 own garments, for you have got the materials handy. 
 Now quit the room, my girl ; quit the room.’ 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 JENKINS MANOR. 
 
 REAT changes occurred during the next 
 fortnight; and, sad to relate, Martha 
 began to neglect her studies at the day- 
 school. She was even somewhat absent- 
 minded when Clarissa referred to her 
 
 perplexities, 
 
 ‘ I don’t know what to do,’ Clarissa explained. ‘ I 
 am sometimes nearly mad with trouble. Father’s 
 friend, Mr Sarson, is coming in less than a week, and 
 Sir John Carbery will visit father a few days later. 
 The month is rapidly coming to an end, and of course 
 Sir John will expect to be paid. But the most awful 
 thing of all is this, Martha : father has got it into his 
 head that Mr Sarson has paid the doctor’s fee, and 
 he is quite certain to say something to Mr Sarson. 
 Mr Sarson will naturally deny all knowledge of it, 
 and then father will begin to suspect.’ 
 
 ‘ Why shouldn’t he suspect ? ’ inquired Martha boldly. 
 ‘You did a very fine, brave thing, Clarissa. Why 
 should you be ashamed of it ? ’ 
 
 ‘ It is the sort of thing father would never forgive,’ 
 said Clarissa gloomily. 
 
156 
 
 JENKINS MANOR. 
 
 Martha was silent. She had not forgotten her 
 friend, but had not yet found out a way to help her. 
 
 ‘ Why don’t you speak ? ’ Clarissa asked. ‘ Is that 
 enormously rich uncle of yours putting all your 
 friends out of your head ? Don’t you sympathise 
 with me ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Why do you ask such a question ? ’ cried Martha 
 fiercely. ‘ I do sympathise with you. I always think 
 of you, Clarissa. When will the month be up ? ’ 
 
 ‘This is the 10th of November,’ replied Clarissa; 
 ‘ the time when I ought to pay Sir John Carbery is 
 the 20th.’ 
 
 ‘ Ten days ! ’ Martha said softly. ‘ That is a long 
 time.’ 
 
 ‘Not when you have no hope of success in the end,’ 
 said Clarissa. ‘ What shall I do ? That awful, awful 
 scholarship ! Oh, how I hate the thought of the 
 lessons I must take, and the work I must do, instead 
 of having the money in my hand. I never loved 
 money specially ; but at the present moment I adore 
 it.’ 
 
 Martha was silent again, and the girls walked 
 slowly side by side. Presently they reached Clarissa’s 
 hall door. 
 
 ‘ Father is getting better,’ said Clarissa. ‘After all, 
 I have saved his life ; that is a blessing. Whatever 
 happens, his dear life is saved, and he is with us 
 still. Even if he should never speak to me again, 
 he will be in the land of the living ; that is the 
 greatest comfort I have.’ 
 
 ‘ Come in, Clare ; come in, mother wants you,’ 
 shouted little Janet. Flinging the hall door open, 
 she rushed down the steps and across the road. 
 
JENKINS MANOR. 
 
 157 
 
 Just then a burly individual was seen walking across 
 the street; he quickened his pace at sight of the 
 three girls. It was Mr Thomas Jenkins, now attired 
 in what he considered the latest style. It was the 
 middle of the day of a work-a-day world ; and Thomas 
 Jenkins, disregarding the advice of his tailor, who told 
 him that for a gentleman of leisure there was nothing 
 more suitable at this hour than a rough tweed suit 
 very well made, was in a frock-coat of the most 
 approved pattern and latest fashion. He wore as a 
 button-hole a choice camellia, had on an expensive 
 waistcoat of a very flowery design, and a broad- 
 check tie. His diamond studs were of the purest 
 water, and he had a diamond pin in his tie and a 
 flashing diamond ring on the little finger of his left 
 hand. As he approached the girls he took off both 
 gloves and straightened himself up to his full height. 
 
 Thomas Jenkins might have been going to his 
 own wedding, so smart was his attire. He stopped 
 in front of the girls, lifted his hat, and bowed 
 graciously. ‘ I trust I see my friend Miss Clarissa 
 in good health ? ’ he said. 
 
 ‘ Thank you, Mr Jenkins, I am quite well,’ replied 
 Clarissa. 
 
 Janet, who was clinging to her sister’s arm, looked 
 up with her dancing blue eyes at the stranger. 
 
 ‘ Who may this dear little maid be ? ’ asked Jenkins, 
 who, notwithstanding his grand garments, could not 
 prevent the milk of human kindness with which 
 Nature had so richly endowed him coming out on all 
 occasions. 
 
 ‘This is my little sister,’ said Clarissa. — ‘ Janet, this 
 is Mr Thomas Jenkins, of whom I told you.’ 
 
158 
 
 JENKINS MANOR. 
 
 ‘ The man who has come from the Anticlimax ? ’ 
 inquired Janet, looking up in wonder. 
 
 Clarissa laughed. ‘ Antipodes you mean, you silly 
 little puss ! ’ 
 
 ‘ Yes, yes. It ’s all the same. It does seem so funny,’ 
 said Janet, ‘ that people at that side have their toes 
 against our toes, and their heads down in the air.’ She 
 laughed merrily. 
 
 ‘ Mr Jenkins,’ said Clarissa in an earnest voice, ‘ I did 
 not thank you sufficiently for the books you sent me. 
 It was most kind of you — most kind.’ 
 
 ‘ I hope you liked them,’ said Jenkins. ‘ I asked 
 the man in the shop what books would be suitable 
 for a nice young girl of your age, and he said love 
 stories. So I asked him to give me the most exciting 
 love stories he had, with thrill and go in them. I hope 
 you liked them. I chose four.’ 
 
 ‘ I have not read them yet. When I do, I 
 shall doubtless enjoy them,’ said Clarissa, colouring 
 slightly. 
 
 ‘You know, Clare,’ Janet now whispered, ‘mother 
 said you were not to read any of them ; that they 
 were not fit for you. She locked them up in the 
 bookcase in the drawing-room.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, hush ! ’ said Clarissa. 
 
 But J enkins had heard the words. 
 
 ‘Not fit — eh?’ he said; ‘not fit for you to read, 
 Miss Clarissa ? But I asked the shopman what books 
 would be most suitable for a young slip of a girl with 
 bright eyes and a taking manner, and he said love 
 stories. I ’ll never go back to that shop again as long 
 as I live. What do you like, Miss Clarissa ? What 
 can I send you ? ’ 
 
JENKINS MANOR. 
 
 159 
 
 ‘Nothing, nothing at present, Mr Jenkins,’ answered 
 the girl. ‘ You have been most kind to think of 
 me at all ; and I dare say the books are nice enough, 
 but mother has an idea that I had better not read 
 that sort of book at present.’ 
 
 ‘ It ’s very puzzling,’ said Jenkins. ‘ I try to do 
 right; but I seem to put my foot in it.’ 
 
 ‘ When are you coming to see my father ? ’ asked 
 Clarissa in her gentlest tones. ‘ I have been telling 
 him about you. He would enjoy a visit.’ 
 
 ‘ I am very much pressed with work just at present ; 
 but I ’ll come next week. Miss Clarissa, if I may.’ 
 Then Jenkins touched his niece on the arm. ‘You’re 
 wanted at the house, Patty. There’s a great deal 
 to consult about. — By your leave, young ladies, I 
 must hurry off with my own lass now ; she ’s wanted 
 at the new house.’ 
 
 Clarissa and Janet went slowly into the house. 
 Clarissa’s burden lay heavy at her heart. Janet 
 looked at her inquiringly. 
 
 ‘ Mother says that she is going to open the missionary- 
 box on Sunday week,’ the little girl remarked. ‘ She 
 has had a very urgent letter from the missionary at 
 Sierra Leone, and she means to send him our sub- 
 scriptions without waiting for the New Year. Do you 
 know, Clare, that motliL-r has an account of the 
 exact amount in the box. She will miss the sovereign 
 you took.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, it ’s distracting ! ’ said Clarissa. ‘ Don’t say 
 any more now, Janey; my head is aching as if it 
 would split.’ 
 
 Meanwhile Martha and her uncle walked down the 
 High Street. 
 
160 
 
 JENKINS MANOR. 
 
 ‘ What do you think of my turn-out — eh, Martha ? ’ 
 he asked. 
 
 ‘ I ’d like you better, uncle, in your tweed suit — 
 that very nice dark gray the tailor sent last week.’ 
 
 ‘ Better ! But it ain’t nearly so fine as this. I might 
 just as well be back in Australia. I always wore that 
 kind there.’ 
 
 ‘ But the cut is not the same. Uncle Tom, and the 
 cut makes all the difference.’ 
 
 ‘ You don’t say so. Seems to me you have very fine 
 ideas. Well, hurry up, can’t you ? A lot of furniture 
 has arrived to-day. We’ll all be settled in the house 
 before a week is out. But I wish I knew what that 
 young girl would like.’ 
 
 ‘ You mean Clarissa ? ’ 
 
 ‘Yes. I put my foot in it about the books. That 
 shopman shall have a blowing-up from me when next 
 1 visit town. I must give her something else.’ 
 
 ‘ You might give her a ’ began Martha, and then 
 
 stopped. 
 
 ‘ A what ? There ’s one thing I dislike about you, 
 Martha Moore ; you are not out with all your thoughts. 
 Frankness is the only sort of metal that will go down 
 with Thomas Jenkins, frankness to any extent. What 
 might I give her ? You are supposed to know the 
 ways of girls ; but there, I won’t consult you. Some- 
 times you annoy me very much. I expect you are the 
 very image of that man your mother married.’ 
 
 ‘ You must not abuse my father, Uncle Tom.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, there you are, hoity-toity ! Always rubbing 
 me the wrong way. But come, we’ll forget our 
 troubles in looking at the new furniture.’ 
 
 Jenkins had taken a house with newly laid-out 
 
-WK^'!.ten 
 
JENKINS MANOR. 
 
 161 
 
 grounds in the suburbs of the town. It was a square 
 red-brick house, glaring in colour outside, but with 
 spacious and commodious rooms within. There were 
 several sitting-rooms on the ground-floor, and a very 
 wide entrance-hall and handsome staircase. It was 
 just the sort of house, as he said to his sister, he had 
 pictured in his dreams. 
 
 ‘I have but to shut my eyes and see the whole 
 thing,’ he said. ‘ I see the furniture and I see the 
 house just as I always dreamt it; you, in your rose- 
 coloured silk, looking like a dream yourself; and the 
 house furnished well, as my mother would like to 
 see it.’ 
 
 Now the late Mrs Jenkins, although one of the 
 worthiest of women and the guardian angel of her 
 son Thomas’s life, was not remarkable for her msthetic 
 taste; and Thomas Jenkins, whatever he did for his 
 sister and niece, was determined — to the best of his 
 ability — to please the spirit of bis dead mother. 
 
 ‘ For all I can tell, she may be looking on,’ he medi- 
 tated. ‘I wouldn’t hurt her feelings for the world. 
 She had her tastes, and her tastes were very good. 
 None of jmur sickly greens for her, none of your apple 
 tints for her ; everything plain and straightforward 
 and solid and handsome. Handsome was her word. 
 “ I like handsome furniture,” she used to say ; and 
 handsome shall be the furniture her son Thomas brings 
 into the new house.’ 
 
 So, although Martha pleaded, and Mrs Moore gently 
 ventured to suggest, the furniture was of the kind 
 which might be designated old-fashioned and solid. 
 Only one room would he deliver over to Martha’s 
 individual taste. 
 
 Nonentity. K 
 
162 
 
 JENKINS MANOR. 
 
 ‘ You shall have your private sitting-room,’ he an- 
 swered, ‘and into that room I will never step. You 
 can furnish it just as you please. Make it sickly, make 
 it dark, make it dull, fill it with all those things which 
 delight the modern woman ; but don’t ask me to sit in 
 it with you.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, you are kind, uncle,’ said poor Martha. 
 
 ‘You shall come to town with me, and go to any 
 shops you fancy, and give your own orders fur your 
 own room,’ continued Jenkins, ‘and I’ll pay the bills. 
 The bills can be sent to me. But the rest of the 
 house is my house, and it shall be furnished as my 
 mother would wish if she were here in the flesh. There 
 is not a modern woman to hold a candle to my mother, 
 and the house shall be furnished in her taste, and in 
 no other taste under the sun.’ 
 
 So the house was furnished according to the ideas 
 of the dead and gone Mrs Jenkins. Now this taste, 
 according to Martha, was truly barbarous. Jenkins had 
 a vivid recollection of his mother, who died when he 
 was a little boy. She had liked mahogany ; therefore 
 oak was not allowed in the dining-room, which was 
 furnished in very handsome mahogany with a high 
 polish. The carpet Avas quite suitable, being a 
 heavy and rich Turkey ; but the pictures were oleo- 
 graphs, and were loud in colour and vulgar in their 
 heavy gilt frames. The curtains of crimson rep looked 
 well enough. The wall paper was AAdiat is called 
 ‘ flock ; ’ it had been difficult to get ‘ flock,’ but Jenkins 
 at last Avorrited a sufficient quantity to cover his 
 Avails out of an old-fashioned .shop. The paper was 
 crimson, to match the curtains. Everything in the 
 room Avas in a similar style. There was a certain 
 
JENKINS MANOR. 
 
 163 
 
 solidity and old-fashioned grace about it, however ; and 
 Martha and her mother had to admit that the dining- 
 room was quite tolerable. 
 
 The hall was decorated with a good deal of white 
 marble, and statues not in the best taste peeped here 
 and there through green foliage ; Jenkins had given 
 orders carte-blanche to a neighbouring florist to supply 
 the house with plants and flowers. 
 
 The drawing-room, however, was really the sore 
 point, for here Jenkins, whose own taste was quite un- 
 cultivated, allowed himself full swing. Here reposed 
 the most garish carpet to be found in the length and 
 breadth of England. The curtains were of royal- 
 blue, with white lace curtains peeping from beneath 
 their loudly -coloured folds. Jenkins was most par- 
 ticular about the white lace curtains ; they were to 
 be of the kind that would wash — that could be 
 taken down at intervals and put into the wash-tub. 
 ‘ That ’s the sort my mother always used,’ he said. 
 The I'oom was otherwise furnished in keeping with 
 the loud carpet and the royal-blue curtains. The 
 walls were covered with white paper embossed in 
 gilt. There were several large mirrors, and what 
 was called a mai’ble console-table was placed at one 
 end of the room ; this had a heavy gilt mirror above. 
 There was a table in the centre, with a royal-blue 
 cover, and on this Jenkins insisted on placing volumes 
 in handsome bindings and photograph albums. 
 
 Mrs Moore groaned when she saw the centre table. 
 
 ‘ It is not the fashion now,’ she protested. 
 
 ‘ What do I care for the fashion ? ’ he answered. ‘ It 
 is what my mother would have preferred ; ’ and in the 
 centre of the drawing-room the table remained. There 
 
 O 
 
164 
 
 JENKINS MANOR. 
 
 were other tables here and there, on which reposed 
 wax-dowers and stuffed birds in cases. Over the 
 mantelpiece was a large mirror in a heavy gilt frame. 
 
 Jenkins was immensely proud of the drawing-room. 
 ‘ It is not a room,’ he said, ‘ to sit in so much as to 
 admire.’ 
 
 ‘ To sit in that room,’ Martha said to her mother, 
 ‘ would turn me ill ; but, thank goodness ! he has given 
 me a private sitting-room.’ She had fitted up this 
 room according to her own taste, and it was simple, 
 bright, and j’et refreshing to the eye. She chose one 
 or two good pictures, of which Jenkins could make 
 nothing. 
 
 ‘Take them away,’ he said. ‘I don’t understand 
 ’em. I don’t care for that sickly-lookiug female.’ 
 Here he alluded to one of Burne-Jones’s most lovely 
 figures. ‘ It is not my style. I mean to go to the 
 Academy next year ; and if I can pick up anything 
 bright and cheerful I’ll get it for the house; but 
 nothing of that sort for me. It is going to be a 
 remarkably handsome house — the sort of house my 
 mother would have loved to live in ’ 
 
 The other apartments were furnished and decorated 
 in accordance with the design of the drawing-room ; 
 and poor Martha realised that riches certainly brought 
 with them a considerable amount of discomfort. 
 
 At last everything was completed according to the 
 wishes of Mr Jenkins. He worked hard, and worried 
 around, and rushed backwards and forwards to London, 
 spending money, as he naively expressed it, in shovel- 
 fuls. Then the servants were engaged. Having 
 discovered the generosity of the master — they had 
 got wind of what was going on from the loquacious 
 
JENKINS MANOR. 
 
 165 
 
 Annie — a very large number applied for engagement. 
 Six or eight servants at least were selected, and also 
 a valet. 
 
 ‘ It is proper that a gentleman in my position .should 
 have a valet,’ Jenkins remarked to Mrs Moore. ‘I 
 asked the waiter at the hotel in town. He is a good 
 friend to me is that waiter. I said, “ Do you think I 
 ought to be valeted? ” and he said, “Yes, you ought.” 
 He told me of a young man likely to suit, and I 
 have engaged him. You, Polly, are to have a lady’s- 
 maid.’ 
 
 ‘ I really have no use for a maid,’ replied Mrs Moore. 
 ‘ I dislike immensely any one f us.sing around me.’ 
 
 ‘I am afraid you must bear it,’ he answered. ‘ You 
 and Martha must have a maid between you. I don’t 
 want either of you to do one scrap of work. I have 
 engaged a woman from town for you both ; and she 
 and the valet will, I expect, put us three through our 
 paces.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh dear ! ’ sighed poor Martha, ‘ what an awful life 
 I am to lead in future, I really think I prefer the old 
 days.’ But she kept these thoughts to herself, and 
 endeavoured to take comfort in her mother’s evident 
 joy and excitement. 
 
 ‘ Your uncle will settle down, my dear, when he gets 
 into his new house,’ the widow said soothingly ; ‘ and 
 we must manage him. He has the kindest heart in the 
 world. It is just a matter of management.’ 
 
 ‘ My grandmother’s influence worries me dreadfully,’ 
 replied Martha. ‘ That everything should be conducted 
 according to the views of an old woman who has been 
 dead for over forty years is almost past enduring.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, we ’ll manage him when the time comes,’ said 
 
1G6 
 
 JENKINS MANOR. 
 
 Mrs Moore. ‘ After all, Martha, you have got a sweet 
 sitting-room of your own.’ 
 
 ‘ In which I shall be forced to spend most of my 
 time,’ answered Martha ; ‘ and you, mother darling, 
 shall always have your corner near the window. 1 
 ordered a special armchair for you, a very comfortable 
 one.’ 
 
 At last the day arrived when the Moores and Uncle 
 Tom were to enter the new house. After serious 
 deliberation it was called ‘Jenkins Manor.’ Uncle 
 Tom’s first idea was to call it ‘ Martha Mansion ; ’ but 
 when Martha declined to go to the new house if he 
 gave it that name, he decided on adopting his mother’s 
 surname. 
 
 Accordingly, to Jenkins Manor they went. They 
 were received by a row of servants standing in the 
 hall; and amongst them the new valet, a rather 
 objectionable-looking youth, and the lady’s-maid, were 
 conspicuous. The housekeeper came forward and 
 bowed to the ladies, offering Mrs Moore the keys. 
 
 ‘ No ; you keep them,’ said Jenkins, waving her aside. 
 ‘ Mrs Moore isn’t to soil her hands, nor her mind, nor 
 anything else about her, with worries. You keep 
 them, and attend to your business. You can all go 
 down to the kitchen premises now. I ’ll take my 
 relations round the new house myself.’ 
 
 So round the house they went, Martha’s heart aching 
 all the time. 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE PEARL RING. 
 
 EARLY a week elapsed before things 
 settled down a little. Jenkins had be- 
 come accustomed to marching through 
 the rooms, often shutting his eyes as he 
 did so to allow the dream of his life 
 to become mentally visible. He spoke more than ever 
 of his mother, and of what she would have wished. 
 He rummaged up some old letters of hers and got his 
 sister Polly to read them aloud in the evenings ; and 
 whenever any allusion was made in these letters to 
 housekeeping or furnishing he would clap his hand 
 on his knee and say, ‘ There ’s an idea for the house. 
 I know my mother would have liked this or that 
 to be so.’ 
 
 Accordingly, however monstrous the suggestion, if, 
 in the opinion of Mr Jenkins, such was the fashion 
 in the days of his beloved mother, he carried it out on 
 a huge scale in Jenkins Manor. 
 
 But though they both tried very hard, neither Mrs 
 Moore nor Jenkins could reconcile themselves to the 
 lady’s-maid or the valet. The valet, indeed, proved 
 himself to be a fruitful source of mischief. Jenkins 
 could not endure him, and shuddered when the time 
 
168 
 
 THE PEAKr. RING. 
 
 came to dress for dinner. His first thought in the 
 morning was of that objectionable young man ; and he 
 grew quite pale when the valet made his appearance, 
 or was even mentioned in his presence. Nevertheless, 
 for the sake of appearances, Jenkins thought it his 
 duty to put up with him, even though his appetite 
 suffered from the infliction. 
 
 ‘ You can lay the things out, and go,’ he would say 
 on some of these occasions. ‘ Go, I tell you ; leave the 
 room and shut the door. Go ! ’ 
 
 ‘ But I thought, sir, you would like me to help you 
 to — to shave,’ replied the valet, who was the bearer of 
 the proud name of Augustus. 
 
 ‘ Go ! ’ shouted Jenkins in a louder key ; and the 
 terrified, but secretly amused Augu.stus retired. Once 
 he put his eye to the keyhole, and almost burst into 
 a fit of laughter when he saw Jenkins going round the 
 room on tiptoe examining the various articles of his 
 wardrobe. 
 
 Mrs Moore was far more dignified with the lady’s- 
 maid. ‘You can overlook my wardrobe,’ she said; 
 ‘ and if you think I specially require anything let me 
 know, and I shall endeavour to get it ; but I prefer to 
 attend to my own dressing.’ 
 
 ‘You would like me to arrange your hair, per- 
 haps, madam ? ’ queried Louisa in a very supercilious 
 tone. 
 
 ‘ No, thank you. I like best to do it myself.’ 
 
 Louisa said nothing ; but, crossing the passage, 
 knocked at Martha’s door. Martha was seated near 
 the window, gazing pensively on the garden. 
 
 ‘ Come in,’ she cried when she heard the knock. 
 
 Louisa appeared. ‘It is nearly time for you to 
 
THE PEARL RING. 
 
 169 
 
 dress for dinner, miss. Which dress do you v/ish to 
 put on to-night ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Oh ! thank you,’ answered Martha, looking round a 
 little anxiously. ‘ I wish to dress myself, please.’ 
 
 ‘ Then will you allow me to do your hair, miss ? 
 I know quite the most becoming modes.’ 
 
 ‘ No, thank you. I am very much obliged ; but I 
 like to do my own hair.’ 
 
 Louisa swept out of the room, shutting the door 
 with considerable noise, and once more appeared in 
 Mrs Moore’s presence. 
 
 ‘ I have been mistaken in the ladies of this establish- 
 ment,’ she said. ‘ I wish, madam, to give you notice. 
 I should like to leave in the morning. I will forego 
 my month’s wages, madam. I really cannot stay where 
 I am not required.’ 
 
 ‘ It would be an excellent plan,’ said Mrs Moore, ‘ if 
 you would go quietly, and not say anything about it. 
 Neither my daughter nor I like being waited on; we 
 have not been accustomed to it.’ 
 
 ‘ Any one can see that, madam,’ replied Louisa. 
 
 ‘ Here is a sovereign, my good girl. If you will go 
 as quietly as possible you will afford us great relief.’ 
 
 So Louisa departed. Jenkins, being considerably 
 worried by the attentions of the valet, was not aware 
 of her departure. He thought his sister and niece 
 as stylish-looking women as he had ever set eyes 
 on ; and he was altogether too uncomfortable in his 
 evening clothes, now donned for the first time, to 
 observe any possible defects in others. 
 
 By degrees, however, things did shake themselves 
 down, and family life proceeded under the new and 
 unaccustomed lines with comparative equanimity. 
 
170 
 
 THE PEARL RING. 
 
 About this time Thomas Jenkins became much 
 exercised in his mind about Clai’issa ; she still pleased 
 him mightily. When she came to see Martha in the 
 new house and went through the rooms, she took con- 
 siderable interest even in the drawing-room ; and when 
 Jenkins told her he had furnished the house in accord- 
 ance with what he believed his dead mother would 
 have wished, Clarissa applauded his sentiments. She 
 seemed to understand Jenkins. She was so devoted to 
 her father that she thought it was quite natural, even 
 forty years after his mother’s death, that Jenkins 
 should treasure her memory and respect her opinions. 
 
 ‘ It ’s very fine of him,’ she said to Martha, who 
 could not agree with her remarks. 
 
 ‘If you lived with him you would not think it so 
 fine,’ replied Martha. ‘ If you had a grandmother 
 mentioned to you on every possible occasion, and all 
 your actions and every word you spoke contrasted 
 with what she would have said, or how she would 
 have acted, you would not think the practice quite 
 so agreeable.’ 
 
 Nevertheless, Clarissa held to her opinion. 
 
 Jenkins thought Clarissa one of the nicest, brightest 
 young ladies it had ever been his good fortune to 
 meet. However, the thought of the books which her 
 mother would not allow her to read rankled a good 
 deal in his mind, and he wondered what he could give 
 her in their stead. Not that he wanted the books 
 back ; but he wished Clarissa to know that he thought 
 well of her, that he considered her a very nice young 
 girl, and that he was willing, if possible, to do ber a 
 kindness. He thought and thought, and at last went 
 up to town alone, to cogitate on the subject. 
 
THE PEARL RING. 
 
 171 
 
 Thomas Jenkins was so wealthy that his money 
 seemed to be always burning a hole in his pocket. He 
 was never really happy except when he was spending- 
 money. As the house was now furnished as full as any 
 ordinary house ought to be, and as several gardeners 
 were employed in laying out the grounds according to 
 Jenkins’s idea (large greenhouses and fountains were in 
 progress), and he had ordered a carriage for his sister 
 and a pony-trap for Martha, there really seemed noth- 
 ing else on which he could expend his wealth, for the 
 time being at any rate. If he could, therefore, spend 
 something in buying a really suitable present for 
 Clarissa he would enjoy immense gratification. 
 
 When he arrived in town he took lunch at his 
 favourite hotel, the ‘ George,’ and summoned his 
 ‘ Child’s Guide,’ as he playfully termed his own 
 special waiter, to his side. 
 
 ‘ Well, sir, and how are things going with you ? ’ 
 asked that young man. 
 
 ‘Very well indeed,’ Jenkins replied. 
 
 ‘ Ah ! I hope the valet I recommended, sir, is quite 
 equal to the duties ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Oh ! I have no fault to find with Augustus,’ answered 
 Jenkins. He pursed up his lips as he spoke, colouring 
 a little, and looking down at his plate in a shame-faced 
 way. After a time he looked up again at the head- 
 waiter. ‘You have often given me a bit of advice, 
 and I am obliged to you,’ he said. ‘Although I am 
 rich I have lived for a long time out of the country, 
 so there are various things I ought to know which 
 I don’t know. Now, I am a bit puzzled over a 
 certain matter of some delicacy; and, as two heads 
 are better than one, do you think 3'-ou could help me ? ’ 
 
172 
 
 THE PEARL RING, 
 
 ‘ Anything in my power, sir,’ replied the head-waiter, 
 who knew that these remarks were generally followed 
 by a very substantial tip. ‘ If I can give you any 
 information, sir — being, so to speak, well acquainted 
 with England, and London in particular — I shall be 
 very proud to do so.’ 
 
 ‘ I am sure you will,’ answered Jenkins. ‘ As I said 
 before, I am always obliged, and always willing to pay 
 for any trouble I give.’ 
 
 ‘ No trouble, sir ; you ma}'- be assured of that,’ 
 
 ‘ Now, look here,’ said Jenkins, ‘ you just stoop down, 
 for I don’t want anybody else to hear. Suppose you 
 were me, for instance ’ 
 
 ‘Yes, sir, suppo.sing ’ The young man hesi- 
 
 tated ; his eyes glittered at the thought of how very 
 delightful it would be to leave his present life for 
 the wealth and prosperity which evidently surrounded 
 Jenkins. 
 
 ‘Suppose jmu were me,’ continued Thomas Jenkins, 
 ‘ which of course you are not ; and suppose there was 
 a young girl you had taken a fancy to — a girl young- 
 enough to be your daughter or granddaughter, a nice, 
 pretty school-girl — and you wanted to give her some- 
 thing as a gift, what should it be ? Now, put your 
 considering-cap on, and tell me what you think it 
 ought to be.’ 
 
 The head-waiter did put on his considering-cap, his 
 eyes gleaming with suppressed enjoyment. He looked 
 at Thomas Jenkins, and wondered what sort of girl 
 he was referring to. 
 
 ‘ You must be cai-eful what you say,’ continued 
 Jenkins, ‘ for I have spoken already on the subject to 
 a bookseller, as honest-looking a fellow as you could 
 
THE PEARL RING. 
 
 173 
 
 come across, and yet that man was an out-and-out 
 rogue, and told me that I ought to give her love 
 
 stories ; and, would you believe it ? Why, what 
 
 are you laughing at ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, nothing, sir. I beg your pardon.’ The waiter 
 suppressed the mirth which rose to his lips. 
 
 ‘ Well, I gave her a lot of love stories, and her 
 mother locked them up, and said they were not fit for 
 her to read. Now, what would you give her if you 
 were in my position ? ’ 
 
 ‘Young ladies are always very partial, if I might 
 venture to make the remark ’ 
 
 ‘“Very partial” — go on. Of course you can make 
 the remark ; I asked your advice. Here ’s ten shillings, 
 by- the- by ; you may want to go to the theatre to- 
 night.’ 
 
 ‘ Thank you, sir, very much.’ 
 
 ‘Well, what are young ladies partial to? Out with 
 it.’ 
 
 ‘ I should say they were specially partial to rings,’ 
 replied the waiter ; and then he started back and 
 looked at Jenkins almost with alarm. 
 
 ‘ Rings ! jewellery ! I never thought of that,’ said 
 Jenkins. ‘I am very much obliged to you,’ he added. 
 ‘You need not wait any longer. Take your ten 
 shillings. Good-morning.’ 
 
 Jenkins was quite excited. This was indeed a 
 brilliant idea, an idea which meant the expenditure 
 of money — the spending, in fact, of a considerable 
 amount. Nothing could make Thomas Jenkins happier. 
 He put his hands deep down into his trousers-pockets, 
 fastened his coat, ordered a hansom, and drove at 
 once to a jeweller’s in Bond Street. This jeweller 
 
174 
 
 THE PEARL RING. 
 
 had been recommended to him by the head-waiter. 
 On arrival he got out of the hansom, walked into the 
 large and splendid shop, and asked to see rings. 
 
 ‘Wedding-rings, sir?’ asked the jeweller, who had 
 a spark of fun in him. 
 
 Jenkins replied majestically that he did not wish 
 to see wedding-rings. ‘ I want a ring,’ he said, 
 ‘ suitable to give as a present to a girl who might 
 be my daughter or granddaughter.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh yes, sir,’ said the jeweller in a respectful tone. 
 
 ‘ I want something pretty and not showy,’ continued 
 Jenkins. ‘ I want something good, which will yet be 
 the sort of ring a young lady would wear.’ 
 
 ‘ I quite understand, sir,’ answered the jeweller. 
 
 ‘ Produce the kind of rings you think most suitable 
 for a refined — very refined — young lady, not of my class 
 in life. I don’t pretend that I was born in the upper 
 classes. I have risen to them. I am as fine a gentle- 
 man now as any in the land ; but the girl, she was 
 born in the upper class. Now you understand ?’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, perfectly, sir,’ the jeweller replied. He pro- 
 duced a little tray of rings of all sorts and sizes, 
 and of many degrees of value. Diamond rings, 
 sapphire and emerald rings, ruby rings, diamond and 
 ruby rings, diamond and sapphire rings — all these 
 reposed in magnificence on the little tray. 
 
 ‘ Would any of these be just the thing for the young 
 lady?’ asked Jenkins. 
 
 ‘ How old might the lady be ? ’ inquired the shop- 
 man. 
 
 ‘ Sixteen or sixteen and a half, I take it — a school- 
 girl’ 
 
 ‘ Then, sir, I think — pardon me — that the ring ought 
 
THE PEARL RING. 
 
 175 
 
 to be simple. Young ladies of that age don’t often 
 wear rings at all.’ 
 
 Jenkins’s jaw dropped. ‘ Is that so ? ’ lie said. 
 ‘ That ’s rather alarming. She has got a mother who 
 is blessed particular, I take it. Well, hut if young 
 ladies do wear rings what sort would do ? ’ 
 
 ‘Any of these would be suitable,’ replied the man. 
 He submitted another ti'ay for Jenkins’s inspection. 
 It contained rings beautiful with pearls and turquoise. 
 Jenkins was delighted with the turquoise rings ; but 
 the jeweller favoured the pearl. 
 
 ‘ There ’s something so simple about pearls,’ he 
 said. ‘Pearls — good pearls — are very valuable. You 
 can pay any price for them.’ 
 
 ‘ I want to pay a good price,’ said Jenkins. ‘ I don’t 
 wish to give a poor ring. I want to give a ring which 
 looks quiet and yet would fetch a good round sum of 
 money. Well, what is this worth ? ’ 
 
 Presently Thomas Jenkins was induced to purchase 
 a ring which cost sixty pounds. It contained two 
 pearls, and was veiy beautiful, and at the same time 
 looked simple. 
 
 ‘I may as well have two of these,’ said Jenkins. 
 ‘ Martha would like one on her little finger too.’ 
 
 He bought the two rings, and slipped the little 
 boxes into his pocket. He was now in the greatest 
 good-humour; he had at last got something which the 
 best gentleman in the land could find no fault with. 
 
 ‘ If I were really her father, and as rich as a duke, I 
 could not give her better than this,’ he thought ; and 
 he took the little rings out of their cases and looked 
 at them several times on his journey back to Upton. 
 When he got there he thought he would go straight 
 
176 
 
 THE PEAHL RING. 
 
 to Professor Rodney’s house and present Clarissa with 
 his gift. 
 
 He arrived at the house between six and seven 
 o’clock, far too late for an ordinary call ; but Jenkins 
 knew nothing of this. The servant opened the door, 
 and he inquired for Miss Clarissa. 
 
 The girl took Jenkins up to the drawing-room, 
 where Clarissa, accompanied by her mother, soon 
 joined him. 
 
 Mrs Rodney was a little stiff to Mr Jenkins, and 
 he was considerably frightened of Mrs Rodney. He 
 feared that if he gave the ring in her presence it 
 might be locked up in the bookcase with the love 
 stories. Clarissa was all that was charming ; but her 
 mother’s presence made her also a little distrait ; she 
 was not quite so refreshing and natural in manner 
 as usual. 
 
 Jenkins asked several questions about the Professor, 
 and Clai'issa turned to her mother and said, ‘ Don’t yon 
 t'link father would like to see Mr Jenkins to-night ? I 
 was telling father all about Mr Jenkins’s extensive 
 knowledge of the goldfields in Queensland ; and I think 
 father would be interested.’ 
 
 ‘Your father cannot possibly see strangers to-night,’ 
 replied Mrs Rodney. 
 
 ‘ Then, mother, may I go to father and ask when he 
 would like to see Mr J enkins ? ’ 
 
 Mrs Rodney hesitated, and looked angry ; but finally 
 she conceded Clarissa’s request. 
 
 Jenkins fidgeted on his chair. He could not bear 
 Mrs Rodney ; she was, as he expressed it, no end 
 of a fine lady. In memory he contrasted her with 
 his mother, much to Mrs Rodney’s disadvantage. 
 
More than one asked if she were ill. ;j 
 
 Page 217 ii 
 
 
THE PEARL RING. 
 
 177 
 
 He tried to talk on all sorts of subjects, and Mrs 
 Rodney invariably snubbed him. Finally, he began 
 to praise Clarissa. ‘ She is a very fine girl,’ said 
 Jenkins, ‘ She has a way with her which takes my 
 heart.’ 
 
 Mrs Rodney was very stiff and indignant ; she did 
 not want Clarissa to take Jenkins’s heart. 
 
 Presently the girl returned, telling J enkins that her 
 father would be very pleased to see him if he could 
 manage to call on the following afternoon at four 
 o’clock ; then the worthy man, seeing there was no 
 help for it, stood up to take his leave. 
 
 ‘Is it wise for your father to see Mr Jenkins 
 to-morrow ? ’ interrupted Mrs Rodney. ‘ You know 
 Mr Sarson is coming to-morrow, and one visitor will 
 be quite as much as your dear father has strength for 
 at present.’ 
 
 ‘ Mr Sarson does not come until eight o’clock,’ 
 Clarissa replied, turning a little pale ; ‘ and father 
 really did say that it would give him pleasure to 
 have a chat with Mr Jenkins to-morrow.’ 
 
 ‘ Then I will have the utmost pleasure in waiting on 
 the Professor,’ said Jenkins, making a profound bow. 
 He held out his hand to Mrs Rodney, who took it stiffly 
 and dropped it again in an instant. He then turned 
 to Clarissa. ‘ Can I have a word with you, miss, in 
 the hall ? ’ 
 
 Mrs Rodney’s face flushed with annoyance. Clarissa 
 also felt a little nervous. There was no help for it, 
 however. Clarissa and Jenkins left the room, and 
 Mrs Rodney heard them going downstairs side by 
 side. 
 
 ‘ This,’ said Jenkins, thrusting his hand into his 
 
 Nonentity. L 
 
178 
 
 THE PEAUL RING. 
 
 pocket and producing the box — ‘ is just a token 
 of my regard. You can’t imagine how pleased I 
 am with you. You have always been so civil to 
 me, so polite, just the sort of girl I would like 
 to have for a niece or a daughter; and as your 
 good lady-mother disapproved of the love stories, I 
 thought this would be more suitable. Here it is. 
 Don’t open the box now. I ’d like well to see it 
 on your finger when you come to take tea with 
 Martha. Good-bye, and may God bless you. Miss 
 Clarissa.’ 
 
 Jenkins went out of the house, leaving a tiny 
 morocco case in Clarissa’s hand. She wondered what 
 was in it. Her heart beat a trifie faster for a moment, 
 and she would have opened it ; but just then her 
 mother’s step was heard on the stair. 
 
 ‘ What did that man want with you, Clare ? ’ she 
 asked. 
 
 ‘ Oh, nothing, mother — nothing special,’ replied 
 Clarissa. 
 
 Mrs Kodney scrutinised her daughter. Clarissa’s 
 face bore a troubled look. She hated herself for 
 deceiving her mother ; but she did not want to show 
 the contents of the little case. Mrs Rodney would 
 probably be very angry, and would doubtless return 
 the gift to Jenkins with a somewhat insulting note; 
 so Clarissa rushed upstairs to her room. 
 
 Janet was already there; she had a cold, and was 
 seated by a fire which had been lit specially for 
 her. ‘ Oh ! is that you, Clare ? ’ she cried. ‘ I was so 
 lonely. Why didn’t you come before ? ’ 
 
 ‘ That delicious, funny man, Mr Jenkins, was here,’ 
 replied Clarissa. 
 
THE PEARL RING. 
 
 179 
 
 ‘Oh dear! I wish I had been well. I’d have 
 liked to see him. The Anticlimax man — isn’t he ? ’ 
 
 ‘ The Antipodes man, my love. Is your cold any 
 better, Janey ? ’ 
 
 ‘ I don’t know,’ answered the child, ‘ My head aches, 
 and I shiver a good bit.’ 
 
 ‘You ought to get into bed. I will tell mother 
 you are not well. Would you like the doctor to 
 come ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Oh no ; I am not so bad as that. If I could just 
 get warm I ’d be all right.’ 
 
 ‘ I ’ll put you into bed in a few minutes ; but, first, 
 do you think you could stand a secret ? ’ 
 
 ‘A secret!’ exclaimed little Janet. ‘Oh, I love 
 secrets ! ’ 
 
 ‘ It is in connection with the great big secret,’ said 
 Clarissa with a sigh ; ‘ at least I think it is. Mr 
 Jenkins gave me this.’ 
 
 As she spoke she took the little case out of her 
 pocket. Janet uttered an excited scream. 
 
 ‘ Best lock the door,’ said Janet, who was wise for 
 her years. 
 
 Clarissa did so. 
 
 ‘ Now, let ’s poke the fire. Here ’s a jolly blaze. Now, 
 open the case.’ 
 
 Clarissa did so, and there, reposing on its velvet 
 bed, was the lovely pearl ring. If Jenkins was 
 wanting in good taste the Bond Street jeweller 
 was not ; and the ring was both handsome and 
 simple. 
 
 The girl slipped it on her finger and uttered a cry of 
 delight. 
 
 ‘ Oh! isn’t it a beauty ? ’ she said. ‘ He is a dear. He 
 
180 
 
 THE PEARL RING. 
 
 may be rough; but he is quite a dear. I can’t tell 
 how much I like him. I am sure father will under- 
 stand him even if mother does not.’ 
 
 ‘Mother doesn’t understand those sort of people,’ 
 said little Janet. ‘Are you going to show her the 
 ring, Clare ? ’ 
 
 Clarissa’s face turned white. 
 
 ‘ She would take it away. No, I won’t show it — not 
 yet,’ replied Clarissa. She put it back into its case ; 
 and, going to her wardrobe, placed it in a drawer, 
 which she carefully locked. 
 
 Clarissa went downstairs that evening burdened 
 with a secret which was at once troublesome and 
 delightful. She had never had a ring before, and the 
 thought of it for the time being quite banished all her 
 gloomy reflections. Things must be coming right 
 when she had been given such a valuable, such a 
 delicious present. She wished she could show it to 
 her father and her mother, and wear it before every 
 one ; but she dared not take her mother into her secret 
 — at least, not yet. Presently she went up.stairs 
 again, where Janet, still hot and feverish, was wide 
 awake and tossing about. 
 
 ‘ You know, Clare, that mother is going to open the 
 missionary -box on Sunday ? ’ 
 
 ‘Yes, I know,’ answered Clarissa. 
 
 ‘ She ’ll miss that sovereign. What are we to say ? ’ 
 
 ‘ I shan’t be in the room ; I shall go out on purpose. 
 I will give the money back ; but, oh ! it ’s terrible of 
 mother to open the box. Really and truly,’ continued 
 Clarissa, ‘ I have always been a good sort of girl until 
 I went to London to see Sir John Carbery ; but since 
 then I have been concealing things from mother, and 
 
THE PEARL RING. 
 
 181 
 
 acting deceitfully. I hate myself, and yet there is no 
 help for it.’ 
 
