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DEAR   FAUSTINA 


DEAR    FAUSTINA 


BY 

RHODA    BROUGHTON 

AUTHOR   OF    'good-bye,    SWEETHEART  !'    '  NANCY,'    ETC. 


LONDON 

RICHARD     BENTLEY     AND     SON 

^uhii&hexsi  in  (JDrbtnaria  to  "^zx  ^aj^stg  tht  (S^mtn 

1897 

[A//  rights  reservedl 


65^ 

3 

D4 

tl 

\Z<^1     . 

DEAR    FAUSTINA 


CHAPTER  I. 

'  Tears  /' 

The  accent  with  which  this  monosyllable 
is  uttered,  though  tempered  with  leniency,  is 
undoubtedly  one  of  reproach.  The  person 
to  whom  it  is  addressed  recognizes  it  as  such, 
and,  though  it  has  not  at  once  a  quite  drying 
effect  upon  her,  yet  it  is  in  a  voice  of  indis- 
tinct apology  that  she  proffers  her  excuse. 

'  I  do  not  think  I  am  much  of  a  cryer  ; 
you  have  never  seen  me  cry  before.' 

'  Why  do  I  see  you  cry  now  ?' 

The  reproacher  and   reproached  are  both 

I 


DEAR  FAUSTINA 


feminine,  the  superiority  in  years  lying  with 
the  former,  in  comeliness  with  the  latter. 

*  Is  not  it  allowable,  or  at  least  excusable, 
at  such  a  crisis  in  my  life  ?' 

But  her  tone  is  deferential,  and  her  moist 
square  of  cambric — she  has  very  nice  pocket- 
handkerchiefs — slides  back  into  her  pocket. 

'  I  could  not  bear  you  to  spoil  your  eyes 
by  crying,  even  if  there  were  cause  ;  and 
there  is  none.' 

The  elder  girl  has  sat  down  by  her  young 
friend,  and  is  speaking  in  that  tone  of  pas- 
sionate caressingness  which  used  to  belong 
to  Love,  but  which  female  friendship  has 
lately  stolen  from  his  quiver. 

'  It  is  very  dear  of  you  to  mind  about  my 
eyes ' — gratefully. 

'As  Mme.  de  Sevigne  said  to  Mme.  de 
Grignan  *'Jai  mal  a  votre  poitrine,"  so  I 
can  say,  •' J'ai  mal  a  vos  yeux."  ' 

'Thank  you  very  much.' 

'And    you    are    dimming   and  reddening 


DEAR  FAUSTINA 


them  ' — with  a  fond  inspection — '  for  abso- 
lutely no  reason.' 

'  Ah,  there  we  must  differ/ 

*  In  my  opinion,  so  far  from  having  cause 
for  tears,  you  have  every  reason  for  doing 
the  other  thing.' 

'  For  laughing  ?' 

*Yes.' 

'  For  laughing  because  my  dear,  kind  old 
father  is  dead  ?' 

'  The  edge  of  that  loss  is  blunted  by  six 
months.     You  are  not  crying  for  him.' 

'  Because  my  home  is  broken  up,  then  ?' 
Because  I  see  my  sister  drifting  away  from 
me  ?  Because  my  future  is  chaotic  ?  No, 
dear  Faustina ' — wiping  furtively  away  one 
more  water-drop — '  it  is  only  your  loving 
wish  to  comfort  me  that  could  make  you 
support  such  a  paradox.' 

'  I  would  perjure  myself  pretty  freely  with 
that  object,  I  own  ;  but  in  this  case  there  is 
no  need — the  break-up  of  your  home  is  in- 


DEAR  FAUSTINA 


dispensable  to  your  mental  development. 
As  long  as  your  father's  rdgime  lasted  you 
were  like  an  oak  in  a  flower-pot  ;  sooner  or 
later  the  pot  must  have  cracked.' 

Althea — for  that  is  her  name — shakes  her 
head. 

'  He  had  the  limitations,  and  perhaps  a 
few  of  the  prejudices,  of  his  date  ;  but ' — her 
voice  slightly  quivering — '  I  was  very,  very 
happy  with  him.' 

At  the  small  break  in  her  speech,  indi- 
cating the  depth  and  sincerity  of  her  regret 
for  the  departed  Philistine,  Faustina  feelingly 
presses  her  hand,  and  deems  it  judicious  to 
pass  on  to  a  branch  of  the  subject  on  which 
she  may  feel  herself  on  firmer  ground. 

'  As  to  your  sister  drifting  away  from  you, 
it  was  in  the  nature  of  things  that  she  should. 
"Can  two  walk  together,  except  they  be 
agreed  ?"  as  your  fine  old  Book  says.' 

It  is  needless  to  state  that  Miss  Faustina  is 
an  Agnostic,   but,    considerable   as   are    the 


DEAR  FAUSTINA 


Strides  made  under  her  auspices  by  her  pupil 
in  the  new  path,  she  can  never  hear  without  a 
wince  her  Mentor's  condescending  patronage, 
*  as  an  interesting  collection  of  archaic  literary 
documents,'  of  the  Holy  Scriptures. 

'  We  used  to  aoree  as  well  as  most  sisters 
in  the  old  days,'  she  rejoins  regretfully. 
'  Since  my  father's  death — since  Clare's  en- 
gagement— subjects  of  difference  seem  to 
have  sprung  up  between  us.  There  are 
some  topics  on  which  there  is  no  use  pre- 
tending that  we  think  alike.' 

'  Your  humble  servant,  for  instance  ?' — with 
a  smile. 

Althea's  silence  may  perhaps  be  taken  for 
an  assent  to  this  query,  or  perhaps  may  be 
due  merely  to  the  preoccupation  with  which 
her  own  memory  is  pursuing  the  history  of 
the  family  dissensions. 

'  Though  we  were  not  alike  in  our  natures, 
we  were  very  much  at  one  in  many  of  our 
opinions,  in  our  complete  want  of  sympathy 


DEAR  FAUSTINA 


with  all  my  mother's  methods,  in  our  indig- 
nation at  the  way  in  which  she  tried  to  ride 
roughshod  over  my  father's  wishes.' 
'  She  did  not  succeed  ' — rather  dryly. 

*  No,  because  his  nature  was  too  strong 
a  one  ;  but  now  that  the  check  of  his  firm 
hand  is  removed,  I  dread  to  think  what  eccen- 
tricities she  may  run  into  !' 

She  breaks  off  as  if  the  subject  were  too 
painful  a  one  to  bear  further  pursuing. 

There  is  a  silence. 

'  We  agreed  so  perfectly  in  our  dislike  of 
the  type  of  mother's  friends — I  mean  Clare 
and  I  did.  It  seems  incredible  now,  but 
how  I  dreaded  ^6>/^r  coming  !' 

Faustina  smiles. 

'  It  did  not  require  a  conjurer  to  discover 
that.  No,  darling,  do  not  look  pained  ;  I 
intended  no  reproach  ;  and  we  have  changed 
all  that ' — with  a  hand-pressure. 

*  It  seems  so  ungrateful,  looking  back,  to 
think    how   I    disliked   you  all   through  that 


DEAR  FAUSTINA 


first  visit ;  how  I  misjudged  your  views,  and 
disbelieved  in  your  aspirations,  and  hated 
your  short  hair  parted  on  one  side.  Even 
now' — hesitatingly — 'I  rather  regret  that 
your  example  induced  mother  to  adopt  the 
same  style  of  hairdressing.' 

*  It  may  have  been  my  example  ;  it  cer- 
tainly was  not  my  precept.' 

'  If  it  had  not  been  for  my  father's  death, 
and  your  extraordinary  and  most  unex- 
pected sympathy  and  kindness  to  me  at  the 
time  and  afterwards,  I  dare  say  we  might 
never  have  been  drawn  together.  Oh,  but 
you  we7^e  kind  !' — her  eyes  filling. 

'  There  is  no  question  of  kindness  where 
one  loves.' 

A  short  pause. 

'  If  there  were  anything  settled  as  to  my 
future,'  resumes  the  younger  girl  presently, 
*  whatever  it  might  be,  I  hope  I  should  be 
able  to  make  up  my  mind  to  it  ;  but  though 
it    is    six   months    since  dear  father's  death, 


DEAR  FAUSTINA 


mother  has   as   yet  given  no    indication    of 
what  plans  she  has  formed  for  us.' 

'  No  indication  ?' — lifting  her  eyebrows. 

*  Well,  no  doubt  that  is  the  wrong  word  to 
use  ;  of  course,  one  can  see  in  what  direction 
her  bent  lies.  But  I  do  not  quite  under- 
stand how  that  is  to  be  combined  with  form- 
ing a  home  for  her  children.' 

'  Perhaps  that  does  not  enter  into  her 
scheme.' 

'  Do  you  mean ' — her  eyes  opening  wide, 
as  if  this  idea,  presented  for  the  first  time, 
had  something  scaring  in  it — '  that  she  means 
to  turn  us  adrift  ?' 

*  You  are  all  pretty  well  full-fledged  ;  I  see 
no  great  kindness  in  keeping  well  -  grown 
young  birds  in  a  nest  too  small  for  them.' 

Then,  as  the  novelty  of  the  idea,  too  new 
as  yet  to  take  any  of  the  pleasant  colouring 
conveyed  by  her  friend's  tone,  keeps  Althea 
silent,  she  goes  on  : 

•Clara   has    turned,  or  is    turning,  herself 


DEAR  FAUSTINA 


out.  Your  brothers,  with  their  embryo  pro- 
fessions, are  hovering  on  the  very  edge. 
Fanny,  though  her  wing- feathers  may  not  be 
quite  grown,  will  very  soon  be  fit  to  fly.' 

'  Fanny  is  only  seventeen.' 

'  Oh,  there  is  no  cause  of  fear  for  Fanny,' 
with  vague  indifference. 

'And  I — I  am  certainly  quite  full-fledged, 
but  I  should  be  glad  to  have  some  idea ' — with 
a  slight  return  of  unsteadiness  in  the  voice — 
'  in  what  direction  my  first  flight  is  to  be  made.' 

'  Can  you  have  any  doubt  upon  that  head  ?' 

That  some  affectionate  reproach  is  meant 
to  be  conveyed  by  the  question  is  plain  from 
the  speaker's  manner,  but  Althea  is  too  pre- 
occupied to  observe  it. 

'  I  think  that  mother  must  have  made  up 
her  mind — must  have  some  proposal  to  make 
to  us,  or  some  ultimatum  to  convey — by  the 
gravity  with  which  she  asked  us  all  to  meet 
her  in  the  library  at  four  o'clock.' 

'  It  is  nearly  that  now,  isn't  it  ?' 


lo  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

'  I  can't  tell  you  with  what  vague  and  yet 
strong  dread  I  look  forward  to  her  announce- 
ment. I  have  tried  to  face  every  possible 
contingency,  and  yet '    She  breaks  off. 

*  Tell  me  ' — with  lenient  indulgence,  as  to  a 
sick  child — *  a  few  of  the  bugbears  you  have 
conjured  up.  I  am  not  at  all  afraid  of  not 
being  able  to  lay  them.' 

'  There  is  not  time,'  with  a  feverish  glance 
clockwards  ;  *  and  it  would  not  be  worth 
while,  as  we  shall  so  soon  know  the  worst.' 

'  Still,  it  might  ease  your  heart  a  little.' 

*  Though  you  say  that  I  have  outgrown 
her — and  perhaps  in  some  ways  I  have, 
thanks  to  you  ' — gratefully — '  yet  I  shall 
miss  Clare  dreadfully  when  we  are  virtually 
tHe-a-tke — mother  and  I  ;  for  the  boys  will 
be,  of  course,  away,  and  Fanny  is  too  young 
and  unformed  to  count  much.  I  fear  that 
the  radical  discrepancies  between  all  our 
tastes  and  feelings  will  come  out  terribly 
strong.     I  do  not  think  It  can  be  quite  our 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  ii 

fault,  but  we  have  none  of  us  ever  been  able 
to  get  near  mother.' 

'  She  ought  never  to  have  married,'  replies 
Faustina  gravely  ;  '  that  was  the  root-mistake 
of  her  life,  as  it  has  been  of  so  many  millions 
of  other  women.  Now  that  she  has  regained 
the  use  of  her  wings — my  dear,  do  not  look 
hurt  ;  I  am  only  putting  the  state  of  the  case 
before  you  from  Aer  point  of  view — it  remains 
to  be  seen  to  what  point  of  the  compass  she 
will  fly.' 

'  And  shall  I  have  to  fly  with  her  ?'  rejoins 
Althea,  with  a  disconsolate  intonation.  'Ah, 
there  is  the  clock  striking  !  Do  not  let  us 
be  a  minute  late  !' — seizing  the  hand  of  her 
friend  and  pulling  her  towards  the  door. 

As  they  hurry  down  the  stairs,  Faustina 
Bateson  and  Miss  Althea  Vane  meet  the 
other  members  of  the  latter's  family,  all  with 
equal  haste  converging  to  the  rendezvous. 
Apparently  all  are  as  anxious  as  herself  to 
learn  their  destiny.     Of  the  two  boys  who, 


DEAR  FAUSTINA 


with  the  superior  speed  of  longer  legs,  pass 
them  on  an  upper  landing,  one  goes  by  them 
without  notice.  The  other,  and  younger, 
essays  a  trifling  schoolboy  pinch  on  his 
sister.  Of  the  two  girls,  who  also  emerge 
from  upper  chambers,  the  taller  and  maturer 
half  holds  out  her  hand,  as  if  encouragingly, 
to  Althea,  but,  seeing  her  fingers  already 
possessed  by  Faustina,  drops  it  quickly. 

As  they  reach  the  door  of  the  library 
Faustina  pauses. 

'  Had  not  I  better  leave  you  here,  darling  } 
This  is  a  purely  family  matter' — offering  to 
loosen  her  clasp. 

'  No,  oh  no  ;  come  with  me  !  I  shall  want 
you  to  give  me  courage.' 

They  follow  the  others,  already  seating 
themselves  on  chairs  set  in  a  row  as  if  for 
family  prayers,  though  Mrs.  Vane  would 
have  scorned  the  simile.  The  library  is  a 
good-sized  room — for  London  a  large  one — 
dark  with  the  books  that  climb  the  walls  to 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  13 

the  celling,  with  the  dusk  of  the  eighteenth 
century  wainscot  and  doors,  and  with  the 
habitual  sombreness  of  a  back  look-out.  The 
books  are  for  the  most  part  old — obviously 
the  accumulations  of  respectable  generations 
— but  the  litter  that  covers  the  largre  writino- 
table  is  as  obviously  new  :  reports,  schedules, 
books  of  reference,  type-written  letters, 
Socialist  journals.  At  this  table  is  seated  a 
lady,  who,  as  soon  as  her  ear  tells  her  by  the 
cessation  of  any  rustling  or  footsteps  that  her 
audience  are  arrived,  and  awaiting  her,  rises, 
and,  turning  slowly  round,  faces  them.  Were 
it  not  for  a  slight  condescension  in  the  matter 
of  petticoats,  it  would  not  be  obvious  to  a 
stranger  that  it  is  not  a  slender  man  who  is 
preparing  to  address  the  little  group,  so 
austerely  masculine  is  the  just-gray-touched 
thick  short  hair  parted  on  one  side,  the  coat, 
the  tie,  the  waistcoat.  This  widow  might  at 
a  pinch,  and  behind  a  table  which  would 
conceal  the  degradation  of  the  female  skirt, 


14  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

well  pass  for  a  little  widower.  She  stands 
for  a  second  silent,  not  collecting  herself,  or 
seeking  womanly  words  or  modes  of  ex- 
pression, since,  when  it  does  come,  her  speech 
flows  with  perfect  round  fluency,  but  calmly 
eyeing  the  row  of  young  people  before  her. 
Her  hands  are  lightly  clasped  in  front  of  her  ; 
nor  does  she  need  to  eke  out  her  easy  oratory 
by  any  of  the  awkward  and  anguished 
gestures  with  which  the  ordinary  Anglo- 
Saxon,  when  forced  on  to  his  unwilling  legs, 
tries  to  ease  the  birth-pangs  of  his  still-born 
fancy.  Still  quietly  meeting  her  hearers' 
anxious  eyes  with  her  own  cool,  steely-gray 
ones,  she  begins  : 

'  I  have  asked  you  to  meet  me  here  to-day 
because  I  thought  it  simpler  to  tell  you  all 
collectively  what  otherwise  I  should  have  to 
communicate  to  each  separately.  This  day 
is  a  day  of  crisis  in  all  our  lives.'  She  pauses 
a  moment ;  evidently  from  no  difficulty  In 
proceeding,   but  with  a  calculated   intention 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  15 


of  letting  these  few  preparatory  words  have 
time  to  sink  into  the  soil  of  her  hearers' 
minds.  '  You  have  known — dimly,  perhaps, 
and  vaguely,  for  I  have  never  explained 
them  categorically  to  you,  knowing  with 
what  an  absolute  want  of  sympathy  they 
would  have  been  met  —  the  aims  and 
aspirations  of  my  life,  and  how  entirely 
they  have  hitherto  been  frustrated  by  ' — a 
slight  and  telling  hiatus  — '  circumstances.' 
Althea  has  put  up  her  handkerchief  to  her 
mouth.  A  sob  is  rising  in  her  throat  at  this, 
to  all  her  children,  very  apparent  allusion  to 
their  father.  '  The  time  is  now  come  when 
I  am  at  liberty  to  obey  the  call  which  has 
for  many  years  been  ringing  in  my  ears !' 
Another  effective  pause.  '  To  some  of  you, 
perhaps  ' — her  eye  rests  for  an  instant  doubt- 
fully on  Althea — '  may  have  come  a  glimmer 
of  comprehension  of  what  my  enforced  disre- 
garding of  that  call  has  cost  me,  but  on  this 
branch  of  the  subject  it  is  needless  to  dwell. 


1 6  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

I  have  only  briefly  to  Indicate  to  you  my 
scheme  for  the  future.'  A  tiny  rustle  of  ex- 
pectation, a  caught-in  breath,  tell  with  what 
eager  attention  the  little  audience  is  listening. 
'It  is  probably  unknown  to  you  all  ' — an 
irrepressible,  though  very  slight  and  governed, 
intonation,  as  of  contempt — 'that  within  the 
last  few  months  a  band  of  women  thinkers 
and  workers  has  collected  together,  and 
formed  itself  into  a  society,  whose  object 
and  aim  Is  "  the  redressing  of  the  balance," 
the  balance  as  between  man  and  woman,  as 
between  rich  and  poor,  as  between  the 
treader-down  and  the  trodden.'  She  is  not 
looking  at  her  children  now,  but  out  into  the 
unseen  future  of  battle  with  a  lightening  eye. 
•  You  may  object ' — with  a  calling  back  of 
her  attention  to  the  row  of  forgotten  faces 
before  her — '  that  in  such  a  society  there  is 
nothing  novel ;  that  a  hundred  such  have, 
within  the  last  few  years  of  awakening  out 
of  sleep,  sprung  into  being ;  and   I   am  quite 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  17 

willing  to  grant  it.  That  which  differentiates 
this  society  from  all  others  is,  firstly,  that  it 
applies  itself,  not  to  any  one  branch  of  the 
subject,  but  to  the  whole  colossal  body  of  it, 
to  the  redressing  of  the  balance  as  between 
every  wronger  and  every  wronged,  in  each 
stratum  of  society,  in  each  nationality,  and  in 
every  quarter  of  the  globe  ;  and,  secondly 
— which  is  perhaps  a  necessary  corollary — 
that  it  demands,  and  will  take  nothing  less, 
the  whole  being,  the  entire  life,  with  no 
reservations — the  soul,  body,  heart,  and 
energies  of  each  of  its  members.  I — and  it 
is  with  a  deep  sense  of  pride,  and  a  trembling- 
consciousness  of  the  responsibility  attached 
to  so  great  an  office,  that  I  make  the  state- 
ment— have  been  offered  the  presidency  of 
this  society.' 

She  stops,  not  because  her  theme  or 
her  breath  is  exhausted,  but  as  if  to  give 
time  and  opportunity  for  any  challenge  of, 
or   objection    to,    her    purpose   that  may    be 


i8  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

offered.  None  such  comes.  It  is  received 
in  total  silence — without  even  the  faint  ex- 
pectant rusde  that  had  accompanied  her 
opening  sentences.     She  proceeds  : 

'It  must  be  apparent  to  the  meanest 
capacity '  —  each  of  the  speaker's  fiv(d  sons 
and  daughters  has  the  impression  that  the 
superlative  adjective  is  applied  with  a  special 
sense  of  its  fitness  to  him  or  her  self — '  that 
the  carrying  out  of  such  a  scheme  as  I 
have  sketched  is  incompatible  with  the 
cares  and  duties  of  family  life.  For  those 
cares,  those  duties,  I  have  never  been 
endowed  with  any  special  aptitudes.  Yet 
to  those  cares,  those  duties,  has  been  already 
sacrificed  what  must  prove  far  more  than  half 
of  an  existence,  destined,  as  I  think — though 
here  you  will  probably,  nay,  certainly,  not  be  in 
accord  with  me — to  higher  and  broader  uses.' 

Once  again  her  lifted  eye  lightens,  and  for 
a  second  a  well-checked  yet  visible  emotion 
hinders  her  clear  and  ready  utterance. 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  19 

'  During  the  past  years  many  women  might 
have  ordered  dinners  and  arranged  social 
engagements  better  than  I  ;  few — compara- 
tively few  —  women  have,  as  I  believe, 
ever  been  so  penetrated  with  the  pity  of 
humanity !' 

Her  voice  sinks  a  little,  weighed  down 
by  no  counterfeit  feeling,  but  in  the  next 
sentence  rises  again  alertly,  as  if  borne  up- 
wards on  glad  wings. 

