WfM.i^-4Mr i /■■ s THE QUESTION OF CAIN, VOL. I. NEW AND POPULAR NOVELS AT ALL THE LIBEAEIES. MY LORD AND MY LADY. By Mrs. Forrester, author of "Viva," " Mignon," &c. 3 vols. THE SILVER LINK. Bj Mrs. Houstoun, author of "Recommended to Mercy," &c. 3 vols. STRANGE CHAPMAN. By W. Marshall, B.A., author of "Monsell Digby." 3 vols. TIME AND CHANCE. By Mrs. Tom I^lly. 3 vols. crown Svo. MISS DAISY DIMITY. By the author of " Queenie," "Orange Lily," &c. 3 vols. HUEST & BLACKETT, 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. THE QUESTION OF CAIN BT MRS. CASHEL HOEY AUTHOR OF "A GOLDEN SORROW," "ALL OR NOTHING," " THE BLOSSOMING OF AN ALOE," &c., &c. " Am I my Brother's keeper ? " IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. L LONDON: HUKST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 1882. All rights reserved. ^Z5 ^ THIS STORY IS DEDICATED vfl SIR JOHN POPE HENNESSY, K.C.M.G. O ETC., ETC., ETC. GOVERNOR OF HONG KONG. 3^y CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME. I. Twenty-four Hours II. Subsequent Arrangements in. An Old Debt . IV. A Woman of the World . V. At the Hill House . VI. Helen's Luck . VII. La Joconde VIII. Frank Lisle . IX. Without the Cinders X. With the Prince XI. "Veine" and "Deveine" XII. " Trust me for all in all " Xin. " MoN DiEU ! IVIademoiselle !' Xrv. Irrevocable XV. Beatrix Chevenix . XVL The " Agony COLU.MN " . 1 17 28 42 66 84 104 124 142 164 186 208 227 250 268 286 (^ THE QUESTION OF CAIN, CHAPTER L TWENTY-FOUR HOURS. rriHE event had profoundly stirred the ^ whole station. The English com- munity at Chundrapore w^as not a very numerous one, and although the usual class divisions were pretty accurately represented among its members, still everybody knew, or knew of, everybody else in one way or another, and any sudden and unexpected death would have excited interest and com- ment. But the death of the Rev. Herbert VOL. I. B 2 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. Rhodes, the English chaplain, whom every- one knew and everyone liked, and whom no division divided from the most or the least important of those among whom his ministry lay — this was an event to create a wide-spread sensation indeed. A sensation which seemed to suspend every other for the moment, and to make all the people in the place realise more forcibly than they had ever before realised it, how emphatic- ally uncertain a possession is human life in the plains of Bengal. Chundrapore is not a salubrious station ; its hot season is tremendously hot, its rainy season is profusely rainy, the country around is as flat as a billiard-table, and the sun gets a long, steady, uninterrupted stare at it for what the English dwellers at Chun- drapore regard as an unreasonable propor- tion of the year. It is a great place for getting leave from, and sick certificate is an institution that flourishes there. Neither the military nor the civilian households at TWKNTY-FOUR HOURS. 6 Ohundrapore venture to infringe the old established rule of sending children home before the period of pasty faces and wasting limbs sets in ; it is in fact one of those Indian stations at which the hardships and grievances of ^' Indian marriages," with their choice of evils in the way of separation, make themselves most evident. But no- body had ever heard Herbert Rhodes com- plain of the heat, or the rains, of the flat- ness of the country, or the sickliness of the station ; nor had he appeared to suffer from those causes. He had been up to the day of his death — the day on which this story opens — an active, cheerful, indefatigable man, one whose hand had an extraordinary facility for finding things to do, and who did them with all his might. This was over now, and Chundrapore had had a blow. On Sunday the chaplain preached to his usual congregation ; on Monday, when the members of a catechism class, which he was accustomed to hold on that day, were b2 4 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. assembling, an alarming rumour dispersed them. Mr. Rhodes was said to be '' down " with cholera, dying; and* the rumour fell short of the truth, for the God-fearing, hard-working man was even then gone to his account, with one last entry to his credit, which was talked of among the natives in the station, long after Herbert Rhodes's vacant place had been filled. On returning from the evening service on that last Sunday, the chaplain's attention had been caught by moans proceeding from a little tope near his house, and, going quickly towards the sound, he found a very old man, wretchedly poor, and terribly ill, writhing upon the ground. He called for help, but in vain. No one was near, and he raised the sufferer and carried him with immense difficulty to the hospital. The few persons he encountered while stagger- ing along under his load refused to aid him. The case was hopeless, and the chaplain remained with the old native until the end TWENTY-FOUR HOURS. 5 — nay, more, the Christian minister, finding the troubled mind in the sinking frame dis- turbed by the pang of poverty that forbade the decent burning of the body — which ac- cording to the tenets of the patient's faith is requisite for eternal peace — promised that this should be done, and closed the livid fingers of the dying man over the comfort- ing money that was to purchase the wood to consume him, and to pay for the scatter- ing of his ashes upon Gunga's breast. When the great rest came, and the thin brown hand relaxed its grasp of his merciful alms, the good Samaritan made his way home with a strange chill at his heart, and a strange burning in his skin, and in a few hours he had come up with that ineffable knowledge whose attainment he had en- vied the poor old native, as he looked at him for the last time, and laid his own white handkerchief over the dark, worn, wrinkled face. The event had a double significance : an 6 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. important meraber of the community was- dead, and the cholera was in the station. Not that the latter was a positive novelty — the cholera was more or less about always — but it had brought down a noble victim this time, and it could not be ignored by general consent, as it habitually was, when it confined its ravages to the native town and bazaar. The horrible rapidity with which burial follows death in India, aggra- vating the shock and the agony of parting to the survivors, and tending to produce the general levity and callousness with which it is too often regarded, is one of the most painful experiences which new-comers have to undergo. The Two Hundredth- Regiment had only been three weeks in cantonments at Chundrapore, and the death of the chaplain was the first example that had occurred since its arrival. The ladies — although they had a general notion that such was the rule — were horrified when they found that all was over in twenty-four TWENTY-FOUR HOURS. hours. The evening of Monday had seen Herbert Rhodes returning to his home, plague-stricken, from the hospital ; the evening of Tuesday saw him laid in his grave. ** It is too, too dreadful," said Mrs. Stephenson, the very pretty but not very wise wife of Captain Stephenson of the newly-arrived regiment, to Mrs. Masters, the wife of a colonel of artillery, who, to- gether with the resident English physician. Dr. Cunningham, had undertaken to see to the dead man's effects and affairs. " It is too dreadful," she repeated, sniffing strongly at a little ball of camphor which she had held in her hand all day, " and the worst of it is that the poor fellow had no wife to take care of him." "The worst of it! I think that is the best of it. No care could have done any- thing for him, and there is one less to suffer by his death. No, it is bad enough to think of his daughter." 8 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. '* His daughter I Had he a daughter ? 1 thought he was not married." " He was a widower ; his wife died very- young, on their voyage out to Calcutta, I beheve, but 1 am not sure. Mr. Rhodes never talked much about himself, and al- ways gave one the impression of thinking as little. Ah !" with a sigh, " we shall not easily replace him." Mrs. Stephenson left off smelling the ball of camphor, and began to fan herself. The scene of the conversation was Colonel Mas- ters's bungalow, a low roomy building with a wide verandah. The ladies were talking almost in the dark, occupying low cane chairs, which were placed on the matting just inside the French windows. A lamp on a table at the back of the room served as a centre of attraction for a little cloud of white and grey moths, and shed a distant light on the two figures in cool muslin gowns. From where they sat they could see the light shining behind the window of TWENTY-FOUR HOURS. ii a room opposite, which also opened upon the verandah, and could dimly discern two men seated at a table covered with boxes and papers. j\Irs. Masters kept an anxious watch upon the window opposite. The task in which her husband and Dr. Cunningham were engaged was a sad and onerous one. She wished it was over. Anything depressing to the spirits was so bad in times of sick- ness, such as they might now be entering upon ; and Colonel Masters was a sensitive man. Mrs. Stephenson, who was a distant cousin of the colonel's, was their guest for the present, and Mrs. Masters found her rather trying on the actual occasion. The chaplain's death, a real sorrow to his friends who knew his worth, was merely a sensa- tion to Mrs. Stephenson. She had only seen him twice in church, but availed her- self of the opportunity of making a fuss, which she loved, and also of protest- ing against the hardship of having had 10 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. to come out to India, which she hated. Mrs. Masters was not inclined to talk ; she was feeling the events of the day too deep- ly ; but her friend, who did not feel them except as they unpleasantly ricochetted in the direction of her own apprehensions, sought to soothe fear by letting loose curiosity, and so plied her with questions. '' You and he were great friends, weren't you ?" asked Mrs. Stephenson, resuming the dialogue. "We saw a good deal of him, and we liked and respected him, as did everyone whose goodwill was worth having." '* I thought him so good-looking," said Mrs. Stephenson, with a kind of rueful re- trospective admiration, which would have made Mrs. Masters smile had she not long past smiling, " and Fm sure he was awfully nice, especially for a clergyman ; they bore one so, you know, in general^ — I mean when they really are good — and then, when they're not, they are quite too dread- TWENTY-FOUR HOURS. 1 1 ful for anything ; so I don't like them as a class. But he was a rare exception." ''I hope he was not quite that," said Mrs. Masters, gravely ; " but he was a truly good man, most devoted and unselfish. No doubt he had many cares and griefs of his own — that he had one we know, — but he never let them appear, and he was always ready to share other people's. No one ever so fully realised to my knowledge the aspir- ation of the poet who prays for "A heart at leisure from itself, to soothe and sympathise." Her words were Greek to her hearer, and she knew it ; but it was a relief to her, as she must talk, to speak of her friend as she felt. And all the time there was a '-thought recurring like the tic-tac of a clock, ''He was alive yesterday, he was alive yes- terday." " What a dear," said Mrs. Stephenson, and resumed her camphor-sniffing. " I wonder whether his wife was nice. Who was she ?" 12 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. *' I don't know. I never heard an3'thing about her family, and I knew very little about herself. He rarely spoke of her; that was his way ; but he did tell me once that when he saw the photograph of his daughter — it was sent out to him when she was fifteen, just two years ago, by-the- by — he was startled by the likeness to her mother. He showed me the portrait. The girl must be very handsome." " A lucky thing for her." '' I am not so sure of that. Beauty is not always a blessing." Mrs Stephenson smiled incredulously, and securely, in the semi-darkness. '* A girl without a good pro- vision or powerful friends may easily be too handsome for her own welfare. It is not likely that Mr. Rhodes had much to leave to his daughter ; and, as she had been at school ever since her parents came out to India, I should not think she has many friends." *' Had he no private means ?" TWENTY-FOUR HOURS. 13 *'They were very slender, I fancy. His household was the simplest, his expenditure the smallest possible, and yet nobody ever thought of him as either poor or parsimoni- ous. He could, and did, give always. I hope his orphan daughter may be dealt with by the world, in which she is left alone, as gently as Mr. Ehodes dealt with everybody." " Was he kind to bad people, then ?" " He was very kind to bad people, though he was not in the least tolerant of bad things. He reversed the usual order; look- ed for the good in every human being first, and made as little account as possible of the evil." " La ! how he must have got imposed on," exclaimed Mrs. Stephenson. Her shallow brain conceived that wisdom and knowing- ness were identical, and you had only to *' always suspect everybody," according to the maxim of the respected father of Mr. Sampson Brass, in order to always get the better of everybody. 14 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. " I daresay he did," said Mrs. Masters, dryly, " but I fancy he did good to some impostors in his time as well, and he would have compounded for that. Are you not tired ? It has been a tiring day." " Yes, I am tired ; but 1 am so frightened, I don't think I can sleep." " Had you not better try ? You will not like to lose your morning ride, and you can't go out if you don't sleep." This home-truth, and a timel}'- remem- brance of her complexion, reduced Mrs. Stephenson to submission ; she retired in the re-assuring company of her camphor- ball. Mrs. Masters returned to her place at the window, after she had seen her guest to her room, and, guiltily conscious of a strong de- sire that the quarters which were in prepar- ation for Captain and Mrs. Stephenson should be made ready without delay, she continued, whilst sunk in deep and painful thought, to watch the light opposite, and the TWENTY-FOUR HOURS. 15 two figures beading over the table. Still forming a steady refrain to her meditations, went the tic-tac in her thoughts : " He was alive yesterday ; he was alive yester- day." It was close upon dawn when the confer- ence of two broke up, and Dr. Cunningham, taking leave of Colonel Masters, went away to his own house, having rendered to his old friend the chaplain the last service he could ever do him. Herbert Rhodes had not uttered many coherent sentences between his seizure and his death, but among them had been a request that Colonel Masters and Dr. Cunningham should have the arrange- ment of all his worldly affairs. It was by the doctor s directions that the boxes and papers had been taken up to the colonel's bungalow ; he would not have any but a case-hardened person like himself enter the house in which the chaplain had died, unless it were absolutely necessary. "A curious mind he must have had," 16 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. said the doctor to himself musingly, as he went his way homewards, " very methodi- cal, very unworldly, very contented. I wonder whether he was at all uneasy about anything he had done — a man of his sort might have had such strange scruples — when he muttered three times over, ' Leave thy fatherless children to me, saith the Lord. Am I leaving her to Him ? am I leaving her to Him ?' Who can tell ? Any- how, it is a good thing there is only one to be left, with so slender a provision, whether it be to the tender mercies of Heaven or those of earth." And then Dr. Cunningham, who, though a good man in his way, was eminently prac- tical, and never wasted either effort or emotion in cases where the one was vain or the other abstract, dismissed the matter from his thoughts. Had it not occupied them almost exclusively for twenty-four hours ? 17 CHAPTER II. SUBSEQUENT ARRANGEMENTS. TTTHEN Colonel Masters joined his wife, ' ' she was naturally anxious to learn the general result of the investigation in which he and the doctor had been engaged. "Sitting up, Margaret?" said the colonel. *' How tired you must be. It is very late." " I could not sleep. What have you found ? Is there anything like a good pro- vision for the poor girl ?" "Nothing, so far as we have seen, nothing represented by any of Rhodes' papers here. They are all in perfect order ; it is easy to see that he kept things in readiness to get the route any day, and there are not many A'-OL. I. 18 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. of them. His accounts are all made up to last Saturday, and there is not a rupee due here to anyone ; unfortunately there's very little due to him, and, when expenses are paid, there will not be any money to send home. There's a very small insurance on his life, only five hundred pounds, the sum he al- ludes to in the memorandum to which he referred Cunningham, and beyond that we can find no trace of any property what- ever." "That memorandum was looked at im- mediately, was it not ?" " It was, on the supposition that it might contain some directions for his funeral. There is, however, nothing of the kind ; it merely states where his papers are to be found, and expresses his wish that, as he has no debts, such proceeds of the sale of his personal effects as remain after the payment of his funeral expenses shall go to the school he helped to establish here. This memor- andum occupies only one side of a sheet of SUBSEQUENT ARRANGEMENTS. 19 letter paper, and was written a year ago." " Before he made arrangements for his daughter's coming out to him. Is there no- thing more?" '' Some directions about the disposal of his letters. They are all tied up in neat packets and numbered, and certain are to burned unread, the others — his wife's, I fancy — are to be forwarded to the same address, with a sealed packet directed in his own hand, and, to judge by its appearance, recently, which was the first we came upon." " To what address ?" "Messrs. Simpson and Rees, solicitors, Lincoln's Inn Fields, who have had, it seems, the management of all his affairs, evidently, never a very onerous charge. They have paid the school-bills for his daughter, and sent him a periodical report of her welfare, and there is also a letter from them about the arrangements for send- ing her out, and a copy of his reply. The 20 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. ^ poor girl would have been starting in about two months." "Yes. I understood that from him. . He was talking of her journey on Saturday morning, and the comparative ease of it, though he felt anxious enough about her." Mrs. Masters' voice broke, and her tears fell. The colonel walked to and fro thought- fully. *' It appears from his accounts that he had sent home the needful funds, and that the payments at the school v/ere completed. I cannot tell you, Margaret, how much the preparedness of everything, and a sort of methodical solitariness that there is about it all, impressed me. There is nothing among his papers to prove that Herbert Rhodes had anyone in the world of kin to him, except his daughter." '^ And I never heard him speak of rela- tions in England." "He must have been a very lonely man, though he never allowed it to appear." SUBSEQUENT ARRANGEMENTS. 21 " And we never thought of it, because he lived so completely in his work and out of self." " But it makes the thhis^ all the harder upon the poor girl," said the colonel. " Of course she may have friends in England ; thoudi the solicitor's letters don't look much o like it ; still her position must be a sad one even at its unknown best." ^'Who is to tell her?" asked Mrs. Mas- ters suddenly, and turning towards her hus- band with a flushed face. '' I never thought of that," said the colonel. " The death will be telegraphed ; there's no avoiding it ; she will see it in the papers, or some one will see it and tell her. Poor child." ''Let me think," said Mrs. Masters; then she added, after a pause: "The lady of the school. Would it do to telegraph pri- vately to her, and ask her to break the news to the girl ?" " Of course it would," said the colonel. 22 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. *' I'll do it the first thing in the morning. There's a mail on Thursday, the letters can go by that. Come, let us have a look at the children." As these kind people stood for a minute or two by the side of the cots in which their little daughters were sleeping undis- turbed by the visit, which was of regu- lar occurrence, each knew what was the un- spoken thought in the mind of the other. Heavenly compassion was at all events a temporary guest in the breast of the parents who had neither friendlessness nor poverty to fear for those beloved slumberers, in any at all to be foreseen event of fate. Colonel Masters was as good as his word. On the following day the telegraph convey- ed in a very brief form the intelligence of Herbert Rhodes' death to Miss Jerdane, at the Hill House, Highgate, London, with the addition ^' Break news." Then came the winding up of the deceased chaplain's simple affairs, the despatching of the packets address- SUBSEQUENT AKKANGEMENTS. 23 ed to Messrs. Simpson and Rees ; the sale of the humble personal effects ; the making of provisional arrangements ^;ar qui de droit for the fulfilment of the duties of the chap- laincy ; and in a surprisingly short space of time the closing of the incident. Mrs. Stephenson was much relieved when all these things were accomplished. The affair began to bore her so soon as her alarm subsided. It seemed that nobody else outside the native town was going to die of cholera just then, and her pretty ter- rors did not excite so much attention as she could have wished. It was very dull at Colonel Masters's, and she should be very anxious to see the new chaplain. India was a dreadful place, and she envied Mrs. Masters her delightful prospect of getting back to England after only one more year of it. "You envy me what I dread most in the Avorld," said Mrs. Masters, when her guest gave peevish utterance to these sentiments ; 24 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. *' separation from Arthur. I shall have to bear it for the children's sake ; but the less I think of it, and the less other people dis- cuss it in the meantime, the better." And yet it was the '^ feather-headed " Mrs. Stephenson, as her cousin, Colonel Masters, rather contemptuously called her when privately commenting upon her to his wife, who suggested that a photograph of the tomb which was erected by subscription to the memory of Herbert Rhodes, should be taken and sent to his daughter. Mrs. Stephenson did not subscribe to the fund raised for the erection of the tomb ; she was quite a new comer, and had hardly known Mr. Rhodes. Yet this apparent in- consistency did not surprise Colonel Masters. He had never, he remarked, known Chris- tina deficient in inexpensive sentiment. The tombstone was erected, the photograph was taken, and sent to the dead man's daughter, at Miss Jerdane's, with a letter written by Mrs. Masters, in which that lady expressed / SUBSEQUENT ARRANGEMENTS, 25 her intention of making Miss Rhodes's ac- quaintance on her not far-distant visit to England : thus had Mrs. Masters improved on the suggestion of Mrs. Stephenson, Nei- ther the letter nor the photograph reached the hands for which they were intended, but it was long ere that became known to the kind senders. Time went on with steady inexorability at Chundrapore as elsewhere. The pro- visional arrangement for the fulfilment of the duties of the chaplaincy was succeeded by the advent of a new regularly appointed chaplain, who presented a striking contrast to Herbert Rhodes in most respects ; and differed from him in none more saliently than in the fact of his numerous and impor- tant connections in England, and his read- iness to descant upon them. There were no " silences " about the Rev. Richard Kel- lett, and there was no mystery except how so high and mighty a divine had consented to accept so comparatively insignificant a 26 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. post as that chaplaincy which no one had ever thought of regarding as otherwise than a fitting post for Herbert Rhodes. From the dead man's daughter, no sign reached his friends at Chundrapore. The receipt of the packet of letters was duly ac- knowledged by Messrs. Simpson and Rees, but that was all — at least of direct com- munication, bearing on the matter of the chaplain's death. A month after that event, Dr. Cunningham drew the attention of Col- onel Masters to a paragraph in one of the London papers, arrived by the last mail, in which the failure of the Infallible Life Assurance Company, for an enormous sum, and under very discreditable circumstances, was announced, with much denunciatory editorial comment. "Look here," said the doctor; 'Hhe In- fallible was the office poor Rhodes was insured in, was it not ?" " By elove ! so it was," assented the colonel. SUBSEQUENT ARRANGEMENTS. 27 " Then it went, just at the time of his death." The two men exchanged rueful looks, and shook their respective heads gravely. 28 CHAPTER III. AN OLD DEBT. NOTHING original remains to be said about the physiognomy of houses. The vials of scorn and ridicule have been emptied upon the newly rich — whether of the crimson and gold period of taste which lapsed a decade ago, or the sage-green and gosling period which is now showing signs of decline — for that they have given their mansions over to the will and pleasure of upholsterers, accepting their '' suites," and paying their bills, with equal docility. No individuality ! no features ! no characterisa- tion ! None of that cultured discernment, and high-toned harmoniousness, which ren- AN OLD DEBT. 29 der life truly rhythmical and worth living. Mere '' furnishing," not the accreting to the individual of all that tends to adorn and elevate. Volumes of rhapsody have been lavished upon the ancient and stately great houses of England, with their cabinets and their china closets, their tapestried walls, their grim, carved, plumed bedsteads, and lofty ward- robes of the olden time. Yet those old mansions were, in their day, furnished by the upholsterers of that period ; the big fur- niture was very likely '' sent in " like coals. May there not be something to say for the newly rich of to-day, who act on the not unreasonable conviction that nobody is so likely to understand furnishing a house as a man the business of whose life is house- furnishing? This at least was the joint opinion of Mr. and Mrs. Townley Gore,, whose handsome and comfortable residence in Kaiser Crescent, a portion of the South Kensington district which was quite new ZO THE QUESTION OF CAIN. ten years ago, was not *' eloquent "or " full of character " or suggestive of anything except a very sound and complete notion of comfort, carried into execution with thoroughness that left nothing to be de- sired. The peacock and the sunflower had not yet "whipped the universe '^ of decorative art, and the Townley Gore upholsterer was no poet ; nor were the Townley Gores among the newly rich ; they were only newly richer ; an increase of fortune having come to them a short time before the period at which we make their acquaintance. The vulgarity, the pretentiousness, and the uneasiness of a state of life to which they had not been born or brought up, did not attach to the Townley Gores, to render them either odious, or absurd, or both. The impression which their house in Kaiser Crescent made upon such visitors to it as could not be satisfied without defining its physiognomy, was that its owners must be AN OLD DEBT. 31 enviable people, whose ways were those of pleasantness. The hall was hardly ''spacious," but it was perfectly convenient, richly carpeted, carefully warmed and lighted, and the dining-room, library, smoking, and billiard- rooms, which formed the ground-floor, were models of comfort and propriety in their respective fashions. A very profound scholar or an enthusiastic bibliophile would proba- bly not have cared much about the library ; but Mr. Townley Gore was neither, and the handsome shelves that lined the room on three sides of it were filled with books more readable than rare. Every appliance for reading with as much ease, and for writing with as little labour, as possible, was to be found in the library. A like judi- cious attention to the purposes of the apart- ment had presided over the dining-room. The upholsterer had not soared into regions of high art ; there was no ebon}?