mmm ill H ml h > II. ill. IV. v. VI. £ vn. 3 VIII. 5 IX. X. Z XI. c XII. XIII. Uphill ... Making Inquiries Rushton's Daughter Beaten At Tarn Hall ... A Little Music The Mildmays ... "If!" Jim distinguishes himself Premiers Amours Looking forward The Past The Present i 26 44 67 84 no 138 159 185 214 231 2 55 275 THROUGH THICK AND THIN. CHAPTER I. UPHILL. "Which is the way? I thank you. — By yon bush ? — Pray, how far thither ? " Cymbeline. HE road ran steeply upward. On either side of it lay a tract of moor- land, with here and there a pool, which gleamed grey and cold in the pale light of a sunless May evening. A keen wind blew from the east over the dry brown bracken and the rushes, and a plover VOL. I. I 2 THROUGH THICK AND THIN. fluttered about, uttering its sharp, queru- lous cry. On a heap of stones by the wayside a girl was sitting in a languid attitude, as if overcome by fatigue. This one human figure in the scene was in keeping with the surroundings, and at the same time quite out of harmony with them. The loneliness of the place, the dreariness and discouragement which brooded over it, were reflected in her pale face and droop- ing figure. But there was a disquiet and anxiety in her eyes and in the tense lines about her mouth, which was in sharp con- trast with the calm of the wide sky and the great hills which shut in the valley. Nature was sad and disheartened, but at peace ; the human soul which looked out of the dark eyes bent on the heath was restless and disturbed. UPHILL. She was twenty-three years old, but she looked older, for in her face there was none of the freshness of girlhood, and none of the brightness of expression which comes of freedom from care and responsi- bility. Her features were good ; but she was too thin and colourless to be con- sidered pretty, and just then, with the dragged look which her face wore, she was decidedly plain. Her dress bore the broad arrow of poverty stamped clearly upon it ; her clothes were old and very shabby, and not warm enough for the chill air of a northern valley at that season ; but every article was scrupulously neat and was carefully put on. She sat for a few minutes looking list- lessly around her ; then she took a packet of sandwiches from the little bag she carried, and ate them slowly and languidly. 4 THROUGH THICK AND THIN. They were not appetizing, but she must not let herself get too hungry ; for at the end of her walk she had a hard task to perform. Then she opened her purse, and carefully counted the few coins in it, and shook her head. " No," she said to herself, " there isn't enough ; I must walk back. I will manage somehow. It is a tremendously long way ; I had no idea that five miles could be so far. I wonder whether I am in the right way ? I wish I could see somebody to tell me. But there isn't even a house to be seen." She drew out her watch and looked at it. " Well, I will wait ten minutes longer, and then I will try again. I must not be too late." The ten minutes she had allowed herself had not half run, when a sound of wheels struck her ear, and presently a dog-cart UPHILL. appeared, drawn leisurely up the hill by a bay horse. The girl rose as the vehicle approached and went forward, and the driver, seeing her intention of addressing him, pulled up. " Will you kindly tell me whether I am in the right way for Tarn Hall ? " she said. He replied that she was. " Is it much further?" " About two miles." " Thank you very much." She turned away with an inclination of her head, and was beginning to walk on ; but the other, a man about forty, with a pleasant, kindly expression, said — " I am going past the Hall, and if you care to have a lift, I will drive you with pleasure. This is a lonely road for a young lady." "Thank you; if it is not taking you 6 THROUGH THICK AND THIN. out of your way, I shall be very glad of a lift." " Not out of my way at all ; I must pass the gate," said this good Samaritan, hold- ing out his hand to help her up. " I shall be very grateful if you will take me so far," she said, with a faint smile. " I am tired, and I want to get there as soon as I can." The horse moved slowly on up the hill, and his owner occasionally cast glances at the new passenger in the dog-cart. He was curious — curious as a man would naturally feel about a strange and unex- plained apparition in a neighbourhood where he knows everybody, gentle and simple, for miles round. Who was she ? Where did she come from ? His first con- jecture, when she asked her way, was that she was a friend or relation of one of the UPHILL. servants at the Hall ; but as he noticed her voice and accent more carefully that theory became untenable. She was a gentlewoman, though she was so poorly clad and was journeying on foot. Mr. Mildmay knew the family at Tarn Hall well ; he knew also all their friends and visitors, and this girl had no place among them. What could be the errand that brought her in such a manner and at such a time to that out-of-the-way dwell- ing ? He felt quite at liberty to speculate about this unknown, for he was pretty sure to hear all about her in a day or two. He was informed of most things that hap- pened at the Hall, and such a visit as this was too noteworthy an occurrence to be passed over in silence. The object of his curiosity was quite unconscious of the scrutiny he bestowed 8 THROUGH THICK AND THIN. upon her. She looked straight before her, with a pondering expression on her face, as if she was giving careful consideration to some difficulty. So absorbed was she in her reflections, that when Mr. Mildmay presently addressed her she started nervously. " You had better put this rug round you," he said. "It is a chilly evening, and you have been walking." She wrapped it round her with a word of thanks. " I am afraid you are very tired. You must have walked a long way." " Yes, I am tired. I am not used to walking in hilly country." She did not say how far she had walked. Evidently she was a young woman who could keep her own counsel, and Mr. Mildmay felt a little ashamed of UPHILL. his hinted question. He drove on in silence for a time. "This is the gate," he said, checking the horse. "Will you take the reins while I get out and open it ? " " But you were going to drop me here ? " " Oh, I will drive you up to the house. It is very little out of my way." She hesitated a moment ; then she took the reins. " It is very kind of you," she said gently. They drove through a small park, in which a few deer browsed, past the sheet of water from which the place took its name, and as they approached the house the stranger looked about her with an air of recognition, as if the features of the landscape were quite familiar to her. " Here we are," said Mr. Mildmay, as IO THROUGH THICK AND THIN. the dog-cart stopped at the door of a good-sized house of grey stone. The girl got out quickly, then she turned to him as if on an afterthought. " I am very much obliged to you/' she said, in a mechanical, absent way. He forgave her for the coldness of her thanks as he looked at her face. It was quite white and full of tense agitation. She was too much engrossed with some serious care to think of smaller things. That troubled anxiety moved him to pity. He felt a momentary inclination to offer to do what he could for her, in case she should not find help at the Hall. But, of course, it is ridiculous to interfere in other people's affairs ; so he merely raised his hat and drove away, and the girl mounted the steps with a passionate prayer in her heart — UPHILL. 