'  The  course  of  time,  the  chain  of  cir- 
cumstances, have  enabled  me  at  length  to 
throw  the  reins  on  the  neck  of  that  pity  ! 
No  trammelling  lesser  duty  any  longer 
hinders  me ;  and  since,  as  I  have  pointed 
out  to  you,  the  major  part  of  my  life  has 
been,  in  respect  to  what  is  its  main  import, 
already  wasted,  you  will  readily  comprehend 
that  I  have  no  time  to  lose.  I  am  resolved  ' 
— clasping  her  hands  tightly  together — '  to 
set  sail  at  once  upon  that  noble  voyage 
which,  but  for  the   clogging,    petty    impedi- 


20  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

ments  of  domestic  life,   I  should  have  em- 
barked upon  twenty-five  years  ago.' 

Her  lips  close,  and  her  eyes  meet  in 
calm  and  determined  challenge  those  of  her 
hearers.  To  that  challenge  not  one  of  those 
hearers  rises,  though  it  is  plain  that  each  of 
them  accepts  it  in  a  different  way.  The  elder 
son  throughout  the  interview  has  kept  his 
eyes  resolutely  fixed  on  the  carpet,  as  if  by 
no  other  method  could  he  enough  convey  his 
utter  disapproval  of,  and  protest  against,  the 
whole  proceeding.  The  younger  is  looking 
at  his  mother  with  a  puzzled,  schoolboy  stare  ; 
Clare  is  turning  her  engagement-ring  round 
upon  her  finger,  as  if  only  by  holding  on 
tight  to  the  happy  fact  that  it  symbolizes 
can  she  endure  the  painfulness  of  the  present 
ordeal.  Althea  has  snatched  her  hand  from 
Faustina's  strenuous  clasp  to  hide  the  cruel 
quiver  that  is  convulsing  all  her  lower  face, 
and  Fanny  is  undisguisedly  whimpering. 
Seeing  that  the  pause  which  she  has  made 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  21 

in  order  to  give  her  audience  an  opportunity 
for  question  or  objection  is  not  likely  to  be 
used  for  that  purpose,  Mrs.  Vane  presently 
resumes  : 

'  During  the  years  of  our  reciprocal  rela- 
tions I  have  done  my  duty  by  you  according 
to  my  lights.  If  I  have  lavished  fewer 
caresses  upon  you  than  other  mothers,  I 
have  laboured  harder  than  most  to  impart 
to  you  that  habit  of  mind,  that  mode  of  re- 
garding life,  which  are  more  valuable  than 
any  endearments.  That  I  have  failed  to 
inoculate  you  with  my  ideas  is  due  partly  to 
a  fundamental  difference  in  nature  between 
us,  but  chiefly  to  the  existence  of  a  strongly 
antagonistic  influence  entirely  outweighing 
and  rendering  nugatory  mine.  That  influence 
no  longer  exists' — a  slight,  decorous  lower- 
ing of  her  voice  notifies,  if  any  such  notifi- 
cation were  needed,  that  the  allusion  is  once 
again  to  her  late  husband — '  but  its  effect 
remains.      I  w^ould  fain  have  led  all  or  any  of 


22  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

you  in  the  path  1  purpose  to  tread — the  only 
path  that  seems  to  me  to  be  really  worth 
treading — but  since  this  was  not  to  be,  our 
ways  must  part.  The  life  which  I  have 
bound  myself  to  lead  is  one  that  will  not 
admit  of  a  settled  home.  It  will  entail  much 
moving  from  place  to  place,  much  public 
speaking  ' — a  slight  writhe  on  the  part  of  the 
down-faced  elder  son — *  an  entire  freedom 
from  the  ties  of  family  life.  Those  ties  I 
have,  as  I  believe,  now  a  full  right  to  resign. 
Three  of  you,  Edward,  Clare,  and  Althea, 
are  of  age,  and  therefore  legally  competent 
to  the  conduct  of  your  own  affairs.  Fanny 
and  Thomas  are  still  minors,  and,  since  your 
father  died  intestate,  you  are  aware  that 
their  guardianship  devolved  on  me.  That 
guardianship  I  have  determined  to  resign  to 
their  eldest  brother.  He,  with  the  pro- 
fessional aid  of  Mr.  Wills,  will  be  able  to 
arrange  their  future  in  a  manner  much  more 
consonant  to  the  collective    wishes  of  their 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  23 


family  than  I  could  do.  I  have  only  to  add 
that  I  hope  we  shall  part  with  reciprocal 
goodwill ' — there  is,  or  Althea  fancies  it,  a 
very  faint  human  quiver  in  the  metallic  voice 
at  the  utterance  of  the  wish — '  as  those  who 
respect  each  other's  aims,  even  while  unable 
to  share  them.  I  earnestly  hope  that  you  will 
all  prosper  in  your  several  roads.  Clare  has 
chosen  the  beaten  track,  the  well-worn  track 
of  man's  hewers  of  wood  and  drawers  of 
water.  Althea  has  not  yet  made  that  elec- 
tion. Perhaps  she  never  will  '  —  with  a 
slender  tinge  of  hope  in  the  intonation.  '  If 
she  does  not,  if  the  progress  of  time,  and  the 
development  of  mind  and  heart  that  it  brings, 
lead  her  to  feel  the  pity  of  humanity  more 
strongly  within  her  than  the  desire  for  selfish, 
individual  happiness,  I  need  not  say  with 
what  welcome  we  shall  receive  her  into  our 
ranks.      I  need  not  detain  you  any  longer.' 

She  bows  her  head  slightly,  and  turns  again 
to  her  loaded  writing-table  as  they  file  out. 


[  24] 


CHAPTER  II. 

The  young  people  troop  up  to  the  drawing- 
room  silently  together.  Faustina  enters  it 
with  them,  perhaps  concluding  legitimately 
that  Althea's  invitation  to  support  her  in  the 
crucial  interview  extends  to  the  discussion 
that  is  to  follow  it  ;  perhaps  guided  by  a 
curiosity  stronger  than  her  manners.  It 
looks  at  first  as  if  that  curiosity  were  likely 
to  pass  unsatisfied,  since  for  some  moments 
none  of  the  repudiated  family  seem  capable 
of  expressing,  or,  at  all  events,  inclined  to 
express,  their  opinions  upon  the  just  past 
interview. 

It  is  the  youngest  who  at  last  breaks  the 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  25 

spell.     Thomas,  the    Etonian,    speaks :    '  So 
she  has  chucked  us  all !' 

The  elder  son  has  been  leaning  his  elbow 
on  the  mantel-piece,  with  his  back  to  his 
kindred. 

'  Our  mother  has,  at  all  events,  the  merit 
of  dotting  her  rs  and  crossing  her^V.' 

As  he  speaks  he  wheels  round,  and  dis- 
covers the  fact,  before  unsuspected  by  him, 
of  the  presence  of  Miss  Bateson.  The  dis- 
pleased surprise  which  that  discovery  en- 
genders in  his  already  gloomy  young  eye 
must  be  patent  enough  to  its  object. 

But  she  finds  it  convenient  not  to  see  it, 
and  sits  tight  until  a  stronger,  yet  gentler, 
lever  dislodges  her. 

'If,'  say's  Clare,  speaking  for  the  first  time, 
'  we  have  to  discuss  mother's  actions,  and  I 
do  not  see  how  it  is  to  be  avoided,  I  think  it 
ought  to  be  quite  among  ourselves.' 

The  voice  is  very  gentle,  but  there  can  be 
no  mistake  as  to  the  intended  application  of 


26  DEAR  FAUSTINA 


the  words  ;  and  a  slight  colour  comes  Into 
Faustina's  handsome  olive  cheek. 

'The  house  Is  to  be  cleared  of  strangers,' 
she  says,  rising  and  moving  to  the  door,  with 
a  half-laugh  ;  '  I  am  sorry  that  I  am  thought 
to  come  under  that  head.' 

A  deeper  stain  than  that  which  had  only 
just  tinged  her  friend's  face  dyes  Althea's. 

'  You  might  have  let  her  stay  ;  she  is  quite 
like  one  of  us.' 

Clare  does  not  retort,  but  emphatic  dis- 
claimers come  from  the  masculine  members 
of  the  family — '  Speak  for  yourself !'  and 
'  I    cannot    say    that    I    regard    her    in    that 

light.' 

As  for  Fanny,  her  mood  is  still  watery, 
and,  like  Clymene,  the  tenderest-spirited  of 
Keats'  Titans,  she  '  sobs  among  l^ter  tangled 
hair.' 

'  I  was  afraid  that  there  was  some  un- 
pleasant surprise  in  store  for  us  ;  but  I  did 
not  expect  quite   such   a  clean  sweep,'  says 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  27 

Clare,  moved,  but  not  disordered  like  her 
junior.  *  Fanny  dear,  do  stop  crying !  We 
must  make  the  best  of  it.' 

'  It  is  all  very  well  for  you  to  talk,'  replies 
Fanny,  attempting  no  compliance  with  her 
sister's  request,  '  who  have  nothing  to  make 
the  best  of !  —  good  husband,  nice  house, 
waiting  for  you.  But  what  is  to  become  of 
Althea  and  me  ?' 

'  As  to  Althea,  that  is  her  own  affair,'  says 
the  elder  brother,  with  a  noticeable  dryness 
in  his  tone.  '  But  as  far  as  you  are  con- 
cerned, Fanny,  you  need  not  be  afraid  but 
that  you  will  be  looked  after.' 

The  latter  clause  is  very  kindly  spoken, 
albeit  a  dash  of  new  young  authority  tinges 
the  vexation  of  his  voice.  Nearly  all  men  feel 
kindly  towards  Fanny,  who  is  a  very  pleasant 
little  object  to  the  eye,  and  who  possesses 
the  gift — more  valuable  to  a  woman  than 
any  wisdom  of  her  own — of  making  every 
man  she  speaks  to  feel  wise.     She  now  puts 


28  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

out  her  hand  confidingly  to  Edward,  and 
says  : 

*  But  I  cannot  go  and  live  with  you  at 
Christ  Church !' 

The  schoolboy  gives  a  chuckle,  presum- 
ably at  the  idea  of  his  sister  in  cap  and 
gown  ;  but  the  feeling  of  the  little  assembly 
is  so  distinctly  anti-mirthful  that  he  gets  red 
and  strangles  it. 

In  all  their  minds,  with  the  exception, 
perhaps,  of  the  boy,  is  oppressively  present 
the  memory  of  that  day,  six  months  ago, 
when  Edward  had  been  wired  for  from 
Oxford,  and  Thomas  from  Eton,  and  they 
had  all — coming  straight  from  their  father's 
death-bed  —  assembled  in  this  very  room. 
The  only  difference  seems  to  be  that  then  the 
blinds  had  been  drawn  down,  and  that  now 
they  are  drawn  up  ;  but  so  dark  is  the 
London  day  that  the  change  in  this  respect 
is  not  very  perceptible.  The  likeness  forces 
a  few  low,  moved  words  from  Clare  : 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  29 

'  Oh,  /low  he  would  have  hated  it !' 

For  the  last  hour  Althea  had  at  intervals 
been  struggling  with  almost  uncheckable 
sobs  ;  but  the  sight  of  Fanny's  facile  tears 
seems  to  have  dried  her  deeper-fountained 
ones,  and  she  gives  in  answer  only  a  little 
melancholy  nod  of  assent. 

'  If  she  would  but  have  waited  a  little — 
waited  till  these  two  young  ones  were  grown 
up,'  says  Edward,  turning  round  again  to 
resume  his  former  position  facing  the  fire, 
with  his  elbow  on  the  mantel-piece,  as  if  not 
wishing  his  family  to  suspect  how  much 
Clare's  putting  into  words  his  own  regrets 
has  upset  him. 

'  She  would  have  lost  six  years,'  says 
Althea,  speaking  for  the  first  time.  *  We 
must  try  to  look  at  things  from  her  point  of 
view ;  as  she  said,  she  has  no  time  to  lose.' 

'  It  depends  upon  what  one's  definition  of 
lost  time  is,' rejoins  he  coldly.  'Yours  and 
mine  would  probably  differ.' 


30  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

His  tone — for  they  had  once  been  allies — 
stings  her  into  another  painful  flush. 

'  As  you  know,  I  have  never  had  any 
sympathy  with  mother's  views.  Until  to- 
day  ' 

But  he  interrupts  her  impatiently,  as  if 
advocacy,  however  slight,  of  their  parent's 
extravagances  is  more  than,  in  the  present 
state  of  his  temper  and  feelings,  he  can  bear. 

'  It  is  not  of  much  use  discussing  her  views 
or  our  opinions  of  them,  w^hich  are  sure  to  be 
pretty  well  at  variance.' 

'  Whatever  happens,  do  not  let  us  squabble 
among  ourselves !'  cries  Clare,  laying  one 
hand  on  Althea's  shoulder,  and  holding  out 
the  other  pacifyingly  in  the  direction— since 
he  is  too  far  off  to  be  reached  by  touch — of 
Edward.  '  We  may  differ — I  am  afraid  that 
there  is  no  help  for  that — but  there  is  no 
earthly  reason  why  we  should  not  all  be 
friends. ' 

'I   am  afraid  that  there  is  every  reason,' 


DEAR  FAUSTINA 


returns  the  young  man,  with  stubborn  bitter- 
ness. '  Elements  of  dissension  besides  those 
with  which  Nature  has  endowed  us  have 
been  imported  into  the  family  by  one  of  us, 
but  it  is  no  use  discussing  that  subject  now  ; 
it  would  be  mere  waste  of  time.  Such  of  us 
as  agree  had  better  talk  over  our  plans 
quietly  together,  when  we  have  the  oppor- 
tunity.' 

'  You  shall  have  it  now !'  says  Althea, 
growing  scarlet,  getting  quickly  up,  and 
walking  towards  the  door.  '  You  again 
wish  the  house  to  be  cleared  of  strangers ' 
— quoting  what  had  been  her  friend's  parting 
words — '  perhaps  when  I  am  gone  you  will 
think  it  sufficiently  purged  !' 

Nor  do  all  Clare's  entreaties — Althea's  ear 
tells  her  that  no  other  voice  joins  in  her 
petition — avail  to  detain  her.  But,  though 
it  is  in  the  cause  of  friendship  that  she  is  a 
sufferer,  she  does  not  immediately  seek  the 
society  of  the  bone  of  contention.      It  is  in 


32  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

the  retirement  of  her  own  third-story  bed- 
room that  her  sister,  coming,  after  the  lapse 
of  more  than  an  hour,  in  search  of  her,  finds 
her. 

'  Are  you  alone  ?     May  I  come  in  ?' 

'  Come  in.' 

Clare  enters,  casting  a  quick  look  round 
the  room  as  she  does  so. 

Althea  laughs,  a  little  bitterly,  recognizing 
its  apprehensive  quality. 

'  You  need  not  be  afraid.  My  apartment 
is  not  polluted  by  the  presence  of  poor 
Faustina !' 

'  Poor  Faustina  !  That  is  the  last  epithet 
I  should  think  of  applying  to  her.' 

'Is  it?  Well,  have  you  come  to  tell  me 
how  satisfactorily  you  all  arranged  your 
future,  after  you  had  turned  me  out  ?' 

'  We  did  not  turn  you  out  ;  you  turned 
yourself  out.' 

'  I  think  I  had  a  tolerably  distinct  hint  to 
stay  away.' 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  33 


*  Poor  old  Edward  !'  says  Clare,  with  ^a 
compassionate  inflection  ;  *  he  is  sore  and 
hurt.  You  must  make  allowances  for 
him; 

'  Poor  Edward  !  I  think  the  epithet  quite 
as  much  misapplied  to  him  as  to  Faustina.' 

'  We  will  not  apply  it  to  either  of  them, 
then  ;  we  will  abstain  from  epithets  alto- 
gether ;  they  are  generally  misfits.' 

'  I  know  that  I  am  very  cross ' — contritely, 
and  with  a  breaking  voice — '  but  it  is  hard 
to  have  every  man's  hand  against  me !  I 
am  not  used  to  it.' 

'  No  one's  hand  is  against  you.  To  prove 
it,  I  have  come  to  make  you  a  proposal.' 

'  From  Edward  ?' 

*  No,  from  myself 

Clare  has  sat  down  on  the  end  of  her  sister's 
bed,  a  smile  of  anticipated  pleasure  in  the 
pleasure  she  is  about  to  give  lighting  into 
beauty  a  face  which  in  general  does  not  rise 
above  comeliness. 

3 


34  DEAR  FAUSTINA 


A  slight  answering  glow  of  vague  hope 
illumines  Althea's  prettier  features. 

'  I  have  come  to  suggest  that  you  should 
live  with  us- — with  me  and  William.' 

*  With  you  and  William  I  Why,  he  hates 
the  sight  of  me  !' 

'  He  does  nothing  of  the  kind  ;  he  is  far 
too  good  to  hate  anyone.' 

•  Well,  I  do  not  know  what  a  good  man 
does  instead  of  hating,  but  whatever  it  is, 
William  does  that.  He  would  never  hear  of 
your  plan.' 

'  He  has  heard  of  it.  He  came  in  five 
minutes  after  you  left  us,  and  he — he  is 
delighted  at  the  idea  !' — with  a  slightly  falter- 
ing voice. 

Althea's  face  is  an  expressive  one,  and  at 
this  statement  it  assumes  a  look  of  such 
extreme  incredulity  that  they  both  laugh  a 
little. 

'  He  would  be  away  at  the  Stock  Exchange 
most  of  the  day,'  pursues  William's  betrothed, 


DEAR  FAUSTINA 


35 


with  an  heroic  assumption  of  thinking  this  a 
subject  for  congratulation  ;  '  and  you  and  I 
have  always  pulled  together  perfectly  until 
Faus — until  just  lately,  and  even  now,  since 
we  know  the  few  subjects  on  which  we  differ, 
we  might  easily  agree  to  avoid  them.' 

'  And  Fanny  ?' 

'  Fanny  thinks  she  would  like  to  go  to 
Paris  for  two  years  to  Madame  Sarrasin,  to 
study  at  the  Conservatoire,  and  Edward  sees 
no  objection.' 

There  is  a  pause.  In  the  shifty  firelight 
— hitherto  the  room's  only  illumination — the 
expression  of  the  younger  sister's  face  is  but 
imperfectly  to  be  deciphered,  and  the  elder 
one,  impatient  to  read  it,  turns  the  button  of 
the  electric  light.  It  is  a  very  uncertain 
April  countenance  that  the  sudden  shock  of 
hard  radiance  reveals. 

'  I  should  be  the  fifth  wheel  of  the  coach,' 
and,  a  minute  later  :  '  Double  -  actioned 
establishments   scarcely   ever   answer.'     But 


36  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

there   is   a   sound   of   semi-yielding    in    her 
voice. 

*  You — you  had  not  made  any  other  plan, 
I  suppose  ?' 

*  How  could  I  ?  The  whole  thing  was 
sprung  upon  us  as  such  a  surprise.' 

'  I  thought — I  imagined  that  you  might 
have  had  some  project  proposed  to  you  by 
— another  person.' 

*  By  Faustina  ?' 
*Yes.' 

Althea  shakes  her  head. 

*  I  have  not  seen  her  since  she,  like  me ' — 
with  a  slight  return  of  bitterness — '  was  re- 
quested to  efface  herself 

Clare  gives  a  sigh,  which  she  tries  to  make 
not  too  patently  one  of  satisfaction.  If  it 
contains  any  other  ingredient,  she  endeavours 
with  equal  loyalty  to  suppress  that. 

'  It  is  very  good  and  unselfish,  and  like 
you,  to  propose  what  must  be  such  a  sacrifice 
to  you,'  says  Althea  in  an  affectionate,  moved 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  37 

voice.  '  Such  a  sacrifice  as  the  continual 
presence  of  any  third  person,  were  it  an 
angel  from  heaven,  must  entail  upon  a 
newly-married  couple  who  like  each  other  !' 

Perhaps  this  sentiment  finds  some  echo  in 
the  bosom  of  the  person  addressed,  for  she 
rather  kindly  evades  than  absolutely  contra- 
dicts it. 

*  I  dare  say  you  will  not  trouble  us  long. 
I  dare  say  before  a  year  is  over  you  will  be  a 
newly-married  couple,  or,  rather ' — laughing 
— '  half  one,  yourself.' 

'  I  shall  never  marry.  You  know  that  I 
have  a  horror  of  it.' 

*  I  know  '  —  reddening  with  a  nearer 
approach  to  real  anger  than  her  placid, 
smooth  face  often  shows — 'that  of  late  you 
have  chosen  to  say  so,  and  I  also  know  to 
what  influence  to  attribute  it  ;  but  when 
once  you  have  got  away  from  that  in- 
fluence  ' 

'I    have    no    wish'  —  with    a     complexion 


38  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

quite  as  heightened  as  her  sister's — 'to  get 
away  from  it,  since  it  is  far  the  noblest  I 
have  ever  known.' 

*We  must  be  talking  at  cross-purposes,' 
says  Clare,  her  tone  changing  from  its 
unwonted  ire  to  one  of  apprehensive  distress. 
'  A  moment  ago  I  thought  that  you  had  all 
but  consented  to  come  to  us — to  William 
and  me  !' 

'  How  would  that  remove  me  from  her 
influence  ?  You  will  live  in  London,  and 
Faustina's  work  must  always  keep  her 
here.' 

*  But  you  do  not  suppose  ' — she  breaks  off, 
and,  after  an  ominous  pause,  goes  on  more 
deliberately  :  '  You  mus^  see  that  I  could  not 
possibly  ask  William  to  admit  into  his  house 
a  person  whom  he  dislikes  and  disapproves 
as  much  as  he  does  Miss  Bateson.' 

'  And  you  mus^  see  ' — with  a  crimson  face, 
and  in  a  key  trembling  between  indignation 
and    pain — '  that    you    could    not    possibly 


DEAR  FAUSTINA 


39 


ask  me  to  live  In  a  house  which  shuts  its 
door  upon  my  dearest  and  most  valued 
friend.' 

'  You  might  see  her,  of  course,  if  you 
chose,  at  other  places.  I  need  not  say  that 
neither  William  nor  I  would  put  any  hindrance 
in  the  way  of  your  doing  that,  however  much 
we  might  dislike  it.' 

Althea  shakes  her  head. 

'  The  very  fact  of  knowing  that  we  differed 
upon  so  vital  a  subject ' 

'  Vital?' 