-, no velvet, no allegorical decoration in the room which 32 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. witnessed the transaction of the most im- portant business of Mr. Townley Gore's life ; but the floor was covered with a rich Turkey carpet, the windows were draped with crimson cloth, the chairs were stuffed like so many truffled turkeys, and rolled on noiseless castors ; the sideboards displayed good store of massive plate ; handsome screens enclosed and sheltered the wide hearthplace and the well-hung doors. The pictures were not perhaps of remarkable merit or of indisputable authenticity, but they answered their decorative purpose fairly, and Mr. Townley Gore was not a connaisseur — of painting. The comfort, order, and pleasantnesi^ that distinguished the portion of the house which is generally most associated with the male members of families, were equally observable in the other parts of it. There is a legend — it used to be kept in reserve for the edification of young house- maids — which relates how a certain lady of AN OLD DEBT. 33 extraordinary household virtues and inex- orability was wont to ascend every day to the attic and walk down the stairs to the nethermost region of her dwelling, a white handkerchief in her hand, which she passed along the stair rail, and, by the test of the spotlessness of that cambric piece of con- viction was judgment meted out to her Janes and Jemimas. This awful practice uiisfht almost have been in action in the Townley Gore mansion without producing penal results. It was the most dustless, the most deftly swept and garnished of dwellings. There are houses where the casual visitor never comes on traces of the children, but whose nurseries are populous for all that, and their little people neither unloved nor unhappy. Strangers do not hear their prattle and laughter, but the music of them is in the air, and the smile in the eyes of the hostess is touched with the sweetness and solicitude of motherhood. Why it was VOL. 1, i> 34 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. that it never occurred to anybody — even to persons who knew nothing about the Town- ley Gores and were at their house for the first time — to imagine that there could be a child or children there, it would be difficult to say. It was not because order reigned among chairs and footstools, because all the books were in their places, no toys lay about in the boudoir, and the hollows under the great tables in the dining-room were unconscious of transformation into the den of the two-legged wolf or the cave of the bear in a blue sash and a coral necklace. It was a fact, however it might be account- ed for, and one which would have pleased Mrs. Townley Gore, if she had realized it ; for she disliked children, and, if she ever felt a movement of gratitude to Providence, it was when she reflected upon her free- dom from what she regarded as the thral- dom of other women. If there had been a time when Mr. Townley Gore did not think as she did on this point, that time was long AN OLD DEBT. 35 past ; he did not " !iiind " now at all. He was a hon-vivant in a sense which is more or less obsolete at the present time, much devoted to the sedulous study of his own comfort of both body and mind, averse to facing any circumstances, and contemplating or admitting any subject which might inter- fere with that great good. He was not harsh, penurious, or cruel of disposition ; but he was almost as indifferent to the woes, wants, wrongs, and sufferino;s of his fellow- men as if those experiences were undergone by the inhabitants of another planet than this firm earth which had afforded him for half a century a secure footing in a paradise of delights, with only a few snakes in it. A prosperous gentleman in the fullest tscnse of the term was Mr, Townley Gore, as he entered his handsome dininsr-room on a fine morning in June, exactly at nine o'clock. His philosophy of life consisted of getting as much out of his allotted time in this unfortunately transitory phase of d2 36 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. existence as possible, and necessarily im- plied the observance of the conditions of health. He was not invariably constant to his principle. He departed from it a good deal in the articles of food and drink, but he adhered to it in those of early hours and regular exercise. Breakfast at nine was a never-broken rule, and Mr. Townley Gore was always punctual. The meal was, like all the meals at his house, served with every accessory of luxury and comfort. Most things which are acknowledged to be good to eat at breakfast were to be found on Mr. Townley Gore's table, and in the centre of it stood a bowl of rich red roses, whence a delicious odour diffused itself throughout the room. The windows were open ; the sweet June air came freshly in ; invisible birds were singing somewhere, though Kaiser Crescent was only a stony- hearted street, and its gardens very back- gardenish indeed. It was a pleasant scene that met the eyes of the master of the AN OLD DEBT. 37 house as he turned over the little heap of morning letters awaiting him as usual, and glanced at the morning papers laid symmetrically ready to his hand. Mr. Townley Gore was an uncommonly well-preserved man of fifty, who, before he learnt what gout meant, miglit have passed for forty; but he had been "pulled up," as he called it, of late, meaning that he had been forced to restrain his appetite in the interest of his health, and he began to look his age. He was tall, large, and good- looking, with still plentiful dark hair and handsome, slightly grizzled wdiiskers ; he had a pleasant smile, a well modulated voice, and such good manners that it was only fair to suppose the proverbial benevo- lence was somewhere behind them, and within call on occasion. He was always perfectly well dressed, without any ser- vile following of fashion, which is pardon- able only on the part of very young men, and he would no more have affected the 38 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. ways and pleasures of youth than he would have worn its clothes. That Mr. Townley Gore was eminently a sensible man, everyone who knew him and had ever taken the trouble to think about his qualities of mind would have allowed ; and the exception was not wanting in his case to prove the rule. The exception was to be found in a direction not uncommonly taken by sucli exceptions : that of his marriage. Mr. Townley Gore, a man of good blood, good education, and good fortune, had married^ when he was forty, a girl not quite twenty, of no " blood " in particular, very little education, and possessed of one of those unfortunate fortunes which are just enough to give their possessors a taste for spending money, while their small amount is a standing protest against the gratifying of that taste. The step was not a wise one, but it was not so inconsistent as those per- sons who particularly esteemed Mr. Town- AN OLD DEBT. 39 ley Gore as a '' sensible " man would have held it to be, if they could have looked across the ten years that lay between then and now, and compared Mrs. Townley Gore at not quite thirty with Miss Lorton at not quite twenty. Not all his sense had ever subdued his inclinations, except in small things, and on the calculative principle, and he was too much in love with Miss Lorton to hesitate about marrying her either be- cause her father (fortunately dead) had been " in business," or because she was just half his own age. On the whole, the marriage had turned out surprisingly well, considering that the motives which led to it were as little lofty as human mo- tives could well be ; and this was chiefly owing to a fact which Mr. Townley Gore had not taken into any account, had not indeed suspected ; the fact that his wife, though little educated, was very clever. The pair were well suited at this period of their lives ; and if the vacant chair at the 40 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. well-spread breakfast-table bad been occu- ^pied on the morning in question by the lady of the house, no one could have denied that a fair and pleasant picture was fitly completed by her presence. But the lady of the house did not appear, and Mr. Townley Gore, while making a very excellent breakfast, read his news- papers with an untroubled mind and a cheerful countenance, in harmony with the fine weather, the sweet air, the sunshine, the roses, and the birds ; and looked over all his letters, except two or three of unin- viting exterior : these might wait. They did wait until he had finished his meal, and then he opened the blue and business-like covers. Two were tradesmen's bills, but Mr. Townley Gore was never disturbed by the receipt of documents of that kind ; he glanced at the third. "Simpson and Rees ! Who the deuce are Simpson and Rees ?" he asked himself half aloud. Then, with a changed expression, partly puzzled, partly AJJ OLD DEBT. 41 intent, he read the letter through twice over, and, letting his right hand, with the paper held in it, drop on his knee, he re- mained for several minutes absorbed in thought. Mr. Townley Gore was so methodical in his ways that any departure from his usual custom excited surprise in the household. That instead of taking his invariable morn- ing ride in the park, he should on this par- ticularly beautiful day send away his horse, have a hansom called, and tell the driver to take him to Lincoln's Inn Fields, was so unaccountable that it led to a suspicion that something was " up." He had asked whether his wife had risen, but was told that she was still asleep. On his way to Lincoln's Inn he read the solicitors' letter again, and as he restored it to his breast- pocket he muttered : " It is an old debt, but a just one." 42 CHAPTER IV. A WOMAN OF THE WORLD. NOT precisely of the great world ; not of that more or less mysterious caste which those outside it know chiefly through the medium of caricature, either laudatory or defamatory, calling itself descriptive in the one case or satire in the other, and which is still intact, whatever the invaders of it may pretend to the contrary. Not of that world in which the common talk and the ordinary knowledge of every day are insensibly an education, because the talkers are the governing men and the leaders of affairs, and the knowledge is an easy acquaintance with the things that lower social circles can A WOMAN OF THE WORLD. 43 only guess at. To that world Mrs. Townley Gore did not belong ; but in one which was very good in her eyes she had a place, and she filled it becomingly. London in the winter and in the season, some very good country houses in the early, and Brighton or the Continent in the late, autumn, agree- ably filled up her life with the sameness in variety so congenial to many minds. Mr. Townley Gore had no country place, and his wife was glad that he had not. People who have landed estates are more import- ant, of course, than people who have not ; but then they pay for the increase of dig- nity by boredom ; there is all that incon- venient chatter about duties as well as rights, and she never pretended either to herself or to other people to have anything of the Lady Bountiful about her. One would have to be born to that sort of thing, no doubt. On the whole, it would, perhaps, have been difficult to find an indi- vidual more contented with her state of life 44 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. than Mrs. Townley Gore, although there were certain drawbacks to her entire satis- faction. With these, however, we are not at present concerned. In a pretty, cheerful morning-room, with a wide balcony filled with flowers, and a pink-and-white awning to temper the rays of the sun, Mrs. Townley Gore might have been seen — and seen to much advantage — an hour after her husband left the house. Cool, crisp, delicate chintz hangings, Indian matting, light and simple furniture, but every article of the best and most appro- priate, the merely ornamental things well-selected, valuable, and not too numerous, made a pretty picture of the room. One could not have told with a glance at it — as may frequently be done in the case of an ''own" room, in which the proprietor lives off guard and off duty with respect to the outer world — what were the distinctive tastes and pursuits of the owner of this one. The evidence was negative A WOMAN OF THE WORLD. 45 on these points. There were books, but they stood on the shelves in their place as furniture; they had not the physiognomy of friends. There was not a trace of music or drawing. A well-appointed writing- table, rather large for the size of the room, was placed near the French window, now widely opened, and at this table sat Mrs. Townley Gore, occupied with her morning's correspondence. A very handsome woman ; there could be no dispute about that. So handsome in her thirtieth year that it was easy to believe she had been irresistibly beautiful when Mr. Townley Gore married her, while the priceless transitory glow of youth was shed upon the fine features, and its lumin- ous sparkle was in the large dark eyes. So handsome that some people said there was not a fault in her face. There were faults in her face though, but they did not strike the observer at first ; the lips were too thin and too red, the brow was too flat, and 46 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. while there was no lack of expressiveness in the countenance, its variet}^ did not in- clude positive and spontaneous sweetness. The most that could be said of Mrs. Town- ley Gore's smile was that it was pleasing when she meant it to please ; the quick light and warmth that go to the heart like a sun- beam were unknown to that harmonious combination of small, well-cut features, and smooth, brilliant complexion. She was of middle height, and not very slender, and her movements were rather deliberate ; something in them accorded with and com- plemented her prevailing expression, which was reserved and cautious. Socially, Mrs. Townley Gore might be accounted a suc- cess. She had been accepted with readi- ness in society ; most people did not know exactly who she was, but then they did not want to know. She did not aim at or take a sufficiently important place to be ex- posed to the rigid inquisition of the " Who's who ?" of the uppermost systems of the A WOMAN OF THE WORLD. 47 social structure, while her actual position was unassailable. She had a wealthy husband, a good house, hospitable tastes, agreeable manners, and no history.. So far, so good ; on the per contra side, she had not an in- timate friend in the world, and her depen- dants hated her. Mrs. Townley Gore's occupation on this beautiful summer morning was apparently not pleasant to her. She wrote rapidly ; and her handwriting was of a square and decided kind, more easy to read than pretty to look at ; and she took the lightest part of her task first. There were several invitations to be disposed of; she replied to them with the aid of her engage- ment list ; there were some household mat- ters — in all such she was very exact and capable — and she settled them in their order with close attention. There were two or three besjcjinc? letters, these she threw unread into the embroidered basket by her side ; there was a very glazy note with a 48 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. gold coronet and monogram upon the cover, and this she considered for a minute or two, with a slight frown. The glazy note was a scrawl from a countess, who wanted to sell tickets for a concert to be given by a protegee of hers — with the divinest voice, quite too delicious; a sweet creature, who only needed an opportunity to astonish the world — wouldn't Mrs. Townley Gore take tickets, and make some of her friends take tickets ? The countess sent her six to save trouble, she was always so kind. Mrs. Townley Gore did not care for music, was not in the least interested about the sweet creature with the divinest voice, and was too judicious to worry her own particular set about anything of the kind ; nevertheless, she kept the tickets, and she sent a cheque for the price of them to the countess, with a neat reply to the glazy note ; and her promptitude, especially in payment, was as gratifying as she hoped it might be to that benevolent busy-body. There was a very A WOMAN OF THE WORLD. 49 strong and touching appeal, written in a scholarly hand upon paper of the cheapest kind, from the curate in charge of a fright- fully poor district by the river-side, where want and sickness were his never beaten, ever reinforced foes, for help to feed the children at the school in which he slaved and strove against that third deadly enemy — ignorance. This followed the other begging-letters into the basket : not unread and unanswered indeed, for the writer was a well known and distinguished man, and Mrs. Townley Gore would not on any account commit a breach of good manners towards a person of that sort; but after she had refused its prayer on the ground that the local demands on her purse rendered it impossible for her to grant it. This done, Mrs. Townley Gore addressed herself to another task, and, as she pursued it, the slight frown deepened, her well-defined dark eyebrows all but met, and gave her smooth forehead an intent stern expression VOL. T. E 50 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. which made her look years older in a moment. From a drawer in the writing-table she took out a letter, read it attentively, and replaced it under a number of papers, after she had copied the address — a foreign one — given by the writer. Then she wrote : " I cannot make up my mind, Frederick, whether you are most knave or fool. It looks as if you were most knave, that you should have broken all your promises and engagements to me as you have done; but it looks as if you were most fool, that you can suppose it possible I would do what you ask, or rather demand. You ought to have learned by this time how far you can go with me in the way of persuasion ; and if there be a fact concerning which you ought not, being possessed of reasoning faculties, to be in doubt, it is that in the way of intimidation you cannot go one single step. Now, in the way of persuasion you have reached the end of your resources. A WOMAN OF THE WORLD. 51 I have not been hard, I have not been un- willing ; I have done what I could, I have put up with a good deal that has been un- deniably humiliating, but there has been enough of all this. No doubt you will not agree with me ; yours will be the point of view of the one who takes, which is always different from the point of view of the one who gives. Happily that does not matter ; I am in a position to back my opinion by action, and I mean to back it. The case betv^reen us may be stated, briefly and in- contestably, in a few lines. You intruded upon my husband, believing that you had me in 3^our power, because it never occurred to you that I was too wise a woman to keep any secrets of my own from the man witji whom I proposed to pass my whole life, the only human being who could really matter to me in my future lot ; and my husband bought you off, as it was arranged between him and me that he should do, if you ever took the step that I thought by no means e2 52 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. unlikely at the time. But he paid, and I don t mean that he shall pay twice over, or that he shall be troubled with 3^ou any more. The cool impudence of your application, when you heard of the increase of Mr. Townley Gore's fortune by the death of his uncle, almost took me by surprise — almost, not quite. The possible to an idle scape- grace like you, who imagines himself work- ing when he is only indulging a taste that never reached the height of a talent, and who has parted with his self-respect as readily as he would pawn his watch, is an unknown quantity ; I should never think of defining it. I have not mentioned your recent application to Mr. Townley Gore, and I do not intend him ever to learn that it was made. He is a very good-humoured man up to a certain point ; beyond that he is very much the opposite. I have laid down for myself one invariable rule of con- duct, founded upon my clear perception of facts and their stubbornness. I never have A WOMAN OF THE WORLD. 53 quarrelled, and never will, under any cir- cumstances, quarrel with my husband. To ask him for more money to keep you quiet would be to overstep the bounds of his good-humour, and to incur the risk of a quarrel with him on the score that I had done that to which he most strongly ob- jects : evoked a humiliating recollection, and revived a painful subject. When I say that nothing shall induce me to do this, and that 3^ou may do your worst, because whatever you do you cannot make a go-between of me, you will be a much greater fool than I believe you to be, if you do not take me implicitly at my word. " And now that the matter of my reply to the equally audacious and foolish demand which you have been so ill-advised as to make is at an end, (and I give you my most explicit and steadfast assurance that any attempt at a renewal of it shall simply remain unnoticed), I have something more to say. Your natural impulse, under t\\h 54 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. circumstances which you detail in your letter, and in which I do not altogether believe, but am willing to regard as ap- proximate to the truth, touched up by your imagination, and your ill-founded hope of working upon mine, would be to appl}^ to your old friend. Do not do it. If ever you listened to advice in your life, listen to mine now. Don't let your evil genius or your shallow brain suggest that I give you this counsel from interested motives ; I do not. He knows nothing. My husband did not tell him that he had forbidden you his house ; he is above that, I assure you, and I never overrate anybody. All your future may now depend upon your believing my word, accepting my judgment, and acting on my advice. I believe that there is a chance for you in the not distant future, such as can only come to you once in your life, and which an application in that quarter would quite hopelessly and irrevocably de- stroy. That you may not be led, or, as you A WO:\rAN OF THE WORLD. 55 would represent it, driven to defy the caution I give you, I send you a cheque for fifty pounds in this letter — all the money I now have at my disposal, and it will be out of my power ever to give you any more." This letter Mrs. Townley Gore signed, folded, and addressed, and she had just laid it upon the pile of things to be sent to the post, Vv'hen she heard her husband's step on the stairs, and the next moment he entered the room. She seldom saw him between breakfast and luncheon, and she looked up a little surprised. Then she perceived that some- thing had disturbed the even tenor of his way, '' If you are not busy, there's something I want to talk to you about,"' said Mr. Townley Gore. "I am not at all busy," returned his wife, graciously, as she pushed a cliair to- wards him, and turned away from the writing-table, to signify her uninterrupted 56 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. attention. But Mr. Townley Gore found it easier to talk while walking up and down the room, a sure sign that he was embar- rassed. ^'It is rather a long stor}^," he began, with a glance at his hearer which betrayed uncertainty of mind, " but you will under- stand the matter more clearly if I begin at the beginning." Did I ever happen to mention to you a friend of mine named Rhodes, a clergyman, out in Bengal ?" " Never." " Ah, I daresay I never did. He went out to India many years ago, and, though we exchanged some letters at first, our correspondence dropped after a time. We were boys together — he was a year or two my senior — and schoolfellows. He was the only son of a clergyman, who had no for- tune to give him, and he was educated for the Church. He was a very clever, quiet, studious fellow, and when he went to Ox- ford, at the same time that I did, we were A WOMAN OF THE WORLD. 57 in quite different sets. Still we saw a good deal of each other, and in my last year an event occurred which drew, or oudit to have drawn, the ties between us closer." Mrs. Townley Gore, politely listening, but not as yet particularly interested, raised her eyebrows just a little ; there was a touch of sentiment very unlike the speaker about this last sentence, and he concluded it with a short, impatient sigh. " Rhodes had helped me out of many a scrape at school, and out of one or two at college; and this time he saved my life." " Saved your life — how ?" *^ It wasn't a pretty story ; I will save you and myself the details. I was rather wild in those days, and I had been drinking a good deal. There was a row, and I got knocked into the river ; tlie other men were as tipsy as myself. I was all but drowned, when Rhodes saved me, at the imminent risk of his own life. Indeed, it was twice risked, for he had inflammation of the lungs 58 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. afterwards, and lost a whole year. Of course I was very grateful to him when I knew what had happened, and made all sorts of promises and protestations ; but I only saw him once for a long time, for he was ill for months at his father's parsonage, and I had left Oxford before he returned. We met next in London ; he was in orders then, and had been acting as curate to his father, and we were a good deal together. Shortly afterwards his father died ; Rhodes did not get the living of Linleigh, and he wrote to me that he had applied for a foreign chaplaincy. I am afraid I had not thought much about him ; I was living among a fast set in London, while he was working down in the country, but I would have done anything I could for him." ''Naturally," observed Mrs. Townley Gore, aware of a curious hesitation about her husband's manner, and now becoming interested in his narrative ; " but what could you do for him ?" A WOMAN OF THR WORLD. 59 "Exactly. What could I do? There was nothing ; in fact Well !" he shrugged his shoulders, and paused in his walking to and fro, placing one hand on the writing- table, and looking uneasily at his wife, " I lost sight of him, until I heard accidentally from an old acquaintance of his marriage. He had married a beautiful girl, quite a lady, but without either fortune or friends who could push Rhodes's interest." *^ Very imprudent," remarked Mrs. Town- ley Gore, drily. *' Very ; but therefore all the more like Herbert Rhodes. For a fellow who never went wrong or did wrong, he was the most reckless of consequences I have ever known." " Ah, one of your trusters in Providence, without keeping his powder dry, I suppose," said Mrs. Townley Gore, and the remark jarred somehow, like a warning, upon her husband. *' Just so; I sent a bracelet, if I remem- 60 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. ber rightly, to his wife, and wrote to Rhodes. I saw him only once again long afterwards ; it was just before ho sailed for Calcutta, for he had at last got an Indian chaplaincy, and he introduced me to his wife, a beautiful, delicate creature, about whom I remember thinking a man must be mad to take her to such a climate." " I suppose he could not help it — people must live," said Mrs. Townley Gore. "Was this long ago ?" *' It was before we married ; nearly twelve years ago. And, Caroline, Rhodes then told me that the greatest trouble he and his wife had to encounter was the part- ing with their child, a little girl of four years old, whom they were obliged to leave in England." ^' Why ?" "Why, because the child could not have been reared in India, and they were too poor to take her out, and incur the expense of sending her home again at the proper A WOMAN OF THE WORLD. 61 age. The motlier seemed quite dazed with grief; I can remember that now, after all this time. Rhodes and I were very friendly together; I saw them off from Gravesend, and the next I heard of them, Mrs. Rhodes was dead." " Indeed ! What has become of your friend ?" Mr. Townley Gore took a letter from his breast-pocket, and answered, in a very serious tone, *'My friend is dead too. This morning's post brought me news of his death, through his solicitors, Messrs. Simpson and Rees, of Lincoln's Inn Fields. Here is their letter ; I have seen them since I received it ; and this brings me to what I particularly want to say to you. The lawyers, as you may see," — he held the letter out to his wife, but she waved it from her with an expressive gesture, — ''requested me to call on them at my earliest convenience, and I went to Lincoln's Inn Fields at once. There I €2 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. found Mr. Rees, the junior member of the firm, and he told me the particulars of Ehodes's death. It occurred at Chundra- pore, where he had been chaplain for the last twelve years, and when, according to the customary routine, his papers were ex- amined, it was found that he had left a sealed packet addressed to Messrs. Simpson and Rees, which was rightly supposed to contain all his worldly dispositions." " Yes ?" said Mrs. Townley Gore, finding it necessary to say something, as her hus- band again paused and hesitated. "That sealed packet," he continued, slowly, ** enclosed a letter from Rhodes to me, which the solicitors were requested to deliver into my own hands. The poor fel- low reminds me, for the first time, of our old friendship, of my former acknowledg- ment of a great obligation to him, of his isolation in the world, and asks me to look after his daughter when he shall be gone. It seems that he died of cholera very A WOMAN OF THE ^YORLD. 63 shortly after he had written that letter." " His daughter ! The child who was left in England ?" '' Yes, bat she is a grown-up girl now, nearly seventeen. She was to have gone out to him to India this year." " To look after a girl of that age is rather vague. To what does your friend's request really amount ?" There was a hard look in the speaker's face; the caution of her nature was aroused. " That I cannot exactly say. He had very little to leave her — an insurance on his life of five hundred pounds was the chief of it, and she is at a boarding-school at Hisfhs^ate. I have consulted with the solicitors, and they suggested — but of course I should have done that in any case — that I should refer the question to you." "To me! My dear Edward, how can I possibly have any idea of what had better be done with a young lady who has five hundred pounds for her fortune, and pre- 64 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. sumably no friends, since her father com- mends her to you, who had not seen or heard of him for more than twelve years ?" This was a crude but convincing way of putting the case. Mr. Townley Gore saw at once that there was no chord in his wife's nature that the hand of the orphan girl would be likely to strike, and he silent- ly took two resolutions. One was that he would not impart to Mrs. Townley Gore the supplementary information which Messrs. Simpson and Rees had imparted to him — i.e.^ that of the failure of the Infallible In- surance Office, by which Helen Rhodes had been left absolutely destitute ; the other was that he would not request his wife to accom- pany him in his projected early visit to the Hill House, Highgate. He replied, however, *' It is very difficult, but I cannot ignore the claim of which Rhodes' letter reminds me. However, we can discuss the matter after luncheon." After luncheon, when Mrs Townley Gore A WOMAN OF THE WORLD. 65 was going out for the regular afternoon drive, she said airily to her husband, and as if the thing were of the most trifling import, '' Apropos of your romantic story of your college friend, I have been thinking it is very likely the schoolmistress would keep the girl as a teacher. They do that sort of thing, I believe, for what they call a premium. I suppose the Lincoln's Inn Fields people could settle it." VOL. I. 6{y CHAPTER V. AT THE HILL HOUSE. TF the June days of that year were bright, -■- beautiful, and balmy at South Kensing- ton, how much more bright, beautiful, and balmy were they away at the highest point of breezy Highgate? where the sky was incalculably higher than in the towny regi- ons, and there were real forest-trees for the wind to kiss. Not that they " did make no noise," for they made a most delightful rust- ling, so that the whole soul of summer seemed to be loosed in the old-fashioned garden and grounds, of small extent indeed, but with wonderful resources in the way of clusters of shrubs, winding walks, and rustic AT THE HILL HOUSE. 67 seats under the shade of the weeping ash- trees which constituted the chief glory of the Hill House. The grounds were enclosed on three sides by a high wall, with broke a- glass embedded in its coping of mortar, but the up- ward slope from the garden proper, that lay beneath the wide-spreading back of the house, took off what might otherwise have been a shut up effect. From the topmost part, where the wall was, with close behind it a noble line of great oaks, clad just now in their richest green garb of midsummer, an extend- ed view of fields and trees, of old red brick houses, of church spires and distant hamlets was to be had. The landscape was a fair one, even in winter; in such weather as that of this particular June, and bathed in such sunshine, it was full of rich and placid beauty that brought quiet content to un- ambitious minds. A grassy bank lay be- tween the wall and a trimly kept gravel walk, with flower beds and clumps of ever- crreens on the other side of it : down in the f2 68 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. distance, on the least elevated spot, stood the Hill House. It was a large comfortable two-storied house, of irregular construction, with a bell- turret in the roof, and a wide passage through the middle of the under-storey, with a ponderous hall-door, and a ponder- ous garden-door, facing each other, at either end of it. It was pleasant and homely looking, and neither inside nor out had it the cold primness that generally characterises a Ladies' Boarding School. It stood well back from the road, sheltered by a high thick laurel hedge and shaded by some fine fir-trees. The windows on the ground floor, at the back of the house, were all open, and in the clear summer air the sound of voices occa- sionally came faintly to two girls who were seated ou the grass under the boundary wall at the top of the slope, in a spot from whence the view was most comprehensive. They sat in the shade formed by a protect- AT THE HILL HOUSE. 69 ing bough of one of the noble oaks, of which Miss Jerdane used to say that they belong- ed much less to their owner than to her. " It was kind of Miss Jerdane to give you to me for this afternoon," said the younger of the two girls, as she nestled close to her companion, and, shutting her eyes wearily, rested her head upon the other's arm. " She is very kind," was the reply, " not a bit like the terrible schoolmistress in the good books. I wish for your sake, Helen, she wasn't going to be married." " For my sake, why ?" " Because — well," the speaker found what she wanted to say not quite easy — '^ because you might have stayed here, perhaps. She has been a good friend to you, and to me too." '' And my only one. I wonder whether there ever was in the world anyone lonelier than I. I have been thinking a great deal about that since I heard of papa's death : thinking of it more than of him, it seems to 70 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. me, and it feels so dreadful to have to ask myself what is to become of me? Is it wicked, Jane ? Am I a bad, hard-hearted, unnatural girl, to be taken up so much with that thought, when it is only a month since the day when Mr. Simpson's clerk came, and—-" Her sweet lips quivered, and tears rose in her innocent grey eyes. "Indeed you are not," said her compan- ion, soothingly. ''Do not torment your- self with fancying that, Helen dear. You have to think of yourself, you know." " Yes," assented the younger girl with a sob; '"' I have, and do it morning, noon, and night ; you cannot imagine how I dread the world outside this place, now that I have no right to anybody in it — and what strange thoughts I have ! I'll try to tell you some of them, Jane, for you are going away too, and then there will be no one, no one at all." She changed her position, turning her AT THE HILL HOUSE. 