1 1 " Oh, help me, help me, help me ! Make them listen to me ! " It was some time before the door was opened in answer to her ring. Tarn Hall had a retired situation high among the hills. Visitors were not numerous there at any time. A visitor at the hour of seven on Sunday evening was unheard of, and the servants marked their disapprobation of the new experience by not hearing the bell. At last, when incredulity could be no longer maintained, a maid reluctantly confronted the ill-advised person who had broken the calm of her Sunday repose. " Is Mrs. Fletcher at home ? " asked the stranger. The maid replied that she was. "Can I see her?" The servant intimated that the untimely caller might enter, and led her across a 12 THROUGH THICK AND THIN. wide low hall to a small room wainscoted in light painted wood. " What name shall I say ? " she inquired. " Miss Rushton," said the stranger, very clearly and distinctly. Mrs. Fletcher was sitting alone when it was announced to her that a young person who called herself Miss Rushton was in the morning room. " Rushton ? " she repeated, in a tone of dismay. " Are you sure of the name, Martha ? " " Quite sure, ma'am. That was what she said." "Miss Rushton— not Mrs. ? " " Miss Rushton," Martha averred. " Young, you say ? " " About five and twenty, I should think, ma'am," UPHILL, I " Do you know where Mr. Thornburgh is?" " He is in the library, ma'am." Martha withdrew, and Mrs. Fletcher laid down the religious magazine with which she had been edifying herself, and after a pause of reflection went to the library. Through a large window at the west end of that room the light fell on the head of a man of thirty, who was writing at a table. 11 Are you busy, Miles ? Am I disturb- ing you ? " " Not at all. I can finish these letters to-morrow. Can I do anything for you ? " " Oh, it is so awkward," said Mrs. Fletcher, sinking into an armchair. A look of perturbation sat on her brow which seemed very much out of place there. She was a large, fair woman, with grey 14 THROUGH THICK AND THIN. eyes and light hair, who usually looked placid and unruffled. " You remember Sophy ? " " Of course. Have you heard anything of her?" "A Miss Rushton — I suppose it must be Sophy's stepdaughter — has come here. She is in the house now," said Mrs. Fletcher, solemnly. " Ah ! Well, she was sure to need help some day. Poor Sophy ! " said Thorn- burgh. " If you haven't money enough in the house to give this girl, I can let you have some. She may need help at once." " N-no, I didn't come to ask you for that," said Mrs. Fletcher. "Would you mind seeing her, Miles ? You could judge so much better than I what ought to be done. I shouldn't like to refuse help to Sophy, if she needs it ; but, at the same UPHILL. 1 5 time, I object to letting her husband make use of her to get anything out of us. This girl is perhaps sent by him, and Sophy may have nothing to do with it. That Mr. Rushton is a thorough good- for-nothing." "Has he tried to get money from you before ? " " Oh yes ; at one time he often made Sophy write, begging for help. Edwin sent them money at first, but he got tired of it, it was plainly such a hopeless busi- ness ; and he refused to answer any more applications of the kind." " How long was that ago ? " " It must be about five years. Yes, it was just a year before poor Edwin's death." Mrs. Fletcher sighed, and made a pause. " If this girl doesn't see me," she went on, " it will show her father that we are deter- 1 6 THROUGH THICK AND THIN. mined to have nothing more to do with him. It is very cool to send her here. Will you see her ? A man can manage such things so much better than a woman can." " Well, if you wish it," said Thornburgh, a little reluctantly. The proposed task was not to his taste ; but as Mrs. Fletcher declined it, he was the only person to perform it. " Oh, thank you, thank you ! You will frighten her ; she will see that she can't impose upon you. I am so thankful that she came while you are here." " I don't know that I am so alarming," said Thornburgh, laughing. " And perhaps this young person doesn't come to impose upon any one." " Oh, you may be sure that is her errand," returned Mrs. Fletcher, emphatically. UPHILL. 1 7 b Thornburgh went to the morning- room, thinking of Sophy Fletcher, whom he re- membered a pretty girl, spoilt by her fathers indulgence. She had run away when she was twenty, ten years ago, to marry a man to whom her father had refused her, and since then her name had very seldom been mentioned in her old home. She must have led a hard life with the good-for-nothing to whom she had united herself. As Thornburgh recalled the little he had heard about her, and filled up those hints from his knowledge of the world, a great pity for poor Sophy rose in his heart — a pity which inspired him with indignation against her worthless husband, and a stern resolve that he would allow that person to reap as little benefit as possible from anything that might be done for her. VOL. I. 2 1 8 THROUGH THICK AND THIN. Miss Rushton rose as he entered, and looked at him with an expression of dis- appointment. " I asked to see Mrs. Fletcher," she said. " I am sorry that Mrs. Fletcher cannot see you this evening. If you will kindly tell me what your business with her is, I will inform her of it. I am her cousin — Miles Thornburgh — and I know all the family affairs." " I have heard of you," said Miss Rush- ton, gravely. " If Mrs. Fletcher will not see me, I must speak to you." Miles Thornburgh, as became the role of cautious judge which Mrs. Fletcher expected him to play, looked sharply at the girl before him, and a very few minutes were enough to put to flight any suspicion that she would attempt to impose upon UPHILL. 