'  To  7ne,  vital  —  would  be  a  perennial 
source  of  dissension  between  us.  No,  Clare  ' 
— with  a  sad,  fixed  dignity — '  I  fully  recog- 
nize the  generosity  that  dictated  your  offer, 
but  it  would  not  be  for  the  happiness  of  either 
of  us  that  I  should  accept  it.' 

'  You  are  given  the  choice  between  Faus- 
tina and  me,'  says  Clare,  in  a  profoundly  hurt 
voice,  'and  you  choose  Faustina.' 

The  irrepressible,   or,  at  all  events,   unre- 


40  DEAR  FAUSTINA 


pressed,  contempt  which  mingles  with  the 
wounded  feeling  of  her  tone  stings  Althea 
into  prompt  rejoinder. 

'  Much  as  you  dislike  her,  you  would  not 
have  a  very  high  opinion  of  me  if  I  were 
willing  to  throw  over  one  who  has  cut  herself 
adrift  from  every  natural  tie  in  order  to 
devote  herself  to  what  she  thinks — to  what 
everyone  must  think — the  higher  claims.' 

'  That  is  her  own  version,'  replies  Clare, 
in  a  tone  whose  unaffected  disgust  pierces 
through  the  habitual  suave  moderation  of 
her  voice.  '  Other  people  say  that  she  left 
home  because  she  was  kicked  out— that  is, 
because  she  could  not  get  on  with  any  one 
member  of  her  family.' 

*  If  one  falls  so  low  as  to  listen  to  what 

"other    people"     say '     cries      Althea, 

championship  lifting  her  voice  into  a  pitch 
several  keys  higher  than  its  natural  one. 

What  the  other  limb  of  her  sentence  would 
have  been  does  not  appear,  since  it  is  ampu- 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  41 


tated  by  the  opening  of  the  door  and  the 
insertion  of  a  dark  head. 

'  My  own  darling,  what  has  become  of 
you  ?  I  have  been  searching  for  you  every- 
where !  Have  you,  too,  been  turned  out 
by • 

Her  speech  breaks  off  as  short — on  catch- 
ing sight  of  Clare — as  her  '  own  darling's ' 
had  done,  and  they  all  for  a  moment  or  two 
look  at  each  other  with  uncomfortable  scarlet 
faces  ;  that  is  to  say,  two  of  the  faces  are 
scarlet,  the  third  keeps  its  cool  sallow  un- 
tinged.  Clare  cuts  the  disagreeable  knot  by 
going,  simply  saying  to  Althea  in  a  lowered 
voice,  which  implies  that  she  would  fain 
exclude  Faustina  from  being  co-hearer  of  her 
speech  : 

*  If  you  alter  your  mind,  as  I  think  and 
hope  you  will,  you  have  only  to  let  us  know.' 

The  door  closes. 

'  What  are  you  to  alter  your  mind  about  ?' 
asks  Faustina  in  a  voice  of  tender  curiosity  ; 


42  DEAR  FAUSTINA 


*  or  '  —  seeing  that  Althea  hesitates — 'is  it 
something  that  you  have  been  forbidden  to 
tell  me?  If  so,  of  course  do  not  think  of 
answering.' 

'  It  is  no  secret.  I  am  sure  Clare  would 
not  mind  your  hearing.  She  has  been  ask- 
ing me  to  live  with  her  and  William.' 

'  And  you  have  accepted  ?' 

*  No  ;  I  have  refused.' 

Miss  Bateson  gives  a  sigh  of  perhaps 
rather  ostentatious  relief.     *  How  wise  !' 

*  Was  it  wise  i^'  asks  the  other,  half  sadly, 
the  advantages  of  the  proposed  plan  having 
begun  to  loom  large  upon  her  from  the 
moment  she  had  rejected  it.  '  I  should  have 
had  love  and  warmth  and  family  life,  which, 
after  all,  are  three  good  things.' 

'  Love  and  warmth  in  larger  measure  are 
waiting  you  elsewhere,  if  you  will  only  take 
them  ;  and  as  to  family  life,  it  is  generally 
more  of  a  hamperer  than  a  help.' 

*  You    found    it    so,    did    not    you  ?'    says 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  43 


Althea,  wishing  that  the  picture  called  up 
by  her  sister's  words  of  Miss  Bateson  being 
pitchforked  from  under  her  family  roof-tree 
by  the  combined  efforts  of  her  relatives  did 
not  present  itself  so  vividly  before  her  mind's 
eye  as  she  speaks.  *  And  mother — that  has 
certainly  been  her  experience.  How  well 
she  spoke !  I  felt  as  if  I  had  never  under- 
stood her  before.  TAe  pity  of  humanity  ! 
Yes,  that  ought  to  be  a  lever  strong  enough 
to  uproot  one  from  any  surrounding.  Some- 
times I  have  half  a  mind  to  join  her.' 

'  You  would  be  in  her  way,'  replies  Faus- 
tina hastily ;  '  she  does  not  want  you. 
Enthusiasts  like  her  can  work  only  on 
their  own  lines ;  and  her  lines  are  not 
yours.' 

'  Ldo  not  quite  know  what  my  line  is' — 
dejectedly — 'except  to  be  de  trop,  and  at  a 
loose  end.' 

*  You  are  feeling  very  lonely,  dearest,'  says 
Faustina  in  an  excessively  kind  voice  ;  and. 


44  DEAR  FA  USTINA 

with  suitable  action  :  *  You  must  remember 
that  it  is  the  inevitable  result  of  having  out- 
grown your  surroundings.' 

'  I  suppose  there  may  be  something  in 
that,'  replies  Althea,  but  with  not  much  of 
the  elation  which  the  acceptance  of  so  flatter- 
ing a  hypothesis  might  imply. 

'  Since  it  is  I  that  have  caused  you  the 
pain  of  feeling  that  your  sheath  is  too  tight 
for  you — and  it  is  a  painful  process  ;  develop- 
ment, growth,  often  are — will  not  you  let  me 
apply  the  remedy  ?' 

'  What  remedy  ?' 

'  I  have  robbed  you  of  a  home.  Do  you 
imagine  that  I  am  ignorant  that  it  is  on 
account  of  your  beautiful  loyalty  to  me  that 
your  family  have  turned  their  backs  upon  you  i^' 

*  But  they  have  not  turned  their  backs.' 

'  They  have  made  it  a  condition  of  their 
countenance  that  you  should  renounce  me. 
I  know  that  as  well  as  if  you  had  told  me  in 
so  many  words.' 


DEAR  FAUSTINA 


45 


This  is  so  nearly  the  truth  that  Althea  is 
silent. 

'  I  have  been  the  means  of  robbing  you  of 
one  home  ;  may  not  I ' — sinking  her  voice, 
which  has  a  quite  un-put-on  tremble  in  it — ' 
'  mayn't  I  offer  you  another — a  very  different 
one  in  point  of  luxury — but,  as  you  have  often 
told  me,  the  essentials  of  life  are  what  you 
care  about — you  do  not  mind  the  trappings  ?' 

*  I  am  absolutely  indifferent  to  them.' 

*  I  knew  it ' — in  a  tone  of  triumph.  '  Then, 
will  you  come  and  live  with  me  ?  share  a 
home  where  there  may  not  be  a  great  many 
silver  spoons  ' — laughing — *  but  where  work 
and  aspiration  and  love  will  certainly  not  be 
lacking  ?' 

A  flush  of  gratitude  and  half-frightened 
pleasure  rushes  over  Althea's  face. 

'  Do  you  mean  live  with  you  in  the  slums 
at  Notting  Hill?  Oh,  how  often  I  have 
thought  of  the  tales  you  have  told  me  of 
your  experiences  there  !    Of  the  people  sitting 


46  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

out  all  night  upon  their  doorsteps  in  summer 
because  they  could  not  face  the  vermin  in 
their  hideous  beds !  Do  you  really  think 
me  worthy  and  able  to  share  that  noble  life  ?' 

Faustina  changes  countenance  slightly. 

'No,  no  ;  I  was  not  contemplating  that. 
That  was  merely  a  phase  through  which  I 
happened  to  be  passing.  I  had  to  live  there  for 
a  while,  because — because — in  fact,  because 
I  was  getting  up  the  subject  of  the  Housing 
of  the  Working  Classes.  But ' — seeing  the 
illumined  countenance  before  her  darken 
and  shade  into  disappointment — '  do  not  be 
afraid !  It  will  be  the  same  picture,  only 
seen  at  a  different  angle.  We  can  serve  the 
Cause,  our  Cause,  the  Cause  of  Humanity, 
better  just  now  in  a  Chelsea  flat  than  in  a 
Notting  Hill  lodging-house.' 

'  Can  we  ?' — brightening  again — '  but ' — 
with  a  relapse  into  cloudiness — '  I  thought 
that  another  friend  shared  your  life — lived 
with  you  ?' 


DEAR  FAUSTINA 


47 


'  We  have  agreed  to  part, '  replies  Faustina 
gravely  ;  '  for  some  time  we  have  been  de- 
veloping in  opposite  directions ;  she  differs 
from  me  diametrically  upon  the  employment 
of  Infant  Labour.  No,  darling'  —  with 
solemn  tenderness — '  if  you  bless  my  home 
with  your  sweet  presence,  your  sovereignty 
over  my  heart  will  be  absolutely  unshared.' 

Althea  is  silent,  looking  on  the  ground, 
while  her  face  quivers. 

'  I  am  sure  I  do  not  know  what  you  see  in 
me.' 


[48] 


CHAPTER  III. 

The  house  is  to  be  sold  —  the  good  solid 
family  house  —  which,  though  since  its 
eighteenth  -  century  birth  it  has  seen  the 
senseless  tide  of  fashion  set  westwards  from 
it,  is  still  modish  enough  to  suit  any  but  a 
very  much  up-to-date  appetite.  Some  of  its 
neighbours  in  the  street  are  pointed  out  as 
having  been  the  dwelling-places  of  illustrious 
persons ;  and  itself,  strong  and  stout,  with 
its  Adams  garlanded  walls  and  its  Sheraton 
chimney-pieces,  faces  the  world  as  healthily 
as  when  first  it  left  the  hands  of  the  con- 
scientious masons  who  built  it.  It  has  been 
the  nucleus  of  the  whole  family  life  of  the 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  49 

Vanes — the  birthplace  of  the  children,  the 
point  towards  which  all  their  school  thoughts 
have  set,  and  whence  they  have  gone  forth 
joyfully  to  the  pantomime  and  tearfully  to 
the  dentist ;  in  one  room  of  which  Clare  had 
first  heard  her  William  declare  his  love,  with 
a  clumsiness  which  might  have  reassured  her 
as  to  his  ever  having  done  it  before,  and 
in  another  of  which  Althea,  kneeling,  as  at  a 
Holy  Sacrament,  had  received  the  last  faint, 
fond  look  from  her  dying  father's  eyes. 

And  now  it  is  to  come  to  the  hammer  ! 

Even  were  it  not  so  much  too  large  for 
the  occupancy  of  a  single  man,  the  Death 
Duties,  imposed  by  a  beneficent  Legislature 
to  make  us  presumably  cling  to  life  even 
more  tightly  than  we  have  hitherto  done, 
would  render  it  quite  impossible  for  Edward 
to  inhabit  the  home  of  his  fathers. 

Its  sale  is  to  be  preceded  by  that  of  its 
furniture,  and  the  last  weeks  passed  under 
its  roof  by  the  family  that  has  so  long  lived 

4 


50  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

in  it  are  spent  in  all  the  Ineffable  discomfort 
of  deciding  what  is  to  be  kept  and  what 
abandoned  ;  in  allotting  to  each  member 
their  several  possessions  ;  and  in  seeing  dis- 
lodged from  their  ancient  places  dumb 
objects  which  have  been  landmarks  in  all 
their  lives. 

By  the  end  of  a  month  they  are  all  In- 
tolerably sad,  dusty,  and  covered  with  hay. 

Mrs.  Vane  has  departed  early,  taking  with 
her  but  few  household  goods,  since  she  does 
not  contemplate  ever  again  having  a  fixed 
roof-tree — departed  before  the  last  ceremony 
in  the  Vane  family  which  the  solid  old 
mansion  is  to  father — the  marriage  of  Clare. 

Since  it  is  well  known  to  her  children  that 
the  abolishment  of  that  institution  is  one  of 
their  mother's  Blue  Roses,  and  that  if  people 
must  enter  into  that  iniquitous  contract  her 
opinion  is  decidedly  in  favour  of  their  doing 
so  at  a  registry-office,  those  children  do  not 
deplore   her   absence.     Clare    and    William 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  51 

have  a  commonplace  preference  for  church 
and  psalms  and  '  The  Voice  that  breathed 
o'er  Eden.' 

'  One  may  as  well  have  it  decently  done, 
since  one  has  a  wedding  only  once  in  one's 
life.' 

To  which  Thomas,  a  third  time  summoned 
from  Eton  for  a  family  function,  has  humor- 
ously responded  that  *  this  is  not  a  sanguine 
view  to  take,  and  that  if  luck  is  on  her  side 
she  may  have  several  f 

Thomas  has  not  shared  the  dismantling 
work,  which  has  told  so  heavily  upon  his 
relatives'  spirits  ;  nor  does  he  share  their 
gloom,  since,  indeed,  it  is  almost  as  difficult 
to  be  sad  at  the  beginning  of  life  as  it  is  to 
be  gay  at  the  end.  It  is  rare  that  the  grief 
of  the  young  for  the  old  survives  'the  flowers 
in  their  caps.'  The  ^mwise  old  recognize  it 
with  bitterness.  The  wise  accept  with  a 
pang  of  patient  pain  the  ruthless,  yet  salutary, 
order  of  Nature. 


52  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

Fanny,  it  is  true,  goes  on  crying  inter- 
mittently through  the  last  weeks ;  but  in  her 
case  that  does  not  prove  much.  She  always 
likes  crying  ;  it  is  the  solution  of  all  her 
difficulties.  Damp  and  easy  they  flow  away, 
and  no  one  has  the  heart  to  stop  them. 

In  the  honest  hard  work  of  those  final  days, 
the  bodily  fatigue,  the  pulling  of  heart-strings 
in  common  over  the  dislodged  relics  of  dead 
childhood,  the  differences  that  had  risen  so 
mountain-high  flatten  themselves  into  plains. 
Edward  has  made  calls  upon  Althea  s  memory 
over  battered  toy  and  eviscerated  picture-book 
for  recollections  of  departed  wars,  iniquities, 
and  junkets,  and  that  memory  has  never 
failed  to  answer  to  the  demands  made  upon 
it.  But,  unfortunately,  it  is  not  through  ad- 
justment of  their  differences,  but  simply  by  a 
judicious  silence  about  them — a  truce  of  God 
— that  this  holy  calm  has  been  arrived  at.  It 
has  doubtless  been  aided  by  the  temporary 
disappearance  from  the  scene   of   Faustina, 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  53 

who,  being  no  fool — and,  indeed,  she  would 
have  been  a  fool  of  quite  phenomenal  pro- 
portions if  she  had  failed  to  do  so — having 
noticed  that  she  has  no  longer  any  foothold 
in  the  house,  has  for  the  moment  effaced 
herself. 

What  the  eye  does  not  see,  the  heart  does 
not  feel ;  and  possibly  the  sanguine  young 
Vanes,  with  wishes  very  much  father  to  their 
thoughts,  believe  for  a  short  halcyon  interval 
that  her  disappearance  is  final.  They  are  un- 
deceived. On  the  eve  of  the  marriage,  after 
a  long  day's  labour,  they  are  resting  in  the 
library — the  only  sitting-room  still  habitable, 
since  it  is  to  receive  Clare's  few  wedding 
guests.  Though  some  of  her  relatives  have 
offered  her  their  houses,  and  others  have  sug- 
gested a  hotel,  she  has  clung  pertinaciously 
to  the  resolution  to  go  forth  to  her  new  life 
from  the  old  doors. 

'  I  should  not  feel  married  if  I  were  not 
married  from  here  !' 


54  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

The  family,  wearied  as  they  are,  will  go 
out  presently  to  dine  at  a  restaurant,  their 
kitchen  staff  being  almost  wholly  dismissed  ; 
and  meanwhile  they  are  all  together,  and 
feeling  very  kind  and  fond  toward  each  other. 
This  attitude  of  mind  is,  however,  not 
destined  to  be  a  lasting  one. 

'  To  think  that  this  is  the  last  evening  we 
shall  ever  sit  in  this  jolly  old  room  !'  says 
Thomas,  setting  down  his  teacup,  and  casting 
an  eye  irrepressibly  jovial  even  while  uttering 
this  pensive  ejaculation  along  the  emptied 
bookshelves. 

It  is  what  they  have  all  been  feeling  far 
too  deeply  to  give  it  voice  ;  and  the  sense  of 
how  unsafe  in  the  present  tender  state  of  the 
family  spirits  is  the  topic,  evidently  hurries 
Edward  into  another,  though  kindred,  subject. 

'  Thee,  did  you  ever  find  that  second 
volume  of  Pennant's  *'  London  "?' 

'Never.' 

'  Someone  must  have  borrowed  it.' 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  55 

'  Or  stolen  ?  People  are  so  dishonest  about 
books.' 

'  It  was  almost  too  bulky  to  steal.' 

The  subject  drops  ;  both  Edward  and 
Althea  have  too  keen  a  memory,  and  are 
both  too  conscious  of  each  other's  thoughts 
of  the  long-ago  Sunday  evenings,  when  to 
have  Pennant's  '  London '  taken  from  its 
shelf,  and  its  interleaved  pictures  explained 
by  their  father,  had  been  one  of  childhood's 
dearest  treats,  to  find  the  theme  any  safer 
than  the  previous  one.  The  father  is  dead 
and  the  book  is  lost.  Brother  and  sister 
strangle  a  sigh  ;  but  again  each  divines  the 
other,  as  their  two  pair  of  eyes,  meeting  in 
sad  and  affectionate  understanding,  testify. 

'  By  this  time  to-morrow  we  shall  be 
scattered  to  the  ends  of  the  earth !'  resumes 
Thomas. 

He  is  too  young  to  remember  the  Pennant 
Sunday  evenings,  nor  suspects  the  emotion 
working  in  his  seniors. 


56  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

'  It  is  rather  a  bold  metaphor  to  call  Eton 
and  Oxford  the  ends  of  the  earth,'  answers 
Clare,  laughing  tremulously. 

'  By-the-by,'  continues  the  boy,  turning 
abruptly  towards  his  second  sister,  'where 
are  you  going  to  scatter  to.  Thee  ?' 

It  is  a  case  of  the  rushing  fool  clearing  a 
way  for  cautious  angels.  How  the  cautious 
angels  hold  their  breaths  !  It  is  a  query  they 
have  all  wished  to  put,  and  all  shrink  from 
putting.  That  there  is  also  a  shrinking  from 
answering  in  the  person  addressed  is  made 
evident  by  the  unnecessarily  long  pause 
before  she  opens  her  mouth. 

'  I  am  not  going  to  scatter  anywhere.' 

'  You  are  going  to  stay  in  London  T 

'  Yes.' 

The  monosyllable  stands  quite  alone,  and 
is  evidently  intended  to  remain  in  its  isola- 
tion. The  rest  of  the  family — despite  the 
itch  of  angry  curiosity  that  is  beginning  to 
irritate   them — would  probably  leave    it    so  ; 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  57 

but  once  again  the  schoolboy  cat  pulls  the 
chestnuts  out  of  the  fire. 

'  Who  is  going  to  put  you  up  ?  Aunt 
Lavinia  ?' 

'No.' 

'  The  De  la  Poers  ? 

*No.' 

*  Where  are  you  going,  then  ?' 

Direct,  and  consequently  easily  answered, 
as  this  inquiry  would  seem,  it  remains  un- 
responded  to  long  enough  to  have  time  for  a 
derisive  successor  to  trip  up  its  heels. 

'  Have  you  taken  an  arch  under  Waterloo 
Bridge  ?' 

Perhaps  the  young  jeer  in  his  tone  gives 
the  needed  spur  to  Althea's  speech. 

'  No ;  I  have  not.  I  have  taken  half  a 
flat — half  Fausti — half  Miss  Bateson's  flat  in 
Chelsea.' 

If  they  had  been  questioned  afterwards, 
all  the  family  would  have  asseverated  that 
they  had  expected  nothing  less ;  yet  for  a  full 


58  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

two  minutes  after  the  shell  has  burst  there  is 
a  generally  felt  sense  of  aghastness  in  the 
air.  To  the  person  who  has  thrown  the 
bomb  it  is  the  most  acutely  perceptible. 

'  What  jolly  fun  for  you !'  says  Thomas, 
getting,  as  usual,  speediest  possession  of  his 
powers  of  speech.  '  I  wish  you  joy  of  it,  and 
her!' 

He  turns  on  his  heel  as  he  speaks,  and 
makes,  with  disdainful  haste  and  noise,  for 
the  door.  With  less  noise,  but  certainly  not 
with  less  disdain,  as  Althea,  with  a  heart-pang, 
sharply  feels,  Edward  follows.  Fanny  slides 
inoffensively,  but  evidently  acquiescingly,  after 
them.     Only  Clare  remains. 

'  So  you  are  going  to  carry  it  out  to  the 
bitter  end,'  she  says  in  a  cold  voice,  that  yet 
has  plainly  an  underlying  heat  beneath  it. 

'  I  do  not  know  what  you  mean  by  "  the 
bitter  end."  '  Althea's  voice  is  also  cold,  and 
has  as  much  underlying  warmth  as  her 
sister's.      '  I  am  going  to  adopt  what  seems 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  59 


to  me  the  best  line  of  life  now  within  my 
reach.' 

'  Better,  of  course,  than  a  degraded  exist- 
ence with  us.' 

The  heat  is  beginning  to  pierce  the  thin 
ice-crust. 

'  You  will  be  much  happier  leading  your 
"degraded  existence,"  as  you  choose  to  call 
it,  by  yourselves.' 

'  We  shall  not  be  by  ourselves.  Fanny 
will  be  with  us.' 