71 face towards her companion, and clasping her hands upon her knees. " When I expected to go out to India, I was not a bit afraid ; it seemed to me that papa would be everything, and the place would not matter, so long as he was there. I used to think about what I should do for him, and what our life together would be ; I felt as if I knew him quite well, and just what our house was. I called it home in my mind. I had not really seen him since I was quite a little child, but I could see him plainly. Jane, why is it that I cannot see him now ? Why is it that ever since he died I have the dreadful feeling that he was only a fancy in my own mind, and, though I read his letters over and over again, it never comes back, he is never real to me, and I seem to be striving to grieve more than actually grieving. And all I had thought of, and pictured, and counted on, isn't so much a dreadful disappointment as the vanishing of a phantom. It is just like waking up 72 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. from a long distinct dream to — nothing." " You see, dear, it was never much more than a dream to you, was it?" "No, I suppose not. That's the worst of it. I seem to be so unreal to myself ; I am nobody's business, and nobody's pleasure." ^ A rueful little smile gleamed oyer the lovely face on which the leaves threw flickering shadows — the face that might have been heaven here below to the father and mother who had never seen it, as it was now. " I wonder what I am for, what is the good of me ? Why I did not die when mamma died, years ago ; why I am left, now that papa is gone, to ask myself that hor- rid dreary old question, ' What is to become of me ?' For nobody can answer it, Jane." She shook her head in a childish, pathetic way, and the light glinted on her chestnut hair. " Not you, though you are so good to me, and we have been such friends ; not Miss Jerdane, though she has been good to me too, but she can't be troubled about me AT THE HILL HOUSE. 73 just as she is going to be married to Mr. Mathews, after such an awfully long engage- ment, and giving up the school, and going to Ne^v South Wales." *' Does she suggest anything for you to do ; any home for you ?" " She has talked to me about it, but — again I wonder if it is horrid of me to have such thoughts — I think she is a little afraid or that she feels Mr. Mathews would be afraid that I should fancy I have any claim upon them. Of course I have not; I have no claim on anyone in the world. Perhaps," she added, wistfuUv, wanderinor from the point, " if I had gone out to India, and been there before papa died, some of his friends might have cared for me for his sake." " If the house were even going to be kept on as a school, it would be something. Miss Jerdane could have recommended you." *' Yes, so she said ; but it isn't, and there's no chance there. And I am too young to 74 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. be a governess, except to very little chil- dren, and that means being a servant. I wish I were more clever, and hadn't been so idle. I might have played well enough, if I had worked hard. But I know I don't play well enough to teach, or to play at concerts ; my music is no good to me. And it all comes back to the weary old questions : ' What is the use of me in the world, and what is to become of me ?' And think, Jane, think how soon I must find some sort of an- swer to them ! Breaking up time is only a month from now, and by then I must have somewhere to go to, and something to do." She suddenly hid her face in her hands, and, though the sun was hot, she shivered. The elder girl looked at her with grave con- cern. The contrast between the two friends was striking, and in nothing more remarka- ble than in the capacity and self-sufficement to be read in the face of Jane Merrick, and tlie trustful simplicity and dependence ex- pressed by that of Helen Rhodes. There AT THE HILL HOUSE. 75 was no beauty in the one face ; the other was full of beauty not yet in its complete ex- pansion. Helen Rhodes' figure was tall, slight, and elegant, her movements were soft and graceful, and, though now her girl- ish gaiety had suffered eclipse, there was about her the lovely bloom and brilliance proper to her seventeen years. Jane Mer- rick had neither bloom nor brilliance at nineteen ; she was short, thin, and dark- complexioned ; her face had nothing re- markable about it except its expression, and her one personal charm was her magnificent black hair. The friends were as different in mind as in person, and in their ways as in either. Jane Merrick was only a "pupil- teacher " at Miss Jerdane's school ; Helen Rhodes was a favourite pupil, and justly re- garded by Miss Jerdane as a credit to the es- tablishment. Nobody knew exactly who Jane Merrick's people were, there was a gen- eral belief that there had been some conde- scension on Miss Jerdane's part in receiving 76 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. her (for the Hill House was eminently gen- teel, not to say exclusive), and that it had been conditioned that Jane was to have no visitors. The pupil-teacher had proved ex- tremely studious as a pupil, and most satis- factory as a teacher. She had no time to lose, she told Helen, the only one in the house for whom she cared ; she would have her own way to make in the world. And Helen, who was fond of Jane Merrick too, if not quite so exclusively, had felt so sorry for her, and thought it such a dreadful thing that a girl should have her own way to make in the world. It did not seem right, somehow, to her narrow experience and timid nature, with her own father and the dis- tant Indian home, and all the wonderful pos- sibilities of the future before her. She had often wondered, vaguely, how Jane would set about the first steps of her own way in the world, and now all that was changed ; Jane Merrick was going to an assured home, and it was to Helen's lot that it had AT THE HILL HOUSE. 77 fallen to do this terrible and unknown thino-. o In the grave look that Jane bent upon Helen, there was keen remembrance of this, and, indeed, Jane was thinking that the back was in the case before her much less fitted to the burden than her own would have been. There was, however, no shift- ing that load, only the easing of it was pos- sible. "Don't let it get the better of you, darling," said Jane, who did not indulge freely in school-girl endearments of speech, and meant them when she used them, as she drew Helen's hands gently down and held them in her own ; "there will be a way made for you, depend on it ; that is a prom- ise, you know : it may not be an easy way, but your feet will be set in it, and a lamp will be given to them." Helen understood her only vaguely : she was orthodox, of course, as became a clergy- man's daughter, but of real religion as the stay and guide of life she had not the least 78 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. idea ; and, when Jane said things of this kind, she just listened and let them pass. '' I have been thinking," continued Jane, gently stroking with thin brown fingers the soft pink and white hands she held, " that if you did not mind very much — though it would be a come-down for you, of course — my aunt might be able to find something that you would like more than teaching small children " " There cannot be anything I should like less," said Helen, looking up with a gleam of hope in her face ; " dear Jane, tell me what you are thinking of, and what you mean by a ' come-down ' for me." "I mean that you are a lady, and that you might not like to have anything to do with business." "Business?" repeated Helen. "What business ?" " The business that's done in a shop ; selling things to people who want to buy AT THE HILL HOUSE. 79 them, or keeping account of the money that's paid for them." '' But I could not sell things, and I could not keep accounts," said Helen, ignoring the real question at issue from delicacy to- wards Jane, whose aunt she now concluded was "in business." " Why not ? you have always been first- rate at arithmetic ; and anyone can learn to be a shopwoman. What I have in my mind is not just a common shop, either; though it will be very hard for a born lady like you to think well of it, no doubt. My aunt, dear Helen, is neither more nor less than a milliner and dressmaker, and until lately not a very prosperous one. She brought me up after my mother died, and placed me here three years ago to be educated to teach others. But she has married a rich silk-mercer, an Englishman, though he has always lived in Paris, and she has set up a fine place there ; it adjoins Mr. Morrison's silk warehouse, and I am going to live with 80 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. her, and earn a salary as her assistant, to superintend her show-rooins, and speak English to her French, and French to her English customers. I did not tell you this before, because Miss Jerdane did not wish it known in the school that I was leaving the Hill House to go into a business. She gave me leave to tell you to-day." '' Oh, Jane, shall you like it ?" " Very much. I love my aunt, and owe everything to her. I shall be working for her, and not for strangers. I shall be fair- ly paid, and some day I hope I shall have a business of my own. I consider myself a very fortunate person, and I wish I could see you equally well off." '* But your aunt would not want me. What could I do there, even if " *' Even if you could make up your mind to it? My idea may not be worth much, but I thought as Miss Jerdane is going away, and the lawyer gentlemen are not friends, you say, only business people whom you AT THE HILL HOUSE. 81 have no claim upon, that it just comes to this — my aunt and I are the only friends you have." " Your aunt and you I Why, Jane, she never saw me." A smile, which made it almost beautiful, lighted up Jane Merrick's face as she answered : "What does that matter, dear? She knows all about you from me ; and she thinks if you would come to us when you have to leave this, that, even if you did not like to be employed in the business, it is very likely she would be able to find you a good place as couipanion to a lady, or in a nice French family; for she is very well known, and many of her customers are her friends." " How ver}^ very kind," said Helen, who began to understand Jane's meaning now ; to see that she was offering her at least a temporary solution of that problem, so ter- ribly hard for her seventeen-years-old brain VOL. I. Cr 82 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. to work — what was to become of her ? — that the kindly woman in business, who had been so good to her own orphan niece, was taking compassion on an orphan and a stranger. "How very, very kind," she re- peated. " I don't know what to say ; be- cause, Jane, however much you try, you cannot make me believe that I could be of any use to your aunt or you. I am not foolish enough to think that " " Miss Rhodes ! Miss Rhodes !" A little girl was running up the grassy slope towards where Jane and Helen sat, and calling to Helen as she ran. The two friends started to their feet as the child came up to them. "What is it, Bessie?" asked Jane, "you have run yourself out of breath." '' Never mind," said the little girl, petu- lantly. "Miss Jerdane said I was to be quick and tell Miss Rhodes to come in this very moment ; she's wanted in the big draw- ing-room." AT THE HILL HOUSE. 83 The small messenger caught Helen's arm, and pulled it, to give effect to her commission. " I— wanted?" said Helen to Jane. " Who can it be ?" " Come along, Miss Rhodes ; you're to come this very minute," said the child, and then she added, as she tripped along on the grass by Helen's side: *'It must be a gen- tleman that's come to see you, for I saw two such beautiful shiny brown horses be- fore the door, when Miss Jerdane called me into the hall, and a man in bright boots and a leather belt was standing right in front of them. I should have liked to pat their nice noses ; Fm not at all afraid of horses — are you, Miss Rhodes ?" Helen did not answer. As they walked quickly to the house, she and Jane exchang- ed perturbed looks. Helen was full of vague alarm, and yet she asked herself what bad news could now come to her ? ISTothing remained to her; what then was there that could be taken away ? g2 84 CHAPTER VI. HELENS LUCK. yi S Helen Rhodes entered the big draw- ■^-^ ing-roora, and with the slight curtsey of prescription presented herself before Miss Jerdane and the gentleman with whom she was talking, a quick look of surprise passed over the face of the latter. The girl's tall, lithe, graceful figure, her fair face with its singularly pure, grave, and harmonious lines, and expression of trustfulness and in- nocence without any touch of foolishness^ her fresh sweet voice, as she addressed the few words, '* Bessie told me to come to you," to Miss Jerdane, made an instant im- pression on Mr. Townley Gore. He had Helen's luck. 85 been for more than half an hour in confer- ence with Miss Jerdane, and Helen had been the subject of their discourse, but nothing that was said had conveyed to him the idea that the daughter of his dead friend was a handsome and distinguished-looking girl. Miss Jerdane had spoken of Helen as ''nice," and "good," and "intelligent," in an evenly commendatory tone which had given her hearer no distinct impression at all ; and Mr. Townley Gore's general notion of schoolgirls was that they were lumpy, awkward, freckled, and giggling. He felt in an instant that, when he introduced him- self to Helen as " an old friend of her father's," any awkwardness which existed was on his side. A flush of colour suffused her face, but quickly faded ; she placed her hand in that which Mr. Townley Gore ex- tended to her, and said, " You are very kind, sir. I did not know my father had a friend in England." There was not the slightest intention of 86 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. reproach, or notion of sarcasm in Helen's mind, but the discreet Miss Jerdane — a fad- ed, fair, thin-featured woman, with a kind, anxious face— -was disconcerted by her words. They seemed to charge this grand- looking gentleman, who meant so well by her unfortunate pupil, with neglect ; and how would he take them ? Excellently well, it seemed, for he said with a smile, as he released Helen's hand, and placed a chair for her, "Nor did I know that my friend had a daughter in England. If I had known, I should have made acquaintance with you long ago. Miss Jerdane will tell you the circumstances that have brought me here now, and that I come from your father." ''From my father ?" "Yes, my dear young lady. Your father left a letter in which he commended you to my care, and I have talked things over with Miss Jerdane. She will explain ; and I need only say that I am very glad to be able HELEN S LUCK. 87 to be of any use to ray old friend's daugh- ter, and that I hope all will go well. And now, Miss Jerdane, if you will excuse me, I think I must go. You will kindly let me hear from you according to your promise." Miss Jerdane, who was not familiar with tlie happy faculty of men for escaping from an embarrassing position, and avoiding the doing of anything that they do not like to do, was not a little surprised by the precipi- tate retreat of Mr. Townley Gore. She had not the clue to the sudden change from the politely matter-of-fact gentleman who had enquired into the circumstances of Helen Ehodes' position, and discussed her prospects in the coolest possible manner before he saw the girl, into the embarrassed and almost emotional person who now took a hurried leave of herself and her astonished pupil. "Miss Jerdane, what does it mean ?" " It means good news, my dear. You have great reason to be thankful to Provi- 88 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. dence ; the painful uncertainty of your posi- tion is at an end." *'How?" The slowness and primness of the good schoolmistress' speech — matters of inveter- ate habit — were for the first time extremely trying to Helen, whose heart was throb- bing and whose nerves were tingling ; but she strove to subdue her emotion, lest Miss Jerdane should pause again to rebuke it. "The gentleman whom you have just seen, my dear, is Mr. Townley Gore, and I understand from Messrs. Simpson and Rees that he is a person of excellent position and fortune ; while he has himself informed me that your respected father and he were friends in their youth. Mr. Townley Gore proposes that you shall go and reside with Mrs. Townley Gore and himself, when my establishment here is broken up, and under- takes the care and responsibility of your future. I congratulate you, my dear Helen, Helen's luck. 89 yoa are indeed a fortunate girl, and, as I had the satisfaction of assuring Mr. Town- ley Gore, I am certain you will deserve your good fortune." Helen, pale and breathless, followed her slow, formal words. Some of them sound- ed oddly ; the good fortune of an orphan girl among strangers! But she strove to resist that feeling, while trying to under- stand what had come to her. " I don't quite know," she faltered, " am I to be — a — am I to belong to this lady and gentleman ?" '' Belong to them ? No ; of course not ! That is quite a foolish question, Helen. How can you belong to people who are not blood relations ?" " Then am I to be a governess there ? or how is it to be ?" " You are certainly not to be a governess, because there are no children. You will just live with Mr. and Mrs. Townley Gore, and make yourself useful, I suppose. I 90 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. should be very sorry to think that, after the years you have passed and the advantages you have had at the Hill House, you would find any difficulty in doing that. Their house is in Kaiser Crescent, a splendid mansion, no doubt, and you will have every comfort. I only hope you will always regulate your conduct on the principles I have inculcated in your mind." Why was it that the sudden light thrown upon the darkness of poor Helen's prospects did not cheer her ? Why was it that the utterly unhoped for answer to that grim question, *' What was to become of her?" did not bring with it the vast relief with which, an hour before, she had believed an answer to it must be hailed ? Why did there coaie to her a sickening conviction that Miss Jer- dane's satisfaction was largely due to getting rid of her own responsibility in a thoroughly final way ; and also, just at the moment that her fortunes were taking an unlooked-for turn for good, a terror of great loneliness Helen's luck. 91 and evil foreboding ? Who can tell ? It was so. The next question Helen asked Miss Jerdane was apparently irrelevant. " Is Mrs. Townley Gore ill ?" "111? No; not that I know of. Mr. Townley Gore said nothing about her health. Why?" *' Because — dear Miss Jerdane, don't be angry with me, don't think me ungrateful ;'' Helen wrung her slight fingers and looked piteously into Miss Jerdane's face ; "I wonder she did not come to see me too. They are quite strangers, you know, and I am so lonely, and it is such a little time since papa died, and when you are gone away there will be no' one. I am fright- ened ; I confess that I am frightened. It is so strange, if these people mean to be kind to me, that the lady did not come too. And he stayed such a little while, I could not get to have the least feeling of knowing him." 92 THE QUESTION OY CAIN. In an outburst of feeling, most unusual to her, and of which Miss Jerdane had had no previous experience, not even when she told her of the death of Herbert Rhodes at Chundrapore, Helen sank on her knees, and hid her face in Miss Jerdane's lap, crying, with wild stormy sobs, which strangely shook the composure of the school-mistress. " This is very unreasonable," she said, affecting a sternness which she did not feel, for Helen's quick-witted perception of the flaw in the proceedings of the Townley Gores had touched what was womanly- in her ; " you really must not give way like this. Just consider — there now, sit down and dry your eyes, that's right — just con- sider the godsend this is. Your poor father had only five hundred pounds in the world to leave you ; I am quite unable to help you ; peculiar circumstances have left you in a terribly unprotected position, and here are friends of your father's raised up, at the Helen's luck. 9^ providential moment, to give you a home and protection." " But to be quite dependent upon them, and they are strangers " " My dear." said Miss Jerdane, severely, " you are really incomprehensible. The thincr to be repfarded with wonder is that strangers should offer you a home at all ; that they should permit you to be depend- ent on them ; believe me, this is a most uncommon case, however strong the tie of friendship between your father and Mr. Townle}' Gore may have been. There is a proverb — I don't use it in any offensive sense, as you know well — which says, * Beggars must not be choosers,' and only yesterday I, at least, should have been very much puzzled to tell what was to become of you." The very words she herself liad used to Jane ; the very form of the question that haunted and beset her. By a strong effort Helen controlled herself, and Miss Jerdane,. 94 THE QUESTION OF CAIN, with an approving glance at her, went on : " It is very well, of course, for a girl to be able to make her own way in the world, but not by any means so well as to have a way made or provided for her ; and I am very thankful such is to be your case, for I shall always take a sincere interest in you." Helen felt a slight shiver pass over her ; "sincere interest" is little enough, when offered as the utmost that any human being has to give, to the hungry heart of seventeen ; but she felt ever so much older than that, all of a sudden, and she thanked Miss Jer- dane with composure which that lady re- garded as re-assurinsj and safe. " And now," she said, briskly, " that you are quite reasonable again, and determined to see things in their right light, I will tell you what your friend's wishes are. Mr. Townley Gore would have thought well of your remaining with me, had I been keep- ing on the school, but I explained to him Helen's luck. 95 at once that I was giving up everything here. You are to remain with me until just before I leave London, and I am to fix the day for your going to your new liome." " Am I not to see him ? Will not Mrs. Townley Gore come to see me ?" " I do not know for certain, but I should say not. They are leaving town, he said, and he did not say anything about Mrs. Townley Gore's coming here. Now that I come to think of it, she may possibly be an invalid, for when 1 mentioned to him that there was a sum in hand for your outfit for India, as it had fortunately not been bought, and asked whether I should take Mrs. Townley Gore's instructions about your wardrobe, he said : ' Certainly not, my dear madam. You are a far better judge than my wife of what will be requisite for Miss Rhodes.' That is not the case, you know ; but I could not contradict Mr. Townley Gore." 96 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. "I shan't want anything," said Helen, hurriedly ; " I couldn't wear anything but deep mourning for a long time. May I have the money to take with me ; the very last money ray dear papa sent over for me ? It is my very own, is it not ?" '' Yes, my dear, it is your own ; and the money sent to Messrs. Simpson and Rees for your passage out to India, that will be at your disposal too. And now, as I have other things to attend to, you may go and tell your news to your friend Jane. You will see how highly she will appreciate such good fortune." Helen left the big drawing-room feeling thoroughly bewildered. Within little more than an hour two offers, solutions of the haunting question, " What was to become of her?" had -been offered, but no freedom of choice between the two was left to her. " And, oh, Jane," she said, when she had concluded her surprising narrative, ^' I Helen's luck. 97 wish — I wish it was to your aunt that I was going ! She pitied me, and thought of me, and planned for me when she had never seen me, and you would have been there ; but these grand fine people, this lady " *' Helen !" said Jane, gravely, her steady eyes searching the face before her with an anxious gaze ; " this lady has never seen you either, and she too offers you a home." *' Yes ; but how ? I know it is wrong and foolish, but I feel afraid of Mrs. Townley Gore. If she had been a kind woman she would have come, or she would at least have sent some message to a poor girl like me. I would a thousand times rather be going to sew in your aunt's millinery rooms." *' You must not talk such nonsense as that," said Jane ; "in the first place, because the arrangement w^hich has been made for you is what your father wished. This ought to be enough for you." VOL. I. H 98 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. "Yes," said Helen, despondently; *' I know it ought, and that is one reason why I feel so unhappy, because it isn't. There's something very bad in me, Jane, indeed there is." " Probably ; but it isn't that," said Jane, with the air of being ever so many years older than her hearer. " I don't wonder at your feeling that this thing might have been made pleasanter, but you must not dwell on that. You are going to be kept in your own position, you will not have to come down as we were saying a little while ago, you will have a friend with real power in Mr. Townley Gore, whatever the lady may be." More of the same sort was said between Jane Merrick and Helen Rhodes, for Miss Jerdane had correctly calculated on the good sense and discretion of her elder pupil, and much too that was essentially girlish talk. The one was not so sad, nor the other so sensible, but that they could stray Helen's luck. 99 into wondering about the Townley Gores, their house, their way of life, their " goings on " in general, and into speculating upon what Helen aiight have to do and might be expected to be. As the whole of this was mere speculation, entirely unaided by knowledge of any kind, it was unprofitable, except in so far as it tended to raise Helen's spirits. We have seen that one of the fixed prin- ciples of Mrs. Townley Gore's conduct was never to quarrel with her husband. This rule was founded on calculation ; she was entirely convinced that it would not " pay '' to depart from it. But never, since she had set herself to abide by that rule, had she been so strongly tempted to break it, to in- dulge in vehement anger merely because anger would be an indulgence ; to burn a candle at the playing of a game not worth it ; as she was when Mr. Townley Gore gave her an account of his visit to the Hill House. h2 100 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. Mr. Townley Gore's manner was distinctly embarrassed. Her mode of receiving his first communication had been cleverly de- signed to embarrass him, and her air of polite but slightly bored indifference was not calculated to relieve him. They had dined alone. Mrs. Townley Gore was go- ing out. She v/as brilliantly dressed, and looking very handsome. She was in good spirits too. The business of pleasure for that night began with a concert at the house of a duchess, and Mrs. Townley Gore was to take with her the beautiful Miss Chevenix, whose singing had been quite a feature all through the season. Miss Chevenix was to sing for the duchess, and Mrs. Townley Gore was so anxious that she should be in good voice, and found so much to say about it, that only by putting the subject resolute- ly aside did Mr. Townley Gore succeed in getting a hearing for himself. But then, with one quiet look at him, and one transi- ent contraction of her dark, level eyebrows, Helen's luck. 101 his wife prepared to listen, and stood on her guard. Leaning' back in her chair, and pulHng a gorgeous rose to pieces, while she slightly nodded when he made a pause and seemed to await a remark, she did not utter a word ; but the rose leaves were rent into very little shreds, and Mrs. Townley Gore's complexion required subduing by the powder-puff when the story had come to an end. " Well, Caroline," said Mr. Townley Gore, :after the pause of a full minute, " and what do you say to it all ? You see, as the ar- rangement you proposed was impossible, I have done the next best thins:, and I can- not help thinking you will admire and like the girl." Without the slightest reference, either by word or look, to this remark, Mrs. Townley Gore put to her husband a point-blank question. '* How long do you intend Miss Rhodes to reside here?" 102 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. ''How long? Well, I don't know. I didn't In fact, I gave Miss Jerdane to understand that the arrangement might be permanent. I thought, under the circum- stances, you know — and she really is so very presentable, so handsome, so distinguish- ed. But," here Mr. Townley Gore looked at his wife with discouragement in every line of his face, and made an admission of weakness which she rated at its full value, " of course, Caroline, the matter must de- pend on circumstances. When the girl is here you will be able to decide on what is best to be done." Mrs. Townley Gore was saved from hav- ing to reply by the announcement of the carriage. ''I don't think I blundered by telling her of the girl's beauty." So ran the thoughts of Mr. Townley Gore, as he indulged in some disconcerted musing before he applied him- self to his own evening's amusements. '' Her temper is not a sweet one, certainly, but HELENAS LUCK. 103 she is not so little-rainded as all that. How- ever, it's no good bothering about it. I have done the best I could do for the girl. She must only take her chance with Caro- line." And then Mr. Townley Gore made one more resolution in connection with the sub- ject. That resolution was that he would keep the fact of the absolute pennilessness of Herbert Rhodes' daughter strictly to himself, with the sole exception of its in- evitable participation by the business bosoms of Messrs. Simpson and Rees. The solici- tors had told him of the failure of the In- fallible Insurance Office ; but he had said nothing of it to his wife, or to Miss Jerdane, Under any circumstances, Helen should have five hundred pounds. To that extent, at any rate, the old debt should be paid, and no one, except perhaps his silent creditor in the other world, be the wiser. 104 CHAPTER VII. LA JOCONDE. *' T THINK this must be the picture ; the -*- puzzling smile is certainly there. I wish I had a catalogue." Saying these words, unconsciously half aloud, the speaker stepped back from the line, and put herself into the best position for studying a certain picture in one of the great galleries of the Louvre. She offered no unattractive spectacle herself, as she fell to such perusal of the enigmatical canvas as rendered her oblivious of all beside. Even a critical Frenchman might have pardoned her tall stature for the sake of the grace with which she carried herself, and even a LA JOCOXDE. 