 ‘ What will you do when the month is up ? ’ inquired 
 Janet. ‘I think of it day and night. I am always 
 thinking and always wondering. Mother will be sure 
 to make a fuss, and she will accuse some of the 
 servants of having opened the missionary-box, for 
 she keeps an account of the money that is in it.’ 
 
 ‘ I tell you what,’ said Clarissa, ‘ we might try to 
 prevent her opening it. Can you think of a plan ? ’ 
 
 Janet sat up in bed, looking very wise. ‘I wish 
 I could,’ she answered after a pause. ‘ We might 
 hide it.’ 
 
 ‘ If mother could get something else to do. There is 
 no real need for her to open it until after the 20th of 
 November. It’s only a sort of idea she has got into 
 her head. What can we do to keep her from opening 
 it ? Suppose we were to coax her to come out with us, 
 and suppose we were to put the missionary-box in 
 father’s room behind a pile of books ? ’ 
 
 ‘ But mother generally writes down what she has to 
 do during the day ; and I saw her write down about 
 the missionary -box,’ Janet said. ‘ Mother’s memory 
 isn’t what it was ; but I know — I could hide the 
 slate on which she writes things. I could let it slip 
 behind the escritoire. She would look for it, but she 
 wouldn’t look there. Oh ! we are awfully, awfully 
 deceitful, Clare.’ 
 
 ‘ I am afraid we are,’ said Clarissa. ‘ I am afraid 
 we are downright wicked. Let us talk no more noAv, 
 Janey.’ 
 
 ‘ If I might just look at your darling ring again,’ said 
 Janet. ‘I have been dreaming about it; the great 
 
182 
 
 THE PEARL RING, 
 
 pearl seemed to get bigger and bigger, and I seemed to 
 see it down in its oyster-shell. Oh dear ! it ’s most 
 exciting. It is such a wonderful thing, and to have 
 lived like that hidden away ! ’ 
 
 ‘ I want to see it too,’ said Clarissa. She unlocked 
 her drawer, took out the little case, and both girls 
 gazed with hungiy, delighted eyes at the ring. 
 
CHAPTER XXL 
 
 PICKLED WALNUTS AND A PROFESSOR. 
 
 R some hours during that night Clarissa 
 was anxious and sleepless. Her trouble 
 was near, and there seemed no way of 
 escape. The thought of Mr Sarson’s 
 arrival caused her immeasurable alarm. 
 She did not know what her father would say to him. 
 Even a hint to her father not to make an acknow- 
 ledgment to Mr Sarson would lead to discovery. She 
 wondered if she might confide in Mr Sarson; but, 
 knowing him well, she felt that would be impossible. 
 He was a very reserved man, who hated women, and 
 came to Upton only for the sake of having a chat with 
 his old friend Professor Rodney. 
 
 Towards morning the idea suddenly occurred to 
 Clarissa that she might ask Thomas Jenkins to help 
 her. Perhaps, if she told him the whole story, he would 
 lend her the money to pay Sir John Carbery and 
 return the sovereign to the mis.sionary-box ; and then 
 she would repay him by instalments out of her allow- 
 ance. It was just the sort of idea which would come to 
 a girl in her circumstances ; for Thomas Jenkins was 
 both rich and of a kindly disposition, and she was 
 certain beyond doubt that she stood well in his favour, 
 
184 
 
 PICKLED WALNUTS AND A PROFESSOK. 
 
 because she had sympathised with him and appreciated 
 his feelings of regard for the memory of his mother. 
 She had always been pleasant to him, and even saw the 
 gentleman under his rough exterior ; therefore, rough 
 as he was, she believed she could trust him, and that 
 he would not think the worse of her for the 
 confidence. 
 
 Quite relieved at the thought of an appeal to 
 Thomas Jenkins, she fell towards morning into a deep, 
 untroubled sleep. 
 
 The day following was Saturday ; and as that was a 
 holiday, Clarissa had a good deal to do in the house. 
 In the first place, Janet was still feverish and other- 
 wise not at all well ; so Mrs Rodney deputed Clarissa 
 to be her nurse. Clarissa was very fond of her little 
 sister, and stayed with her for some time, making the 
 room pretty, and talking cheerfully. She got the little 
 girl to sit up in bed, and gave her some of her favourite 
 story-books to read. 
 
 Janet enjoyed herself vastly. ‘ I shall be quite well 
 by the evening,’ she said ; ‘ and I love a real cosy day 
 in bed — that is, when I ’m not in pain.’ 
 
 Clarissa was longing to see Martha Moore before she 
 spoke to Thomas Jenkins. She wanted to consult 
 with Martha about borrowing the money. Clarissa 
 received fifteen pounds a year for her modest ward- 
 robe. It was only with the utmost economy she could 
 provide everything with this sum ; but she now con- 
 templated doing so on a greatly reduced amount in 
 order to repay Thomas Jenkins in small sums the loan 
 she proposed to ask. After she had made up her mind, 
 she told Janet of her plans. 
 
 At first Janet did not approve ; she had a great deal 
 
PICKLED WALNUTS AND A PROFESSOR. 185 
 
 of wisdom for her years, and said, ‘ I think if father 
 and mother discover that you have borrowed money 
 they will be much more angry than if you were to tell 
 them the truth about going to the doctor when you 
 really thought you could spend your scholarship money 
 on his fees.’ But in the end the little sister was turned 
 round to Clarissa’s way of thinking. 
 
 ‘ The one thing necessary is to keep the knowledge 
 from father,’ Clarissa explained. ‘ It would drive him 
 wild, and it is the sort of thing mother would never 
 forgive. No, I must get some one to help me; and 
 there is no one except Mr Jenkins.’ 
 
 ‘Very well; if you think so, of course it is right.’ 
 replied Janet. ‘ It will be a great relief when you 
 have put the matter straight.’ 
 
 ‘ Do you think you can spare me for an hour or two 
 to go round and see Martha ? ’ Clarissa inquired. 
 
 ‘ Oh, of course ; but why do you want to see her ? ’ 
 ‘Because I won’t do anything without consulting 
 her.’ 
 
 Accordingly Clarissa put on her hat and jacket and 
 ran downstairs. Mrs Rodney, in the dining-room busy 
 with her accounts, raised her head when she saAV her 
 daughter, and said in an irritated tone, ‘ Really ex- 
 penses multiply at an alarming rate. I don’t believe 
 we shall be able to clear up this quarter, however hard 
 we try. It will end in our drawing a little, a very 
 little, on your father’s slender capital, and that is the 
 sort of thing I deeply regret.’ 
 
 Clarissa stood still, with a blank expression on her 
 face. 
 
 ‘It is a very good thing, my dear,’ continued her 
 mother, ‘ that you managed to win the Randall Scholar- 
 
186 
 
 PICKLED WALNUTS AND A PROFESSOR. 
 
 ship ; it will enable you to continue your education at 
 practically little or no expense. We feared we should 
 be obliged to take you from the school during the 
 coming term.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, mother, I am not half-educated,’ replied Clarissa. 
 
 ‘ My dear, that would have been a matter of little 
 consequence compared to the evil of getting into debt ; 
 that I could never, under any circumstances, permit. 
 You know, dear, what my opinions are on that matter. 
 You remember I could not even consent to Sir John 
 Carbery visiting your father owing to the tremendous 
 expense. Fortunately, that kind Mr Sarson stepped in 
 in the most providential way. I shall alwaj^s feel 
 that the dear, reserved, queer man has saved your 
 father’s life.’ 
 
 ‘ But you — you won’t say anything to him, mother ? ’ 
 ‘ Say anything ? Really, my dear Clarissa, I am not 
 going to state what I mean to do. I shall do nothing 
 improper. I cannot permit you, my dear, to make 
 remarks of that kind to me.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, I am sorry, mother,’ Clarissa answered. ‘ Do 
 you greatly mind if I go out now for a bit ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Where to ? You are always running out. Why 
 don’t you sit with your little sister ? If Janet is not 
 better in an hour or two I shall have to send for 
 Dr Bennett.’ 
 
 ‘ But I am sure she is better, mother. She seems 
 much cooler, and is quite cheerful. I won’t be long.’ 
 
 ‘ Where are you going, my dear ? ’ 
 
 ‘ I thought I would run round and see Martha 
 Moore.’ 
 
 ‘ I am perfectly tired of those Moores,’ said Mrs 
 Rodney, ‘ and of that impertinent, rough, ungentle- 
 
PICKLED WALNUTS AND A PKOFESSOR. 
 
 187 
 
 manly man who called yesterday, presuming on account 
 of his lately acquired wealth to come into our society, 
 and saying he wished to have a special word with 
 you in the hall. He is an intolerable person ; and how 
 your father can take a fancy to him amazes me. I 
 shall certainly not encourage him to come to this 
 house. I hope he has not been giving you any more 
 presents ; it would be just the sort of thing he would 
 do. What are you colouring for, Clarissa ? Has he 
 given you anything more ? ’ 
 
 ‘ No, mother,’ replied Clarissa in a low voice. Then 
 she hated herself for the lie. — ‘ I am getting more 
 wicked and mean every moment,’ she thought. 
 
 Mrs Rodney did not put any moi’e questions when 
 she had said ‘ No, mother.’ She was stern enough to 
 both her children, but she had implicit confidence in 
 their truthfulness. ‘ Well, go if you must, and be 
 quick back,’ she said ; ‘ and don’t encourage that person 
 to visit here.’ 
 
 ‘You misjudge him, really, mother; and you know, 
 too, he is coming this afternoon, for father has invited 
 him.’ 
 
 ‘ Yes, he is evidently the sort of man your father 
 takes a prodigious fancy to. Your father’s taste and 
 yours are quite alike ; you both always take to eccentric 
 people. But you may go now — don’t keep me idling 
 any longer.’ 
 
 Clarissa left the room, and walked quickly in the 
 direction of Jenkins Manor, arriving there just in 
 time to see Martha preparing to go out. 
 
 ‘ Oh, you are here, Clare ! ’ exclaimed Martha ; ‘ let me 
 take you into my sitting-room. You have not seen it 
 yet.’ 
 
188 
 
 PICKLED WAT, NUTS AND A PROFESSOR. 
 
 Clarissa eagerly consented, and the two crossed the 
 hall into the pretty sitting-room. It looked out on the 
 garden, and was refined in every detail of furnishing 
 and decoration. 
 
 ‘ Isn’t it sweet, compared to the rest of the house ? ’ 
 asked Martha. ‘ It is my refuge ; but the worst of it 
 is, poor darling mother cannot spend much of her time 
 here. Uncle Tom is always routing her out. He won’t 
 come into the room ; he says that to step across this 
 threshold would make him sick ; but he stands in front 
 of the window and says, “ Come out, Polly. What 
 are you hiding in there for ? ” and out the darling 
 
 mater has to go. Really and truly ’ Martha 
 
 hesitated. ‘ What is it, Clare ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Oh ! let me see that on your finger,’ cried Clarissa. 
 She sprang forward, and taking Martha’s hand, looked 
 at the lovely pearl ring. 
 
 ‘Uncle Tom brought it to me yesterday. It is 
 wonderfully pretty, and in really good taste.’ Martha 
 looked at the ring with absolute affection. 
 
 ‘ He brought me one just the same,’ said Clarissa in 
 a tone of awe. ‘ Martha, dear, I want to speak to you. 
 Can you spare me five minutes ? I want to say some- 
 thing very, verj^ important.’ 
 
 ‘ I can give you half-an-hour or an hour,’ was 
 Martha’s response. ‘ If it wasn’t for the interest of 
 school, I ’d have simply nothing to do ; and do you 
 know what Uncle Tom’s last idea is ? It is that I 
 should go to a first-rate boarding-school, where I can 
 be turned into what he calls a tip-topper — that is his 
 polite expression. He is to be a tip-topper, and mother 
 and I are to tip-top with him. It is really too trjdng. 
 — But what is it ? Do speak ; you look so depressed. 
 
PICKLED WALNUTS AND A PROFESSOR. 
 
 189 
 
 Oh, I suppose it is the terrible secret. What am I to 
 do for you, Clare ? There is nothing I would not do 
 to help you.’ 
 
 ‘ I have been thinking of something,’ said Clarissa, 
 coming forward. She drew her chair close up to 
 Martha’s. ‘ It is this,’ she continued. ‘ I am in despair. 
 Mr Sarson comes to-night, and mother opens the 
 missionary-box to-morrow. Mother will find out that 
 the sovereign is missing, and either mother or father 
 will say something to Mr Sarson about his kindness in 
 having paid Sir John Carbery’s fee. I hope father 
 will be the first to speak to him, but it is just as likely 
 that mother will refer to the matter ; for father would 
 really do it with such extreme delicacy that Mr Sarson, 
 who is somewhat obtuse, might possibly not know what 
 ho is talking about. But mother, if she does speak to 
 him on the subject, will make it as plain — well, as 
 plain as that there is a sun in the sky at this 
 moment.’ 
 
 ‘ I am extremely sorry for you,’ answered Martha. 
 ‘ I wish I could help you. If Uncle Tom gave me 
 a large allowance I would try, by saving some of 
 it, and you could pay me back as you liked; but 
 he has given up that idea, and says that he does 
 not approve of girls having money of their own, 
 and that what I have to do is to order things and 
 let him pay the bills. So I have to order things from 
 my dressmaker, and things from the London shops ; 
 and, as far as I can see, I am not to have a sixpence 
 of my own to spend. It is a horrid, horrid plan, just 
 on a par with all the rest.’ 
 
 ‘ What I was thinking of,’ Clarissa continued des- 
 perately, ‘ is this. I was thinking of confiding in 
 
190 
 
 PICKLED WALNUTS AND A PROFESSOR. 
 
 Mr Jenkins; he is very kind to me, and perhaps he 
 would lend me the money.’ 
 
 Martha’s face turned red and then pale. 
 
 ‘ I could pay him back by instalments/ continued 
 Clarissa. ‘ I get fifteen pounds a year for dress. I 
 would try and dress for half that amount. I have a 
 very fair wardrobe at present, and I would make it 
 last ; and I would give Mr Jenkins seven pounds ten 
 shillings a year, and by degrees I could pay off the 
 money. Do you think he would agree ? Oh, it would 
 be such a relief ! You don’t know what a relief it 
 would be, Martha.’ 
 
 The colour had now quite faded from Martha’s face. 
 ‘ I am afraid it won’t do,’ she said slowly, 
 
 ‘ Won’t do ? Why ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Because Uncle Tom is such a queer man. Do you 
 know, I think he would be inclined to have a very 
 poor opinion of you if he knew you had done what 
 you did. He said to me only yesterday, “ I hate girls 
 who go in debt. My idea of a girl is that she should 
 be simple and dependent, and not have ideas of her 
 own. What does a girl want with ideas ? Even 
 women have hut small call to air their thoughts. It 
 is the men who ought to have ideas. I like old- 
 fashioned girls.” Oh, he talked a lot in that way ; 
 and. do you know, I absolutely thought of you at the 
 time, and I said something about a girl who might 
 perhaps get into money difficulties. Of course I 
 didn’t let out for a moment it was you. I said that 
 (Tirls did sometimes, and that I for one could not blame 
 them. You cannot imagine what a rage he got into. 
 He said, “ Patty, I trust I may never hear you speak 
 in that way again. I have a letter of my mother’s 
 
 ( 
 
PICKLED WALNUTS AND A PROFESSOR. 
 
 191 
 
 upstairs in which she speaks of the borrowing wife. It 
 is beautiful the way she speaks.” He went out of the 
 room that moment, and hunted it up, and brought it 
 down and read it aloud to me. It was all the most 
 ridiculous nonsense you ever listened to ; but he 
 swears by it. I don’t think he would lend you the 
 money. He would fail to understand what you meant. 
 Don’t try it, Clare. I am very, very sorry. I will try 
 hard to make him give me a little allowance ; and as 
 soon as ever he does you are welcome to the greater 
 part of it ; but don’t ask him to help you, for I know 
 he would not. Besides, he is going away for ten days, 
 which practically clinches the matter. You must pay 
 Sir John Carhery on the 20th — must you not ? Well, 
 Uncle Tom is going away this evening ; he is going to see 
 some friends of his in the north of England, and won’t 
 be back for from ten days to a fortnight. Mother and 
 I mean to enjoy ourselves during that time.’ 
 
 Clarissa stood up. She looked at her friend from 
 head to foot. It seemed to her at that moment that 
 riches had not improved Martha ; that she was more 
 sympathising, more interesting when she was poor and 
 shabby. She was dressed now in a somewhat showy, 
 heavy fashion, which had not improved her in any 
 sense of the word. The pearl ring on her finger and 
 the clear light in her gray eyes redeemed her appear- 
 ance, however ; and Clarissa said to herself, ‘ I ought 
 not to hate her because she is well-off and com- 
 fortable, and — though she does not know it — happy. 
 I ought to bear my own burden. I will try.’ She 
 turned the conversation, therefore, v/ith that dignity 
 which was part of her charactei*, and soon afterwards 
 took her leave. 
 
192 
 
 PICKLED WALNUTS AND A PROFESSOR 
 
 At four o’clock that afternoon Thomas Jenkins made 
 his appearance at the Rodneys’ house. The Professor 
 was very much better, and had been moved down to 
 his study. He was expecting his friend George 
 Sarson in the course of the evening, but was not on 
 that account at all the less pleased to welcome Thomas 
 Jenkins. The Professor had great intuition and a 
 large supply of tact, and he soon drew the rough 
 man out, and got him to talk his best. 
 
 Thomas J enkins was charmed ; he saw that he was 
 interesting the Professor. Mr Rodney asked the most 
 intelligent questions, and really received much valu- 
 able information from Jenkins. 
 
 ‘ I must get you to read my lecture when it appears,’ 
 he said. ‘ I am greatly obliged to you.’ 
 
 Jenkins went away feeling that it was little wonder 
 Clarissa was such a fascinating girl. ‘ She takes after 
 her father,’ he said to himself. ‘ I wish I had seen the 
 lass somewhere about; but I didn’t catch a sight of 
 her. It was that proud lady-mother who doubtless 
 managed that.’ 
 
 By the last train that evening Thomas Jenkins went 
 off on his visit to the north of England. He was 
 
 o 
 
 loath to go ; but some relations of his dead mother’s 
 had written to him demanding his help, and such a 
 demand went straight to his honest heart. By the last 
 train which left Upton that evening Jenkins departed, 
 and by the last incoming train Mr Sarson arrived. Now, 
 just before his arrival Mrs Rodney, nicely dressed and 
 looking gracious and beautiful, entered the study. The 
 fire was blazing cheerily in the grate, Mr Rodney’s 
 favourite lamp stood on a table near his side. He was 
 lying on the sofa, looking pleased and interested. 
 
PICKLED WALNUTS AND A PROFESSOR, 
 
 193 
 
 ‘ I have arranged that Mr Sarson has supper/ said 
 Mrs Rodney. ‘ He will not care for dinner so late.’ 
 
 ‘ George Sarson does not care what he eats/ was 
 Mr Rodney’s response. ‘ I suppose we shall find him 
 as eccentric as ever, my dear.’ 
 
 ‘ Doubtless,’ said Mrs Rodney ; ‘ but we owe him a 
 debt of gratitude ; we must not forget that. By the 
 way, James, I have been thinking that any thanks 
 might come best from me.’ 
 
 ‘ What do you mean ? ’ said Mr Rodney, knitting his 
 brows slightly, and looking full at his wife. 
 
 ‘ I should be sure to put it in a very direct and yet 
 firm way. If you speak at all, you will bewilder the 
 poor man. I think he ought to know that we — we 
 suspect, and that we are very, very grateful. Sir 
 John Carbery is coming down again on Tuesday, and 
 very likely Mr Sarson and he will meet ; and it might 
 be better to be quite straightforward, and let Mr 
 Sarson know that we appreciate his great kindness.’ 
 
 ‘Well, as you please, Miriam,’ replied her husband. 
 ‘ You will be careful what you say, however ; for, of 
 course, Sarson supposes that we know nothing about 
 it.’ 
 
 Mrs Rodney talked for a feAV moments longer to 
 her husband. She then went upstairs to the girls’ 
 bedroom. 
 
 Janet, much better, was seated by the fire. Clarissa 
 was changing her dress. 
 
 ‘ Make yourself as nice as you can, dear,’ said her 
 mother. She sat down by the fire and stretched out 
 her arms to Janet to spring into them. ‘ Better, dear 
 little girl ? ’ she said in her most affectionate tone. 
 
 ‘ Oh yes, mummy, much, much better,’ replied Janet. 
 
 Nonentity. M 
 
194 
 
 PICKLED WALNUTS AND A PROFESSOR, 
 
 ‘ I have come to say,’ continued Mrs Rodne}'’, looking 
 full at Clarissa, ‘ that I myself shall say something to 
 Mr Sarson about his kindness.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh ! mother, I wouldn’t,’ said Clarissa, speaking 
 abruptly. ‘ Why should you speak about it ? ’ 
 
 ‘ How do you know that he did it, mummy ? ’ here 
 interrupted Janet, speaking in as coaxing a tone as 
 she could assume. 
 
 ‘ How do I know that he did it ? ’ repeated Mrs 
 Rodney. ‘ Really, my dear little girl, I am not g’oing 
 to consult you as to what I know, and what I don’t 
 know. There was no one else to do it. The doctor 
 assured me that Sir John Carbery was to he paid his 
 full fee, and that he was coming again next week. Mr 
 Sarson, of course, has been our benefactor ; and I wish 
 you, Clarissa, to go downstairs looking your best. He 
 will be here any moment. Ah ! I think that is his 
 ring.’ Mrs Rodney left the room, and Clarissa turned 
 to face Janet. 
 
 ‘ Now, what is to be done ? ’ she said. ‘ I seem foiled 
 at every turn. Martha was almost nasty to-day about 
 Mr Jenkins.’ 
 
 ‘You should never have consulted her,’ said little 
 Janet. ‘ I didn’t quite approve of your asking him to 
 lend you the money. I don’t know why ; but I didn’t. 
 It seemed to me worse than thinking you could take 
 the scholarship money ; hut I don’t see why Martha 
 should have been nasty about it.’ 
 
 ‘ He would have lent it, I am certain,’ said Clarissa. 
 ‘ I would have put it so that he could not help it. I 
 would have assured him that I had done it for the 
 love of rny father, and I ’d have quoted his love 
 for his mother, and begged for his sympathy. He 
 
PICKLED WALNUTS AND A PROFESSOR, 
 
 195 
 
 would have done it, and I ’d have been all right 
 now; but there, he’s going away to the north of 
 England, and that hope is quite at an end. Oh ! what 
 shall I do ? How shall I prevent mother speaking to 
 Mr Sarson ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Well, she won’t speak to-night,’ said Janet. ‘ Do go 
 downstairs now, and try to be happy. It is more than 
 eight days before you need pay Sir John, and a great 
 deal may take place in eight days.’ 
 
 Clarissa, who had put on a simple white frock, and 
 looked very nice and girlish and sweet, ran downstairs. 
 Mr Sarson had arrived, and was talking to Mr Rodney 
 in the study. 
 
 An appetising supper was spread in the dining-room 
 at the other side of the hall. 
 
 ‘You look very well, Clarissa,’ said her mother. 
 ‘ Now, go softly into the study and tell Mr Sarson that 
 supper is ready. I have prepared your father’s oysters 
 and champagne ; they will be sent in to him when we 
 are at supper.’ 
 
 Clarissa went into the library without a word. She 
 had not seen Mr Sarson for many years. He was a 
 little, dried-up, withered man ; he had something of the 
 appearance of a Ribston pippin. His face was full of 
 lines, but his cheeks were rosy ; his eyes were blue and 
 sunken in his head ; his hair was white and pushed 
 back from a very lofty forehead. The white hair stood 
 up in a sort of halo above the white forehead. He 
 had also white whiskers, but his upper lip was clean- 
 shaven. Mr Sarson despised dress of every sort. 
 When once he got into a suit he considered that he 
 was clothed, and did not care how shabby that suit 
 became. He was a man with plenty of money ; but 
 
196 
 
 PICKLED WALNUTS AND A PROFESSOR. 
 
 money to him for its own sake was absolutely value- 
 less. When his servant assured him that his suit of 
 clothes was unfit to be worn any longer, he ordered a 
 fresh suit to be made on identically the same pattern ; 
 and put that on and wore it out until the same 
 remark was made. When he arrived at Upton the 
 period had almost come for his servant to assure him 
 that he must get a new suit. The black of his coat 
 had long degenerated into green ; it shone at the 
 elbows, and there was a suspicion of holes near the 
 buttons. His trousers were baggy and as old as the 
 coat, and his waistcoat was old-fashioned in make and 
 dingy in colour. 
 
 He stood up when Clarissa came in and gave her a 
 little bow, scarcely raising his eyes to her face, for he 
 had a great dislike to all women. 
 
 ‘ Supper is ready, please,’ said Clarissa. 
 
 ‘ Will you follow my daughter into the next room, 
 Sarson,’ said Mr Rodney. ‘I must apologise for not 
 accompanying you ; but I am not well enough yet to 
 use my legs.’ 
 
 Mr Sarson bowed with old-fashioned courtly grace, 
 and followed Clarissa from the room. 
 
 Mrs Rodney had already seen the Professor. He 
 thought her a fine-looking woman ; and as Rodney 
 had selected her for his wife, supposed that she must 
 have some merits. As to Clarissa, she was not worth 
 a second glance. He sat down by the table, and asked 
 the ladies if they would have any objection to his 
 wearing blue spectacles. 
 
 ‘ Certainly not, if you wish to wear them, Mr 
 Sarson,’ said Mrs Rodney. 
 
 ‘I always do if I have to look at a white cloth,’ he 
 
PICKLED WALNUTS AND A PROFESSOR. 
 
 197 
 
 replied. ‘In my own house I never allow a white 
 cloth to be put upon the table. You do not know, 
 madam, how bad it is for the eyes to stare for a 
 lengthened period at anything dazzling.’ Here he 
 took a spectacle-case out of his pocket and adjusted 
 large blue glasses over his eyes. The glasses evidently 
 afforded him great relief, for he looked quite cheer- 
 fully round and said, ‘ Ha ! ha ! good that ! ’ when 
 the cover was removed from some stewed steak. Mrs 
 Rodney helped him to a small portion ; he ate raven- 
 ously, and immediately held out his plate for more. 
 ‘I am hungry,’ he said. ‘I had a long journey. I 
 only eat twice a day. I consider food partaken of 
 oftener extremely bad for the constitution. How 
 many times a day do you eat, madam ? ’ 
 
 ‘Oh! three or four times. We have the usual 
 number of meals,’ said Mrs Rodney. 
 
 Clarissa, who faced Mr Sarson, could not help 
 looking at him with a kind of awe. What would he 
 say when her mother made that dreadful remark with 
 regard to her father ? She felt so uncomfortable and 
 miserable that she almost wished that it might take 
 place while she was in the room ; it would be better 
 to bear the full brunt of the battle than to think 
 that something awful was going on behind her back. 
 Accordingly she led the conversation, with a kind of 
 desperate desire to face the worst, into the most 
 dangerous channels. 
 
 Mrs Rodney looked at her with a sort of displeased 
 surprise. 
 
 ‘ How do you think father is looking ? ’ was 
 Clarissa’s first remark. 
 
 ‘Looking — eh?’ said Mr Sarson. ‘Can’t say I 
 
198 
 
 PICKLED WALNUTS AND A PROFESSOR. 
 
 noticed. He seems all right again. Was his illness 
 serious, madam ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Well, Mr Sarson, you ought to know that — ought 
 you not ? ’ was Mrs Rodney’s very pointed reply. 
 
 ‘ I ought to know it ? Bless my soul, why ? — Have 
 the goodness to hand me those pickles.’ 
 
 Clarissa handed some walnut pickles across the 
 table. Mr Sarson helped himself to three large 
 walnuts, which he proceeded to eat, one after the 
 other, without making any remark until he had 
 finished. He then said, ‘ Health is a matter entirely 
 dependent on the individual. I have studied health 
 from every point of view, and at the present moment 
 I am inclined to think that if a man will only exercise 
 himself in the proper way — if he will only take 
 enough fresh air and expand his lungs freely — he 
 may enjoy the inestimable blessing of perfect health 
 all his days. You see me, madam. I don’t suppose, 
 for a man of five and sixty years, there is a stronger 
 person in the whole of England.’ Here little Mr Sarson 
 puffed out his chest, and glared with his blue glasses 
 at Mrs Rodney. 
 
 ‘ I wish I did not feel so miserable. He is distinctly 
 amusing,’ thought Clarissa. 
 
 ‘ Do you know how I keep my health good ? ’ said 
 Mr Sarson, now pushing back his chair. ‘ Thank 
 you, no sweets; never touch ’em. Yes, I’ll have 
 another walnut.’ He helped himself to two more, ate 
 them, smacked his lips, and then continued. ‘ I make 
 it a rule to go out every morning before bi^eakfast, 
 to walk a couple of miles to the highest point in the 
 neighbourhood, and there inhale ’ 
 
 ‘ There do what ? ’ said Mrs Rodney. 
 
PICKLED WALNUTS AND A PEOFESSOR. 
 
 199 
 
 ‘ Open my mouth, madam, and draw in full breaths 
 of heaven’s air. Thus I fill my lungs and go back 
 invigorated and strong for the rest of the day. May 
 I ask what is the greatest height in your neighbour- 
 hood ? ’ 
 
 ‘I am sorry to say ours is rather a flat country,’ 
 said Mrs Rodney. 
 
 ‘ Dear, dear, what a pity ! I cannot stay long if that 
 is the case. I inhale fresh air every morning, and 
 each day I take three tablespoonfuls of cod-liver oil. 
 By these means I keep myself in health. Do you 
 happen to know the virtues of cod-liver oil, madam ? ’ 
 
 ‘ It is a medicine I have never taken,’ replied Mrs 
 Rodney. ‘ If you have finished, Mr Sarson, will 
 you’ 
 
 ‘ Ah ! quite so. I have finished. I have had an 
 excellent meal. Your pickles are delicious. But to 
 revert to cod-liver oil, you will love it after a time. 
 You begin by disliking it; but you assimilate it 
 soon, and quite love it. I prefer it to any wine 
 that was ever made. It is Nature’s own medicine; 
 that with fresh air properly inhaled will keep any 
 one right.’ 
 
 ‘ Will you come into the drawing-room ? ’ said Mrs 
 Rodney. ‘ I think my husband would like to rest 
 for a time after his supper; he will see you again 
 later on. Clarissa, you can either go to your father 
 or up to Janet.’ 
 
 ‘ I am dismissed,’ thought Clarissa. ‘ Now, what 
 will mother say ? ’ She looked with despairing eyes 
 as Mrs Rodney conducted Mr Sarson to the drawing- 
 room. There he removed his blue glasses. 
 
 ‘ Ah ! ’ he said, ‘ the comfort these are to a man like 
 
200 
 
 PICKLED WALNUTS AND A PROFESSOR. 
 
 myself ! It is necessary for me to spare my eyes, as 
 I use them so very much over my specimens.’ 
 
 ‘I am so glad you find my husband looking much 
 as usual,’ said Mrs Rodney. 
 
 ‘Well,’ said Mr Sarson, ‘to tell the honest truth, I 
 never knew Rodney was ill.’ 
 
 ‘ What ? ’ said Mrs Rodney. ‘ You never knew that 
 my husband was ill ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Upon my word, no ; it was remiss of me, no doubt.’ 
 
 ‘ But I wrote to tell you. When he was so very 
 bad, and could not help you with your course of 
 lectures, I had to write.’ 
 
 ‘ Madam, you will forgive me if I am frank. I 
 invariably make it a rule never to open any letter 
 which is in a female handwriting ; I always consign 
 such to the fire. Had I known that it was from 
 Rodney’s inestimable wife, one of the few ladies whom 
 I respect, I might have made an exception ; but I did 
 not know it. Therefore I was unaware of his illness. 
 I hinted as much to him, not wishing to pain him, 
 when I was in the library. — Why, what is the matter, 
 madam ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Then you,’ began Mrs Rodney — ‘ you didn’t 
 
 Forgive me, we thought you did.’ 
 
 ‘ Just like a woman,’ said Mr Sarson ; ‘ she can never 
 speak straight. I didn’t, and you thought I did. 
 Pray, what didn’t I do that you thought I did. Forgive 
 me, I am irascible at times, and I have not yet had 
 my cod-liver oil. Most soothing is cod-liver oil. 
 What didn’t I do that you thought I did ? ’ 
 
 ‘ All the same, I am sure you did,’ said Mrs Rodney ; 
 ‘ it is like you. You were always generous. You don’t 
 know what my husband thinks of you.’ 
 
PICKLED WALNUTS AND A PROFESSOK. 
 
 201 
 
 ‘If there is one thing more than another that I 
 hate,’ said Sarson, standing up at that moment, ‘it 
 
 is flattery. When a woman stoops to flattery 
 
 Madam, you are my hostess, and I do not wish to say 
 anything rude ; but if you cannot explain yourself, 
 will you change the conversation ? ’ 
 
 Here little Mr Sarson placed himself on the middle 
 of the hearth-rug, his legs slightly apart. Each hand 
 was thrust deep into his trousers pockets ; his hair 
 stood up straighter and more wild-looking than ever; 
 his blue eyes emitted sparks of indignation. 
 
 ‘ I must speak out,’ said Mrs Rodney ; ‘ this mystery 
 must be explained. Mr Sarson, you have a heart, 
 although you like us to think you have not. You are 
 one of my husband’s oldest friends.’ 
 
 ‘ One of Rodney’s oldest friends ? I should think 
 so. There is not a man on earth I hold in the same 
 reverence as I do your husband. I have the greatest 
 possible esteem for Rodney; he is a man, and worthy 
 of the name. To be frank, it is women I dislike. I 
 am tolerant of men.’ 
 
 ‘ Notwithstanding your words, which are the reverse 
 of gracious,’ said Mrs Rodney, ‘ I believe that you have 
 a heart, and that you have acted in a very noble way. 
 My dear husband has been at the point of death. A 
 
 great London specialist. Sir John Carhery Ah ! 
 
 Mr Sarson, we are coming to the point now.’ 
 
 ‘ Bless me if I know what the woman means,’ 
 muttered Sarson under his breath. ‘ Sir John Carhery?’ 
 he said aloud. ‘Never heard of him ; who is he ?’ 
 
 ‘You never heard of Sir John Carhery, the great 
 London physician ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Hate all doctors,’ said Sarson. ‘ I believe in fresh 
 
202 
 
 PICKLED WALNUTS AND A PROFESSOR. 
 
 air properly inspirated, and cod-liver oil. Those are 
 Nature’s medicines; no one wants anything more.’ 
 
 ‘ Mr Sarson, Sir John Carbery came here to see my 
 husband. His fee was thirty-five guineas. We could 
 not afford it. We were under the impression that 
 you ’ 
 
 ‘ That I what, madam ? ’ 
 
 ‘ That you — paid it.’ 
 
 ‘ Bless me ! ’ said Mr Sarson. He took out his hand- 
 kerchief and blew his nose fiercely. He blew it two 
 or three times, then he put on his glasses again. ‘ The 
 fire makes a glare,’ he said, ‘bad for the eyes. You 
 thought that?’ he said then slowly. ‘You thought 
 wrong, that ’s all. Not that I wouldn’t have done it 
 to save Rodney. I ’d have given my last shilling ; 
 but I didn’t know of his illness. Had I known, I 
 would have sent him down a dozen bottles of the best 
 cod-liver oil, and money to pay for a carriage to take 
 him to some place of high elevation in the neighbour- 
 hood, so that he could fill his lungs with fresh air. 
 You are mistaken, madam, if you think I was your 
 good angel on that occasion.’ 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 MISS NONENTITY. 
 
 A.RISSA knew nothing of what Mr 
 Sarson had confided to her mother. 
 She slept badly that night, and felt 
 that her own position was getting worse 
 and worse. In the morning she arose 
 looking almost haggard ; her head ached and she was 
 tilled. 
 
 Janet was now so well that she was able to come 
 downstairs again, and the two sisters saw their mother 
 for the first time, since the night before, at the 
 breakfast-table. 
 
 Mrs Rodney looked somewhat severe ; her lips were 
 pursed up — a sure sign, as the girls knew, that she was 
 not to be interfered with. Mr Sarson was present, and 
 was very gloomy and silent. From his manner to Janet 
 and Clarissa, he evidently thought their appearance 
 in the room an ofience to his dignity. As soon as he 
 had concluded the meal, which he ate very fast, and 
 with his blue glasses on, he turned his back to them, 
 walked to the window, and stood looking out. 
 
 Mrs Rodney spoke. ‘Janet,’ she said, ‘you are not 
 well enough to go out to-day. Clarissa, you and I will 
 
•204 
 
 MISS NONENTITY. 
 
 go to church at the usual hour. — Mr Sarson, will you 
 accompany us, or will you stay with my husband ? ’ 
 
 ‘I will stay with Rodney, if you have no objection,’ 
 was Mr Sarson’s reply; and then Mrs Rodney and 
 Clarissa left the room. 
 
 Poor Janet was obliged to remain, and very uncom- 
 fortable did she feel. One of Mrs Rodney’s pet 
 economies was in the matter of coals. However 
 severe the weather, she only allowed fires in a certain 
 number of rooms ; and Janet knew that if she was to 
 keep warm she must remain in the dining-room. Even 
 there the fire was not too generous ; it was well 
 slacked down after breakfast, and there was only a 
 glow of heat from its heart, the greater part of its 
 surface being black and uninviting. 
 
 Janet drew a chair forward and sat gazing into the 
 fire. She was thinking a great deal of Clarissa, and 
 wondering hard how she was to get out of her difficulty. 
 Presently she heard her mother and sister come down- 
 stairs ; they stood for a moment in the hall, then the 
 door was opened and closed behind them, and their 
 steps were heard going down the street. The steps 
 died away. Janet turned her anxious, pretty blue eyes 
 in the direction of the two tall windows. In one of 
 them stood the little Professor George Sarson ; he 
 was a great man at University College, London — much 
 esteemed, his word hung upon, his utterances listened 
 to with intense respect. Students crowded to hear 
 him; they loved what he had to tell them, they 
 revered him for the marvellous knowledge which lay 
 in his curious brain. At that instant, however, little 
 Janet by no means loved him. 
 
 ‘ He is keeping out the light,’ she said to herself. 
 
MISS NONENTITY. 
 
 205 
 
 ‘ I can’t read my new story-book. I wish he would go 
 away; he makes me uncomfortable.’ 
 
 And just as this thought came to her, Professor 
 Sarson wheeled quickly round, stared full at the child, 
 and came a step or two towards her. ‘ Little girl,’ he 
 said. 
 
 ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Janet, springing to her feet. 
 
 ‘ How old are you ? ’ 
 
 ‘Ten years old,’ answered Janet, colouring and look- 
 ing down. 
 
 ‘ Ten ? Ah ! ’ said the Professor, ‘ I don’t mind girls 
 of that age ; they are scarcely girls at all.’ 
 
 ‘ But, if you please, I am a girl,’ said Janet with 
 some indignation. 
 
 ‘ Don’t contradict me,’ said Mr Sarson ; ‘ I cannot 
 endure it even from a man-student, let alone from a 
 mite who is neither a girl nor a woman, simply a 
 nonentity.’ 
 
 Janet coloured painfully, and tears filled her eyes. 
 
 Mr Sarson, who was not wearing his blue spectacles 
 at that moment, fixed his own eyes, as blue and 
 bluer, on the blue eyes of the child and saw the 
 tears. 
 
 ‘Come, come,’ he said. ‘I am a rough old bear — 
 yes, I know I am ; but I don’t mean to hurt you. I 
 want to ask you a question. Are you afraid of me ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Oh no ; only you said what wasn’t true,’ said Janet. 
 
 ‘ Come, I like that — I like plain speaking. Your 
 mother fiattered me abominably last night — abomin- 
 ably. I don’t mind — I quite enjoy — the man or woman 
 or nonentity who gives me a slap in the face. Give me 
 another blow now — a good one while you are about it. 
 Come ! ’ Here Mr Sarson broke into a ringing laugh 
 
206 
 
 MISS NONENTITY. 
 
 which was quite gay, and so unexpected that Janet 
 felt more alarmed than ever. ‘ Come,’ he said. He 
 drew a chair forward and sat down. ‘ What ’s the 
 next slap, little Nonentity ? ’ 
 
 ‘ I won’t talk to you if you call me that,’ said Janet. 
 ‘ Better and better. You are quite refreshing. It is 
 an awful pity you are not a boy ; you would make 
 a very good sort. Sturdy little limbs too.’ Here he 
 took one of J anet’s hands ; he held the little hand 
 between both his own and stroked it quite softly. 
 
 ‘ Once I had a pet cat,’ he said ; ‘ a kitten. I loved 
 it. Ridiculous as it sounds, I did. You need not 
 sneer, little Miss Pussy. It was something like you 
 — soft, round, prettily marked.’ 
 
 ‘I am not marked,’ said Janet; ‘one would think 
 I was a cat myself.’ 
 
 ‘ Be thankful if you are ever half as good.’ 
 
 ‘That I will not stand,’ said Janet. She struggled 
 to get up ; but, to her immense surprise and almost 
 terror, Mr Sarson now drew her close to him. 
 
 ‘ You are very like a pussy,’ he said, ‘ very like ; ’ 
 and he put up his hand and stroked her long, very 
 thick brovyn hair. ‘ Do you know,’ he continued, ‘ I 
 like you, little Miss Nonentity. Your mother — I 
 would rather not talk to her ; your elder sister — to 
 be frank, I have scarcely noticed her. I observed 
 that a young girl was in the room, but that is 
 all. You, little Miss Nonentity, are quite refreshing. 
 Unfortunately for yourself, you won’t be so long ; 
 in a year or two you will have outgrown the kitten 
 period, and be a commonplace, tiresome, everyday 
 girl.’ 
 
 ‘ Thank you,’ said Janet. 
 
MISS NONENTITY. 
 
 207 
 
 ‘ Come, will you sit on my lap ? I want to talk 
 to you.’ 
 
 ‘ I ’d rather not.’ 
 
 ‘You are the first little nonentity that ever sat 
 there. My cat was fond of sitting on my knee. 
 Come ! ’ — and before Janet could help it, she found 
 herself lifted on to Mr Sarson’s lap. He still held her 
 hand, which he stroked ; his blue eyes looked very 
 kindly into hers. ‘Tell me about your father,’ he 
 said. ‘ Upon my word, I could not sleep last night. 
 That mother of yours told me a queer story.’ 
 
 ‘ Did she ? Did she tell you ? ’ said Janet. ‘ Did 
 she tell you that ’ 
 
 ‘Now, little Nonentity, if you speak in that strain, 
 off* my lap you go. You remind me exactly of your 
 mother. She said that I did what I did, and other 
 extraordinary statements of the same sort. If 3^ou 
 will speak out I will listen ; but if not, oft' my lap 
 and out of the room you ’ll go.’ 
 