*  Fanny  !'  in  unfeigned  surprise.  '  I  thought 
she  had  decided  to  go  to  Paris  to  study  at 
the  Conservatoire !' 

'  When  it  came  to  the  point,  she  found 
she  could  not  bear  to  be  cut  adrift  from  us 
even  for  a  time.  Poor  clear  Fanny  !  she  has 
a  very  loving  little  heart.' 

Clare  is  much  too  amiable  a  woman  to 
have  intentionally  laid  a  weight  upon  the 
pronoun,  but  to  Althea's  ear  that  expressive 
weight  is  but  too  perceptible.     She  laughs. 


6o  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

*  So  my  self-sacrifice  was  wasted  !  You 
will  be  the  eternal  three,  after  all.' 

Perhaps  this  idea  has  already  had  to 
be  combated  by  the  bride-elect,  for  she 
winces. 

'  F'anny  does  not  count  ;  we  can  always 
send  her  out  of  the  room  if  she  is  de  trop. 
You  know  how  biddable  she  is,  and  William 
likes  her.' 

'  Yes,  William  likes  her.' 

'  It  is  quite  a  different  thing,  of  course, 
from  his  feeling  for  you.  His  first  thought, 
as  you  know,  was  to  have  you.' 

'  And  who  was  it  planted  that  first  thought 
in  his  breast  T — smiling  with  affectionate 
scepticism.  '  You  may  swear  yourself  black 
in  the  face,  Clare,  but  I  will  never  believe 
that  it  grew  there  of  itself.' 

'  I  may  have  suggested  it  in  the  first 
instance,  but  he  took  it  up  at  once.' 

'  And  now  he  has  joyfully  laid  it  down 
again  !' 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  6i 

'  I  know  that  you  never — never  of  late, 
that  is — can  believe  in  any  man  having  a 
good  or  kind  or  noble  impulse.' 

'  I  am  not  quite  so  irrational  as  to  damn 
one  half  of  creation  because  of  the  faults  and 
selfishnesses  that  ages  of  tyranny  and  the 
radical  viciousness  of  the  present  social 
system  have  developed  in  them.' 

The  whole  shape  and  flavour  of  this 
sentence,  smacking  unmistakably  of  the 
source  whence  it  sprang,  make  Clare  feel  so 
angry  that,  being  a  woman  with  a  habit  of 
self-control,  she  does  not  trust  herself  to 
speak.  Althea  is  conscious  of,  and  half 
regretful  for,  having  been  offensive,  yet  her 
next  sentence,  though  tricked  out  as  an 
amende,  does  not  improve  matters. 

'  I  never  doubted  the  existence  of  good 
men  in  the  world.  Edward  is  a  good  man. 
William  is  a  good,  an  excellent  man,  accord- 
ing to  his  lights.' 

'  According  to  his  lights  !' 


62  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

*Yes,  according  to  his  lights.  I  suppose 
we  must  all  walk  by  our  own.' 

The  modified  encomium  contained  in  this 
sentence,  and  its  aroma  of  patronage,  have 
the  effect  of  vanquishing  Clare's  sweet 
temper. 

'  And  if  some  of  us  choose  to  mistake  for 
light  nasty  little  boggy  exhalations,  we  may 
chance  to  land  our  disciples  in  a  slough.' 

Althea's  eyes  flash. 

'  Granting  your  premise,  I  had  rather  be 
landed  in  a  slough  while  striving  after  light, 
than  sit  contentedly  in  the  darkness  on  dry 
ground.' 

'  Would  you  ?  Personally,  I  see  no  neces- 
sary opposition  between  light  and  dryness.' 

But  the  tone  of  the  sentence  Is  out  of 
character  with  the  gentle-natured  speaker, 
and  she  at  once  drops  into  a  more  natural  key. 

'  Oh,  how  dear  father  would  have  hated 
it  I  Oh,  the  blessed  blindness  and  deafness 
of  death  !' 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  63 

A  disfiguring  pucker  of  angry  pain  con- 
tracts Althea's  mouth. 

'  It  is  unjustifiable,  criminal,  cruel,  to  drag 
in  the  dead,  who  cannot  contradict  you,  to 
your  aid  because  you  are  getting  worsted  in 
an  argument.' 

'  I  deny  that  I  am  getting  worsted.  Would 
not  he — can  you  deny  that  he  would  have 
hated  it  ? — that  he  would  have  hated — de- 
tested her  ?' 

The  other  hesitates  a  moment ;  then 
speaks  with  the  firm  clearness  of  assured 
conviction. 

*  I  can  and  do  deny  it.  He  might  have 
disliked  her  at  first — yes,  I  am  almost  sure 
that  he  would  at  first — but  afterwards,  when 
he  recognized  the  real  grandeur  of  her  char- 
acter— under  all  the  crust  of  prejudice  that 
he  could  not  help  sharing  with  people  of  his 
date,  he  was  so  quick  to  recognize  and  so 
generous  to  allow  nobility  in  others — dear, 
dear  father  ! — he  would   have   rated   her  as 


64  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

highly  as  I  do,  and  ' — firmly — '  I  cannot  put 
it  more  strongly.' 

Clare  shakes  her  head. 

'  As  you  say,  the  dead  cannot  contradict 
one ;  and  there  is  no  use ' — sadly  and  no 
longer  angrily — '  in  embittering  our  last  talk 
by  assertions  and  denials  of  what  neither  of 
us  can  ever  now  prove  ;  but  I  cannot  think 
that  you  have  chosen  well  for  your  own 
happiness/ 

'  There  ' — with  a  flush  of  obstinacy — '  I 
must  differ  from  you  ;  and  even  if  I  did  not, 
will  you  tell  me  what  better  alternative  is 
before  me  ?  You  have  been  in  haste — you 
and  William — to  fill  the  place  that  you  offered 
me  in  your  home.' 

'In  haste!' — wounded  —  'why,  you  posi- 
tively refused  to  come  to  us.' 

'  I  refused  because  you  affixed  conditions 
that  no  one  with  a  spark  of  honour  could 
have  complied  with.  No' — dropping  her 
air  of  dignity,  and  speaking  with  unrepressed 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  65 


excitement — 'that  is  not  true.  I  could  not 
have  accepted  in  any  case.  I  am  tired  of 
luxury  and  cotton-wool.  I  cannot  get  the 
cry  of  the  whole  travailing  creation  out  of 
my  ears.  You  may  detest  her,  but  it  was 
P'austina  who  first  made  me  really  hear  it.' 

'  I  do  not  think  one  needs  a  Faustina  to 
make  one  hear  that,'  replies  Clare,  with  quiet 
contempt ;  but  Althea  does  not  hear  her. 
She  is  walking  quickly  about  the  room  with 
locked  hands  and  luminous  eyes.  *  One  has 
so  little  time,  too,  in  which  to  work — ten,  or 
often  twenty,  useless  years  at  the  beginning 
of  life,  and  perhaps  five  or  ten  helpless  ones 
at  the  end.  Such  work  to  do,  and  only  one 
little  life  to  do  it  in.' 

'Only  one  life!  Is  that  another  chapter 
of  Faustina's  gospel  ?' 

'  Only  one,  practically — only  one  that  we 
know  anything  about,  or  have  any  control 
over ;  and  if  we  are  to  have  thousands — 
thousands' — throwing  out  her  hands  with  a 

5 


66  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

gesture  of  unlimited  extension  —  '  to  have 
wasted  the  first  is  no  very  good  preparation 
for  them.' 

'  I  am  sure  I  have  no  wish  to  make  you 
waste  it,'  says  Clare,  with  a  half-remorseful 
sense  of  the  unascetic  brilliancy  of  her  own 
outlook ;  '  but  I  wonder,  having  these  views, 
that  you  did  not  join  mother  in  her  crusade.' 

'  I  was  half  sorry  I  had  not,  while  she  was 
speaking ;  she  looked  so  inspired.  But,  no  ' 
— shaking  her  head — '  she  did  not  really 
want  me  ;  and,  besides,  I — I  cannot  forget 
how  unhappy  she  made  him.' 

*  And  you  think  that  this  would  have  made 
him  less  unhappy  ?' 

'  As  I  told  you  before ' — with  angry  ex- 
citement—  'you  have  no  right  to  bring  him 
into  the  question.' 

*  You  have  yourself  just  brought  him 
in.' 

This  is  true,  and  silences  her. 

*  Well,'    says    Clare,    with    a    deep    sigh, 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  67 

rising  as   if  to  depart,    '  I    am   afraid  I  may 
say  with  Mortimer  : 

'  "  No  more  of  this  unprofitable  chat !" 

At  this  indication  of  an  intention  to  leave 
her  on  the  part  of  the  last  member  of  her 
family  who  had  cleaved  to  her,  Althea's 
loftily-beating  heart  sinks.  Involuntarily  she 
stretches  out  her  hand  with  a  childish  gesture 
to  pull  her  sister  back  by  the  gown. 

Clare's  doorward-set  face  turns  back,  not 
relentingly,  since  there  had  never  been  any 
touch  of  hardness  in  her  heart,  but  with 
affectionate  regret. 

*  If  ever  you — I  was  going  to  say  see  the 
error  of  your  ways,  but  that  would  be 
putting  it  offensively — if  ever  you  see  reason 
to  change  your  mind ' 

'  I  will  die  before  I  own  it.' 


[68] 


CHAPTER  IV. 

The    break-up  has    come.     Clare  has    been 
united  to  her  William,  and  as  Mrs.  William 
Boteler  has  set  off  on  a  singularly  piercing 
afternoon    to    a    proverbially    cold    county, 
where  a  friend  has  lent  them   a  seldom-in- 
habited and  sparsely-servanted  country-house. 
It   is    the  mode   in  which    nowadays   every 
couple    that   respects   itself    must   begin    its 
wedded  career,  though  to  many  it  may  seem 
but   a   dubious   improvement   upon    the  old 
jolly  month  at  Rome  or  trip  to  Paris.      How- 
ever,  with    so   many  new  furs,    and   such   a 
warm  flame  of  love  as  both  bride  and  bride- 
groom can  boast,  a  thermometer  at  zero,  and 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  69 

a  setting  of  Lincolnshire  fens  for  the  jewel 
of  their  bliss,  are  matters  of  little  moment. 

It  is  not  from  want  of  furs  that  Althea 
shivers  as  she  watches  from  the  doorstep 
her  sister,  blinded  and  senselessly  pelted 
with  rice,  yet  obstinately  radiant,  disappear- 
ing into  the  future  via  the  Great  Northern 
Railway  station.  Mixed  with  the  dull  pain 
of  loss  and  change  is  the  keener  sense  of 
acute  compassion.  What  an  awful  fate,  to 
be  vanishing  into  a  fen  alone  with  William 
Boteler  for  a  whole  fortnight !  Not  only  so, 
but  to  emerge  from  it  at  the  end  of  that 
fortnight  saddled  with  him  for  life,  in  fulfil- 
ment of  that  contract  of  which  Faustina  has 
only  lately  explained  to  her  the  full  iniquity. 
She  has  to  keep  her  pity  to  herself,  since 
neither  brothers,  remaining  sister,  nor  the 
few  old  friends  who  share  the  doorstep  with 
her,  would  be  likely  to  sympathize  in  it. 
Yet  she  cannot  resist  giving  an  emphatic 
head-shake    and     '  Never !'    to    the    '  Well, 


70  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

Althea,  it  will  be  your  turn  next!'  of  a 
civilly-meaning  old  gentleman,  to  whom  the 
statement  that  marriage  is  not  the  sole 
possible  solution  of  woman's  riddle  would 
sound  like  gibberish.  Her  emphatic  dis- 
claimer is  misconstrued  into  desponding 
modesty,  and  calls  forth  the  encouraging  re- 
joinder that  '  it  is  early  days  to  despair 
yet.' 

Then  comes  the  parting  with  the  old  house 
and  her  kindred.  To  the  first  she  would 
have  liked  to  bid  farewell  in  lingering  alone- 
ness,  but  is  baffled  by  a  second  old  friend — 
female  this  time — who  insists  on  accompany- 
ing her.  She  marches,  therefore,  quickly 
and  stolidly  through  the  denuded  rooms 
aching  with  emptiness,  and  stares  blankly 
at  the  unfaded  patches  of  wall  which  alone 
mark  the  spots  whence  her  lifelong  friends, 
the  dear  old  family  Romneys  and  Hoppners, 
have  descended. 

Her  brethren  bid  her  good-bye,   each   in 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  71 

different  wise :  Thomas  with  the  absent 
friendliness  of  one  whose  mental  eye  is  fixed 
elsewhere ;  Fanny  with  soft  expansiveness, 
but  yet  conveying  clearly  a  gentle  impression 
of   being    aware    that    she    is    deservedly    in 

disgrace  ;  and  Edward Can  it  be  from 

that  rare  good  comrade  of  old  times  that  she 
is  parting  with  this  cool  hand-shake,  supple- 
mented, when  she  offers  her  face — not  before 
— by  a  little  frosty,  pecking  kiss  ? 

'  You  will  send  me  a  line  now  and  then  ?' 
she  asks,  with  a  wistful  unwillingness  to  let 
that  icy  formality  stand  as  sole  adieu  between 
them. 

'  I  am  not  much  of  a  scribe,  as  you  know,' 
is  his  reply,  turning  away  and  wrapping 
Fanny,  as  if  to  accentuate  the  contrast 
between  them,  in  his  arms. 

There  are  arms,  however,  ready  to  enfold 
Althea,  though  those  of  her  own  blood  seem 
more  inclined  to  hang  limply  by  their  sides — 
ready,  impatient,  ardent.     So  she  finds  when. 


72  DEAR  FAUSTINA 


having  climbed  the  carpetless  and  not  par- 
ticularly clean  stone  stairs  of  More  Mansions, 
Chelsea,  to  the  fourth  floor  (there  is  no 
lift),  she  is  admitted  by  Miss  Bateson  herself 
to  the  privacy  of  her  eyrie.  The  strenuous- 
ness  of  Faustina's  embrace  is  grateful  to  the 
heart  still  shivering  from  the  chill  of  its 
kindred's  good-byes,  and  her  torrid  words 
do  not  sound  as  exaggerated  as  in  cooler 
moments  they  might  be  recognized  to  be. 

'  My  darling !  I  have  you  at  last !  I  was 
terrified  lest  at  the  final  moment  Philistia 
might  triumph  over  me.  But  here  you  are 
— here  we  are — and  can  earth  give  anything 
better  ?' 

To  an  indifferent  or  over-critical  eye  it 
might  seem  that  earth  must  be  but  poorly 
supplied  with  conveniences  if  it  could  not ; 
but  the  depressed  and  overwrought  girl  to 
whom  this  flight  of  rhetoric  is  addressed 
hears  only  the  warm  affection  that  dictated 
it,  and  she  bursts  into  grateful  tears. 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  73 

'  You  are  really  glad  to  see  me  ?  I  thought 
that  no  one  was  ever  goin^  to  be  glad  to  see 
me  again.      How  can  I  thank  you  enough  ?' 

'As  if  there  could  be  any  question  of 
thanks  between  us  /' 

With  their  friendship  at  this  high  pitch  of 
tension,  they  enter  their  now  joint  domain. 
More  Mansions  is  one  of  those  blocks  of 
towering  jerry  buildings  that  have  sprung 
up  within  the  last  three  years  to  meet  the 
requirements  and  match  the  purses  of  inde- 
pendent female  spirits,  imprudent  marriages, 
and  narrow  incomes. 

'It  is  neither  large  nor  pretty,'  says 
Faustina,  introducing  her  new  inmate  into 
her  minute  drawing-room  — 'just  a  working 
woman's  room  ;  but  there  will  be  space  for 
a  great  deal  of  happiness  in  it.' 

'  I  am  sure  there  will !'—  with  an  emphasis 
all  the  stronger  for  the  pang  of  shame  at 
having  felt  a  momentary  sense  of  dismay  at 
the  disproportion  between  her  own  and  her 


74  DEAR  FAUSTINA 


friend's  tall  figures,  and  the  area  which  is  to 
contain  them. 

'  And  we  have  a  nice  peep  of  the  river ' 
— pulling  back  the  window-curtain. 

'  Yes,  and  I  am  so  fond  of  the  river ' 
— looking  out  at  its  constellation  of  lights 
obliquely  seen.  '  When  one  thinks  of  all  it 
has  carried  and  all  it  means,  one  feels  that 
more  than  half,  the  poetry  of  London  belongs 
to  it.' 

'Quite  so' — rather  absently.  'And  now, 
darling' — sitting  down,  and  drawing  Althea 
to  her  side — Met  me  have  a  good,  oood  look 
at  you.  Have  not  I  been  exemplary  in 
effacing  myself  all  these  days  ?  If  the 
Philistines  had  but  known  what  it  cost  me !' 

Were  Althea  given  her  choice,  she  would 
prefer  that  Faustina  should  not  habitually 
refer  to  her  family  as  '  the  Philistines '  ;  but 
the  feeling  that  it  would  be  ungracious  to 
begin  to  carp  in  these  early  moments  of  their 
reunion,  coupled  with  fresh  gratitude  for  the 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  75 

devotion  expressed,  tie  her  tongue.  And 
Miss  Bateson  goes  on,  in  blissful  ignorance 
of  the  slight  jar  : 

'  And  the  Function  ?' — with  an  accent  of 
good-humoured  contempt  on  the  noun — 'how 
did  you  get  through  it  ?' 

*  It  was  not  /  that  had  to  get  through  it.' 

'  No,  thank  God !  And  whither  was  the 
victim  borne  afterwards  ?' 

'  To  Lincolnshire,  of  all  balmy,  exhila- 
rating places  this  weather  !  But,  dear  thing  I 
she  went  smiling  to  the  block.' 

*  They  mostly  do.' 

Althea  looks  pensively  into  the  fire,  burn- 
ing ill-temperedly  in  a  little  shoddy  grate 
calculated  to  consume  the  minimum  of  coal. 

'  I  was  told  that  it  would  be  my  turn 
next.' 

'  Do  not  say  such  things,  even  in  joke !' 

'  But  for  you,  it  might  have  been.  Yes ' 
— thoughtfully — 'till  you  came  I  had  quite 
as  much  inclination  towards  love  and    mar- 


76  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

riage  as  the  average  girl  is  usually  credited 
with.' 

'  T/ie  average  girl  P 

'  It  is  owing  to  your  kind  partiality  that  I 
seem  above  the  average.  It  sounds  incredible 
now,  but  I  fully  intended  to  marry.  I  re- 
member wondering  how  I  should  endure  the 
parting  from  dear  father.  Till  you  lifted  a 
corner  of  the  veil ' 

'  I  could  have  lifted  it  a  good  deal  more,  if 
you  had  not  stopped  me.' 

*  I  know — I  know  ;  but  I  felt  I  could  not 
bear  it.  You  need  not  be  afraid.  You  told 
me  quite  enough.' 

Both  feel  that  they  are  getting  on  a  plane 
of  emotion  too  high  for  everyday  use,  and 
by  one  consent  descend  to  earth  again. 

'  Would  you  like  to  see  your  room  Y 

It  does  not  take  long  to  see,  being,  indeed, 
of  the  closet-like  proportions  to  be  expected 
from  the  scale  of  the  rest  of  the  flat.  And 
once    again   that    feeling  of  ignoble   dismay 


DEAR  FAUSTINA 


assails  Althea  as  she  sees  how  entirely  her 
boxes  crowd  it  up,  boiling  over  even  into 
the  squeezy  passage. 

*  I  brought  as  little  as  I  could,'  she  says 
apologetically  ;  '  most  of  my  things  are  ware- 
housed.' 

*  Do  not  distress  yourself,  beloved,'  says 
Faustina  airily.  '  You  will  see  they  will  all 
shake  down  quite  comfortably  in  time.  One 
has  to  be  as  economical  of  space  as  in  a  ship's 
cabin  ;  but  how  was  a  princess  like  you ' — 
laughing — '  to  know  that  ?  I  will  have  a  few 
boards  knocked  up  over  the  bath  in  the  bath- 
room, and  your  boxes,  when  we  have  un- 
packed them,  can  go  there.' 

*  Thank  you,'  says  Althea  gratefully.  '  How 
much  I  have  to  learn !  How  one  overlays 
one's  real  needs  with  a  load  of  stupid 
superfluities  !  Why  on  earth ' — in  a  heat  of 
iconoclastic  fury — 'did  I  bring  a  dressing- 
bag?' 

'  I  would  keep  it  locked,  if  I  were   you  ; 


78  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

and  I  would  not  put  the  bottles  and  things 
out.  I  do  not  know  much  about  the  servant  ; 
she  is  new.  Sarah,  my  last  one,  went  off  at 
a  moment's  notice  ;  she  said  she  found  a  flat 
so  intolerably  dull.  And  I  do  not  know 
much  about  this  one  ;  the  porter  found  her 
for  me.  I  have  not  had  time  to  look  for  one 
myself.  I  have  had  such  phenomenal  press 
of  work  these  last  few  weeks.  Lucky  for  me 
that  I  have,  or  I  do  not  know  how  I  should 
have  borne  the  absence  and  suspense.' 

For  the  moment  Althea  does  not  answer 
to  the  whip.  Her  mind  is  entirely  occupied 
by  the  thought  of  how  scandalously  self- 
indulgent  her  whole  life-scheme  hitherto  has 
been,  and  by  the  more  practical  wonder  of 
how  the  less  —  her  bed-chamber  —  can  be 
cajoled  into  containing  the  greater  —  her 
wardrobe.  The  problem  is  still  unsolved 
when  they  sit  down  to  dinner. 

'  I  know  you  do  not  care  two  straws  what 
you  eat' 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  79 

This  is  not  a  very  reassuring  introduction 
to  the  feast,  but  Althea  assents  heartily  : 

*  Not  two  straws.' 