105 fashionable FrenGhwoman might have for- given her English mourning bonnet for the sake of the chestnut hair that it could not hide, and the eyes and complexion with which its rigid cumbersoraeness went so ill. Clear, grey, dark-lashed eyes they were, and the changing colour was like that of a tea- rose. One would not have hesitated to apply that much misused word " beautiful " to the English girl, who was perfectly unembarras- sed under circumstances which would have been impossible to a French girl — those of a visit quite by herself to a public picture- gallery — if it had not been for one contra- diction in her face, which not only marred it, but produced on close observers a painful impression. That face was not happy ; the forehead was crossed by a line which should not have been there for years to come, and the grey eyes were too grave ; it was like a fair landscape lacking sunlight. The girl stood looking at the picture, without the 1 06 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. least consciousness that anybody was look- ing at her, but she was closely observed by a young man, who was lounging idly upon one of the green velvet benches, and Avho had apparently found it very slow oc- cupation, until the unmistakably English face of the young lady attracted his atten- tion. After a long, steady, but not imper- tinent observation of her, he glanced round in search of her escort, *' a brother, or a mother, or somebody," as he said to himself, but there was no one near to answer to the description. It was a bright cold day in January, and the Louvre was nearly empty; two or three "blouses," a group of German students, and a bonne with a bab}^, were the only occupants of the gallery at that moment except the English girl and the young man whose nationality was not so plainly discernible. He was good-look- ing, and about twenty-five ; he had a plea- sant smile, dark eyes, white teeth, a pale complexion, and moustaches — much lighter LA JOCONDE. 107 than his hair — which apparently occupied a good deal of his attention. He was well, but not too well dressed, and his careless ease of movement denoted that he belonged to the class that has been called clothes- wearing. He had the look of a man who had seen a good deal of the world, and en- joyed it, and who, if it had not treated him altogether well, had borne any buffets of Fate with cheerfulness, if not levity. A few minutes before he had been looking over cer- tain entries in a natty notebook, but he shut the book up, and put it back in his breast- pocket, after his first glance at the English girl. Froni her face he looked towards the picture she was studying so closely, recog- nised it, saw that she was not sure about it, and going up to her said, in a quietly re- spectful tone : *' Can I be of any use to you? I see you have not a catalogue. That picture is a particularly famous one. It is La Joconde." '' Oh, thank you," said the English girl. 108 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. *'I have been looking for La Joconde, and this was the only picture I could find that seemed to answer the description." With a gracious bend of her head to him, she turned once more to the picture. " Does it puzzle you so very much ?" he ventured to ask her. " Do you think there is really any such great mystery in it ? If it had been hung in an English galler}^, and sim- ply called Laughter, or The Smile, should we have seen anything in it beyond a won- derfully successful representation of a smile lighting up the face of a woman who would have been handsomer if the painter had given her larger eyes ? Don't ["you think the * mystery,' the surmise of a triumphant crime or a diabolical intention, may be an invention of the critics, and may never have had any existence in the mind of the artist ?" He had strung these sentences together with intention. If she heard him to the end, it would be that she had not taken fright at the boldness of a stranger, and he LA JOCONDE. 109 could look at her while he uttered them Avithout offence. To his mind, she was ex- ceedingly beautiful. It had occurred to him on former occasions to believe that he had never beheld so lovely a face, and then to be struck by some other which put the for- mer into the background of his fancy ; but he thought this time he really was looking at the purest, fairest, sweetest face he had ever yet seen, and he wanted to go on looking at it. She had taken no fright, and she an- swered him as readily as if they had been formally introduced to each other under the most correct auspices. " I should not have ventured to think so, even if it had occurred to me. I do not know enough to think my own thoughts about pictures. The people who study them and write about them must know best. I was looking into this for what I was told there was in it." "A very submissive attitude of mind," said he, venturing a little farther, and not- 110 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. ing with growing admiration the deepening of the tea-rose tinge in the girl's cheek, " and one which will ensure you more en- joyment of the picture than most people obtain ? Have you found what you were told to look for in La Joconde ?" **Yes," she answered, gravely. " I can- not agree with you that there is only a smile or a laugh in that picture. T am sure the painter had a story in his mind and that it was about that woman. Just look." She pointed to the picture. " The very air of it is full of triumph." " Innocent or guilty triumph ?" "Ah, that I do not know. One might make so many stories for that picture, and they might be so different, and still that woman be the centre of them all." " Are you given to making stories ?" " Yes, in my mind." She moved on a few steps, and looked at another picture. He ventured a little farther. - LA JOCONDE. Ill " Have you seen much of the gallery ? Of course you are aware that it closes at four o'clock." *' I did not know. I have not seen much. I am afraid ray ideas were very vague. I had read about the Wreck of the Medusa, the Great Murillo, and La Joconde, and I have not found out the Murillo." He looked at his watch, half-past three ; if he managed it cleverly he might have half an hour in which to observe that lovely face, and find out before the end of it who its owner was. " You have very little time left ; the Murillo is not to be seen in a hurry. It is my favourite of the whole collection — in- deed I may say of all the pictures in Europe so far as my knowledge of them goes. If you will allow me, I will take you to it at once." "Thank you," said she, without any em- barrassment; "it is very kind of you. I may not be able to come here again ; 112 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. though I hope to do so many times." He judiciously said nothing at all until he had conducted her into the presence of the picture of pictures, the Immaculate Concep- tion by Murillo ; and then he watched for the beam of intelligent delight in her face ; for he was a man of some refine- ment and completeness of taste, and he liked the combination of intelligence with female beauty. The beam flashed out and illumin- ated the grave features, and the deep- drawn breath told how the divine splendour of the heavenly scene had dawned upon the beholder. The individual in whose com- pany one experiences such a sensation for the first time ceases to be a stranger. When she turned her face upon him, tears stood in her eyes. *'Is it as beautiful as you expected ?" he said, softly. " There is nothing like it." "I could not have expected, for I could not have imagined anything like it," she re- turned ;/^.it is not a picture only, it is a revela- LA .TOCONDE. 113 tion to rae. I shall never forget ray first sight of it so long as I live." He led her to a little distance, he placed her at the various points of view, he raade her observe separately the wonderful heads of the angels of young children, in a beatifi- ed crowd about the woman crowned with the stars and soaring towards them ; he told her briefly the story of the picture and its acquisition by France, and when it was peril- ously near the fiital four, and the harsh voice of the gardien with its grating authori- tative announcement made itself heard in the gallery, he touched her gently on the arm. She started, and said: " Oh, must we go?" A most re-assuring little pronoun. He acted on its encouragement, walking by her side down to the great court of the Louvre. They had spoken little after they had left the presence of the Murillo, but that little had been judiciously apportioned by him. He had contrived to learn that she feared VOL. I. I 114 THE Q^K^TION OF CAIN. she might have to leave Paris in two or three days from the present ; but that, if cer- tain possible circumstances intervened to pre- vent her departure, she would avail herself of them to revisit the Louvre. . **And I must come early next time," she said, with an innocent frankness which it would have been impossible for the most evil-minded of men to misinterpret ; " it is useless to try to see such pictures as these in two or three hours only. The gallery is open quite early, is it not?" "At ten every day, except Monday." '' And this is Saturday. I shall know by Monday whether I shall be in Paris for another month or not." They were at the entrance of the Grand Court of the Louvre, and, though the sun was shining, a sharp, rattling hail-shower was in progress. He called a carriage, put her into it, blessing the chance, and having handed her the driver's ticket, and received her grave, courteous, unembarrassed thanks. LA JOCONDE. 115 asked her if he should tell the man where to drive to. "If you please," she answered, and named a number in the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne. As he lost sight of her, he stood, still hat in hand, on the pavement, repeating the number in the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne, and asking himself: *' Who on earth can she be?" The reason why she had not bought a catalogue of the pictures in the Musee du Louvre was the very prosaic one that she had gone out without any money, and so had not the indepensable franc for the pur- chase. When she reached her destination she had to ask the concierge to pay her carriage-fare, and the circumstance pro- duced a repetition of the remarks that had more than once been made in the concierge's lodge. For people of their class Jules Dev- rient and his wife were not especially cen- sorious or ill-natured, but they despised and i2 116 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. hated all foreigners — the German foreigner stood in the first rank, the English foreigner in the second — and the English family to whom the very stylish, pretty, and expen- sive house of their proprietaire had been let for the winter and early spring months had not conciliated the' prejudices of Jules Devrient and his wife. English people who did not think anything too good for them, and went on as if they did not see others who were quite as good as them- selves ; English people who had a sort of amused way of regarding the affairs and the government of the Republic — ah, yes, Jules and his wife lived in the concierge's lodge, but they knew all about these insularies in the salon — as if the whole thing were a spectacle or something funny in a book, and there was nothing real or respectable outside the fogs and the temples of the Tamise. The imperturbable superiority of these English, to whom other people's liberty, fraternity, and equality did not mat- LA JOCONDE. 117 ter in the very least, and who never con- ceived the notion that anybody could be fraternal and equal with them, exasperated Jules and his wife, who had nothing what- ever to do with them, and towards whom their conduct was perfectly equitable. And then the young lady ! The pretty young lady, with the frightfully ill-made gowns, and the heavy black bonnets, and the deep mourning that was not deep mourning at all, but only a hideous mixture such as none but those English would think of. "Hold," says Madame Devrient to her husband, who is busy with his accounts, but tempers his labours by copious pinches of snuff; " there it is again. To go out alone, to come in alone, is that as it ought to be ? Mon Dieu, are they canailles, these English, to bring up their demoiselle like that?" " Their demoiselle ! She isn't their de- moiselle ; if she was, it would be another story. She's nobody's demoiselle ; she's an orphan, and lives on charity, like thousands 11 8 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. of those English. And raadame does not like her." " To whom do you say it !" Madame Devrient had her big white Persian cat Za- more in her lap now, and was smoothing his white fur with an unspeakably tender touch, which contrasted strangely with the hard- ness of her tight mouth and the avaricious- ness of her shallow, keen, black eyes. " Of course I knew she was not her daughter, but I supposed her of some kin to them. Madame not like her ! Ah, but no ! that she does not. Still it is not decent, and what would the great ladies of the faubourg say, if they knew that madame neglected her like this ?" With a highly disrespectful qualification of the great ladies of the faubourg, by no means to be reproduced, Jules Devrient sig- nified his belief that they would not care — " if the demoiselle was nobody, why should they? They were canailles, these English were canailles. There ! let there be an end LA ^OCONDE. 119 of it." And he inscribed two francs eighty in his book as the carriage fare he had paid for the demoiselle, making only fifty cen- times on the transaction. The locataires were going out that even- ing, and there was company in the lodge of the concierge — the sister and the niece of Madame Devrient. In her niece, whose name was Delphine Moreau, Madame Dev- rient, who had no daughter, took a kind of vicariously maternal pride. The Moreaus were also of the concierge class, but of the slinking and servile order, a shade more dangerous and less trustworthy than that to which the Devrients belonged. Delphine, their daughter, v\^as a handsome, bold-eyed black-browed girl, with a true Parisian's love of money and thirst for pleasure, and with no better chance of escaping from drudgery and gratifying either passion than the chance of getting a maid's place in a good family, if she should be restrained by circumstances and good fortune from seeking their gratifi- 120 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. cation in illicit ways. The girl was well guarded ; there was just ground for the com- placency with which her aunt, having emptied her budget of gossip about the locataires, said that those English, who thought so much of themselves, were in truth all that was shame- ful; their demoiselle was neglected in an odious way, whilst Delphine had never gone to the end of the street alone. A quick flash of impatience and resentment from Delphine's black eyes had just emphasised this true statement when a carriage drove up, and two persons got into it. Madame Moreau and her daughter admired the lady, the lights gave them a good view of her handsome face, her rich fur mantle, the bouquet of hothouse flowers that lay on her knees, the diamonds in her hair. They had a less perfect view of the gentleman, but he was not so interesting, and they had just heard he was a sufferer from gout. And the demoiselle — was she left alone ? Did she never go out with them ? Never in LA JOCONDE. 121 the evenings ; occasionally in the morning, in the carriage, with monsieur, hardly ever with madame. It must be lonely for her if there was no one else. There was no one else, and it was lonely. Delphine had her private thoughts; they were to the effect that, if the young lady could get so much liberty as her aunt talked of with horror, it was not likely to be lonely liberty. There was a little card-playing, and a little hot wine, and the family party at the concierge's lodge was about to break up, when the bell clicked loudly, and a gentleman, in evening clothes, but wearing a warm overcoat, pre- sented himself and asked for the English locataires. He was a good-looking gentle- man about twenty-five, with dark eyes, white teeth, and a well-trimmed moustache. It was Madame Devrient who answered his inquiries, and with unusual good hu- mour. Monsieur and madame were gone out. The enquirer had deceived himself: he had believed it was madame's evening for 1 22 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. receiving. No ; madame had at present relinquished her evenings ; doubtless she would regret that she had not seen mon- sieur, v^ho v7ould probably leave his name. No, he would call again. Mademoiselle, was she out also? He put the question naturally enough, but Delphine's sharp in- telligence detected some uncertainty in the tone of it, and she kept her steady black eyes fixed upon him while her aunt answered that mademoiselle was at home. He made his bow "like a Frenchman," as the women remarked, and retired with the question, " Who on earth can she be?" a little nearer its solution, but still unsolved. In the meantime, Helen Rhodes, in the solitude to which she was well accustomed, was thinking of the events of the day, of the wonders of art which she had seen, of the strange feelings they had awakened in her, and which she must keep entirely to herself, lest they should be met with either ridicule or condemnation, and of the kind and gen- LA JOCONDE. 123 tie stranger who had come to her aid so po- litely. She was busy with the repair of soDie articles of her simple wardrobe, and her needle moved quickly to her thoughts. She should never forget that day ; on the whole it was the happiest in her calendar since her father died. 124 CHAPTER VIII. FRANK LISLE. '' "11 /TY name is Frank Lisle, and I am a ■^'-■~ bit of an artist myself.'' The speaker was the young man of the Louvre incident, and he spoke to Helen Rhodes. The scene of their interview was again the great museum, and that interview, accidental on the part of Helen, had been very well contrived by Mr. Lisle. He had calculated that, if she remained in Paris, she would come to the Louvre as early as she could on the Tuesday, and that she would go direct to the Murillo. On the Monday he ascertained that no departure from the house in the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne FRANK LISLE. 125 had taken place, and before twelve o'clock on the following day he had assumed his position in the gallery, within easy range of the great doorway into that chamber of gems which is to the museum what its sanc- tuary is to a church, and was waiting. He had not to wait long for the vision of the tall graceful figure in the clumsy English clothes, and the fair innocent face that had so strongly attracted him ; and as the girl advanced towards the doorway, walking steadily on, and only glancing at the pictures on the wall as she passed them, he had the exceeding satisfaction of perceiving that she was, on this occasion also, alone. In the other event, he had made up his mind what to do, but this was much more interesting. She turned in at the doorway, and in a minute or two he followed, and found her, catalogue in hand this time, standing in front of the picture, with the same look of absorbed and self-forgetting interest that he had previously thought so 126 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. beautiful. He advanced, and she saw him. Was there a heightening of the tea-rose colour in her fair cheek, and a slight droop of the dark eyelashes ? The man who was observing her closely but imperceptibly was not likely to delude himself upon such points, and he noted both these. She recog- nised him, and without any displeasure. He raised his hat, addressed her with quiet ease, and in a few moments was talking to her of the history of the Spanish pictures, the depredations of Marshal Soult, and the acts of restitution of the Restoration, as readily as if their acquaintance had begun and was being carried on under the most orthodox auspices. He had a pleasant, re- fined voice, he talked well, and his hearer was an unlessoned girl, unschooled, unprac- tised in any of the ways of the world ; with a good deal more intelligence in her than had ever been brought out at Miss Jerdane's boarding-school, and a good deal less vanity and self-consciousness than belong to most FRANK LISLE. 127 girls, whether at school or at home. It most literally never occurred to Helen that this gentleman had any purpose of meeting her again, and it was in entire good faith that she said to him presently, " I suppose you like these pictures so much that you come here very often ?" "Yes, very often. I frequent all the Paris picture-galleries." And then he made a bold step in advance, and said : " My name is Frank Lisle, and I am a bit of an artist myself." " It must be delightful to be even what you call a ' bit of an artist,' " she said, with arch gravity, which he thought charming, " but 1 daresay you are a great deal more tJian ' a bit,' Mr. Lisle." The girl's utterance of his name gave him a pleasant feeling, as of something scored in a game. " No, indeed ; I mean exactly what I say. I have never done anything worth talking about. I am a mere amateur. I am think- 128 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. ing of making a copy of a picture here ; I came about it the other day when I had the great pleasure of meeting you ; but I daresay I should never make anything of it." " Oh, do you think so ?" she remonstrated, in a tone of disappointment. '' What a pity not to try. It must be delightful even to see anyone do such a wonderful thing as painting a picture seems to me." " I presume you do not paint, then, even 'a bit'?" '^ No," she answered, with a sweet, sudden smile. " My name is Helen Rhodes, and I am — nothing." The unintentional but effective flattery of her repetition of his own phrase was very captivating. He put his next question in a still softer tone, and somehow they had both ceased to look at the Murillo, and were walking on slowly side by side. ''May I ask whether you have been in India?" - FRANK LISLE. 129 He had observed lier mourning dress when she told him her name. " No," she answered, with a change of tone and countenance, *' never. I was to have gone to India, to join my father; but — but he died. Why do you ask me that ?" " Because a friend of mine who went out not long ago to Chundrapore has men- tioned in her letters a gentleman of your name." "Was it Herbert Rhodes?" she asked, eagerly ; " was it the Reverend Herbert Rhodes?" " Yes." " He was my father, and he died, after having been only a few hours ill. Did the lady tell you that ? Oh, Mr. Lisle, what did she tell you ? I know so little, there was no one to write to me, no one to tell me any- thing. I had not seen my father for several years, and I had no one else in the world. How wonderful that I should meet here, in VOL. I. K 130 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. this strange place, anyone who had heard of him !" The forlornness of the speaker was to be heard in her agitated voice, and read upon her imploring face. That forlornness was puzzling to Mr. Lisle, and, to do him justice, he was touched by it ; even while he con- gratulated himself upon the extremely lucky conjuncture of affairs. It happened that a talent for letter- writing, and a taste for exercising it, were among the endowments of Colonel Mar- shall's feather-headed cousin, Mrs. Stephen- son, and, as she found time hang rather heavily on her hands at Chundrapore, she had devoted herself with assiduity to keep- ing up her home correspondence. She had a charming facility of style and could adorn facts and amplify feelings with pleasing dex- terity. Mr. Frank Lisle had had the good fortune to be one of the pretty, lively Ohristina's prime favourites ; prior to the step which she was in the habit of describ- FKANK LISLE. 131 ing before her husband's face as her "idiotic love-match," and which had involved her in the banishment that she so feelingly deplor- ed ; and she still frequently amused herself by writing long letters to him. He had never until the present moment felt par- ticularly grateful for this favour — indeed, he had sometimes remarked to himself that it was deuced odd a woman never seemed satisfied to let a fellow quite go, though she might have thrown him over for another fellow ever so coolly — but he was sincerely obliged to her now. And he remembered with great satisfaction that he had not de- stroyed the letters ; that he had them stowed away somewhere. ''That was the name," he answered, "the Reverend Herbert Rhodes. I think I can tell you all that was written to me." He led her to a seat and placed himself by her side. He made a successful demand upon his memory, and as Mrs. Stephenson's sentimental turn, combined with the oppor- k2 132 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. tunity of depicting her own alarm and the horrors of the situation, had induced her to give the death of the English chaplain a place of great importance in her chronicle, he had much to tell of a nature to touch the orphan girl very deeply. She sat listen- ing with downcast eyes, and, as the tear- drops gathered thickly in them, she drew her crape veil over her face. When he had repeated all that Mrs. Stephenson's letters had conveyed to him of the respect in which her father had been held, she was silent for a while ; then she lifted her veil, and, turn- ing to him with a smile, thanked him in very simple words. Nothing could possibly have advanced the precarious acquaintance- ship of the two to a firmer footing so speedily as this incident had done ; there arose out of it for him almost the right to question her about herself, and for her it had an import little short of magical. She told him all that she knew of her own simple story, up to the episode of her father's FRANK LISLE. 133 death, with perfect frankness, and then she added : *' If I had had the good fortune to go out to India before it happened, I might have had some friends. I think that lady who writes so kindly would have been my friend." Mr. Frank Lisle did not completely share this conviction, but he let it pass ; the underlying significance of what she said was occupying him. Living as she was living, with people whose position was unques- tionable, and speaking of herself as friend- less ! " You would have found many, no doubt ; but you surely do not need them. You live with relatives, do you not ?" " No, I live with Mr. and Mrs. Townley Gore ; you may have heard of them ; perhaps you know them ?" Another maizical coincidence miojht possibly be arranging itself for Helen, she thought ; what if this heaven-sent friend 134 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. were one with whom she might sometimes be brought into contact in her ordinary life ? But his answer dispelled that hope ; he said : '' I have heard of them, but I do not know them. They are not related to you?" " They are not. Mr. Townley Gore was a friend of my father's." Then Helen told Mr. Lisle the rest of her story, but told it with reserve and embarrassment, in strong contrast with the frank simplicity of her former narrative ; while Mr. Frank Lisle heard it with much greater curiosity and interest, ardently wishing that he might venture to ask her a few plain questions. That her position was a humiliating one, and her life unhappy, he very readily divined, and he could have smiled at the transparent but futile honourableness of the girl, which withheld her from any complaint against those whom she was bound to regard as her benefactors, when she asked him : FRANK LISLE. 135 '* Don't you think, if one has been educat- ed, one ought to be able to make an inde- pendent livelihood ?" "That depends on what you mean by independent. I don't think any of the ways in which women can earn for themselves unless they are artists or authors, are to be called independent ; certainly not the teach- ing of other people's children as governesses, or the putting up with other people's caprices as companions." " Even so, one is not living on charity, or sufferance." "No," he answered, quickly; "one is not; but there are people who contrive to make women in such positions feel as if they were. Women who are tyrants by nature will always tyrannise. Don't try it, Miss Rhodes; put up with the ills you have, don't fly to others that you know not of." '' I never said I had any ills to fly from." *' No ; but who has not ? We are not 136 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. very old, either you or I, but we both know that much." She said nothing, and he felt that she was about to leave him ; he made the next move. . "Should you like to have a copy of the passages in Mrs, Stephenson's letters that relate to your father? There may be points of interest to you which I have forgotten." She eagerly accepted the offer. It would be delightful ; but it would give Mr. Lisle so much trouble. No trouble at all, he ventured to say ; nothing could be a trouble to him that could give her pleasure, and he looked as he spoke for the sweet conscious confusion in her face which it did not fail to show him. She should have the copy of the passages on the next day, if she could not allow him to have the great pleasure of see- ing her. " I have not the privilege of asking any- one to call," Helen said. " No, no, I did not mean that ; but I FRANK LISLE. 137 thought you might, perhaps, like to see the Luxembourg ; 3^ou know the great Delaroche pictures are there, and the Dernier Appel des Condamnes ; and, if you would allow me to point out to you the best worth seeing among them, I might bring the letters there." "I am free to go to picture-galleries," said Helen ; " I shall be very glad to seethe Luxembourg with you. But I am not sure of being able to go out to-morrow, and I should be sorry to waste vour time." She spoke in perfect good faith, and with no more notion that she was doing wrong than a child would have had. He was very far from being a good man ; he was one who took his pleasures where he found them, and without much regard to what they might cost other people ; a woman's f[iir face was her chief attraction in his eyes, and it had never yet proved a lasting one ; but he w^as not bad enough to have the small- est doubt of Helen's unconsciousness of 138 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. wrong. Indeed, that unconsciousness added to the charm of her beauty. For the first time within his experience, Mr. Frank Lisle liked a woman all the better for being what in any other case he would have called a fool. He was, however, bad enough to take advantage of the simplicity that had awakened so novel a sentiment in him, and he found it an easy matter to induce her to promise, that if she could not visit the Luxembourg on the following day, she would write to him to warn him of the im- pediment. " I hope nothing will occur to prevent your coming," he said; '*not only because it will be such a pleasure to show you the pictures, and to give you what you will care to have, but because I, too, have a little story in my life that I should like to tell you." He had walked with her to the entrance of the great court of the Louvre, and they were standing on the pavement as he said FRANK LISLE. 139 these words. She looked up, pleased and excited ; the smile in his eyes as they met hers fascinated her ; her face was radiant, the shadow that generally marred it had vanished. At that moment two women crossed the street and passed close by Helen and Mr. Lisle. They were the sister and the niece of Madame Devrient, and Delphine instantly recognised in Mr. Lisle the gentle- man who had enquired for madame at her aunt's lodge on the previous evening. " And that, of course, is mademoiselle, she that my aunt talks of," thought Delphine, as, unperceived by her mother, she gave Mr. Lisle a swift, sharp look which made him wonder where he had seen that face before, and then passed demurely on. " That is the English miss who goes out alone to visit the museums, and the gentle- man is one of the ' objects.' But why did he speak so uncertainly last night ? What was it he really wanted to know? He is a hand- some man, too, and I should like him to 140 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. look at me as he was looking at the English miss." " I am going for a few minutes into the church of St. Germain I'Auxerrois," Helen said, when Mr. Lisle asked if he should call a carriage for her. "" No, thank you." He took her across to the famous church and parted with her at the door ; saying to her, as he held her hand in his for the first time : '' Do not be surprised at the request I am going to make ; I will explain it when I tell you the story you have promised to hear ; and you will find that I have a good reason for asking you not to mention my name to Mr. or Mrs. Townley Gore." Helen went into the church, and he walk- ed away towards the garden of the Tuileries. He was in a strange mood ; partly amused and partly startled, but he would not look at the uneasy aspect of his own fancy, he put it away from him. . "Fancy Christina's rubbish turning out to FRANK LISLE. 