 ‘ I shall be very glad to get off your lap,’ said Janet 
 with dignity ; ‘ and I don’t think you could turn me 
 out of the room, seeing it is father’s and mother’s 
 room, and they wish me to sit here.’ 
 
 ‘Well answered! Capital ! ’ said Sarson. ‘You are 
 
 quite a dear little nonen You dislike that word ? 
 
 Well, I’ll try and not call it to you. Now, look me 
 in the face.’ Here he jerked Janet’s small face round 
 and looked full into her eyes. ‘ What is that story 
 about a doctor coming down here and seeing your 
 father — a great London swell, and — and the supposi- 
 tion getting into your mother’s head that I paid 
 him ? Do you know anything about it ? ’ 
 
 ‘ I know all about it,’ said Janet. ‘ I know more. 
 
208 
 
 MISS NONENTITY. 
 
 than mother does.’ Here she coloured painfully and 
 then turned white. 
 
 ‘ Then you are just exactly the little nonentity for 
 me — ^just exactly. You shall tell me the entire tale.’ 
 
 ‘ I wonder if I might/ thought Janet. ‘ It would 
 save Clare, and I ’d have saved her. Oh dear ! oh 
 dear ! ’ 
 
 Her heart beat fast; words trembled on her lips. 
 She looked so full and so earnestly into Mr Sarson’s 
 face that his own face grew grave and almost anxious. 
 
 ‘ I wish you were a boy,’ he said ; and he had 
 scarcely uttered the words, and Janet had just barely 
 made up her mind to let out the truth with a rush, 
 when steps were heard — feeble, frail, but nevertheless 
 unmistakable — in the hall outside, and Professor 
 Rodney himself came in. 
 
 No one could look more astonished than Professor 
 Rodney when he saw Janet seated on Professor 
 Sarson’s lap ; and no one could have been more 
 disgusted than Professor Sarson was to find himself 
 in this position. 
 
 He jumped up like a shot, almost tumbling poor 
 Janet to the floor. He went forward to the other 
 professor and held out his hand. 
 
 ‘Just having a chat with your little nonentity.’ 
 
 ‘ My little what ? ’ said Mr Rodney. 
 
 ‘ That little creature over there.’ Mr Sarson wished 
 to avoid the obnoxious word ‘girl.’ ‘Nice little 
 creature,’ said Sarson; ‘ very nice. Well, and are you 
 ready for our talk ? — Another time I ’ll have a 
 conversation with you, little pussy.’ Here he nodded 
 in a friendly way to Janet, and the two professors 
 left the room together. 
 
MISS NONENTITY. 
 
 209 
 
 Janet rubbed lier cheeks. 
 
 ‘ Horrid man ! ’ she said under her breath. ‘ So I 
 am a nonentity, and a pussy, and a creature. I 
 never was talked to so rudely before ; and yet I wish 
 he had stayed. I believe I could have helped Clare. 
 I believe I could. Oh, my darling Clare ! It was 
 horrid sitting on his lap ; and yet he has nice eyes. 
 They are so very blue, and when he smiled they 
 were like two little stars in his head ; and, oh dear ! 
 what a funny laugh he had. It came so sudden 
 it made me jump ; but I do hate being called a 
 nonentity. I wonder what a nonentity means. I ’ll 
 ask Clare when she comes in. I wonder, too, when 
 I ’ll see him again, and if I can tell him, and if 
 he ’ll put things straight. He had such kind eyes. 
 Isn’t it funny that Clare and I should both have 
 an old gentleman of our own — I Professor Sarson, 
 and Clare Mr Thomas Jenkins? Oh, it is funny; 
 but I hate being called a pussy-cat and a creature. 
 I hate it even worse than being Miss Nonentity.’ 
 
 All that day Janet waited with a curious impatience 
 for another interview with Mr Sarson; but Sarson, 
 who had come on special business to see his great 
 friend Professor Rodney, had evidently forgotten her 
 existence. He now invariably wore his blue glasses 
 in the presence of Mrs Rodney and Clarissa; and 
 Janet wondered if he even saw her. 
 
 ‘For I am small, and it’s plain that most people 
 think I am worth very little,’ thought the child ; 
 ‘ but I won’t say anything to dear, dear Clare until 
 I can really help her.’ 
 
 After dinner Mrs Rodney opened the missionary- 
 box; she opened it in the presence of both girls. 
 
 Nonentity. 
 
210 
 
 MISS NONENTITY. 
 
 Janet felt herself turning faint and almost sick; she 
 suddenly tumbled to her feet. 
 
 ‘ What is the matter, Janet ? ’ asked her mother. 
 
 ‘ Why are you leaving the room ? What is wrong, my 
 dear ? ’ 
 
 ‘Nothing. I mean I don’t know. I’d like to go 
 and lie down for a minute or two.’ 
 
 ‘ That child is not well,’ said Mrs Rodney, looking 
 at Clarissa. ‘ I hope she is not sickening for anything ; 
 she seemed better this morning.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, she is much better, mother,’ said Clarissa. ‘ I 
 will go up and sit with her if you like. Perhaps 
 I had bettex light the fire in our room ? ’ 
 
 ‘You can do so,’ said Mrs Rodney; ‘and if she is 
 tired she need not come downstairs again to-daj^ 
 But, first, will you help me with this money ? Just 
 get a sheet of paper and a pencil and jot down the 
 amount contained in the box. I must send some 
 postal-orders for the amount to the Society to-morrow. 
 We ought to have — let me see — four pounds eight 
 shillings and some pence in the box. I have the exact 
 amount in my note-book. Hand me my note-book, 
 Clarissa.’ 
 
 Clarissa walked across the big dining-room ; she 
 put her hand on her mother’s writing-table. The 
 note-book stood as a rule on the top of all the 
 others ; it was a little book, and much used. With a 
 deft movement, and actuated by a feeling of despair, 
 Clarissa slipped the note-book into her pocket. She 
 looked around her. 
 
 ‘ Why don’t you bring it to me ? ’ said her mother, 
 who had her back to her and of course had not 
 observed the action. 
 
MISS NONENTITY. 
 
 211 
 
 *I cannot find it, mother,’ said the miserable girl. 
 She came back again and sat down opposite to her 
 mother. 
 
 ‘Well, it doesn’t much matter. I remember the 
 exact sum,’ said Mrs Kodney ; ‘ four pounds eight 
 shillings and fivepence. Yes, I remember quite well ; 
 I put five loose coppers in during the week, for 
 your father was getting so much better and I did 
 not absolutely require them for my housekeeping. 
 It was a trifling offering, but given in the spirit in 
 which all charity ought to be given. Now, let me 
 count.’ 
 
 Mrs Rodney counted and counted. 
 
 Clarissa pretended to be engaged with a book. 
 Her heart was beating fast, but her face looked pale 
 and as usual. She had to put such a tremendous 
 strain on herself that she did not think her mother 
 would notice anything unusual. 
 
 ‘ Clarissa,’ said Mrs Rodney’s voice presently, ‘ will 
 you count this up ? ’ 
 
 Clarissa did so. 
 
 ‘What do you make the sum to be?’ said Mrs 
 Rodney. 
 
 ‘ Three pounds eight and tenpence,’ said Clarissa. 
 
 ‘ Yes, that is what I make it too,’ said Mrs Rodney. 
 ‘ Then there is no doubt. Some one has been at this 
 box, some one has been tampering with it. A sovereign 
 has gone.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, mother, are you sure ? ’ said poor Clarissa. 
 
 ‘ Sure ? I am certain. I never make mistakes. 
 I have the exact sum entered in my note-book. 
 Stay, I will find it ; it was here this morning.’ 
 
 Mrs Rodney went to her table and hunted in vain 
 
212 
 
 MISS NONENTITY. 
 
 for the book. Clarissa got up and pretended to help 
 her. 
 
 ‘Whoever took the sovereign has stolen the note- 
 book/ said Mrs Rodney. ‘I must question all the 
 servants. Send them to me at once.’ 
 
 ‘ But two of them are not in the house, you know, 
 mother ; they have gone out.’ 
 
 ‘ So they have ; it is most annoying — most terribly 
 annoying.’ 
 
 ‘ Perhaps you made a mistake, mother, in the 
 amount.’ 
 
 ‘ Don’t be so silly ; as if I could make a mistake 
 in a whole sovereign. This is more than annoying; 
 it is terrible. We have a thief in our midst. Well, 
 I shall say nothing until they return, and then each 
 of them must be spoken to in turn ; and unless 
 the thief confesses they shall all go. I won’t keep 
 servants whom I cannot fully trust. This must have 
 been done during your father’s illness. Give me 
 the box, Clare ; I must look at it.’ 
 
 Mrs Rodney carefully examined the missionary- 
 box; but although Clare had broken it open on that 
 terribly auspicious day, some time ago now, she had 
 done it so well that there was not a trace of the 
 damage visible. She had simply lifted the little roof 
 and glued it back again in its place. 
 
 Mrs Rodney could see nothing wrong with the box. 
 ‘It is most annoying,’ she said. ‘I am vexed. I 
 cannot send this sum to London until the lost 
 sovereign is found. Don’t sit staring at me any 
 longer, Clare ; go up to your sister.’ 
 
 Never in all her life had Clarissa been more pleased 
 to leave a room than she was then. She dashed up- 
 
MISS NONENTITY. 
 
 213 
 
 stairs, her knees trembling, her hands shaking. She 
 ran into her own bedroom, where Janet was lying on 
 the bed, pink spots on her cheeks. 
 
 ‘ Oh, Clare ! Clare ! what is the matter ? ’ said the 
 child. 
 
 ‘ Where are the matches ? ’ said Clarissa in a sort 
 o£ strangled voice. ‘ Mother says you may have a 
 fire.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, don’t mind the fire now. Do — do tell me what 
 has happened.’ 
 
 Clarissa struck a match, applied it to the fire 
 already laid in the grate, and the next instant took 
 the note-book out of her pocket and thrust it 
 between the bars. 
 
 ‘ It is our only chance — our only chance. Oh, 
 Janey ! oh, Janey ! I am such a wicked, wicked girl;’ 
 and she rushed over to where little Janet was curled 
 up in the bed, fiung her arms round her sister’s neck, 
 and burst into a passion of weeping. 
 
 ‘ What have you done ? ’ said Janet, when at last the 
 elder girl could find her voice. 
 
 ‘ Burnt mother’s note-book.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, Clare ! Why ? Why ? ’ 
 
 ‘ It is our only chance. She cannot prove anything 
 without the note-book as witness. It came into my 
 head at the last desperate moment. Father will be 
 sure to tell her that she must not accuse any one 
 if she has only her memory to trust to. Mother 
 knows that her memory is by no means infallible. 
 It will save us, and I had to do it ; but, oh ! I told 
 a lie, and I hid it in her presence ; and I am wicked — 
 so wicked that it is past bearing. I wonder if God 
 will ever, ever forgive me.’ 
 
CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 ‘ DROSS.’ 
 
 KINGS turned out something as Clarissa 
 expected. Mrs Rodney on the following 
 morning spoke to her husband about the 
 missionary-box, and the amount which 
 she had found therein. He was a very 
 grave, quiet, just sort of man. He had an excellent 
 memory, whereas Mrs Rodney’s was the burden of 
 her life; it was so uncertain, so undependable. Mr 
 Rodney examined the box, could find no trace of its 
 ever having been tampered with, and immediately told 
 his wife that until she could find her own note-book 
 she ought not honestly to accuse any one. 
 
 ‘It is a very grave thing to accuse a person of 
 theft,’ he said. ‘ Our servants have been with us 
 for some time, and are all, as far as we can tell, trust- 
 worthy. You know, Miriam, you cannot always trust 
 your own memory ; it is far more likely that you 
 made a mistake in the amount than that any one 
 would dare break open the box and take out a 
 sovereign.’ 
 
 So Mrs Rodney — although by no means satisfied, and 
 quite sure in her own mind that on this particular 
 occasion she was right — was obliged for the time at 
 
‘ DROSS.’ 
 
 215 
 
 least to submit. She could not even question the 
 servants, according to her husband’s way of thinking ; 
 but she refused to send up the money to the Missionary 
 Society until, as she herself expressed it, she found her 
 lost note-book. But, of course, search as she would 
 she could not find the book, which poor Clarissa in 
 despair had thrust into the fiames. 
 
 Clarissa now was distinctly unhappy. She could 
 scarcely attend to her work at school, so distrait and 
 nervous was she; and Janet, who was devoted to her 
 elder sister, became quite unhappy about her. 
 
 ‘I could even bear being called “Little Nonentity” 
 and “ Pussy ” for her sake,’ thought the child. ‘ I 
 do wish I could get some opportunity to talk to 
 Mr Sarson.’ 
 
 But Sarson, ashamed doubtless of his penchant for 
 the child, took little or no notice of her during the 
 remainder of his stay ; and, as he himself expressed it, 
 the locality being so flat he was obliged to hasten his 
 departure. He left Upton early on Tuesday morning, 
 and only bade good-bye to his friend Eodney and Mrs 
 Rodney. Just as he was getting into the carriage 
 to drive to the station, however, a memory seemed to 
 assail him. 
 
 ‘ By the way,’ he said — he ran back and addressed 
 Mrs Rodney — ‘tell Little Nonentity that if any’ 
 
 ‘ I fail to understand,’ said Mrs Rodney. ‘ Tell 
 ■whom ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Oh ! your youngest little creature — I really would 
 rather not call her a girl ; it is such a pity she is not 
 a boy ; but tell her that if at any time George Sarson 
 can do her a kindness he will be very glad to do so. 
 She is a nice, straightforward, honest little soul ; 
 
216 
 
 ‘ dross/ 
 
 and now good-bye, good-bye. Don’t forget cod-liver 
 oil, and fresh air properly inspirated daily for your 
 husband.’ 
 
 Professor Sarson took his leave; and when she 
 came home that afternoon Mrs Rodney delivered his 
 message to Janet. ‘A most extraordinary man,’ she 
 said ; ‘ think no more about it, child. I am inclined 
 to believe that the poor Professor is not all there in 
 some respects.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, he is very much all there, mother,’ replied 
 Janet ; and she coloured and her eyes grew bright. 
 
 Mrs Rodney herself quickly forgot the Professor’s 
 queer words ; but Janet pondered them in her heart. 
 They were to bear fruit by-and-by. Meanwhile, the 
 visit from the great doctor from London filled all 
 the mother’s thoughts. He was to come early the 
 following morning, when Clarissa would, of course, 
 be at school; she was glad of this, as she did not 
 want to face him. It now wanted but five days to 
 the date when she had faithfully promised that the 
 great London specialist should receive his money. 
 
 ‘ Five days 1 ’ thought Clarissa. ‘ God only knows 
 what will happen at the end of that time.’ She was 
 so miserable she could scarcely attend to her work. 
 Examinations were going on, for Christmas was not 
 far off ; and Clarissa was certainly by no means 
 adding to her reputation as the winner of the Randall 
 Scholarship. She was sent down in class day after 
 day, she received anything but full marks for the 
 different subjects under examination ; and people who 
 looked at her and saw how pale her face was and 
 how strained the light in her eyes, were convinced 
 that, clever girl as she was, she was studying too hard. 
 
‘ DROSS.’ 
 
 217 
 
 Martha was now rapidly rising in the school. It is 
 a sad fact of our human natures that a very poor girl 
 seldom gets the same amount of notice and considera- 
 tion that the rich girl gets. Martha in her unsuitable 
 but handsome clothes, driving to school in her pretty 
 pony-carriage, was a totally different person from the 
 poor Martha Moore who walked nearly double the 
 distance, who wore the very shabbiest of clothes in 
 the whole school, who looked underfed and terribly 
 anxious. 
 
 Martha was now pronounced to be as clever as 
 Clarissa, if not cleverer ; and there were even one 
 or two girls who were heard to say that they heartily 
 wished she had won the scholarship. 
 
 ‘ It seems thrown away on Miss Rodney,’ they said 
 one to the other. ‘That cleverness of hers must have 
 been just a spurt. She will take a very low place in 
 the examinations, and all the professors and mistresses 
 will be disappointed.’ 
 
 On the day when Sir John Carbery paid his second 
 visit, Clarissa’s head ached so badly that it was with 
 the utmost difficulty she could attend to her work at 
 all. She had told her mother in the morning that 
 she would stay at school for dinner, and Mrs Rodney 
 had said it was the best thing to do ; but although 
 Clarissa paid her shilling for the meal she could 
 not touch it, and more than one of her companions 
 asked her if she were ill. 
 
 Martha, in the same class, who always stayed to 
 dinner, looked at her with a curious mingling of affec- 
 tion, compassion, and contempt. Martha’s character 
 was changing a great deal ; prosperity was not 
 improving her. It was quite true what Clarissa 
 
218 
 
 ‘ DROSS.’ 
 
 thought, she was not anything like as sympathetic as 
 when she herself was poor and wanted even the 
 comforts of a good meal. 
 
 More and more as the day proceeded did Clarissa 
 think of the terrible fate which lay before her. What 
 was she to do when the 20th arrived ? She would 
 have no money to send Sir John Carbery. He would 
 write, perhaps, to her father, demanding his money. 
 
 ‘I wonder I have not courage to go back and see 
 him, and ask him to have a little patience,’ she 
 thought ; but she knew that she had not the courage — 
 it seemed to her that all her honour was at stake. 
 ‘ What shall I do ? ’ she thought. 
 
 As she was leaving the school an idea suddenly 
 came to her. Suppose she saw one of the Governors, 
 suppose she begged of him to let her have the money 
 instead of the education ? ‘ I might let him know 
 
 that I am terribly anxious ; that it is most vital for 
 the whole happiness of my life that I should have for 
 this one year the forty pounds instead of lessons,’ 
 thought the girl. 
 
 Accordingly, she made up her mind to go and see 
 Mr RedclifFe, a stout, prosperous old gentleman who 
 lived in a large square called St John’s Square near 
 
 by- 
 
 Martha waited for her for a moment. ‘ Will you 
 come home with me ? ’ she said. ‘ Uncle Tom is away, 
 and mother and I intend to have a pleasant evening, 
 quite in the old style. We shall dine in the big 
 new dining-room ; but we will be in my dear little 
 sitting-room afterwards. There won’t be a word said 
 about that terrible old Mrs J enkins. Do come, Clare ! 
 We should like so much to have you.’ 
 
‘ DROSS.’ 
 
 219 
 
 But Clarissa assured her friend that she could not 
 go with her that day; and accordingly, Martha — 
 slightly offended, and inclined to think that Clarissa 
 was not nearly as nice as she used to be — stepped into 
 her pony-carriage and took up the reins. She was 
 already learning to drive quite nicely, and soon dashed 
 out of sight. 
 
 ‘ It ’s horrid to see her with all those luxuries,’ 
 thought Clarissa, ‘ whereas I want, oh ! such a little 
 to make me perfectly happy.’ She felt desperate 
 now ; the knowledge that she had burnt her mother’s 
 note-book, that she had told lie after lie, tended to 
 depress her to the last degree. ‘I always did think 
 myself a good girl,’ she thought ; ‘ not perfect, of 
 course, but good in the ordinary sense — honourable at 
 least, at least not a liar, at least not a thief. Oh ! 
 what is to become of me ? And dear, darling little 
 Janet is dragged down by me too. Oh ! I thought 
 I was doing right, and it seemed so important ; 
 but I suppose I was doing wrong, very wrong, all 
 the time.’ 
 
 She had now reached Mr Redcliffe’s house. She 
 went up the heavy, ponderous steps, stood under the 
 stone portico, and rung the bell. A footman in livery 
 opened the door. 
 
 ‘ Is Mr Redcliffe in ? ’ asked Clarissa. 
 
 ‘He is in, miss,’ replied the man; ‘but I do not 
 know if he can see any one.’ 
 
 ‘I want to see him very badly,’ said Clarissa, and 
 she raised her pretty dark eyes and fixed them 
 pleadingly on the wooden face of the servant. He 
 was not proof against the look of suffering in Clarissa’s 
 eyes. 
 
220 
 
 ‘ DROSS.’ 
 
 ‘ Perhaps, miss,’ he said, ‘ if you were to give your 
 name ’ 
 
 ‘ Oh yes,’ she answered eagerly ; ‘ say Miss Rodney 
 — Miss Clarissa Rodney, the winner of the Randall 
 Scholarship.’ 
 
 The servant asked Clarissa to step into the hall. 
 He then went along a passage; there was a short 
 delay, and in a moment’s time he came back and 
 motioned to the girl to follow him. He took her 
 into a large, luxuriously furnished library. There 
 were books from ceiling to floor ; the furniture was 
 of heavy, carved oak ; there was a rich Turkey carpet 
 on the floor. In the distance blazed a great fire, and 
 on the hearth stood a tall man with a heavy face 
 and white hair. 
 
 ‘ I am glad to see you, Miss Rodney,’ he said. He 
 came forward and held out his hand. ‘ Will you sit 
 down, please ? ’ 
 
 ‘I came to speak to you about the scholarship,’ 
 began Clarissa. 
 
 ‘ Ah ! yes,’ he answered, ‘ quite so ; but the advan- 
 tages will not begin until next term. The holidays 
 will commence in three weeks’ time ; and when the 
 school re-opens in January you will find yourself in a 
 very enviable position. You will have lessons from 
 the very best masters in all those things which you 
 like most. I quite envy you your career. No anxiety 
 with regard to fees, and special attention given to 
 your education from every point of view.’ 
 
 ‘ Thank you,’ said Clarissa. She stood up and her 
 face got very white. ‘ May I trust you ? ’ she said 
 suddenly. 
 
 ‘ Trust me ? ’ said Mr Redcliffe. He was a kind- 
 
‘ dross/ 
 
 221 
 
 hearted man ; he dropped into a chair. ‘ Why, cer- 
 tainly, young lady,’ he said ; ‘ not only as the winner 
 of the scholarship, but as the daughter of your most 
 highly-respected father you have my sympathy and 
 respect.’ 
 
 ‘You would not respect me if you knew,’ she 
 began. 
 
 ‘ I should not respect you ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Oh ! no, no ! ’ said Clarissa. ‘ I did not mean to 
 say those words. I want to ask you a straight- 
 forward question.’ 
 
 ‘Take your time, take your time, my dear; but, 
 first of all, tell me how is your father? I was 
 gratified to hear yesterday that he is fast recovering.’ 
 
 ‘ Yes, he is much better,’ said Clarissa. 
 
 ‘ He has had a marvellous recovery. I under- 
 stood from Bennett that the case was practically 
 hopeless ; but that wonderful man. Sir John Carbery, 
 has saved another life. I cannot tell you what cures 
 he has efiected. He has saved a most valuable life 
 in this instance.’ 
 
 ‘He has indeed,’ said Clarissa; and just for a 
 moment she thought, ‘ All that I have done was 
 worth while ; ’ but she soon checked the feeling. 
 
 ‘ Sir John has come to see father again to-day,’ she 
 said. ‘ I believe he will be very much pleased 
 with him.’ 
 
 ‘Quite so,’ said Mr Redcliffe. He began to fidget; 
 he had a good deal to do, and wished Clarissa would 
 come to the point. 
 
 She saw this desire in his face, and continued 
 abruptly, ‘ I have come here to beg for a very great 
 favour.’ 
 
222 
 
 ‘ DROSS.’ 
 
 ‘ Well, well,’ said Mr Redcliffe, ‘ if in my power, of 
 course — if in my power.’ 
 
 ‘ It must be in your power, sir. You are one of the 
 Governors of the school.’ 
 
 ‘ Any special favour from any special teacher ? 
 Certainly; all that I can do for the winner of the 
 Randall Scholarship.’ 
 
 ‘ But it is not that, sir ; it is something ’ 
 
 ‘ Well, speak, my dear young lady.’ 
 
 ‘ Would you greatly mind, for one year — instead 
 of giving me lessons at the school — letting me 
 have the forty pounds which the scholarship is 
 worth ? ’ 
 
 ‘Would I greatly mind’ began Mr Redcliffe 
 
 after a pause. ‘ Will you favour me, Miss Rodney, by 
 repeating that remark again ? ’ 
 
 Clarissa found it much more difficult to say the 
 words the second time than the first. Mr Redcliffe 
 nodded his head at each word that fell from her 
 lips. 
 
 ‘ I understand,' he said, ‘ that you want the money 
 instead of the tuition ? ’ 
 
 ‘Yes, that is it. Do you think it would be possible 
 to — to oblige me ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Your request is a very extraordinary one — very 
 extraordinary indeed. Very ; in my opinion, painful. 
 What does this mean ? ’ 
 
 ‘ It means exactly what I say, Mr Redcliffe.’ 
 
 ‘ And you prefer money to learning — you who have 
 won the scholarship, the greatest prize the school 
 contains, prefer just money — dross — to learning ? Do 
 I hear aright ? ’ 
 
 ‘ It is not exactly dross to me,’ said Clarissa, stung 
 
‘ dross/ 
 
 223 
 
 by this word. ‘ It means a great deal. I — remember 
 I am speaking in confidence, and I trust you not to 
 betray me — I owe the money.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, indeed.’ Mr Redcliffe was thoroughly angry 
 now. ‘ I imagined,’ he said, ‘ that the girl who won 
 the Randall Scholarship was a person of — well, in 
 short, a person who deserved it, a person whose 
 character was above reproach. You think to get out 
 of a scrape by asking me to appropriate money 
 meant to encourage learning, to encourage excellence 
 of character and conduct — to appropriate such money 
 to a base end. Miss Rodney, I am surprised and 
 pained ; but, even if I were not surprised and pained, 
 you ask for what is out of my power to give. I am 
 only one of the Governors who hold this trust for the 
 good of the school. None of us could possibly accede 
 to your request, for it is absolutely outside the terms 
 of the trust money which supplies the fund for the 
 scholarship.’ 
 
 ‘ Then you have answered me,’ said Clarissa. ‘ I 
 thought I would try, that is all.’ 
 
 She got up ; her face was very white. She saw that 
 Mr Redcliffe, far from understanding her, thought 
 very badly of her; she turned and walked towards 
 the door. He stepped across the room and held it 
 open. 
 
 ‘ You will not betray me ? ’ she said, raising her eyes 
 to his face. 
 
 ‘ I have said I would not ; but I am pained and 
 disappointed.’ 
 
 ‘ So am I,’ said poor Clarissa. 
 
 This last remark of hers seemed to finish the 
 business as far as Mr Redcliffe was concerned. An 
 
224 
 
 ‘ DROSS.’ 
 
 angry flush mounted to his brow ; he almost slammed 
 the door as Clarissa passed out. 
 
 ‘ How mistaken one is in those girls,’ he said to 
 himself. ‘ Eeally the world seems to get worse and 
 worse. Of all people, I should not have thought that 
 Rodney’s daughter would require money for herself. 
 And to get her out of debt ! Debt ! A girl of that 
 age ! Probably she has been buying finery. Sicken- 
 ing ! sickening ! ’ 
 
CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 A WAY OUT. 
 
 was just as Clarissa was entering the 
 house that an idea came to her which 
 promised immediate relief. It came so 
 suddenly and unexpectedly that she 
 nearly jumped with a sense of thank- 
 fulness. She ran into the house, therefore, her spirits 
 once more restored, and eagerly questioned her mother 
 as to what Sir John Carbery had said. 
 
 ‘ He gave an admirable report, I am thankful to say, 
 darling ; an admirable report. Your dear father is 
 on the road to complete recovery. He must be very 
 careful for some weeks longer; but there is nothing 
 to prevent his resuming his professional duties at the 
 beginning of next term. Oh ! this is a relief ! How 
 thankful I am ! ’ 
 
 Just for a wild moment it came into Clarissa’s head 
 there and then to confess all. ‘ If I tell mother that 
 because I did as I did my darling father’s life is spared, 
 surely, surely .she will forgive me ? ’ thought the girl. 
 But even as the thought came to her she noticed the 
 hard look returning to her mother’s face. 
 
 ‘ We must be very careful,’ said Mrs Rodney ; ‘ and 
 no luxuries can be permitted in the establishment 
 
 Nonentity. O 
 
226 
 
 A WAY OUT. 
 
 for some time. The extraordinary circumstance of 
 how Sir John is paid worries your father and me 
 not a little. It is quite plain that Mr Sarson knew 
 nothing whatever about it, and jmur father cannot 
 think which of his other friends has put him under 
 such a great obligation. 
 
 ‘ But, surely, mother,’ said Clarissa, ‘ father must be 
 thankful that Sir John Carbery came ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Thankful ? Of course he is, my dear. If Sir John 
 had not come and ordered, just in the nick of time, the 
 special treatment which he did order, your dear, dear 
 
 father Clarissa, my love, I cannot go on.’ Tears 
 
 filled Mrs Rodney’s eyes. 
 
 Clarissa longed to rush to her mother, fling her 
 arms round her neck and kiss her ; but she felt herself 
 unworthy. 
 
 ‘I am a thief, and I have told lies,’ she thought. 
 ‘ Until I can, at any rate, tell the truth to mother I 
 dare not be affectionate.’ So she went out of the room, 
 suppressing the desire to go into her father’s study 
 and congratulate him on the doctor’s good report. 
 She went slowly, very slowly upstairs. 
 
 ‘ Clarissa is scarcely improving,’ thought Mrs 
 Rodney, standing still for a moment after her 
 daughter had left her; ‘and how quietly she takes 
 things. Now, I always did think that Clare was 
 passionately fond of her father. I thouglit my news 
 would have delighted her; one never can tell what 
 one’s girls will turn into. Dear ! dear ! there are 
 many anxieties in life.’ 
 
 Meanwhile Clarissa reached her bedroom. She 
 found Janet, as usual, waiting for her. Janet had 
 heard the good news, and her eyes were sparkling ; and 
 
A WAY OUT. 
 
 227 
 
 had Clarissa not been in such trouble the little sister 
 would have been very happy. 
 
 Clarissa ran into the bedroom, took hold of Janet’s 
 hands and squeezed them. 
 
 ‘ I am nearly mad ! ’ she said ; ‘ but, oh ! I know all 
 about father. Listen, Janet — you have been in my 
 secret all along — I have found a way out.’ 
 
 ‘ A way out ? What do you mean ? ’ 
 
 ‘Why, of course, what a silly girl I have been! I 
 shall sell Mr Jenkins’s ring. I could never wear it. It 
 will probably fetch quite as much money as I want. 
 I shall go straight to the jeweller in the High Street 
 — Richardson — and ask him what he will give me for 
 it.’ 
 
 ‘ But — does it seem kind ? ’ said little Janet. 
 
 ‘ Kind ? ’ repeated Clarissa, ‘ kind ? It doesn’t matter 
 whether it is kind or not. It was doubtless given to 
 me as a way out of my trouble. I shall sell it this 
 very night. Don’t keep me, Janey. I only trust I 
 shall get enough for it ! ’ 
 
 So Clarissa unlocked her chest of drawers, took out 
 the little morocco case, slipped it into her pocket, and 
 ran downstairs. 
 
 ‘ Going out again, my dear ? ’ called her mother after 
 her. ‘ I had hoped you would sit with your father for 
 a little.’ 
 
 ‘ So I will when I come back, mother ; and I 
 won’t be very long,’ replied Clarissa. She walked 
 rapidly ; her heart was beating in great throbs, and 
 her cheeks were flushed. She only trusted that 
 Mr Richardson himself would be in, and that no 
 special friend of the family would be in the shop 
 when she entered it. 
 
228 
 
 A WAY OUT. 
 
 Richardson the jeweller had quite a good assortment 
 of pretty trinkets and fancy articles. He was the 
 jeweller par eaxellence of the entire neighbourhood, 
 and was supposed to be a wealthy man. 
 
 Clarissa, who had never cared about jewels until she 
 obtained the beautiful pearl ring, had scarcely up to 
 the present noticed the contents of Richardson’s 
 windows. But now she stood outside and looked in. 
 It gave her a feeling of satisfaction to see that there 
 were several cases full of rings exhibited in a prominent 
 part of the window. She glanced nervously through 
 the shop-door, saw that the shop itself was apparently 
 empty, pushed aside the swing-door, and entered. 
 
 Richardson did not know her. He was an elderly 
 man with a bald head ; he was standing alone in the 
 shop. 
 
 ‘ What can I do to serve you, miss ? ’ he said. 
 
 ‘ I want to sell something, please,’ said Clarissa in a 
 low voice. 
 
 ‘ Oh, certainly, miss, certainly. Not that I am very 
 partial to buying. Young ladies’ trinkets are not as 
 a rule But what is it, miss — what is it ? ’ 
 
 ‘ I think you will like this,’ said Clarissa, ‘ It was 
 given to me not long ago. May I show it to you ? ’ 
 As she spoke she took out the little morocco case, 
 opened it, and allowed the jeweller to handle the pearl 
 ring. 
 
 Yes, the ring was beautiful, and Clarissa’s heart felt 
 a throb of regret at the thought that it was to be hers 
 no longer ; but she quickly banished it in her feverish 
 desire to obtain money for her great need. The 
 jeweller was evidently surprised at the appearance of 
 the ring and at its value. He was a good judge, and 
 
A WAY OUT. 
 
 229 
 
 he knew at once that the two pearls in the centre of 
 the ring were worth a considerable sum of money. 
 
 ‘ Where did you get this, miss ? ’ he asked. 
 
 Clarissa was somewhat surprised at the question. 
 ‘ It was given to me,’ she said ; ‘ it is my own, to do 
 what I like with. I am Professor Rodney’s daughter.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, indeed ! ’ said the man. ‘ Professor Rodney’s 
 daughter? Then that makes it quite safe. You will 
 forgive my asking what seemed like an impertinent 
 question. Miss Rodney ; but in purchasing articles of 
 this sort we tradespeople cannot be too careful. I 
 myself, miss, once gave a large sum of money for a 
 stolen article, which, of course, I was obliged in the 
 end to return. Our trade, miss, behoves us to be very 
 careful ; but in your case ’ 
 
 ‘ The ring is absolutely mine,' said Clarissa. ‘ I 
 cannot tell you any more. If you will not trust me I 
 will take it to ’ 
 
 ‘ I quite trust you, miss ; your father’s name is 
 sufficient guarantee.’ 
 
 ‘ You will not mention anything about it to my^ 
 father ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Well, miss, is it likely ? I only wished to be 
 assured that you came bj’ it honestly.’ 
 
 Poor Clarissa’s face flamed with an angry red. A 
 sharp retort rose to her lips ; but she repressed it, 
 
 ‘ After all I am not honest,’ she thought. ‘ I stole 
 that sovereign, and told mother that lie about it.’ 
 
 The jeweller now took the ring up to the light. 
 He examined it carefully. 
 
 ‘ You really wish to part with it, miss ? ’ he said. 
 
 ‘ I really do.’ 
 
 ‘Then there is a small test which I must apply— 
 
230 
 
 A WAY OUT. 
 
 nothing to injm’e the ring in the very least, but in 
 order to make all safe.’ 
 
 ‘ Will you apply it then ? ’ said Clarissa. 
 
 Richai'dson went into the back part of the shop. 
 He was absent for a minute or two, then he returned. 
 
 ‘ The ring is as valuable as I thought it was. What 
 do you want for it, miss ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, as much as you can give.’ 
 
 ‘ Perhaps, miss, you would like to borrow a small 
 sum on the ring, which j^ou could pay back at your 
 convenience ? I would be willing to lend you ten 
 pounds, for instance.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh ! that would be no use at all. I want about 
 forty pounds, please.’ 
 
 The jeweller in reality would have given fifty pounds 
 for the ring; but being true to the instincts of his 
 trade, he pretended to be rather astonished at Clarissa’s 
 demand. 
 
 ‘ That is a very large sum indeed,’ he said. ‘ I don’t 
 know that I should be justified in giving more than 
 thirty.’ 
 
 ‘ Then, in that case, I must take the ring away,’ 
 said Clarissa. ‘ Less than forty pounds will be of no 
 use to me.’ — ‘ For I may have to go to town in order to 
 pay Sir John Carbery,’ she thought. 
 
 The jeweller hummed and hawed. In the end he 
 agreed to Clarissa’s demand, and she left the shop, 
 trembling and giddy, with forty pounds in gold aird 
 notes in her pocket. 
 
 The ring, meanwhile — Thomas Jenkins’s ring — 
 reposed in Richardson’s shop. 
 
CHAPTEE XXV. 
 
 VELVET AND BROCADE, 
 
 HERE was great excitement at Jenkins 
 Manor. The time was spring — the 
 bright, fresh spring of the year — the 
 April flowers were out in Jenkins’s 
 garden; the daffodils, the primroses, the 
 violets, the hyacinths, they bloomed in masses in 
 the beds. There was nothing, however, wonderful 
 about that, and Martha took small pleasure in the 
 gay garden. The flowering plants were put in every 
 week by the gardener, and taken away as their 
 bloom went off, to be supplemented by fresh ones in 
 fresh beauty. The lavras were mown to the utmost 
 smoothness ; and Jenkins was busy having one of the 
 most perfect tennis-lawns laid down. He wished to 
 be in the fashion; he wished, as he said to Martha, 
 to entertain his young friends. 
 
 On this particular day, being the 25th of April, 
 there was to be the first large party which Thomas 
 Jenkins had ever given. Mrs Moore had, of course, 
 sent out the invitations, and every girl whom Martha 
 knew was asked to be present. Jenkins himself also 
 knew a few people in the town — for the rich will 
 always be called upon wherever they happen to settle. 
 
232 
 
 VELVET AND BROCADE. 
 
 He was ill at ease with these gentlemen ; but, all the 
 same, he was proud of their acquaintance. He called 
 them by their surnames without attaching any prefix ; 
 he talked loudly before them of his wealth and of his 
 future prospects ; he assured them one by one that 
 he had made his little pile, and his little pile was not 
 so little after all. 
 
 ‘ It is affectation to call it little,’ Jenkins was 
 heard to say ; ‘ it is a big pile — very big.’ And then he 
 would strut about and puff out his chest, and look, 
 in Martha’s opinion, more intolerably vulgar than ever. 
 
 He was used to his valet now, and submitted 
 to his ministrations ; he was also used to his big 
 red-brick house, and to his garden with its showy 
 flower-beds, and to his large green-houses, and to all 
 the tokens of his wealth. He had learned to enjoy his 
 meals, to be particular with regard to the viands which 
 appeared on his table. He recklessly ordered suit after 
 suit of magnificent clothes from his tailor in London, 
 and never observed when Augustus secretly purloined 
 these suits and sent them back to London, to receive 
 considerable sums of money for them. Augustus was 
 in league with the head- waiter at the ‘ George ’ Hotel, 
 and between them they were making quite a nice 
 income out of Jenkins. 
 
 But now his great triumph was about to take place. 
 He was in a wild state of excitement ; he burst into 
 the room where Martha and her mother were busily 
 decorating and arranging flowers. 
 
 ‘ Ha ! Martha,’ he called out, ‘ you ’ll be pleased to 
 hear that Rodney is coming.’ 
 
 ‘The Professor?’ said Martha in a tone almost of 
 awe, for she hated her uncle’s familiarity with these 
 
VELVET AND BROCADE. 
 
 233 
 
 people, who were in reality so much above him in the 
 social scale. 
 
 ‘Yes,’ he retorted, annoyed at her tone. ‘Rodney — 
 Rodney is coming. I wasn’t sure of him, so I called 
 round to-day to find out. But he is coming, and so is 
 that fine madam his wife — they ’ll both be present — 
 and my little friend Clarissa too. I ’d have liked to 
 ask the youngest child ; but when I suggested it the 
 mother snapped me up. An unpleasant woman — 
 don’t like her at all. — Polly, I say, come here.’ He 
 took his sister by the arm and led her out of the 
 room. 
 
 Martha remained behind. She put her hand to hei 
 forehead. ‘ Such a lot of wealth,’ she said under her 
 breath. ‘ Magnificence everywhere — all that the heart 
 
 could wish ; and yet Oh ! I understand what it 
 
 means to have abundance, and yet leanness in the soul. 
 I am not half as nice a girl as I used to be. I have 
 taken all the bad out of these riches, and none of the 
 good. Well, there is no help for it now; I suppose I 
 must go on. But why do I hate poor Uncle Tom 
 when he is trying to please me and to do so much for 
 me ? ’ 
 
 Just at this moment Mrs Moore returned. ‘ Martha,’ 
 she said, ‘your uncle wishes you to wear a particular 
 dress which is coming from town this evening.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, mother ! ’ said Martha, with a face of disma}% 
 ‘ may I not wear my white silk ? I really do not 
 wish to wear anything else. I toLl Clare only yester- 
 day that I would be as simply dressed as possible.’ 
 
 ‘ You cannot help it, my love,’ said Mrs Moore. 
 
 ‘ Your uncle has taken it into his head that you are 
 in a sort of way ‘ coming out ’ this evening. Of course. 
 
234 
 
 VELVET AND BROCADE. 
 
 not really, dear; but we must humour him. He is 
 very fractious about something, I cannot tell what; 
 and he wants you to wear the dress which is coming 
 from town.’ 
 
 ‘ He did not happen to mention what sort it was ? ’ 
 
 ‘ No, he would not tell me ; he said you ’d be off 
 your head with joy when you saw it. The fact is, dear 
 — although you don’t mean it — you worry your dear 
 uncle very considerably. You have a sort of reproving 
 air to him on all occasions, which my poor dear Tom 
 naturally resents.’ 
 
 ‘ I try not to, mother ; but I always told you the 
 experiment would not really work. I did what I did 
 for your sake, but ’ 
 
 ‘ Well, darling, there is no use in fretting now. Just 
 try to go on doing your very utmost to please him for 
 my sake.’ 
 
 Martha wiped away a tear, and went out into the 
 garden. Just then she saw Clarissa coming across the 
 grass to meet her. Clarissa looked much better ; the 
 anxious look had completely vanished from her face. 
 She had once again returned with zeal to her studies. 
 Once again she was pleasing the Directors of the day- 
 school company ; once again she was held up before 
 the other girls as one possessed of genius, of very 
 marked talent. Her father helped her, and the other 
 professors who attended the school brought her for- 
 ward ; and her expenses in all possible ways were met, 
 and her heart was light. She had paid Sir John Car- 
 bery in full ; she had sent him the money in notes in 
 a sealed and registered packet, and had begged of him 
 to acknowledge the amount to the care of the post- 
 office. And she had received his acknowledgment in a 
 
VELVET AND BROCADE, 
 
 235 
 
 very prettily worded letter, and further, an assurance 
 from him that if her father needed his services at any 
 time he would be happy to give them gratis. ‘ For the 
 sake of his brave young daughter,’ wrote Sir John 
 Carbery in conclusion. 
 
 Clarissa read this letter, and cried over it and kissed 
 it, and put it away amongst her treasures. ‘In the 
 place of my pearl ring,’ she thought. ‘ Oh, what a 
 blessed, blessed exchange !’ 
 