She  really  believes  what  she  says,  and  tries 
to  go  on  believing  it,  even  after  experience 
has  made  clear  to  her  that  '  not  to  care  two 
straws '  what  one  eats,  in  the  sense  of  dining 
unmurmuringly  on  a  delicate  cutlet  with  ex- 
quisitely prepared  vegetables,  argues  a  dif- 
ferent degree  of  heroism  from  that  needed 
to  face  the  gravies,  bread  sauces,  and  melted 
butters  of  the  porter-found  artiste  of  4,  More 
Mansions.  However,  it  is  surprising  how  well 
tinned  apricots,  oranges,  and  sardines  can  fill 
up  the  crevices  left  by  the  failure  of  more 
solid  nutriment,  and  it  is  with  a  sense  of  true 
satisfaction  in  having  begun  the  real  working 
woman's  existence — begun  it,  not  in  child's 
play,  but  in  sober  earnest — that  Althea  follows 
her  friend  to  the  drawing-room.  Eliza  has 
almost  let  the  fire  out,  which,  considering  the 
universality  of  her  functions,  might  seem  ex- 


8o  DEAR  FAUSTINA 


cusable  had  the  past  dinner — the  Paysandu 
tongue  from  Harrod's  Stores,  with  its  satel- 
lite oranges  and  sardines  —  required  any 
cooking. 

The  state  of  things  is  evidently  not  an  un- 
common one,  as  Faustina  thinks  it  worth  no 
notice  beyond  a  careless,  '  You  see,  sweet,  I 
have  taken  you  at  your  word.  As  we  begin, 
so  we  shall  go  on ;  it  is  what  you  wished, 
isn't  it  ?' 

'  Oh,  yes,  yes  !' 

'  You  will  get  used  to  our  little  ways  very 
quickly.  When  first  I  left  home,  I  thought 
the  food  nasty  and  the  beds  hard  ;  and,  of 
course,  my  antecedents  were  far  less  luxurious 
than  yours.' 

*  Were  they  ?  Do  not  you  think  ' — watch- 
ing with  a  slight  shiver  Miss  Bateson's  in- 
different efforts  to  revive  the  all-but-dead 
flame — '  that  if  you  held  a  newspaper  before 
the  fireplace  it  would  create  a  draught  of  air 
up  the  chimney  and  make  it  burn  ?' 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  8i 

'  Certainly,  darling  !  Give  me  the  J^/re- 
brand ;  it  is  on  my  writing-table.' 

Althea  complies,  and  takes  the  journal  in 
question  from  among  a  wilderness  of  papers, 
schedules,  reports,  such  as  reminds  her  of 
her  mother's  labours,  and  under  which  groans 
the  disproportionately  large  and  business-like 
writing-table,  which  occupies  a  third  of  the 
tiny  sitting-room. 

Whether  or  not  due  to  the  inflammatory 
nature  of  the  newspaper,  in  which  it  re- 
cognises a  kindred  element,  certain  it  is 
that  under  its  influence  the  all-but-extinct 
fire  renews  its  youth,  and  races  up  the 
flue. 

Faustina,  who  has  been  kneeling  before  it, 
holding  up  the  fostering  organ  of  sedition, 
subsides,  first  on  to  her  heels,  and  then  into 
a  sitting  posture  on  the  rug,  with  her  head 
leant  against  Althea's  knees.  The  attitude 
a  little  shocks  the  disciple,  as  an  unseemly 
reversal    of   the    fit   order    of   things ;    but 

6 


82  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

Faustina's  sigh  of  enjoyment  arrests  her 
protest. 

'  How  well  I  am  rewarded  for  my  super- 
human efforts  to  keep  this  one  evening  clear !' 

'  Did  it  require  superhuman  efforts  ?' — 
with  respectful  interest. 

'  Didnt  it  /' 

'  Do  you  never  have  a  free  evening  ?' 

'  Hardly  ever.' 

'  And  shall  I  hardly  ever  have  one,  either  ?' 
— with  a  sort  of  awed  excitement. 

'  That  will  depend  upon  the  nature  of  your 
work.' 

'My  work  !  Have  you  thought  out  at  all 
what  you  will  put  me  to  ?' 

'  Put  you  to  !  Darling,  what  an  expres- 
sion !' 

*  It  is  not  in  the  least  a  figure  of  speech. 
I  want  you  to  put  me  to  whatever  you  think 
me  fittest,  or  I  am  afraid  I  ought  to  say  least 
unfit  for.  I  know  ' — sadly — '  how  very  little 
untrained  labour  is  worth.' 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  83 

'  It  will  not  long  remain  untrained;  contact 
with  real  life  is  the  education  best  suited  to 
an  organism  like  yours.' 

'  But  how — HOW  am  I  to  get  into  contact 
with  it  ?' 

Faustina  hesitates  a  moment. 

'  You  would  be  of  immense  advantage  to 
the  Cause  upon  the  platform,  if  you  could 
bring  yourself  to  make  the  effort.  I  know 
that  to  you  it  would  be  a  painful  one  at  first. 
Your  personality  would ' 

'  Oh,  no,  no — not  that  !  One  platform  is 
enough  in  a  family.' 

'  Will  you  try  the  pen,  then  ?' 

*  I  am  afraid  I  should  not  be  able  to  do 
much  with  it ;  but  I  might  try.' 

'  You  might  make  your  coup  d'essai  in  ^/^zs^ 
— putting  a  forefinger  upon  the  newspaper, 
which,  having  fulfilled  its  mission  of  reviving 
the  fire,  now  lies  neglected  on  the  hearth- 
rug. 

Althea  takes  it  up. 


84  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

'  Is  it  a  new  paper  ?  I  do  not  remember 
to  have  ever  seen  it  before.' 

Miss  Bateson  gives  a  short  laugh. 

*  You  would  not  be  very  likely  to  meet  it 
in  your  milieu ;  but  it  is  new  ;  it  has  hardly 
begun  to  feel  its  feet  yet.  When  it  has,  I 
think  it  will  do  valuable  work  ;  the  editor  is 
a  7nate  of  mine,  and  would  put  in  anything  I 
sent  him.' 

Althea  reads  for  a  few  minutes  ;  then  looks 
up  and  shakes  her  head  : 

*  I  am  sure  that  I  could  not  do  anything 
like  this.'  A  moment  later,  hesitatingly  : 
'  Do  you  believe  in  conversion  by  calling 
names  ?' 

*  It  might  not  convert  you  or  me ;  but 
there  are  classes  and  abuses  who  and  which 
can  only  be  reached  by  Billingsgate.' 

Miss  Vane  thinks  over  this  aphorism  for  a 
moment  or  two ;  but  not  being  as  yet,  per- 
haps, quite  ripe  enough  to  assimilate  its 
wisdom,  she  slides  away  from  it. 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  85 

*  What  I  should  like — what  was  my  idea — 
would  be  to  help  you  more  directly  in  your 
own  work — to  ''devil"  for  you,  as  it  were. 
I  am  not  fit  to  take  any  initiative — at  least, 
certainly  not  yet — but  if  I  could  lighten  your 
burden  in  any  degree,  I  should  feel  that  I 
was  not  quite  the  fly  on  the  cart-wheel, 
but  that  I  was  helping  it  to  turn  ever  so 
little.' 

'  It  is  very,  very  sweet  of  you  !  As  to  my 
burden,  my  shoulders  are  broad  ' — laughing 
— '  and,  of  course,  your  lovely  presence — the 
sense  of  having  your  exquisite  sympathy 
always  to  turn  to — is  unspeakably  helpful  in 
itself.  There  is  another  way,  of  course' — 
speaking  less  glibly — '  in  which  you  could  be 
of  inestimable  use  to  me  and  to  the  Cause.' 

*  Is  there  ?' — very  eagerly — '  tell  it  me.' 
'You  might  be  of  incalculable  aid  socially.' 
'  SoczaUy  ?' 

'  Yes,  socially.  I  am  continually  being 
brought   up   against   the   dead    wall   of   not 


86  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

being  able  to  get  at  the  Wire-pullers  them- 
selves.' 

'  I  do  not  quite  understand.' 

'  When  I  am  getting  up  any  subject,  social 
or  political,  I  am  often  crippled  by  my  in- 
ability to  reach  the  people  who  could  best 
post  me  in  it.  I  have  to  fall  back  on  Blue- 
books  and  Acts  of  Parliament,  and  such-like 
dry  bones,  when  I  could  attain  my  end  twice 
as  efficiently,  and  with  a  hundredth  part  of 
the  time  and  trouble,  by  half  an  hour's 
judicious  picking  of  a  Secretary's  or  Under- 
Secretary's  brains.' 

'  Only  that  you  cannot  get  at  them  ?' 

'  Very  often  I  cannot ;  you  may  be  sure  ' — 
with  a  shrewd  laugh — '  that  if  I  can,  I  do  not 
let  the  grass  grow  under  my  feet' 

'But  I  do  not  see  how  I  am  to  help 
you.' 

'  Do  not  you  ?  That  is  because  you  do 
not  realize  the  value  of  your  own  social 
charm. 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  87 

'  But  even  if  I  did  ?' 

Faustina  has  raised  her  head  from  Althea's 
knees,  and  her  eyes  are  looking  with  a  very 
business-like,  sharp  brightness  in  them  into 
her  friend's. 

'  I  am  shipwrecked  upon  two  opposite 
rocks  :  either  the  planets  I  am  in  search  of 
move  in  a  different  orbit  to  mine — to  speak 
candidly,  they  do  not  and  will  not  know  me 
(I  am  getting  a  little  mixed  in  my  metaphors, 
but  you  must  not  mind  that) — or  else  they 
know  me  too  well,  and  flee  when  they  see 
me  coming.' 

'  And  how  can  I  arrest  their  flight  ?' 

'  They  would  not  suspect  you  ;  your  sweet 
face,  your  beautiful  clothes ' 

'  They  are  almost  all  warehoused.' 

'  No  doors  would  be  shut  to  you.  Your 
name,  the  status  of  your  family — oh  !  I  do 
not  undervalue  these  advantages — would 
open  to  you  naturally  houses  into  which  I 
have — often  unsuccessfully — to  manoeuvre  an 


88  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

entrance.  You  are  born  to  opportunities, 
which  I  have  to  struggle  for  in  the  sweat  of 
my  brow,  but  which,  through  you,  I  might 
utiHze  almost  as  well  as  if  they  were  my 
own.' 

Althea  does  not  immediately  answer.  She 
looks  into  the  fire  with  a  cloudy  brow. 

'  Do  you  mean,'  she  says  at  last,  '  that  I 
am  to  go  into  society  with  the  object  of 
taking  people  off  their  guard  and  surprising 
their  confidence  ?' 

'  You  may  put  it  that  way  if  you  choose, 
though  in  justice  to  myself — with  a  slightly 
wounded  intonation — '  I  must  say  that  I  think 
my  suggestion  was  capable  of  a  nobler  con- 
struction.' 

Althea  remains  for  another  minute  or  two 
in  silent  and  distinctly  unpleasant  thought, 
nor  do  her  friend's  next  words  much  improve 
her  mental  position  : 

'  You  must  remember,  darling,  that  I  did 
not  volunteer  the  proposal,  if  you  can  give  it 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  89 

so  definite  a  name.  You  asked  me  to  tell 
you  how,  in  my  opinion,  you  could  best  serve 
the  Cause,  and  1  answered  as  directly  and 
truthfully  as  I  knew  how ;  but  since  the 
idea  is  so  repellent  to  you,  let  us  never 
return  to  it.' 

There  is  a  short  interval  of  awkward 
silence,  ended  by  the  younger  woman  break- 
ing into  apologetic  speech. 

'  You  make  me  feel  as  if  I  were  such  a 
moral  coward  !  I  dare  say  that  my  objection 
to  your  plan  was  only  due  to  personal  dis- 
taste, shrinking  from  the  disagreeable.  You 
must  own  that  at  the  first  blush  it  had  a  little 
look  of  treachery.  Will  you  let  me  think 
it  over,  and  try  to  disentangle  the  merely 
personal  motive  from  the  other  ?  I  confess 
it  is  not  a  pleasant  idea  to  me  ;  but,  after  all ' 
— reflectively — *  it  is  not  the  pleasant  that 
I  have  come  to  seek.' 

The  last  clause  of  this  sentence  is  scarcely 
susceptible   of  a  flattering    interpretation    as 


90  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

regards  Miss  Bateson's  surroundings ;  but 
the  latter  is  so  much  reHeved  by  the,  at  least, 
partially  restored  docility  of  her  catechumen 
that  she  does  not  quarrel  with  it. 


91 


CHAPTER  V. 

The  joint  establishment  in  More  Mansions 
is  now  five  days  old.  Althea  has  discovered 
that  many  things,  which  she  has  hitherto  con- 
sidered as  much  a  matter  of  course  as  the 
diurnal  revolution  of  the  earth,  are  for  the 
future  only  to  be  looked  upon  as  delightful 
and  unexpected  accidents,  or  as  to  be  done 
without  altogether.  She  has  discovered  how 
very  late  a  general  servant  can  get  up  in  the 
morning  ;  how  very  cold  a  hot  bath  can  be  ; 
and  how  crumpled  a  tablecloth.  She  is  also 
in  a  position  to  decide  between  the  com- 
parative claims  to  victory  over  the  nose  of 
the  two  detestable  smells  of  water  spilt   on 


92  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

a  stove,  and  of  paraffin  slopped  over  a  cheap 
lamp.  Her  diet,  since  her  rebellious  palate 
is  not  yet  tamed  to  accept  the  alternate  and 
sometimes  mingled  greases,  rawnesses,  and 
burnings  of  Eliza's  infant  art,  over  which 
Faustina's  rides  serenely  victorious,  has  been 
chiefly  that  of  a  monkey  in  the  tropics — viz., 
oranges,  bananas,  and  cocoa-nuts.  Since  at 
the  end  of  nearly  a  week  of  this  innutritious 
fare  she  is  not  in  perceptibly  worse  case  than 
at  the  beginning,  she  makes  the  reflection 
how  grossly  she  must  have  overeaten  herself 
during  the  whole  of  her  former  life. 

As  to  Faustina,  she  belongs  to  that  class 
of  persons — there  is  a  large  one — to  whom 
the  minor  discomforts  of  life  are  matters  of 
absolute  indifference.  Her  iron  health  and 
steel  nerves  enable  her  to  face  almost  any 
kind  of  food  without  aversion  ;  nor  is  it 
apparently  of  the  least  moment  to  her 
whether  the  spoon  with  which  she  sups  her 
porridge  is  misty  or  bright. 


DEAR  FAUSTINA 


93 


Once  or  twice,  it  is  true,  she  has  broken  into 
tender  expletives  of  admiration  at  the  heroism 
with  which  her  friend  braves  the  change  for 
the  worse  in  her  material  conditions  ;  but 
these  expressions  have  always  been  attended 
with  an  implication  that  to  one  cast  in 
Althea's  mould  the  material  '  worse '  is  more 
than  balanced  by  the  moral  *  better.' 

Once  or  twice  she  has  also  given  utterance 
to  a  slight  intention  of  '  sacking  '  Eliza  if  she 
does  not  improve.  But  though  this  condition 
of  her  stay  is  never  fulfilled,  that  unsuccessful 
artiste  stays  on.  Were  she  a  good  cook, 
indeed,  her  powers  would  be  severely  tried  by 
the  erratic  nature  of  the  times  and  seasons  to 
which  she  has  to  subdue  her  art.  In  4,  More 
Mansions  no  food  either  is  or  is  supposed  to 
be  served  at  any  particular  hour.  The  dinner 
which  on  Monday  is  prematurely  snatched 
between  two  meetings  is  on  Tuesday  pro- 
rogued to  midnight,  after  a  concert  or 
dramatic  entertainment  at  a  people's  hall,  or 


94  DEAR  FAUSTINA 


some  heated  political  or  social  platform  work 
at  a  federated  women's  club. 

The  project  of  social  utility  for  Althea  has, 
to  her  relief,  not  again  been  broached  ;  but 
she  cannot  reproach  herself  with  having  been 
idle.  In  the  short  and  breathless  intervals 
of  their  public  appearances  she  has  '  devilled  ' 
incessantly  for  Faustina,  the  heat  of  her  zeal 
more  than  making  up  for  any  lack  of  practice. 
She  has  been  the  means  of  spreading  a  great 
deal  of  inflammatory  literature,  against  which, 
if  her  taste  revolts,  her  sense  of  blazing  in- 
dignation at  the  abuses  forcibly,  if  somewhat 
scurrilously,  lashed  carries  her  triumphantly 
through.  Occasionally,  it  is  true,  she  utters 
a  hesitating  protest. 

'  Do  you  think  we  need  be  ^ut^e  so 
abusive  ?'  she  asks,  pausing  over  a  sentence 
even  more  violently  vituperative  than  its 
predecessors. 

'  One  cannot  cure  a  gangrene  with  rose- 
water,'  replies  Miss  Bateson  forcibly. 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  95 


'  True,  but ' — still  more  tentatively — '  do 
not  you  think  our  arguments  are  weighty 
enough  in  themselves  to  be  even  more 
effective  if  put  temperately  ?' 

'  No  great  battle  was  ever  won  with 
wooden  swords  or  pea-shooters.' 

*  What  a  born  fighter  you  are,  Faustina  !' 
says  Althea,  leaning  back  for  a  moment's 
rest  in  her  chair,  and  looking  with  a  half- 
amused  and  yet  whole-hearted  admiration  up 
at  her  companion.  '  No  doubt  you  are  right 
— you  who  have  given  up  your  whole  life  to 
fight  this  Hydra.  It  was  a  grand  thing  to 
do '  —  her  voice  slightly  quivering  in  the 
ardour  of  her  affectionate  homage. 

'  It  is  not  grand  when  you  cannot  help 
doing  a  thing.  My  heart  burned  within  me, 
as  the  old  Book  says  ;  and,  grand  or  no,  it 
is  an  easy  thing  to  do,  now  that  I  have  you 
to  support  me  with  your  exquisite  faith  and 
courage,  after  having  worked  alone  all  my 
life.' 


96  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

'Alone !     But  you  had  Miss  Lewis.' 

'  She   was   a  faddist ;    she  went  her  own 

selfish    way.      I    never  was    so    disillusioned 

about  anyone  in  my  life.' 

Althea    pauses,    once    again,    in    spite    of 

herself,  jarred. 

*  How  soon  do  you  expect  to  be  dis- 
illusioned about  me  ?' 

'How  soon?  When  all  the  seas  run 
dry' 

Such  a  declaration  cannot  help  but  be 
followed  by  an  embrace,  and  then  they  return 
to  business. 

*  Now  that  you  have  ^iven  me  the  heads, 
told  me  the  sense  in  which  you  wish  these 
letters  answered,  I  can  get  through  them 
perfectly  well  by  myself  I  am  really  grow- 
ing quite  expert  with  the  typewriter.  How 
long  do  you  expect  to  be  away  ?' 

'  You  may  be  quite  sure  as  short  a  time  as 
I  possibly  can  ' — using  the  tone  with  which 
in  old  days  that  contemptible  survival,  a  man 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  g>j 

in  love,  was  wont  to  part  from  his  mistress. 
'  1  would  take  you  with  me,  only  that ' 

'  Only  that  what  ?' 

'  1  think  it  might  be  premature ;  as  I  have 
explained  to  you,  the  handful  of  friends  I 
am  going  to  meet  and  1  are  in  the  habit 
of  dealing  with  a  class  of  subjects  which, 
though  they  need  airing  badly,  1  think 
you  are  as  yet  scarcely  ripe  for  the  discus- 
sion of 

'  I  am  ripening  very  fast.  Well,  I  am 
willing  to  abide  by  your  judgment.' 

With  an  emotional  encomium  on  her  sweet 
persuadeableness,  Miss  Bateson  bids  her 
friend  farewell ;  and  Althea  settles  down 
without  an  instant's  delay  to  the  typewriter. 

TT  W  ^  ■«•  "7r 

Two  hours  later  a  man  rings  the  bell  of 
No.  4.  One  would  have  thought  that,  if  he 
were  an  intending  caller  upon  Miss  Bateson, 
he  might  have  spared  himself  the  trouble  of 
the  climb  after  seeing  the  '  Out '  appended  to 

7 


98  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

her  name  downstairs.  Yet  it  cannot  be  to 
Miss  Vane  that  he  means  to  pay  that  civility ; 
at  least,  there  is  no  look  of  recognition  on 
her  face  when  she  appears  in  the  doorway 
in  answer  to  his  summons.  But,  then,  her 
whole  manner  is  so  bouleverse,  her  expression 
one  of  such  preoccupied  consternation,  that 
it  is  quite  possible  she  might  have  failed  to 
recognize  her  own  nearest  relatives. 

'  I  beg  your  pardon ' — taking  off  his  hat 
with  a  very  well-bred  air — '  I  must  apologize 
for  my  intrusion  ;  but  though  I  saw  that 
Miss  Bateson'  was  out,  I  thought  I  might 
leave  a  message  with  her  servant.' 

'  The  servant  f — regarding  him  with  a 
distraught  look.  '  Something  has  happened 
to  her  ;  she  has  been  taken  suddenly  ill.' 

'  Indeed  !' 

'  I  was  afraid  to  leave  her,  or  would  have 
sent  the  porter  for  a  doctor.' 

'  Could  I  be  of  any  use  .^' 

'  Oh,    thank   you ' — with    an    eyebeam    of 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  99 

heartfelt   relief  and  gratitude — '  indeed  you 
could.' 

'Is  it  Sarah?' 

*  No  ;  Sarah  left  a  week  ago.' 

He  smiles  slightly — a  smile  which,  were 
she  less  flurried,  might  convey  to  her  mind 
that  the  tenure  of  domestic  service  in  More 
Mansions  was  not  apt  to  be  a  long  one. 

'  I  was  writing  in  the  drawing-room,  when 
I  heard  a  loud  noise  as  of  something  very 
heavy  falling.  You  know  that  one  hears 
everything  very  plainly  in  these  flats,  and  I 
rushed  into  the  kitchen,  and  found  her  lying 
on  the  floor,  with  her  head  under  the  table.' 

*  WM  her  head  under  the  table  ?' 

'  Yes ;  I  think  it  must  be  a  fit ;  but,  as  I  have 
never  seen  a  person  in  a  fit,  I  cannot  be  sure.' 