19 him. She was honest ; her clear direct glance told that. But her manner did not please him ; it was brusque and hard, and not suitable to a suppliant. " Of course my name tells you what my business here is," she went on after a pause, speaking in a hurried way. " Mrs. Rushton is my stepmother, and I have come to beg her family to do something towards her support. That is my errand, put into plain English." " I am very sorry to hear that my cousin's husband is in such bad circumstances." " My father is dead," said the girl, briefly. " I beg your pardon. I am very sorry," he said instinctively. " I had not heard " "No, you could not know ; I forgot that. It was three years ago, and we have tried our best to get a living. But it is 2Q THROUGH THICK AND THIN. hard work — Sophy isn't strong — and I thought that her people might do some- thing for her. They would not like to let her come to want." " Has she been left quite without pro- vision ? " " Entirely ; she has nothing at all," said Miss Rushton, bluntly. " And she has had to depend on her own exertions ? " It was a shock to think that help- less Sophy had been struggling with th'e world. Miss Rushton hesitated ; a confused look crossed her face, and she nervously twisted the handle of her bag. "She has had to do what she could," she said, stumbling over her words. Her manner was not lost on Thornburgh ; it awoke the suspicions which he had dis- UPHILL. 2 1 missed before. She was concealing or misrepresenting something ; perhaps her straightforward look was not to be trusted. " We have kept together and helped each other, but, of course, I cannot do much. And she hasn't the claim on me that she has on her own relations " — with a decided increase of hardness in tone. " That is what I had to say to Mrs. Fletcher. I hope she will inquire for herself into Sophy's circumstances ; naturally, I do not expect her to believe my story on my bare assertion. Sophy is living in London at this address." She rose and pushed a card towards him across the table. " Thank you ; I will see that inquiries are made. Perhaps my cousin is in difficulties at present, and immediate help " 2 2 THROUGH THICK AND THIN. Miss Rushton shook her head with sharp decision, and hot colour rose in her cheeks. " No, thank you. I didn't come to beg in that way. I want Sophy's people to do something for her regularly, not to dole out a few pounds now and then. Besides, you should not offer me money. You don't know me. I may be an impostor and not a Rushton at all." To this speech it was impossible to make any reply. Thornburgh only said that he would be in town in a few days, and would call to see his cousin then. He added an offer of refreshments, which was briefly declined, and Miss Rushton took her departure. " Oh, you have got rid of her," sighed Mrs. Fletcher, when her ambassador returned to her. " I am so glad you were UPHILL. 23 here, Miles ; I should never have managed so well. What did she say ? " Mrs. Fletcher felt and expressed real concern and sympathy when she heard of her sister-in-law's unhappy case. ."Poor Sophy! How very, very sad! Why didn't she let us know sooner ? Of course we must do something for her. I always disapproved of old Mr. Fletcher's will. He ought to have left her some- thing. She behaved badly ; but still, she was his daughter, and she had a claim for a provision. You told this girl that we would never let Sophy want, of course, Miles ? " " No ; I made no promises. She asked for none. She appears to be a young woman with some experience of the world, and she told me that she did not expect me to believe her assertion, and 24 THROUGH THICK AND THIN. only demanded that we should see for ourselves that her story is true. So I promised to call on Sophy when I go to town.' 1 " I hope at least you gave her some money ? " " I offered her some, but she refused it, and seemed very much offended at the suggestion." "How ridiculous, to give herself such airs when she came on such an errand ! " said Mrs. Fletcher, in a tone of virtuous indignation. She was a generous woman to those in distress ; but she had the touch of hardness which comes of un- ruffled prosperity, and she could not understand or tolerate pride on the part of the needy. " She ought to have been glad to take something back to make her stepmother more comfortable. That poor UPHILL. 25 girl ! Think of her working for her living, Miles! Ah, if she could have foreseen how her disobedience would be punished ! She must come to us at once — that will be the best arrangement." CHAPTER II. MAKING INQUIRIES. " Time hath ... to the world and awkward casualties Bound me in servitude." Pericles. ILES THORNBURGH went to town on Tuesday, and on the following day he paid the visit he had promised to his unfortunate cousin. The address which Miss Rushton had given him was in a poor, shabby street in Camden Town. A frowsy, untidy servant opened the door to him, and on his inquiry informed him that Mrs. Rushton was at home. MAKING INQUIRIES. 2 J 11 Second floor," added the domestic. " You can't miss your way." And he was left to ascend alone. The stairs were steep and narrow, uncarpeted, and, so far as the dim light which struggled through a long staircase window showed, not so clean as they should be. Strong odours of cooking floated to his nostrils as he made his way up, in which the perfume of fried kippered herrings blended with that of onions. Poor Sophy ! she was indeed punished for her wilfulness and disobedience. Arrived at the second floor, Mr. Thorn- burgh knocked at the door that faced the stairs, and being invited to come in, entered. It was a small room with an ugly paper, darkened by smoke and long wear, and very meagrely furnished. There was a square of cheap drugget on 28 THROUGH THICK AND THIN. the floor, a table, three cane-bottomed chairs, and an armchair. The table was spread for a meal, and two women were seated at it. They turned to the door with a quick, nervous movement as he appeared, and one of them started up and advanced to meet him. "lam glad to see you, Miles," she said in a low timid voice. " It is very kind of you to come." They shook hands, and then he would have bestowed the same salutation on her stepdaughter. But Miss Rushton merely bowed slightly and stiffly. " I am afraid I am disturbing you," he said, with a glance at the table. " Oh no, we are only having tea," replied his cousin. " Sit down here " — indicating the armchair. "It is too late to offer you tea, I fear ? " MAKING INQUIRIES. 