 The sovereign, however, which had been stolen from 
 the missionary- box was not yet returned; Clarissa 
 kept it until the instant arrived when she might 
 safely put it back. But Mrs Rodney, altogether dis- 
 gusted by the firm belief that there was a thief in 
 their midst, had for a long time refused to allow the 
 missionary-box to stand in its accustomed place. She 
 blamed her husband for not allowing her to prosecute 
 her inquiries with regard to the stolen sovereign ; but, 
 being always met by the one response, ‘When you 
 find your note-book it will be time to make others 
 unhappy,’ she was obliged to allow the whole aflTair to 
 sink out of sight. She had sent the money, however, 
 to the Missionary Society, less the one sovereign 
 which Clarissa had taken ; and Clarissa and Janet 
 both hoped that soon the little missionary-box would 
 appear in its old position, and that Clarissa could pay 
 back her debt. 
 
 Clarissa looked very bright now; she was dressed 
 becomingly, and she ran up to Martha and held out 
 both her hands. ‘ What fun to see you,’ she said. 
 ‘ What fun it all is ! Dear Mr Jenkins has just been 
 round at our house ; and, do you know, even mother 
 is coming. Father insisted on it. Father is so much 
 
286 
 
 VELVET AND BROCADE. 
 
 interested in Mr Jenkins ; he saj^s he is an extra- 
 ordinary specimen of ’ 
 
 ‘ It is marvellous,’ said Martha. ‘ What does he 
 think him a specimen of ? ’ 
 
 ‘Well, of integrity and simple-heartedness; and yet 
 he has the vanity of a successful child. He says his 
 is the most simple, child-like nature he has ever come 
 across.’ 
 
 ‘ I wish I could see him with your father’s eyes,’ 
 said Martha a little ruefully. ‘ To me he seems about 
 the vulgarest, most commonplace man I have ever 
 met.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, he is unpolished,’ said Clai’issa ; ‘ but we don’t 
 mind that. He is a diamond through and through. 
 Father and I like him greatly.’ 
 
 ‘ Then, I tell you what it is, Clarissa — you will have 
 to wear your ring to-night.’ 
 
 ‘ My ring ! ’ said Clarissa, turning pale. 
 
 ‘Yes; it is most extraordinary that you never do 
 wear it. Uncle Tom was talking about it to me only 
 yesterday. He said, “ I like that lass, and I did think 
 when I got the ring that she would wear it ; ” and I 
 replied, “ Oh, I suppose she thinks it is too fine for 
 everyday.” “Well, at least, she will wear it at my 
 party,” he said ; and then he nodded and looked quite 
 mysterious. You’ll have to put it on to-night.’ 
 
 Clarissa’s heart beat fast. She had never confided 
 to Martha the fact that she had sold the ring. 
 Martha now had ceased to question her with regard 
 to her trouble. On one occasion Clarissa had said 
 briefly, ‘ I have managed to get out of my scrape,’ and 
 Martha had given a sigh of relief, and immediately 
 turned the conversation ; she had long ago forgotten 
 
VELVET AND BROCADE. 
 
 237 
 
 that poor Clarissa needed five and thirty pounds to 
 make her happy. Money was common as water to 
 Martha now, and in consequence she valued it very 
 little. 
 
 ‘Things are most disagreeable,’ she said. ‘There 
 will be a heap of people here to-night — nice people, 
 the nicest in the town, people like your father for 
 instance, and like my father — and there will be Uncle 
 Tom making himself ridiculous. The kindest in the 
 room will only think of him as a vain child ; and what 
 will the unkindest think ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, dear me, Martha ! You are always looking at 
 the gloomy side. I am sure you have no cause to. 
 
 You live in this beautiful place ’ 
 
 ‘ Do you call it beautiful ? ’ said Martha, with a look 
 of disgust ; ‘ flower-beds like these, and the horrible 
 way the house is furnished.’ 
 
 ‘ Well, I like the house ; it is not in modern taste, 
 but I sometimes am rather sick of those dull drabs, 
 grays, and greens.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, dear me ! ’ said Martha. ‘ I sometimes think 
 that you have not good taste yourself, Clare.’ 
 
 ‘ Never mind,’ answered Clarissa. ‘ I like the house, 
 and I like the grounds, and I like those pretty, ga3^ 
 flower-beds. Why, the colour in this bed beside us is 
 quite lovely.’ As Clarissa spoke she approached a bed 
 of brilliant hyacinths of every imaginable shade and 
 colour. 
 
 ‘ Those were planted in this morning,’ said Martha. 
 ‘There is nothing sincere and real about the flower- 
 garden ; it is the work of the florist, not of Nature. 
 But, Clarissa, you will promise to wear the ring ? ’ 
 
 ‘ I will see about it,’ said Clare in a disturbed tone. 
 
238 
 
 VELVET AND BROCADE. 
 
 ‘ I really wish you would. I know uncle will be 
 terribly disappointed if you don’t. But oh, my dear, 
 I have to appear in such a terrible dress.’ 
 
 ‘Why, aren’t you going to wear your white silk 
 — that soft, pretty Frenchy thing, all frills and lace ? ’ 
 
 ‘ I intended to wear it, but Uncle Tom has sent to 
 London for a special dress for me, probably recom- 
 mended by his dear friend the waiter at the ‘ George ’ 
 Hotel. It is too awful, really. Oh ! there is the 
 carman at the gate with my box. Let us go and see 
 what torture I am to undergo.’ 
 
 Martha caught her friend’s hand and they both ran 
 into the house. The servant was paying for a wooden 
 box, and Martha desired her to take it up to her 
 bedroom. This was done, the cord was removed, the 
 top of the box lifted up, and then the woman with- 
 drew. 
 
 ‘Now then,’ said Martha. ‘Oh dear! oh dear!’ 
 The tissue-paper which surrounded the lovely dress 
 was removed, and beneath lay a robe which might 
 have been extremely becoming to a woman of five- 
 and-twenty, but was scarcely suitable to a young girl 
 of Martha’s years and appearance. It was composed 
 of rose-coloured velvet, much trimmed with real lace. 
 The front was all rich brocade embroidered in silver; 
 there was a long train behind ; and a bunch of rose- 
 coloured feathers were arranged to wear in the hair. 
 
 ‘ Ludicrous ! ’ said Martha. 
 
 ‘ Beautiful ! ’ exclaimed Clarissa. 
 
 ‘ Oh dear ! I cannot be seen in it,’ said Martha. 
 
 ‘But you must. You will be the queen of the 
 occasion. I wish I had the chance of wearing it.’ 
 
 ‘ Then, I am sure, I wish you had,’ replied Martha. 
 
VELVET AND BROCADE, 
 
 239 
 
 ‘ Do try it on, Patty. I want to see you in it.’ 
 
 Martha complied. Clarissa helped her into the 
 gorgeous robe. It was the work of one of the most 
 finished dressmakers in Bond Street. It fitted like a 
 glove, and swept away from the slim young figure in 
 ponderous and yet graceful folds. Martha’s very pale 
 face looked paler than ever with the reflection of the 
 rose-colour. 
 
 ‘The colour does not suit you,’ said Clarissa in a 
 critical way. ‘ I wish — I do wish — I could wear it. 
 I quite envy you.’ 
 
 ‘ Can’t you wear it ? ’ said Martha suddenly. ‘ I 
 believe Uncle Tom would be quite delighted. Won’t 
 you wear it ? Oh, I wish you would. Our figures 
 are almost exactly alike ; it would fit you quite as 
 well as it fits me.’ 
 
 ‘ I wish I could,’ said Clarissa. ‘ It would be a 
 daring thing to do — wouldn’t it ? Mother and father 
 would be shocked; but I do feel as if I longed for 
 a bit of fun.’ 
 
 ‘ Then, I tell you what. Uncle Tom is so fond of 
 you that I don’t believe he will mind. He is in the 
 garden now ; shall I run and ask him ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Oh ! no, no. I was only joking,’ said Clarissa. 
 ‘ Of course I cannot wear your dress.’ 
 
 ‘Just to save me from looking a merry-andrew, a 
 figure of fun. And you will look beautifiil in it,’ said 
 Martha. ‘ Here, try it on — do.’ She hastily slipped 
 the dress off herself, and Clarissa submitted to be 
 dressed in the rose-coloured velvet. 
 
 Clarissa’s colour was delicate, her eyebrows dark 
 and finely-marked, her quantities of dark hair were 
 piled up high on her little head. She had a long neck 
 
240 
 
 VELVET AND BROCADE. 
 
 and a very white throat. The lace ruffles fell away 
 from her rounded arms, the bunch of pink feathers 
 were placed in her dark hair. Her eyes shone ; the 
 colour deepened in her cheeks. 
 
 ‘ Oh dear ! ’ she said. 
 
 ‘ Oh ! ’ exclaimed Martha. ‘ Why, you are absolutely 
 a beauty — a great beauty — in this dress, and I am a 
 fright in it. Do — do wear it for my sake.’ 
 
 ‘ But what will your uncle say ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Shall I ask him, or will you wear it just to have 
 a bit of fun — just to take some of the crudity off the 
 thing, to excite us all ? Oh, won’t you — won't you ? ’ 
 ‘Very well, if you like,’ said Clarissa. ‘I declare 
 I ’ll risk it. I must tell father and mother afterwards 
 that I did it for fun.’ 
 
 Martha was now in the highest spirits. 
 
 ‘ This atones for everything ! ’ she said. ‘ I can be 
 sweet simplicity, and you can be the charming lady 
 of the olden times. What a train that woman has 
 made, and how well you manage it, Clare. You were 
 born to be a fine lady. You are lovely; I am proud 
 of you.’ 
 
 ‘The dress certainly does make me pretty,’ said 
 Clarissa. ‘ I never longed for fine clothes before ; this 
 is exciting.’ 
 
 ‘ Well, take it off now. You must come early and I 
 will help to dress you. I won’t say a word to Uncle 
 Tom. When he sees you coming downstairs in the 
 gorgeous dress he ’ll be so proud and so delighted that 
 he won’t have time to be angry with me. When I 
 tell him I did it out of love for you, he ’ll quite foi’give 
 me. By the way, Clare, suppose you hadn’t come now 
 and seen me in this dress, and delivered me from 
 
VELVET AND BROCADE. 
 
 241 
 
 absolute failure this evening, what dress would you 
 yourself have worn ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, something very, very simple — a little old muslin 
 which has been washed two or three times, and a 
 blue sash, I think. Mother was saying that my 
 evening dress was shabby ; but it did not matter, as 
 I was not “ out ” yet.’ 
 
 ‘ Delightful,’ said Martha. ‘ I must let my own 
 mother into the secret; but no one else shall know 
 until you appear on the scene.’ 
 
 Soon afterwards Clarissa took her leave. The very 
 last thing Martha whispered to her was, ‘ Be sure you 
 wear the pearl ring; it will be in keeping with the 
 rest of the dress.’ 
 
 ‘ And that I cannot do,’ thought the girl. ‘ I sup- 
 pose I am mad to wear Martha’s dress ; but I really 
 do feel as if I must have a bit of fun just for a 
 change.’ 
 
 
 Nonentity. 
 
CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 A LADY OF THE OLDEN TIME. 
 
 LARISSA n excellent spirits. 
 
 She met Janet in the street just outside 
 the house. 
 
 Janet danced up to her sister. ‘What 
 is the matter with you, Clare ? What 
 are you laughing at ? Has anything nice happened ? ’ 
 ‘ Something so nice,’ replied Clarissa, ‘ so daring, so 
 exciting, that I scarcely know myself. It is spring, 
 Janey ; and summer is near, and my heart is singing, 
 and the birds are singing too, and the flowers are 
 coming out, and I am in high spirits ; and I am going 
 to do a daring, naughty, naughty thing, Janey — a 
 very naughty thing.’ 
 
 ‘ I wouldn’t know you,’ said J anet. ‘ What is the 
 matter ? Are you — have you a headache ? Is your 
 head getting queer ? ’ 
 
 ‘ You silly little mite ! Nothing of the sort, kiddy. 
 I am all right. Come into the house and I ’ll tell you.’ 
 
 ‘ Mother was in such a fret about your dress for 
 this evening,’ said Janet, as she linked her hand 
 inside her sister’s arm ; ‘ do you know, the laundress 
 scorched all the front breadth. Mother says you 
 cannot wear it, and that you must just have a dark 
 
A LADY OF THE OLDEN TIME. 
 
 243 
 
 skirt and a white silk blouse. She says, as you are 
 not “ out,” it will not matter.’ 
 
 ‘ But I think it matters a great deal,’ said Clarissa. 
 ‘ Now, look here, Janey ; you must help me.’ 
 
 She rushed upstairs with Janet, and they both 
 entered the drawing-room together. There was no 
 one else in the room. 
 
 ‘ What is it ? What is it ? ’ asked Janet. 
 
 ‘ I am going to J enkins Manor quite early this 
 evening, and I am not going to tell father and mother. 
 I am going to leave you to manage things ; you must 
 break the news. You are to say that I am going to 
 dress there, and that it will be all right — quite all 
 right.’ 
 
 ‘ You are going to dress there ? What do you 
 mean ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Exactly what I say. Something splendid is going 
 to happen. I will tell you, for I tell you everything. 
 Mr Jenkins — dear, good, rough, comical Mr Jenkins — 
 has sent to town for a dress for Patty ; and, lo and 
 behold ! while I was there to-day the robe appeared, 
 fit for a princess, Janey, and that silly, stupid Martha 
 did not like it; and I must honestly say it did not 
 suit her.’ 
 
 ‘What was it made of?’ asked Janet, clasping her 
 sister’s hand and looking into her face with round 
 eyes of delight and curiosity. 
 
 ‘ What was it not made of ? Oh ! you will never 
 guess ; but I shall try to describe it to you. Velvet, 
 soft and rich, colour of the rosiest clouds at sunset ; 
 oh ! and rose-coloured brocade, and a lot of silver 
 embroidery, and real lace, soft and fine as a cobweb ; 
 and rose-coloured feathers for the hair, and little 
 
244 
 
 A LADY OF THE OLDEN TIME. 
 
 shoes of rose-coloured satin with great big buckles. 
 And the style ! Oh ! the style is like a picture-lady. 
 There, Janey !’ 
 
 ‘It sounds lovely,’ said Janet. ‘But you say it does 
 not suit Martha ? ’ 
 
 ‘It makes a fright of Martha; it is not the least 
 bit the kind of dress she ought to have. You know 
 she has no colour. Oh ! she is a dear old thing, and 
 has a bonnie face of her own; but she was never 
 meant to be made poetry of ; but I was — I was, 
 Janey.’ 
 
 Here Clarissa poised herself on one graceful toe, and 
 began to pirouette about the room. ‘ I am to wear 
 the dress ! I am to wear the dress ! ’ she cried. 
 
 ‘ You ? But it was not meant for you.’ 
 
 ‘ It is meant for Martha ; but she and I have 
 arranged it. She will be in the loveliest, softest, 
 white silk. She will look sweet, and I ’ll be the 
 grand lady of the olden times ; but father and mother 
 are not to know. It is to be a surprise, a joke, a 
 great bit of fun ; and your part is to tell father and 
 mother that I have gone to Jenkins Manor to dress, 
 and that it is all right. Now, don’t keep me. I 
 must run upstairs and do my work. I brought a 
 lot from school ; but I shall scarcely be able to do it. 
 All my mind is full of the dress.’ 
 
 ‘You are venturesome,’ said little Janet. ‘I hope 
 you won’t get into an awful scrape. Does Mr Jenkins 
 expect you to wear the ring to-night ? ’ 
 
 ‘Oh, Janey ! I declare you ai*e quite a little worry. 
 I don’t suppose Mr Jenkins will think of the ring. 
 Anyhow, you know, darling, I haven’t got it, and 
 you know what I have done with it.’ 
 
A LADY OF THE OLDEN TIME. 
 
 245 
 
 ‘I know you are the dearest darling in all the 
 world/ replied little Janet. ‘ How I do wish I could 
 see you ! You will be beautiful ! I ’ll be thinking of 
 you in my dreams.’ 
 
 In course of time Clarissa hurried away. No one 
 observed her as she left the house. The evenings 
 were long now. She was thankful that she met none 
 of her friends as she hurried back to Jenkins Manor. 
 She found the place in great excitement. Jenkins 
 was here, there, and everywhere. Clarissa, however, 
 managed to keep out of his sight ; and presently she 
 found herself safely conveyed to Martha’s bedroom. 
 
 ‘ Oh, here you are ! ’ said Martha. ‘ Have you quite 
 made up your mind ? ’ 
 
 ‘Quite,’ said Clarissa; ‘quite. I told Janet. Janet 
 is astonished. I ’ll manage Mr Jenkins. He sha’n’t 
 be angry with me. Mother must receive it as a 
 joke ; father will be all right. Oh, I must have 
 my fun ! I feel as if a great longing which I 
 have had all my life were about to be fulfilled, 
 Martha.’ 
 
 Martha laughed. Her spirits became high too. 
 
 ‘ This atones for a great deal,’ she said. ‘ It will 
 make up for the terrible incongruity of the whole 
 evening. The gaucherie of Uncle Tom will be 
 smoothed down by you. You must manage him all 
 you can, Clarissa.’ 
 
 ‘ I ’ll manage him ; he is quite an old dear,’ said 
 the girl. 
 
 Presently she found herself dressed in the lovely 
 robe ; and Martha, in her soft silk, looked nearly as 
 nice, although by no means as striking as her friend. 
 
 There came a tap at the door, and Mrs Moore — 
 
246 
 
 A LADY OF THE OLDEN TIME. 
 
 who, in the pleasure and excitement of her present 
 mode of life, and the excellent food which she now 
 got, had to a great extent recovered the use of her 
 limbs — stood before them, 
 
 Mrs Moore was dressed according to Jenkins’s ideas 
 of good taste. She submitted somewhat ruefully to 
 a gorgeous dress of yellow velvet ; it had a very long 
 train, but was made fairly suitable by being trimmed 
 with quantities of black Spanish lace. She had real 
 diamond stars in her hair, and a diamond necklace 
 trembled round her somewhat thin throat. 
 
 ‘ It is all ridiculous, my dear,’ she said. ‘ Oh, Martha, 
 you look nice, darling ; and — wliy, Clarissa ’ 
 
 Clarissa danced up to Mrs Moore. ‘ How do I look ? ’ 
 she said. 
 
 ‘ Sweet ! beautiful ! Like a story,’ 
 
 ‘ That ’s what I feel. It ’s lovely to look like a 
 story,’ said Clarissa. ‘ Shall we go downstairs now ? 
 I want Mr Jenkins to get over his surprise before 
 father and mother come.’ 
 
 ‘ I tell you what it is,’ said Martha. ‘ You run down 
 first, Clare. Have it out with him before I come. 
 If he sees me looking, as he says, pinched and white, 
 and with no colour anywhere, he ’ll be very cross, 
 and he won’t forgive me ; and then he ’ll be terrible 
 all the evening.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, Clarissa ! you know what a kind heart he 
 has,’ said Mrs Moore. 
 
 ‘Well, mother,’ exclaimed Martha, ‘I don’t admire 
 your dress ; but I suppose you will have to wear it.’ 
 
 ‘ I think you look very nice indeed, Mrs Moore,’ 
 said Clarissa. ‘ Good-bye, Martha. If you think I am 
 afraid of your Uncle Tom you are vastly mistaken.’ 
 
A LADY OF THE OLDEN TIME. 
 
 24*7 
 
 As she spoke, she flitted past the two and tripped 
 downstairs. 
 
 Clarissa was naturally graceful, and the velvet 
 dress, beautifully and perfectly made, was not in the 
 least cumbersome. Nay, it seemed to gather lightness 
 round her young frame, to soften and accentuate 
 every charm of her graceful figure and piquante 
 face. 
 
 Jenkins was standing in the hall. The hall of 
 Jenkins Manor was really a very noble apartment, 
 being practically a huge square room open to the 
 roof ; and now, adorned as it was with innumerable 
 flowering plants, and rendered soft by electric lights 
 covered with rose-coloured shades, it was sufficiently 
 imposing to strike pride to the heart of any owner. 
 
 Jenkins, in an immaculate evening suit straight 
 from the smartest tailors in London, was almost 
 beside himself with good-humour as he paced up 
 and down waitino- for his guests. The refreshments 
 had been ordered straight from London, and several 
 waiters also from the Metropolis had arrived. Every- 
 thing was taken out of Jenkins’s hands and placed 
 in the hands of those who knew how to act, and to 
 act well and with precision. He felt comparatively 
 easy in his mind. 
 
 ‘ Rodney shall see that I know a thing or two,’ 
 he said to himself. ‘ Arbuthnot shall see ’ — here he 
 quoted a well-known magistrate of the neighbour- 
 hood ; ‘ Carlton shall see ’ — Carlton happened to be the 
 member of parliament of the district, and a baronet 
 to boot. They were all coming, these three, with 
 their wives and daughters ; and Jenkins felt how 
 delightful would that moment be when he could lay 
 
248 
 
 A LADY OE' THE OLDEN TIME. 
 
 his hand on Rodney’s arm, call him ‘ My dear fellow,’ 
 and enter the smoking-room with Carlton at his 
 other side. 
 
 Yes, and that pretty little girl — the girl who had 
 been good to him when he was rough and uncouth, 
 who had seen his good qualities then ; he wondered 
 what she would think of it all. 
 
 Jenkins wore diamond studs in his shirt-front and 
 diamond links in his cuffs ; and now he turned his 
 red, smiling, good-humoured face towards the stair- 
 case, for a figure was coming softly down, a figure 
 which paused now and then and glanced shyly 
 towards him, and then came on a step or two. 
 
 ‘ Martha ! ’ he said under his breath. ‘ Why, she 
 looks quite a nice little thing — quite presentable. 
 Eh ! what would my mother say if she were here 
 to see us all to-night ? She would say, “ Tom, my 
 boy, you are extravagant. You are not doing just 
 the right thing ; but, once in a way, Tom, have your 
 fling, and may your mother’s blessing go with it.” ’ 
 
 As these last thoughts came to him he stepped 
 a little nearer towards the staircase, and the next 
 instant Clarissa, with a little run and a courtesy, 
 stood before him. 
 
 ‘ What do you think of me ? ’ she said breathlessly. 
 
 ‘Eh! ’he said. ‘Eh! You ’re Martha ? ’ 
 
 ‘ No ; I’m Clarissa Rodney. You know you and I 
 have always been excellent friends ; and forgive me 
 — I did such a naughty thing.’ 
 
 ‘ I don’t think you could. Miss Clarissa,’ said the 
 man. 
 
 ‘ But I did ; and I must tell you in such a hurry. 
 You know you sent to town for a dress for Patty ?’ 
 
A LADY OF THE OLDEN TIME. 
 
 249 
 
 ‘So I did. No one can say that I spare money on 
 the lass. I do everything that uncle can for her.’ 
 
 ‘ Indeed— indeed you do. But you have been so 
 good to me, and you have spoiled me ; and I hadn’t 
 a pretty frock to wear at your grand, lovely party, 
 and this dress didn’t suit Patty, and here it is on me. 
 Oh, please don’t scold me ! ’ 
 
 Jenkins stared. Then his face grew very red, and 
 his lips divided and showed his strong white teeth ; 
 then he burst into a great, loud laugh. 
 
 ‘ ’Pon my word ! ’ he said. ‘ ’Pon my word ! ’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, you are not angry ? ’ said Clarissa in some 
 alarm. ‘Is it a very, very dreadful thing of me 
 to do ? It was just a joke, and because I wanted to 
 look pi’etty just for one night.’ 
 
 ‘You are charming, Miss Clarissa, and I am de- 
 lighted. So Martha wouldn’t wear the grand dress ? 
 But you ’re not too proud.’ 
 
 ‘ Martha isn’t a bit too proud — not a bit ; but really 
 it didn’t suit her. I must tell you the sort of dress 
 to get for her some day — something “ Quakery ” and 
 soft, and just as expensive ; but not this sort. But 
 Martha shall have this back ; it is only just for 
 to-night. And you won’t be angry ? I ’ll tell every 
 one, if you like, that it is Martha’s dress, and that 
 I have worn it for the fun of the thing.’ 
 
 ‘ If you wear the dress,’ said Jenkins suddenly, ‘ you 
 must wear the rest of the things. Come this way.’ 
 Before she knew what he was doing he took her 
 hand, dragged her down a corridor, and, opening the 
 door of his own private study, went in, pushing the 
 girl before him. 
 
 ‘There,’ he said, pressing a morocco-case into her 
 
250 
 
 A LADY OF THE OLDEN TIME. 
 
 hand ; ‘ it will siiit the ring. Pop it on — pop it on 
 qnickly.’ 
 
 She opened the case ; some of the joy went out 
 of her glowing face. Inside was a single row of 
 pearls, with a small diamond clasp, 
 
 ‘ This was for Patty,’ he said ; ‘ it cost a big lot. 
 They are all beauties, every single one of them. I 
 won’t tell you what they cost. You take them with 
 the dress ; take them and keep them. I like you, Miss 
 Clarissa ; you have always been good to me ; you have 
 always soothed me — not rubbed me the wrong way. 
 I ’d do a great deal for a lass like you. I wish you 
 were my niece.’ 
 
 ‘ But I cannot take them,’ she said. 
 
 ‘ But why not ? They ’ll fit the ring. — By the way, 
 where is the ring ? ’ 
 
 He suddenly seized her hand, raised it, looked at 
 it, and a frown came on his face, 
 
 ‘ Not fine enough — eh ? ’ he said. ‘ It is all sweet- 
 ness to my face and t’other way behind my back ? 
 Speak out, young lady — is it or is it not ? ’ 
 
 ‘ It is not,’ said Clarissa. ‘ I am true ; oh, I am 
 true ! And I am so grateful to you, and I will wear 
 the dress and the pearls to-night.’ 
 
 ‘ And you forgot the ring ? I thought of you a 
 good bit when I bought it ; so you have forgotten it ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Not — not exactly,’ said poor Clarissa. 
 
 Just at that moment Mrs Moore was heard calling 
 her brother. Visitors were evidently arriving. 
 
 ‘ Bless me ! ’ said Jenkins ; ‘ I forgot. Well, be quick ; 
 pop on the necklace now. I am proud of you. The 
 dress suits you, and you suit the dress.’ 
 
CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 CONSEQUENCES. 
 
 THING could exceed the astonishment 
 of Mrs Rodney when, a few moments 
 later, she came face to face with her 
 radiant young daughter. The Professor, 
 who accompanied his wife, looking very 
 erect and very noble, and very, very intellectual, 
 only saw that a sweet, pretty girl in rose-colour, 
 looking like a rose of summer, approached him. He 
 took in no details ; the face was the face of the girl 
 he loved, the eyes were Clarissa’s eyes, those smiling 
 lips showing the pearly teeth within belonged to 
 his girl — the one perhaps in the whole world whom 
 he loved best. But Mrs Rodney saw things from a 
 very different point of view ; she turned pale and 
 clutched Clarissa’s arm. 
 
 ‘ What is the meaning of this ? ’ she said. ‘ Are 
 you mad ? Whj^ have you decked yourself out in 
 that merry-andrew fashion ? And the things are 
 not your own. What is the meaning of this ? ’ 
 
 ‘ I will tell you another time, mother. It is nothing 
 wrong ; it is just a bit of fun, something planned by 
 Martha and me. Don’t take any notice, please.’ 
 
 Just then more visitors arrived, and Professor and 
 
252 
 
 CONSEQUENCES. 
 
 Mrs Rodney were pushed aside ; and Clarissa, only too 
 glad to get away from her mother’s reproving and 
 indignant eyes, found herself talking to several young 
 friends in one of the long corridors. 
 
 The rest of the evening passed something like a 
 dream. Clarissa was quite under the impression that 
 she enjoyed herself. It is certain that a great many 
 people looked at her ; in fact, she was far and away 
 the most distinguished figure in the room. Her colour 
 glowed brighter in her cheeks — that colour was always 
 delicate and soft as the summer rose ; it became very 
 nearly damask to-night, but not quite. Her eyes were 
 brighter than evei\ People said they would not know 
 Clarissa Rodney. One whispered to the other : 
 
 ‘ What a beauty the girl has grown ! How lovely 
 she will be in a year or two ! But what great ex- 
 travagance to put her into that dress ! And those 
 pearls too — they must have belonged to the mother, 
 of course ; but the whole get-up is unsuitable.’ 
 
 ‘ Sweetly becoming,’ said the neighbour addressed. 
 ‘ Unsuitable or not, nothing could make the young girl 
 more charming.’ 
 
 And then Clarissa herself came up, and an old lady, 
 one of the county folk, took her hand and drew her 
 aside, and said : 
 
 ‘ My dear, let me congratulate you. You might be 
 “ Lady Teazle,” or your namesake “ Clarissa Harlowe,” 
 or any of the other beauties of the olden times. 
 What exquisite taste, my dear ; and how the dress 
 suits you. You must let me know your mother’s 
 dressmaker.’ 
 
 ‘ I will have to tell you the truth. Lady Winsley,’ 
 was Clarissa’s reply. ‘The dress is not mine at all; 
 
CONSEQUENCES. 
 
 253 
 
 it belongs to Martha Moore. Her uncle — dear, kind 
 Mr Jenkins, our host — bought it for her; but it didn’t 
 suit her, and I am wearing it for fun.’ 
 
 Lady Winsley’s face looked grave and surprised ; 
 she did not smile or treat it as a joke, as Clarissa 
 thought she would. The girl herself darted away, 
 and Lady Winsley turned to her companion. ‘ What 
 sort of woman can Mrs Eodney be, to permit such a 
 thing?’ she said. ‘Not her own dress at all; bought 
 by that vulgar man, Mr Jenkins ! ’ 
 
 But just then the vulgar man himself hove in sight, 
 and seeing Clarissa standing a little disconcerted, he 
 came up to her and made a suggestion. 
 
 ‘You are the queen of the occasion,’ he said. 
 ‘ Martha should have taken the lead, but she has put 
 herself out of court. You are the queen, and what 
 you decide shall take place. What do you say 
 to a little dance — an impromptu of course ? The 
 band shall play dance - music ; and may I lead 
 you out ? Will you lead with me ? Come — is it 
 
 to be ? ’ 
 
 Clarissa was so excited that she could refuse 
 nothing. A few moments later she was dancing. 
 Now, Tom Jenkins, although as rough as a bear and 
 nearly as clumsy as one, was a beautiful dancer ; he 
 had learned that accomplishment as a boy. He had 
 learned it, almost as soon as he could walk, from his 
 own mother ; and in his wild bush-life he had often 
 amused himself with the pastime. Clarissa found 
 herself borne along lightly, her feet scarcely touch- 
 ing the ground. She caught her mother’s face, 
 pale with indignation — her mother’s eyes, dark with 
 anger. 
 
254 
 
 CONSEQUENCES. 
 
 ‘It will be the deluge when all is over,’ thought 
 the poor girl ; ‘ but I will have my fun while I can.’ 
 
 Soon several couples were on the floor. The band 
 struck up more and more cheery airs ; the room 
 resounded with mirth. Sevei-al young men asked 
 Clarissa for the privilege of dancing with her; and 
 more and more people looked at the lovely girl, who 
 might have stepped down, as they expressed it, from 
 a picture by Romney. 
 
 But the gayest times come to an end. By-and-by 
 the guests departed. Mrs Rodney came and touched 
 her daughter. ‘ Go upstairs and take that thing off. 
 Come down in your ordinary dress, and come home 
 with your father and me,’ she said. 
 
 ‘ Yes, mother,’ answered Clarissa in a submissive 
 tone. She went up to Martha. ‘ Martha,’ she said, 
 ‘ may I go to your room ? I want to change my 
 dress.’ 
 
 ‘ Eh — what ? ’ said Thomas Jenkins, who was stand- 
 ing near ; ‘ change your dress ? But you ’ll do nothing 
 of the kind. You don’t suppose Martha is going to 
 have it after you have worn it ? It is yours — given 
 to you by me. Proud and delighted to do it, I’m 
 sure ; and you shall keep the necklace too ; and what 
 is more, you shall wear the dress again — you shall 
 come here and wear it. I like you in it. — Martha, 
 you must see plenty of your young friend ; perhaps 
 she will give me a hint as to the sort of dress which 
 does please your fine young-ladyship. Miss Clarissa 
 likes my taste. — Be sure you go home in the dress, 
 miss — that is all I have got to say.’ 
 
 But Clarissa did not dare to. She ran upstairs, 
 slipped off the rose-coloured bewitching robe, put on 
 
CONSEQUENCES. 
 
 255 
 
 her own, and scribbled a little note to Martha ; ‘ Please 
 keep the dress, and soothe Mr Jenkins as best you 
 can. I am afi'aid I have done wrong to wear it ; ’ and 
 ran downstairs. 
 
 Mr and Mrs Rodney were waiting for her. The 
 three went back in silence. As soon as they reached 
 the house Mrs Rodney laid her hand on Clarissa’s arm. 
 ‘I shall come upstairs to speak to you presently,’ 
 she said. ‘ Go now at once to your room. I am dis- 
 pleased with you. I am very much displeased and 
 astonished.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, come, come ! ’ said the Professor, ‘ what has 
 Clare done ? — I am sure, my dear Clarissa, I never 
 saw you look more charming. Where did you get 
 the idea for your dress ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Where did Clarissa get the idea for her dress ? ’ 
 cried Mrs Rodney. ‘ If you knew, I wonder what you 
 would say.’ 
 
 ‘ If I knew ! But what is it, Miriam ? What is the 
 matter ? ’ 
 
 ‘ This is the matter,’ replied Mrs Rodney ; ‘ and the 
 sooner that misguided, silly, obstinate girl is put under 
 proper control the better. She absolutely dared, in 
 the house of that vulgar man, to wear a dress of his 
 buying, of his choosing — a dress which he meant for 
 his own niece.’ 
 
 ‘No. Impossible!’ said Mr Rodney. He did turn 
 a little pale, and he certainly looked shocked. 
 
 ‘ Oh, don’t 1 don’t ! ’ cried Clai’issa, who was almost 
 in tears at this moment. ‘ Don’t look at me like that. 
 I cannot stand it.’ She pushed past both parents 
 and ran to her own room. 
 
 Janet was sound asleep. Clarissa went and stood 
 
256 
 
 CONSEQUENCES. 
 
 by the bed, and looked down at the charming little 
 face with a smile of unconsciousness on it. Presently 
 Janet opened her eyes. 
 
 ‘ You have come back,’ she said. ‘ How did you 
 look ? Did you look quite like a fairy princess ? I 
 have been dreaming about you.’ 
 
 ‘ I did it,’ said Clarissa ; ‘ and I, strange as it may 
 seem, enjoyed it. But oh, Janey ! mother is wild. 
 I don’t mind that so much ; but father, he had a 
 look on his face as if I had disgraced him. Oh, 
 Janey darling ! things seem to be getting worse and 
 worse.’ 
 
 Just then a step on the stairs caused both girls to 
 turn their heads, and the next moment Mrs Rodney 
 came into the room. 
 
 ‘ So you are awake, Janet,’ she said. ‘ And perhaps 
 Clarissa has been telling you of what happened ? — 
 Now, my dear Clarissa, turn round and look at me.’ 
 
 Clarissa did so. 
 
 Mrs Rodney seated herself, placed her candle on 
 the chest of drawers, and looked full at the excited, 
 agitated girl. 
 
 ‘ I want to know the meaning of this,’ said Mrs 
 Rodney. 
 
 ‘ Of what, mother ? ’ 
 
 ‘You know. Don’t prevaricate. You know what 
 I mean. Why did you wear a dress which did not 
 belong to you ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Mother, you don’t understand,’ began Clarissa ; ‘ it 
 was just a bit of fun. It all came about in the most 
 natural, unexpected way. I went to see Patty this 
 morning, and she showed me the rose-coloured velvet 
 dress, and said how she hated it, how she detested 
 
CONSEQUENCES. 
 
 257 
 
 wearing it ; and then she made me try it on. And it 
 really did make a fright of her, and it made me — 
 
 well ’ Clarissa paused. 
 
 ‘ I am not going to encourage your vanity,’ replied 
 Mrs Rodney. ‘ You had quite enough congratulations 
 to-night to turn any head. I should be ashamed of 
 appearing in borrowed plumes, if I were you. Well, 
 go on.’ 
 
 ‘ I was tempted, mother. I did think I looked nice, 
 and I wanted to be well dressed just for once.’ 
 
 ‘Well dressed by somebody else!’ said Mrs Rodney 
 in a tone of the utmost scorn. 
 
 ‘ I didn’t think of all those things, mother ; it was 
 just the temptation. When you are young, you know, 
 and — oh ! mother, can’t you understand — have you 
 no sympathy ? Did you never, never, never want 
 to look as nice as you possibly could ? ’ 
 
 ‘I am thankful to say,’ replied Mrs Rodney in a 
 tone of fervour, ‘ that I never yet publicly disgraced 
 myself for the sake of my appearance.’ 
 
 ‘ Then you don’t understand,’ said Clarissa, and there 
 was a ring of despair in her voice. 
 
 ‘ I certainly do not understand you ; but you need 
 not go on with your explanation. Your vanity carried 
 tbe day, and you did something which neither your 
 father nor I can ever forgive.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, mother ! Forgive I What do you mean ? ’ 
 ‘What I say. Your father is even more hurt than 
 I am. We are both shocked with 3'ou. It seems to 
 me that we cannot keep you in this place. Of course 
 you must stay till the end of the term ; but after- 
 wards ’ 
 
 ‘ But the scholarship, mother ? ’ here interrupted 
 
 Nonentity. Q 
 
258 
 
 CONSEQUENCES. 
 
 little Janet. ‘Clare will lose the scholarship if she 
 goes.’ 
 
 ‘ I forgot that,’ said Mrs Rodney. ‘ It really is too 
 annoying. I wish those Moores and that objectionable 
 Mr Jenkins would leave the town. Well, Clarissa, 
 you are too old to be whipped, which is what you 
 deserve ; but do not expect any indulgence from me. 
 I am extremely angry with you.’ 
 
 With these words Mrs Rodney left the room ; and 
 poor Clarissa, notwithstanding her joyful, exciting, 
 triumphant evening, cried herself to sleep. 
 
 Things were no better the next morning. She went 
 down to breakfast feeling all the revulsion of her last 
 evening’s high spirits ; her head ached, and she could 
 scarcely touch the plain food which Mrs Rodney 
 thought it her duty to provide for her. The Professor 
 was there too ; and although he looked up at Clarissa 
 with his usual affectionate smile, the next moment he 
 seemed to remember something, for his brows met in 
 a frown, the words he was about to speak were arrested 
 on his lips, and he opened the newspaper which lay 
 before him and soon buried himself in its contents. 
 
 Poor Clarissa’s happiness was not added to when 
 just at that moment the servant entered the room 
 bearing a box. The box was long, the sort which 
 dresses are put into ; it was corded, and addressed in 
 a large handwriting to Miss Clarissa Rodney. Accom- 
 panying the box was a little case wrapped up in 
 brown paper, and also a letter. 
 
 ‘ What can it be ? ’ said little Janet. 
 
 Mrs Rodney desired the servant to withdraw. 
 
 ‘ Open your letter at once,’ she said. ‘ This requires 
 stringent measures.’ 
 
CONSEQUENCES. 
 
 259 
 
 Clarissa did open the letter, guessing well what it 
 contained. It ran as follows : 
 
 My Dear Miss Clarissa, — Martha has told me 
 that you went away in your little old dress last night, 
 and left the pretty rose-coloured dress and the pearls 
 behind you. My dear Miss Clarissa, you looked 
 charming; in the dress, and even more charming' with 
 the pearls. Perhaps you were not aware that I had 
 made you a present of the dress and also of the neck- 
 lace. It is a great pleasure to me to give you these 
 things. You have always been kind to me, and I 
 think you have liked me a little bit for myself. I 
 hope, as you were not too proud to wear the dress 
 last night, you won’t be too proud to keep it for 
 future occasions. I shall always welcome you here 
 in the rose-coloured velvet; and perhaps your lady- 
 mother may feel that, under the circumstances, you 
 may as well have the dress altogether for your own. 
 It was very plucky of you, my lass, to wear it last 
 night, and I respect you for honouring the taste of 
 Thomas Jenkins. When we meet next you can thank 
 me — that is, if you care to. Meanwhile I remain, 
 yours with great sincerity, Thomas Jenkins. 
 
 Jenkins had secured for himself a crest from the 
 Herald Office, which was emblazoned now on his note- 
 paper ; and there was also in bright crimson characters 
 the words ‘ Jenkins Manor.’ 
 
 Mrs Rodney stood close to Clarissa while she read. 
 She had scarcely come to the end of Jenkins’s letter 
 before her mother seized it, read it too, and handed it 
 to the Professor. 
 
 ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I am sorry to disturb you, my 
 
260 
 
 CONSEQUENCES. 
 
 dear ; but before you go to attend to your lectures I 
 must ask you to run your eye over this.’ 
 
 The Professor did run his eye over it. 
 
 ‘ I don’t quite understand,’ he said. ‘ Clare seems to 
 have made a mess of it all round last night; but I 
 think Jenkins is generous. He naturally would not 
 want his own niece to wear a dress which does not 
 suit her, and which does suit Clare. I am sure Clare 
 looked extremely charming in the dress ; and he has 
 given it to the child. I don’t see anything for it, my 
 dear Miriam, but to ’ 
 
 ‘ To disgrace ourselves ? ’ said Mrs Rodney. ‘ James, 
 you must be mad. What are you talking about ? 
 Allow our child to wear clothes given to her by 
 that Mr Jenkins — that rough, boorish person whose 
 acquaintance we ought not to make, in whose house 
 we ought not to be seen. — Clarissa, I must take steps, 
 and immediate steps. Sit down and write what I 
 dictate.’ 
 
 ‘But, mother, please,’ said Clarissa, turning rosy 
 red and then very pale. 
 
 ‘ Well, I’m off,’ said the Professor, rising. ‘Do what 
 you think right, Miriam ; only understand that, when 
 all is said and done, the man is honest and good at 
 bottom — a better gentleman at bottom than half the 
 fine, polished men I know.’ 
 
 Mrs Rodney pretended not to hear these words. 
 ‘Janet, what are you lingering for?’ she said. ‘Go 
 to school. — Now, Clare, sit down.’ 
 
 ‘ But, mother, please ’ 
 
 ‘ Sit down.’ 
 
 ‘ But, mother ’ 
 
 ‘ Will you, or will you not, do what I bid you ?’ 
 
CONSEQUENCES. 
 
 261 
 
 ‘ Indeed, mother, if I must return the dress, may I 
 not go and see him, and try and explain ? ’ 
 
 ‘ If you don’t do immediately what I tell you I 
 forbid you ever to enter that house again.’ 
 
 Clarissa sighed, felt her own will bend to the 
 stronger will of her mother, and sat down. 
 