141 be a trump card," he said to himself; '^ and ray having read it attentively enough to remember the parson's name ! It's quite funny. It will be a bore to copy it all out, but it would never do to put the originals into the fair Helen's hands, with their lamentations and their reminiscences. . . . AYhat a lovely creature she is ! If it would not mean such utter, irredeemable, ir- retrievable ruin, I would marry her, if she would have me. I should be sorry for it, of course, but I would do it. However, I can't, so there's safety in that at all events." 142 CHAPTER IX. WITHOUT THE CINDERS. A MONG the '' Old Friends " of whom ^^ the merciless pedantry of a self-assert- ing scientific school has done its best to de- prive us, and whom one gifted and gentle- hearted writer has nobly restored and ren- dered doubly dear, clothed in the graceful garments of her own poetic and pathetic fancy, Cinderella is the Old Friend that interprets girlhood most faithfully. The others are delighful each in its several way ; the Giants and their Jacks, and Jack and his beanstalk, with all their associations of ambition and enterprise, difficulty, danger, doughtiness, and ■victory ; but they are after all men's stories, WITHOUT THE CINDERS. 143 and so is Beauty and the Beast, for it is the outcome of a sense of property laws and the enormity of trespass, quite foreign to wo- men. But Cinderella is a woman's story, with its little miseries and its big prize, its daily worry and its puissant help from with- out. The small contends against the great, the weak against the strong, but not after the manner of the Jacks and the giants, only vicariously, and by the indirect aid of com- passion and love. It is a pitiful story too, full of malice and meanness, and when we think of Cinderella, up to that blissful mo- ment at which the fairy godmother be- thought herself of her obligations, it is with positive pain. And yet Cinderella's plight might have been a worse one had there been no cinders. Life with the wicked, niggardly step-mother, and those ugly sisters with the big feet, would have been far more intoler- able in genteel idleness in the parlour, with unlimited opportunities of nagging and op- pression, than it was in the kitchen with 144 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. pofs and pans to be scoured, and the cinders to be riddled. Cinderella was not crushed out of the power of enjoying the ball, and of instantaneously detecting the admiration of the prince, just because she had no tiuie for sentimental grievances. If she was more materially miserable, she was in less danger than a Cinderella without the cinders. There were none for Helen Rhodes to riddle ; there were no actual physical hard- ships in her life ; but nevertheless it was a hard one, and full of the smouldering ele- ments of harm. She was in a position which no one with any knowledge of human na- ture in general, and girLnature in particular, could fail to recognise, regarding it from all sides, as dangerous. Helen had begun her new life with Mr. and Mrs. Townley Gore with mixed feelings ; her first instinctive repugnance and misgiv- ing had yielded to some extent to the steady remonstrances of Jane Merrick, and to the equally steady ignoring of them by Miss WITHOUT THE CINDERS. 145 Jerdane, That new life had had its brief period of delusion. The mere exterior of things surprised and dazzled the school-girl, to whom the big drawing-room at the Hill House had hitherto been a standard of ele- gance and luxury, and a visit to a museum or the Crystal Palace the event of a season. The house, its furniture, its appointments, the ways of it, afforded her a keen pleasure for awhile ; and the strange sense of eman- cipation from one set of rules, even although she was perfectly prepared to submit to another, had a charm for her. There was something completely outside of her imaginings in the orderly activity of a house- hold whose heads lived entirely for the pur- pose of pleasing themselves, and she speedily recognised how unlike the reality were the notions which she and Jane had entertained about what Helen was ao'in^ to do. She had entered upon her new life fortified by the aid of her only friend's steady good sense, and resolved not to expect too much, or to VOL. I. L 146 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. expect in the wrong direction. Jane had, however, no particular knowledge on which to base her counsel, but only a general phil- osophy that was beyond her years. At the same time she privately thought it was impossible but that these grand rich people must admire and love Helen when they came to know her, and that Helen would soon find herself in the easy and little onerous posi- tion of an adopted daughter. But the help and strengthening which Jane afforded her were useless in the utterly unforeseen cir- cumstances of the case. The period of plea- sant surprise, of almost bewildering strange- ness, was a brief one, and then Helen's life settled down into a long ache of hopeless unhappiness ; the unhappiness of an entirely unloved existence. There were times when she used to think she could not be more unhappy, but in that she was wrong. She would have been more unhappy had she known what were Mrs. Townley Gore's real feelings towards her. The girl took WITPIOUT THE CINDERS. 147 them, by their outward symbols, for indiffer- ence and disdain ; and when she realised this she suffered from it as only sensitive and dependent natures can suffer, and all the more that at first she had been dazzled and fascinated by Mrs. Townley Gore. The handsome face, the rich dress, the luxurious surroundings, the suavity of manner, even the smooth, low tones of the woman of the world, made so strong an impression upon Helen that, if she had chosen to win the girl's heart, she might easily have done so through her fancy. But there was no such stuff in the thoughts of the woman who disliked the object of her husband's bounty even before she saw her, and hated her after- wards with strength and pertinacity com- mensurate with the injury unconsciously in- flicted by her. That injury was defeat. There was in the narrow heart of Mrs. Townley Gore a love of power Napoleonic in intensity, and this had hitherto found a fair amount of l2 148 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. material to feed upon. As a child she had ruled her father, as a girl she had ruled her guardian ; and she had, if not completely ruled, at least had her own way with her husband. His ways, his notions of what made life pleasant, and especially his pre- vaihng principle that life was by all means to he made pleasant, suited her so entirely that she had not hitherto had any inclination to oppose him ; but no doubt had ever oc- curred to her that, if she had seen occasion to do so, she would have been successful. The first check to her self-confidence, the first stab to her pride, the first sting of a jealousy which was none the less keen that it had nothing whatever to do with love, had come from the unconscious hand of Helen Rhodes, and Mrs Townley Gore hated her. She had not failed to perceive the effect that she had produced upon the girl, but it had in no wise softened her, for she had also perceived as clearly that Mr. Townley Gore expected her to be pleased, WITHOUT THE CINDERS. 149 by the frank though timid and wondering admiration of this young person, whose good looks were not of a kind with which she desired to be placed in permanent compari- son. Now her husband had carried the point against her, without vehement opposi- tion or the vulgarity of dispute indeed, but b\^ the simple and quiet assertion of his will, and she recovered the first bit of her lost ground by disappointing his expectations. She dismissed his remarks with quiet con- tempt, and, as she knew him too well to be- lieve that he would carry his zeal in Helen's cause to the extent of compromising his own comfort, she reasonably regarded her de- feat as far from final. Mrs. Townley Gore was perfectly aware that her husband's first intention in the matter of the payment of that old debt, of which his creditor had reminded him so in- conveniently, was of a large and liberal kind. He would have had Helen taken **home" by himself and his wife in as compre- 150 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. hensive a sense of that sacred word as he, in whose life there were no sanctities, could use it ; and he would have fulfilled his own share in such an arrangement — being that small and comparatively easy share that falls- to a man's lot in domestic matters — readily enough. To be kind and courteous to a pretty girl, who would be of course always good-humoured and well dressed, and who would never come in the way of his perfectly well-ordered course of life, would not only be no trouble to Mr. Townley Gore, but a pleasant novelty. From the first his wife had resolved that no such interpretation of his obligations should take effect, and on that point she knew that she could not be beaten. The proverbial cobbler is not more thoroughly *' maitre chez lui " than was the handsome and agreeable lady who had not an intimate friend in the world, and whose dependents hated her. Had her husband suspected her tactics he would have been unable to defeat WITHOUT THE CINDERS. 151 them ; for they were worked by small daily tyranny, neglect, and repression, the quiet malice of contempt, the enforcement of the bitter sense of dependence and inferiorit3\ And of all this machinery he had no know- ledge. She was plausible, and, he was bound to acknowledge, very sensible in her remarks upon the dangers of a false position and the duty to oneself, and all others con- cerned, of preventing mistakes. He had not the courage to say that the position against which she was protesting need not necessarily be false, that they could easily make it true, being childless people with nobody to consult in the present or for the future ; that the best way to avoid any mis- conception would be to render Helen's foot- ing in their house secure. He really was actuated in the matter by a surprisingly near approach to a noble sentiment, and he thought he would say this by-and-by, not just yet. The art of "whittling," as applied to 152 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. good impulses, has seldom been more effec- tively illustrated than in the case of Mr. Townley Gore's acceptance of the trust re- posed in him by the dead friend to whom he owed his own life. Miss Austen's inimitable Mrs. John Dashwood did not more skilfully and surely *' whittle down " the noble pur- pose with which Mr. John Dashwood was inspired, when his father's death commended his stepmother and stepsisters to his gener- osity, from a comfortable provision for life to three months' board and lodging, and the carriage of their furniture free to their future home at a safe distance from his country seat, than did Mrs. Townley Gore correct her husband's estimate of what was due to his ward. In the first place, she would not have that term applied to Helen Rhodes. Mrs. Townley Gore, as Miss Lorton, had been a ward, and she knew what was properly understood by the word. '^ A young person with five hundred pounds as her sole provision is placed in a WITHOUT THE CINDERS. 153 false position by being called the ward of a man of fortune," she pronounced decisively, " people are led to believe that she has money, and much unpleasantness might re- sult to us, besides injury to the poor girl herself. Suppose some one were to want to marry her, for instance ?" Her hearer could not help thinking that a less extravagant supposition had rarely been advanced in argument. " How painful it would be for you to have to explain ! No ; both for your sake and my own, I must protest against that." When her husband surrendered upon the main point, she felt that the others were comparatively easy to carry. Helen, as his ward, must have been somebody in the household ; Helen, as a nondescript, slight- ly introduced when introduced at all, and always referred to, when it was safe to adopt that tone (and, of course, in his absence) as a young person in whom Mr. Townley Gore was interested, was nobody. 154 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. Firmly determined that the unconscious agent of the defeat which had been inflicted on her should expiate her unintentional triumph as completely as was compatible with retaining even for awhile the benefit of gratuitous food and shelter, and nothing to do for them, as she expressed it to herself, with frank vulgarity, to which very ele- gant persons not incommoded by heart, are prone, Mrs. Townley Gore skilfully applied herself to reducing the proportions of that defeat. This was due to her self-love, and suggested bj^ the stealthy vindictiveness that formed an element in her character, and which, while counterbalancing caution would prevent it from injuring herself, was danger- ous to its object. Mr. Townley Gore could not have ex- plained exactly how it was, or why, but he was undoubtedly disappointed with Helen. It was not because his wife bored him about the girl, for this she never did, having judi- ciously dropped the subject after she had WITHOUT THE CINDERS. 155 carried her first point ; and it was not that the girl herself bored him, for he saw very little of her, and was never importuned by or on account of her. Bat there was no life in her, her gentle- ness was timid, almost awkward, despite her air of distinction ; she was unreasonably sad. True, she had lost her father, but was not the lecture delivered to Hamlet on that common grief very pat, to the purpose, and of universal application ? She really ought not to mope over it, as if nobody else had ever lost a father. She was very pretty, but her dulness, her want of spirits, her yea-nay acquiescence detracted from her charm. He said something to this effect to his wife shortly after they arrived in Paris, and she answered, with a well-regulated smile, "I entirely agree with you, my dear; Miss Ehodes is profoundly uninteresting." From putting words into the mouth of an indolently-minded man, to persuading him 156 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. that he entertains the sentiment they con- vey, is no great distance for tact to traverse ; in Mr. Townley Gore's case that feat was soon accomplished. In his eyes Helen did in- deed continue to be pretty, but she became uninteresting ; and this was not altogether to the credit of her enemy, or to the blame of her would-be friend. She had a hand in it herself, for she was hopelessly reserv- ed and embarrassed with him when they were together. These occasions mostly occurred at breakfast, for Mrs. Townley Gore was sel- dom present at that meal, and Helen dread- ed them very much. She knew that her life would have been very different had her father's friend had the ordering of it; and, while it was beyond her powers of discern- ment and out of her experience to read the character of Mr. Townley Gore, with its mixture of intense selfishness and kindly impulse, its superficial honour and its moral cowardice, she was conscious that to appeal WITHOUT THE CINDERS. 157 to what was good in that character would be ineffectual. As time went on he had a pretty strong conviction that the experiment he had tried was not succeeding ; but he thought very little about it, and when it intruded itself upon his attention, as it sometimes did and generally in small ways, he would dismiss it with an impatient reflection on the un- manageableness of women, and the super- fluousness of girls. Helen's helplessness against her enemy was brought to a test by an incident wliich occurred soon after the arrival of the party in Paris. She had received sud- den orders to prepare for the journey, with pleasure that so transfigured her as to make Mrs. Townley Gore regret that she could not leave her behind. She was to see Jane once more, the friend on whose advice she had tried hard to act would learn the whole truth from her, she would learn how every effort had been met with cold disdain, and 158 THE QUESTION OF CAIN- how the fine house had been no better than a prison, in which the girl lived under a cruel woman's secret despotism. Jane would tell her whether there was indeed any way of escape, and, if there was, would find it for her; or, if Jane still held that Helen must abide by her fetters, she would help her to bear those conditions on which her father had never calculated, and the mere sight of her would be like home once more. She would not write to Jane ; she would se- cure to them both the additional delight of a surprise. For the first day or two after their ar- rival Helen v^^as so completely overlooked, that she might have believed her very exis- tence to have been forgotten, but she was not surprised ; there is confusion at such times in the most smoothly-rolling households. On the third day she asked Mrs. Townley Gore, just as she was going out for the afternoon, whether she miojht visit her friend and former school-fellow. WITHOUT THE CINDERS. 159 Miss Merrick. She had come into the salon where Mrs. Townley Gore, superbly dressed in black velvet and rich furs, was waiting for her husband, who, as Helen put her question, entered the room from the oppo- site side. His glance rested with approval upon the striking picture presented by his wife : that day she might have borne com- parison with Miss Lorton at twenty very well indeed. She was in her best looks ; her dress was thoroughly Parisian, and she was going to visit a very great lady of the fau- bourg, of the oldest nobility — even of crusad- ing^ date — of the entree to whose house she was not unjustly proud. " I was wondering what you were go- ing to do with yourself this fine afternoon," said Mr. Townley Gore, addressing Helen good-humouredly ; *' were yon arranging soraethincr ?" "I was asking whether I might go to the Rue de Rivoli to visit Miss Merrick, my old school-fellow." 160 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. *' By yourself? Would that be quite the thing ? Had you not better wait until Mrs. Townley Gore has a disengaged day and can go with you ?" Helen's heart sank suddenly, and Mrs. Townley Gore's straight, dark eyebrows met ominously in the frown that Helen knew so well. **I thought," said Helen, timidly but des- perately, '^ that I might go alone in a carriage, for Jane will be very glad to see me, and she is the only old friend I have." Mr. Townley Gore looked irresolutely at his wife. She said, with cold politeness, " I was not aware that Miss Rhodes had acquaintances in Paris. Pray who is Miss Merrick r" ''She has just told us, Caroline, an old school-fellow at Miss Jerdane's." " I heard that ; but it is hardly sufficient information. Who is Miss Merrick ?" *' She is not — not quite a lady, I suppose," stammered poor Helen. "Her aunt is WITHOUT THE CINDEES. 161 Madame Morrison, a milliner, and her uncle is Monsieur Morrison. He sells silks and velvets, I believe." '' I believe he does," said Mrs. Townley Gore, slowly. " I think it is very likely he sold the velvet my gown is made of; his w^ife is my dressmaker. Your friend is Ma- dame Morrison's niece ! It is an unfortu- nate coincidence, Miss Rhodes, and I regret it. Tliere must have been an ill-judged mixture of classes at that Highgate school. Now " — to her husband — " if you are ready. The carriage has been waiting some time." She took up her muff and moved towards the door; but Helen followed her. '' What do you mean ?" she said. " Am I to go ?" "To go ! Are you to go from my house to visit a shop-girl at my dressmaker's !-;— of course not. I must say. Miss Rhodes, I am astonished that you should have thought such a thing possible." VOL. I. M 162 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. She turned the handle of the door while she was speaking, and threw it open as she uttered the last words. Her footman was on the landing, with her carriage-wraps on his arm. If Mr. Townley Gore had wanted to say anything to Helen he could not have said it. Helen stood for a few moments where they had left her, and then burst into an agony of tears. The passion wore itself out after awhile, and left her exhausted. Then she rose, went to her room, and lay down on her bed to think. There was only one consoling point in her meditations : she had not led Jane to expect to see her ; Jane would not be disappointed. Not a notion of defiance, not a project of disobedience occurred to her ; and, if this seem incredible, let it be borne in mind that Helen Rhodes had been almost all her life at school. But she took a resolution, and made up her mind to act upon it no later than the fol- WITHOUT THE CINDERS. 163 lowing morning. And then our Cinderella without the cinders, fell asleep, like a child, after her tempest of tears. M 2 164 CHAPTER X. WITH THE PRINCE. rpHERE was an unusual gravity about the -*- looks and demeanour of the master of the house when Helen saw him at break- fast next day. She had not seen either him or his wife in the interval, for they had dined out ; and she met him with the resolution she had taken unchanged. Her intention had been to write to him, for she did not believe herself capable of saying what she wanted to say ; but the change in his look and manner made her feel that something was coming, and she hastily re- solved to speak if the opportunity offered. The meal was served according to the WITH THE PRINCE. 165 English custom, and during its course Helen had an uneasy sense that there was some- thing in her companion's mind as unusual as the purpose that was in her own. He wait- ed, however, until she was about to leave the room, according to custom, and then he asked her to remain and listen to what he had to say to her. She resumed her seat, turned very pale, and nervously fingered a fork, but she said never a word. Mr. Townley Gore had seldom faced any task so unpleasant to him as the present. He de- served no little credit, all things considered, for undertaking it. " I am afraid," he said, "you were annoy- ed yesterday by my wife's refusal to let you visit your friend ?" He paused, but Helen made no reply and no sign. " I thought she might have explained her meaning and given her reasons more fully, and so I have undertaken to do so for her, as she dislikes anything like controversy, 166 THE QUESTION OF CvUN. and her wishes on a point of the kind must be final. Of course you feel that?" " I suppose so. I don't want to go against them," said Helen, in a trembling voice. '' That's right." Mr. Townley Gore felt ever so much more comfortable. This tiresome girl, with her impossible friendships, had nothing of the rebel about her at any rate. ^' You must not take her decision for a personal unkindness ; you do not under- stand things of this kind, and what she meant was that a school-friendship with a person in a class of society so inferior to your own, could not possibly last beyond your school-days. That I am sure the young person you mentioned would tho- roughly understand. She would neither expect that you would visit her nor blame you for the impossibility. You may bo sure if this Miss — Miss — " " Jane Merrick." WITH THE PRINCE. 167 "Miss Jane Merrick knows, as I presume she does, that my wife is one of her aunt's customers, she will be perfectly prepared to see or hear nothing of you." " She does not know I am in Paris." " So much the better ; that makes it all right. She never need know it, and we may dismiss the subject." His tone was quite airy. This was getting through his task very easily. " I have only to give my wife an assurance on your part that you will strictly attend to her wishes." He took up that morning's *' Figaro " as a signal that she was free to leave the room, but Helen rose from her place opposite, and, going up to him, laid a detaining touch upon his arm. " Stay," she said ; *' let me speak to you. I too have something to say." He looked up at her flushed and eager face, at the large grey eyes full of purpose and feeling, at the slender upright figure, and the hands now linked together, an action which brought her father back to the 168 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. memory of his old companion through all the intervening years with a strange distinct- ness ; and a curious sensation, one to which he was utterly unaccustomed — the sensation of a sharp and serious misgiving — passed over him. "I don't know how to tell you," she went on, '* without seeming to be what I am not — ungrateful for your kindness and un- worthy of it ; but I must. I wish to go away. Pray, pray let me go without trouble, without blame to anyone." Mr. Townley Gore stared at her in pro- found amazement, and pushed back his chair, as if for the purpose of getting a better look at her. "Let you go ! Go where ? What for ? What do you mean ?" " Let me go away altogether. I am not happy here, and I am doing nothing. I am no use, no pleasure, no comfort to anyone. I want to go away. I know that you are very good to me, and I am sure I am to WITH THE PRINCE. 169 blame ; but indeed, indeed I cannot live on here." His good-looking face darkened, and he muttered something unpleasant between his teeth, as Helen put her hands before her face and sobbed. He had known that his scheme was not answering, but he had not suspected its failure to be so bad as this. " What is the matter ?" he asked, sternly ; ^' does anyone ill-treat you ? Do you want for anything ?" He glanced at her dress; it was simple and plain, the deep mourning that it was still proper for her to wear. He knew she had a good room : and there was no lack in his house of the comfortable, on a scale that was highly luxurious compared with her former experience ; what could be the mat- ter with this tiresome girl ? Caroline's temper, most likely ; that was not pleasant, no doubt ; she did not always so control it as to make it pleasant for him, and he pre- 170 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. ferred not to speculate upon what it might be for other people ; but Helen must put up with it like other people ; she was a fool to quarrel with her bread and butter in such a fashion as this. She did not answer his questions ; she only sobbed, so he repeat- ed them : " Does anyone ill-treat you ? Do you want for anything ?" " Nobody. Nothing," she faltered ; " but I am ven% very unhappy ; it is my own fault, I know. You ask me if I want for anything ; I do not, that I can explain ; but I know what is in my own mind about my- self, and I want to go away and earn for myself. I am too much here, and too little ; I am not a friend, and not a servant ; and I cannot, no, I cannot bear it." She made a strong effort, controlled herself, checked her tears, and went on more calmly. " I am not too young to under- stand things, and nothing is explained to me. I am very unfortunate, for nobody WITH THE PRINCE. 171 likes me, except one person, in all the world, and now I must never see her again, if I stay here, and so I would rather, much rather go. But it is not only on account of that I know it would be better. Mrs. Townley Gore does not like me ; I have not been able to please her, and I don't think you can imagine how unhappy that makes me. There was such downright, indisputable truth in what Helen said that her hearer did not dream of contradicting her. Nor, little as he understood the feelings of the girl, did he think it would be exactly the thing for him to say to her in so many words what he distinctly thought — i.e.^ that she was a fool to care whether his wife liked her or not, so long as she was well off in a comfortable house, with all the chances afforded by such a position of being enabled one day to leave it for as good a one of her own ; for he could at least perceive that Helen's pride was in 172 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. arms. He took, therefore, a ready and de- cisive course. '' My dear," said he, using, to the astonish- ment of Helen, a familiar terra by which he had never previously addressed her, and placing her in a chair with a quiet but decided movement, " do not excite your- self, and worry me by entering into further explanations. I don't know, and I don't want to know, anything about how you and my wife get on or do not get on together ; that is your affair and hers, and I cannot interfere or make myself responsible. You tell me you are to blame, and I am sorry for it. That is the sentimental side of the question ; now let us come to the practical side. You talk very glibly about going away and earning for yourself, and it is ex- cusable at your age that you should talk such nonsense." Helen started, and was about to protest ; he stopped her with a slight gesture. " Hear me out," he continued. " I know WITH THE PRINCE. 1 73 it sounds like sense to you, and you may have had heaven knows what notions of heroism, and self-help, and so forth, put into your head at school. Now, from what I have seen of you, I should think you have very little about you of the heroic, even of the mock-heroic — that is the last fad of the hour — and that you would be a very, very bad hand at helping yourself I don't mean to be unkind in saying this ; quite the contrary. Well, here you are, in a comfort- able home, under safe protection — the pro- tection your father desired for you — and what do you complain of, what is it you want to get away from ? You fancy we don't like you ! Well, we are not romantic people certainly, and my wife is a little difficult ; but I don't think I am." " No, no ! indeed you are not." *' That's well ; at least I have alwavs meant kindly to you ; and you might not find other people easier to get on with than we are. This is the plain common sense of 174 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. the matter, so far. Now we come to your notions of what you want to do. Will you tell me what they are?" " Yes," said Helen, '' I will ; and, though 1 know all you say is kind and true, I still hope you will let me do what is in my mind." And then with- some flutter and incoherence at first, but settling down as she proceeded to a clear-enough narrative, she repeated to Mr. Townley Gore the offer which Jane Merrick had made her, just before his own arrival at the Hill House. She declared that she knew her friend would redeem her promise at any time, and entreated him to allow her to adopt the humbler way of life, in which she could be happier and more independent. The prosperous gentleman heard what this unaccountable girl had to say with uncomfortable feelings. One thing was clear to him : his wife had treated Helen worse than he had suspected ; and how this could be remedied or prevented in WITH THE PRINCE. 175 the future, was a question that opened up dismal vistas of difficulty, and that par- ticular necessity which he most disliked — the necessity for giving his mind to other people's business. Again, whatever the remedy for the state of affairs, it could not be that which the interpolated and very inconvenient member of his household pro- posed : however she was disposed of, or was permitted to dispose of herself, the daughter of Herbert Rhodes should not leave his house for that of his wife's milliner. "Very nice and well-meant of Miss Mer- rick," he said, when Helen paused, "" and just the sort of thing that two inexperienced girls might talk about, and no harm be done, but not to be practically thought of for a moment. I need go no further than your own words to show you that. You object to dependence upon me, your fa- ther's friend ; how do you reconcile your- self to dependence on a person not in .176 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. your own class of life, and a stranger?" *' I should not be dependent for long ; I could learn to be of use ; and, besides," she blushed, and grew greatly confused here, *' there's my own money ; I could pay some- thing for myself ; and I " " Your own money, my dear, I deeply regret to tell you must not enter into your calculations. It is not available for any such purpose." '^ Why? Is it not quite my own ? Miss Jerdane told me it was." ''Miss Jerdane believed what she told you; but she was mistaken. Your little fortune is in my hands, and nothing could induce me to allow you to dispose of any part of it in a way of which I should so entirely disapprove." With increasing embarrassment, Helen still insisted : " Pray forgive me ; I don't mean any dis- respect, I only want to understand. I saw the lawyer's first letter to Miss Jerdane, and WITH THE PRINCE. 