29 " Thank you, I have had tea. But pray don't let me interrupt you." Mrs. Rushton resumed her seat at the table, and Thornburgh took the armchair, and looked at her with a perplexed feeling that he had stumbled upon a stranger. Ten years may be expected to make a great change in a person, but Sophy was transformed almost beyond recognition. He remembered her a picture of health and vigour, with a fresh rosy complexion, bright grey-blue eyes and sunny brown hair, full of life and activity, and with the wilful airs and graces of a spoilt child. The little queen, her father used to call her, and she had carried herself with a pretty imperiousness as one accustomed to rule. She was very thin and worn now ; her face was pale and her eyes were heavy and sunken, with dark shadows 30 THROUGH THICK AND THIN. under them ; her manner was ill at ease and subdued. All queenship had long left this faded shadow. She asked him a few questions about her relations, to which he gave full and detailed answers ; he was embarrassed by her appearance and surroundings, and felt it difficult to speak at once of her posi- tion. Meanwhile Miss Rushton preserved silence, and steadily ate and drank for a few minutes. Then she rose, and, still silently, withdrew. Thornburgh rose too, when he saw her making for the door, but she was too quick to give him time to open it for her. It would be easier to carry out the purpose of his visit in her absence, and he began straightway. " I am very sorry to see you here, Sophy," he said gently. MAKING INQUIRIES. 3 I His cousin's eyes filled with tears, and her lips quivered. " Yes, it is very unlike the home I used to have, isn't it? I am ashamed that any of my people should see me in such a place." " Have you been here long ? " " About six months." "You were more comfortable before then?" " No, we have had to live in this way the last five years." " Did your husband die so long ago ? " Mrs. Rushton coloured and looked con- fused. " He didn't die then, but he left me — he went away," she said in a low tone. Thornburgh repressed the exclamation of pity and anger which rose to his lips, and she went on — " We had nothing then — we have been 32 THROUGH THICK AND THIN. poorer than you could imagine — oh, Miles, it has been a dreadful time ! " " My dear girl, I wish you had let us know sooner," said Thornburgh, in a tone which expressed more irritation than sympathy. "You might have known that we would not let you suffer so if we could have prevented it." "But I didn't know that," protested Sophy. " Papa had been so cruel, and Edwin refused to do anything more. And Gay was so against my asking for help — she wouldn't hear of it at one time." " Gay is your stepdaughter ? " "Yes, her name is Gladys, but she has always been called Gay." It was a curiously inappropriate name for her, Thornburgh thought, recalling the harassed face and gloomy eyes. " Well, I hope your hard times are over, MAKING INQUIRIES. 33 Sophy," he said kindly. " Adelaide was very sorry when she heard of your difficulties, and she wishes you to go to her at once. Here is a letter she sent you — I am sure she will be the kindest of sisters to you." While Mrs. Rushton read the letter he went to the window, and looked out into the long narrow street. A swarm of children were at play in it, bawling noisily to one another ; an old man crawled along, dejectedly offering rhubarb for sale at a penny a bundle ; an itinerant coal-dealer was proclaiming his wares in a tone so furious that one might on first hearing suppose he was defying the neighbour- hood generally to combat ; just opposite there were a few little shops. Everything that struck eye or ear was discordant and hideous. vol. 1. 3 34 THROUGH THICK AND THIN. A girl came out of one of the shops, and he absently watched her as she crossed the street. She carried some parcels — among them a loaf of bread peeped out from its paper covering — and seemed to find her burden heavy as she made her way in face of the wind, which caught her long cloak. Halfway across the street she raised her head and glanced up at the sky, and he recognized Gay Rushton. Her face had not the sullen resolved look which he had seen at Tarn Hall ; it wore an expression of dreary discouragement and hopelessness ; and he noticed for the first time what delicate refined features she had. She plodded on across the street, and he turned to his cousin, who had had abundance of time to read Mrs. Fletcher's letter. "You see what Adelaide wishes," he MAKING INQUIRIES. 35 said. " You must leave this place directly ; the sooner you are away the better." Sophy did not answer at once ; she was folding and unfolding the letter with a perplexed air. " Adelaide is very kind," she said slowly at last. " I don't quite understand what she proposes. Does she intend to take me in for good ? " " Certainly ; she wishes you to make your home with her for the future. That will be the pleasantest arrangement for you." " Oh yes, yes ; it is very good of her," in a tone which suggested that the next sentence would be introduced by a "but." " She writes very kindly." " You must fix an early day for going to her. And you can use that," putting an envelope into her hand, " for any immediate expenses." 36 THROUGH THICK AND THIN, " Oh, thank you " — reddening faintly. " I don't exactly know when I can go — I must speak to Gay about it. I shall be sorry to leave Gay," she added after a pause. " She will be very lonely when I am gone." Thornburgh felt surprised at this reference to the step-daughter. He would have expected Sophy to be too overjoyed at the prospect of release from the thraldom of poverty to think of anything else. In her girlhood she had been frankly selfish. He was not moved to admiration by this development of altruism in her. Her regrets struck him as out of place. Her own lot was enough to think of just then, and Rushton's daughter might be left to look after herself. She had not spoken very kindly of Sophy when he saw her at Tarn Hall. MAKING INQUIRIES. 37 " She will be glad to know that you are comfortable," he rejoined. " Oh yes, she will ; she has always been good to me. But it will be hard upon her." 11 But, my dear Sophy, it will make her life easier when she has only herself to work for, and it is not necessary to help you." He suggested the commonsense view of the case. " Yes, it will make a great difference to her — all the difference in the world. But " And Sophy still looked melancholy and wistful. " It is not a parting for good, you know. She can visit you in her holidays." Sophy brightened a little. 11 That would be very nice. I long for her to have a real good holiday. She has never had one since she was eighteen. 38 THROUGH THICK AND THIN. When she wasn't working it was no holiday ; it was harder than the hardest work. Perhaps Adelaide would let her come to Tarn Hall this summer ? " " I have no doubt she will be glad to see Miss Rush ton, as you are so fond of her." " Of course I am fond of her," cried Sophy, warmly. " For the last five years she has done more for me than anybody else in the whole world has done. I don't know what would have happened to me when I was left if I hadn't had her." " She has been a great help to you ? " Sophy laughed a little hysterically. "A help to me! Why, Miles, she has supported me entirely these five years. She was eighteen when her father left us, and I have lived on her earnings since. I couldn't do anything to make money. MAKING INQUIRIES. 