 ‘ I don’t know what is the matter with the world,’ 
 said Mrs Rodney ; ‘ everything seems turning topsy- 
 turvy. I have had no peace nor ease nor comfort in 
 the house since the mysterious disappearance of that 
 sovereign. Some one stole the sovereign, and in order 
 to secure him or herself from being discovered stole 
 my note-book also. It is most mysterious. I am 
 thoroughly unhappy, thoroughly dissatisfied. I have 
 the very strangest suspicions. There are moments, 
 Clare, when I even suspect you.’ 
 
 ' Oh, mother ! ’ 
 
 ‘ You may well be shocked ; of course I am not 
 serious. If I thought, even for a moment, that you 
 would do anything of that sort, I would almost disown 
 you ; but, of course, my dear child, we will discover 
 the thief yet. Now, however, to other business. I 
 almost, Clarissa, last night, ceased to consider you a 
 lady, your conduct was so reprehensible.’ 
 
 ‘ I shall be late for school, mother. Can I not wait 
 until I come back to write this ? ’ 
 
 ‘ You must bear the forfeit which will be yours for 
 being late for school. You shall not stir a step until 
 Mr J enkins is written to. Here is a sheet of paper ; 
 begin.’ 
 
 Mrs Rodney herself dipped her daughter’s pen in 
 ink and put it into her hand. 
 
 ‘Write “Sir.”’ 
 
262 
 
 CONSEQUENCES. 
 
 ‘ But, mother ’ 
 
 ‘ Put “ Sir ” on your paper immediately.’ 
 
 Clarissa did so. 
 
 ‘ “ You have made a mistake.” ’ 
 
 Clarissa wrote, ‘ You have made a mistake. I 
 acknowledge that I wore the dress last night in a 
 fit of unpardonable giddiness and frivolity.’ 
 
 ‘ Have you put that, Clarissa : “ Unpardonable giddi- 
 ness and frivolity ? ” ’ 
 
 ‘Yes, mother; but he won’t understand. He was on 
 the whole pleased. He has a very tender heart — he 
 has really, mother.’ 
 
 ‘ If you talk to me any more about the virtues of 
 that man I shall shake you. Go on. “ Mother and 
 father were extremely displeased with me for what 
 they considered a most vulgar action on my part. 
 They cannot for a single moment permit me to accept 
 the dress nor the pearl necklace. I now return both 
 to you ; and remain, yours sincerely, 
 
 Clarissa Rodney.” 
 
 ‘Mother, such a letter as that will half break his 
 heart.’ 
 
 ‘ If it has the effect of getting him to move from 
 the place it will be a very good thing indeed,’ said Mrs 
 Rodney. ‘ Now, fasten it up. Give it to me. You 
 can go to school. I am glad that I have put a stop 
 to any more familiarity on the part of that objection- 
 able person.’ 
 
CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 DISILLUSIONMENT. 
 
 the night before, when the party was 
 over and the last guest had said good- 
 bye, Jenkins was in such an excellent 
 humour that he would not permit either 
 his niece Martha or his sister to retire to 
 bed. Mrs Moore was quite anxious to get away to 
 her own room, for she was not accustomed to late 
 hours nor festive scenes, and her head ached ; and she 
 would have liked to feel herself well out of her yellow 
 velvet and black lace, but this was by no means 
 Jenkins’s will. 
 
 ‘ Let ’s sit down and talk things over,’ he said. ‘ It 
 was very agreeable, very agreeable. — Eh, Patty ? ’ he 
 said ; ‘ and what did you think of it ? ’ 
 
 ‘ It was very nice. Uncle Tom. I enjoyed myself.’ 
 
 ‘ Ah ! you enjoyed yourself — did you ? ’ he said. He 
 had flung himself back into a very deep chair ; his legs 
 were stretched out in front of him ; he thrust his hands 
 into his pockets. His face was red, and his red hair 
 stood up wildly all over his head. Plis blue eyes were 
 very bright, however ; and, as he flxed them now on 
 Martha, he broke forth into a good-natured laugh. 
 
 ‘ I ought to be wild with you,’ he said. ‘ You played 
 
264 
 
 DISILLUSIONMENT, 
 
 a nasty joke on your old uncle. Here was I thinking 
 of you, planning for you, doing everything I could to 
 make you happy. Here was I going off alone to 
 London, and going to the very best dressmakers and 
 consulting with them ; finding myself in a dress- 
 maker’s room, talking to her and giving her the 
 measurement of your waist, and the length of your 
 skirt, and the colour — no, I didn’t do that. I asked 
 her what a young girl would look pretty in and 
 striking in, and out of the common in ; and she said, 
 “ Do you want her to look like a picture ? ” And I 
 clapped my hands and I said, “ That ’s it ; that ’s it 
 exactly. You’ve hit it, madam,” I said. And she 
 said, “ Leave it to me ; ” and I left it to her, with 
 carte-blanche as to expense. And the dress came, 
 and, lo and behold ! it was not good enough for 
 you.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, uncle, you make a mistake ! ’ said Martha. 
 ‘ Why will you insist on misunderstanding me ? It 
 was more than good enough — it was a great deal too 
 good ; but it wasn’t the colour that suits me. If you 
 saw me dressed in it now you wouldn’t like me in it. 
 I know you wouldn’t. Shall I go up and put it on ? 
 Will you judge for yourself ? ’ 
 
 Jenkins laughed. 
 
 ‘Shall I judge for myself? No, thank you. A lass 
 whom it did suit wore it— a bonnie, pretty, unaffected 
 lass, a girl after my own heart, a girl my mother 
 would have liked. Talk of prettiness; did you ever 
 see a prettier or bonnier face ? And the dress suited 
 her, and she has taken it, and a right she has to it. 
 You have lost it, Martha; and you have lost the pearl 
 necklace. And that necklace is worth money, let me 
 
DISILLUSIONMENT. 
 
 265 
 
 tell you — worth money ; it has taken a slice off my 
 pile — that it has.’ 
 
 ‘ But I know for a fact that Clarissa has not taken 
 the dress,’ said Martha. ‘ I was up in my room just 
 now, and I saw it there, and also the pearl necklace. 
 Of course, she did not think for a moment that you 
 meant her to have it.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, that ’s it — is it ? Then off it shall go in the 
 morning as early as possible. Dear, nice, good little 
 girl ! She shall have it. I like a girl who sees the 
 best in a fellow, and is not always making up her 
 mind to rub him the wrong way. There, Martha, you 
 can go to bed. Put the dress into the box, and put 
 the pearls back into their case, and leave them outside 
 your door. I ’ll write a letter to the lass. Now, off to 
 bed you go.’ 
 
 Martha, only too thankful, obeyed. 
 
 Jenkins turned to his sister. ' What ’s the matter 
 with that girl of yours, Polly ? ’ he said. ‘ Why don’t 
 she take after you, or after my poor mother, or after 
 any one on earth except her own pattern ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Nothing ails her,’ said Mrs Moore. ‘ She can’t help 
 the way she is made. I wish you would not always 
 run her down, Tom.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh ! that ’s it — is it ? ’ said Tom. ‘ It vexes you — 
 does it, Polly ? Well, I don’t want to vex you, dear.’ 
 He got up, took his sister’s hand and stroked it. 
 
 ‘You looked very nice to-night, Polly, and I was 
 proud of you. Perhaps you had better go to bed too, 
 and I ’ll say no more to you about Martha. She shall 
 have a dress to suit her ; that she shall. I ’ll consult 
 the little witch about it.’ 
 
 ‘ Who do you call the little witch ? ’ 
 
266 
 
 DISILLUSIONMENT. 
 
 ‘ Miss Rodney, little Miss Clarissa.’ 
 
 ‘ She is not little, Tom ; she is a great tall girl/ 
 
 ‘ She has nice ways, all the same,’ said Thomas 
 Jenkins; ‘and I’ll call her little if it takes my fancy.’ 
 He went out of the room, and Mrs Moore left it also. 
 
 Early the following morning Thomas Jenkins 
 awoke, and the first person he thought of was Clarissa. 
 He was highly pleased with her for wearing the dress. 
 At first he had been just a tiny bit surprised, and a 
 tiny bit annoyed too ; but now he had brought him- 
 self to consider that it was quite a noble action on 
 her part, a sort of public allegiance to him. ‘ I wish I 
 could adopt her,’ he said. ‘ I ’d like well to feel that 
 the little girl belonged to me, that I could be a sort 
 of father to her. I wish I could change her and 
 Patty ; but, there, of coui’se that can’t be done. But 
 why shouldn’t I adopt her all the same ? She might 
 live with her father and yet be my sort of adopted 
 daughter. She wants pretty dresses, poor dear; and 
 small wonder. I can give them to her; and I would 
 arrange with the Professor to leave her a good piece 
 out of my pile. And she could often come and stay 
 with Patty ; and every one should know that the girl 
 who was kind to Thomas Jenkins when he was 
 nothing but a rough fellow, cooking eggs over the 
 fire, and with his rough colonial clothes, was going to 
 be a sort of heiress of his by-and-by. Why shouldn’t 
 Clarissa and Patty be co-heiresses, and why shouldn’t 
 they both come out together in London ? It ’s a grand 
 idea. I have a great mind to propose it to the 
 Professor. Rodney is a good fellow, a very good 
 fellow ; and if it were not for that fine lady-mother I 
 would soon have it my own way.’ 
 
DISILLUSIONMENT. 
 
 267 
 
 Highly delighted — indeed charmed — with his new 
 idea, which was to turn poor, simple Clarissa into a 
 grand young lady, Jenkins got up, wrote his note, and 
 as soon as possible sent off the box containing the 
 dress and the pearls to Clarissa. He saw the 
 messenger out of the gate, and then turned back in 
 huge good-humour to his breakfast. 
 
 ‘ She will be pleased,’ he said to himself as he took the 
 cover off the rashers and eggs and helped his sister and 
 Martha. — ‘ Martha,’ he said, looking full at that young 
 lady, ‘ I am going to take you up to town for a fort- 
 night, and I am going to take you too, Polly ; and I 
 was thinking that maybe little Miss Clarissa would 
 like to come. We might give her a fine time, and buy 
 her as many clothes as she likes. How old is the 
 little girl, Martha ? ’ 
 
 ‘ About my age,’ said Martha ; ‘ sixteen.’ 
 
 ‘ A very pretty age indeed, a young girl just bloom- 
 ing into womanhood; charming. I’d like to do all 
 I can for her. She has shown me kindness which 
 touches me to the heart — yes, that it does.’ 
 
 Jenkins, having finished his meal, went out into the 
 grounds. He paced up and down, and made plans for 
 his London campaign, as he called it. 
 
 ‘I’ll go and see Rodney to-day,’ said Jenkins; 
 ‘ there ’s nothing like striking while the iron is hot. 
 I ’ll put it frankly to Rodney. I ’ll say, “ All the world 
 knows that although you are monstrously clever jmu 
 have scarcely a penny to bless yourself with. And 
 there ’s that girl of yours, nice and pretty and clever — 
 I ’ll do for her ; I ’ll help her through the world, I ’ll 
 give her a good substantial provision. I ’ll make a 
 will, and show you what I mean, so that everything 
 
268 
 
 DISILLUSIONMENT. 
 
 shall be safe and certain ; and I ’ll settle something a 
 year on her, and she shall want for nothing. The only 
 thing I ask in return is that she shall sometimes come 
 to stay at Jenkins Manor, and shall call me Uncle 
 Tom.” Now, that ’s simple enough. I ’ll have two 
 nieces. I declare I ’m as happy as I can be. I could 
 dispense with Martha; but I can’t dispense with my 
 niece Clarissa. — Hullo ! What ’s that ? ’ 
 
 Jenkins’s meditations and his happy thoughts were 
 interrupted by seeing a messenger coming down the 
 avenue holding a box in his hand. The messenger 
 was greeted by one of the dogs, which barked vocifer- 
 ously. Jenkins rushed to the rescue, and the boy 
 turned and said, in a frightened voice, ‘I think this 
 is for you, sir.’ 
 
 ‘For me — eh?’ exclaimed Jenkins. ‘For me? 
 What on earth can it be ? ’ Then it seemed to him 
 that he recognised the box as the one he had corded 
 with his own hands early that morning. 
 
 ‘ Here ’s a note for you, sir,’ said the lad, and he 
 pulled poor Clarissa’s letter out of his pocket. 
 
 ‘ Take the box to the house,’ said Jenkins, ‘ and go off 
 by the back avenue. You have no right to come to 
 the front door. There, off you go ; give me the note.’ 
 Jenkins did not know why he talked in such a cross 
 way ; but suddenly a pain seemed to seize him about 
 the region of his heart, and he had an intuition that 
 something unpleasant lay before him. 
 
 ‘ This looks uncommonly like Miss Clarissa’s writing,’ 
 he said to himself. ‘ But why has the box come back ? 
 Perhaps she has sent it back empty. Good gracious ! 
 what a fright I got. Upon my word, I wouldn’t like 
 little miss to deal me a blow. I have been much 
 
DISILLUSIONMENT. 
 
 269 
 
 comforted by the attitude of little miss ever since I 
 came here ; but doubtless it is all right.’ 
 
 He took the note, opened it, and glanced over its 
 contents. At first it seemed to him that he did not 
 
 quite take it in. ‘ Sir ’ He wore glasses, for he 
 
 was short-sighted ; he took them off, produced a large 
 red bandana handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his 
 glasses, and put them on again. ‘ “ Sir ! ” he repeated. 
 ‘ Good gracious, this is very strange.’ He read on. 
 The letter was signed at the end in a neat, precise, 
 and yet somewhat straggling hand, ‘ Clarissa Rodney.’ 
 He read the whole contents not once, but twice and 
 even three times ; then he squeezed up the unoffending 
 sheet of paper in his huge hands, and then tore it into 
 small fragments and let the wind carry the bits over 
 the neatly-kept garden. 
 
 Mrs Moore, looking out from her bedroom window, 
 saw the action, and guessed that for some reason 
 Thomas was angry. 
 
 Thomas certainly was angry. He was so angry that 
 he scarcely knew himself for a moment. ‘ So that ’s 
 her sort,’ he said to himself ; ‘ so that ’s her sort. But 
 no, it cannot be — it cannot be.’ 
 
 He went stumblingly into the house as though he 
 were half-blind. Mrs Moore came downstairs. 
 
 ‘ Why, Thomas,’ she said, ‘ Tom, what ’s the matter ? ’ 
 ‘ I have got a nasty blow, that ’s what ’s the matter,’ 
 said Tom. ‘ Sit down by me, Polly. Polly, it seems 
 to me that I never did any good when I got that pile 
 together. It don’t suit Martha, and it don’t suit little 
 Miss Clarissa.’ 
 
 ‘Well, it seems to me it suits Clarissa very well,’ 
 said Mrs Moore. ‘ But what is the matter ? ’ 
 
270 
 
 DISILLUSIONMENT. 
 
 ‘You may well ask what’s the matter. She has 
 not taken the dress. She was not too proud to wear 
 it last night ; but she was far too proud to keep it. 
 She sent it back, the dress and the pearls, and as 
 cutting a bit of a note with it as the pen of woman 
 could write. A cruel note I call it — cruel, unpardon- 
 able — a horrid note. I thought well of her ; she was 
 glad enough to wear my fine feathers in the midst of 
 her fine friends ; but accept what I gave her after- 
 wards — no, no.’ 
 
 ‘Tell me about it,’ said Mrs Moore; ‘I don’t under- 
 stand. Was that the note I saw you tearing up in 
 tlie garden and fluttering the little bits of paper 
 amongst the flower-beds ? ’ 
 
 ‘It was,’ said Jenkins, reddening. ‘I wish you 
 wouldn’t pry. My mother would never do that sort 
 of thing. I tore up the note because I was angry, 
 and I am angry still — very angry. No, I am not 
 going out driving with you. I am very, very, very 
 angry.’ ^ 
 
 Jenkins strode out of the hall ; he paced up and 
 down the gravel walk. All the delightful castle in 
 the air which he had been building during the 
 morning — of turning Clarissa into a niece or as good 
 as a niece to him, of settling some of his wealth on 
 her — was shattered to the dust. He would not even 
 give himself the consolation of thinking that the note 
 had been dictated by that fine madam, as he called 
 Mrs Rodney. 
 
 ‘ No,’ he said to himself ; ‘ when she pretended to be 
 nice and sympathetic and kind she was laughing at 
 me all the time. Well, let her laugh; let her keep her 
 poverty. I wash my hands of her.’ 
 
DISILLUSIONMENT. 
 
 271 
 
 Presently, Jenkins put on his hat and went out. He 
 felt that he must walk off his indignation. He was 
 glad to remember that Clarissa and Martha were both 
 safe at school ; he should not meet either of them. 
 
 ‘If Madam Rodney should be abroad,’ he said to 
 himself, ‘I’ll cut her — yes, I will. She need not 
 suppose that she can come it over me. I have got the 
 pile, and the pile gives power. I have got the great 
 big pile, and she has not got a penny to bless herself 
 with.’ He walked down the High Street, looking 
 rough, uncouth, disagreeable. The letter Clarissa had 
 written had effected cruel havoc in his heart and 
 also in his character. 
 
 He turned in the direction of South Street, one of 
 the most fashionable streets of the prosperous little 
 town of IJpton. In this street were the best shops, 
 some of them very good shops indeed — here were the 
 drapers, here were the milliners, here were the tailors. 
 Jenkins despised these shops. He got his things from 
 London. He would not deal with country shops; 
 ‘but they are quite good enough for the folks here,’ 
 he said to himself, ‘ quite good enough.’ 
 
 Then he wondered if he could let Jenkins Manor, 
 and go abroad, taking his sister with him. 
 
 ‘ I could put Martha in a boarding-school. Martha 
 never suited me, and never will,’ he said to himself ; 
 ‘and Polly and I might go about and enjoy ourselves 
 to our hearts’ content. Upon my word, that’s the 
 best thing to do. It ’s no good a rough old fellow like 
 me thinking I ’ll please the pretty little school-girls. 
 I can’t do it, and that ’s flat. — Hullo ! what have 
 we here ? ’ 
 
 This last ejaculation, which was very loud, came 
 
272 
 
 DISILLUSIONMENT. 
 
 from Jenkins’s lips just as he was passing Richardson 
 the jeweller’s. Jenkins, up to the present, had scarcely 
 known that there was a jeweller at Upton ; but Richard- 
 son, who did a very large trade in keeping all the 
 watches and clocks of the place in order, had a very 
 nice little business in the jewellery line also. Just as 
 Jenkins was passing the window he saw Richardson 
 himself step inside his wire screen and place in the most 
 prominent position a large tray full of rings. Amongst 
 the rings was one of delicate workmanship which con- 
 tained two pearls. There was something about the 
 pearls which attracted Jenkins’s attention; his heart 
 seemed to stand still, then it went on faster than ever. 
 He did not mind what anybody else thought of him ; 
 he was the most prosperous man in the town, but that 
 mattered nothing at all at this moment. He pressed 
 his face eagerly up against the glass of the shop window, 
 and stared at that innocent-looking little pearl ring as 
 if he would eat it. ‘ Two pearls,’ he said to himself, 
 ‘ pearls with that delicate rosy sort of glow in them, 
 and that special shape. And she never wore the ring 
 last night, and she looked confused when I asked her ; 
 and she has never worn it since I gave it to her, as 
 far as I can tell. I must look into this. If I find — if 
 I find ’ 
 
 The next instant he had burst open the swing doors 
 of the shop and stood in front of the counter before 
 the astonished Mr Richardson. 
 
 ‘ I have come to look at some of your jewellery,’ 
 said Jenkins. ‘ Anything suitable for a young lady — 
 eh ? I have a notion that I ’d like to give a present 
 to a young lady. I don’t mind whether it ’s second- 
 hand or not.’ 
 
DISILLUSIONMENT. 
 
 273 
 
 ‘ I have several things — brooches, earrings, bracelets 
 — quite suitable for young ladies,’ said Richardson. 
 
 ‘ Well, show them, man — show them,’ said Jenkins. 
 
 Mr Richardson, a very refined-looking man beside 
 Thomas Jenkins, immediately did produce from his 
 window trays of bracelets and other trinkets. 
 
 ‘ No, no,’ said Jenkins. ‘ No ; I want x'ings.’ 
 
 Richardson opened a drawer and took out some new 
 rings of difierent qualities and difierent orders of 
 merit. 
 
 ‘ Anything in the second-hand line — eh ? ’ said 
 Jenkins, giving him a piercing glance. 
 
 ‘ Oh yes, sir. Certainly, sir. I have some very 
 pretty rings, some quite valuable — a pearl ring, for 
 instance ; quite the thing for a young lady. Is it for 
 your daughter, sir ? ’ 
 
 ‘ I ’m not married,’ roared Jenkins. ‘ I want to see 
 all the second-hand rings you have got.’ 
 
 The tray containing poor Clarissa’s ring was now 
 produced. Jenkins immediately took it up. 
 
 ‘ How much do you want for this ? ’ he said. 
 
 Richardson, who had before now regretted that he 
 had given Clarissa forty pounds for the ring, immedi- 
 ately asked sixty for it; and in five minutes’ time 
 Jenkins had left the shop with the little pearl ring in 
 his pocket. 
 
 Nonentity. 
 
 R 
 
CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 ‘PAST BEARING.’ 
 
 ENKINS went straight home. Once or 
 twice, as he walked rapidly down the 
 street, and in the direction of Jenkins 
 Manor, he put his finger and thumb into 
 his waistcoat pocket and felt the little 
 pearl ring. It seemed to burn him when he touched 
 it. His face was red ; the day was warm for the time 
 of year, and he mopped his hot forehead time and 
 again. At last he reached the avenue, swung open 
 the heavy iron gates, and walked in the direction of 
 the house. 
 
 Time had been when he was proud of Jenkins 
 Manor, when he was proud of the grounds, proud of 
 the greenhouses, proud of the vineries, proud of the 
 flower-beds. Time had been also when he had felt a 
 great deal of honest pride in the house and furniture. 
 ‘ It would have pleased my mother,’ he used to say 
 under his breath ; and whenever he thouo-ht of his 
 mother or spoke of her his heart used to glow. But 
 there was no glow in his heart now, nor did he take 
 any pride in the place or its surroundings. He went 
 into the house ; there was no one in sight. Martha 
 was away at school ; Mrs Moore was not in her room. 
 The servants had not yet come upstairs to lay the 
 
‘PAST BEARING.’ 
 
 275 
 
 cloth for lunch. The clock in the hall ticked slowly 
 and ponderously, the minute-hand pointing to a quarter- 
 past twelve. 
 
 ‘Good,’ said Jenkins to himself, ‘the day is still 
 young. I have got something to do.’ 
 
 He took the ring out of his pocket and looked at it. 
 He turned it round and round ; he slipped it on his 
 little finger. It was a small ring, meant for a small, 
 slender finger ; it would not go over the second joint 
 of his little finger. 
 
 ‘ A pretty little ring,’ he said to himself, ‘ bought 
 with all the good intentions in the world — bought 
 for a girl to wear whom I thought was true and 
 had no silly pride in her, a girl who might receive 
 a present from an old fellow like me and not be 
 silly about it.’ 
 
 He slipped it back into his pocket. After a 
 moment’s thought he ran upstairs, and rudely burst 
 open the door of Martha’s room. 
 
 Martha’s room was in the west wing of the house. It 
 was a very pretty chamber; it had been furnished, just 
 as her sitting-room had been, by her own desire and 
 in her own taste. Truth to tell, Jenkins had never 
 entered this room from the time he had first bought 
 the house. Martha had chosen it because it had two 
 windows, one facing due south and one east. She was 
 fond of sunshine, particularly morning sunshine. Trees 
 grew close to the windows, and in the summer would 
 temper the heat. The blinds were half-way down 
 now, the French casements were open, a soft breeze 
 came in and swayed the pretty curtains backwards 
 and forwards. The curtains were of soft Liberty silk 
 of a delicate green colour; the carpet was felt, also 
 
276 
 
 ‘PAST bearing; 
 
 of green ; the furniture was walnut with heavy brass 
 mountings ; the little bed in the distant alcove had a 
 pale-green bed-spread over it. 
 
 The room was exquisitely neat ; for Martha, in her 
 new surroundings, had become the soul of order. 
 
 Jenkins now entered, something like an angry bull 
 in the proverbial china-shop, and looked around him. 
 The furniture of the room was ordinary enough ; but 
 what gave it its special charm Avere the knick-knacks 
 on the mantelpiece, the pretty things on the dressing- 
 table, the pictures on the walls. 
 
 There was a bookcase with choice books hanging up 
 against one of the walls ; this faced the light, and 
 Jenkins saw the bindings of many of Ruskin’s works 
 and a complete set of Browning in calf with gold letter- 
 ing, He looked around him. On ordinary occasions 
 he would have noticed nothing. He noticed everything 
 to-day ; he snarled as he looked. He had left the 
 door wide open, disdaining to shut it, and the bi’eeze 
 now became violent enough to knock off a dainty little 
 china figure which Martha had prized, and which had 
 cost several shillings. The little figure tottered, 
 tumbled woefully on its stand, and then fell to the 
 floor ; it was broken into a thousand pieces. J enkins 
 crossed the room, picked up the pieces, and savagely 
 flung them into the grate. 
 
 ‘Knick-knacks! Knick-knacks! Folly!’ he cried. 
 ‘ The whole room is hideous— dull carpet, dull paper ; 
 even the bed is not covered with an honest white 
 quilt such as my mother would have knitted, but 
 that thing on it ! ’ 
 
 He apostrophised the poor bed-spread with a most 
 indignant gesture. Then he walked up to the little 
 
'PAST BEARING.’ 
 
 277 
 
 bookcase, took out a volume of Browning, glanced at 
 it, and flung it with violent passion on the floor. 
 
 ‘ It ’s all alike,’ he said to himself ; ‘ it ’s all alike. 
 And so this is what I made my pile for, that one girl 
 should insult me and that another should squander 
 my money on things of that sort. I ’ll have no more 
 of it. I ’ll let Martha go her own sweet way. I ’ll 
 give her an allowance ; yes, she is my niece, and she 
 sha’n’t starve. She shall go to a school — I ’ll find the 
 sort of school that will knock some of the nonsense out 
 of hei', a school where she ’ll be taught to work the 
 sampler, and to learn cooker}^ and such things as an 
 honest woman should know ; and I ’ll pay for her. 
 She shall spend her holidays there, and we ’ll give up 
 this place. I ’ll have no more of this tomfoolery, for 
 it is nothing else.’ 
 
 His voice rose loud, his face grew redder than ever. 
 ‘ I have never ventured into her sitting-room — it 
 would make me sick if I did,’ he said to himself ; 
 ‘but I’ll go down presently. I ’m in the mood to get 
 to the bottom of everything. I won’t be insulted any 
 longer, nor made a fool of. What did I work as I 
 did for ? Why did I lie under the stars at night 
 and think of my mother, and of the time when I 
 would come back rich and make the little girl called 
 after her happy ? Why did I do it ? All because, 
 forsooth ! she must have a room like this. It ’s 
 sickening — sickening ! And she must have a friend 
 who insults me and sells my presents.’ 
 
 This last remark caused Jenkins to take the ring out 
 of his pocket. With all his rage — and he was in a 
 violent temper for the time being — he was essentially 
 just. It was just possible, just possible there might 
 
278 
 
 ‘PAST BEARING. 
 
 be a mistake. He now deliberately opened Martha’s 
 drawers ; there were none of them locked. He wanted 
 to find the duplicate ring in order to compare one with 
 the other ; he could not find it, however, for the 
 simple reason that Martha at school was wearing it on 
 her finger. She was fond of the ring ; it was the one 
 present which Uncle Tom had given her which she 
 really appreciated. She was seldom seen without it. 
 Jenkins quite forgot this fact as he rummaged amongst 
 her treasures now. 
 
 Presently, having done all the mischief he could, 
 having reduced the pretty, orderly chamber to chaos, 
 he went downstairs and entered her sitting-room. Mrs 
 Moore often took refuge in this quiet and beautiful 
 room. She was there now ; she was reading a novel. 
 
 Mrs Moore read commonplace novels, and greatly 
 enjoyed them ; in especial, she was very fond of Mrs 
 Henry Wood. She was reading Mrs Hallibiirton’s 
 Troubles as Tom now entered the room. Mrs Henry 
 Wood was just sentimental enough for Mrs Moore, and 
 she always enjoyed her Avritings. She looked up as her 
 brother came in, with a tear in the corner of her eye. 
 
 ‘ Why — what is it, Tom ? ’ she said. ‘ You here ! ’ 
 
 ‘ Yes, I ’m here,’ replied Jenkins ; ‘ and why shouldn’t 
 I lie here ? Whose house is this, pray — yours or 
 mine ? Answer me ; ansAver me.’ 
 
 ‘ My dear Thomas ! ’ 
 
 Mrs Moore always had power over Thomas Jenkins. 
 He looked a little ashamed of himself. ‘ Oh ! I am 
 cross,’ he said ; ‘ I ’m cross, and I have cause to be. 
 Forgive me, Polly ; I didn’t mean to be rude to you, 
 old girl. I am looking for something — something of 
 Martha’s.’ 
 
'PAST BEARING.’ 
 
 279 
 
 ‘ What is it ? Perhaps I can help you.’ 
 
 ‘ No ; you can’t.’ 
 
 ‘ What ’s fretting you, Tom ? ’ 
 
 ‘Something that I’m not going to talk about. 
 What a sickening room this is; it’s like her bed- 
 room.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, I like this room very much, Tom ; it is so quiet 
 and restful.’ 
 
 ‘ Quiet and restful ! Fiddlesticks ! I tell you its 
 colours are enough to nauseate a man. Do you sup- 
 pose my mother would sit in a room like this ? My 
 mother had common-sense. When she wanted a plain 
 room she sat in the kitchen ; when she wanted a 
 grand room she sat in the dining-room or the drawing- 
 room. She called the dining-room the parlour in her 
 days, and she sat there. She had her samplers hung 
 upon the walls, not those stupid, ridiculous pictures of 
 women with long necks and long faces, and not made 
 like any woman I ever saw. My mother had sense ; 
 she liked her bit of colour too — a nice bit of crimson 
 or a bit of royal-blue ; and green ! do you call this 
 green ? My mother liked pea-green and myrtle-green 
 — not this stuff. I don’t know what they do with the 
 greens in the present day ; but somehow they make 
 me downright sick. Then she liked red — not this 
 thing.’ Here he took up a terra-cotta cloth which lay 
 upon a little table near. 
 
 ‘ Oh, do be careful, Tom ! You ’ll break that little 
 ornament of Martha’s.’ 
 
 ‘ Well, I broke a thing of hers upstairs, or rather the 
 wind did. I ’d like to know how many housemaids 
 it must take to dust all the fal-lals in her rooms. But 
 there ’s going to be an end to it.’ 
 
280 ‘PAST BEARINO.* 
 
 ‘ What do you mean, Tom ? You quite frighten 
 me.’ 
 
 ‘There’s coming an end to it all, Polly. The girl 
 sha’n’t be ruined ; the girl has got to inherit some of 
 my pile, and she must be worthy of it. I am going 
 to take her away from that day-school.’ 
 
 ‘ But why, Tom — why ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Because I don’t like it, Polly, and that ’s why. 
 We’ll shut up this place. I sha’n’t bother about 
 letting it; if a tenant comes along, well and good. 
 We’ll dismiss the servants, and you and I will go 
 abroad, and we ’ll put Martha to school. I ’ll scour 
 England until I find the right sort for her — a school 
 where they teach cooking and house-work, and the 
 proper taste in colours, and how to make a sampler ; 
 and when she knows these things she ’ll be trained 
 
 to be a proper wife for a good man. As it is 
 
 My word, Polly, my head aches. I scarcely know 
 what I am doing.’ 
 
 Down sat Jenkins in the nearest chair ; his face 
 was almost purple, his blue eyes were bloodshot. His 
 sister was alarmed about him. 
 
 ‘ What has happened to you ? ’ she said. 
 
 ‘ I ’m fretting, and I am in a horrible temper,’ was 
 his answer ; ‘ and the less you say to me the better.’ 
 
 Just then the sound of carriage-wheels was heard, 
 and, a moment later, Martha, beautifully dressed in 
 gray, and looking cool and sweet and pretty, entered 
 the room. 
 
 ‘ Oh, mother,’ she said, ‘ we have got a half-holiday, 
 and I am back earlier than usual. There ’s an hour 
 before lunch, and I thought you’d like to come for 
 a drive with me. Do, mother; it is such a lovely day. 
 
‘PAST BEARING.* 281 
 
 Shall I run up for your things ? — Oh, I didn’t see you, 
 Uncle Tom.’ 
 
 ‘ No, I dare say you didn’t, Martha ; and I ’m not 
 surprised. It requires very keen sight to see any one 
 in this room, with its shaded blinds and greenery- 
 yallery furnishings. But now that I am here, have 
 the goodness to look at me.’ 
 
 ‘ Certainly, Uncle Tom.’ 
 
 ‘ Don’t say “ Certainly, Uncle Tom ” in that tone. 
 I don’t want mincing words ; I want actions. Where ’s 
 that ring I gave you ? ’ 
 
 ‘ My pearl ring ? ’ 
 
 ‘Yes, your pearl ring. I never gave you two rings. 
 I ’d give you any number if you wanted them — that 
 is, I would have done it. Show me the pearl ring.’ 
 
 Martha very slowly removed her glove. She then 
 went as slowly up to her uncle, and held out the third 
 finger of her right hand. 
 
 Jenkins looked at the ring. ‘Take it off,’ he said. 
 
 Martha did take it off. 
 
 ‘ I ’ll give it back to you in a few minutes,’ he said. 
 He stalked out of the room. 
 
 ‘ Why, mother, what is the matter with him ? ’ said 
 Martha, turning to her mother. 
 
 ‘ I don’t know, my love ; he has quite frightened 
 me. He has been in an awful state of mind. It ’s 
 something Clarissa has done. She sent back the dress, 
 that I know ; but, bad as he was before he went out, 
 he has been much worse since he returned. He is in 
 a rage, my dear Martha, and you and I must be very 
 careful.’ 
 
 ‘ Let him rage, mother. I am sick of all this.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, my darling, you really do not understand.’ 
 
282 
 
 ‘past bearing,’ 
 
 ‘ I understand him ; it is you who do not understand 
 him, mother. He really is a terrible person, and’ 
 
 But just then the door burst open, and Jenkins 
 reappeared. 
 
 ‘ Take your ring,’ he said. ‘ I have been up in your 
 bedroom looking round for it. I didn’t know you 
 wore it.’ 
 
 ‘ I always wear it. I love my rinw,’ said Martha. 
 
 ‘You what?’ 
 
 ‘ I love it.’ 
 
 ‘ Dear, dear ! You want to make game of me now 
 at the last minute ? Well, I ’m proof against that sort 
 of flattery. It has come a trifle too late. Ha ! ha ! 
 Too late. Polly, I am going out. You’ll see me 
 again when I return — I don’t know when that will 
 be. Look out for me when I come back. Now, you 
 may take your mother for a drive, Martha; and, mark 
 my words, make the most of it. Make the most of the 
 ponies, and the most of the little basket-carriage, and 
 the most of all your wealth, for things are taking a 
 turn. There are those who irritate Thomas Jenkins 
 past bearing.’ 
 
CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 ‘THIS DAY WEEK,’ 
 
 ENKINS was in such a towering rage, 
 that for some time he scarcely knew 
 what he was doing. He was a man 
 with violent passions, although they 
 were seldom roused. Once or twice in 
 the course of his life he had given way, however, to 
 ungovernable temper — only once or twice, for he really 
 had, as a rule, considerable self-conti’ol. There was 
 much that was good and excellent in him. He was 
 rough, but he was true ; he was very affectionate and 
 very faithful to those he took a fancy to. There was 
 nothino- he would not have done for Clarissa ; she had 
 
 been kind to him when others had been inclined to 
 snub him ; that fact alone took his fancy. Now, 
 everything had gone wrong, and his temper was roused 
 to the utmost ; he knew well that at such times 
 there was nothing for it but to ‘ walk it off.’ 
 
 ‘ Not drive it off,’ he said to himself, ‘ nor ride it off, 
 but walk it off. I ’ll be all right presently. I ’ll be 
 sore, sore as a bear that is beaten, sore as man could 
 be ; but I ’ll be quiet. I ’ll not thunder round nor 
 frighten the folks ; but I must go for a walk — a long, 
 long walk.’ 
 
284 
 
 ‘THIS DAY WEEK.’ 
 
 So he started off, determined to administer that cure 
 to his raging spirit which he knew would alone prove 
 effectual. He walked quickly. The day happened to 
 be hot, and he had forgotten to put on his coolest 
 hat. Soon his red face became redder, and then he 
 had to mop it; and then at last, exhausted in body 
 and much quieter in mind, he sat down under the 
 shelter of a wide -spreading beech -tree which was 
 just beginning to put on its tenderest green, and en- 
 deavoured to think out the situation. He would do 
 as he said. He often said things in his passions which 
 he carried out in his sincere moments. He would 
 give up the house ; he would cease to be a figure 
 of fun for the stupid, silly, tiresome inhabitants of 
 Upton. His pile should not be spent on them. As to 
 Polly, she was still his little sister ; .she had been good 
 to him, and comforted him long ago ; she had alwaj’s 
 revered his mother’s memory. He would be good to 
 Polly, and take her with him. They would go away. 
 Martha should enjoy herself, as she liked best, at her 
 school ; he would not pay too much for luxuries for 
 her, but she should have fair-play. As to Claris, sa, 
 he washed his hands of her. She was a pretty lass, 
 and had a taking way ; but there was nothing true in 
 her. She was more deceitful even than Martha; for 
 Martha alwaj^s did express her faults, and was quite 
 frank in her dislike to her old uncle. But where 
 should he and Polly go ? 
 
 At first he thought of the Continent. ‘ But they 
 parlez-vous there,’ he said to himself, ‘ and I ’m not 
 in it. Best stick to the places where English is 
 .spoken. Polly and I would make fine figures of our- 
 selves with the parlez-vous folk. Oh, none of the 
 
‘THIS DAY WEEK.’ 
 
 285 
 
 Continent for me ! Neither the German nor the 
 French for me ! I ’m a plain-spoken Englishman. I 
 know but one tongue, as did my mother before me. 
 But where shall we go ? ’ 
 
 It suddenly occurred to him that it would be a good 
 plan if he and Polly went to the north of England. 
 There were some relations of his mother’s there who 
 would be extremely glad if Thomas Jenkins settled in 
 their midst. 
 
 ‘ We ’ll give up grandeur,’ he said to himself. ‘ We ’ll 
 take a plain sort of farmhouse — much the same sort 
 of house as my mother had; and Polly shall have a 
 woman to do the rough work. We ’ll live plain. We 
 were never meant to be grand — Polly and I ; and in 
 the evenings we ’ll talk about my mother. It will be 
 as pleasant a life as could be thought out ; and they 
 will respect me up in the north because I have made 
 my pile,’ 
 
 He was cooler now ; his temper was fast leaving 
 him. He liked the idea of the farmhouse in the 
 north of England, and his mother’s relations cluster- 
 ing round and fussing about him, and Polly sitting 
 in her parlour and ordering the wench about. He 
 thought Annie would do very well for the wench. 
 He would pay her well, and if she had too much to 
 do he would get in another girl to help her. Annie 
 was rather lost sight of at Jenkins Manor. Well, 
 she should come to the fore again. She was a good 
 little thing, very good and well meaning, and she 
 appreciated him. Annie and his sister should go with 
 him to the north ; and there the memory of his mother 
 should be enshriued in the heart of every soul who 
 came across him, Thomas Jenkins. ‘I have nothing 
 
286 
 
 ‘THIS DAY WEEK.’ 
 
 else to live for but her memory; it just comes to 
 that,’ he said to himself, and he squeezed a tear out of 
 each of his blue eyes, and felt himself refreshed and 
 something like a martyr in a good cause. ‘I’ll get 
 rid of that valet, too,’ he said ; ‘ he shall go about his 
 business. And I ’ll sell my fine clothes ; it will be 
 frieze on week-days and broadcloth on Sundays for 
 Thomas Jenkins for the rest of his life. And I won’t 
 be taken in by a nice, dark-eyed pretty lass a second 
 time.’ 
 
 Just as these thoughts came to him he was attracted 
 by a sound. He started to his feet, peered over the 
 hedge, and saw something which immediately made 
 the whole of his person quicken into action. He was 
 carrying a stick; he seized it in his hand, vaulted over 
 the hedge, and ran down the road. A number of boys 
 and a little girl wei'e forming a group ; the boys 
 surrounded the girl, and the girl was crying bitterly. 
 The boys made loud, teasing remarks; the girl was 
 clasping a wet puppy in her arms, the tears streaming 
 down her cheeks. One or two boys were trying to 
 drag the puppy away. The puppy uttered piercing 
 yell after piercing yell. 
 
 ‘Come, none of that, you cowards!’ cried Jenkins. 
 He strode up to the boys. — ‘ What ’s the matter, little 
 one ? ’ he said. 
 
 ‘Oh, Mr — Mr’ said the child; ‘oh! it’s Mr 
 
 Anticlimax. Oh, I am so glad ! ’ 
 
 ‘Why, who are you?’ said Jenkins. ‘Who are 
 you ? ’ 
 
 ‘ I am Janet Rodney ; and they were drowning the 
 little dog, and I wouldn’t let them, and I saved it, and 
 
‘THIS DAY WEEK.’ 
 
 287 
 
 ‘You cowards!’ said Jenkins. He raised his stick 
 ■and approached one of the boys, who ran away with 
 a yell, the others immediately following his example. 
 
 Poor little Janet now sobbed more bitterly than 
 ever. The puppy, a miserable little wretch, dirty, 
 uncombed, and of a mongrel type, sprawled piteously 
 on the ground, adding its yells to the tears of the 
 child. 
 
 ‘ Come, come, little woman ! come, come,’ said 
 Jenkins. Angry as he was with Clarissa, he could 
 not be rude to her little sister. His heart beat a trifle 
 faster as he looked at her. 
 
 Janet soon wiped away her tears. ‘ I was praying 
 to God, and asking Him to send Mr Greatheart. You 
 know who Mr Greatheart is — don’t you ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Can’t say I do. Who is he ? ’ said Jenkins. 
 
 ‘ Oh 1 he ’s that beautiful, beautiful man in Pilgrim’s 
 Progress, who helps every one. I prayed so hard, for 
 the boys were surrounding me, and in a moment poor 
 puppy would have been torn away, and they would 
 have dr — drownded him.’ The last words came out 
 with a fresh sob. 
 
 ‘Well, and you prayed for Mr Greatheart, missy ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Yes ; and you came, and you are just as good. I 
 am very much obliged to you, Mr Anticlimax.’ 
 
 ‘Don’t call me by that silly name. Jenkins is my 
 joame — Thomas Jenkins.’ 
 