She  is  speaking  very  rapidly,  and  her 
troubled  eye  casts  at  him  a  hurried  look  of 
inquiry  as  to  whether  he  may  be  better  in- 
formed in  this  branch  of  science  than  she. 

'May  I  come  in  and  have  a  look  at  her  ? 


loo  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

I  might  lift  her  up,  and,  whatever  ails  her,  I 
am  sure  her  head  ought  not  to  be  left  under 
the  table.' 

They  have  so  far  been  standing  on  the 
threshold,  Althea  with  the  door  in  her 
hand  ;  but  she  now  joyfully  gives  ground, 
and,  fully  admitting  her  deliverer,  leads  him 
with  precipitate  steps  to  the  scene  of  the 
tragedy.  The  kitchen — a  cupboard  in  size 
— is  seen,  when  they  reach  it,  to  be  nearly 
filled  by  the  prone  body  of  a  woman,  who  is 
stretched  flat  upon  the  tiles.  From  under 
the  table  proceed  stertorous  sounds,  which 
prove  that  at  least  she  is  not  dead. 

'  She  has  been  making  those  dreadful 
noises  ever  since  I  first  found  her,'  says 
Althea  in  an  agitated  voice. 

Her  companion's  answer  is  first  to  stoop 
over,  then  kneel  down  on  one  knee  beside, 
the  object  of  their  attention.  He  lifts  her 
head  carefully,  and  looks  scrutinizingly  into 
the  flushed  and  disfigured  features. 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  loi 

*  /y  it  a  fit  ?'  asks  the  girl  in  an  awestruck 
whisper. 

He  shakes  his  head,  and,  replacing  the 
dishevelled  head  on  the  floor,  rises  again  to 
his  feet. 

*  You  need  not  make  yourself  uneasy  ; 
there  is  nothing  the  matter  with  her.' 

'  Nothing  the  matter  with  her  7 

'  Nothing,  beyond  being  dead  drunk.' 

Once  again,  in  defiance  of  good  manners, 
Althea  repeats  his  words,  but  this  time 
accompanied  by  a  start  of  shocked  horror. 

'  Dead  drunk  !  But  those  awful  noises 
she  is  making  ?' 

'  They  are  only  snores.'  She  is  struck 
dumb.  '  Did  you  never  see  a  woman  under 
the  inspiration  of  gin  before  ?'  he  asks,  with 
an  accent  of  interested  curiosity. 

'  No — yes— I  suppose  so,  in  the  street.' 

'  I  have  seen  a  good  many.' 

'  What  am  I  to  do  with  her  ?'  gazing  down 
in  stupefaction  at  the  vanquished  votary   of 


DEAR  FAUSTINA 


alcohol.  '  I  do  not  know  when — it  may  be 
quite  late — Faus — Miss  Bateson  will  be  back.' 

'  If  you  will  allow  me,  I  will  carry  this 
woman  into  her  bedroom  and  lay  her  on  her 
bed  to  sleep  it  off.  She  will  be  all  right  when 
she  wakes.' 

'  Oh,  would  you  ?  I  should  be  grateful ! 
But  can  you  manage  it  alone,  without  help  ? 
Let  me  lift  her  feet' 

'  Pray  do  not  touch  her  !' — hastily — '  I  am 
quite  up  to  carrying  her.  She  will  not  be 
heavy.     These  sort  of  women  never  are.' 

He  is  as  good  as  his  word,  and,  having 
fished  out  and  grasped  with  adroit  strength 
the  recumbent  Eliza,  bears  her  in  triumph  to 
her  bower.  Though  of  a  wizened,  East-End 
type,  she  is,  like  any  other  perfectly  inert  mass, 
a  good  weight,  and  for  a  minute  after  laying 
her  down  he  draws  his  breath  a  little  hard. 

'  I  am  afraid  you  found  her  very  heavy  ?' 

'  Not  at  all,  thank  you.' 

'  And   you    think  ' — looking    at    the    still 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  103 

snoring  heap  with  an  expression  in  which  the 
compassion  tries  conscientiously  to  master 
the  disgust,  and  is  not  completely  victorious 
— '  that  when  she  wakes  she  will  be  all 
right  ?' 

'  In  all  probability.' 

'  But  supposing  that  she  is  not  all  right  ? 
That  when  she  wakes  up  she  is  still  intoxi- 
cated ?  and  that  she  tries  to  set  fire  to  the 
flat,  or  something  of  the  sort?  If  Miss 
Bateson  is  not  come  back,  if  I  am  alone, 
how  shall  I  be  able  to  cope  with  her  ?' 

'  She  will  probably  not  stir  before  to- 
morrow morning ;  but,  if  you  would  allow 
me,  I  could  obviate  any  danger  of  the  kind 
you  fear  by  staying  with  you — remaining 
here  till  Miss  Bateson's  return.' 

His  proposal  makes  her  look  at  him — she 
can  scarcely  be  said  to  have  done  so  before — 
in  order  to  see  whether  the  source  from  which 
this  suggestion  flows  makes  it  seem  a  pre- 
ferable one  to  the  alternative  of  a  tete-ct-tite 


T04  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

with  Eliza.  Unless  'burglar'  or  'murderer'  be 
written  in  letters  of  fire  upon  the  brow  of  the 
proposer,  it  can  scarcely  be  a  less  desirable 
one.  Apparently  her  eyes  find  no  such  pro- 
hibitory sentence  inscribed,  for  she  answers 
without  any  perceptible  hesitation  : 

'  It  would  be  an  act  of  real  Christian 
charity.  But  are  you  sure  that  it  is  not 
putting  you  to  inconvenience  ? — that  you  can 
spare  the  time  ?' 

'  Perfectly  sure.' 

She  throws  what  he  thinks,  what  most 
people  would  think,  an  extremely  pretty  look 
of  silent  gratitude  at  him,  and  after  a  moment 
says  interrogatively  : 

'  We  need  not  stay  here,  need  we  ?  In 
her  present  state  she  cannot  do  any  harm  ?' 

'  None.' 

'  And  the  walls  are  so  thin  that  we  should 
hear  in  an  instant  if  she  stopped  snoring  ?' 

'  Should  we  ?' 

Without  more  delay,  she  leads  him  away 


DEAR  FA  USTINA  105 

into  the  drawing-room.  At  her  invitation 
he  sits  down.  She  does  the  same,  and  at 
once,  for  the  first  time,  they  both  begin  to 
feel  shy.  To  neither  of  them  is  it  a  very 
usual  sensation.  Althea  has  lived  in  'the 
world  '  all  her  life,  and  that  one  scanninof  look 
she  had  cast  at  him  but  now  has  revealed 
to  her  that,  if  one  can  trust  to  appearances, 
so  has  he.  He  is  quite  aware,  with  a 
tickling  inward  amusement,  that  he  had 
been  weighed  in  the  balance  against  a 
drunken  cook  ;  but  he  feels  no  resentment. 
It  is  impossible  since  they  have  probably  a 
long  spell  of  each  other's  undiluted  company 
ahead  of  them,  that  they  can  content  them- 
selves with  a  reciprocal  silent  appraising. 
They  must  find  a  topic  of  conversation  ;  but 
in  their  absolute  ignorance  of  each  other,  an 
ignorance  which  extends  even  to  their  very 
names,  what  can  it  be  ?  With  the  superior 
ready  -  wittedness  of  woman,  Althea  hits 
upon  one. 


io6  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

'  You  will  excuse  my  asking,  but  are  you 
by  any  chance  the  editor  of  the  Firebrand  ?' 

They  seem  fated  to  re  echo  each  other's 
utterances  : 

'  The  editor  of  the  **  Firebrand'' !  Well,  no, 
I  am  not' 

In  answering  he  has,  or  seems  to  have, 
flushed  slightly,  a  transient  heat  of  com- 
plexion which  in  a  moment  fades  into  a 
smile,  but  which  tells  her  that  her  *  hit '  has 
been  anything  but  a  '  palpable '  one. 

'  Might  I  ask  you  in  return  why  you 
thought  I  was  ?' 

'  My  reason  was  a  ridiculously  inadequate 
one ' — the  flush  is  hers  now.  '  You  said  that 
you  had  a  message  to  leave  for  Miss  Bate- 
son  ;  and  before  she  went  out  she  said  she 
hoped  the — the  person  we  are  speaking  of 
would  not  call  in  her  absence  ;  so  I  put  two 
and  two  together.' 

*  When  one  does  that,  my  experience  is 
that  they  almost  always  msik.^ five' 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  107 

'  They  evidently  have  in  this  case.' 

He  seems  glad  of  an  excuse  to  laugh — a 
laugh  which  takes  him  helplessly,  like  a  cough, 
at  intervals  throughout  the  following  hour, 
and  which  he  vainly  tries  to  explain  away. 

She  endeavours  with  equal  futility  to 
palliate  her  mistake. 

'  I  need  not  tell  you  that  I  have  never  seen 

Mr. I    do    not   even    know  his  name. 

Miss  Bateson  always  speaks  of  him  by  a — 
a  sobriquet.' 

'Yes,  I  know  she  does.' 

His  eye  rests  on  the  typewriter,  and  thence 
flashes  back  for  an  instant  to  Althea's  hatless 
head,  drawing  the  obvious  induction  from 
both. 

'  You  are  staying  with  M  iss  Bateson  ?' 

'  I  am  living  with  her.' 

'  Oh,  indeed  I' 

It  is  clear  that  he  is  trying  to  keep  his 
words  politely  colourless,  but  interested  en- 
lightenment will  pierce  through  their  neutral 


io8  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

tint,  so  much  so  that  Althea  cannot  forbear 
putting  a  question  in  her  turn. 

*  Did  you  know  my — my  predecessor,  Miss 
Lewis  ?' 

Again  that  recurrent,  helpless  laugh  seems 
inclined  to  master  him,  but  instead  he 
masters  it. 

*0h,  rather!  I  beg  your  pardon — yes,  I 
did  know  that  lady.' 

Miss  Vane  turns  it  over  in  her  mind 
whether  it  would  be  strictly  honourable  to 
the  absent  to  ask  this  young  man  what  her 
forerunner  —  a  forerunner  whose  light  had 
evidently  gone  out  in  darkness,  and  about 
whom  F^austina  maintains  for  the  most  part 
a  reticence  divined  to  be  hostile — was  like* 
She  decides  that  it  would  not. 

*  I  not  only  knew  Miss  Lewis,  but  Aer 
predecessor.' 

*  //ad  she  a  predecessor  ?' 

*  Oh  yes,  more  than  one.' 

Althea  starts  slightly.     She   feels  as  if  a 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  109 

sharp  pebble  had  hit  her — small,  but  unex- 
pected. It  takes  her  a  moment  or  two  to 
recover. 

'  You  are  evidently  an  old  acquaintance  of 
Miss  Bateson.' 

'  Very  old.  I  have  known  her  since  I  was 
in  petticoats.  Has  she  never  mentioned  me 
to  you  ?' 

'  She  may  have  done  * — a  tiny  smile  turning 
up  the  corners  of  her  mouth —  *  but  you  must 
remember  that  I ' 

'  Of  course — of  course !  May  I  give  you 
my  card  ?' 

It  is  a  nice  and  difficult  feat  in  the  lesser 
manners  to  inform  yourself  as  to  a  person 
under  his  or  her  very  nose,  but  Althea,  though 
it  makes  her  feel  shy,  does  it  gracefully. 

'  Thank  you ' — laying  down  the  card  on 
the  table  beside  her,  her  consciousness  en- 
riched by  the  knowledge  that  she  is  in  the 
company  of  Mr.  John  Trecothick  Drake. 
*  My  name  is  Althea  Vane.' 


no  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

This  is  good  as  far  as  It  goes,  but  at  first 
It  does  not  seem  going  to  take  them  much 
further.  In  her  world  Althea  has  met 
Drakes,  and  since  her  first  impression  that 
he  belongs  to  the  same  world  as  herself  has 
now  grown  to  conviction,  he  has  no  doubt 
come  across  Vanes  there  ;  but  how  he  may 
be  related  to  /ler  Drakes  is  as  obscure  to  her 
as  what  affinity  she  may  have  to  Ats  Vanes 
is  to  him. 

After  a  moment  she  begins,  with  delicate 
subtlety  that  yet  looks  simple,  to  explore 
further. 

*  You  have  a  West-Country  sound.' 
'Yes,  I  come  from  Devonshire.' 
'  So  does   Miss  Bateson.     One  always  ' — 
smiling — '  has  the  silly  notion  that  two  people 
who  Inhabit  the   same  county  or  continent 
must  live  cheek  by  jowl.' 

'  That  Is  exactly  how  we  did  live.  Miss 
Bateson  is  the  daughter  of — of  one  of  our 
nearest  neighbours.' 


DEAR  FAUSTINA 


'  Oh-h  !' 

The  '  Oh-h  !'  is  thoughtful,  lengthened,  and 
expresses  enlightenment.  If  her  vis-a-vis, 
with  his  high  nose,  his  admirable  coat,  and 
faultless  utterance,  differ  strangely  from  such 
of  Faustina's  men  friends  as  have  hitherto 
met  Altheas  eye  and  ear — friends  whose 
speech  is  either  heavily  bebrogued,  or  gives 
that  supremacy  which  it  has  lately  gained 
among  the  masses  to  the  vowel  / — the  ex- 
planation lies  in  the  fact  of  their  having 
sported  together  in  childhood  among  the 
Devonshire  buttercups.  The  thought  had 
certainly  crossed  her  mind — instantly  and 
remorsefully  chased  away  for  its  unworthi- 
ness — that  he  is  too  much  like  a  gentleman 
to  be  an  intimate  of  Faustina's. 

'  Then,  you  know  her  family  T 

'  Oh  yes,  of  course.' 

'  They  are,  I  believe,  not — not  at  all  worthy 
of  her  T 

'  Has  she  told  you  so  ?' 


112  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

'  No-o — oh  no,  certainly  not.  She  would 
not  condescend  to  say  anything  in  detraction 
of  them  beyond — beyond ' 

He  waits,  politely  expectant,  but  not  help- 
ing her  to  a  word,  as  he  might  so  easily,  do. 
She  has  to  set  off  upon  a  remodelled  sentence  : 

'  I  gathered  it  from  the  fact  of  her  having 
had  to  leave  home  through  her  faithfulness 
to  her  convictions.  If  the  species  of  perse- 
cution to  which  she  was  exposed ' 

'  Persecution  /' 

'  Yes,  persecution  ' — firmly. 

He  looks  upon  the  floor,  and  once  again 
she  has  reason  to  suspect  that  he  is  struggling 
with  a  laugh. 

'  They  certainly  did  not  hit  it  off  particu- 
larly well.' 

The  entire  lack  of  fervour  in  this  utterance 
brings  the  blood  to  her  face. 

*As  far  as  I  have  heard,  light  and  dark- 
ness never  have  hit  it  off  particularly  well 
since  the  world  began.' 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  113 

He  lifts  his  downcast  orbs,  and  looks  at 
her  with  a  pleased  gravity. 

'  Miss  Bateson  and  I  are  companions  in 
iniquity,'  he  says  deliberately.  '  If  her  family 
are  not  worthy  of  her,  neither  are  mine  of 
me.' 

She  glances  at  him  with  a  quickened 
interest.  Hitherto  his  outside  advantages 
have  done  him  rather  disservice  than  other- 
wise with  her,  as  proclaiming  him  to  belong 
to  that  rdgirne  which  she  has  renounced. 

'  Do  you  mean ' 

'  I  mean ' 

The  ting  of  the  electric  bell  breaks  into 
his  answer.      Faustina  has  returned. 


[   114  ] 


CHAPTER  VI. 

'  So  that  is  the  new  enthusiasm,  is  it  ?' 

The  collapse  of  her  cook  has  been  ex- 
plained to  Miss  Bateson,  and  has  been 
received  with  that  philosophic  indifference  by 
which  she  is  wont  to  baffle  the  lesser  blows 
of  fate. 

'  She  is  no  loss.  Until  I  find  another,  we 
can  turn  into  an  A  B  C  for  food.  Is  not  it  a 
blessing  for  me  ' — addressing  the  man — '  that 
Althea  does  not  care  a  straw  what  she  eats  ?' 
Althea's  spirit  is  not  yet  so  chastened  as  to 
escape  a  slight  prick  of  indignation  at  hearing 
her  Christian  name  thus  made  free  with  to  a 
perfect   stranger ;  and  partly  to   conceal   an 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  115 

irritation  of  which  she  is  ashamed,  partly 
out  of  deHcacy,  she  leaves  the  two  friends 
together. 

The  man  lights  a  cigarette,  and,  leaning 
his  shoulder  against  the  chimney-piece,  gives 
utterance  to  the  sentence  above  quoted  : 

'  So  that  is  the  new  enthusiasm,  is  it  ?' 

'  If  you  choose  to  put  it  so' — lighting  up 
too. 

'  It  is  a  more  comprehensible  ardour  than 
the  last ;  but  if  you  will  excuse  my  putting  it 
so,  she  does  not  look  cut  quite  on  our  pattern.' 

'  Our  /' — with  a  withering  glance  at  the 
elegance  of  his  tout  ensemble. 

'  Yes,  our  !  I  suppose  I  may  be  allowed  to 
have  given  proofs  of  my  right  of  citizenship, 
even  though  a  few  old  clothes  survive  from 
my  unregenerate  state.  Are  you  determined 
never  to  take  me  to  your  heart  until  I  am 
dressed  wholly  from  a  slop-shop  Y  His  tone 
is  one  of  careless  intimacy,  slightly  touched 
with  an  inoffensive  impertinence. 


ii6  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

'  However  much  her  outside  may  beHe 
her ' 

*  I  am  far  from  objecting  to  it' 

'  She  is  one  of  us  !' 

'  Is  she  ?' 

'She  is  prepared  to  go  as  far  as  anybody. 
She  is  very  keen  about  the  vote,  perfectly 
sound  upon  the  Marriage  Question,  and  her 
opinion  of  men  is,  if  possible,  lower  than 
mine.' 

He  receives  this  last  thrust  w^th  perfect 
equanimity. 

'  She  is  a  very  valuable  acquisition.  And 
how  long  do  you  think  she  will  last  ?' 

'  Last  f 

'  Yes  ;  how  long  before  she  follows  poor 
Lewis  to  Limbo  ?' 

The  question  is  a  provocative  one ;  but 
Faustina's  temper  is  nearly,  if  not  quite,  up 
to  the  level  of  her  nerves  and  her  digestion. 

'  She  asked  me  that  question  herself  this 
very  day.' 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  ii'] 

*  And  what  did  you  answer  ?' 

'  It  is  not  of  the  least  consequence  what 
I  answered.' 

He  stands  thoughtful,  the  end  of  his 
cigarette  between  his  finger  and  thumb* 

'  In  what  direction  do  you  mean  to  utilize 
her  ?  She  does  not  look  much  like  a  hewer 
of  wood  or  drawer  of  water.' 

*  It  is  very  kind  of  you  to  be  so  much 
interested  about  her.  But  do  not  dis- 
quiet yourself ;  she  will  find  her  proper 
sphere.' 

'  What  is  her  history  ?  How  did  you  get 
hold  of  her  .-^  Is  she  an  isolated  fact?  and 
if  not,  how  did  her  relations  allow  you  to 
spirit  her  away  ?' 

'  It  was  no  case  of  spiriting ;  she  has 
broken  with  her  family  deliberately  for  the 
sake  of  her  opinions.' 

'  Like  you  !' 

There  is  a  suspicion  of  the  same  laugh  as 
had  puzzled  Althea  in  his  voice,  but  Faustina 


ii8  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

apparently  does  not  notice  it,  unless  to  it  is 
due  the  tartness  of  her  response. 

'  Like  you,  too  ;  only  that  her  vocation  is  a 
much  more  genuine  one  than  yours.' 

*  Thank  you.' 

'Not  that  you' — relenting — 'have  not 
given  some  good  proofs  of  your  sincerity.' 

'  Thank  you.' 

'  But  that  paltry  levity  of  yours  makes  one 
doubt  that  you  can  ever  be  really  in  earnest 
about  anything.' 

'  Thank  you.  I  am  growing  so  surfeited 
with  sweets  that  I  think  I  shall  wish  you 
good-evening.' 

Apparently  they  understand  each  other, 
for  she  lets  him  go  without  remonstrance. 

'  What  is  the  editor  of  the  Firebrand  like  T 
asks  Althea  that  same  evening,  apparently 
apropos  of  nothing. 

*  Like  !     How  do  you  mean  ? 

'  Like  to  look  at.  Is  he  prepossessing 
in  appearance  ?' 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  119 

Faustina's  wide-awake  eyes  open  even 
more  fully  than  usual. 

'Prepossessing!  Good  Lord,  no!  Why 
should  he  be  ?  He  is  a  man  of  the  people, 
and  he  looks  it.     Why  do  you  ask  ?' 

'  You  have  mentioned  him  so  often,  that  1 
thought  it  would  be  as  well  to  have  some 
idea  of  his  appearance,  in  case  he  called  when 
you  were  out,'  replies  Miss  Vane,  not  quite 
candidly. 

Faustina  hangs  her  dark  head  luxuriously 
backwards  over  the  top  of  her  chair — it  is 
one  of  her  rare  moments  of  inaction — and 
blows  the  smoke  of  her  cigarette  through  her 
nostrils. 

'  Prepossessing  !'  she  repeats  presently. 
'  Darling,  have  not  you  yet  learnt  that  we 
workers  have  no  time  to  spare  for  the 
graces  ?' 

'  Then,  your  visitor  of  to-day ' — a  slight 
slowness  in  bringing  out  the  query — '  is 
evidently  not  a  worker  ?' 


I20  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

[  He  looked  a  preposterous  dandy,'  replies 
Miss  Bateson,  with  a  scorn  that  yet  sounds 
lenient  ;  '  but  then,  as  you  know,  the  habits 
of  a  lifetime  are  not  shaken  off  in  a  day  ;  and 
it  is  Sunday,  isn't  it  ?  Oh  yes !  the  bells 
here  in  London  never  give  one  a  chance  of 
forgetting  that  fact.  But  despite  his  silly 
fopperies,  there  is  stuff — yes,  real  stuff — in 
John  Drake.' 