39 I tried, and tried, and tried ; but it was all useless. Gay has made our bread all by herself, poor darling ! " " A girl of that age ! How could you live on her earnings ? What could she do ? " he asked bluntly. Sophy hesitated for a moment. " She has a good voice, and she sings," she replied. " At one time we hoped that she would do very well ; but it is so hard to get on in that line. There are so many singers ; and lately she hasn't been strong, and that has affected her voice. She is in the chorus at the Bijou now." " You must have had a very hard time," said Thornburgh, compassionately. " It has been awful. But it has been harder for Gay than for me. She has gone short that I might have more," said Sophy, in a faltering voice. " She has 40 THROUGH THICK AND THIN. eaten dry bread many a time when she would make me have butter, and she has given me meat when there was none for her." Sophy shed some tears here. To her, brought up in the lap of plenty, nothing could be more pathetic than any privation in daily necessaries. " I wouldn't tell you such things," she added, apolo- getically, " but I want you to know what Gay is. She would be dreadfully angry with me if she knew I had said anything about her to you ; she is so proud and independent. She told me again and again that I was not to mention her to any of you. But I can't leave her in that way ; and I hoped if Adelaide did anything for me she would be kind to Gay too — r " My dear Sophy, I am sure she will," said Thornburgh, heartily. " She will MAKING INQUIRIES. $1 admire your stepdaughter — as we all must — and she will wish to help her." " Oh, thank you, Miles ; it is suck a relief to know that," cried Sophy, rejoiced that she had gained the prospect of something more substantial than an invitation to a holiday visit. " If only Gay will let her be kind to her," she subjoined apprehensively. " She is so dreadfully proud. You have no idea how proud she is." "She ought not to be too proud to accept kindness from your family after showing you so much." " She thinks my family are against her because she is a Rushton. But she isn't the least bit in the world like her father, Miles — not the least. And " — emphati- cally, as if to clear Gay entirely from any discredit that might attach to her as a 42 THROUGH THICK AND THIN. Rushton — " she couldn't bear her father. Nobody thought worse of him than Gay- did." "You say that she had a strong objection to applying to your people for help. What made her give way on that point ? Was it your doing ? " " No ; I had nothing to do with it. She made up her mind all at once. It was last Saturday. When she came back from the theatre, she said that she had been thinking that we ought to try again to get my people to do something for me, and she would go off the next day to Tarn Hall. She wouldn't let me write — she said writing was no good — but she would see Adelaide herself and tell her how badly I was off." " She travelled on Sunday ! " "She couldn't help it, Miles," said MAKING INQUIRIES. 43 Sophy, deprecating what she supposed to be the disapproval of a zealous Sabba- tarian. " You see, it was the only day she could go because of the theatre. I dared not go myself" — frankly. " I should have been ashamed to be seen ; and, besides, I couldrit have walked from the station to Tarn Hall, and we hadn't money enough to pay for a fly." " I didn't mean to blame her for travelling then ; I was only thinking that she must have come straight to the Hall without any rest. And she walked ? She must have been very tired! and hungry too," he mentally added, remorse- ful at the remembrance that she had departed fasting and on foot. CHAPTER III. rushton's daughter. Sharp was the bread for my soul's nourishing, Which Fate allowed, and bitter was the spring Of which I drank." P. B. Marston. HEN Thornburgh had taken his leave, Mrs. Rushton's first action was to open the envelope he had given her. She found that it contained bank- notes to the value of £$o, and a glow of pleasure overspread her face. In all her life she had never had so much in her possession at once for her own personal use ; and after the straitness she had RUSHTON'S DAUGHTER. 45 endured, it seemed a much larger sum than it really was. She cleared the table and put away the cups and saucers — she and her stepdaughter waited on them- selves, being too poor to pay for attendance — then she put on her hat and cloak, and went out to taste the first sweetness of her command of money. " Gay shall have a good supper to-night," she said to herself as she descended the stairs. At midnight Gay entered the house with her latch-key, groped for the candle and matches which she left every night on the passage-table, and having struck a light, made her way softly upstairs. She paused, amazed, on the threshold of the sitting-room. She was accustomed to -find it cold and dark at that time ; but now there was a bright little fire burning, the lamp was lit, and two candles afforded 46 THROUGH THICK AND THIN. a further illumination. The table was set out with the supper, some flowers were carefully arranged to give it a festive air, and her stepmother was smiling a welcome. " Oh, Sophy, you shouldn't have sat up," exclaimed Gay. " 1 couldn't go to bed. Come and get your supper, dear — it's all ready." " Why have you spent your money in this way ? " " I knew you would say that," returned Sophy, gaily. " I knew you would scold me. But I wanted a little treat for once. Come and sit down. You must be tired to death." " Well, what did your cousin say ? " asked Gay, as she sat down at the table. Sophy informed her, and gave her Mrs. Fletcher's letter. Gay drew a long sigh RUSHTON'S DAUGHTER. 4 J of relief when she had read the kindly sentences. " That's all right," she said. " You will have an easy time now, Sophy ; I am very thankful for it." " Oh, it will be easier for both of us now, dear," returned Sophy. " You must come to stay with us as soon as you can, I am determined that you shall have a good long rest and holiday." She looked pleadingly at the girl, but Gay did not meet her eyes, nor reply to her remark. " Mrs. Fletcher wants you to go as soon as you can," she said in a cool, business- like tone. " You can go very well on Monday. I should write to fix that day." " My dear Gay, Monday ! " gasped Mrs. Rushton. " I couldn't possibly be ready. I must get some things first." 48 THROUGH THICK AND THIN. " How much money have they let you have ? Fifty pounds ? You can easily get clothes enough before Monday. Go to one of the big shops to-morrow and order what you want." " But, Gay, I am not going to spend all this money on myself," protested Sophy, indignantly. " You need new clothes more than I do. You must have a nice walking costume, and a hat, and new gloves, and an umbrella — oh, and boots ; you must have them." u And a silk gown and a Paris bonnet," added Gay, with a laugh. " Hadn't you better throw them in while you are about it ? This money won't go so far as you think. No, I'll wait a little for new clothes." Sophy's face lengthened, her lips quivered, and she laid down her knife RUSHTON'S DAUGHTER. 