 ‘Oh yes, I know all about you.’ Poor Janet gave 
 another little sob. ‘I am so tired, and it is so hot,’ 
 she said. She looked around her. ‘ And, oh ! Mr 
 Jenkins, do you think puppy is very ill ? ’ 
 
 ‘ He is a poor little beast,’ said Jenkins, picking up 
 the puppy and examining it ; ‘ not worth much.’ 
 
288 
 
 ‘THIS DAY WEEK,’ 
 
 ‘ He is worth a great deal/ said Janet. ‘ I have 
 saved him ; and he ’s a darling, an angel. Give him 
 to me.’ 
 
 She clutched the puppy fiercely from Jenkins’s 
 arms, smothered it up to her pretty gray dress, and 
 kissed it on its forehead. 
 
 ‘Well, he is yours, I take it,’ said Jenkins, ‘to do 
 what you like with. But how did you get on this 
 road so far from home ? ’ 
 
 ‘ I was going on a message for Clare. I said I ’d 
 go ; but she didn’t know it. I thought I ’d get to 
 Mary Lancaster’s house and hack before the evening. 
 Clarissa wants to see Mary. Clare is in great 
 trouble.’ 
 
 ‘Oh yes, I like that,’ said Jenkins. 
 
 ‘ Why do you speak in that tone ? ’ 
 
 ‘ I ’ll speak in any tone I please. You are not going 
 to order me about, little missy.’ 
 
 ‘ You were very kind to me, Mr Jenkins, and I am 
 most grateful,’ said Janet. 
 
 ‘ A little lass like you has no business walking along 
 these country roads all by herself.’ 
 
 ‘ I never was frightened before,’ replied Janet ; ‘ but 
 I saw the boys, and they were running with the little 
 dog to the pond over there, and they tied a stone 
 round its neck. And I shouted to them, and they 
 were so astonished they stopped, and I snatched the 
 dog away, and then they all said they would fight 
 me.’ 
 
 ‘ You stood up against eight of ’em ! You ’re pluckj’’, 
 little ’un,’ said Jenkins, ‘Now, I tell you what — you 
 come and sit down and rest a bit. You’re fairly 
 stunned. How far is this Miss Lancaster’s liouse ? ’ 
 
‘THIS DAY WEEK.’ 
 
 289 
 
 ‘ About half a mile away. Do you see that house 
 nestling in the trees ? ’ 
 
 ‘ The house with the smoke coming out of the 
 chimney ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Yes. That ’s where she lives.’ 
 
 ‘ You are too tired to go any farther, missy.’ 
 
 ‘No, I’m not; and Clare wants to see her awfully. 
 She is in great, great trouble, and there ’s no one but 
 me to help her — no one at all. She used to have 
 Martha Moore before you came ; but she has not even 
 her now. Everything is against my own, own Clare, 
 and I am going to help her if I can.’ 
 
 ‘ Everything against Clare — everything against poor, 
 little Miss Clarissa,’ said Jenkins under his breath. ‘ It 
 didn’t seem like it. I wonder if the little ’un is false 
 too. I ’d like to say a word or two to the girl ; it seems 
 a sort of Providence my coming across her like this.’ 
 
 ‘Now, I tell you what it is, miss,’ said Jenkins. 
 ‘ Come and sit here, and we ’ll have a talk. I am very 
 glad I was able to help you. I don’t suppose the boys 
 would have done much to you, but they would have 
 taken this poor little beast and put an end to its life 
 anyway.’ 
 
 The puppy now was sufficiently recovered from its 
 state of fright to lick Jenkins’s hand. It licked it 
 with its little tongue, and Jenkins patted it on its 
 smooth, broad, white forehead. 
 
 ‘ Once I had a puppy something like this,’ he said, 
 ‘when I was in Australia. It used to sleep in my 
 arms at night. Those were the nights when I slept 
 under the stars.’ 
 
 ‘ Did you really sleep under the stars ? ’ said Janet. 
 ‘ How beautiful ! ’ 
 
 Nonentity. S 
 
290 
 
 ‘THIS DAY WEEK.’ 
 
 ‘Well, yes; so it was,’ said Jenkins, ‘though most 
 folks would not have said so. The puppy used to 
 sleep in iny arms, and I was fond of the poor little 
 beast. He was killed by a snake at last.’ 
 
 ‘ Killed by a snake ! Oh, how awful ! ’ 
 
 ‘ It was a good thing for me, little miss. The snake 
 struck home at poor Bob instead of your humble 
 servant.’ 
 
 ‘ And did Bob die at once ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Pretty nearly so. Poor little thing, he licked my 
 hand at the last. I buried him under a binggalow- 
 tree. I think of poor little Bob when I wake now 
 and then at night.’ 
 
 ‘ You must have had a very exciting life, Mr Anti- 
 climax,’ said Janet. 
 
 ‘Well, I have had a life with a pretty good bit of 
 adventure while I was making my pile.’ 
 
 ‘ What ’s your pile ? ’ 
 
 ‘ My money.’ 
 
 ‘ Have you a great lot of money ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Quantities and quantities. Not that money does 
 much after all.’ 
 
 ‘ Doesn’t it ? ’ said Janet. ‘ I think it does. It seems 
 to me that all the unhappiness in the world is because 
 of money. As money has to be, I wish every one had 
 an awful lot — that ’s what I do wish. Poor darling 
 Clare, she wouldn’t be unhappy if it weren’t for 
 money.’ 
 
 ‘Now, look you here,’ said Jenkins. ‘I am a 
 straight man, and I like to have things out. You say 
 your sister. Miss Clarissa, is in trouble. Well, so am 
 I ; I ’m in trouble too.’ 
 
 ‘ You ? ’ said little Janet. 
 
‘THIS DAY WEEK.’ 
 
 291 
 
 ‘ Yes. What was that name you called me ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Mr Greatheart.’ 
 
 ' Well, then, if I ’m your Mr Greatheart, I’m in a 
 good bit of trouble at the present moment. I ’m 
 fretted and I ’m puzzled ; I don’t know who to trust.’ 
 ‘Why don’t you trust everybody ?’ said little Janet. 
 ‘ That ’s what I do.’ 
 
 ‘ Bless you, child ! you ’ ve not lived as long as I 
 have. I trust people till I find them out. I ’ve been 
 finding people out to-day.’ 
 
 ‘ Finding people out ? ’ repeated Janet. 
 
 ‘ Yes ; and now I ’ll tell you a bit more. The person 
 I have found out to-day — and it ’s that that has cut 
 me to the quick — is your sister, pretty Miss Clarissa.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh dear ! oh dear ! ’ said Janet. ‘ You have found 
 Clarissa out ; but in what way ? ’ 
 
 ‘That she is false — false as girl can be; and I 
 thought a sight of her.’ 
 
 ‘She’s not!’ said Janet, springing to her feet. ‘I 
 won’t listen to you. My Clare is as true, as true as 
 any girl. I hate you, Mr Jenkins. I won’t call you 
 Mr Greatheart any more. I hate you when you speak 
 against Clare.’ 
 
 Up jumped Janet, puppy in arms. She stamped her 
 foot ; her eyes blazed, her little face was crimson. 
 
 ‘All right, missy,’ said Jenkins, who was partly 
 amused, partly annoyed by the child’s attitude. ‘ Have 
 it your own way. How did this — look, missy, I 
 believe you’re in your sister’s secrets — how did this 
 get into Richardson’s shop ? I found it there this 
 morning, and I bought it back again, for it ’s just a 
 trifle too good for Richardson’s customers. I bought 
 it back, and it ’s mine now. How did it get there ? ’ 
 
292 
 
 ‘THIS DAY WEEK.’ 
 
 Poor little Janet turned white as death; for Jenkins, 
 pushing his hand into his waistcoat-pocket, produced 
 the peai’l ring on the top of his small finger. 
 
 ‘ If you answer me — if you tell me how it got there 
 — I ’ll be obliged to you. Will you, missy — will you ? ’ 
 ‘ I wish I could. I know, of course, and it is nothing 
 wrong ; but I — just — can’t.’ 
 
 Jenkins burst into a loud laugh. 
 
 ‘ I believe you,’ he said. 
 
 Janet thought for a moment, then she looked up 
 at him. 
 
 ‘ Mr J enkins,’ she said, ‘ you saved me, and I am 
 grateful to you ; and Clare likes you, and I like you 
 because Clare does, and father likes you ; but mother 
 doesn’t ; but then you ’re not the sort of man mother 
 could be expected to like.’ 
 
 ‘ Thank you, missy, very much — thank you,’ 
 
 ‘ And I like you, but I don’t when you speak against 
 Clare. You have found the ring, and I am very sorry 
 you have found it. And will you give me just one 
 week, Mr Jenkins, before you say anything to any- 
 body else ? And then, perhaps, I can tell you every- 
 thing. Will you, Mr Jenkins — will you ? ’ 
 
 ‘ You are a queer little lass, but you do seem straight 
 and honest. I expect you are too young to have got 
 crooked yet. Well, yes. This is Thursday; this day 
 week then.’ 
 
 ‘ This day week I will tell you ; this day week 
 I ’ll show you that there ’s no one like Clare. Oh, 
 I will ! I will ! ’ said the child, and her little face 
 became full of intense resolution. 
 
CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 A KITTEN WITH CLAWS. 
 
 LAKE !’ said Janet. 
 
 ‘ Yes/ replied Clarissa. 
 
 The two girls were seated in the 
 back-room where the animals were 
 kept. The weather was sufficiently hot 
 now to have a portion of the window open, without 
 even fear of the bullfinch getting cold. Clarissa had 
 drawn a small wickerwork chair near the window, 
 and was peering down, with her somewhat shortsighted 
 eyes, at a German exercise which she was rapidly 
 revising. Janet had her lesson-books also before her ; 
 but, truth to tell, she was not busy. 
 
 ‘ Yes,’ said Clarissa now somewhat impatiently. ‘ I 
 want to get this theme through before bed-time. Is 
 it very important, Janey ? ’ 
 
 ‘ It is/ replied Janet, ‘ very. Can you tell me how 
 to spell “ nonentity ” ? ’ 
 
 ‘ How to spell “ nonentity ” ? Why, of course.’ 
 Clarissa spelt the word. Janet listened to her gravely. 
 
 ‘ Hold a minute,’ she said, ‘ and let me write it down.’ 
 She did write it down. A look of intense relief came 
 over her face. 
 
294 
 
 A KITTEN WITH CLAWS. 
 
 ‘ Well,’ said Clarissa, ‘ anything else ? ’ 
 
 ‘ No ; that ’s all,’ replied Janet. 
 
 Clarissa looked at her in mild wonder for a minute, 
 and then went on with her occupation. 
 
 Janet presently slipped out of the room. Clarissa 
 was feeling sad and puzzled as girl could be. She 
 hated beyond words the feeling that she had offended 
 Mr Jenkins, perhaps for life ; but there was no help 
 for it. She was forced to obey her mother ; and even 
 now Mrs Rodney was very displeased and cold in her 
 manner. She could not understand Clarissa’s conduct 
 about the dress. 
 
 Meanwhile Janet skipped upstairs to her own room. 
 ‘ I was puzzling it out all the time ; but I could not 
 get hold of a dictionary, and I might have spelt it 
 wrong,’ she thought. ‘ Now it is all right.’ She entered 
 the attic bedroom, pulled out her little writing-case, 
 opened her bottle of ink, and spread a sheet of paper 
 before her. She wrote with extreme care and very 
 boldly. Her lines were not straight — she wrote zigzag 
 across the paper; but whatever she said seemed to 
 give her intense satisfaction, for she pursed up her 
 small lips, and rosy spots came into her cheeks. The 
 letter was .signed, when at last it was finished, with 
 the magical words, ‘ Little Miss Nonentity.’ 
 
 ‘ That will do,’ thought Janet ; ‘ that will be sure to 
 do.’ 
 
 She put it into an envelope, addressed it to Mr 
 George Sarson, having secured his address from a 
 visiting-card which she had seen in her fathei’’s 
 possession earlier in the day. She had a few pence 
 in her pocket, and now she put on her hat, ran out 
 unknown to any one, went to the po.st-office, bought a 
 
A KITTEN WITH CLAWS. 
 
 295 
 
 stamp, put it on the letter, and dropped it into the 
 little receptacle for that purpose outside the post-office. 
 She then went home. 
 
 During the rest of the evening her spirits were 
 almost disagreeably high. Clarissa thought it was 
 on account of the puppy. Janet had mentioned her 
 adventure with the puppy, and had brought it back 
 with her; and Mrs Rodney, who, although she was 
 angry with Clarissa, never really liked to be unkind 
 to either of her girls, was wonderfully patient about 
 the puppy, and gave Janet leave to keep it in the 
 kitchen if cook would be kind enough to look after it. 
 Of course cook was kind enough, and Janet felt that 
 her world was very much richer than it had been 
 that morning. 
 
 Clarissa’s spirits, however, would not rise ; and as 
 the girls were going to bed that night she found her 
 little sister’s attitude almost tiresome. 
 
 ‘I wish you would keep still, Janey,’ she said. ‘I 
 have a headache, and you do toss about so.’ 
 
 ‘ It ’s ’cos I ’m so happy,’ said Janet. 
 
 Clarissa looked at her in wonder. ‘ I suppose you 
 think that puppy puts everything straight ? ’ she said. 
 ‘ I never saw you so unsympathetic before. Did you 
 say that Mary Lancaster would come to see me ? ’ 
 
 ‘ She has a cold, or she would have been round this 
 evening; but she will see you at school as soon as 
 ever she is well enough to return,’ was Janet’s answer. 
 ‘ But, oh ! never mind, Clare darling, it will be all 
 quite right in a week ; it will be all perfectly right in 
 a week.’ 
 
 As Clarissa had not got the clue to this remarkable 
 utterance on the part of Janet, she could not take 
 
296 
 
 A KITTEN WITH CLAWS. 
 
 much comfort from it, and presently the two girls 
 fell asleep. 
 
 It was on the following morning that the letter 
 which had caused Janet so many exercises of thought 
 reached its destination. Mr George Sarson was seated 
 at breakfast when it was handed to him with a pile of 
 other letters. Most of these were from learned pro- 
 fessors like himself. There was one which contained 
 information with regard to the next move in a game 
 of chess he was playing with an opponent in the United 
 States. He pondered this for a long time, said ‘ Ha ! 
 ha ! ’ and seemed deeply interested. He read all his 
 letters one after the other before he attacked the one 
 written by little Janet. At last he took it up and 
 peered at it through his spectacles. 
 
 ‘ Queer, unformed writing,’ he said to himself. ‘ It 
 is strange how handwriting is degenerating. This is 
 peculiarly unformed. I wonder which of my learned 
 friends has sent it to me. Better than the typewriter, 
 however; anything is better than the typewriter. 
 There ought to be a law to fling all typewritten letters 
 into the wastepaper basket. But still, the writing is 
 very unformed.’ 
 
 He opened the letter slowly and deliberately. He 
 never tore his letters open ; he kept a small paper- 
 knife for the purpose, cutting the envelope across the 
 top of the flap. He cut it now as deliberately as usual. 
 His egg — he always had two eggs for breakfast — two 
 eggs with toast and tea were his invariable matutinal 
 meal from one end of the year to the other — he left 
 to get cold while he took Janet’s sheet of paper out 
 of its envelope. He read it with an expression of 
 extreme amazement on his face. It ran as follows : 
 
A KITTEN WITH CLAWS. 
 
 297 
 
 ‘ Deak Mr Sarson, — Please, you said that if I was 
 in great trouble you would help me. I am in great 
 trouble, and so is Clare. Please come, I want you so 
 bad. “Little Miss Nonentity.’” 
 
 ‘ Goodness gracious ! ’ cried Sarson. He let the sheet 
 of paper fall to the floor; then he stooped to pick it 
 up, and his face got red with the action. ‘ Who in the 
 name of fortune is “Little Miss Nonentity”?’ he said 
 to himself. ‘“Little Miss Nonentity”!’ He rubbed 
 his forehead and pushed his glasses up. His face 
 wore an expression of blank bewilderment. ‘I have 
 not the slightest doubt it is from a female,’ he said ; 
 and then he dropped the letter as though it stung 
 him, and then he rose and walked to the flreplace. 
 A small fire burned in the grate, although the days 
 were turning warmer. He stood with his back to 
 the fire, and his blue eyes grew rounder and rounder. 
 ‘ I am to help somebody — a woman, a female. 
 Little Miss Nonentity ! Now I remember a little 
 child, a creature, to be sure, to be sure. Nice little 
 thing — kitten-like, quite nice, quite an agreeable little 
 girl — girl, scarcely that. Little Miss Nonentity — my 
 name for her. She remembered it ; nice little thing. 
 But what does she want me to do ? ’ 
 
 He read the letter over again. 
 
 ‘ I did make her some sort of promise,’ he said to 
 himself. ‘ Oh, George Sarson, what a person of im- 
 pulse you are, and how you repent afterwards I Why, 
 in the name of fortune, did I promise to help a 
 creature that will grow into a woman 1 It ’s quite 
 horrible. But it ’s plain I must keep my word ; I 
 never yet did break it. I must help her. She wants 
 
298 
 
 A KITTEN WITH CLAWS. 
 
 it, she asks for it, dear Little Miss Nonentity — trouble- 
 some, torturing Little Miss Nonentity; but, all the 
 same, my word is given, and my word is my bond. 
 What an awful nuisance this is ! She lives in Upton ; 
 she is Rodney’s child. Poor Rodney ! he married and 
 doomed himself for life; and she is one of his off- 
 spring, poor kitten. It ’s awkward. I must go to Upton 
 — Upton, that hateful, flat place. I cannot get the 
 elevation to inhale there. I cannot get the air that 
 I require ; and I am busy, frightfully busy — several 
 lectures to attend to, and Stephens and Warner both 
 begging of me to help them. Important news with 
 regard to the mummy of one of the Pharaohs ; and 
 Little Miss Nonentity, forsooth, requires me. A 
 childish trouble, a fit of temper, or a broken doll. 
 Shall I send the servant out to buy her a doll and 
 send it by post ? Perhaps that will do. Little creatures 
 like dolls. I have always heard it — just what one 
 might expect from their pap-like brains ; but, stay, she 
 asks me to come. I must obey her ; no help for it.’ 
 He did not finish his egg ; he left his tea untasted. 
 He rang his bell sharply; his servant — a man, nothing 
 would induce him to have a woman in the house — 
 obeyed his summons. 
 
 ‘ Sampson, pack my portmanteau.’ 
 
 ‘ Yes, sir. For what hour, sir ? ’ 
 
 ‘ The next train to Upton. Look out the trains.’ 
 
 ■ ‘Yes, sir. You won’t then, sir, go to University 
 College to-day ? ’ 
 
 ‘ I ’m going to Upton. Pack the portmanteau.’ 
 Sampson disappeared. ‘ Wonder what ’s up ? ’ he said 
 to himself. 
 
 Meanwhile Sarson paced up and down the floor. 
 
A KITTEN WITH CLAWS. 
 
 299 
 
 ‘I had best wire to them. Stay, I might wire to 
 Little Miss Nonentity ; it sounds rather ludicrous, but 
 I cannot call the creature by any other name. If she 
 were older than she is I would almost break my word ; 
 almost, not quite. No need to consider that, however, 
 for I never should have spoken a single word to the 
 creature. And who on earth is Clare ? Hope to good- 
 ness it ’s a boy. I can’t interfere if it ’s a girl ; I 
 simply cannot. Well, Little Miss Nonentity, you’ve 
 got me into a scrape ; but my word is my word.’ 
 
 He went out, and after consideration decided to 
 telegraph to Rodney. His telegram was brief and to 
 the point : 
 
 ‘Will be at Upton by the train which arrives at 
 1 . 50 . — George Sarson.’ 
 
 He took the next train to Upton and arrived at the 
 time he stated. He walked from the station to the 
 Rodneys’ house. 
 
 Mrs Rodney had received news that he was coming, 
 and was not too well pleased. ‘ To tell the truth,’ she 
 said to her husband, ‘ I am not particularly taken with 
 Mr Sarson. He is a most peculiar man ; and we owe 
 him nothing, you know, James, for he did not pay for 
 the doctor.’ 
 
 ‘ He certainly did not ; but he is the best fellow in 
 existence,’ said Rodney. ‘ I am delighted he is coming. 
 There are a great many things I have to talk over 
 with him.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh ! whatever pleases you, dear, pleases me,’ said 
 the wife. ‘ I know exactly the kind of lunch he likes ; 
 and he will spend most of the time with you in your 
 study. There certainly never was a man who more 
 disliked the society of the other sex.* 
 
300 
 
 A KITTEN WITH CLAWS. 
 
 ‘ Yes, he is a confirmed woman-hater, poor Sarson,’ 
 replied Rodney. 
 
 Janet came in soon after the arrival of the telegram. 
 She had a headache, and was not allowed to go to 
 school that morning. 
 
 ‘ What is it, mother ? ’ she said eagerly. 
 
 ‘ What is what, Janet ? Don’t be so curious. Run 
 out into the garden, now that your head is better, and 
 pick some flowers. Mr Sarson is coming to lunch.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, mother ! ’ cried Janet, ‘ is it true ? ’ 
 
 ‘It is true. What a very peculiar way you are 
 acting. Professor Sarson does not want to see you.’ 
 ‘Yes, but I ’spect he does,’ said Janet. 
 
 Mrs Rodney turned to her husband. ‘ What are 
 these two girls coming to ? ’ she said ; ‘ Clare to act 
 in the disgraceful, unladylike way she did the other 
 night, and now Janet absolutely thinking that the poor 
 Professor is coming to see her.’ 
 
 ‘Poor little Janey! He certainly could not be 
 worried talking to her,’ said the other Professor. 
 ‘Well, I must go out now, Miriam; but I shall be 
 back in good time for lunch.’ 
 
 Punctual to the moment. Professor Sarson made his 
 appearance. Mrs Rodney was in the hall. He arrived 
 in some excitement ; he was wearing his blue glasses. 
 
 ‘ How do you do, madam ? ’ he said. ‘ Where is Miss 
 Nonentity ?’ 
 
 ‘ Miss — who ? ’ said Mrs Rodney. ‘ Oh, I remember 
 you spoke in an extraordinary way just before you 
 left. I really do not know who Miss Nonentity is.’ 
 ‘Your youngest, madam, your youngest— the kitten- 
 like creature— I want to see her. I have come here 
 on purpose.’ 
 
A KITTEN WITH CLAWS. 
 
 301 
 
 ‘ How extraordinary ! ’ said Mrs Rodney under her 
 breath. ‘ Then little Janet was right. What does this 
 mean ? — My husband will be delighted to see you,’ 
 she said aloud ; ‘ he is out for the present. Would 
 you like to come and wait for him in his study ? ’ 
 
 ‘I don’t mind where I wait, madam, if only Miss 
 Nonentity will come quickly.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh ! I will send her to you — you mean my little 
 Janet.’ 
 
 ‘ I mean the creature,’ cried Sarson. He marched 
 into the study, having forgotten to remove his hat. 
 
 ‘ He really becomes more boorish each time,’ thought 
 Mrs Rodney; but she did not utter her thoughts 
 aloud. 
 
 Janet was in the garden. Janet was on the tiptoe 
 of expectation. Dear Mr Sarson had not failed her ; 
 he was coming. Oh, this was exciting ! She would 
 be able to help Clare now; she would be able to put 
 everything right. Just then her mother’s voice was 
 heard calling, ‘ Janet ! Janet ! ’ 
 
 ‘Yes, mother,’ answered the little girl. She came 
 bounding across the smoothly-kept lawn. 
 
 ‘ The Professor has come and would like to see you. 
 Just go and talk to him a little until your father 
 arrives.’ 
 
 Janet’s small face crimsoned. She was too excited 
 to say, ‘ I knew he would want to see me.’ She ran at 
 once into the room, just as she was — untidy, with a 
 mud stain on her cheek and a hole in her stocking. 
 Had Mrs Rodney seen that hole, she would have sent 
 Janet to change her stockings; but fortunately she 
 had not noticed it. 
 
 The Professor was still wearing his blue spectacles. 
 
302 
 
 A KITTEN WITH CLAWS, 
 
 He looked across the room, then he took his glasses 
 off and put them on the mantelpiece. ‘Now,’ he said. 
 He went towards the child. ‘ I said I would help you 
 if I could, and I am keeping my word. What do you 
 want with me ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Won’t you sit down ? ’ said Janet. 
 
 ‘ It doesn’t matter,’ said the Professor, ‘ whether I sit 
 or whether I stand. You want me to help you. Now, 
 out with it. I can’t stand going round a subject; fire 
 straight, little ’un — out with your trouble. If I can 
 help you I will’ 
 
 ‘ Then it ’s this,’ said Janet ; ‘it is this. I want 
 you, please, to give Clare forty pounds at once. I 
 want you to give her forty pounds, and not to ask 
 her any questions. Will you, Mr Sarson ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Who is Clare ? ’ 
 
 ‘ My sister,’ 
 
 ‘ A girl ? ’ 
 
 ‘Well, yes, of course. 
 
 ‘I can’t look at her, I can’t see her. You don’t 
 want me to see her — do you ? ’ 
 
 ‘No; I want you to give her forty pounds.’ 
 
 ‘ You must tell me why. I am not ungenerous, 
 and I have plenty of money; but I never part with 
 it without a cause. Why am I to give your sister 
 forty pounds ? ’ 
 
 ‘It’s because of father. Father thinks — or he did 
 think, and mother thinks — or she did think, that you 
 paid Sir John Carbery.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh ! ’ said George Sarson, ‘ I have puzzled over that. 
 May I ask why they thought that ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Won’t you sit down ? ’ said little Janet. 
 
 Professor Sarson had now completely forgotten 
 
A KITTEN WITH CLAWS. 
 
 303 
 
 himself; he did sit down. Janet came close to him; 
 she began softly to stroke one of his hard brown 
 hands. He found the stroke touching, and somehow 
 comforting. He put one hand over the little soft 
 hand of Janet’s. 
 
 ‘You are very like that kitten of mine that died 
 years ago,’ he said. 
 
 ‘ May I sit on your lap ? ’ asked Janet. 
 
 ‘Yes, little creature; yes, jump up. Put your arms 
 round my neck. I will forget that you are a girl. 
 Kiss me ; rub your little cheek against mine. You 
 are a very soft little thing — very, very kitten-like. 
 And so you thought I would help you — poor, rough, 
 old George Sarson, the woman-hater ? It was nice 
 of you. Little Miss Nonentity. Let me tell you you 
 had remarkable faith.’ 
 
 ‘But you said it,’ answered Janet. ‘When people 
 say a thing they mean it — don’t they ? ’ 
 
 ‘People worth anything do. Now then, you want 
 me to give you forty pounds ? ’ 
 
 ‘Not me, but Clare.’ 
 
 ‘ I don’t know Clare.’ 
 
 ‘ Clarissa, my sister.’ 
 
 ‘ A grown-up creature ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Well, nearly grown-up.’ 
 
 ‘ Horror ! ’ said Professor Sarson. He shivered 
 slightly. ‘I can have nothing to do with her,’ he 
 said after a pause ; ‘ you are not to bring her here, 
 and you are not to allow her to speak to me. I 
 di.slike women ; I hate them.’ 
 
 ‘ It ’s very rude of you,’ said Janet ; ‘ it ’s very horrid 
 of you. You needn’t boast about it.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh come, kitty, kitty ! don’t show your claws. 
 
304 
 
 A KITTEN WITH CLAWS. 
 
 Now then, kitty, quiet, quiet.’ He stroked Janet on 
 her shoulder. She laughed. 
 
 ‘You are so funny,’ she said. ‘I like you. Clare 
 doesn’t, nor does mother ; but I do.’ 
 
 ‘ Come, come, kitty ; claws again? You are not to 
 tell me who likes me and who doesn’t.’ 
 
 ‘ I will tell you who likes you. I do. I began by 
 not liking you, ’cos you ’re so rude — you ’re like a 
 bear. You ’re the very rudest man I ever heard of.’ 
 
 ‘ Delicious ! ’ said Sarson. ‘ Nearly as good as an 
 elevation to breathe in. Say some more. Little Miss 
 Nonentity. By the way, you are becoming strangely 
 unlike your name.’ 
 
 Janet laughed. ‘ I don’t mind what I say,’ she 
 
 answered. ‘ I ’ll tell you plain truths, ’cos I ’m ’ 
 
 ‘What?’ 
 
 ‘ Frank.’ 
 
 ‘You are a kitten with claws, and you certainly 
 use them. Never mind, as long as you are a kitten. 
 Now then, go on. You want me to give you — we’ll 
 say it ’s you — forty pounds. What for ? ’ 
 
 ‘ I ’ll have to speak about Clarissa,’ said Janet ; ‘ and 
 you ’re not to scold, you are not to interrupt, and 
 you are to listen. It don’t matter whether you hate 
 or whether you don’t hate her ; she doesn’t care. But 
 you have got to listen.’ 
 
 ‘ I am listening. Have the goodness to jump off my 
 knee and fetch me my blue glasses — the glare from 
 that garden outside is intolerable. You ought to wear 
 blue glasses yourself, little miss — good for the eyes, 
 very good for the eyes.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, my eyes are quite, quite strong, thank you,’ 
 replied Janet ; but she jumped off the Professor’s 
 
A KITTEN WITH CLAWS. 
 
 305 
 
 knee, fetched the glasses, and assisted him, much to 
 his embarrassment, but also secretly to his delight, 
 to arrange them across his eyes. ‘ Just so,’ she said, 
 ‘ that ’s the way they look best. Now then, are 
 you comfy ? Are you able to glare at me without 
 blinking ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Come, come ; claws again ? Now then, set to work 
 and tell me your story.’ 
 
 ‘ It was this way,’ said Janet. She paused, and then 
 began rapidly: ‘Father was so ill — dying, you know 
 
 — and Clare and I Oh, we were so sad ! Oh, we 
 
 were wretched ! Fancy two girls ’ 
 
 ‘I couldn’t fancy it. Nonentity. Don’t ask me.’ 
 
 ‘ Well, fancy two people who loved him — oh ! so 
 much’ — Janet stretched out both her arms wide — ‘as 
 much as that, and a million times more, and we 
 could do nothing ; and Clare ’ 
 
 ‘ Let us imagine that Clare is a boy,’ said the 
 Professor suddenly. 
 
 ‘ No, I won’t do nothing of the sort. — And Clare 
 said that she would do something. Clare is clever ; 
 she ’s like a boy in her cleverness at any rate ; and 
 she had got a scholarship.’ 
 
 ‘ Ah ! ’ said the Professor. He was interested in 
 scholarships. He did not fidget quite so much, and 
 he put his arm a little more securely round Janet’s 
 waist. ‘Stroke my hand while you talk to me,’ he 
 said ; ‘ it ’s very soothing.’ 
 
 Janet did stroke it for a moment or two, then she 
 stopped. 
 
 ‘ I don’t want to soothe you,’ she said ; ‘ I want 
 you to keep wide, wide awake. Well, Mr Sarson, my 
 darling, clever Clare got the scholarship — the Randall 
 
 Nonentity. T 
 
306 
 
 A KITTEN WITH CLAWS. 
 
 Scholarship at the Drummond Day-school. It was a 
 great thing to win, and she thought — poor darling 
 Clare did — that she would get the money.’ 
 
 ‘ As a rule people do,’ said the Professor. 
 
 ‘ Clare thought she would ; and father was so ill, 
 and Clare and I made a plot. And Clare saw the 
 doctor, and Dr Bennett said, “If Sir John Carbery 
 comes your father may get well ; but if Sir John 
 Carbery doesn’t come your father will certainly die.” 
 Then Clare said, “ Why don’t you send for him ? ” 
 and Dr Bennett said, “ Your father won’t allow me ; 
 he cannot pay the fee — the fee is thirty-five guineas.” ’ 
 
 ‘ Did he really ? ’ said Mr Sarson. ‘ Madness— mad- 
 ness ; and I was there, his old friend, his greatest 
 friend, and hundreds lying idle in the bank. Ter- 
 rible ! Surprised at Rodney.’ He was so angry now 
 that he jumped up, forgetting Janet, who tumbled on 
 the fioor. He removed his blue glasses ; his eyes 
 emitted sparks of fire. ‘ Terrible ! ’ he repeated. 
 
 Janet looked up at him in wonder. ‘ When you 
 have done saying “Terrible!” I’ll go on,’ she re- 
 marked. 
 
 The Professor put on his glasses again. ‘Well, 
 proceed,’ he said. 
 
 ‘ Clare and I were in a state ; and then Clare said, 
 “ I ’ll do it. I ’ll get Sir John Carberj" to come, and 
 I ’ll pay him out of my scholarship.” ’ 
 
 ‘ Good I Capital ! Brave boy ! Capital boy ! ’ said 
 Mr Sarson. 
 
 ‘ But it was a girl.’ 
 
 ‘ Now, don’t spoil things, Nonentity. Proceed. And 
 the boy did it — did he ? ’ 
 
 ‘ You are too funny,’ said Janet. ‘ Clare went to 
 
A KITTEN WITH CLAWS, 
 
 3or 
 
 town. She told nobody ; she went off all alone. But, 
 first of all, do you know that she became a thief ? ’ 
 
 ‘ What ! what ! What is that you ’re saying ? ’ 
 
 ‘ She had to. She opened the missionary money- 
 box and took out a whole sovereign. She had to 
 pay her railway-fare to town — hadn’t she ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Quite so ; poor fellow.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh ! you get funnier and funnier,’ said Janet ; 
 ‘ but I like you — I do.’ 
 
 ‘ Go on. Nonentity ; go on.’ 
 
 ‘ She took the money, and she went to town, and 
 nobody knew. And she saw Sir John Carbery, and 
 she told Sir John that he must come, and Sir John 
 said he would ; and she told him that he must never, 
 never tell who had sent him, and he promised he 
 would not. He said he would just say a friend ; 
 and he came, and he cured father.’ 
 
 ‘Well, well! Capital boy that — capital boy!’ said 
 Mr Sarson. 
 
 ‘And father thought it was you, you know. Father 
 thought it was you ; and now I want it to be you. 
 It’s the only way out.’ 
 
 ‘ The only way out, kitten ? What do you mean ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Clare, my darling pet, has got into such trouble ; 
 for what do you think ? When she came home she 
 heard that they were not going to give any money 
 at all for the scholarship ; they were going to give 
 her a lot of stupid, stupid lessons. And poor Clare — 
 oh, she was nearly wild with misery ! ’ 
 
 ‘ But why didn’t you write to me then ? Why didn’t 
 he come to me ? I would have given him three times 
 — four times — the money.’ 
 
 ‘ It ’s a girl, you know,’ said Janet. 
 
308 
 
 A KITTEN WITH CLAWS. 
 
 ‘You are too irritating, kitten. I cannot stand 
 much more of this. Yes ; and what is up now ? 
 Was Sir John paid? If not, I shall make a point 
 of going to him to-morrow. Upon my word it will 
 relieve me. If I had known for a single instant that 
 my greatest friend Rodney was so ill, and that I was 
 not told that he was too poor to get the best advice 
 that could be given to him, why, I would have nearly 
 lost my senses. Rodney ! sacrifice a brain like that ! 
 You madden me, kitten — you madden me.’ 
 
 ‘ I am very glad,’ said Janet. ‘ It is what I wanted 
 to do.’ 
 
 ‘Well, you have claws; but what next? Was Sir 
 John Carbery ever paid ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, indeed he was. Do you think my Clare would 
 go back on her word ? She managed it in such a 
 funny way. There is a queer, rough diamond here — 
 a very odd man, who likes Clare.’ 
 
 ‘H’m! Well, what next ? ’ 
 
 ‘ He is a Mr Jenkins, and I call him Mr Anticlimax.’ 
 ‘ I don’t see any wit in that remark. Go on.’ 
 
 ‘ Well, he gave Clare a ring because he likes her 
 — because she has been nice to him — a pearl ring, 
 and it cost a good deal ; and Clare sold it and got 
 the money and paid Sir John Carbery.’ 
 
 ‘Well, well; she sold the ring? Then what do you 
 want me for ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Because she has got into dreadful trouble now. 
 She has offended poor, kind Mr Jenkins, who has 
 discovered that she sold the ring, and doesn’t know 
 why she did ; and he is going away, and he is going 
 to do — oh ! no end of mischief, and make a lot of 
 people unhappy ; and Clare can never, never forgive 
 
A KITTEN WITH CLAWS. 
 
 309 
 
 herself. I promised him yesterday that I would put 
 things right in a week, and that I would take a week 
 to do it. So you have got to help me. Sit down ; 
 I am going to jump on your lap, and I am going to 
 hug you till you say “Yes.” Now then, here I am.’ 
 And Sarson did drop into a chair, and Janet did 
 spring into his lap and put her soft arms round 
 him, and kissed him and hugged him, and looked 
 into his eyes and said, ‘ I don’t care how many 
 women you hate ; you don’t hate me, and you ’ve 
 got to give me forty pounds, and to say nothing 
 about it to nobody.’ 
 
 Professor Sarson was quite silent for a minute or 
 two. ‘ I think there is a better way out than that,’ he 
 said. ‘ The doctor was paid, and after a fashion your 
 Clare, the young fellow we have been talking about, 
 paid him. It would anything but please that same 
 young creature if I were now to interfere.’ 
 
 ‘ But you must interfere ; things are quite too 
 dreadful.’ 
 
 ‘Then I tell you what. Nonentity. You and I 
 must put our heads together and think out a plan. 
 There is to me a much more simple solution of the 
 whole difficulty.’ 
 
 ‘ What is that ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Whisper. Come close to me, kitten, and I ’ll tell 
 it to you in your ear.’ 
 
CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 MARTHA SEIZES HER OPPORTUNITY. 
 
 HILE these events were taking place at 
 the Rodneys’ house, and Professor Sarson, 
 notwithstanding his avowed hatred of 
 women, was coining more and more 
 under the fascinations of ‘ the kitten,’ 
 things had taken a very different turn at Jenkins 
 Manor; for Jenkins, although for a time he had also 
 been soothed by the words of little Janet, and had 
 faithfully promised the child that he would take no 
 extreme steps for a week, had by no means got over 
 his bad temper. He was determined, as he expressed 
 it, that one person at least should learn her lesson ; 
 and as that person happened to be his own niece, 
 and as Martha had always possessed a spirit of her 
 own, things were not too tranquil at the mansion. 
 
 The first thing Jenkins did during his sway of 
 despotism was to forbid his sister to go into ‘ the 
 greenery-yallery room,’ as he called Martha’s sitting- 
 room. 
 
 ‘ You don’t go there,’ he said. ‘ There ’s one thing I 
 stipulated for when I brought you here out of your 
 poverty and placed you at the head of my establish- 
 
MARTHA SEIZES HER OPPORTUNITY. 
 
 311 
 
 merit, and that was that I was to be master. I don’t 
 at all know how things will go on. I am very fond 
 of you, Polly, and I don’t want ever to leave you nor 
 you to leave me ; but there are changes ahead, and 
 those changes will quite prevent miss having any 
 further use of that objectionable room which she has 
 furnished for herself.’ 
 
 Now, as miss happened to hear this remark, and as 
 she happened, perhaps with little wisdom, to toss her 
 head in the air and to walk out of the gorgeously and 
 hideously furnished drawing-room, Jenkins’s face grew 
 redder than ever. 
 
 ‘You must bear with her, Tom,’ said his sister. 
 
 ‘ Bear with her ? ’ he replied. ‘ I am tired of bear- 
 ing with her. I have done nothing but bear with her 
 since I came home. I tell you what it is, Polly; I 
 wish to goodness you ’d change her name. Can’t you 
 call her Susan or Mary, or anything but Martha ? 
 Martha is a sacred name to me, and I hate to hear it 
 called to a girl who is as unlike my dear mother as 
 night is unlike day.’ 
 
 ‘ All the same, it is her name,’ replied Mrs Moore, 
 now showing a spark of spirit of her own ; ‘ and I am 
 afraid you must put up with it.’ 
 
 ‘ So it seems,’ he answered ; ‘ so it seems. A man 
 makes his pile and dreams of his relations, and thinks 
 of the gay times he’ll have when his pile is made and 
 he is spending it for them; but they laugh at him, 
 and order him about, and fret him to the verge of 
 distraction. I wish I could tell some of the other 
 poor fellows who were working day and night to help 
 their dear ones at home, as they called ’em, that their 
 dear ones might not be so very, very dear when the 
 
312 
 
 MARTHA SEIZES HER OPPORTUNITY. 
 
 time came to spend money on ’em. I wish I could see 
 ’em and tell ’em — yes, that I do.’ 
 
 This state of things lasted for a whole day ; hut on 
 the morning of the second day Jenkins, who had slept 
 over many things during the night, made an announce- 
 ment which brought a certain amount of relief with it. 
 
 ‘ I am going away by the first train this morning,’ 
 he said. ‘ I am going away for several days. It don’t 
 matter where I go or what I do. I ’ll be back by 
 Thursday morning, for on that day things come to a 
 crisis.’ 
 
 ‘ But how so, Tom ? ’ asked his sister. 
 
 ' I ’m not going to tell you how so, Polly ; I only 
 repeat a fact that on that day things come to a crisis. 
 There will be no more pearl rings put up in jewellers’ 
 shops to be bought by any one who happens to pass 
 by ; there ’ll be no more dresses ordered for one young 
 lady and worn by another ; there ’ll be no more parcels 
 returned to me with rude notes, as much as to say, 
 “ I ’ll use your money when I want it, and I ’ll fling 
 it back in your face when I don’t.” All these things 
 will be altered on Thursday next. Now, this happens 
 to be Monday. I’ll be back on Wednesday night or 
 Thursday morning at the latest. You can do as you 
 please in the interval ; only Martha — look at me, 
 Martha.’ 
 
 ‘ Yes, Uncle Tom,’ replied Martha. 
 
 ‘ I ’m going to take you from that day-school. I am 
 going to put you out to board.’ 
 
 ‘ Thank you. Uncle.’ 
 
 ‘You needn’t say “Thank you” in that satirical 
 spirit. I shall put you out to board in a school where 
 you will learn the sampler, and how to use your hands 
 
MARTHA SEIZES HER OPPORTUNITY. 
 
 813 
 
 — how to brew and how to bake, how to clean rooms, 
 and how to keep dust at bay ; and when you are 
 trained, as I hope you will be, then perhaps a good 
 fellow will marry you, and you ’ll leave the country, 
 which is about the best thing that can happen as far 
 as your atfectionate uncle is concerned.’ 
 
 With these words, Jenkins left the room, slamming 
 the door after him. Martha turned to her mother. 
 
 ‘ Mother,’ she said, ‘ do you really think I am 
 going to bear this sort of thing ? Uncle Tom is past 
 enduring.’ 
 