177 there was nothing about you in it ; not even your name." " That makes no difference in the fact, as I tell it to you. You cannot dispose of, you cannot get possession of, the money without my consent. Come, my dear, let us make an end of this. Don't be fanciful and foolish ; make the best of things that are not so bad after all, and try to be more cheerful and pleasant." He now rose with so decided an appear- ance of terrainatinc^ the interview that Helen was helpless : he did not seem to expect a rejoinder to what he had last said, or any promise or assurance; indeed, ho presently settled the matter by walking out of the room. The want of the faculty of looking at things from other people's point of view is a prolific cause of evil in this world. Mr. Townley Gore was deficient in that faculty, and he did serious harm to Helen in con- sequence. Could he have formed any ade- A^OL. I. N 178 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. quate idea of what the girl had suffered, and of the spirit of revolt that his treatment of her appeal had awakened, he might have been moved to a line of conduct which would have changed all her future history. As it was, he merely thought of the affair as a worry happily got rid of, at all events for the present. As for Mrs. Townley Gore, she was neither more nor less disdainfully in- different to Helen, neither more nor less affected by the consciousness that she had trampled on the girl's heart, than usual. But Helen, learning in her misery and helplessness to use her perceptive faculties, guessed that Mr. Townley Gore had not told his wife anything about her appeal to him. " I went to the wrong person," thought poor Helen ; " if I had had the courage to speak to her, she w^ould have made him let me go, and take my money with me ; she would have been too srlad to Gfet rid of me WITH THE PRINCE. 179 to lose the chance. She would not have oi'mded my leaving her house for Madame Morrison's. It would have meant her being relieved of me for ever. Little does he think the pains she takes to let everyone know I am only a poor pensioner." Helen sat at the window of her room that clear sunshiny afternoon, watching the tide of carriages rolling by, and going over and over again what Mr. Townley Gore had said to her. She had made him no promise, her mind was not changed ; she would only yield so far as keeping away from Jane while they remained in Paris was concerned. Afterwards she would write and tell her everything — the strange difficulty about her money included — and ask her for help. A few days later it seemed as though Helen would find an earlier opportunity of consulting her friend than she had antici- pated, for a circumstance occurred that threatened to recall Mr. and Mrs. Townley Gore to England. This was the illness of n2 180 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. Mrs. Townley Gore's former guardian, an elderly gentleman whom Helen had seen a few times at the house in Kaiser Crescent, and to whom she was painfully conscious Mrs. Townley Gore had represented her po- sition in the light that was so hurtful to her pride and her feelings. Mr. Horndean had never taken any not- ice of her beyond the barest civility, and she had instinctively avoided him. She could not help wondering that Mrs. Town- ley Gore, whom she knew to be a model of philosophy in the matter of the misfortunes of her friends, should be so much discon- certed by the news of Mr. Horndean's ill- ness ; but a short conversation which took place in her presence partially explained the reason. " We shall have to return at once if he gets w^orse," said Mr. Townley Gore. " Of course," asserted his wife. " Could there have been anything more provoking ? Just as Paris is worth living in again ; I am WITH THE PRINCE. 181 sure I never believed it could be, under these wretched creatures. That is the best of the French, however; they can keep themselves clear of their political pitch, and fit for us to associate with." Mrs. Townley Gore looked complacently at the great mirror which reflected her elegant figure, and at a gueridon beside her, laden with cards and invitations. " It will be inex- pressibly annoying if we are hurried back to London. I shall impress it strongly on Mrs. Grimshaw that she is not to croak too much ; I must remind her of the false alarm last year." " Be cautious in what you say, Caroline ; a false alarm last year makes it all the more likely tliis one may not be false.. I suppose they have written to Lorton ?" ^' She does not say ;" Mrs. Townley Gore glanced over the letter written by Mr. Horn- dean's housekeeper. ^' And, if they have not, I cannot do it for them, for I have not the remotest idea where he is." 182 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. '' Indeed !" said her husband, uneasily. '' It may be very unfortunate if there's any difficulty in getting at hira. You had better ask Mrs. Grinishaw the question." After this nothing more was said for a week, when Mrs. Townley Gore observed to her husband, that if on the following Monday the news of Mr. Horndean should be favourable, they might reckon on another month of dear, delightful Paris. The news of Mr. Horndean was favourable, and the " turn for the better," reported by his housekeeper to Mrs. Townley Gore, enabled that lady to apply herself with the additional satisfaction of a good conscience to the enjoyment of Paris. She troubled herself even less than usual about Helen ; but she had taken Mr. Townley Gore's sug- gestion, that something should be done to amuse her, in very good part. *'Miss Rhodes is not much more amusable than the Grand Monarque of whom my dear old Marquise de Hautlieu talks as if she had WITH THE PRINCE. 183 known him in her childhood," she observed, '' but I will send her to the picture-galleries. Of course, in her deep mourning, she can't go ' out,' even if it would be quite fair to the poor girl to take her." Mr. Townley Gore was fain to be content ; that tone was unanswerable. The month of anticipated delights is with- in a week of its close, and Paris has become as dear and delightful to the neglected and disdained '' young person in whom Mr. Townley Gore takes an interest," as to his handsome and admired wife herself. This change has taken place unperceived by either Mr. or Mrs. Townley Gore ; the for- mer does not care enough for Helen to note the alteration in the tone of her voice when she speaks, in the expression of her fair face when she is silent ; the latter, though she hates her, does not study her with the close attention of dislike. She is too insignificant for that, a thing of too small account ; ready at hand when her enemy chooses to vent 184 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. her temper on her, but not worth thinking about as an antagonist. So the girl becomes more and more lovely every day, the tea- rose colour deepens in her cheek, the lam- bent light deepens in her eyes, the delicate lips curve with a proud, tender smile, the tall, slender figure is held more upright, and the subdued languidnes? of its movements have given place to supple grace and the lightfootedness that befits her blooming girlhood. The days are no longer dreary, nor the waking hours of the night care-laden. When Helen thinks of her father now, it is not with pain and terror, as for ever lost to her, it is as loving her, and looking at her from some fair unknown world from whence he has sent her comfort. Perhaps, Helen thinks, this is what Jane Merrick meant, when she used to talk to her about the grace of God and very present help from Heaven. The hours of her solitude are not hours of wearisome now ; and the sense of neglect and disdain, though it was still WITH THE PRINCE. 185 present and always justified, had compari- tively little pain in it. Had there been anyone to ask what was the origin of this change, the answer would not have been far to seek : Into the life of Cinderella had come the Prince. 186 CHAPTER XT. AND " DEVEINE," IjlROM her second interview with Mr. -*- Lisle, Helen returned treading on air. She was no longer lonely ; she had found a friend, one whom she might soon ask to advise her, for she was sure he was very sensible and wise, and what could be more kind than his notice of her ? And then how extraordinary it was that he should have heard about her father — should have a correspondent at the place that was to have been her home ! It seemed like the *' Providence " Jane used to talk about ; like a ray of light upon her path ; an assurance of what Helen, in her first experience of VEINE AND DEVEINE. 187 grief, had despaired of, the continuance of some link between the lost one and herself. The romantic element in her mind was brought into action by the occurrence^ and the circumstances of her actual life were calculated to secure it full play. She would have so much to think about that the time would seem short until she saw her new-found friend again, and could hear the "little story " he wanted to tell her. What was that story ? she wondered. Was it a sad one like her own ? No, that it could not be ; little as Helen knew of the world, she felt sure that to men there never came such dependence and helplessness as liers. A man could always help himself, and be his own master. And this izentle- man with the dark eyes, the sweet smile, the soft voice, and that winning, deferential manner, of the like of which the school-^irl had never before had experience, looked 188 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. perfectly happy, and as if he had had his own way all his life. Could it be a love-story? Helen blushed as this thought occurred to her, and looked furtively about her, although she was quite alone, just as she had often looked in the old times at school, when she was about to break one of the rules, to pop a harmless note under the lid of Jane Mer- rick's desk or afford surreptitious help to some culprit in durance, because of crimes connected with past participles and '' analyse logique." He looked very romantic; he was an artist; he had spoken so beautifully about the pictures, of the power and truth with which the great masters rendered the great passions and emotions on their canvases ; he had looked so enthusiastic, for all his English-gentlemanly ease and quiet; she felt sure it must be a love-story. That, had her guess been correct, he should wish to telha love-story to her did not strike Helen VEINE AND DEVEINE. 189 as being at all strange ; he had come by such a curious accident to know so much about her that it seemed quite natural. The lucky lady of Mr. Lisle's love must of a surety be beautiful and talented ; perhaps the daughter of some great man, who did not think " a bit of an artist" good enough for her, and the poor girl was pining in despair, amid hollow gaiety and surrounded by unmeaning wealth, while he — for even Helen's ignorant simplicity could not be- lieve that there was any pining about Mr. Lisle — confident in the fidelity of the belov- ed one was nobly winning success and fame which should conquer the obstacles that divided them. Helen's imagination had elevated the commonplace specimen of young manhood, who had come across her path so strange- ly, into a modern Quentin Matsys, long before she fell asleep that night. She would keep the secret he was going to con- fide to her ; slie would not mention his 190 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. name to Mr. or Mrs. Townley Gore; she almost thought she could divine the reason of his prohibition. He said that he had heard of them. Could it be that the obdurate parent of Mr. Lisle's lady-love was a friend of theirs, that they had aided and abetted in the cruel separation of the lovers, and were therefore justly obnoxious to Mr. Lisle. Readily could Helen picture to herself the chilling scorn with which Mrs. Town- ley Gore would treat an attachment of the romantic order, the ironical incredulity with which she would dismiss, as unworthy of discussion, the idea of a marriage that should imply parity between money and genius. Helen was a quick observer, and Mrs. Townley Gore so habitually disregarded her presence that she gave her opportunities of acquiring a knowledge of her opinions and ways of which she did not take ac- count. Helen felt quite pleased with her- VEINE AND DEVEINE. 191 self when she had devised this interpretation of Mr. Lisle's caution ; and that she had fabricated the easy bit of romance in her imagination proved at least one thing satis- factorily — she herself had not fallen in love with Mr. Lisle at first sight. Helen went to the Luxembourg, met him there, received from his hands a copy of the portions of Mrs. Stephenson's letters that referred to the death of the English chap- lain's death at Chundrapore, passed three delightful hours in his company, and heard the *' little story." It was not in the least like what she ex- pected ; in so far it was disappointing, be- cause it would have been so pleasant had she actually been clever enough to divine the truth ; but, when she came to think over it afterwards, she was somehow^ not so much disappointed. Indeed she felt unac- countably glad that Mr. Lisle had not been crossed in love. But it was satisfactory, in- asmuch as it made Mr. Lisle's request that 192 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. she would not say anything to her protectors about hiiu explicable and reasonable. The story did not take long to tell, and was, in a condensed form, as follows : There was a certain relative of the Town- ley Gores who was in great disfavour with them, and who was an intimate friend and companion of Mr. Lisle, being, like himself, a bit of an artist, and fonder of roaming about in Continental cities than of dwellinsj in British decencies and dulness. He would not tell Helen what this man's name was, because she might be betrayed into a start or a look of consciousness if she were to hear it mentioned, and from all he had heard of Mrs. Townley Gore from his friend he felt sure she would instantly detect any symptom of that kind, and investigate its cause. His friend had been a little wild, he did not attempt to deny that. at this point of the story- — Helen, who had not the remot- est idea of his meaning, but concluded that wildness must be lamentable, since it would VEINE AND DEVEINE. 193 be well to deny it if one could, looked very prettily sympathetic — and the Townley Gores had been down upon him as prosper- ous people, content with themselves, always are down on others not so well off as they are. '' Are they ?" said Helen, her grey eyes expressing regretful surprise as plainly as words could have done. " Always," replied Mr. Lisle, so empha- tically that Helen felt there could be no doubt about it, and then he proceeded with his story. His friend had got through a good deal of money; he was not a lucky fellow by any means — perhaps Miss Rhodes did not know what the 'Weine" and the " deveine" meant ? Miss Rhodes did not know 5 Mr. Lisle obligingly explained, and went on to say that the *' deveine " was an unpleasantly frequent attendant on the career of his friend ; had indeed stuck to him so closely that he was reduced to great straits, and got into a regular row with all belonging to him. VOL. I. 194 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. A " regular row " was also an unfamiliar image to Miss Rhodes, but she shook her head with the appropriate emphasis, and that did very well. His friend got out of the regular row only by a compromise which was most hurtful to his feelings ; his debts were paid — Mr. Lisle did not state by whom — and he was provided with a place in a wine-merchant's house of business at Bor- deaux. He did not like the business, and he did not like the people. The bit of an artist was not the least bit of a business man. He had an uncommonly good stroke of luck after he had been six months getting into harness, and finding it no easier at last than at first, and a trifling disagreement with the principals occurring just at the same time, Mr. Lisle's friend turned his back on com- merce and took seriously to art. Did not Miss Rhodes think he had done perfectly right? Miss Rhodes glanced at the long line of the Delaroche pictures and answered ardently that he had indeed! And then VEINE AND DEVEINE. 195 Mr. Lisle's own position in the matter of his friend was explained. They were fre- quent companions, and he, as the confidant and abettor of his friend's resistance to the family views, was particularly obnoxious to the Townley Gores, who were, Mr. Frank Lisle hastened to add — for he did not alto- gether like a look of perplexity that was gathering in the listener's face — very good people in their way, with the one fault that they could not understand, and had no tolera- tion for, any other person's way. His friend was particularly anxious that no intelligence of his whereabouts should reach his relatives until he had put his affairs on a more satis- factory footing, and Mr. Lisle considered himself bound to carry out his wishes. Any mention of him (Mr. Lisle) would lead to questions which would identify him with the friend of the person whom they regarded as a black sheep, and then the black sheep would be prematurely discovered, before he had had an opportunity of growing any re- o2 196 THE QUESTION OF CAIN, paratory and propitiatory wool. Did not Miss Rhodes see the situation ? She saw it clearly, and, although on the romantic side of it the story was completely disenchant- ing, it was singularly interesting. Only she did not quite see why Mr. Lisle should have said, the day before, that the matter con- cerned his own life ; there was very little about himself in all he had told her. Of course she could not say this to him, but Frank Lisle read the face that had captivat- ed him with great readiness : he passed, the moment he had gained it, from the point he had been anxious to carry, and having an- swered her only question, whether his friend was then in Paris, in the affirmative, began to talk on that theme in which she inno- cently betrayed her interest — himself. Three weeks of the month, at the end of which it had been originally intended that Mr. and Mrs. Townley Gore should return to London, had passed over. No refer- VEINE AND DEVEINE. 197 ence had been made to the incident that had brought about Helen's appeal to Mr. Townley Gore, nor to that appeal itself, but the influence of both had made itself felt in the poor girl's life. That her husband had remonstrated with her upon her contemptu- ous manner to Helen, and had declared it to be due to Helen's inexperience that the refusal of her request should be explained, was an offence which Mrs. Townley Gore charged to Helen's account, and amply re- venged upon her. The passion for cruelty of every kind grows with its indulgence, and to this Mrs. Townley Gore was no exception ; she had Helen entirely in her power, and she knew where and how to hit her. There was not a servant in the house who did not know that to be negligent of or in- solent to Miss Rhodes, would be a passport to the favour of its stern and exacting mis- tress. There was not a woman among the number who came to Mrs. Townley Gore's receptions and dinners, and afterwards dis- 198 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. cussed her and them among themselves, who did not perceive that there was something wrong about the handsome girl who some- times appeared on those occasions, and was always triste and ill-dressed — oh, but ill- dressed as only an English woman could contrive to be ! What was wrong no one exactly knew, but there was a chorus of opinion that it could be no one's fault but her own. Mrs. Townley Gore was altogeth- er charming, and it was quite melancholy that she should have that young person looking so out of place in her salon where everything else was so perfectly comme il faut. A poor relation of Monsieur Gore was she ? No, only a protege. Ah, then, they could only say madam e was divinely amia- ble. It was true that Helen looked wretched when she was in the presence of her enemy because then, other people being by, she would address her in gentle tones, and with a condescending, pitying smile that was harder to bear than the curt command or VEINE AND DEVEINE. 199 the rude sneer that awaited her when there were no other ears to hear or eyes to see; but she did not look wretched when she w^as out of that presence. She had tried to do whatMr.Townley Gore wished'; she had tried to be happier, she had once more made some timid advances to his wife, but they had been met with scorn ; and Helen liad not i'ailed to see that some other cause besides her own resented existence, was irritating and worrying that lady. She knew so little of the family affairs that she could not even guess at the nature of this cause. To all outward appearance everything was in a flourishing condition. Both husband and wife enjoyed Paris thoroughly. Mr. Town- ley Gore, indeed, enjoyed one peculiar feature of Paris — the best eating in the world — a little too much, and had an attack of gout : but as he never expected his wife to shut herself up with him and nurse him on such occasions, but much preferred the ministrations of his valet — an invaluable 200 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. creature, who stepped as gently as an un- dertaker's man, and never in his life left a door open or shut one noisily — the unfortu- nate occurrence did not materially interfere with her amusements. It did, however, release Helen from her tete-a-tete breakfasts with him, and thus she was left more than ever alone and uncared for. Within a week of the meeting at the Lux- embourg, a sharp, imperative command from Mr. Townley Gore had prohibited Helen from going to the picture-galleries. This was not dictated by any suspicion ; it was due to a hint conveyed by her English maid to Mrs. Townley Gore that the French portion of the establishment commented unfavourably upon the freedom accorded to the young lady. Mrs. Bennet was the only person in the house who would have dared to give Mrs. Townley Gore a hint ; it was effectual. "Then she shall not go any more," said Mrs. Bennetts mistress, " for I have no one to send to the pictures with her." VEINE AND DEVEINE. 201 " I'm sure, ma'am," said Mrs. Bennet, sweetly, " Miss Rhodes must have seen all the pictures in Paris by this time ; the hours and hours she's out. I wonder she is not tired of them." Mrs. Townley Gore's right hand was in the pocket of her dressing-gown at that mo- ment. She closed it angrily upon a crum- pled letter hidden there, and said, with one of her darkest, most off-guard frowns, " I wish there were no such things as pic- tures, and no such people as painters." Mrs. Bennet did not venture to ask her mistress why. Perhaps, as so much more is always known about us than we think for, Mrs. Bennet knew. On the bright mornings in February, when the crocuses were coming up in the pretty artificial gardens and lawns of the Avenue du Bois du Boulogne, and the keen air was luminous with the sun's -rays, which did not seem to be able to warm it, Helen would go out, after her early breakfast, on 202 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. those solitary walks which scandalised Ma- dame Devrient afresh. Plainly dressed, closely veiled, with nothing but the elegance of her figure to distinguish her from the num- bers of respectable young women who go out teaching in Paris, and are, of course, ac- customed to walk alone, Helen was quite safe, and never imagined that her actions were regarded with curiosity by anybody. Those walks had an object : the dearest, the most important of her life — that life into which the Prince had come — they took her day after day into the presence of Frank Lisle. He would, meet her at the entrance to the Bois, and they would strike into one of the allees for pedestrians only, and walk there for an hour. Then they would part where they had met, and Helen would hasten home, satisfied to endure whatever the day might have in store, for the sake of what its early hours had given her. And, as she passes the lodge of the concierge, Jules Devrient looks up from his account-book or VEINE AND DEVEINE. 203 newspaper — a sound Republican sheet be sure — and is almost softened towards one of the insolent insularies by her bright glance, and the gracious bend of her head as she goes by, and Delphine Moreau, sent by her mother to tend her aunt, for Madame Dev- rient has been ill for several days, smiles covertly, and wonders how long the good luck of the young lady and her lover will last, and what will happen when they are found out. She would not interrupt that good luck 'by a word to anyone, not she ; she only wishes it was her own in a general way; live and let live, so long as nobody interfered with her, would be Delphine's motto. Only one thing in the affair is a puzzle to her, everything else she believes to be as clear as light : it is not, why the gen- tleman, whom she afterwards saw with made- moiselle at the Louvre, does not come to the house — that is easy of explantion — but why he did come on that first and only occasion? Delphine's mind is of an obstin- ^04 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. ate and plodding cast, and it works away at that problem, but does not solve it until the far-off time is come. One morning, it is the first of the last week, when Helen meets Frank Lisle at the entrance to the Bois she is pale and agitated — not by the sight of him, that affects her differently, flushing her cheek and brighten- ing her eyes — and he knows there is some- thing more than the joy of meeting. For Delphine is right, the dark-eyed gentleman is mademoiselle's lover, sure enough : and the " one unequalled pure romance" is lend- ing all its ravishing charm and beauty to Helen's life. " What is it, darling?" This as he draws her hand within his arm, and presses it close to him, and she trembles a little at his touch. '' Has anything happened to you ? Has that — woman been tormenting you?" "No, no, it is not anything of that kind. But oh, Frank, how shall I tell you ? I have no money of my own at all — none. VEINE AND DEVEINE. 205 The five hundred pounds my father left me was all lost by tlie failure of the insurance- office, and Mr. Townley Gore knew that, for the lawyers told him at once, and they supposed he had told me. I wish he liad, I wush he had !" "How did you come to ask the lawyers?" asked Mr. Lisle. " Because I could not understand how it was that Mr. Townley Gore had power over me that they knew nothing of, and as I could not get any explanation from him, and as — as I thought I oud:it to know about it, having told you that I had that little sum, you see I did not know but that he might keep it from me when I go to you, just as he said he should if I went to Jane. I wrote to Messrs. Simpson and Rees, and here is their answer, Frank. You see I have nothing — not a penny in the world." ]\Ir. Lisle read the lawyer's letter. It was a clear statement of the facts, and Helen had rightly understood it. 206 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. "What could Mr. Townley Gore have meant by talking to me of that money still being mine ?" Helen asked him, earnestl}^, while his eyes were yet upon the letter. " I do not know, my darling, I cannot imagine, and I do not care." There was a deep colour in his cheek and an unusual tone in his voice which almost started Helen. " You do not care ? Do you mean that you don't mind my having not one penny of my own ? But, Frank, I don't under- stand you." '' I mean that it will not matter. Some- thing has turned up ; things are better with me than they were. You remember what I told you about the ' veine ' and the Meveine'?" "Yes, I remember. That was for your friend, though, not for you." She looked into his face rather wist- fully. " For him and for me too, my dearest. VEINE AND DEVEINE. 207 It does not apply to gaming only. There's the ' veine ' and the ^ deveine ' in other things as well. The luck is with me this time, and even this " — he put the lawyer's letter in his pocket — "is a part of it." They had walked on while talking, and were in an allee where no one was to be seen. He caught her in his arms and kiss- ed her passionately as he whispered : " Helen, there must be no parting for us next Monday !" 