49 and fork and took out her pocket-hand- kerchief. " Oh, Gay, how can you ? " she sobbed. " You aren't going to be so unkind as to refuse to let me do anything for you ? It is too bad of you to behave so, just when life is beginning to be a little easier for me. I shall have no pleasure in it, if you won't take a little help from me. Why, the first thing I thought of when I counted the money was that now I could get you some proper clothes." " Don't cry," said Gay, curtly. " I'm not going to refuse help altogether from you." After a pause she added abruptly, " I'll take some of the money, Sophy." " Oh, thank you, dear ! " Sophy em- braced her gratefully. " You will have half, won't you ? " she added, drawing forth the precious packet. vol. 1. 4 50 THROUGH THICK AND THIN. " No, not quite so much. Give me ten pounds," said Gay, in an uneasy, shame- faced manner. Sophy entreated her to take more — at least fifteen — but Gay was immovable. " Miles was very nice," said Sophy, when the money question was settled. " After the first I didn't much mind his seeing me here. He is very good-look- ing ; don't you think so ? " " Is he ? " — absently. " Oh, Gay, yes ; he is so tall and has such a good figure ! And I like his eyes ; they are such a nice shade of grey." Gay was silent ; she could never see any beauty in the eyes that had scanned her critically a few days ago. " You aren't eating anything at all," said Sophy, presently, in a tone of vexa- tion. " I thought you would enjoy some- RUSHTOWS DAUGHTER. 5 I thing nice. Have some of this jelly ; it really isn't bad. I got the things at Marchant's, the confectioners. Luckily the shop was open." " No, thanks ; I can't eat any more to-night. I'm not hungry." " Any more ! Why, you've eaten nothing ; you've left all the pie I gave you." " Never mind — I am not hungry," repeated Gay, curtly. " Let us go to bed ; I am very tired." " How did you get on to-night ? " asked Sophy, as she rose from the table. " Oh, pretty well — just as usual," re- turned the other with a yawn. A day or two later, Thornburgh went to see his cousin and make arrangements for her journey to the north. He was sure that she would like to have a man to UNIVERSITY OF ILLiwUM UBHAKY 52 THROUGH THICK AND THIN. deal with the ticket-clerk and porters, so he proposed to see her off from the station. He intended to make this call serve another purpose. Since he had seen his cousin he had thought a good deal of what she had said about her step- daughter ; and it seemed to him that the latter had a claim on Sophy's people which it would be impossibly churlish not to acknowledge. She could not be treated as, before he had come to town, he would have thought it quite natural to treat Rushton's daughter. She could not be quietly dropped and separated from Sophy, nor even left to make her own way unaided ; such a course would be brutal. The Fletchers owed her some return for the services she had rendered one of their family ; and some return must be made. They could help her pecu- RUSHTON'S DAUGHTER. 53 niarily through Sophy, perhaps. Certainly they must admit her to friendship with them, and give her the support of their countenance ; and, as Mrs. Fletcher's representative, he would make Miss Rushton understand the friendly dis- position of the family. The little sitting-room on the second floor looked barer and more poverty- stricken than before, with bright May sunshine searching every corner. He found Gay alone, and was told by her that Sophy was out, but would soon return. " Then I will wait for her, if you will allow me," he rejoined. " Certainly. Pray sit down/ 1 said Gay. Her manner was not so ungracious and brusque as it had been at their first meeting. She spoke with formal civility, 54 THROUGH THICK AND THIN. as to a person entirely aloof from her. He sat down, and she went on with some sewing she had in hand — she was mending a gown — and remained silent. Evidently she did not think it necessary to entertain him. " I have to make you a very sincere apology, Miss Rushton," he said presently. She raised her eyes for a moment with a look of surprise, and then bent them again upon her work. " Sophy has told me about your journey to Tarn Hall. I feel quite ashamed that you did not find more hospitality there. If I had had the least idea that you had come from town that day and walked from the station, you should not have been allowed to go without refreshment, or to walk back." " Sophy ought not to have told you RUSH TON'S DAUGHTER. 55 anything about it," said Gay. " It was quite unnecessary to do so." " You could not expect her to think so little of your generosity in making that journey in such circumstances." Gay broke off her cotton with a jerk, and made a sharp, impatient movement. " The journey had to be made," she said briefly. " I did not walk all the way from Bay ford. A gentleman gave me a lift in his dog-cart." " I wish I had known that you were going to take the long walk back to Bayford," said Thornburgh. She stitched on diligently in silence. " You must have thought me very dense or very hard." " I didn't think you either " — in a tone which implied, " I thought nothing about you." " I wanted nothing from you, 56 THROUGH THICK AND THIN. except what I got — a hope that you would help Sophy." "You have been wonderfully good to Sophy," he said. Gay regarded him with a touch of haughty surprise in her expression, as if asking him how he dared speak of her private affairs, and made him no other answer. *' All her people must admire you, Miss Rushton, and feel grateful to you for your devotion to her," he went on, resolved to say his say. " I could not help doing what I did," she returned hurriedly. " I was obliged to do it." " I hope you will remember that we owe you a great debt " he was begin- ning, when she cut him short. " Thanks ; but anything of that kind is RUSHTON'S DAUGHTER. 