 ‘ He is very, very troublesome at the present 
 moment,’ owned Mrs Moore. ‘ I don’t wonder, Martha, 
 my darling, that you are tided ; I, who love him and 
 know how good he is at heart, am also tried much by 
 his manner. It is all owing to that unfortunate action 
 on the part of Clarissa. Why did you allow her to 
 wear the dress, Martha ? . That was the beginning of 
 the trouble.’ 
 
 ‘ Really, mother, I cannot stand this. I meant no 
 harm. I hated wearing it myself. I don’t see why 
 Uncle Tom, although he is rich, should make my life 
 a misery. I am dependent on him, and he worries me 
 about everything. He won’t even let you come and 
 sit with me in my darling sitting-room ; and it was 
 horrid of him to go into my bedroom. Oh, mother 
 dear, I can’t endure it; you will have to let me go.’ 
 
 ‘No, no, Martha; it would break my heart to part 
 with you.’ 
 
 ‘ It has come to it, mother,’ said Martha ; ‘ you must 
 choose between me and Uncle Tom. I cannot stand 
 Uncle Tom any longer.’ 
 
 ‘ But I must have you both,’ said Mrs Moore. 
 
314 
 
 MARTHA SEIZES HER OPPORTUNITY. 
 
 ‘You must choose between us, mother. I am not 
 going to be ordered about, nor worried, nor made 
 wretched in the future. It may have been Clarissa’s 
 fault, and it may have been my fault; but who- 
 ever it was things are past bearing. He is so 
 silly too, mother ; he talks such utter nonsense. He 
 cannot find the sort of school he means to send 
 me to ; and if he did I shouldn’t go. It is not as 
 if I were a baby, mother ; I shall be seventeen my 
 next birthday.’ 
 
 ‘ Be patient — be patient, my darling ; things will 
 come right in the end. I wish I could see Clarissa ; 
 I might have a talk with her. It is she who has put 
 him into this terrible temper.’ 
 
 ‘It was very wrong of her to sell the ring; but I 
 think I know why she did it,’ said Martha. ‘ Poor 
 Clare, I have not been half sympathising enough with 
 her. The fact is, mother, since Uncle Tom came I 
 have been changing, and changing for the worse. I 
 have not taken half so much interest in my lessons. 
 I have been thinking of my xdches, and sometimes I 
 have put on little airs which have been so detestable 
 and unladylike ; and now I am being punished, for 
 Uncle Tom with his riches is past bearing, and without 
 Uncle Tom I am a penniless girl.’ 
 
 ‘At any rate we shall have a few happy days 
 together,’ said Mrs Moore ; ‘ we can do just what we 
 like while he is away. And oh ! there he goes,’ she 
 added. She got up as she spoke and walked towards 
 the window. 
 
 Jenkins was mounting a mail-phaeton drawn by a 
 pair of spirited bays. He took the reins, laid the 
 whip with smart emphasis about the necks of his 
 
MARTHA SEIZES HER OPPORTUNITY. 
 
 315 
 
 steeds, and the next instant was flying down the 
 avenue. 
 
 ‘Dear, dear! He drives in such a reckless way, I 
 should not he a bit surprised if he had an accident 
 some day,’ said Mrs Moore. ‘ Poor dear Tom ! poor dear 
 fellow ! he always had that extraordinary temper. He 
 could not be driven ; no one ever could drive him. 
 He had to be led. Now, Clarissa manages him quite 
 nicely; and he is never cross with me. Of course, I 
 know Clare made him very angry when she sold his 
 ring ; but if you would only treat him as Clarissa 
 does ! ’ 
 
 ‘I cannot, mother; it is useless. I am not made 
 like Clarissa; and then she has nothing to do with 
 him. It is easy to be pleasant to a person for half- 
 an-hour or even an hour; it is quite different to be 
 pleasant always.’ 
 
 ‘Well, let us be happy during the few days left to 
 us,’ said Mrs Moore ; and Martha assented in a half- 
 hearted manner. She went out into the garden. It 
 was so early still that it was not time to start for 
 school. The air was fresh and fragrant — delicious air, 
 soft with the promise of summer. 
 
 Presently Martha went into the house, put on her 
 hat, and walked to school. As she was going, her 
 mother called out after her, ‘ Why don’t you take the 
 carriage and ponies ? ’ 
 
 ‘ I must get accustomed to walking,’ was the girl’s 
 answer, and she started off. On her way there she 
 met one of the teachers, a nice, pretty girl of the 
 name of Miss Rosalie Gray. She stopped and spoke to 
 Martha. 
 
 ‘ You don’t look well,’ she said. ‘ I suppose you are 
 
316 
 
 MARTHA SEIZES HER OPPORTUNITY. 
 
 tired after your very gay party the other night. How 
 beautiful eveiything was ! ’ 
 
 ‘ Yes, things looked rather nice,’ assented Martha. 
 
 ‘ And how charming Clarissa Rodney was in that 
 fascinating dress; she really is quite a beauty. I 
 never was more struck with any one.’ 
 
 Martha was silent. 
 
 ‘ By the way,’ said Miss Gray after a pause, ‘ I may 
 be leaving the Drummond School at the end of this 
 term.’ 
 
 ‘ Why so ? ’ asked Martha. 
 
 ‘ Because I have heard of an extremely nice post in 
 Southampton. There are two teachers wanted — one 
 quite young, a sort of pupil-teacher; and the other 
 an experienced teacher like myself. Even the pupil - 
 teacher gets twenty pounds a year and all her 
 expenses found ; whereas the other teacher gets a 
 hundred a year. I only get eighty here ; and, 
 besides, the school is so big that I am constantly 
 overworked.’ 
 
 Martha’s face looked strangely eager. ' Did you say 
 they wanted a pupil-teacher too ? ’ she asked. 
 
 ‘ Yes. Why ? What is the matter ? Do you know 
 any one who would suit ? ’ 
 
 ‘I do. Miss Gray; I do. Listen to me for a 
 minute. Do you think, by any chance, they would 
 take me ? ’ 
 
 ‘ You, my dear Miss Moore — you ? ’ Miss Gray 
 
 turned in absolute astonishment to face Martha. ‘ Are 
 you talking nonsense ? ’ she said ; ‘ are you joking with 
 me ? ’ 
 
 ‘ I am not joking ; I am in sober earnest,’ replied 
 Martha. ‘ The fact is. Miss Gray, things are intoler- 
 
MARTHA SEIZES HER OPPORTUNITY. 
 
 317 
 
 able at home. Oh, I must confide in you, for I think 
 you can help me. I want to go away before my uncle 
 returns.’ 
 
 ‘ Before that nice, pleasant gentleman, Mr Thomas 
 Jenkins, returns ? But is he away ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Yes, he went away this morning. He makes things 
 unhappy for me ; he does not suit me, and I don’t 
 suit him. Mother is fond of him ; if she is alone 
 with him she will be quite happy. Do — do, dear Miss 
 Gray, help me to get this post. You know all the 
 ropes. Do assist me.’ 
 
 Miss Gray, flattered by Martha’s confidence, did at 
 last agree somewhat unwillingly to give her the 
 address of the school at Southampton. 
 
 Martha determined to go there herself. ‘ When you 
 want a thing done, do it yourself,’ was a motto which 
 she had been fond of uttering from time to time. She 
 told Miss Gray that whatever happened she would be 
 careful not to mention her name. Going into school 
 in renewed spirits, she there met Clarissa, who looked 
 pale and depressed. Clarissa and she more or less 
 avoided each other ; but towards the end of school 
 they met for a moment or two. 
 
 Clarissa longed to ask Martha something about the 
 ring — how her uncle had found it, and what he had 
 said to her — but an unusual reserve kept her silent. 
 There was an expression in Martha’s face which she 
 observed and dreaded to meet. The girls were silent 
 at first, then Martha said abruptly : 
 
 ‘Well, Clare, I may as well be bidding you good- 
 bye.’ 
 
 ‘ Good-bye ! What do you mean ? ’ said Clarissa. 
 
 ‘ I am not likely to be here long ; but never mind. 
 
318 
 
 MARTHA SEIZES HER OPPORTUNITY. 
 
 When you hear that I am missing, make no comment. 
 Things have come to a crisis.’ 
 
 ‘ Janet is also talking about a crisis, but she is not 
 at all in low spirits,’ was Clarissa’s answer. ‘That 
 dear, funny man about whom I told you, Mr George 
 Sarson, has been with us. He stayed with us for 
 a couple of hours, and has gone away again ; and 
 father has been wondering what in the world he 
 came about. Janet is bursting with importance, but 
 won’t utter a word ; only she talks of a crisis on 
 Thursday.’ 
 
 ‘ A crisis on Thursday ! ’ cried Martha. ‘ Why, that 
 is the day Uncle Tom is returning, and he also said 
 there would be a crisis on Thursday. How ridiculous ; 
 but, of course, there is nothing in it. At any rate it 
 does not matter to me.’ 
 
 Clarissa longed to question further, but did not do 
 so ; and Martha went home. 
 
 That evening she spoke to her mother. ‘ Do you 
 happen to have a little money about you, mother ? ’ she 
 asked. 
 
 ‘ Well, darling, I am afraid I have not. Your 
 uncle, generous as he is, never gives me ready cash. 
 When I ask him — and I really should like to have an 
 allowance to spend exactly as I pleased — his invariable 
 answer is, “ Order what you like, order what you like ; 
 but don’t worry me about cash down, for it doesn’t 
 suit me.” ’ 
 
 ‘Well, but have you nothing, mother — nothing?’ 
 
 ‘ I dare say I could manage a pound or two,’ was 
 Mrs Moore’s remark; ‘but why do you want money, 
 Patty ? ’ 
 
 ‘I’ll tell you to-morrow evening, mother dear. Will 
 
MARTHA SEIZES HER OPPORTUNITY. 
 
 319 
 
 you lend me that pound or two, or, better still, give it 
 to me ? ’ 
 
 ‘ You shall have it, of course, dearest ; but, oh ! I 
 do beseech of you, do nothing rash.’ 
 
 ‘ I won’t do anything rash, mother. I have thought 
 over things, and I am certain your happiness and 
 mine too will be best secured by what I intend to do. 
 You must trust me, dearest mother; I will do nothing, 
 nothing without letting you know. You will know 
 all to-morrow evening.’ 
 
 The next morning early, Martha took ‘ French leave ’ 
 of her school and went by train to Southampton. She 
 had looked up her Bradshaw to good purpose, and 
 could get to that seaport town across country from 
 Upton. She arrived there a little after noon, and 
 went straight to the school which Miss Rosalie Gray 
 had told her of. It was a large school facing the 
 sea. There were about seventy boarders at Milton 
 House, and a good number of resident teachers. 
 
 Martha was conducted, on presenting her card, into 
 the headmistress’s presence, who questioned her closely 
 on her different attainments. 
 
 ‘You have had no experience in teaching then?’ 
 she said finally. 
 
 ‘No, I am still at school; but I could come to you 
 at the half-term. I believe I could teach all that you 
 require. I am fairly popular with other girls, and I 
 certainly have the knack of imparting knowledge.’ 
 
 Miss Mason, the headmistress, was struck with 
 Martha’s appearance. There was something very firm 
 and dignified about the young girl when she pleased. 
 She considered for a moment, and then said she would 
 require references. 
 
320 
 
 MARTHA SEIZES HER OPPORTUNITY. 
 
 ‘ I can give them, of course,’ said Martha proudly. 
 ‘ Professor Rodney, amongst others, will speak for me.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, indeed,’ said Miss Mason, brightening. ‘ Do you 
 know Professor Rodney ? ’ 
 
 ‘Yes; his daughter is one of my greatest friends.’ 
 
 ‘ Then that alone nearly clinches matters. If he 
 will give you a testimonial for character and pro- 
 ficiency I need not go any further. But come, it is 
 all-important to know how you can teach. I shall ask 
 Miss Gibson to resign her class in your favour, and 
 will ask you to take the pupils.’ 
 
 This was decidedly an ordeal ; but Martha had 
 sufficient courage to undertake it. She acquitted 
 herself not only well, but with distinction ; and Miss 
 Mason was now more and more inclined to try her. 
 ‘ This is a peculiarly advantageous berth,’ she said. 
 ‘ As a rule pupil-teachers get no salary ; but in your 
 case I am prepared to give you twenty pounds a year 
 — not much, but enough to pay for your travelling 
 expenses and perhaps pocket-money.’ 
 
 ‘It is quite sufficient,’ replied Martha, ‘and I am 
 very much obliged to you.’ 
 
 ‘ You will of course have the advantage of speaking 
 French and German with the head-pupils, and will 
 thus be able to perfect yourself in languages, which 
 I already see you know very well. In addition, you 
 can have lessons in music and in any other accom- 
 plishment which you like best : you have but to 
 say. During the mornings your time will be engaged 
 attending to the younger classes, and in the afternoons 
 you will be expected to go out with them ; but I will 
 myself promise that you shall have sufficient time to 
 attend to those studies which you wish to take up.’ 
 
MARTHA SEIZES HER OPPORTUNITY. 
 
 321 
 
 ‘Thank you/ replied Martha; then she added, ‘I 
 sha’n’t want too much time. I am not in favour of 
 overmuch learning; and often think I worked too 
 hard when I was a child.’ 
 
 Had Martha made this extraordinary speech earlier 
 in the interview, she might not have secured the 
 post. As it was. Miss Mason decided to try her, 
 and arranged that she was to come to Southampton 
 at the half-term, which would be in about a week 
 from then. 
 
 ‘ Of course all depends on Professor Rodney’s 
 reference,’ she said ; ‘ but as I am certain in advance 
 that that will be favourable, you may really consider 
 the matter settled.’ 
 
 After her interview with Miss Mason, Martha took 
 a walk by the sea and then had lunch at a small 
 restaurant ; and presently found herself once again 
 going back to Upton. 
 
 ‘At last I have committed myself,’ she thought. 
 
 ‘ There is no going back now. I will show Uncle 
 Tom that I can be quite independent of him. Learn 
 the sampler, indeed ! Learn how to bake and brew, 
 and clean a room ! Nothing of that sort. Uncle Tom. 
 You said something too much to Martha when you 
 spoke as you did ; and now she is going to do without 
 you. It is the sort of lesson you want. Yes it is.’ 
 
 Nonentity. 
 
 u 
 
CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 A HEADSTRONG GIRL. 
 
 RTHA returned home in excellent spirits. 
 She found her mother waiting to receive 
 her. Mrs Moore had spent a lonely and 
 somewhat anxious day ; hut as the time 
 approached when Martha was to come 
 back from that mysterious errand, about which she 
 had as yet offered no explanation, the widow deter- 
 mined to have an old-fashioned and plentiful high-tea 
 ready for her. As there was no chance of Jenkins’s 
 return, this meal was spread in Martha’s own pretty 
 sitting-room. Annie was commissioned to wait on the 
 
 o 
 
 two ; and when Martha came in and saw her mother 
 dressed in her quietest, and looking her sweetest and 
 nicest, and noticed that Annie, whose usual position 
 in the establishment was that of under-housemaid, 
 was flying in and out like an excited butterfly, she 
 smiled, kissed her mother, and said, ‘ Oh if we might 
 always live like this, how happy we should be ! ’ 
 
 The tea was abundant, and reminded Martha of that 
 wonderful meal which Uncle Tom had provided several 
 months ago now at the cottage ; but she was hungry, 
 and not inclined to cavil. She must accept her Uncle 
 
A HEADSTRONG GIRL. 
 
 323 
 
 Thomas’s bounty for the next few days; then she 
 would be independent. It was delightful to feel this. 
 
 ‘ And when I have got over my first soreness,’ she 
 said to herself, ‘ I shall learn — yes, I shall learn and 
 learn, and make myself really very accomplished ; 
 and then, perhaps, I may be able to start a school of 
 my own some day, with mother to live with me, for it 
 isn’t to be expected that she will always endure Uncle 
 Tom, although no doubt she will get on with him for 
 a short time longer.’ 
 
 The tea-things were removed, and the two ladies 
 sat in the bay-window. The long day was beginning 
 to fade ; but Annie was told on no account to bring 
 lights. Martha crept up close to her mother, took 
 her hand, and stroked it fondly. 
 
 ‘Well, Patty?’ said Mrs Moore. Her heart beat a 
 trifle fast ; she guessed that she was about to have a 
 tussle with her child. 
 
 ‘ You must be prepared, mother. I have gone and 
 done it,’ said Martha. 
 
 ‘ Gone and done what, my child ? You do make me 
 so nervous.’ 
 
 ‘ I am very, very sorry. I may be right, or I may 
 be wrong ; but it seems to me that I have done the 
 right thing. I cannot eat the bread of dependence 
 any longer, mother dear.’ 
 
 ‘ Nonsense, Martha. Bread of dependence ! Your 
 own uncle.’ 
 
 ‘ But he is not my own uncle. If he were, matters 
 might be different. He is in reality scarcely related 
 to me at all. He evidently takes altogether after that 
 mother whom he worships.’ 
 
 ‘ A most excellent woman,’ said Mrs Moore. ‘ I do 
 
324 
 
 A HEADSTRONG GIRL. 
 
 not like to hear you say a word against her in 
 Thomas’s own house.’ 
 
 ‘Oh, mummy, you must forgive me; but I almost 
 hate Mrs Jenkins. Why should any woman who has 
 so long been dead come back to torture us as she has 
 done ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Well, dearest, need we discuss her now ? ’ 
 
 ‘ No, we need not,’ said Martha. ‘ What I have to 
 say is this : I went to Southampton to-day ; I saw the 
 headmistress of a very good school for girls there. 
 Her name is Miss Mason. The school is called Milton 
 House, and it faces the sea and stands on fairly high 
 ground. It is a large, commodious, airy house, and 
 there are seventy girls and several resident teachers ; 
 and one of those resident teachers is to be your 
 daughter, mummy — your girl, Martha — Patty, as you 
 call her.’ 
 
 ‘ Nonsense, Martha ! Nonsense, Patty. Impossible ! ’ 
 ‘ It is possible, my own dearest mother, for I cannot 
 live this wretched, wretched life. I am going there, 
 and I shall receive twenty pounds a year ; and I will 
 come to see you, if you like, in the vacations — that is, 
 if Uncle Tom will have me. It won’t be worse for 
 you than if I had gone to that horrid boarding- 
 school — which he cannot find, fortunately ; and I 
 shall be independent, and I shan’t rub him the 
 wrong way every moment. Oh, you must let me go 
 — you must.’ 
 
 ‘ I could prevent you, Martha,’ said Mrs Moore, ‘ for 
 you are not of age. I could write and tell Miss Mason 
 that you are under my authority.’ 
 
 ‘ But you won’t ? ’ said the girl ; ‘ you won’t ? ’ 
 
 ‘ I must think it over. You puzzle me terribly. I 
 
A HEADSTRONG GIRL. 
 
 325 
 
 have seen for a long time that something must be 
 done. I have perceived for a long time that things 
 cannot go on as they have been doing, that you and 
 your poor uncle will never really be friends ; but to 
 send you away like this, to toil hard, to have a pittance 
 for a salary ’ 
 
 ‘ Mother, darling, your ideas of money have alto- 
 gether altered. You would not have called twenty 
 pounds a year, and all my expenses found, a pittance 
 a few months ago.’ 
 
 ‘ I know that,’ replied Mrs Moore ; ‘ but this annoys 
 me terribly.’ 
 
 ‘Let me try it, mother; let me try it for at least 
 six months.’ 
 
 ‘That is it. I should not mind if it were just a 
 trial ; but he won’t receive you back at the end of 
 that time.’ 
 
 ‘ I will never come back to him in my present 
 position. I will never accept bounty from his hands 
 again.’ 
 
 ‘ You are very proud, and you are doing very 
 wrong,’ said the mother, and she got up, and walking 
 to the door, opened it and went out of the room. 
 
 Martha sat for a long time perfectly quiet. There 
 were tears in her eyes, and there was a heavy weight 
 at her heart; but she was absolutely determined to 
 cling to her resolve. 
 
 The next day was Wednesday. Martha spent a 
 good deal of her time in sorting out her clothes ; she 
 would take not one dress more than she was absolutely 
 obliged to, of those pretty, neat, graceful garments 
 which Uncle Tom’s money had provided. She ordered 
 Annie to bring her a certain old brown trunk which 
 
326 
 
 A HEADSTRONG GIRL. 
 
 had done duty in hei‘ father’s time, and in this she 
 placed her oldest frocks and several semi-worn gar- 
 ments. In the end she was obliged to succumb 
 to her necessities, and use some of the very plainest 
 of Uncle Tom’s things ; but she took care to take as 
 few as possible. 
 
 Mrs Moore said no further word to oppose her. Mrs 
 Moore’s face was very white, and her eyes looked as if 
 she had secretly indulged in many bouts of crying. 
 
 Martha’s time flew fast, and on the evening of 
 Wednesday she went to see the Rodneys. Clarissa 
 was at home. Martha went straight to her, and said 
 abruptly, ‘ Do you happen to know if your father has 
 had a letter about me ? ’ 
 
 ‘ He has,’ replied Clarissa, ‘ a most astounding letter 
 from a Miss Mason with regard to your character and 
 acquirements. She says you have offered yourself as 
 one of her pupil-teachers. Miss Mason is a school- 
 mistress.’ 
 
 ‘ Wonderful as it sounds, it is true,’ replied Martha. 
 ‘ I am going to Miss Mason in a week’s time, immedi- 
 ately after the half-term. I gave notice this morning 
 at the Drummond Day-school ; they did look some- 
 what astonished, of course. My fees have been paid 
 up to the end of the term, but they must be forfeited. 
 I have done the right thing, Clare, and you cannot 
 dissuade me.’ 
 
 ‘ I cannot make out what is going to happen,’ 
 said Clarissa. ‘ Every one seems more or less in a 
 strained state. As for Janet, she does nothing but 
 mutter in her sleep, and she is always talking about 
 that curious Mr George Sarson. Except when she 
 is petting that ridiculous little puppy which she 
 
A HEADSTRONG GIRL. 
 
 327 
 
 rescued from drowning a week ago, she hardly ever 
 smiles, and is full of some secret care. At the same 
 time, she says that she is in excellent spirits. I cannot 
 make out what is wrong. And now you want to go 
 away. Why do you want to do it ? ’ 
 
 ‘ It is partly on account of you,’ said Martha sud- 
 denly. ‘ You have brought matters to a crisis.’ 
 
 ‘ I ? What do yoTi mean ? ’ 
 
 ‘You have. I meant to bear with him — I really 
 did; but after you sent back that dress he got into 
 such a terrible rage — I never saw anything like it. 
 After wearing it, why did you send it back, Clare ? 
 I must say it was most inconsistent of you.’ 
 
 ‘ Do you think I did it on purpose ? ’ replied Clarissa. 
 
 ‘ Mother made me ; mother was very, very angry. And 
 I ought not to have worn your dress, Martha; only 
 I was just mad for a bit of frolic, and mother, poor 
 darling, couldn’t understand. I am bitterly sorry 
 that I have got you into this trouble.’ 
 
 ‘ And that is not all,’ continued Martha. ‘ He was 
 furious about the dress, he had been so pleased at you 
 wearing it. I never saw anything like his delight 
 when the party was over ; and he kept on saying how 
 nice you looked, and that it was all owing to him, and 
 how delighted he was that you had worn the dress. 
 Of course he was cranky with me ; but he was in 
 such a good humour about you I did not much 
 mind that. I went off to school the next morning 
 bright and happy, never expecting for a single 
 instant that you would positively refuse the dres.s. 
 Well, I came back in the middle of the day, and 
 you never saw such a scene as awaited me. He 
 went out when his temper was just at the worst, and 
 
328 
 
 A HEADSTRONG GIRL. 
 
 he saw that pearl ring he gave you in Richardson’s 
 shop window.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh dear ! oh dear ! ’ said Clarissa. ‘ I guessed 
 that must be it. Well, what happened ? ’ 
 
 ‘ He went in and he bought it — I don’t know how 
 much he paid for it — and he brought it back again ; 
 and he went into my room and he rummaged round 
 and round to try and find the duplicate pearl ring 
 which he had given me. He made a sad mess of 
 everything, and broke one of my little favourite 
 ornaments ; and of course he could not find the ring, 
 for I had it on my finger. When I returned, there 
 he was in my sitting-room — the room he promised he 
 would never enter — scowling at darling mother, and 
 in such a temper ! He asked me for my ring, and 
 compared it with the one he had in his pocket; and 
 oh ! I never knew anything like it. He has gone 
 away for a few days ; but I expect when he returns 
 he will come and scold you, and ask you why you 
 sold his present.’ 
 
 ‘ What is to be done ? ’ said Clarissa. ‘ He is almost 
 certain to do so. He is a very strange man, and 
 evidently can be easily hurt. He is very sensitive; 
 but he has the kindest of hearts.’ 
 
 ‘ I wish you would not talk about his kind heart ; 
 I am sure I am sick of it.’ 
 
 ‘ But he has,’ said Clarissa ; ‘ and that is what makes 
 it all so painful. He won’t understand that I am 
 not such an unladylike, vulgar girl as to be angry 
 about his present. I had to sell that ring; I know 
 he is a true gentleman at bottom, and nothing would 
 have induced me to part with it but just because of 
 my own great need. Oh, Martha! you think yourself 
 
A HEADSTRONG GIRL. 
 
 329 
 
 in trouble, and you are going to throw up everything 
 — all your comforts and happiness — just for a chimera, 
 no more, and you are going to make your mother a 
 very miserable woman when God meant her to he 
 happy j but you are not in the scrape I am in. If he 
 comes back, and happens to speak about that ring 
 before father and mother, what is to be done ? ’ 
 
 ‘ I declare I don’t know,’ replied Martha ; ‘ I wish I 
 did. I have not been thinking as much of you as I 
 ought, Clare. I have been so disgusted about things 
 myself — so miserable, so upset. I will try to prevent 
 him coming to see you ; but the fact is, I have not 
 the slightest control over him. He is returning this 
 evening or to-morrow morning.’ 
 
CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 A COUNTRY-COUSIN. 
 
 HAT evening Thomas Jenkins returned. 
 Mrs Moore and Martha were both wan- 
 dering about in the garden. There 
 was twilight over everything, but a 
 silver moon was riding in the sky. 
 The sound of wheels was heard crunching on the 
 
 gravel, and Mrs Moore said hastily, ‘Your uncle has 
 come, Patty ; we must go and receive him, dear.’ 
 
 Martha followed, somewhat unwillingly. Now that 
 she had made up her mind to go, she determined, 
 however, to leave no stone unturned to make things as 
 happy for her mother as she could. 
 
 A hired fly was drawn up at the door; there was 
 a large rough-looking box of old-fashioned build on 
 the roof. Thomas Jenkins was seen in the act of 
 helping a portly, stoutly-built woman to alight. 
 
 ‘Now then, Hannah, here we are,’ he was heard to 
 say. ‘ Pretty place — eh ? Quite my style, and I dare 
 say it is yours too. Ah ! here ’s my sister. Come, 
 Hannah, she is sure to know all about you.’ 
 
 As Jenkins spoke he took the hand of the stout, 
 rather red-faced lady, and walked with her down the 
 
A COUNTRY-COUSIN. 
 
 331 
 
 path up which Mrs Moore and Martha were slowly 
 coming. 
 
 ‘ Hullo ! how are you ? ’ he said when he saw his 
 sister. ‘ I have brought my cousin twice removed, 
 Hannah Price, back with me. I have been at the old 
 place, and have been looking up relations ; and Hannah 
 was delighted to see your humble servant, so I thought 
 I would bring her to spend a few days at Jenkins 
 Manor. — Let me introduce my sister to you, Hannah — 
 my dear little sister.’ 
 
 Miss Price came forward and held out her hand to 
 Mrs Moore. Mrs Moore took it, wrung it warmly, and 
 said, ‘ Any relation of Tom’s is sure to be welcome to 
 me. Won’t you come indoors ? And may I introduce 
 my daughter to you ? — Martha, dear, this is your 
 uncle’s cousin. Miss Price.’ 
 
 ‘ The young person I have been telling you about,’ 
 said Jenkins, nodding to Miss Price. — ‘ How do, Martha ? 
 You ’ll hear more of my cousin. Miss Price, by-and-by. 
 — Polly, Hannah is hungry, and would like a good 
 substantial meal. She fights shy of late dinners ; but 
 I told her she must put up with them, as we do things 
 in style at Jenkins Manor, and she’s satisfied to bear 
 with them for a few days; but she says any real 
 change in her way of life would make her ill.’ 
 
 ‘ I suffer awful from the indigestion,’ was Miss 
 Price’s first remark ; ‘ but, as I said to Thomas, for 
 a day or two it don’t matter.’ 
 
 ‘Well, come into the house now,’ said Mrs Moore. 
 She entered, followed by the stout lady. 
 
 Meanwhile, Jenkins was giving royal and imperious 
 orders. 
 
 ‘ See that the yellow bedroom is got ready immedi- 
 
332 
 
 A COUNTRY-COUSIN. 
 
 ately for my cousin, Miss Price,’ he said to the startled 
 footman, who came to help in with the luggage. 
 ‘ Have her box taken to her room ; see that everything 
 possible is done for her comfort. Put off dinner for 
 half -an -hour. What are you loitering for? Stop 
 staring, and go and do what you are told.’ 
 
 Meanwhile Martha, wondering what all this por- 
 tended, entered the house. 
 
 Miss Price was conducted to her room, Mrs Moore 
 herself leading the way. The yellow bedroom hap- 
 pened to be one of the most gaudy in the whole house. 
 Certain bedrooms were, by Jenkins’s orders, always 
 kept in readiness; as, although up to the present he 
 had never invited a guest to stay at Jenkins Manor, 
 he wished to feel that he could do so at any instant. 
 
 ‘ I hope you will find the room comfortable,’ said 
 Mrs Moore. 
 
 ‘It’s very spacious and chilly,’ was Miss Price’s 
 remark; ‘and I suffer from the indigestion. What 
 hour do you have your next meal ? ’ 
 
 ‘ In half-an-liour from now. Can I do anything 
 more for you ? ’ 
 
 ‘ No, thank you.’ 
 
 Mrs Moore left the room. She went downstairs, 
 where she saw her brother. 
 
 ‘ Eh ! Polly, what do you think of her ? ’ he asked. 
 
 ‘ Think of her, dear Tom ? I have scarcely seen 
 her.’ 
 
 ‘ Well, there is a good bit of her to see — isn’t 
 there ? ’ 
 
 ‘ She came when it was nearly dark.’ 
 
 ‘Well, she has come to stay for a day or two; she 
 is the per.son that Martha is to live with in the future.’ 
 
A COUNTRY-COUSIN. 
 
 338 
 
 ‘ Nonsense, Tom.’ 
 
 ‘It’s useless for you to say “Nonsense,”’ replied 
 Thomas Jenkins, ‘ when my mind is made up. Hannah 
 Price knows her sampler, she knows her bakery, she 
 knows her dairy, she knows how to keep a place spick 
 and span ; and Hannah has the greatest reverence 
 for the memory of my dear mother. When I went 
 back to my native place, Hannah was the first to 
 bring me little mementos of her. I am very much 
 attached to Hannah ; she is an excellent woman, and 
 Martha is to go back with her. I have settled it all.’ 
 
 Poor Mrs Moore’s heart beat uncomfortably fast. 
 Between Martha, Hannah Price, and her brother she 
 was likely to have a very unpleasant time for the 
 next few days. 
 
 The great gong sounded, but Miss Price did not 
 make her appearance. 
 
 ‘You had better go up, Martha, and bring her down,’ 
 said Mrs Moore. ‘Anything, darling, to keep the 
 peace for my sake. Dearest, do try to make the best 
 of things.’ 
 
 Martha, who was neatly dressed for dinner in a 
 pretty soft white dress, ran upstairs and knocked at 
 Miss Price’s door. That lady opened it and flung it 
 wide. 
 
 ‘ Are you the girl,’ she said, ‘ whom I am to take 
 back with me ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Certainly not,’ replied Martha. 
 
 ‘Well, I hope to goodness no. I don’t like your 
 looks; but my cousin, Mr Jenkins, said something 
 about an obstreperous niece that I was to break in.’ 
 
 ‘ Dinner is ready. Will you come down ? ’ said 
 Martha. 
 
334 
 
 A COUNTRY-COUSIN. 
 
 ‘ I hate late meals ; but I suppose I will come. And 
 where am I to find the room you eat in ? I can’t 
 discover my way in this great barrack of a place.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, it is a barrack ? ’ said Martha, suddenly delighted. 
 ‘ You don’t like it — do you ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Like it, child ? I hate it.’ 
 
 ‘ Better and better,’ said Martha. ‘ Take my hand 
 and I’ll lead you down.’ For some extraordinary 
 reason, she suddenly found Miss Hannah Price much 
 more agreeable and more to her taste than Thomas 
 Jenkins. 
 
 As they crossed the hall, the floor of which was 
 inlaid with parquetry. Miss Price slipped, and had it 
 not been for Martha would have fallen. 
 
 ‘ Good gracious me ! What an awful sort of place,’ 
 she said. ‘ Is the floor ice ? ’ 
 
 ‘I quite agree with you that it is awful,’ replied 
 Martha. 
 
 ‘ I won’t stay here long ; I ’ll tell Tom so. I never 
 wanted to stay — never. He said I must see you for 
 myself — you, or whoever it is I am to take back 
 with me.’ 
 
 ‘ I am the girl,’ said Martha suddenly. ‘ You don’t 
 want me — do you ? ’ She stood under the lamplight 
 and allowed Miss Price to stare at her. 
 
 ‘ You ’re not a bit my style,’ she said. 
 
 ‘ I thought not. That ’s right ; stick to it. Won’t 
 you say you don’t want me ? — and I ’ll do everything 
 in my power to make things pleasant for you while 
 you are here.’ 
 
 ‘You seem to have a grain of sense, all the same, 
 lass, and you might suit me,’ said Miss Price with a 
 grim smile. 
 
A COUNTKY-COUSIN. 
 
 335 
 
 She and Martha entered the dining-room side by- 
 side. 
 
 ‘ Hullo ! Hannah, here ’s your place next me,’ said 
 Jenkins ; ‘ here you are.’ 
 
 Miss Price, opening her round eyes wide, dropped 
 into the chair indicated. Jenkins motioned to the 
 butler to remove the covers. 
 
 ‘ Goodness ! what ’s that ? ’ said Miss Price. 
 
 ‘Soup, Hannah; soup — very nourishing and easily 
 digested.’ 
 
 ‘I’ll thank you,’ said Miss Price, looking full at 
 the astonished butler, ‘to go down to your kitchen 
 and order a slightly-boiled egg for me, with some 
 thick slices of bread-and-butter and a cup of tea. — 
 Thank you, Thomas — much obliged ; but I couldn’t 
 possibly partake of any other form of refreshment. 
 I ’ll thank you, my good man,’ she continued, resuming 
 her speech to the amazed servant, ‘ to tell the cook not 
 to boil the egg more than three minutes ; I don’t wish 
 it more than just set. Let that be plainly understood.’ 
 
 As this order was given in a majestic, deep voice, 
 and as there evidently was not the slightest sign of 
 wavering about Miss Hannah Price’s face, the butler 
 was forced to retire to hide his smothered mirth. 
 
 Until the egg, thick bread-and-butter, and tea 
 appeared. Miss Price sat with her hands folded 
 solemnly in front of her. 
 
 ‘You would find this soup good if you would only 
 try it,’ said Jenkins. 
 
 ‘ Thank you, Tom ; but I prefer not,’ was her 
 answer. She did not seem at all confused or in the 
 least elated at the manners of her over-ambitious 
 and excited host. 
 
336 
 
 A COUNTRY-COUSIN. 
 
 Thomas Jenkins tried to tempt her again when 
 the fish came on the table; but she shook her head 
 resolutely. 
 
 ‘Very nice, I have no doubt, Tom; but I’d rather 
 not.’ 
 
 At last the meal which she herself had ordered 
 appeared, and she began to eat, munching straight 
 through the thick bread-and-butter, draining her cup 
 of tea, and finishing her egg. When she had done 
 this she sat back in her chair. As course, however, 
 after course appeared. Miss Hannah Price grew restless. 
 
 ‘Is it fine manners to stay a long time at dinner 
 when you yourself have finished ? ’ was her query. 
 
 ‘No, no, Hannah; this is Liberty Hall. You can 
 please yourself,’ was his answer. 
 
 Whereupon Miss Hannah Price did please herself 
 by rising and making towards the door ; but the 
 next instant a shriek greeted the ears of all those 
 present. She had put her two stout feet upon a 
 mat, which suddenly began to glide away with her 
 over the parquetry. 
 
 ‘ For Heaven’s sake, Thomas, come out,’ she shouted ; 
 and her kinsman had immediately to go to her relief. 
 
 ‘ Oh, mother,’ said Martha in a choking voice, ‘ she 
 is too comical ; but I like her.’ 
 
 ‘ Thomas, I don’t admire your house,’ was his cousin’s 
 remark. 
 
 And Thomas Jenkins returned to finish his dinner 
 with a somewhat rueful expression on his face. 
 
 The meal proceeded to its solemn close. Neither 
 Mrs Moore nor Martha spoke much. Jenkins only 
 muttered monosyllables in a gruff tone below his 
 breath. At last, dessert being on the table, and the 
 
A COUNTRY-COUSIN. 
 
 337 
 
 servants withdrawn, perfect silence ensued. Martha 
 wondered how soon she might get away ; but before 
 she had time to rise her uncle’s voice calling her 
 name startled her into attention. ‘ Come here, Martha 
 Moore,’ he said. 
 
 Martha rose. 
 
 ‘ Sit down there,’ said Jenkins ; ‘ there, in my cousin 
 Hannah Price’s chair.’ 
 
 Martha did drop into the chair indicated. 
 
 ‘ There is no one but your mother to listen,’ con- 
 tinued Jenkins, ‘so I can speak out freely. I am 
 willing to own up to my own faults. I was very 
 angry when I went away. I was in a temper — such 
 a temper as I didn’t know I possessed. You had 
 awoke it in me — you and the other wench, Clarissa 
 Rodney. I was raging ; I scarcely knew myself. 
 I struggled against it, for I had promised a little 
 bit of a girl, who is not the least like either you 
 or Clarissa Rodney, that I would do nothing violent 
 for a week; but I could not hold myself in. The 
 week is out to-morrow, and then I am released of 
 my bond. But I wish to say now that I am not in 
 a temper at the present moment.’ 
 
 ‘ No, uncle, I am sure of that,’ said Martha. 
 
 ‘Well, take my hand, lass. I don’t mean any ill- 
 will. I am willing to let bygones be bygones.’ 
 
 ‘Thank you. Uncle Tom ; but’ 
 
 ‘Now, hold your peace, Martha, and hear me. I 
 don’t pretend to deny that you have been a trial 
 to me from the moment I clapped my two eyes on 
 you. I had looked forward much to lavishing my 
 money on you — to making up to you for the days 
 of penury ; but there, I am not the first man who 
 
 Nonentity. V 
 
338 
 
 A COUNTRY- COUSIN. 
 
 has dreamed dreams which have never come true — 
 I am not the first, and I am not the last, by a good 
 many. You disappointed me, and I was angry. I 
 don’t suppose I had any right to be angry, for you 
 couldn’t help the way you were boim; but now what 
 has been can’t be any longer, and I have arranged 
 with my kinswoman, Hannah Price, to bring about a 
 change. My kinswoman is all that is excellent; she 
 is the very essence of common-sense, she is kindness 
 itself, she is goodness itself. She has no fine-lady 
 airs ; she is a woman in the best sense of the word. 
 If you were ill she would nurse you to the death; 
 if you were sorry she would cheer you ; if you 
 were glad she would be merry with you. Hannah’s 
 character is well known all over Hartford, where I 
 used to live in my childish days. Hannah is the 
 most looked-up-to woman in the district, and I am 
 proud to be cousin to her, although it is twice re- 
 moved ; and I am proud, very proud, to think she 
 will take you, my lass, in hand.’ 
 
 ‘ But, Uncle Tom — but. Uncle Tom ’ 
 
 ‘ Come, child, no more words. You come with me. 
 You go to-morrow ; yes, to-morrow. Come with me 
 now.’ 
 
 ‘ But, Uncle Tom ’ 
 
 ‘ Come with me. Hold your tongue, Martha. You 
 and Hannah Price have got to talk to one another. 
 Come this minute.’ 
 
 ‘Yes, Martha; go, dear, go,’ said Mrs Moore. 
 
 Martha looked at her mother ; she dragged her hand 
 away from that of Thomas Jenkins, and stood quiet 
 for a moment. She looked something like a young 
 stag at bay ; her eyes were full of entreaty. 
 
A COUNTRY-COUSIN. 
 
 339 
 
 ‘Never mind/ she said, ‘I’ll have my say after- 
 wards. You can talk out all that is in your heart; 
 I ’ll have my say afterwards.’ 
 
 ‘ Bless the girl ! What a spirit she has ! ’ said 
 Jenkins. ‘I promised Hannah Price that I wouldn’t 
 be angry. Now then, come.’ 
 
 Martha and her uncle crossed the hall together. 
 Just as they were leaving the room he turned and 
 nodded to his sister. 
 
 ‘ You stay where you are, Polly ; you are not to 
 interfere. I have a very nice little plan for us two 
 afterwards — a very jolly little plan; but first of all 
 we must arrange for Martha. The young always do 
 come first in the present day. Ha ! ha ! ’ 
 
 The uncle and niece crossed the slippery parquetry 
 hall. In the middle Thomas Jenkins suddenly gave 
 voice to his powerful lungs. 
 
 ‘ I say, Hannah Price, where are you hiding ? ’ 
 
 ‘ I ’m in the drawing-room, Thomas,’ was the reply ; 
 and Thomas Jenkins and his niece went in the 
 direction of that gorgeous — and, in Martha’s opinion, 
 terrible — apartment. 
 
 The drawing-room at night was brilliantly lit with 
 quantities of incandescent burners. The girl blinked 
 her eyes as if in pain when she entered. There were 
 two chandeliers from the ceiling, and there were several 
 gas-brackets against the walls. Wherever light could 
 be put, it was, for Jenkins’s idea of perfect beauty was 
 an unlimited glare. What with the mirrors and what 
 with the royal-blue decorations, and what with the 
 gilt, the room now was the reverse of peaceful. 
 
 Hannah Price was seated on an ottoman exactly 
 under one of the large gasaliers. She was not leaning 
 
340 
 
 A COUNTRY-COUSIN. 
 
 back — she was bolt upright. Her large feet were 
 spread well in front of her, and she was knitting 
 a woollen stocking. She did not raise her eyes when 
 her cousin and his niece came in, but went on knitting 
 a little faster than usual. A ball of wool lay on the 
 floor at her feet. She kicked it a little away as 
 Thomas Jenkins said, ‘Well, Hannah, here we are.’ 
 ‘First of all, Thomas,’ said Hannah, not resigning 
 her needles, but raising her steely gray eyes to his 
 face, ‘ let me congratulate you on this room. It is 
 the first sensible room I have seen in the house. 
 I like it extremely ; it is handsome and full of light, 
 and I like the furniture. You must have spent a 
 lot on the room, Thomas ; there is money all over 
 it — wasteful money I call it ; but still it is beyond 
 doubt a handsome apartment.’ 
 