'  How  has  he  shown  it  ?' 

Faustina  sits  up,  as  if  to  give  a  more 
marked  emphasis  to  her  reply. 

*  By  chucking  twenty  thousand  pounds  a 
year.'  Althea  has  sat  up,  too,  her  eyes  alight 
with  coming  admiration.  '  His  father  owns  a 
chemical  factory  in  the  East  End,  and  when 
John  found  the  poisonous  conditions  under 
which  the  hands  spent  their  lives,  he  refused 
to  touch  a  penny  of  money  wrung  from 
the  wretchedness  of  hundreds  of  his  fellow- 
creatures  ;  and  as  his  father  entirely  declined 
to    listen    to    any    suggestions    for  bettering 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  121 

those  conditions,  he  threw  up  the  whole 
thing,  and  old  Trecothick  has  since  abso- 
lutely disinherited  him.' 

*  Trecothick !  I  thought  his  name  was 
Drake  f 

'  His  mother  was  a  Drake  ;  and  the  old 
sweater  was  so  pleased  at  having  married 
into  one  of  the  best  Devonshire  families  that 
he  took  her  name.' 

'  Twenty  thousand  a  year  !'  repeats  Althea 
in  an  awed  voice.  '  How  magnificent !  And 
what  injustice  one  does  people !' 

'  Do  not  fall  into  the  other  extreme,  dearest, 
and  make  a  hero  of  him!  He  is  still  better 
off  than  five-sixths  of  the  human  race.  His 
mother's  money — she  died  when  he  was  a 
child — came  to  him.  It  amounts  to  several 
hundreds  a  year.' 

'Several  hundreds  !  But  he  gave  up  many 
thousands  !' 

'  Yes,  he  did  ;  and  I  am  sure  I  have  no 
wish  to  minimize  the  sacrifice.     I  only  wanted 


122  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

to  guard  you  against  your  generous  tendency 
to  idealize — a  tendency  by  which  I  have  so 
magnificently  profited.' 

'  He  hinted  at  some  vital  difference  of 
opinion  with  his  family  ;  but  I  never,  never 
dreamed '     She  breaks  off. 

'What  did  he  tell  you  .^  In  what  con- 
nection did  he  introduce  the  subject  T 

'  We  were  talking  of  you.' 

'  Of  me  7—2.  little  sharply. 

'  He  was  saying  that  he  had  been  wronged 
by  his  family  in  the  same  way  as  you  had 
been  by  yours.' 

Faustina's  cheek  -  bones  take  on  for  a 
second  a  dim,  dark  flush. 

'  Did  he  tell  you  anything  more  about  me  ?' 

'  He  said  that  you  were  the  daughter  of 
one  of  his  nearest  neighbours.' 

The  flush  pales  into  a  relieved,  dry  smile. 

'  That  was  a  euphemism.  I  am  the  daughter 
of  old  Trecothick's  bailiff — none  of  your 
gentlemen  bailiffs  :  a  common  working  farmer. 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  123 

I  wonder  that  John  Drake  has  not  known 
me  long  enough  to  know  that  I  glory  in  the 
class  from  which  I  spring.  If  I  were  not  a 
working  woman  by  necessity,  I  should  cer- 
tainly be  one  by  choice.' 

Althea  acknowledges  this  noble  sentiment 
by  an  appreciative  look;  but  that  her  thoughts 
are  still  rather  with  the  absent  hero  than  the 
present  heroine  is  made  plain  by  her  next 
words  : 

'  Has  he  any  profession  ?' 

'  I  believe  he  used  to  suppose  that  he 
hung  about  the  Law  Courts,  but  his  real 
work  is  in  connection  with  the  Settlement 
down  at  Canning  Town.  He  lives  there  for 
months  at  a  time,  organizing  meetings,  giving 
lectures,  and  so  forth.' 

'Appearances  are  deceitful,'  says  Althea, 
with  soft  thoughtfulness.  '  He  does  not  look 
like  it.' 

'  Probably  he  thinks  that  you  do  not  look 
like  it,  either.' 


24  DEAR  FAUSTINA 


The  topic  drops  ;  but  it  gives  Althea  a 
new  feeling  towards  the  subject  of  it  when 
next  he  appears  on  her  horizon. 

'  Darling,'  says  Faustina,  one  morning 
after  the  union  of  the  friends  has  lasted  for 
a  month,  '  did  not  you  tell  me  that  you 
wished  to  visit  your  family  ?  Would  not 
to-day  be  a  good  opportunity  ?  I  could 
spare  you  better  to-day  than  most  days,  be- 
cause I  have  a  person  coming  to  speak  to 
me  on  business  in  the  afternoon  ?' 

'  Business  that  I  am  not  to  hear  ?'  replies 
Althea,  with  affectionate  playfulness  at  the 
absurdity  of  the  idea. 

'Business  that  you  are  not  to  hear !  How 
can  you  be  so  absurd  ?  My  beloved  ' — seeing 
a  look  of  unaffected  surprise  on  Althea's  face 
at  the  unwonted  tartness  of  her  tone — '  you 
make  me  wince  when  you  hint  at  such  a 
possibility  as  any  concealment  between  us, 
even  in  play.' 

'  To-day    will    suit    me    admirably.       Dear 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  125 


things  !' — with  an  accent  of  hesitating  tender- 
ness. '  I  do  not  know  whether  they  will 
care  to  see  me  ;  but  I  shall  be  very,  mry 
glad  to  see  them  again.' 

Faustina  turns  away,  having  summoned 
up  an  expression  of  suffering  to  her  strong 
face. 

'You  need  not  be  jealous,'  says  the  other, 
laying  a  reassuring  hand  upon  her  com- 
panion's shoulder.  '  Fondly  as  I  love  them, 
I  still  think  I  have  chosen  the  better  part.' 

She  says  it  with  conviction — says  it  over 
to  herself  on  her  way  —  even  while  little 
waves  of  expectant,  if  rather  nervous,  pleasure 
keep  running  over  her  —  even  when,  from 
the  top  of  her  bus,  she  sees  Aunt  Lavinia 
rolling  along  Piccadilly  in  her  victoria,  un- 
conscious of  the  eye  of  her  ddclassd  young 
relative  stooping  admiringly,  yet  not  en- 
viously, down  upon  the  feathers  in  her 
bonnet  and  the  little  coal-black  toy  Spitz  by 
her  side  from  her  vulgar  eyrie. 


126  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

When  the  bus  stops,  she  steps  gingerly 
down  the  dirty  stair,  anxiously  guarding  her 
skirts. 

She  has  dressed  carefully,  being  anxious 
not  to  prejudice  her  family  still  further  against 
the  line  of  life  she  has  adopted  by  any  de- 
terioration in  her  appearance. 

There  is  still  a  short  distance  to  be  walked 
before  reaching  the  house,  in  a  good  Mayfair 
street,  which  the  William  Botelers  have 
taken  on  lease.  The  William  Botelers ! 
How  hard  it  is  to  picture  Clare  as  one  half 
of  '  the  William  Botelers  '! 

As  she  nears  her  goal,  misgivings  get  the 
upper  hand  of  hope  in  her  breast.  What 
sort  of  a  welcome  will  she  get  ?  She  has 
come  unasked. 

After  all,  how  little  notice  they  have  taken 
of  her  since  the  schism  that  separated  her 
from  them  !  She  has  written  three — or  is  it 
four  ? — times  to  Edward,  and  been  answered 
— for  it  ts  an  answer — by  blank  silence. 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  127 


Fanny  has  sent  her  nothing  but  the  con- 
ventional love  that  nobody  gives  and  nobody 
cares  to  take,  in  Clare's  last  letter ;  and 
Clare ! — Clare's  two  letters  have  had  that 
aroma  of  sweet,  tactful  kindness  which 
breathes  from  all  her  gracious  words  and 
deeds  ;  but,  oh,  how  unlike  they  have  been  to 
the  close-scribbled  outpourings  of  her  girl- 
hood, when  the  sisters  happened  to  be  parted 
for  even  a  day!  In  these  she  has  'writ 
large,'  to  hide  the  poverty  of  her  topics,  and 
even  so  has  had  to  swell  one  starved  page 
by  comments  on  a  political  incident.  Two 
years  ago,  what  world -convulsion  not  affect- 
ing their  two  selves  would  have  found  a 
place  in  their  crowded  pages  ? 

She  has  reached  the  door,  and  her  heart 
beats  quickly  as  she  rings.  How  many  of 
these  now-alarming  dear  ones  will  she  have 
to  face  ?  William — the  excellent,  insufferable 
William — will,  thank  God !  be  certainly  at 
the    Stock    Exchange  ;    Edward    at    Balliol, 


128  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

Thomas  at  Eton.  It  is  only  gentle  Clare 
and  childish  Fanny  whom  she  is  needlessly 
bracing  her  nerves  to  meet.  Yet  the  trepi- 
dation of  her  spirit  does  not  subside  as  she 
sits  in  the  empty  drawing-room,  while  the 
butler  goes  in  search  of  his  mistress. 

The  room  is  softly  brilliant  in  dazzlingly 
clean  paint  and  gilding,  delicate  pompadour 
satin  hangings,  wedding-presents,  and  count- 
less flowers.  It  strikes  Althea,  as  she  sits 
there,  how  little  time  it  takes  one  entirely  to 
change  one's  standpoint  in  life.  It  is  scarcely 
five  weeks  since  she  left  civilization,  and  yet 
it  is  with  something  of  the  wondering  stare  of 
an  inhabitant  of  Poplar  or  Stratford  that  she  is 
surveying  the  pretty  luxuries  of  her  sister's 
room.  She  has  seen  scores  of  such  rooms, 
and  knows  that  there  exist  in  London  tens  of 
thousands  of  them,  though  perhaps,  as  a 
rule,  not  quite  so  clean,  since  it  is  only  a 
small  minority  that  have  been  freshly  de- 
corated by  an  ardent  bridegroom  for  his  bride. 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  129 


'  Thee  I  this  is  nice  !' 

Clare  has  entered  without  her  visitor  hear- 
ing her  step,  and  in  a  second  her  warm  arms 
are  round  the  runagate.  With  a  sort  of  sob 
in  her  throat  the  latter  realizes  that  Clare,  at 
all  events,  is  all  right. 

*  Will  you  have  me  to  luncheon  ?' 

'  Willi? 

'  And  shall  I  have  the  luck  to  keep  you  to 
myself?' 

The  other  hesitates. 

'  Fanny  is  here,  of  course.' 

'  Has  Fanny  begun  to  count  ?  She  never 
used  to  do  so.' 

'  And  Ned  is  up  for  the  night.' 

'  Dear  old  Ned  !  How  glad  I  shall  be  to 
see  him  !' 

The  ejaculation  is  a  quavering  one,  and 
falls  rather  flat. 

'  And  I  have  invited  a  girl,  a  friend  of  his, 
at  his  request,  to  meet  him.' 

'  A  girl  ?     Oh  !' 

9 


130  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

'  A  very  nice  girl — Miss  Delafield.' 
'  Lady  Lanington's  daughter  ?' 

*  Yes  ;  do  not  you  remember  her  ball  last 
year,  when  the  electric  light  went  out  ?' 

'  Perfectly.' 

For  a  minute  silence  falls  between  them, 
Althea,  and  probably  Clare,  too,  musing  upon 
the  gulf  that  parts  them  from  that  darkened 
entertainment. 

'  How  pretty  your  house  is  !' 

'  It  will  be,  I  hope.  We  are  rather  in  the 
rough  still.' 

*  In  the  rough  /' — smiling  sardonically. 
There  is  perhaps  something  unintentionally 

challenging    in    Miss    Vane's    tone,    for    her 
sister  looks  frightened. 

*  I  dare  say  the  expression  applied  to  a 
room  like  this  sounds  ridiculously  affected  to 
you,  who  have  been  seeing  so  much  of  the 
''  seamy  side  "  of  life.  You  would  ' — with 
an  apprehensive  glance  towards  the  door — 
*  hardly  have  time  to  tell  me  anything  about 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  131 

it  before  luncheon — I  mean,  it  would  not  be 
worth  while  to  begin,  would  it  ?' 

'  Do  not  be  afraid.  I  am  not  going  to 
begin.' 

She  says  it  with  a  laugh,  but  it  is  a  mirth 
that  covers  a  good  deal  of  wounded  feeling. 
They  are  both  relieved  at  Fanny's  entrance. 
Fanny  is  quite  glad  to  see  Althea ;  and  so 
she  is  to  see  the  two  luncheon-seeking  young 
men  who  presently  appear  ;  so  she  is  to  see 
Miss  Delafield.  The  latter  is  one  of  those 
lofty-statured,  porcelain-textured,  exquisitely 
groomed  young  creatures  who  may  be  seen 
on  any  fine  morning,  between  February  and 
August,  in  considerable  numbers,  doing  in- 
finite credit  to  their  country  in  the  shops  and 
on  the  pavement  of  Sloane  Street. 

Sisters  know  each  other  terribly  well,  and 
it  is  obvious  to  the  intruding  one  that  Mrs. 
Boteler's  anxiety  as  to  herself  is  heightened 
since  the  arrival  of  '  Edward's  friend.'  Her 
look  travels  oftener  doorwards,  and  presently 


132  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

Althea  sees  her  slip  quietly  out  of  the  room. 
She  knows  as  well  as  if  she  had  been  told  in 
words  that  Clare  has  heard  Edward's  foot  on 
the  stairs,  and  is  hasting  to  tell  him  of  the 
culprit's  presence,  so  that  his  jaw  may  not 
drop  too  perceptibly  on  catching  sight  of  her. 

The  precaution  is  not  so  very  successful, 
after  all.  Nothing  can  be  more  chilling  than 
the  eye  and  hand  with  which  he  salutes  her. 
She  feels  so  hurt  and  mortified  that,  when 
they  go  down  to  luncheon,  she  chooses  a  seat 
as  far  from  him  as  the  size  of  the  table  will 
admit. 

She  finds  herself  beside  one  of  the  other 
young  men.  She  knows  him  slightly,  but  he 
is  so  entirely  in  the  dark  as  to  her  present 
mode  of  life,  so  determined  that  she  is  living 
with  her  sister,  it  is  so  impossible  to  enlighten 
him  without  annoying  her  family  by  her 
revelation,  that  their  talk  is  one  series  of 
misunderstandings  on  his  part,  and  parrying 
awkward   questions   on    hers.       He    cannot 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  133 

think  what  has  happened  to  her,  and,  as 
soon  as  courtesy  will  admit,  turns  with  relief 
to  his  other  neighbour,  Fanny.  Upon  the 
sunny  brooklet  of  her  small  glib  talk,  vaguely 
flattering,  as  every  man  who  converses  with 
her  feels,  though  none  could  explain  why, 
Althea  presently  sees  and  hears  him  sail  away 
twenty  knots  an  hour. 

Since  the  chair  on  her  left  is  filled  by  an 
old  cousin  of  William  Boteler's,  who  had 
come  in  late,  and  is  too  much  occupied 
pouring  scraps  of  Boteler  family  news  into 
Clare's  attentive  ear  to  notice  her,  she  is  left 
to  the  enjoyment  of  her  luncheon,  which 
seems  to  her  extraordinarily  delicious.  She 
reproaches  herself  for  the  acute  pleasure  her 
palate  derives  from  it,  contrasting  herself 
with  Faustina. 

After  the  ladies  have  returned  to  the 
drawing  -  room,  she  finds  Miss  Delafield 
accosting  her,  and  civilly  recalling  herself  to 
her  memory. 


134  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

They  are  both  still  standing,  when,  the 
men  having  immediately  followed  them, 
Edward  makes  straight  as  a  die  for  the  little 
group.  At  the  same  moment  the  youth  who 
had  so  resolvedly  misunderstood  Althea  at 
luncheon  asks  Miss  Delafield  a  question,  and 
she,  turning  a  little  to  answer  it,  leaves  the 
brother  and  sister  tete-a-tHe. 

'  Can  you  spare  me  a  little  bit  of  notice 
from  metal  more  attractive  ?'  Althea  asks  in 
a  friendly  if  rather  nervous  low  voice. 

'Yes,'  he  answers;  'I  wish  to  speak  to 
you.  Would  you  mind  coming  into  the  back 
drawing-room  for  a  moment  ?' 

She  gives  glad  assent,  and  follows  him. 

'  I  am  flattered,'  she  says,  with  a  slight 
meaning  smile  thrown  back  towards  the 
room  they  have  left.  '  This  is  a  compliment! 
Dear  old  boy !  how  pleasant  it  is  to  see  you 
again  !' 

When  you  have  led  a  person  apart  with 
no  other  design  than  to  administer  to  him  or 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  135 

her  a  pungent  snub,  it  is  awkward  to  have 
the  conversation  opened  in  such  a  spirit  as 
this  by  the  intended  recipient,  and  for  a 
moment  Edward  is  taken  aback. 

'  I  will  not  keep  you  a  moment,'  he  says 
in  half  -  apology  ;  '  I  only  want  to  ask  a 
favour  of  you.' 

'  A  favour  ?' 

'  Yes,  a  favour.  I  saw  you  just  now  in 
conversation  with  Miss  Delafield.' 

*  Why  should  not  I  be  in  conversation 
with  her  ?' 

He  is  silent. 

'  It  was  she  who  addressed  me,  not  I 
her.' 

'  I  am  not  finding  fault  with  you.  You 
have,  of  course,  a  perfect  right  to  talk  to 
whom  you  choose.  What  I  was  going  to 
ask  you  was,  as  I  told  you,  a  favour.' 

'  What  favour  ?' 

Her  smile  has  died  away,  and  her  voice  is 
dry  and  hard. 


136  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

'  It  Is  only  that  in  any  future  conversation 
you  may  have  with  her ' 

*  I  have  not  the  slightest  desire  to  have 
any  future  conversations  with  her.' 

He  reddens. 

'  I  dare  say  not.  I  do  not  think  that  you 
would  have  much  in  common.' 

'  She  asked  me  whether  I  remembered  the 
electric  light  going  out  at  their  ball  last  year, 
and  I  said  ''Yes,  I  did."  ' 

'  All  I  wished  to  ask  you  was  that,  in  case 
you  did  talk  to  her,  you  would  refrain  from 
airing  your  peculiar  views  to  her.' 

Althea  turns  pale  and  bites  her  lip,  but 
the  action  does  not  succeed  in  keeping  in  the 
gibing  answer  : 

'  You  are  behind  the  times.  Do  not  you 
know  that  philanthropy  is  \\\^  fashion  ?' 

His  retort  is  not  less  gibing  : 

'  Philanthropy  !  Yes  ;  I  was  not  alluding 
to  philanthropy.' 


[  ^37    ] 


CHAPTER  VII. 

The  rest  of  the  party  have  dispersed,  and 
Althea  sits  on  a  sofa  beside  Clare,  her  eyes 
brimming  with  angry  tears.  Miss  Delafield, 
their  innocent  occasion,  has,  in  going  away, 
under  Edward's  very  nose,  asked  for  her 
address,  and  for  leave  to  call  upon  her,  and 
she  has  bungled  and  stammered  in  her  efforts 
to  evade  the  little  civility.  Her  wounded 
spirit  would  have  carried  her  out  of  the 
house  at  once  had  not  Clare,  by  an  imploring 
sign,  urged  her  to  stay.  Mrs.  Boteler  had 
seen  the  expression  of  the  two  faces  on  their 
return  from  their  trip  to  the  back  drawing- 
room,  and  is  now  engaged  in  pouring  balm 


138  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

into  the  hurts  of  the  worst  mauled  of  the  two 
combatants. 

'  He  Is  in  love  ;  people  in  love  are  always 
unjust.' 

'  He  spoke  to  me  in  a  way  that  was 
perfectly  unjustifiable.' 

'  Did  he  ?  He  always  was  rather  peppery; 
but  I  think  he  wanted  to  make  you  an  ainende. 
He  would  have  liked  to  shake  hands  with 
you,  only  that  you  turned  so  resolutely 
away.' 

'  And  now,  perhaps,  he  will  be  killed  in  a 
railway  accident  going  back  to  Oxford,'  says 
Althea  lugubriously,  one  large  tear  bursting 
from  its  dyke  and  running  down  her  nose. 

Clare  laughs. 

'  That  is  piling  on  the  agony !' 

'  What  harm  did  he  suppose  I  should  do 
the  girl  ?' — with  a  fresh  burst  of  indignation. 

'  Perhaps  ' — hesitatingly — '  he  was  a  little 
afraid  that  you  might  inoculate  her  with  your 
views  of  marriage.' 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  139 

'What  does  he  know  about  my  views  of 
marriage  ?  He  has  never  had  the  fairness  to 
let  me  state  them.' 

'  Do  not  you  think  that,  if  two  people  know 
that  they  differ  fundamentally  upon  a  subject, 
silence  is  the  wisest  course  ?' 

*  No,  I  do  not ;  I  like  fresh  air.  I  think 
that  there  is  no  subject  that  is  not  the  better 
for  ventilation.' 

Mrs.  Boteler  gives  a  slight  inward  shudder. 
There  is  such  a  whiff  of  Faustina  about  this 
last  sentence.  It  takes  a  minute  to  conquer 
her  repulsion.  Before  she  can  ask,  '  You  go 
on  liking  your  life  ?'  Althea  has  captured  her 
errant  teardrop,  and  her  eyes  sparkle  bright 
and  dry. 

'  It  is  hardly  a  question  of  liking.  If 
you  mean,  do  I  still  think  I  have  chosen 
wisely,  I  answer  emphatically,  in  spite  of 
you  all,  in  spite  of  Ned  ' — faltering — '  '*  Yes, 
I  do."  ' 

Clare  looks  at  her  wistfully.     She  would 


I40  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

like  to  put  a  great  many  questions  as  to  the 
details  of  that  life  which  has  thinned  her 
sister's  face,  and  yet  lit  it  with  such  a  fire  of 
enthusiasm  ;  but  the  intense  distaste  which 
she  shares  with  the  rest  of  her  family  for 
alluding,  even  obliquely,  to  Miss  Bateson 
keeps  her  silent. 