57 out of the question. What I have done — it has been little enough — was between Sophy and me, and other people have nothing to do with it. There is no debt on your part. You need not feel it necessary to pay me off." " I did not mean to put it that way. I wished you to feel that we are your friends." " How can any of you be friends to me — a Rushton ? " she said bitterly. " I know how you all regarded my father. Sophy talks of my going to stay at Tarn Hall. Poor dear ! she can't help seeing things as she wishes to see them, and she has forgotten Fletcher prejudices. But I know quite well that common friendli- ness is impossible between Sophy's people and myself." " You take an exaggerated view " 58 THROUGH THICK AND THIN. " Pray say no more about it. You have satisfied your conscience by promis- ing me the kindness and notice of the Fletchers ; but I don't want them. There is nothing more to be said. It wasn't for anything for myself that I went to Tarn Hall." There was a silence after that speech. Thornburgh did not very well know what to reply to Gay's uncompromising decla- ration. He was surprised to find that she cherished such hostility towards Sophy's people, and decidedly annoyed by the fact. It was provoking to have one's benevolent and amiable intentions met in this way. He was glad to hear steps coming up the stairs. Sophy was returning, and would free him from this tite-d-tite. Sophy came in quickly. She looked RUSH TON'S DAUGHTER. 59 flushed and excited, and after hurriedly- greeting Thornburgh, she turned to her stepdaughter. "Oh, Gay, how could you keep me in the dark?" she burst out indignantly. " If I hadn't seen Fanny Gresham by the merest chance, I should never have known. You would have let me go away without a word. This is why you were so anxious to send me off next week. Oh, I see now ! " she ended, with a half sob, half laugh. Gay did not answer. She was sitting with her work on her lap and her hands lying idle on it. They had trembled too much to put in a stitch since her last words had been spoken. She rose and was going towards the door, but she stumbled at the first step. Sophy sprang forward, threw her arm round the girl, 60 THROUGH THICK AND THIN. and laid her on the floor — the only place in the room where she could lie at full length. " Open the window, Miles ; she has fainted. No wonder ; she must have had an awful time lately with that on her mind. Just think of it ! she has lost her situation at the theatre, and she never told me. I heard of it from a girl in the' chorus. They gave her notice because her voice has been weak lately. She has been too worn out and ill to sing. And she would have let me go away in ignorance, and would have stayed here and quietly starved, she is so proud. Oh, Gay, Gay, my darling ! As if I would leave you now ! I won't go on Monday ; I will stay with you." Sophy did not put all her energy into her fluent words. While she cried and RUSH TON'S DAUGHTER. 6 1 talked, she was unfastening Gay's bodice at the throat, bathing her head and face with cold water, and rubbing her hands. 11 Can I do anything ? — get anything ? " asked Thornburgh. " No, thank you ; she is coming round," returned his cousin. And in a few seconds Gay opened her eyes. " You are better, dear ? " said Sophy, gently. " I'm all right. What is it ? Oh, I remember." " Oh, you must not try to get up. Lie still," entreated Sophy. But Gay weakly struggled to her feet, and grasped the back of a chair, waving aside Thornburgh, who instinctively started forward to help her. " No, thanks ; I am better." As she stood there, white and shaking, 62 THROUGH THICK AND THIN. not able to stand alone, yet resolutely refusing his support, he thought that he had never seen anything feminine that impressed him so vividly with the idea of strength of will. " Please help me into the other room, Sophy," she said. Sophy obeyed, and presently returned. " She is lying down now," she said. "Oh, Miles, isn't she a heroine? She must have been frantic with anxiety, for how is she to get another engagement while her voice is so weak ? and yet she never said a word about it to me. She kept it all to herself. They gave her a fortnight's notice last Saturday, and she went off to Tarn Hall on Sunday to prevent me from suffering." "That is a step that ought to have been taken years ago," said Thornburgh, RUSH TON'S DAUGHTER. 6 3 harshly. The pity which the sight of Gay's unconscious face had roused in him was so keen that it was a relief to be angry. " It was simply silly that you and she should get into such straits." Sophy burst into tears. " Indeed, Miles, I don't see how we could have helped it. Edwin refused — positively refused in the unkindest letter — to do anything more for me. When Gay saw the letter, she vowed that we would never ask any of my people for a penny." " You might have understood that when you were left alone the case was quite altered," Thornburgh maintained. " If he had known your position, Edwin would never have allowed you to depend on the exertions of a child." " Gay wasn't exactly a child/' said 64 THROUGH THICK AND THIN. Sophy, who had a fine talent for being literal. " She was quite grown up, and knew far more about practical life than I did." " It is a pity that she didn't know she was undertaking more than she ought to attempt," said Thornburgh. " She looks awfully ill," he added abruptly. " She must be quite out of health." 11 1 am afraid she is ; I never knew her faint before. I can't go away while she is in this state. I must stay and nurse her. It would be too cruel to leave her." " Of course you cannot leave her, but it will do no good for you to stay here. She must go with you. She will never get well in these quarters. I will write to Adelaide and ask her to invite Miss Rushton." Sophy looked dubious. RUSHTON'S DAUGHTER. 65 "I'm afraid Gay won't like that. She seemed so decided against going to Tarn Hall." 11 Well, then, suppose you take her to the seaside. I shall be very glad if you will let me take lodgings for you, and be my guests there. And," cutting short Sophy's thanks, " you must get a doctor for her. . She ought to see one. Is there anybody you would like to call in ? " No ; Sophy knew of no doctor that she preferred. " I will send Dr. Brett then — he is considered good for the chest and throat." " You are very kind, Miles, but — I am afraid — Gay is so independent, she won't like to accept anything from you. And she hates having any fuss about her health. She will refuse to see this doctor — I know she will ! " vol. 1. 