208 CHAPTER XII. " TRUST ME FOR ALL IN ALL." XTELEN shrank, breathless and blushing, -■— ■- from her lover's embrace, as she re- peated, wondering, his words : '' No parting for us ?" ''None, dearest. Don't look so scared. Nothing that I say ought to frighten you." '' Nothing does," she said, quietly ; but the hand which he was pressing close to his side trembled for all that ; *^ and nothing that anybody could say can frighten me now ; but I don't understand." " I will explain while we walk on. There is not a moment of our precious time to lose. This letter from your father's TRUST ME FOR ALL IN ALL. 209 solicitors makes a great difference to you ; not as you take it to mean, but as 1 do. If Mr. Townley Gore really had money of yours in his keeping, and was accountable for it to you, or to anyone representing you, he would never lose sight of you, depend upon it. He would feel that a point of honour. But we now know that he has not any such trust, and he must have talked of that money which ought to have been yours, merely for the purpose of asserting authori- ty over you." " Oh no, Frank ; I think not," remonstrat- ed Helen. '' Mr. Townley Gore was really ofood to me, and he must have known I should find out that pretext some day." " Of course ; but, if it served his purpose in the meantime, he would not mind that, you know. It is perfectly easy to see through his motives, though I can easily believe that he was what you call ' good ' to you, darling little angel that you are, and you might have borne the life there VOL. I. p 210 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. very well if lie could have bad his own way. He. wanted to fulfil your father's trust, of course. Any man would under the circumstances, and it would have been unpleasant for him if they had gone back without you, and it had been made plain that the burst of generosity had lasted a very short time ; so he very naturall}^ would not let you go ; but it would not last, my darling — it would not last." " I do not want it to last ; I want to leave them ; but I cannot think he calcu- lated in that way." "How should you think so? How should you think anything but that all the world is as white-winged as yourself? But I know the world as it is, my angel, and it is not white-winded at all. You would have been more and more unhappy; and one fine day, when the experiment had last- ed long enough to enable them to say that you were incorrigibly headstrong and un- grateful, you would have had the truth told TRUST ME FOR ALL IN ALL. 211 you, that you had nothing in the world but their bounty to depend on, and you would have been provided for, according to their notions of gentility, in one of the ways we talked of on that for-ever-blessed day at the Louvre." " But that is what I want, Frank." '' And that is what shall never be. You have promised to be mine, Helen, sooner or later ; and you will trust me now, and in all things, will you not ?" " I will, indeed. I do, indeed." If ever there was perfect confidence ex- pressed in a woman's face and voice, it shone on Frank Lisle then, and sounded in his ears. "You will come away from them to me ; you will exchange the home that has been made miserable to you by the tyranny of that woman, for the home, hidden and humble though it must be for a while, that I will provide for you, and that will have love to adorn it ? Say you will, dearest ; p2 212 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. you have given me tlie dear assurance of your love too often for me to doubt that you will trust me altogether." " Yes ; but I, don't know what you mean. You said, when you told me — what it made me so very happy to hear" — a radiant smile lighted the face into which he looked so ardently ! — "that jou. could not marry me for perhaps a long time, and that in the meantime no one, not even Jane, must know. And I was quite content, far more than content ; nothing could do me any more harm, 1 knew, because you loved me. Why do you say I am to come to you nov/ that I am poorer even than we thought, when you said then that we must wait for better days? Are you any richer, Frank?" " I am. I have had a stroke of luck ; you would not understand how, without a long explanation, and there is not time for that. And it is your being poorer that gives us this chance, for Mr. Townley Gore will not trouble himself about you for long, TRUST ME FOR ALL IN ALL. 213 as he has no accounts to settle with you. There need be no miserable parting and wearisome time of separation for us, my Helen, if you will trust me now. ' Trust me for all in all, or not at all,' is a true saying. I am very, very much to you, am I not?" There was a soft persuasiveness in his tone, in his touch, in his eyes, infinitely alluring, and she answered him almost in a whisper : "You are all the world to me !" He knew that very ^vell, and triumphed in the knowledge. " Listen then. The difficulty in my way was not that of money only ; there is another obstacle, but it does not concern myself alone ; it is another person's secret, and I would rather not explain it just now." '' You never need tell me a single w^ord about it." " Did 1 not tell you that you are an angel ? I take you at your word. I have 214 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. good reason to believe that I shall not have to contend with this obstacle for very long ; that any sacrifice I shall ask you to make for me will be short-lived." *' A sacrifice, and for you ? I am quite ready, Frank. What is it? You puzzle me more and more." " The sacrifice of keeping our marriage secret, my darling ! Secret only for a little while, just as you promised that our engage- ment should be kept secret. I will take you away from these people and place you in safety and comfort, and then I shall have to go to England for a few days, but you shall be well cared for while I am away, and when I return we shall never part again. You will not refuse, Helen ; are you not mine already by every sacred prom- ise, and because you love me and I love you ? Ah, how happy we shall be ! No more misery and dependence for you, my beautiful treasure, but the happiest life that love can make for you." TRUST ME FOR ALL IN ALL. 215 " But — but — " she was clinging to his arm, and in tears — " this cannot be. I could not leave them in this way." *' Not for me, Helen ? You could not brave their displeasure — and you will never know anything about it — for me ? Is this your love ? Is this your trust ? I have told you I cannot make myself known to the Townley Gores ; I have fully ex- plained why." At this crisis of her fate, some dim idea that the interests of his friend ought to give way to the more urgent consideration of herself, did get itself into Helen's mind for a moment, but it was expelled by the influence that is stronger than self- preservation. *' And I have told you why our marriage must be kept secret for a time." He had done nothing of the kind, but she never thought of that. " How can this be done if you do not leave the Townley Gores without their 216 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. knowledge, and trust me to settle ever}^- thing for you ?" She asked, in great agitation, would it not be better to wait until the reason for secrecy should have ceased, and then to act openly ? After all, she was a free agent. *'That is what I am urging," said Mr. Lisle, with the touch of passionate impa- tience that is singularly charming to a woman's fancy. *' You are free — free to do what I ask, what I implore, what will make me happier than any king or prince in all the world. And you will not listen to me ; you put me off with petty objections about people who will forget you in a day, and would not care what had become of you for five minutes ! Ah, Helen, if you call this love, these scruples, this timidity, this hesitation to cast in your lot with mine, to face life with me, who am almost as much alone in the world as you are yourself, you have very little notion of what love means." TRUST ME FOR ALL IN ALL. 217 '' Oh, Frank, do not say that ; say any- thing but that ; I cannot bear it !" " How can I say, how can I think any- thing else, when you coldly oppose my plan for securing our happiness ? Is life so long, or so certain, that we can afford to lose an hour of it, or to put an hour of it in peril ? Is there anything in it so dear and precious as our love ? What is anything else to us ?" His hand clasped hers, and he spoke hur- riedly, tiie eyes whose pleading was so irre- sistible making themselves felt, though her own were downcast. Mr. Lisle's previous experience in the art of love-making had not familiarised him with such perfect inno- cence and trustfulness as Helen's, but he knew those qualities when he saw them, and he wooed the beautiful, ignorant girl, through them, with consummate skill. And this was not altogether only art, and the pleasant sense of exercising it, for she had really charmed him very completely, and in a way 218 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. which was entirely novel. He mingled with his protestations of love, and his worship of her beauty, pictures of a fair and tranquil life, in which she was°to play the part of helpmate and good angel to a hard-working artist who should value the fame he was to win only as a tribute to be laid at her feet. He drew a picture of the romance of their secret mar- riage : they would be free, and what free- dom was to compare with that? He re- turned to the well-worn, ever delightful, never exhausted theme of their first meeting, reminded her of the air of destiny that at- tended it, and claimed it as destiny. He touched every chord of her fancy and her heart, and as he spoke the words which made the finest of poems to her ear, in the voice that was the sweetest of music, her scruples vanished, her reluctance was over- come, and the sacrifice that her lover asked of her, and which she but dimly comprehend- ed, seemed small to the innocent eyes in which he v/as a hero. TRUST ME FOR ALL IN ALL. 219 When it was time for them to part, Mr. Lisle exerted hiaiself seriously to restore Helen's composure. To get rid of his fear that the signs of emotion in her tell-tale face would be observed, he had to remind him- self that no one was likely to regard her with discriminating eyes. They parted, as usual, at the entrance to the Bois, and a little incident occurred which gave Helen an almost childish pleasure, dominating the tu- mult in her heart. It was cold, and she was not very warmly clothed, she wanted to pin her veil round her throat, and Frank Lisle fastened the veil with his breast-pin ; it was a small cameo, a head of Apollo, very fine- ly carved. "My first gift," he said, "and a poor one. My second shall be a plain gold ring." Helen hurried away towards her home, but Frank Lisle re-entered the Bois, paced one of the allees for a while in deep cogita- tion, and then, having apparently made up 220 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. his mind on some point, walked briskly off in the direction of Neuilly. Helen went home like a person in a ■dream, and yet with such acute perception of everything around her that all her life afterwards she would be able to recall the look of the broad avenue, the houses, the horses and their riders, the vehicles that passed her, the sky, the feel of the air, the noises of the morning, and how, when she reached the house, she saw Zamore lying on the window-sill of the concierge's lodge, exactly where he could profit by the sun- shine and escape the wind. Helen paused to stroke Zamore, who yawned and stretched himself as if he liked it, and to enquire for Madame Devrient. She was glad it was not Devrient to whom she had to put her ques- tions, for she disliked him, but that black- eyed handsome niece of his wife's who always reminded her of a leopard in a cage. Delphine was happy to tell mademoiselle that her aunt was much better — so much TRUST ME FOR ALL IN ALL. 221 better indeed that Delpliine was going away on the following day. Mademoiselle was very good to notice Zaraore ; his mistress would be honoured. And, while she said those few words, Delphine had" ample op- portunity to observe that mademoiselle was wearing an ornament, which, when slie had gone out, had formed no part of her attire, and that the added ornament was a sfentle- o man's breast-pin. Whether the stroke of luck that had enabled Mr. Lisle to avail himself, for the furtherance of his own purposes, of the in- formation conveyed in Messrs. Simpson and Rees's letter to Helen, would prove to be a stroke of luck for her as well, it would be for time to tell ; at the present it seemed ominous of disaster. She had no notion of its nature, though the very phrase would have conveyed one to a person only a little more skilled in the world's ways than her- self The " stroke " had come from the quar- ter whence Mr. Lisle was in the habit of 222 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. trying his '' luck,'' the gaming-table. He was a gambler, and had the recklessness of nature that generally accompanies that vice, when a gambler is not a swindler also, and possessed of the phlegm and caution requi- site for the double character. Mr. Lisle was *' indifferent honest," as men are counted in a world which does not hold the thirst for unearned money to be dishonest, and living for pleasure to be unmanly. Hitherto, he had not had any higher aspirations, and, though he had sometimes been forced to pay the cost of his pursuits, he had never counted it. To shut his eyes to consequences was easy and natural to him, and he shut them now, when he was about to play a game on which was staked all the future of a beautiful and innocent girl. But he was in love with the girl, and that was the chief fact of the case in his eyes^ — the interest to which every other must give way. If lie lost her he would be in despair; by this he meant that he should feel uncomfort- TRUST ME FOR ALL IN ALL. 223 able, savage, and bored for a short time. And he had the best reason for knowins; that, if she were left with the Townley Gores, she must be lost to him. He had never in- tended this ; but when had he ever intend- ed any of the foolish things he had done before this ? He had seen her but twice when he reminded himself that he could not marry her, and his only idea had been to indulge in the sight of a pretty face — an amusement to which he was always partial — and to lay up materials for the satisfaction of a certain private grudge. The coinci- dence of Mrs. Stephenson's letters, to whicli Helen frequently and gratefully recurred, was not stranger than that one of which she knew nothing— the coincidence by which Helen enabled him to satisfy a grudge. But he had taken no account of his passions or his recklessness, and they scattered his feeble and only "half bad" intentions like chaff before the wind. A few davs later, and he was what he 224 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. called " madly in love " with the beautiful girl who believed in him so implicitly ; and he was not misled by vanity, of which he had his full share, when he perceived that she loved him. Then everything was for- gotten, flung aside, except the passion of the moment — love, and the passion that was permanent — play. Unhappily the one came to the help of the other. Frank Lisle had had good reason to knit his brows over his note-book, on the day when Helen's destiny threw her in his way, he had seldom been in what he called '' a deeper hole " than at that moment ; but from that moment the luck turned, and, with such safety as a gambler can ever be said to have, he was at present safe. The exhilaration of success rendered him more charming, more irresistible than ever. The poor child's absolute belief in him, her ro- mantic notion of him as a genius struggling with difficulty, and, maybe, with envy, pleased this young man of elastic conscience TRUST ME FOR ALL IN ALL. 225 as if it had been founded on fact. She, too, would be wretched if they were parted. Who could tell what the chances of the fu- ture might bring about? And so the die was cast. Mr. Lisle had changed his mind on more than one point of his former meditation. Not only did he relinquish the safety tliat he had declared to himself resided in the conviction that his marrying Helen would mean irretrievable ruin, but he ceased to believe that, if he could and did marry her, he should of course be sorry for it. And now, after he had recklessly declared his love, and won from her a confession of her own, and a consent to a secret en- gagement, there had come the letter about Helen's money, and removed the great ob- stacle between them. He knew the people she had to deal with. If he managed it cleverly, they would not interfere, having no bonds of sheer businesslike honour to VOL. I. Q 226 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. her, and he would put all his mind to man- aging it cleverly. As Frank Lisle walked towards Neuilly, he was as busy with details of contrivance as a fabricator of plays who has an order for an adaptation in a hurry, and the reckless plea- sure of the scheme minejled with and en- hanced the elation of his triumph. If all, not only in the immediate present, but in the future, went well with him, his imagination pictured a day of surprise and revenge of the quiet and sarcastic kind that suited his humour. Did he then mean to make Helen his wife ? He believed that he meant to do so, if cer- tain possibilities which were ahead of him just then should become realities; if they did not— why, then, at the worst, Helen should always be well-cared for, and she could not fail to be far happier than she was in her present position. 227 CHAPTER XIII. MON DIEU ! MADEMOISELLE ! 11 IR. HORNDEAN was worse ; the im- XT-L provement that had taken place so conveniently for Mrs. Townley Gore proved to be only temporary. In the course of the very day on which Helen had consented to place all her future life in the power of Frank Lisle, a letter from the housekeeper at Horndean conveyed the news^of Mr.Horn- dean's relapse into a condition which ren- dered it advisable for Mrs. Townley Gore to see him without delay. *' I'm afraid it is not a false alarm this time," said Mr. Townley Gore, shaking his head gravely over the letter. He was more q2 228 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. sympathising than usual, for he had just gone through a good deal of pain himself. *' You will have to start at once, Caroline, and I will follow you as soon as MacGavan will let me." " I suppose I must ; I don't like leaving you, but there's no help for it. It is very provoking ; a few days later would have made all the difference to me." '* True ; but, you see, a few days may make all the difference to him in a far more serious sense. And I shall soon get right again, now that the pain is gone. You will take Helen with you, I suppose ?" Mrs. Townley Gore particularly disliked her husband's calling his protegee by her christian name, which she herself scrupu- lously avoided using, and his doing so made her answer him with sharp emphasis. " Certainly not : I shall take only Ben- net. Miss Rhodes can come with you — she need be no trouble to you ; but I could not possibly have the charge of her. Besides, I MON DIEU ! MADEMOISELLE ! 229 shall make hardly any delay, but go on to Horndean as soon as possible." '' Then, as she would otherwise be alone in the house, it would be best," said Mr. Townley Gore, and the subject of Helen dropped. It was agreed that Mrs. Townley Gore should start on the following morning, and, without giving Helen any information as to the cause of her change of plans, she told her in the fewest possible words that she in- tended to leave Paris for London next day, and that she (Helen) was to be prepared to travel home with Mr. Townley Gore. Helen heard the first part of this commu- nication v/ith a beating heart, and a deadly dread of what was to come. Was she to be taken away in the morning, without having any means of communicating with Frank Lisle ? What should she do if this were so. She had time for no more than to feel her hands turning cold, and a peal of bells ring- ing in her ears, when Mrs. Townley Gore's 230 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. sharp words of direction came to re-assure her. ** You will be prepared, if you please, ta leave Paris on Monday evening ; if Mr. Townley Gore is well enough he intends to start for London then. You will not be in the compartment with him ; he will have a coupe for himself and Moore. You will be placed in the carriage for ' Ladies only,' and Moore will look after you at Calais." Helen did not attempt to make any an- swer; the conflict of her feelings deprived her of the power of speech. Here, several days before she expected it, that had come which she had thought of with the greatest distinctness, amidst the whirling in her brain — the last time she was to see and speak with the woman whom she so much feared, the last time her enemy was to deal with her after her own good pleasure. It was all over — the cold, sickening misery of her life^ the hopelessness, the perpetual fear, the constant effort to escape from scornful de- MON DIEU ! MADEMOISELLE ! 231 preciation, and words that cut like a whip, the bitter sense of dependence, the obliga- tion to be grateful for that against which her whole soul rose in revolt. All this was over for ever, and in its place there had come into her life, Frank ! As she stood before her tyrant, timidly, and with her hands clasped in the way that was habitual to her when she was troubled, she could not resist the terrified conviction that her secret must be read in her face by the keen, dark eyes which scanned it with a look such as Mrs. Townley Gore never let her admirers or the public see. The girl felt as if her mask had been torn off, and she stood de- tected in the presence of an implacable judge. It all passed in a minute or two, and she was briefly dismissed by Mrs. Town- ley Gore. " I am busy," she said. " You can gOj Miss Rhodes." Restraining her tears with difficult}^ Helen made her the school-girl curtsey of her Hill 232 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. House days, and left the room. Mrs. Town- ley Gore threw one glance of dark disfavour after her, and then applied herself to the settling of a number of business matters. To judge by her aspect, these were not all of a pleasant nature. There was an enclosure in the letter from Mr. Horndean's house- keeper, and this she read two or three times before she tore it up carefully. *' Whom the gods mean to destroy they first make mad/' she thought. " Is not the phrase something of that sort ? It's true of Frederick, if it was ever true. The obstin- acy of him, the ingratitude of him, are nothing in comparison with his tremendous folly." When Helen looked out of her Avindow on the following morning, she was forced to relinquish the hope of seeing Frank Lisle that day. The rain was pouring and sweep- ing, sputtering and hissing, as it only does in Paris, and the sky was sullen and black. They had made no account of such a contin- MON DIEU ! MADEMOISELLE ! 233 gency, but had been sure of their meeting, and Helen did not know what to do. It was evident that she could not go out, and Frank would have to do without news of her until the morrow. She remained in her room, listening to the stir which preceded and accompanied the departure of Mrs. Townley Gore ; but she was not sent for, and she would not have ventured, unbidden, into her presence. It was a relief not to have to say good-bye, and yet, so much of the sweetness of the girl's nature remained unspoiled, that she felt a pang of regret, as the rumble of the carriage passing under the porte-cochere reached her strained ears. The morning wore on, and still the rain continued to fall pitilessly ; the hour of the customary rendezvous came and passed ; Helen had nothing particular to do, and no one to speak to. She had seen Moore, the valet, and learned that Mr. Townley Gore was better ; and she had also learned, to her great surprise, 234 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. that he wished to see her by-and-by. This was the first effect of his wife's departure. Helen w^ould be glad to see him, but again dread seized hold of her. Would not he detect the difference in her, and suspect her of something? Once more her fears proved to be unfounded. Mr. Townley Gore had nothing particular to say to her; he had merely acted on a good-natured impulse ; and after a short interview, in which he talked of their return to London, but said nothing of the cause of his wife's preceding them, she was dismissed to amuse herself as best she could. This trifling occurrence had, however, disturbed her mind again. Whatever niight be the explanation of his strange conduct with respect to the matter of which Messrs. Simpson and Rees had in- formed her — and of course Frank Lisle, who knew everything, must knov/ best — she knew Mr. Townley Gore meant to be MON DIEU ! MADEMOISELLE ! 235 kind to her. She was distressed and un- comfortable at the idea of inflicting any distress or discomfort upon him. She could only console herself by thinking that it would not be for long; that she would write to him, and tell him that she knew how kind he had really been, and that he must not worry himself about her, for that she was perfectly happy, and at some future time he should know where and how. Helen was confident that Frank would allow her to do this ; he had not said their secret was to be always a secret. So she persuaded herself out of her doubts and misgivings, and returned to the blissful contemplation of the future which was so very near now. She had no idea what Frank's plans were ; of when or how she was to leave the house ; nor did she feel much anxiety about them. Her complete inexperience, and her habitual obedience to directions, rendered her as amenable on the actual, as her innocence and submissive- 236 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. ness of mind rendered her on the moral side of the transaction. The immediate question was, how was she to receive instructions from Frank? She could not answer it ; the best way was to trust him to do so. It was late in the afternoon, and the weather was still unchanged, when Helen descended to the lodge of the concierge, for the purpose of bestowing a collar on Zamore. The decoration was made of blue silk, knitted by her own hands. She dis- liked Devrient, and did not like his wife, but she had taken to the bis:, white, Persian cat whose perfect at-homeishness, freedom, supreme content, and easy mastery of the situation presented such a contrast to her own position. In the lodge she found Devrient ; but his wife was in the inner room, and Zamore was then taking a siesta in a blue-lined basket (blue was " his colour," Madame Devrient had on a former MON DIEU ! MADEMOISELLE ! 237 occasion explained to Helen) at the foot of her bed. To disturb Zaraore, even for the purpose of investiture, was not to be thought of for a moment, and Helen entered the inner room to deposit her testimonial by his side. While she was talking to Madame Devrient, she heard the clicking of the bell, a quick step, and a voice she knev7. It was that of Frank Lisle. He asked for Mrs. Townley Gore, and was informed that she had left Paris for London. He enquired for Mr. Townley Gore, and whether he had accompanied niadame. Being told that Mr. Townley Gore, who was still confined to his room, was unable to travel, and that mademoiselle remained with him, Mr. Lisle went away, and Helen, in profound amazement, took leave of Zamore and withdrew to her room. Frank had solved the difficulty, indeed ; but in what an extraordinary way ! It was, 238 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. after all, perfectly simple, but to Helen it seemed the height of audacity. In the evening a letter was brought to .her. She knew the handwriting on the •envelope well, although it was the first time Frank Lisle had written to her ; for the precious copies of Mrs. Stephenson's letters, enclosed in a silken cover, were -carefully placed, with her father's, in her desk. She was dining alone when the letter :arrived ; it was not easy to put it unopened into her pocket, and make-believe to finish her dinner as if this novel and amazing thing had not happened. All the time she was hoping the letter might tell her that the necessity for secrecy was at an end ; that something had happened to enable Frank Lisle to make himself known to Mr. Townley Gore without compromising his friend ; that the blessed future opening be- fore her might be cleared of the one cloud which obscured its radiance. MON DIEU ! MADEMOISELLE ! 239 But when Helen could read her lover's letter unobserved, she found she must not look for the perfection of bliss. The situa- tion remained unchanged with respect to the necessity for secrecy ; he wrote only to tell her that Mrs. Townley Gore's departure without her had greatly facilitated matters for him, and to ask her to meet him next morning at the usual place, whether the day was fine or not. " Come in a carriage," he added ; " it is nobody's business — now tliat Mrs. T. G. is gone — what you do." The next morning was fine, and Helen left the house on foot, and met Frank Lisle at the entrance to the Bois. Their interview was a long one, and the whole art of the lover was exerted to cheer and tranquillise Helen. She was only too ready to be cheered, to believe that all would be well, that henceforth she should know no sorrow, but be for ever surrounded 240 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. with the delightful atmosphere of a perfect and solicitous love. Frank Lisle looked handsome and gallant as he poured these promises and assurances into the girl's ear, and, to tell the truth of him, he believed them too. In the full tide of the new passion to which he had given unscrupulous way, and under the excite- ment of extraordinary good fortune in his favourite pursuit, he felt so elated, that he gave destiny credit for having any amount of luck of the brightest kind in store for him, and was brimful of confidence in his own good intentions, Helen listened to him with all her soul. The beauty of her face — and it had never been so beautiful in his sight — was exalted and intensified by feelings pure and ele- vated far beyond anything that it was in his mind to conceive. The child and the woman were strangely blended in the simple faith that accepted all he said as the one perfect and absolute truth that existed on the earth, MON DIEU ! MADEMOISELLE ! 241 and the exquisite smiles and blushes which gave him assurance of it. " But I must be business-like," he said at length, ''and tell you what I have done. You know that I have to leave you ; I shall return as quickly as possible, and explain all to you, and bring you, I hope and be- lieve, very good news. I have secured and arranged a home for you ; and have found a nice maid to wait on you. It is here, in Paris, or rather quite close to Paris, at Neuilly, on the borders of the Bois " — he pointed in the direction of Neuilly — '' a pretty little apartment, all freshly done up and cheerful. My darling will not have to pine for very long in her prison bower, and, by great good luck, I thought of asking the concierge whether she knew of any young woman who could wait on a lady, and it turned out that her own daughter wanted an engagement of the kind. You see I am very practical," he added, laughing, but a little uneasily, "for I remembered that you VOL. I. K 242 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. must not be installed as Mademoiselle Any- thing, and I have given myself the dear delight of anticipating the time when you are to bear my name. You will take posses- sion of your little realm as Madame Lisle." " Oh, Frank, will that be right T *' Of course, my dearest ; how should it be wrong ? It is only a matter of a very short time, and it will prevent all suspicion and unpleasantness." She made no further objection, and he continued, with many deviations into elo- quent and persuasive love-talk, to tell her how his plan was to be carried out. "I had it all settled yesterday in quite a different way, but you did not appear, and I made up my mind to call at the house." She interrupted him by telling him she knew he had called, and expressing her surprise. "There was no risk in it," he said, *'and my object was to find out whether I might MON DIEU ! MADEMOISELLE ! 243 write to 3^ou with safety, I could have clone that if I had only made quite sure of tliat woman's absence for a couple of hours ; it was beyond my hopes that she was actually gone. This changed everything. Now tell me exactly what arrangements are made for your journey." Helen told him. He listened with a triumphant smile. *' Nothing could be better," he said ; " if you will only do precisely what I dictate you will be safe in your own little home, while Mr. Townley Gore is travelling un- suspectingly to Calais." "I will do anything else you bid me," she answered, "but I cannot leave him without a word ; I must let him know that I am not really ungrateful to him, and that no harm has come to me." "Of course ycm must ; I would not think of your doing anything else," said Mr. Lisle, soothingly, "and T see our way to managing that perfectly. It shall be made all right r2 244 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. with him, and a few weeks, era few months at the farthest, will see us throusjh our troubles." It was hard for her, notwithstanding the strange, trembling excitement that had possession of her, to believe in, the exist- ence of troubles in a life to be shared with him. Before their interview terminated, Frank Lisle became convinced that he would be wise to exercise self-denial in the matter of seeing Helen before the appointed time. She was very nervous, and she might break down if much more strain was put upon her. The appointed time was the coming Monday ; this was Thursday ; he would leave her undisturbed in the interval ; she had the fullest instructions, and he had a great deal to do. In good time on the following Monday evening, Mr. Townley Gore, accompanied by Miss Rhodes, and attended by Moore, alight- ed at the Gare du Nord. Helen wore her IMON DIEU ! MADEMOISELLE ! 245 usual mourning dress, and was closely veiled. Mr. Townley Gore, always sedulously de- voted to his own ease and comfort in travel- ling, and with the additionally active selfish- ness produced by a recent fit of the gout, to stimulate his solicitude, did not trouble him- self at all about Helen. The party was not detained in the Salle d'Attente — a gra- tuity procured them that privilege — and Helen speedily found herself deposited in the compartment for ladies only, with her travelling bag and her railway-ticket, while Moore went on to the engaged coupe with his master. A few minutes later the doors were open- ed, the platform was crowded, and the bustle of departure set in. A gentleman presented himself at the carriage in which Helen was seated, and she handed him her bag ; she then stepped out, and, without looking to either side, crossed the platform and re-entered the waitinij-room. The cren- tleman took her, without any appearance of 246 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. haste, to a carriage, and they were driven away from the station. '^Take off your left hand glove," were Frank Lisle's first words to the trembling girl. She obeyed; he placed a plain gold ring on her finger, and held the hand long and closely to his lips. She was crying^ but he made no present attempt to check her tears. '* To the nearest telegraph office," had been his order to the coachman. In a few minutes the carriage stopped, and Mr. Lisle went into the office. " This is the message I have sent in your name," he said, as he resumed his place by Helen's side, having given the coachman another order: '-''For Mr. Townley GorCy passenger by the mail train for London, occupying a first-class coupe from Paris. — I am safe under the protection of my best friend. Take no trouble about me — it would be useless, my resolution is fixed. I will write after some time.' This will be MON DIEU ! MADEMOISELLE ! 