 ‘Do you think so?’ said Thomas in a most cheerful 
 tone. ‘ Ha ! ha ! I guessed you and I had some things 
 in common. Now, this is exactly the room my 
 mother, were she alive, would have furnished. I 
 seem to see my mother all over it.’ 
 
 ‘Your mother, Thomas Jenkins,’ said Hannah Price 
 in a solemn tone, ‘ had the most admirable taste I 
 ever saw in any woman.’ 
 
 ‘ Right you are, Hannah — right you are ; and the 
 more you talk in that strain the better you please 
 me. Well now, then, here ’s the lass, and we had 
 better settle things as fast as possible.’ 
 
 Poor Martha, feeling exactly as if she were dragged 
 to her execution, was accommodated by Jenkins with 
 a chair, which he placed full in front of Hannah Price, 
 and still more, if possible, under the glare from the 
 gasalier. 
 
A COUNTRY-COUSIN. 
 
 841 
 
 Thomas himself stood with his legs slightly apart, 
 his hands in his trousers pockets, at right angles to 
 the two ladies. 
 
 ‘ Now then, Hannah,’ he said, ‘ I have explained the 
 scheme to you ; you explain it to Martha.’ 
 
 Thus adjured, Hannah Price deliberately folded up 
 her long stocking. She bent forward and picked up 
 the worsted ball; she deposited stocking and ball in 
 a hideous cretonne bag which hung’ on her arm. She 
 then looked full up at Martha. 
 
 ‘My lass,’ she said, ‘you don’t like me, and I’m 
 not at all certain that I like you.’ 
 
 ‘Nonsense,’ said Jenkins; ‘that’s not the way to 
 begin. It’s not a question of liking — it’s downright 
 business ; it ’s the saving of a lass from destruction. 
 It ’s her last chance, I tell you, Hannah ; it ’s her last 
 chance of turning into a woman like my mother.’ 
 
 ‘But I never intend to be a woman like your 
 mother,’ began Martha. 
 
 ‘ Hush ! ’ said Hannah. Hannah’s tone was so firm, 
 and her ‘hush’ so profound, that Martha in spite of 
 herself was reduced to silence. ‘It is this,’ said 
 
 Hannah ; ‘ your uncle ’ 
 
 ‘ He is not my uncle,’ said Martha. 
 
 ‘Well, your step-uncle wishes me to look after 
 you, to fend for you, and make for you, and bake 
 for you, and brew for you for a year. — Yes, Thomas, 
 we won’t make it longer than a year. — Hold your 
 tongue, miss ; you have got to hear me out. You are 
 to come away with me to-morrow, or the next day 
 at farthest, and I will give you a good time. I will 
 teach you the sort of things you know nothing about. 
 I will teach you this, for instance ’ — here she touched 
 
342 
 
 A COUNTRY-COUSIN. 
 
 the bag which contained her knitting ; ‘ I ’ll teach 
 you the mysteries of cooking ; I ’ll teach you how 
 to preserve, and how to boil hams, and how to wash, 
 and how to iron, and how to mangle ; I ’ll show 
 you the right way to milk a cow ; and I ’ll show you 
 the right way to feed the chickens. You will turn 
 into a hearty lass, and all that is sensible in you 
 will come to the fore. You won’t live in this sort 
 of house, which, with the exception of this one room, 
 is a house to be dreaded ; you won’t slide about on 
 ice-floors ; you won’t have to sleep in yellow bedrooms. 
 — That bedroom of yours, Tom, is an abomination, and 
 I say so frankly.’ 
 
 Thomas Jenkins moved a foot or two away from 
 his cousin, Hannah Price. 
 
 ‘And you’ll come home with me to-morrow, and 
 we ’ll try it for a year. — That ’s a bargain — isn’t it, 
 Thomas ? I don’t say that I take to the wench at 
 present, although, if I am not greatly mistaken, she 
 has a grain of sense somewhere in her composition, 
 and you have a bit of the fool in yours. I ’ll know 
 about these matters when I have had the girl with 
 me for a year. — Now then, Martha, is it a bargain ?’ 
 
 But before Martha could utter a word there came 
 an interruption. 
 
CHAPTElt XXXV. 
 
 THE KITTEN TO THE RESCUE. 
 
 HE interruption was of that nature that 
 it could not possibly be got rid of or 
 ignored or pushed aside. It came in the 
 form of a small girl, whose cheeks were 
 rosy and eyes bright. The girl had 
 curling hair, and was altogether as pretty looking a 
 little object as the heart of man could desire ; she was 
 dressed all in white, and she tripped forward with the 
 graceful half-dancing step of a happy child. She 
 came straight up to Jenkins. 
 
 ‘ You have not forgotten to-morrow ? ’ said Janet. 
 
 ‘Well, to be sure,’ said Jenkins, ‘here’s the little 
 miss that I rescued. And how is the puppy, my dear ? 
 and how are you ? ’ 
 
 ‘I am very well indeed, I thank you,’ replied Janet; 
 ‘ And how are you, Mr Thomas Jenkins ? ’ 
 
 ‘ I am quite well too, missy.’ 
 
 ‘ I have come,’ said Janet, ‘ to remind you of your 
 promise. — Oh, how do you do, Martha ? ’ She went 
 up to Martha and shook hands with her. 
 
 ‘ What promise ? ’ said Jenkins, rubbing his eyes. 
 He felt bewildered and excited ; he was just making 
 the most comfortable arrangements by which he could 
 
344 
 
 THE KITTEN TO THE RESCUE. 
 
 get rid of Martha, his hete noire, and was not too 
 well pleased to be interrupted by a silly little girl 
 like Janet Rodney. 
 
 ‘ You promised,’ said Janet, ‘you would do nothing 
 for a week, in order to give me time to explain. I 
 want to explain about my darling Clare and the 
 pearl ring, and to show you that there’s no one in 
 all the world like Clare — no one else so noble, no one 
 else so brave. I can do it all to-morrow. Everything 
 is ready, and you are to come, please, Mr Thomas 
 Jenkins ; and you are not to make any plans until 
 after to-morrow, ’cos you promised me. Will you 
 please come to father’s house to-morrow at twelve 
 o’clock, and will you bring Martha with you ? You 
 can bring Mrs Moore if she will come, for it doesn’t 
 matter how many are there, as I want all the world 
 to know about my Clare.’ 
 
 ‘ And may I come too, little lady ? ’ said Hannah 
 Price, rising at that moment. 
 
 ‘ Please, who are you ? ’ asked Janet. 
 
 ‘ She is my kinswoman, little Miss Rodney, and a 
 very fine woman too, with plenty of character.’ 
 
 ‘ I think you look rather nice,’ said Janet ; ‘ and as 
 this is my party I shall be very glad to see you.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, a party is it ? ’ said Hannah Price ; ‘ but I 
 suffer from the indigestion. I hope you won’t expect 
 me to eat.’ 
 
 ‘ I don’t know that there will be anything to eat ; it 
 is not exactly that kind of party; but it’s much more 
 important than any other that ever was heard of. 
 Please come if you like, ’cos I may invite any one I 
 please. Come all of you to father’s house at twelve 
 o’clock to-morrow.’ 
 
THE KITTEN TO THE RESCUE. 
 
 345 
 
 Jenkins’s face, which had grown first red and then 
 rather pale, now relaxed with an effort. He went up 
 to Janet and took her hand. 
 
 ‘ Are you telling me the truth,’ he said, ‘ or are you 
 making a fool of me ? ’ 
 
 ‘I always speak the truth,’ replied Janet a little 
 proudly. ‘ I said I ’d do it, and I have done it ; and 
 everything in all the world will be made right to- 
 morrow, and you will know about my Clare.’ 
 
 ‘ About her selling the ring I gave her ? ’ 
 
 ‘Yes. You’ll know everything; you’ll know that 
 
 she could not But I must not explain beforehand ; 
 
 but you may rest quite satisfied. Are you coming ? — 
 that ’s all.’ 
 
 ‘Yes, of course I’ll come, little missy. I’ll bring 
 Martha, if she likes, and my cousin, and my sister, if 
 you so wish it ; and if you can do anything to make 
 me feel that your sister Clarissa has not fooled me, 
 and that she is as fine a lass as I always thought her, 
 why, there’s nothing I won’t do for you too, little 
 missy.’ 
 
 ‘ Well, you ’ll have to do a fine lot for me, then,’ said 
 Janet. ‘ I want lots of things.’ 
 
 ‘You can ask me for anything you please,’ said 
 Jenkins. 
 
 ‘I am very happy,’ replied Janet. ‘I ran away 
 without leave, and perhaps mother will be angry, so 
 I had best go now.’ 
 
 ‘ I ’ll walk back with you, missy.’ 
 
 ‘No, thank you; one of our maids came with me, 
 and she is waiting outside. Good-bye, Mr Jenkins. 
 Please come at twelve o’clock to-morrow.’ 
 
CHAPTER XXXVI 
 Janet’s party. 
 
 CANNOT understand George Sarson, 
 Professor Rodney said to his wife. 
 
 ‘ Why, what is the matter with him ? ’ 
 she asked. 
 
 ‘ He is so strange. I have just had a 
 telegram from him to say he will be here at a quarter 
 to twelve. He came down, if you remember, early in 
 the week ; and, as far as I could tell, had not a blessed 
 thing to say to me.’ 
 
 ‘ I do remember,’ said Mrs Rodney. ‘ I was much 
 puzzled myself. He seemed very confidential with 
 Janet.’ 
 
 ‘Yes,’ said the Professor, laughing, ‘he has taken 
 quite a fancy to Little Miss Nonentity, as he calls 
 our pretty little Janet. I, of course, thought that he 
 had come here on important business to see me, and 
 asked him into my study ; but I assure you, my 
 dear, he had not a thing to talk about. He was 
 quite absent-minded ; and, except for the somewhat 
 tiresome remarks, “ I hope, Rodney, you are faithful 
 to the cod-liver oil,” “I trust, Rodney, you do your 
 inhaling properly every morning,” he did nothing 
 whatever but pace up and down the room, repeating 
 
Janet’s party. 
 
 347 
 
 at intervals, “ Strange ! very, very strange ! ” Suddenly 
 he stopped, looked at his watch, and told me he must 
 be off. I said, “ But you have not explained the nature 
 of your visit.” “ Oh, that will keep,” he said. “ Good- 
 bye, Rodney,” and then he did dash off. Yes, of course 
 I always knew he was a peculiar sort of man, and I 
 resolved to forget his eccentricities on that occasion ; 
 but now here is a wire from him : 
 
 ‘ “ Expect me at Upton on the same business that 
 brought me on Wednesday last. Will be with you at 
 a quarter to twelve.” 
 
 ‘Now, as far as I can tell, he came with no business 
 whatever on Wednesday except to question me with 
 regard to the cod-liver oil — a nauseous mess I never 
 touch — and on the subject of my breathing.’ 
 
 ‘ He is a little cracked, in my opinion,’ said Mrs 
 Rodney. ‘ Don’t fret about him, dear. I am sorry he 
 is coming, for he is always so rude to us ladies ; still, 
 as he is really devoted to you, I ’ll do the best I can 
 for him.’ 
 
 On this occasion Janet was also in intense excite- 
 ment. She had absolutely begged for a holiday from 
 school. 
 
 ‘My dear Janet, that I never do give,’ said her 
 mother. 
 
 ‘ Then, mother,’ said J anet, turning very red, ‘ I am 
 going to disobey you.’ 
 
 ‘ Disobey me ? What do you mean ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Please, mother ’ Janet went up to her mother 
 
 and coaxed her. ‘Please, trust me until after twelve 
 o’clock to-day; it is so important, and I will work 
 double hard to-morrow. Please — please, trust me, 
 mummy.’ 
 
348 
 
 JANETS PARTY. 
 
 And strange to say, and very much also to Janet’s 
 own surprise, Mrs Rodney did assent to her request. 
 
 ‘ I will trust you,’ she said, ‘ if you will promise to 
 explain things to me afterwards.’ 
 
 So Janet had her own way, and was happy and 
 excited as child could be. 
 
 As to Clarissa, it was possible for her to leave the 
 day-school and to be back at the Rodneys’ house just 
 about noon. Janet said very little to Clarissa about 
 what was to take place ; the only remark she made 
 to her as she was going out very sadly — for she was 
 feeling much depressed — was, ‘You are going to dine 
 at home to-day, Clare ? ’ 
 
 ‘ I generally do, Janey. Why do you ask ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Only, you ’ll be sure to be punctual. You get here 
 at twelve o’clock ? ’ 
 
 ‘ At twelve, or a few minutes past.’ 
 
 ‘Well, that’s all right. I’d like you to come in 
 about a quarter-past twelve. It is very, very urgent.’ 
 
 ‘ What a child you are for secrets, Janey ! ’ Clarissa 
 kissed her sister in a partly abstracted manner and 
 then left the house. 
 
 At a quarter to twelve punctually the little Professor 
 arrived. Janet was standing on the steps waiting to 
 greet him. 
 
 ‘ There you are ! ’ she said. She rushed down and 
 caught both his hands. 
 
 ‘ Eh, kitten ! ’ was his reply. ‘ Here I am.’ 
 
 He and she went into the house together. 
 
 ‘ Have you done it ? ’ said Janet. 
 
 ‘Yes.’ 
 
 ‘ The people are coming,’ said Janet after a pause. 
 
 ‘ The people ! Good Heavens ! what people ? ’ 
 
JANET’S PARTY. 
 
 349 
 
 ‘ The people who must know Clare as she is.’ 
 
 ‘ Is the young fellow to be present ? ’ asked the 
 Professor after a pause. 
 
 ‘ Clare is to be present afterwards. You ’ll have 
 time to make your speech first.’ 
 
 ‘ Then that is all right. And you don’t object to 
 my wearing my blue glasses, and standing in such a 
 position that I shall only see your father ? ’ 
 
 ‘ There will be another man there, and a very 
 important man : Mr Thomas Jenkins.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, I don’t mind a man. Keep the women in the 
 background, as you love me. Nonentity.’ 
 
 ‘ I ’ll do my best,’ said Janet. 
 
 She herself had arranged the dining-room, where the 
 all-important interview was to take place. She had 
 taken one of the servants into her confidence, and had 
 drawn down all the blinds in the direction where she 
 meant to place her female guests, and had drawn up 
 the blinds just in that part of the room where her 
 father and Thomas Jenkins were to place themselves. 
 
 ‘ He won’t see the ladies at all,’ thought Janet ; ‘ and 
 perhaps he will drop his blue spectacles and allow his 
 kind, dear blue eyes to show themselves. It don’t 
 matter how shabby he is when you look at his blue 
 eyes ; but I do wish he hadn’t that shiny old coat with 
 the hole in the back. The button was nearly gone 
 when he was here on Wednesday, and now it has quite 
 gone ; there is a big hole where the button ought to 
 be,’ 
 
 But as Janet could not have everything her 
 own way, even on this auspicious occasion, she was 
 forced to put up with the hole in Professor Sarson’s 
 coat. 
 
350 
 
 Janet’s party. 
 
 She took him into the garden and had a little further 
 conversation, and presently she asked him to step into 
 her father’s study, and then she herself went and stood 
 on the steps, devoutly trusting that her mother would 
 not see her. 
 
 By-and-by she observed, coming slowly down the 
 street, a sight which caused her heart to beat a trifle 
 quicker than usual and a curious mixture of pleasure 
 and awe to fill her little childish breast. First of all in 
 the procession miglit be seen Thomas Jenkins arrayed 
 in his loudest and his best. He had taken great pains 
 with his toilet. His valet had been well called into 
 requisition; Jenkins was now sufficiently accustomed 
 to this individual to exercise his own determined will, 
 and the valet had to dress him once more as if he were 
 Sfoinc: to a bridal. How his wonderful diamond studs 
 sparkled ! How that magnificent ring on his fourth 
 finger gleamed! How his shirt-front shone with 
 immaculate whiteness 1 And what a perfect fit was 
 his frock-coat ! 
 
 Leaning on her brother’s arm came Mrs Moore, 
 neatly and quietly dressed, and looking the perfect 
 lady that she was. Jenkins, in his heart, disapproved 
 of his sister’s attire. 
 
 ‘You might do things a little more stylishly,’ he 
 said. 
 
 But Mrs Moore shook her head. ‘ I was alwaj^s one 
 for quiet colours,’ she said ; ‘ you know that, Thomas.’ 
 
 ‘ But not when you dreamt of the dress the colour 
 of a rose,’ he answered. ‘By the way, I seldom or 
 never see you in that dress.’ 
 
 Now Mrs Moore had had the silk made into a very 
 gorgeous tea-gown, which she sometimes did wear when 
 
Janet’s party. 
 
 351 
 
 she found herself quite alone with her brother. She 
 smiled now, hut made no answer. 
 
 In the wake of the first couple came the second 
 couple, these consisting of Hannah Price and Martha. 
 Martha was in her quietest — and, indeed, her shabbiest 
 — costume ; but she looked neat and nice. Miss Price 
 wore the dress she wore on all occasions. It was 
 short, coming’ little below her ankles ; it was made 
 of a serviceable brown serge — a somewhat hot dress 
 for the time of year. Over the serge dress she wore 
 a sack-coat very full and much too large for her. The 
 coat had innumerable pockets, and in one of them 
 was the cretonne bag which contained her knitting. 
 On her head she wore a mushroom hat trimmed with 
 a solitary band of brown ribbon, and cotton gloves 
 covered her large red hands ; her face beamed with 
 good humour and interest. She occasionally leaned 
 on Martha as she walked and talked the whole time 
 in an animated way to the young girl. 
 
 ‘They are coming,’ said Janet ; ‘ it is all as right as 
 possible.’ She turned to a servant who stood near. 
 ‘Jessie,’ she said, ‘the very instant my sister Clare 
 comes, tell her that I want her in the dining-room. 
 Be sure you tell her the minute she comes in.’ 
 
 ‘Yes, Miss Janet; but how excited you are, to be 
 sure, miss.’ 
 
 ‘ I have reason to be, Jessie. I am about the happiest 
 girl in the world.’ 
 
 All the servants loved Janet, and Jessie now smiled 
 with pleasure at the little girl’s delight. 
 
 ‘Here you are,’ said Janet, as the four approached 
 and began to walk up the steps. ‘ How do you do, Mr 
 Jenkins ? How do you do, Mrs Moore ? Please, all 
 
352 
 
 JANET’S PARTY. 
 
 of you come in, and don’t make much noise in the 
 hall. It ’s a little unexpected ; but then it ’s my party.’ 
 
 She ushered them into the dining-room. 
 
 ‘ Please, Mrs Moore,’ she said, ‘ do you mind sitting 
 in the dark part of the room, and you too. Miss Price, 
 and you too, Martha ? He can’t bear women ; that ’s 
 the reason.’ 
 
 ‘ Then why, in the name of fortune, have we come 
 here ? ’ was Hannah Price’s strident remark. 
 
 ‘ Oh, do hush, please. It ’s my party ; don’t spoil 
 everything. — Mr Jenkins, he quite likes men; you can 
 stand here with the sunlight on you. Oh, what a 
 beautiful coat you have on, and what a lovely diamond ! ’ 
 
 ‘ Ah ! ’ said Jenkins. ‘ I look fine — do I ? Glad you 
 think so, little miss. Is Miss Clarissa about to put in 
 an appearance ? ’ 
 
 ‘She will presently, Mr Jenkins — presently, when 
 she is wanted. — Now, please, all of you stay very still. 
 Don’t, on any account, change your places. — Mr Jenkins, 
 do stand where the sun will shine on you, you look 
 so nice ; and, please, all the rest of you do keep in the 
 dark. Now, that is all right.’ 
 
 The guests looked at one another in some amaze- 
 ment. Miss Hannah Price thought it expedient to 
 sniff and to say these were not country manners, and 
 that for her part she was put out of all patience by 
 seeing men so uplifted. ‘ Thomas thinks enough of 
 himself as it is,’ she said ; ‘ and I for one have no 
 mind to humour him. That ’s a silly child ; I don’t 
 think much of her.’ 
 
 But the silly child was having it all her own way 
 at that moment. She marched into the study where 
 Mr Sarson, looking extremely nervous and fearfully 
 
JANET S PARTY. 
 
 353 
 
 distrait, not having uttered a word to the Professor 
 except on the subject of cod-liver oil and inhalations, 
 was waiting for her. 
 
 ‘ Ha ! little creature,’ he said, ‘ time ’s flying. Are 
 you ready ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Quite ready, please, Mr Sarson. — Father, darling, I 
 am giving a party.’ 
 
 ‘ My dear Janey, what do you mean ? ’ 
 
 ‘ I am giving a party, too,’ said Mr Sarson. ‘ No- 
 nentity and I are giving a party. Come, good folks, 
 come. The sooner we tackle it the sooner it will 
 be over. Come, madam, may I have the honour of 
 seeing you join our party ? Professor, Nonentity and 
 I will lead the way.’ 
 
 Accordingly, Mr Sarson strode up to Janet, took her 
 hand, and with almost a dancing measure left the room 
 accompanied by the child. 
 
 ‘ This becomes more and more wonderful,’ said Mrs 
 Rodney, looking at her husband. 
 
 ‘Well, my dear,’ he said after a pause, ‘I suppose 
 we must humour them.’ 
 
 ‘ What are we to humour them about ? Where are 
 we to go ? ’ 
 
 ‘Oh, mummy, do come,’ called out Janet, looking 
 back ; and then they all filed into the dining-room. 
 
 ‘ Mummy, please sit in the dark part of the room,’ 
 said Janet. 
 
 Mrs Rodney, in some displeasure, followed her little 
 girl. Janet had left a vacant place for her near Mrs 
 Moore. 
 
 ‘ Keep quite quiet both of you,’ she said ; ‘ it ’s my 
 party and Professor Sarson’s. Everything will go right 
 now.’ 
 
 Nonentity. W 
 
354 
 
 Janet’s party. 
 
 Having arranged her mother to her satisfaction, 
 Janet next proceeded to place her father well in view. 
 She would have liked to have got him to hold the hand 
 of Thomas Jenkins; but she thought perhaps that 
 might be going one step too far. She noticed, however, 
 with delight that the sun was shining full on Thomas 
 Jenkins, and that his diamonds were flashing in the 
 most delightful way ; she also observed how noble 
 her own father looked, how flne was the contour of 
 his upright and yet slightly worn figure, and how 
 splendid the expx'ession in his full dark eyes. He 
 glanced all round the room, then looked at Thomas 
 Jenkins, nodded to him, and said in a low voice, ‘ This 
 is a mystery to me, sir ; but I suppose we must 
 humour the little one;’ and then he prepared himself 
 to await events. 
 
 Having placed all her guests, Janet now proceeded 
 to turn her attention to Professor Sarson. Never in 
 the whole coui'se of his life had this individual felt 
 more uncomfortable ; he said afterwards that he was 
 exactly in the position of a person exposed to the full 
 rays of the sun through burning glasses. 
 
 ‘ There were,’ he was fond of saying afterwards, 
 ‘ eight eyes all situated in female faces turned full upon 
 me. I don’t reckon Nonentity’s eyes in this list. It 
 was the most awful moment of my whole life.’ 
 
 The Professor himself, however, took care to mitigate 
 his tortures by turning his back full upon the women- 
 folk and addressing his remarks directly to Professor 
 Rodney and Mr Jenkins. 
 
CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 PROFESSOR SARSON’s VIEW OF THE MATTER. 
 
 RE your trains punctual here, Rodney ? ’ 
 was Professor Sarson’s first strano-e 
 
 o 
 
 remark — a remark which caused Miss 
 Hannah Price to sniff quite audibly, 
 and say under her breath to Martha : 
 
 ‘ I thought that little girl was fooling us. It is a 
 great mistake to encourage children and put them out 
 of their places.’ 
 
 ‘ Hush, please ; do listen,’ was Martha’s answer. 
 
 Professor Sarson came a step forward and took out 
 his watch. 
 
 ‘ Are the trains punctual ? ’ he repeated. 
 
 ‘Yes, as a rule,’ replied Mr Rodney; and just at 
 that moment, as if to answer him, there was a sound 
 of wheels in the street outside, wheels which came 
 faster and faster and stopped abruptly outside the 
 Rodneys’ door. There was an anxious pause on the 
 part of every one, a pause of intense expectation. 
 Even little Janet looked uneasy and perplexed. The 
 Professor alone seemed relieved ; he took out his 
 handkerchief and wiped the moisture from his fore- 
 head. He removed his blue glasses and cleaned them 
 
356 PKOFESSOR sarson’s view of the matter. 
 
 carefully, and muttered under his breath, ‘ This is a 
 relief. Thank Heaven ! this is a relief.’ 
 
 The next instant the door of the big dining-room 
 was flung open, and Jessie announced in clear, 
 penetrating, and vibrant tones, ‘ Sir John Carbery !’ 
 The effect of the great London doctor’s appearance 
 on the scene was magnetic. He had been heard of 
 by every one present. Mr Rodney looked at him, 
 with the colour mounting into his cheeks. Mrs 
 Rodney attempted to step forward ; but Janet sprang 
 to her side and held her back. 
 
 ‘No, no, mummy,’ she said, ‘leave it all, please, 
 please, to Professor Sarson.’ 
 
 Then Sir John, bowing to his host and hostess, came 
 forward and shook hands with Professor Sarson. 
 
 ‘ Am I in time ? ’ he said. 
 
 ‘ Quite in time, and I am much obliged to you,’ said 
 Professor Sarson. ‘ Will you stand there, please ? ’ 
 He requested the doctor to stand just in the line of 
 sunlio;ht which little Janet had marked out. 
 
 She looked at him with almost her soul in her eyes. 
 How splendid he was ! A giant come to deliver ! 
 
 And now Professor Sarson seemed to lose his 
 shyness, to feel the personality of the great doctor as 
 a perfect tower of strength, and thus to he enabled to 
 speak with the same sang-froid he would have done 
 in his lecture-hall at University College, 
 
 ‘ I may as well say,’ he began at once, ‘ that the 
 task I have before me gives me pleasure. It is the 
 work altogether, from first to last, of Little Miss 
 Nonentity. I have a great admiration for the little 
 person who bears that title, and for her sake I have 
 put myself in a position which, I will frankly say. 
 
PROFESSOR SARSON’s VIEW OF THE MATTER. 357 
 
 would have been one of terror had not Sir John 
 Carbery come to my support. It seems that there is 
 a great deal of misunderstanding abroad, and in 
 particular does this misunderstanding cluster round 
 the person of a young creature who hears the name 
 of Clarissa Rodney. It is the misfortune of this 
 young person to have been born a female, for she has 
 many of those qualities which would have made her 
 an excellent man — she has brains, determination, and 
 the wit to use what Providence has given her in the 
 hour of emergency. Little Miss Nonentity has been 
 much troubled with regard to Miss Clarissa, and has 
 asked me to try to put things straight. Now, I wish 
 to do so, and I think I can best accomplish that task 
 by allow'ing my kind friend — for he certainly is my 
 friend — Sir John Cai’bery to speak for himself.’ Here 
 the Professor blew his nose vigorously, took off his 
 glasses, muttered under his breath, ‘ Hot, very hot ! 
 Must go to a high altitude after this, in order to 
 restore the balance ; ’ but as nobody listened to his 
 mutterings he kept them to himself. 
 
 And now Sir John Carbery took one step forward. 
 ‘ I am very pleased to come,’ he said. ‘ Professor 
 Sarson called on me the night before last, and put 
 a problem to me. In some ways it was a difficult 
 problem, as it involved the breaking of my word ; but 
 in the many perplexities of life I believe there come 
 moments when more harm is done by holding your 
 peace than by making a plain statement, and I think 
 that time has come now. I will, for the benefit of 
 those present, relate as shortly and in as few words 
 as possible a story.’ 
 
 How they all looked at the doctor as he spoke ! 
 
358 PROFESSOR sarson’s view of the matter. 
 
 How clear and melodious were his tones ! how 
 humorous and yet firm the expression of his eyes ! 
 He was a man whose decree meant life or death to 
 many people; he had stood by deathbeds innumer- 
 able ; he had bidden the tired traveller on life’s 
 journey prepare for his end. On the other hand, he 
 had restored those who were on the brink of death to 
 life, and had caused hearts to rejoice and thousands to 
 love him. 
 
 ‘ I will tell my story briefly,’ he repeated ; and then 
 be began : 
 
 ‘ On a certain morning in the late autumn of last 
 year I had seen many patients, and was a little tired 
 when my servant came into my I’oom to say that a 
 lady wanted to see me immediately. It was just past 
 my hour for attending to patients, and I was about 
 to refuse, when the man — who does not often inter- 
 fere — said, “ The lady is young, sir, and seems in 
 trouble.” 
 
 ' Something in the tone touched me, and I said she 
 was to be admitted. A girl came into the room. The 
 date of the visit was the 20th of October of last year.’ 
 
 ‘ The 20th of October ? ’ here muttered Mrs Rodney. 
 
 Janet had squeezed herself close to her mother now, 
 and pressed her little hand quite firmly into hers. 
 ‘Yes, mummy, yes,’ she said in a low voice; ‘the day 
 father was so very, very ill.’ 
 
 ‘ I can never forget it,’ said Mrs Rodney. 
 
 ‘ The girl appeared, and I asked her to seat herself,’ 
 continued the doctor. ‘ She was young and slender, 
 only a school-girl. She had a nice face. I cannot 
 recall her features, but I know her eyes were good, 
 dark, and full of feeling. She had self-control also. 
 
PROFESSOR SARSON’s VIEW OF THE MATTER. 359 
 
 and there was nothing of the hysterical miss about 
 her. She told me a brief story. She said that her 
 father was dying — she wished me to visit him ; she 
 earnestly desired that I should come to see him at 
 her expense. Her name was Clarissa Rodney.’ 
 
 ‘ What ! ’ said Professor Rodney. 
 
 ‘One moment, Rodney,’ said the doctor; ‘you can 
 ask me any questions you like afterwards. I was 
 deeply, deeply interested in her. I got her to tell 
 me all her story ; the main point of it, however, is 
 enough for those assembled here. Clarissa Rodney 
 wanted to take those steps which in her opinion, and 
 in the opinion of the local doctor. Dr Bennett, would 
 best give her father — you, sir — a chance of recovery. 
 She said she had recently obtained a scholarship worth 
 forty pounds a year, and would pay my fee as soon as 
 she received the money from the Governors of the 
 school. I would gladly, more than gladly have paid 
 a visit to the father of one so plucky and brave 
 without any fee; but I saw that half her pleasure 
 would go if she did not feel that she herself was 
 the active agent in this matter. So I fell in with 
 her view, which was simply, that I was to give 
 Dr Bennett and you, sir, to understand that a special 
 and very great friend of yours had paid this money. 
 I came to see you, and, under Providence, was enabled 
 to take steps which restored you to the health you 
 are now enjoying.’ 
 
 ‘ One minute,’ said little Janet at that instant ; ‘ one 
 minute, please.’ She hastily rose from her seat, ran 
 across the room, opened the door, and was heard to 
 say in a clear and very excited voice, ‘ Clare ! Clare ! 
 come in, come in.’ 
 
360 PROFESSOR sarson’s view of the matter. 
 
 ‘ What is it ? ’ said Clarissa. 
 
 Janet ran to her, held out both her hands, and drew 
 her sister into the room. ‘ Here ’s Clarissa,’ she said. 
 
 ‘ You see her again. Sir John Carbery. — Father, here ’s 
 Clarissa.’ 
 
 ‘ Come here, my child. I have been listening to 
 strange things about you,’ said Professor Rodney. He 
 crossed the room slowly, took Clare’s hand, put his 
 arm round her waist, and drew her up to that part of 
 the room where Jenkins and Sir John Carbery were 
 standing. 
 
 ‘ The re,st of the story is now my affair,’ said 
 Professor Sarson. ‘ Oh ! it is all right, young fellow 
 — girl, I mean; you have been cleared abundantly. 
 But I know the rest, and so does Nonentity here. 
 — Nonentity, we ’ll have everything arranged in fine 
 style for your brave young fellow — girl, I mean — 
 in a few moments. The young fellow — girl, I mean — 
 behaved with extreme pluck ; but, alas ! the course of 
 this true love — the love of a daughter for her father — 
 was not destined to run smooth. Miss Clarissa found 
 out a day or two afterwards that she could not use 
 the scholai’ship money in the way she intended; in 
 fact, no money was to be given to her at all. The 
 rules had been altered, and she had not noticed the 
 alteration. The scholarship money was to be expended 
 most worthily, most justly, and in my opinion most 
 wisely, in paying for certain lectures for the benefit 
 of the holder. I repeat, most wisely — for even the 
 female mind can imbibe a certain amount of informa- 
 tion : I will never deny that — never. In Miss Clarissa’s 
 case, however, the decision of the Governors of the 
 Drummond Day-school was not so fortunate, and she 
 
PROFESSOR SARSON’s VIEW OF THE MATTER. 361 
 
 got into great trouble. She did not know how to pay 
 Sir John Carbery.’ 
 
 ‘ My dear young friend, an explanatory note would 
 have put everything right,’ said Sir John Carbery, 
 bowing to Clarissa at that moment. 
 
 ‘Not at all! Not at all!’ interrupted Professor 
 Sarson. ‘I understand that the young fellow — girl, 
 I mean — had some pride; naturally and rightly, the 
 daughter of Rodney should have pride. The daughter 
 of Rodney gave her bond, and Nonentity and I quite 
 saw that that bond must be kept. Accordingly, my 
 young friend here — even though she is a girl, I feel 
 quite tolerant towards her — had to put her wits to 
 work; she tried every possible means to get the 
 necessary money, and at last in despair was forced 
 to sell a ring which was given to her, I believe, by a 
 very kind friend of hers, Mr Thomas Jenkins. You, 
 sir, I understand, are the gentleman who presented 
 Miss Clarissa Rodney with a pearl ring. Now, you 
 will excuse me, sir; you can say anything you like 
 afterwards, but for the present allow me to proceed. 
 The ring was naturally of very little moment to the 
 young person to whom it was given compared to that 
 young person’s own honour, and her bond to the man 
 who had saved her father. So she, in a moment of 
 extremity, but at the same time somewhat foolishly, 
 sold it to a local jeweller. Had she thought of 
 sending it to me I could have got my man to dis- 
 pose of it in town ; but she was impulsive — that is 
 part of the character of most women. In the present 
 instance we have nothing to say against that, for had 
 she not been impulsive, our friend Professor Rodney 
 would not now be in our midst. I think, for the sake 
 
362 PROFESSOR s arson’s view of the matter. 
 
 of that most precious life, we must forgive that young 
 person her impetuosity. She sold your ring, sir, out 
 of no disrespect to you, hut because she loved her 
 father so much. She paid Sir John Carbery.’ 
 
 ‘ That she did, and to the hour,’ was Sir John 
 Carbery ’s comment. 
 
 ‘ I understand that, although a small matter, the 
 sale of the ring has given you considerable annoy- 
 ance, Mr Thomas Jenkins,’ continued Professor Sarson. 
 ‘ Now, you can have your say, for I am anxious to 
 catch the next train to town. Locality flat — not 
 suited to my special idiosyncrasy. There is just one 
 thing more and I have done. Miss Clarissa — the 
 young fellow I have been speaking about — being 
 anxious to save her father, went to town; but she 
 had no money, and was obliged to resort to strata- 
 gem. The motives which actuated her were of the 
 very best and noblest; the means were, on the face 
 of it, shady. She was obliged to open a certain 
 missionary-box, and to extract from its depths a 
 sovereign. That sovereign was the first step in the 
 recovery of the Professor to the patlis of health. 
 Miss Clarissa was terribly unhappy about that sove- 
 reign, and matters followed which gave her mother 
 considerable annoyance and distress. Miss Clarissa 
 did wrong that right might come ; she will doubtless 
 explain more fully to her mother all her motives 
 in a private interview. I think my part is done. I 
 extremely respect this young person, who has restored 
 to the world the man I most love and most honour. 
 I only regret, for my own sake, that I had neither 
 part nor lot in the matter ; but I think I have put 
 a few things straight. — Is not that so. Nonentity ? 
 
PEOFESSOR SARSON’S VIEW OF THE MATTER. 36o 
 
 But come, I must catch my train. Come, Nonentity, 
 
 help me to get off.’ . o 
 
 Before any one could prevent him. Professor Sarson 
 
 had seized Janet’s hand and dashed out of the room, 
 his shabby coat minus a button at the back being the 
 last the assembled guests saw of him. 
 
CHAPTER XXXVIII 
 
 QUITE IN THE GOOD OLD STYLE. 
 
 explain the astonishment of all present 
 would he to attempt the impossible. As 
 to Thomas Jenkins, he wrung Clarissa’s 
 hand so often that it quite ached. When 
 she turned from him it was to he clasped 
 in her father’s arms, who did not say a word, but just 
 kissed her once solemnly ; and then her mother took 
 her and kissed her twice, and said, ‘ You will explain 
 that matter of the sovereign to me presently. God 
 bless you, my dear ! But why did you not trust me ? 
 That is my one word of reproach to you.’ 
 
 As to Clarissa, she scarcely knew herself. A great 
 burden was lifted, the whole truth was known, and 
 nobody had risen up to scold her. On the contrary, 
 people began to think she had done a fine thing, in 
 especial Thomas Jenkins had praised her; in fact, he 
 could not say too much. ‘ You and I,’ he said, ‘ are 
 as sympathetic as though we were uncle and niece in 
 reality, which for my part I sincerely wish we were ; 
 you adore your father something as I adore the 
 memory of my beloved mother. Shake hands. Miss 
 Clare ; you have made me a. happy man once more.’ 
 
QUITE IN THE GOOD OLD STYLE. 
 
 365 
 
 ‘ Then, if you are happy, will you do something for 
 Martha ? ’ said Clarissa suddenly, 
 
 ‘ For Martha — eh ! what ? ’ 
 
 ‘ I think I must have a say in this,’ suddenly 
 exclaimed Hannah Price, who up to the present had 
 not spoken. ‘ I wish to goodness, Thomas,’ she con- 
 tinued, ‘ that you would let me have that lass as well 
 as Martha, to initiate into the mysteries of baking 
 and brewing and preserving, and such like matters, for 
 a year and more.’ 
 
 ‘Not a bit of it, Hannah — not a bit of it,’ said 
 Thomas Jenkins. ‘I have changed all my views. I 
 want Martha to be as much as possible with Clarissa ; 
 for so fine a girl — a girl witli such an admiration for 
 her father, such a worship of him, such a determina- 
 tion to help him at any cost — ought to be the best 
 possible companion to my own niece. I must have a 
 talk with Professor Rodney to-morrow. Those two 
 girls must become closer friends than ever ; and if the 
 Professor will allow me to repair the injustice I have 
 done to his daughter, even in my thoughts, by helping 
 with her education and smoothing her path in the 
 world in the future, I shall be more than grateful.’ 
 ‘Time enough for that, Mr Jenkins,’ said the 
 Professor. ‘You must remember that Clarissa is my 
 girl ; but we all appreciate your friendshij), and will 
 be glad to see you at our house ; and Clarissa may visit 
 Martha as often as you like to invite her.’ 
 
 ‘Yes, Mr Jenkins; and you must forgive me,’ said 
 Mrs Rodney, to the great surprise of Jenkins at that 
 moment. ‘ I misunderstood you ; but if jmu feel to 
 your dead mother in any way as my child felt to her 
 father, I cannot but respect you.’ 
 
366 
 
 QUITE IN THE GOOD OLD STYLE. 
 
 ‘ Dear ! dear ! It is worth having a pile after all/ 
 muttered Jenkins to himself. ‘ When the high-falutin 
 folk are nice, they are very nice indeed. — I say, Polly/ 
 he said, turning to his sister, ‘I am a happy man 
 again. The action of that dear little Miss Clare was 
 magnificent.’ 
 
 ‘ There is one person you are all forgetting,’ here 
 suddenly exclaimed Sir .John Carbery, who had been 
 silent during all this little scene, ‘ and that is the 
 young lady whom my new friend Professor Sarson 
 calls Little Miss Nonentity. But for her interference 
 a cloud might have come between several good people, 
 and the girl whose fortunes I shall always follow with 
 deep interest, Miss Clarissa Rodney, might not have 
 been so happily cleared even from the suspicion of 
 blame. The only thing I have to say to you. Miss 
 Clarissa, in the future is this, that if you want a 
 friend you have but to apply to me. I like girls 
 with stuff in them ; I like girls who can act on an 
 emergency. I am only sorry that in your trouble you 
 did not see sufficiently into my character to know 
 that I would have helped you, and not allowed 
 you to go through all this misery ; but, on the 
 other liand, I respect that sturdy side of you 
 which would do anything rather than break a 
 bond .solemnly given. I trust. Miss Clarissa, when 
 you are old enough you will adopt the profession of 
 nursing ; an admirable nurse you would make, and 
 I should recommend you to many patients. And 
 now, good-bye, good-bye to you all. God bless you, 
 Miss Clarissa.’ 
 
 Sir John Cai’bery vanished almost as .suddenly as 
 Professor Sarson, and soon afterwards Jenkins, Mrs 
 
QUITE IN THE GOOD OLD STYLE. 367 
 
 Moore, Martha, and Hannah Price also left the 
 Rodneys’ house. 
 
 Clarissa, Janet, and her father and mother were 
 alone. 
 
 ‘ Well, this is an astonishing day,’ said Mrs Rodney. 
 ‘ I presume then, Clarissa, that 3mu knew about my 
 note-book ? ’ 
 
 ‘ I burnt it, mother,’ said Clare, hanging her head, 
 her face crimson. 
 
 ‘ It was really an extremely wrong thing to do ; hut 
 you have been praised and flattered all round, and you 
 have saved your father’s life. You did wrong that 
 good might come ; your great mistake, dear, was in not 
 trusting me. But, there, child — God bless you ; and 
 God bless my little Janet ! We are a happy quartette 
 
 now ; and but for you, Clarissa, we might ’ But 
 
 here Mrs Rodney’s words failed her; she burst into 
 tears, flung her arms round the Professor’s neck, and 
 sobbed on his shoulder. 
 
 ‘Oh, Clare!’ said Little Nonentity afterwards, ‘was 
 not Professor Sarson splendid ? And it was I thought 
 of it all.’ 
 
 ‘ Yes, yes ; you are not a bit like a “ nonentity,” ’ said 
 Clarissa, hugging her sister as she spoke. 
 
 THE END. 
 
Edinburgh : 
 
 Printed by W. & B. Chambers, Limited. 
 


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