5 66 THROUGH THICK AND THIN. " Don't listen to her if she does refuse. Can't you make her do what is good for her ? Have you never had any authority over her ? " " I don't think I ever had," said Sophy, in a helpless tone. " I am sure I couldn't make her do anything." " Persuade her, then. She must have proper attention. She can't be allowed to fall ill out of sheer wilfulness," said Thorn- burgh, irritably. " I will do what I can. I will tell her that she must do everything possible to get her voice back," said Sophy, musingly. " She will care for that ; it is the one thing she has to get her living by." " Ay, I should say that would be a powerful argument with her." ^ CHAPTER IV. BEATEN. " Beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks." Hamlet, ERHAPS Thornburgh would have restrained himself if he had fore- seen that every word he said about Gay would come to her ears. His free criti- cism on the proceedings of Sophy and her stepdaughter had deeply disturbed the former, and she sought relief for her agitation by confiding the cause of it to Gay. In the process of repetition Mr. Thorn- burgh's remarks rather gained than lost in 68 THROUGH THICK AND THIN. pungency. Gay learnt that he thought her attempt to support her stepmother had been a piece of folly, and that he blamed her wilfulness and want of sense for all that the two women had gone through. " He was quite unjust," complained poor Sophy ; " he said I ought to have some authority over you." Gay had listened, lying with closed eyes and a weary, passive expression, apparently unmoved. At this item in Mr. Thorn- burgh's fault-finding she faintly smiled. " Never mind, dear," she said gently. " If he knew me, he would know that it was very unfair to expect you to have authority over such a wilful person." " He might see that himself," said Sophy. " I am sure he would have no more authority over you than I have." BE A TEN, 69 " I am sure he wouldn't." " But, Gay dear, to please me you will see this doctor he talked of sending. I should so like to tell Miles that you made no objection when I asked you to see him. He is very good for the chest and throat, and he may make your voice quite strong again." There was a pause. Then Gay said — " I will see him, but it is quite unneces- sary that he should come here. I can go to his house well enough, and I would rather do so." She persisted in this, and Sophy wrote to her cousin to ask him to make an appointment for a consultation. When the doctor had examined Gay, his verdict was that she must rest for several months ; her voice was quite unequal to the strain of public singing. There was no disease JO THROUGH THICK AND THIN. of throat or lungs at present, but she was thoroughly run down and needed great care. She must have change, country air, and generous diet. After this Sophy told her of Thorn- burgh's proposal that they should be his guests at the seaside. She had prudently refrained from speaking of the future till she could do so with the doctors opinion to support her persuasions. " What made him propose that ? " asked Gay. " I told him that you disliked the idea of going to Tarn Hall, and he suggested at once that I should take you to the seaside. He is really very kind. He said we could not have you falling ill out of " Sophy pulled up here, a little confused. "You haven't finished," said Gay. BEATEN. 71 •'What else did he say ? You could not have me falling ill out of what ? " "Sheer wilfulness," finished Mrs. Rushton. Gay laughed. " He is kind," she said. " He under- stands so well how a person in my place feels." " Well, it would be wilful of you to refuse to go away after what the doctor has said." " Oh, how can I refuse ? " said Gay, in a petulant tone. " If I refuse, there is only one thing for me just now." " What is that ? " " The workhouse." " Oh, Gay, how can you ? " " I must take what is offered me ; beggars cannot be choosers." Sophy remonstrated against her calling J 2 THROUGH THICK AND THIN. herself a beggar, and pointed out that she could choose in this case. She might fix on any watering-place she liked, or she could go to Tarn Hall. Adelaide had written a very kind letter inviting her to stay there. " You might be worse off, Gay," she remarked, with a gallant effort to admi- nister wholesome rebuke. " That's very true," said Gay. " If it were the workhouse, I should have no choice of place. I will go to Mrs. Fletcher's, Sophy ; I prefer that to going to the seaside." " Really, dear ? " "Yes, really. It will cause less trouble and expense." " Oh, the expense would be nothing to Miles ; he wouldn't mind it at all." " But I mind it," said Gay, drily. " I BEATEN. J$ don't want any of his money. He has a house near your old home, hasn't he ? " she added after a pause. "Yes, Thornburgh Hall. It isn't a big house, but it is very old, and has been in the family for hundreds of years. Miles seems to spend a good deal of time in town ; I suppose he finds Thornburgh dull." Gay made ready to leave London, with bitterness unspeakable in her heart. It was hard to be defeated in her struggle with the world, and she felt it almost harder that her defeat was known, and that she must be pitied for it. For some years an application to the Fletchers for help had seemed to her a step to which she could only be driven as a last expedient in desperate straits, an ignominy which was to be avoided at 74 THROUGH THICK AND THIN. any price. She hated the Fletcher family with the uncompromising thoroughness of youth, and a nature embittered by early acquaintance with misfortune. They had despised her father and treated him ill. Sophy had been quite right in saying that nobody thought worse of Mr. Rush- ton than his only child did. Gay had known him better than most people had done, and she had read his character with a clearness which was unsoftened by any pretty illusions of filial affection. His want of principle revolted her; his lazi- ness and selfishness excited her deepest scorn. But though she would probably have given a harder judgment of her father than the Fletchers had ever formed, she felt none the less hostile towards them for their contempt of him ; partly because she knew that they disapproved BEATEN. 75 of Sophy's marriage more on account of his poverty than his indolence, partly because she thought that they might have helped him to become a more re- spectable member of society. If he had had their countenance, he would not have gone downhill so fast as he did after his second marriage. They had made him reckless. This was no excuse for her father — Gay scorned the weakness of nature which had let others have power to mar his life ; if she had been in her father's place, the low esteem of the Fletchers would have been a goad im- pelling her to show them that it was un- deserved — but it was a good reason for her dislike of them. Another reason had been supplied by their harshness to Sophy. Her father had cast her off, never answered one of j6 THROUGH THICK AND THIN. her entreaties for forgiveness, nor one of her appeals for help ; her brother, after doling out a few sums, had written re- fusing to do anything more. It had been a sharp letter. Edwin Fletcher had written it in a fit of exaspera- tion at applications which he believed to come from his brother-in-law, and had expressed himself for that gentleman's benefit. But the harsh sentences which declared that Sophy had forfeited all claim on her family, and must not expect any- thing from them for the future, never reached Mr. Rushton, who had then left the country ; they were read only by the two young women whom he had deserted. "You will never write again, Sophy," said Gay, tearing the letter across. " No, indeed," said Sophy, who never opposed her stepdaughter when she had BEATEN. J? that white look of anger on her face.