247 sent to the Chef de Gare, and delivered to Mr. Townley Gore so soon as he reaches Calais, and before Moore has begun to look for you." '^My best friend!" said Helen. ''Ah, how little they will dream who that means ! When you can let me tell Jane all about it, I know she will not mind one bit their tliinking it was she who helped me." " Of course not. And you may be able to tell her sooner than we think. And now, dearest, our parting for a little while is very near. The people at our home think you are to arrive from England, and have left me there; so that I must not go with you, even for the dear delight of seeing you installed. You will find everything ready, and I shall be with you in a week. You will not fret, or be too lonely, for that time." " I shall have you to think of, and the hours to count." The carriage stopped. Frank held her 248 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. for a moment in his arms, the next he had stepped out, and she left him, with a sudden keen remembrance of that first day when he had put her into a carriage at the Louvre, and had looked after her as she was driven away. Madame Lisle was civilly received at the house at Neuilly by the concierge and his wufe. The latter conducted her to her apartment, where all the preparations for her comfort, commanded with so much care by monsieur, were made, and where madame's femme de chambre was at that moment lighting up the rooms. The wife of the concierge rang the bell at the door, and looking over the staircase to ascertain whether her husband was following with madame's travelling-bag, and calling to him to make haste, did not witness the meeting between madame and her femme de chambre. It was of a peculiar kind ; for madame, at sight of the handsome, dark-eyed girl who presented herself in a respectful attitude MON DIEU ! MADEMOISELLE ! 249 and very neat attire, turned deadly pale, and Delphine exclaimed : *' Mon Dieu ! mademoiselle !" 250 CHAPTER XIV. IRKEVOCABLE. nnHE recognition was mutual ; and the -^ confusion of Helen, caused solely by Frank Lisle's representation of the urgent necessity of secrecy, was as great as the surprise of Delphine. The French girl was equal to the occasion, and whispering, *' Mademoiselle need not agitate herself, it only I who know her," she joined her mother on the landing, and left Helen to recover herself. This was not easy ; the events of the day had overtaxed her nerves, and the vague dread with which Delphine inspired her, gave her the first conscious- ness of the momentous nature of the step IRKEVOCABLE. 251 she had taken. She sank into a chair, and put her hands before her ej^es ; the face she knew alarmed her more than any strange face could have done. She sat still while her bag was brought in, and Delphine and her mother bustled about the little apart- ment, and hardly ventured to look around her at the place which v/as now her home. What was she to say when Madame Moreau had gone away, and she was left with Delphine ? This occurred presently. There was no want of respect in Delphine's manner as she advanced to Helen, and offered to remove her bonnet and cloak ; but there was an evident expectation that she would explain. She said nothing, but Helen saw the question in her keen black e3^es. " I did not know," Helen began, timidly, " that I should find you here. I did not know where you lived. I hope you will not say to anyone that you had seen me before." 252 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. '^Mademoiselle may reckon on my dis- cretion," said Delphine, with a curious kind of smile ; " I did not, in the first moment of surprise, let my mother know ; I shall certainly not betray mademoiselle to others." " I am not mademoiselle," said Helen, and the falsehood brought a crimson blush to her cheek ; " I am Madame Lisle, and my husband is in England ; he will be here in a week." " Truly ! 1 am astonished. Then ma- dame was married all the time, and no one knew it — it must have been so. I have heard the English ladies are very romantic, and may marry of their own choice. And madame has come to her own home — and the English gentleman and lady, where are they ?" " They have gone back to England. I have nothing more to do with them." Helen had removed her gloves, and the new circlet of gold shone on her finger. The symbol was not convincing to Del- IRREVOCABLE. 256 phine, but she understood why her mistress took care that she should see it. Delphine was puzzled ; she did not doubt for a moment that the husband in England was the gentleman with the dark eyes, and the manners worthy of a Frenchman, who had made inquiry at her uncle's lodge, in the odd way that had caught her quick attention, and whom she had seen with Helen at the entrance to the Grand Court of the Louvre. Was it his wife for whom he had asked as ''Mademoiselle," on the first occasion ? Or had the marriage taken place since then, or was there any marriage at all in the case? Delphine was stirred by ardent curiosity on this point, but she could afford to wait ; she must know in time. And, meanwhile, she found herself in the very element she revelled in, that of in- trigue, and with the pleasure of deceiving her mother offered to her to begin with. The apartment was one of those marvels of economy of space which are more ingeni- 254 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. ous than pleasant on a long acquaintance ; but the very small rooms were prettily furnished. When Helen had recovered from her first surprise and alarm — and she did so with celerity natural when her own age, and that of Delphine, are con- sidered — she examined the first abode she had ever called her own in all her life, with a good deal of interest. What a nice little refuge in which to remain hidden, and as happy as she could persuade herself to feel, until Frank should come ! A vestibule, a salle-li'manger^ a salon, a bed-room, a dressing-room, a kitchen, all communicating, and all on the smallest scale compatible with being inhabited by grown-up people at all, formed Helen's little domain. In the dressing-room a bed had been put up for her maid, who told Helen that monsieur, the husband of ma- dame, had arranged that all provision was to be made by Madame Moreau, and that she would " find herself very well." Helen did IRREVOCABLE. 255 not doubt this — did not, indeed, think about it ; she was examining the furniture, and the blue velvet hangings of the little salon, and noticing the signs of a careful anticipation of her wants and wishes which the rooms presented. Books, a curiously small piano, a low jardiniere with some ferns and flowers in it, and a blue and silver box of bon-bons were among the objects that met with her especial approba- tion. Delphine observed her with close but covert attention, and some good-natured sympathy. Whether she was or was not the wife of the dark-eyed gentleman, she was a lucky young person, according to Delphine's simple code of morals and be- lief; one might be *' so well " in madame's place. The blue and silver box of bon-bons was placed on the velvet-covered shelf of the mantelpiece in the salon ; a little silver key was in the lock, and Helen did not make long delay in resorting to it. The raised 256 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. lid displayed a noble provision of marrons glaces, and a letter, addressed to ''Madame Lisle." Again blushing deeply, this time at the written falsehood, Helen broke the seal, and found a little packet enclosed in the following note, which she eagerly read :. '' I hope you will like your nest, dearest, and be quite comfortable and not too lonely until I come. Madame Moreau has prom- ised all sorts of care and attention to my darling girl, and you must let her get you everything you want or fancy. Of course all your belongings, except what you will have taken the precaution to put into your bag, will have gone on with the other lug- gage to London, and you will need several things. But you had better let Madame Moreau or her daughter order them for you (I did not see the girl, but hope she will suit you), for you ought not to be seen about Paris, even in a carriage. You will find a pocket-book, containing a slice out of our worldly wealth, in the drawer of the IRREVOCABLE 257 writing-table. The enclosed is the key. Don't be economical — it is only a small slice — and forgive me for being so practical. One of us must be practical, you know, and I do not think my queen lily is to be that one. Try to amuse yourself, and do not be dull, until I come. It is only a week's waiting, sweet one, and we shall meet, never to part again. I shall write to you, of course ; but, although I have never yet had a line from your dear hand, I will not ask you to write to me. I shall be moving about constantly, and hardly at all at my rooms in London. I say this now, lest in the hurry of our parting this evening 1 should not remember to explain it to you." The letter ended with fervent and very prettily-worded protestations of love as unchanging as it was unequalled, and, be- fore she had read it to the end, the pain and confusion caused by the first part of it were dispelled, and Helen was able to enjoy it almost as much as a girl ought to VOL. I. s 258 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. enjoy her first love-letter, in the ordinary security of a girl's life. She had not thought about her depen- dence on Frank for money. The small sum in her purse, which was all that she possessed, would have sufficed for her wants . for only a short time, on a very humble scale ; but her notions about that had been very vague and transitory. It was quite true she was not practical. But how won- derfully kind and considerate Frank was, and how earnestly she would try to deserve his love, to make him happy, and to be- come " practical." She would not spend his money until she was his wife ; not even though she vexed him by refraining from doing so. She would be married in her black gown. What could it matter, when there would be no one to see ? And, in- deed, if the only persons who knew her were to continue to believe that she was already married, they must not see wed- ding clothes, in preparation. Poor Helen IRREVOCABLE. 259 smiled complacently at her own cleverness in thinking of this point, and Frank's care- lessness in overlooking it ; and then she put the precious letter away in the drawer ■where the pocket-book lay, for Delphine was in the rooni, and she thought — with another smile at a fresh instance of her cleverness — that to place that letter in her bosom, as she would have liked to do, Avould not be a sober, matter-of-course, wife-like proceeding. " Now, if that was only written in French," Delphine had been thinking, while Helen read and re-read it, all unconscious of the avidity to be seen in her face, " I might easily find out the truth, without waiting for a week to know it." Helen still adhered to her school-girl habit of early rising, and she was astir be- times on the following day. She was too young to be sleepless, whatever might betide; benignant slumber had come to her easily, but with the morning there came s2 260 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. «ome troubled thoughts. She wondered how Mr. Townley Gore had taken the news of her flight; she wondered whether it would annoy Frank Lisle very much to find that Delphine knew her, and she feared the week would be very hard to get through. Towards the possibility of an extension of Frank's absence she would not allow herself to glance. Helen rose, dressed herself noiselessly, and was seated by the window of her little salon, busy with some needlework, and busier with her own thoughts, before Delphine made her ap- pearance, bringing the morning coffee and brioche. Frank had started on his journey before this hour; he would be in London to-night. The week had befrun. She did not know ^ t the nature of the business which had called him away. Something about pictures, no doubt. She hoped it might imply another " stroke of luck," whatever that might mean. IRREVOCABLE. 261 Helen's mood was thoughtful, but fur from unhappy, on this, the first morning of an entirely new life, one of peril of which she had not the slightest comprehension ; and although she put the past away from her with a feeling of pain, and shrank^ with a vague timidity, from imagining the future in any detail, there was a charm to her heart and her fancy in the present, and she looked serenely beautiful under its influence. "She is singing canticles," said Delphine to herself, pausing in the arrangement of Helen's bed-room to listen to the pure young voice uplifted in the familiar music of a hymn learned at the Hill House. " I think she must be married, for my uncle Dev- rient says those English people are quite good when they are good at all ; and she would not sing hymns if she was not good at all." The first day of Helen's new life passed away. It had not been dull or oppressive, 262 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. though there were moments in it when she longed exceedingly to be free to communi- cate with Jane Merrick, to tell her the good news, the wonder which her happy destiny had wrought for her, and to receive Jane's counsel and congratulation. That good time would come soon ; it was but waiting for a little. Madame Moreau kept the engagement for which Frank Lisle had given her earnest of liberal payment; all Helen's wants were supplied, all her comforts were attended to. Amonej other thousjhts that came to her during the day, were some that almost frightened her, by making her feel as if she had somehow or other been transformed into another person. They were the re- membrance of how short a time it was since she had first seen Frank, how sud- denly, by what a mere accident, he had come into her life, and changed it, himself becoming all its motive and its meaning, she could not tell how. It seemed almost IRREVOCABLE. 263 terrifying to be a creature to whom such a strange thing could happen, for whom one phase of existence might close, and another phase, in which everything was new, open, so 'suddenl}^ Only that love was the one supreme good, and love was hers, and so everything was stable and secure, she might have been possessed by dread of a world in which such change could be, and human beings seem the mere playthings of chance. Helen had read of travellers, attracted by irresistible curiosit}^ to look down into some awful caijon in the vast American country, and crawling backward from the edge of the terrific rift, with its vaporous gloom, and dark rush of water at a hide- ous depth below, sick, giddy, and helpless. There was something in her own mind akin to the physical impression made upon them. She kept it away from her, but it was there ; if she looked that way the terror and the giddiness would come. She must not look 264 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. that way. Frank Lisle loved her, had rescued her from dependence and misery, would be with her, to make her his wife, in a week. Those were the blessed truths she had to think about, and she would think of nothing else. She would be practical, and not dreamy; and so she filled the hours with occupation. She practised the most diflScult music she knew, she worked, she read, she talked to Delphine on safe and general subjects, and Avhen the night came, she fell asleep with the hope before her of a letter from Frank Lisle on the morrow. He had not told her that he would write from some point of his journey, but he knew so well that in reality she would have nothing but his letters to live on, that he would be sure to write to her, bidding her to be of good cheer because he loved her. The morning came, and Helen again rose early ; but this time she found it difficult to settle to any employment ; she was at IRREVOCABLE. 265 that weary work of watching for the post that most of us know. When Delphine brought her coffee, she asked whether the facteur had passed, and, being told that lie had, she asked whether letters from England w^ere delivered later at Neuilly than inside Paris. There was ver}^ little difference, Delphine said ; but at any rate that morning's mail had been delivered, madame could have no letters now until evening. There Avas nothing for it then except to wish for the evening, and Helen set about doing so ; but later a happy thought struck her, and cured her disap- pointment. Frank had not written from any point of his journey short of the other side, because a French postmark might have been observed. Of course, that was his reason ; his letter from London would ar- rive to-night. Helen's spirits rallied with this fortunate reflection, and she got through the second day as pleasantly as she had pas- sed the first. It was a dismal day, heavy,. 266 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. ceaseless, chilling rain fell from morning until night, and there was no getting out of doors. In the evening Delphine remarked that madame was looking pale, and that her fine colour would suffer if she was shut up too much. The observation chased Helen's paleness away ; she was again at the work of watching the post. But her watching v/as in vain ; no letter from Frank Lisle reached her on that evening either. Sleep did not knit up the ravelled sleave of Helen's care so deftly and so rapidly that night; but it came at last, and refreshed her for the morrow, which must surely bring her the longed-for letter. It is useless to dwell on this epoch of the story of Helen Rhodes ; for the record would have only a wearisome sameness ; the dreary monotony of disappointment, the deadly suggestion of alarm. The week of waiting went over her head somehow, but the silence remained unbroken ; not one word, not one token of Frank Lisle's IRREVOCABLE. 267 existence reached the homeless, friendless, defenceless girl who had trusted him '' for all in all." 268 CHAPTER XV. BEATRIX CHEVENIX. "PROFESSIONAL beautyism had not -■- been invented — or rather, the calling had not been revived, for it has existed at previous epochs of our social history — at the time when Mrs. Townley Gore's young friend Miss Chevenix was in the full enjoy- ment of that lady's favour. Society had not entered on its latest phase of vulgarity and affectation, so that Miss Chevenix might possibly be held to have come out a little too soon. A very few seasons later, and her portrait, " this style one shilling," might have figured in the shop-windows, in every variety of attitude and costume ; she BEATRIX CHEVENIX. 269 might have been pointed out to country cousins as coolly as the Monument ; rushed after in picture-galleries or at bazaars with the coarse and resolute curiosity of which only English crowds are capable ; employed by fashionable parsons as a decoy for the moneyed multitude who are not to be in- duced to disburse by mere motives of Christian charity ; and set up as the goddess of unreason by a clique of affected nincom- poops. She was quite sufficiently handsome to have incurred all these humiliations, had the time been ripe for its most recent un- Avholesorae growth ; and she would not have been protected by a position so fixed and unassailable, as to render impossible a kind of insolent appraisement, as loathsome to high-minded women, and the men to whom their dignity is dear, as the comments and the bargains of the Babylonian Marriage- market. Miss Chevenix was not a member of a great family, parted by the impassable gulf of prestige from social impertinences; 270 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. she was only the daughter of a man of popular manners, no particular history or connections, and fortune presumably good, since no one ever heard anything to the contrary, and he did things that other people of good fortune did. Mr. Chevenix and his daughter lived in a very pretty and pleasant house in May- fair, and were models of the paternal and filial relations, as these are regarded by the world which lives for its pleasures and for appearances. They never bored each other, the}^ were always smilingly pleased with each other; if there was anybody in the world for whom Mr. Chevenix cared even a little, that person was his daughter Bea- trix ; but then the "if" implied in this instance almost all an if can imply of the doubtful and debatable. There was no re- semblance between the two ; Mr. Chevenix was a good-looking man, with a quiet, well- bred air, and something of the manner that used to be called military, but which is no BEATRIX CHEA^ENIX. 271 longer characteristic of '' the Service ;" but it was not from him that his dauojhter Beatrix inherited her grand and imposing style of beauty. This had come to her from her mother, dead long ago, and whom she hardly remembered. As she stood trimming and watering the flowers in the balcony green-house of her drawing-room one fine spring morning, a few weeks after the return of Mrs. Townley Gore to London, Miss Chevenix presented a picture which few could have failed to admire. She was above the middle height, and of the full and florid order of beauty; health, strength, activity, and vitality were expressed in her large and symmetrical form, and in the colouring of her almost faultless face. Her complexion could defy any light ; it had no imperfections to con- ceal ; the skin, with its underlying carna- tion tints, was as smooth as a magnolia blossom, and tlie deeper colour of the lips 272 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. and cheeks was never too deep. A finel}^- modelled mouth and chin ; well-shaped eyes, of an indefinite colour, with a slightly fur- tive but very intelligent look in them ; a low, smooth, white forehead ; and a soft, shining diadem of red hair — the true gold- flecked red, that is as beautiful as it is rare — worn in rich plaits all round her head, and curlinoj in little rin^s at the back of her neck, made up the details of a portrait which will probably be as unsatisfactory as almost every written description of a fair woman is. There were many whom the beauty of Beatrix Chevenix moved to enthusiasm ; there were others whom it failed to touch, who thought the luminous, golden-lashed eyes as cold as they were bright, and their lack of colour a defect, and who said that the richly-tinted mouth had no feeling and no sweetness in its curves. There were even persons — hard to please in point of expression — who described her face as deceitful, and to whom her per- BEATRIX CHP^VENIX. 273 feet aplomb, and a eertain finish of look and manner which we do not readily associate with girlhood, were not attractive. These critics were, however, in a despicable mi- nority, and they troubled not at all the pleasantly triumphant course of Miss Che- venix's life in London and elsewhere. To that triumphant course there was but one drawback. It had lasted too long ; and it is of this Miss Chevenix is thinking, as her gloved hands move deftly, and her gardening scissors are employed with skill among the leaves and blossoms. Her beauty is in all its freshness ; her vigorous health and happily unsensitive nature have preserved her from that fast fading whicli is the severest and generally the surest penalty of a life of excitement, amusement, and emulation. Only persons with a vicious- ly accurate memory for those chronological facts which their neighbours would like them to forget remembered that Miss Chevenix was twenty-five. She had self- VOL. I. T 274 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. . possession such as many women do not acquire in all their lives, but she did not look more than twenty, and that was con- solator}^ in the face of the fact that she was still Miss Chevenix. Those persons who could have told the pretty girls, half a dozen years younger than Miss Chevenix, butwho had no chance against her grand and self-asserting charms, that she had reached so dangerous a stage of the career of a beauty, were few. Mr. Chevenix was a pleasant-mannered man ; but, if a general meeting of his acquaint- ances had been called to discuss all the information they had ever derived concern- ing his history and his affairs, either from himself or others, the unanimous feeling would have been surprise at the small amount that each could have contributed to the total. That he and his wife had not '* hit it off," and had therefore wisely agreed to differ apart instead of in company, and that the only child had remained with the BEATRIX CHP]VENIX. 275 •mother until Mrs. Chevenix's death, and had then been educated at a Paris boarding- school until she Avas old enough to be sent home to her father, was as much as anybody knew. The point which had been judi- ciously kept dark was the precise period at which Mr. Chevenix considered his dauojhter "old enough" to be brought home. As a matter of fact, although he had ultimately sacrificed himself with a good grace, and presented to the world an unimpeachable exterior, in the parental character he had postponed the bhssful period of reunion to the latest moment consistent with decency, and yielded only to an uncompromising declaration on the part of his daughter that she would not stay at school any longer. This was backed by the head of tlie establishment by a politely but firmly con- veyed intimation that he must relieve her of the charge of the young lady without further delay. Upon the explanations that ensued be- T 2 276 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. tween the father and daughter it would be neither profitable nor pleasant to enter. Two conditions impressed themselves with- peculiar clearness upon the mind of Bea- trix. The first was that she w^as never in any way, by protest, opposition, or even- comment, to interfere with her father's selection of persons to be admitted to asso- ciation w^ith herself; the second, that she was not to neglect any favourable oppor- tunity that might offer of making an advan- tageous marriage. She had not been fulh^ enlightened as to the expediency, not to say necessity, of the latter clause in the contract, but enough had been said to make her uncomfortably convinced that there was something unstable in their position,, and reasonably desirous to rectify it so far as she herself was concerned. Neither romance nor sentiment had a place in the mutual relations of these two persons ; but they became, and liad hitherto remained^ very good friends, and nothing had oc- BEATRIX CHEVENIX. 277 curred to justify the apprehension that some danger was hidden in her father's future which Beatrix had felt. With really wonderful tact and celerity, the- handsome girl, who spoke French per- fectly, and sang as few singers who have got their musical training exclusively in Paris ever do sing, made friends for herself. If Mr. Chevenix had friends and associates on whose account he was obliged to make the stipulation which was faithfully adhered to by Beatrix, he also had some unexcep- tionable social relations, and by those his daughter profited. There really was very little acting, very slight pretence in the fond-fatherly, and devoted-daughterly, de- meanour which the two assumed, but never over-did, and, if they occasionally laid it aside in private, it was deposed only in favour of a thorouah-2;oinii; camaraderie that amused them. Mr. Chevenix paid the fullest compliment within his compass to the superior abilities 278 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. of his daughter, when he remarked to him- self, after he had made such an explanation of his views and intentions as he thought proper, that if he had known she was so sharp and sensible he would have brought her home two or three years sooner. Those two or three years had, however, been irre- vocably lost ; and since then nearly five years had elapsed, during which Beatrix had bloomed in undimmed and continuous beauty, and had never given him any cause for complaint. Those years had not, how- ever, seen her " settled " in the estate ma- trimonial, into which numbers of girls, not endowed with a hundredth part of her beauty, had passed without the least trouble to themselves or their parents. The routine of the season, an annual suc- cession of country-house visiting, the doing of all the things that the world does with the air of a solemn obligation, the business of pleasure carried on with a purpose as serious as if it were really worthy of beings at once- BEATRIX CHEVENIX. 279 rational and immortal, had all failed of the object which Miss Chevenix had as clearly in her mind as any manoeuvring mother, and she was again growing apprehensive of the future. She had not been admitted by her father to full knowledge of his affairs, but she was aware that he was deeply in debt, and she had seen recent signs and tokens, which she was too intelligent to misinterpret, that he was not so indifferent to the fact as he had formerly been. Her personal comfort was not yet in any way impaired or affected, but there was no saying how soon it might be ; altogether she was oppressed by a sense of uneasiness, something like a presentiment of coming change and disaster. Mr. Chevenix had now been away from home for some days, and Beatrix observed that a formidable pile of letters of the aspect which she had learned to associate with requests for payment of moneys, had accumulated in that time. The house, very well ordered and tasteful 280 THE QUESTION OF CAIN. in all its appointments, was pleasant to see on that bright spring morning, when the life of the London season was beginning to stir briskly, and the beauty of the earth was dis- closing itself even in towny Mayfair. Spring was abroad in the air, spring flowers were in the balconies, and carts laden with those bright but deceptive floral treasures on which one wastes money consciously but irresistibly, were making their tempting progress through the streets. Beatrix was too strong and healthy to be lazy ; she could be among the latest at a late party, and ap- pear punctually at breakfast the next day, and, as it was her way to enjoy all that was enjoyable, she made much of the spring mornings. But on this particular spring morning she felt dull and out of sorts : if her father had been at home she would have cheered herself up by a walk in the park ; as it was, when she should have trim- med and watered her flowers, she did not know what she was to do until the afternoon BEATRIX CHEVENIX. 281 when one of her numerons friends would take her for the invariable drive. She was not in a mood for sinmns^; she had sun^her very best last night at Lady Darnell's, and Sir 'Henry had availed himself of the op- portunity to escape into the next room and talk into the ear of that pale-faced insignifi- cant little Miss HyJton, who did not know one tune from another. His mother, too, had made quite a fuss about the girl, and, al- though she had been very polite to Bea- trix, it was in a different way, almost as she might have been to a professional singer. Did Lady Darnell, she wondered, think her too handsome, and that she sang too well? The supposition had its flattering side, but it also had its vexatious side, and it was on the latter that Beatrix felt inclined to dwell just then. Sir Henry Darnell had paid her great attention when they met at a country house in Leicestershire in the winter, and though he was decidedly ugly, and not very wise, he was gentlemanly, and kind, and 2