'  You  have  grown  thin  !' 

'  Have  I  ?  That  only  proves  that  I  added 
superfluous  flesh  to  all  my  other  super- 
fluities.' 

Altogether  it  is  not  a  great  success,  though 
Clare  at  parting  gives  her  a  close,  sisterly 
hug,  and  says  ruefully  :       . 

*  I  do  not  like  to  let  you  go.  I  want  to 
keep  you  and  fatten  you  up.  I  do  not  believe 
that  that  wo — I  mean,  I  am  sure  you  have 
not  enough  to  eat.' 

It  is  with  a  lump  in  her  throat  that  Althea, 
from  the  summit  of  her  return  bus — she  has 
grown  in  the  last  five  weeks  a  past-mistress 
in  the  colours  of  those  puzzling  vehicles — 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  141 

reflects  upon  her  family.  How  nice  they  all 
looked — how  much  handsomer  than  she  had 
remembered  them !  and  how  well  they  do 
without  her ! 

They  did  not  ask  her  one  question  as  to 
the  great  and  heart-rending  subjects  which 
have  burnt  all  other  and  lesser  interests  out 
of  her  own  life.  They  did  not  show,  because 
they  did  not  feel,  the  least  concern  for  the 
tens  of  thousands  of  stunted,  starved,  and 
poisoned  lives  running  parallel  to  their  own 
wadded  satin  ones. 

What  tales  she  could  have  told  them  of 
the  hopeless  women,  and  dwindled  little 
children,  and  famine-goaded  men,  to  whom 
Faustina  and  Drake  have  dedicated  their 
lives !  But  they  would  not  have  listened  to 
her  if  she  had.  Edward  would  have — nay, 
but  what  could  Edward  say  or  do  more 
wounding  than  what,  without  any  provoca- 
tion on  her  part,  he  had  already  done  ?  And 
Clare  would  have  looked  alarmed,  and  given 


142  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

the  conversation  a  swift,  if  gentle,  ply  in 
some  happier  direction. 

Her  bus  does  not  take  her  quite  to  her 
own  Mansions ;  she  has  to  walk  a  few 
hundred  yards  along  that  mean  and  noisy 
street  whose  proximity  helps  to  bring  the 
rents  of  More  Mansions  within  indigent 
means.  She  has  got  half-way  through  it, 
when  she  sees  one  of  the  two  persons  whom 
she  has  been  so  favourably  comparing  with 
her  own  kinsfolk  coming  to  meet  her. 

Drake  and  she  have  been  several  times 
in  each  other's  company  since  their  first 
informal  introduction  over  the  drunken  cook's 
body,  though  not  often  tete-a-tete.  When- 
ever this  has  happened,  there  has  always 
been  on  Althea's  mind,  and  perhaps  also 
a  little  in  her  manner,  the  print  of  that  im- 
pression which  the  knowledge  of  his  great 
renunciation  had  graved  there  on  her  first 
hearing  it. 

He    is   frowning   over   some  disagreeable 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  143 

thought  when  she  first  catches  sight  of  him, 
but  they  meet  with  two  smiles. 

'  Have  you  been  to  see  Miss  Bateson  ?' 

'Yes; 

'  Did  you  find  her  ?  Oh,  but  of  course 
you  did.  She  had  to  stay  at  home  to  see 
a  person  on  business.' 

'  I  was  that  person.' 

'  Were  you  ?' 

There  is  a  slight  inflexion  of  surprise  in 
her  voice  at  Faustina's  not  having  mentioned 
this  fact ;  but  she  does  not  dwell  upon  it. 

'You  look  tired.' 

'  I  have  been  to  see  my  family.' 

'Is  that  an  epigram  ?' 

She  laughs  a  little  dismally. 

'  No  ;  but  they  live  a  long  way  off,  and 
my  bus  was  a  very  jolting  one.  I  felt  as  if 
I  were  out  hunting.' 

'  May  I  walk  with  you  to  your  door  ?' 

It  is  so  deeply  unlikely  that  Edward  will 
return  to  Oxford  via  Flood  Street,  Chelsea, 


144  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

that  she  answers,  without  any  perceptible 
delay  :  '  Yes,  do.' 

He  walks  along  beside  her  quite  silently 
— so  silently  that  she  wonders  why  he  had 
volunteered  his  company.  At  last,  when  the 
great  pile  of  red  brick  that  is  to  part  them 
looms  near,  he  speaks. 

'  Do  you  care  to  hear  what  my  business 
with  Miss  Bateson  was  ?' 

*  If  you  care  to  tell  it  me !' — surprised. 
He  still  hesitates. 

'  I  hope,  at  all  events,  that  it  was  satis- 
factory.' 

*  It  would  be  impossible  to  imagine  any- 
thing less  so.' 

He  pauses  before  adding  to  this  vague 
yet  emphatic  statement  of  failure,  an  appa- 
rently irrelevant  question. 

'  Are  you  fond  of  asking  favours  ?  I  am 
not.  Well,  I  have  just  asked  one,  and  been 
refused.' 

'A  favour.-*'     It  is  the  word  that  has  been 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  145 

ringing  in  Althea's  head  since  her  brother's 
insulting  employment  of  it,  and  her  forehead 
involuntarily  contracts.  *  Was  it  Faustina 
whom  you  asked  ?' 

'  Yes.' 

'  I  am  sure  that  if  it  had  been  anything 
possible  she  would  have  granted  it.' 

*  Are  you  ?     Why  ?' 

'  Because  she  never  spares  herself,  and 
because  I  know  what  a — what  a  high  value 
she  has  for  you.' 

*  Has  she  ?  Oh,  we  puff  each  other  off 
when  it  suits  us.' 

She  looks  indignantly  at  him,  but  appa- 
rently he  is  too  much  absorbed  to  notice  it. 

'  You  know  her  extraordinary  faculty  for 
getting  up  enough  of  a  subject  that  she 
knows  nothing  of  to  write  a  rousing  article 
upon  it  ?' 

*  I  know  the  clearness  and  strength  of  her 
mind,  and  her  power  of  picking  out  essentials 
from  accessories.' 

10 


146  DEAR  FAUSTINA 


'  Well ' — a  little  Impatiently — '  let  us  call 
it  that ;  then,  a  fortiori  you  would  think  that 
it  would  be  easy  to  her  to  knock  off  a  few 
pages  upon  a  subject  that  she  really  does 
know  something  about  ?' 

'  Yes  ?' 

'  I  have  had  it  very  much  at  heart  that  she 
should  write  me  an  article  upon  "  Dangerous 
Trades,"  and  get  it  into  the  Universal' 

'  And  she  refused  ?' 

'  Point-blank.' 

'  She  knew^  that  the  editor  would  not 
take  it.' 

'On  the  contrary,  I  happen  to  know  that 
his  sympathies  are  warmly  with  us.' 

A  wave  of  colour  rolls  over  Althea's  face. 

'  There  must  be  some  mistake.  You  know 
yourself  that  there  is  no  subject  that  she  feels 
so  strongly  about,  nothing  that  she  works  so 
hard  at,  as  factory  legislation/ 

'  There  is  no  mistake.'  They  have  reached 
the  separating-point.     '  I  have  lately  learned 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  J47 

some  peculiarly  grisly  facts  about  an  In- 
dustry In  which  chromate  of  potash  is 
employed,  and  which  I  am  very  anxious  to 
bring  before  the  public/ 

'  Yes  ?' 

'  The  other  day  a  friend  who  saw  the 
workmen  engaged  in  this  trade  told  me  that 
the  dust  eats  through  the  gristle  of  the 
nostrils,  and  destroys  the  palate  or  roof  of 
the  mouth.' 

She  gives  a  little  ejaculation  of  horror. 

'  He  said  he  had  seen  a  pencil  passed 
through  the  nostril  of  a  man  who  had  been 
employed  in  the  trade  for  some  years,  and 
that  it  was  a  certain  result  of  a  given  period 
of  work.' 

He  cannot  complain  that  his  tale  is  not 
interesting  her.  She  has  come  quite  close 
to  him  ;  her  cheeks  are  blanched,  and  her 
eyes  are  plunged  into  his.  Deep  and  genuine 
as  his  own  concern  In  the  topic  is,  he  cannot 
help  the  passing  thought  of  how  easily  their 


148  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

attitude    might    be    misread    by    a    passer- 
by. 

'  You  did  not  tell  Faustina  ^Aa^  7 

'  Yes,  I  did; 

*  And  she  still  refused  ?' 

*  As  I  tell  you,  point-blank.' 

'  There  must  be  some  mistake.  You  could 
not  have  made  her  understand.' 

'  She  understood  perfectly.' 

For  a  moment  there  is  silence  ;  then : 
'  You  must  be  doing  her  an  injustice,'  the 
girl  says  in  a  voice  unsteady  with  emotion  ; 
'  such  a  refusal  would  run  counter  to  the 
whole  tenor  of  her  life.  Will  you — will  you 
wait  down  here  for  a  few  moments  while  I 
go  to  her  and  have  it  cleared  up  ?' 

He  shakes  his  head.    '  It  would  be  useless.' 

But  she  has  turned  from  him,  and  is  speed- 
ing up  the  narrow  stone  stairs. 

'  How  out  of  breath  you  are,  my  own !' 
says  Miss  Bateson,  slewing  herself  round 
from  her  writing-table,  and  dropping  her  pen 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  149 

to  extend  her  arms.  But  Althea  neglects 
their  invitation. 

'  Faustina,  I  have  just  met  Mr.  Drake.' 

The  ecstatic  smile  upon  Miss  Bateson's 
lips  dies  away. 

'  That  fact  was  scarcely  enough  to  put 
anyone  out  of  breath.' 

'  He  has  been  telling  me  what  his  business 
with  you  was.' 

'  Has  he  r 

'  Of  the  request  he  made  you.' 

'  Indeed  !' 

'  And  which  you  refused  ?' 

'  I  did.' 

The  calmness  of  this  assent  to  what  she 
had  so  passionately  disbelieved  knocks  Althea 
on  her  beam-ends  ;  and  this,  combined  with 
her  as  yet  not  recovered  breath,  silences  her, 
though  not  for  long. 

*  But  did  he  tell  you — did  you  take  in  the 
facts,  the  monstrous  facts,  that  he  has  learnt 
about ' 


ISO  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

'  Chromate  of  potash  ?'  Interrupts  Faustina, 
with  a  rather  bored  air.  '  Oh  yes.  After 
all,  what  is  it  but  one  more  pebble  upon  the 
gigantic  cairn  that  Is  being  built  up  against 
the  day  of  retribution  ?' 

'  But  why  did  you  refuse  ? — you,  who  are 
always  foremost  in  the  fight  ?' 

Miss  Bateson's  temper  Is  good,  and  well  In 
hand,  but  she  Is  not  very  fond  of  being  cross- 
questioned. 

'  I  did  It  for  what  I  considered  sufficient 
reasons.' 

'  And  which  you  have  not  confidence 
enough  in  me  to  tell  me !'  cries  the  other  In 
a  deeply  wounded  voice.  But  here  Faustina 
is  equal  to  the  occasion. 

'  If  there  Is  any  question  of  want  of  con- 
fidence between  us,  it  is  hardly  on  my 
side.' 

She  turns  back  to  her  writing-table,  as  if 
to  close  the  subject ;  but  Althea  Is  not  so  to 
be  put  off. 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  151 

'  I  Aad  confidence  in  you  ;  I  told  him  I 
knew  it  was  not  true — that  there  was  some 
mistake — that  it  was  so  unlike  you.  I  asked 
him  to  wait  until  I  ran  up  to  you  to  have  it 
cleared  up.' 

Faustina  lifts  an  eye,  in  which  gratification 
is  not  the  leading  expression,  to  the  acolyte 
thus  turned  judge,  and  surveys  her  standing- 
quivering  in  red-hot  excitement  over  her. 

'  It  is  inexpressibly  painful  to  me  to  find 
that  you  have  been  discussing  me  with  one 
who  is,  or  ought  to  be,  an  almost  entire 
stranger  to  you.' 

*  Ought  to  be  !  What  do  you  mean,  Faus- 
tina ?' 

The  tone,  no  less  than  the  crimsoned  face, 
of  her  metamorphosed  disciple  tell  Miss 
Bateson  that  she  has  gfone  too  far. 

'  I  had  thought,'  she  says,  with  a  hint  ot 
apology,  and  also  of  a  break  in  her  voice, 
*  that  there  was  such  perfect  union  of  heart 
and  mind  between  us,  that  we  did  not  need 


152  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

an  intruding  third  to  explain  us  to  one 
another.' 

Althea's  answer  is  given  in  company  with 
a  move  towards  the  door. 

*  There  can  be  no  union  of  heart  and  mind 
where  one  is  shut  out  from  the  other's  con- 
fidence.' 

But  Faustina  is  at  the  door  before  her. 

'  My  darling,  if  you  leave  me  in  this 
spirit  I  shall  go  wild  with  grief.  What  do 
you  ask  of  me  ?  I  am  most  willing  to  lay 
bare  my  heart  to  you,  as  I  have  so  often  done 
before — to  tell  you  the  reasons  why  I  refused 
John  Drake's  request,  or,  rather,  command 
— for  he  was  unpleasantly  peremptory — to 
do  an  article  for  him  on  ''Dangerous  Trades  " 
for  the  Universal' 

'  The  editor  would  not  take  it  ?'  puts  in 
Althea  eagerly. 

'  Oh  yes,  he  would  ;  but — but  there  are 
other  papers  beside  the  Universal — other 
editors  to  be  considered  beside  Macbride.' 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  153 

'  I  do  not  understand.' 

Miss  Bateson  does  not  seem  in  any  par- 
ticular hurry  to  explain.  She  clears  her 
throat  and  makes  one  or  two  false  starts. 
She  gets  under  way  at  last. 

'It  is  only  now  and  then  that  I  get  an 
article  to  do  for  the  Universal,  whereas  I  am 
on  the  staff  of  the  Cheapside ;  in  fact,  I 
draw  a  considerable  part  of  my  tiny  income 
from  it.' 

Althea  looks  mystified. 

'  But  there  is  no  question  in  this  case  of 
the  Cheapside.'' 

Faustina  sighs  heavily. 

'  Life  is  so  complicated,  and  it  is  so  difficult 
to  explain  its  entanglements,  even  to  one's 
nearest  and  dearest.  You  know  that  I 
depend  entirely — almost  entirely — on  my  own 
exertions  for  support  ;  that  I  neither  ask  nor 
receive  any  help  from  my  family.' 

'  I  know  ' — with  an  access  of  warmth — 
'  it  is  exceedingly  noble  of  you.' 


154  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

Even  with  the  prop  of  this  plaudit  Miss 
Bateson  again  hesitates. 

'  Such  being  the  case,  to  quarrel  with  the 
editor  is  to  quarrel  with  my  bread-and-butter 
— in  plain  words,  to  give  up  my  chief  means 
of  subsistence.' 

'  But  why  should  you  quarrel  with  him  ?' 

Faustina's  eye  wanders  distressedly  towards 
the  window,  whence  a  squeezy  pinch  of  the 
Thames  is  to  be  caught  sight  of,  then  back 
again,  and  she  takes  the  plunge. 

'  Because — because — nobody  can  deplore  it 
more  deeply  than  I — he  holds  shares  in  a 
company  concerned  in  that  particular  trade  ; 
and  if  I  expose  its  Iniquities,  it  will  naturally 
be  prejudicial  to  his  interests,  and  he  will 
be  certain  to  turn  me  adrift.' 

There  is  a  dead  silence.  Althea's  face  has 
paled  and  stiffened,  and  it  is  apparently  with 
great  difficulty  that  she  gets  out  the  words  : 

'  Thank  you  for  your  explanation.' 

'  You    think   it   a   satisfactory  one  ?'   cries 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  155 

Miss  Bateson,  seizing  the  other's  perfectly 
irresponsive  hand.  *  You  see  that  my  reason 
for  refusing  was  sound  and  valid  ?' 

'  I  see,'  replies  the  other  dryly,  '  that  there 
is  a  wide  ditch  between  admiring  a  great 
sacrifice  such  as  Mr.  Drake's  and  emulat- 
ing it.' 

Faustina's  cheek  puts  on  a  dull  flush,  which 
shows  even  through  her  habitual  high  colour, 
and  she  bites  her  lip  ;  but  she  is  still  able  to 
keep  herself  in  hand. 

'  It  is  a  little  hard  to  have  John  Drake  set 
up  as  a  model  before  me — me,  who  first  set 
him  on  the  path  of  renunciation.' 

'  It  was  you  yourself  who  supplied  me  with 
material  for  the  comparison.' 

'  There  is  no  real  comparison  between  us,' 
returns  Faustina,  drawing  herself  up.  '  He 
is  a  blundering  amateur,  with  no  comprehen- 
sive grasp  of  the  subject,  only  a  hot-headed 
zeal  for  one  or  two  details  of  it,  while  I — oh! 
is  it  possible  that  you,  of  all  people,  should 


156  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

need  to  be  told  that  I  have  devoted  all  my 
womanhood,  every  heart-beat,  every  pulse- 
throb,  to  fighting  the  Hydra?' 

Her  tone  Is  so  lofty,  and  Althea  feels 
herself  being  put  so  completely  in  the  wrong, 
that  she  has  to  use  a  strong  effort  in  order  to 
recall  the  original  facts  of  the  case  before  she 
can  say  in  a  steady,  low  voice  : 

'  That  was  why  it  seemed  to  me  so  in- 
credible.' 

'  One  must  live,'  cries  the  other,  bringing 
her  hands  together  with  a  melodramatic 
gesture.  '  Cotton-wool  people  like  you  and 
Drake  are  incapable  of  putting  yourselves  in 
the  position  of  us  toilers  and  moilers  for 
our  daily  bread.  If  I  take  pay  from  a 
man  engaged  in  the  iniquitous  traffic  that 
my  whole  life  is  spent  in  making  war  upon, 
I  use  it  as  a  lever  against  him ;  do  not 
you  see  that  I  hoist  him  with  his  own 
petard  ?' 

Althea  shakes  her  head. 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  157 

'  No  ;   I  do  not.' 

'  Do  not  you  see  that  I  mus^  keep  body 
and  soul  together?  Oh!' — with  an  abrupt 
ascent  or  descent  from  her  self-justifying  tone 
to  one  of  lovelorn  upbraiding — '  has  it  come 
to  this  ?  After  all  these  happy  heart-to-heart 
weeks,  am  I  to  stand  arraigned  like  a  criminal 
at  the  bar  before  you  ?' 

Althea's  mouth  is  all  one  painful  quiver,  a 
wave  of  horrid  disillusionment  pouring  over 
her. 

'  You  cannot  think  it  more  dreadful  than  I 
do,  a  more  shocking  reversal  of  the  right 
order  of  things !  Of  course  you  must  live, 
and  no  one  can  admire  and  reverence  your 
honourable  poverty  more  than  I  do  ;  but — 
but  would  not  it  be  possible  for  you — I  dare 
say  I  speak  like  an  ignoramus — to  get  on  the 
staff  of  some  other  paper  with  less — less 
objectionable  principles  ?  You  must  be  in 
great  request.  Only  to-day  Mr.  Drake  was 
saying  what  a  wonderful  faculty  you  had  for 


158  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

getting  up  subjects  at  short  notice,  and  writing 
brilliantly  upon  them.' 

Faustina's  lip  assumes  that  ferocious  curl 
so  frequent  in  the  pages  of  novels,  so  rare  in 
real  life,  but  on  this  occasion  really  on  view. 

'  It  is  very  good  of  him  to  allow  me  even 
that  trifling  merit !' 


[  159] 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

The  hatchet  is  buried,  though  to  a  very  nice 
observer  a  bit  of  its  handle  may  still  be  seen 
protruding  from  the  ground.  But  to  the 
ordinary  eye  there  would  seem  to  be  no 
alteration  in  the  relation  of  the  friends  as 
they  go  together,  on  the  following  day,  to 
an  '  advanced  '  tea-party. 

They  have  been  wise  enough  to  avoid  a 
reconciliation — a  thing  which  always  leaves 
so  much  larger  a  cicatrice  than  the  smartest 
quarrel. 

Althea  has  had  a  sleepless  night ;  but  by 
morning  the  deity  which  had  seemed  to  be 
sprawling  as  hopelessly  as  Dagon  has  been 


i6o  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

respectfully  lifted  to  its  pedestal  again.  That 
pedestal  is  not  quite  so  high  a  one  as  before  ; 
but  if  the  idol's  feet  have  been  shown  to  be 
clay,  its  head  is  not  less  undoubtedly  pure 
gold. 

If  there  have  been  stains  revealed  upon 
Faustina's  falchion,  she  is  none  the  less  a 
valiant  fighter  in  the  host  of  righteousness 
and  pity.  Such  stout  combatants  have  in  all 
ages  of  the  world  not  been  over-nice  as  to 
the  quality  of  the  weapons  that  came  to  their 
hands.  If  these  ingenious  reasonings  have 
not  quite  cured  the  gashed  wound  of  over- 
night, they  have  at  least  changed  its  pain 
from  an  intolerably  sharp  to  a  quite  sup- 
portably dull  one. 

The  tea-party — a  weekly  one — is  held  at  a 
club  lately  started  with  the  object  of  aiding 
needy  young  women  writers  of  reforming 
views  ;  and  if  to  this  latter  class  have  been 
added  as  members  a  few  fine  ladles,  who  find 
Its  Incendiary  principles  and  risky  discussions 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  i6i 


titillating,     the    original    element    still    pre- 
dominates. 

It  Is  Miss  Vane's  first  visit,  and,  as  they 
have  arrived  rather  late,  the  room  is  crowded, 
and  the  din  of  '  advanced  '  tongues  stunning. 
Faustina  is  at  once  absorbed  into  a  vortex  of 
female  intimates,  after  presenting  her  friend 
to  the  president  and  secretary  of  the  institu- 
tion, who  in  turn  introduce  her  with  bated 
breath  to  various  celebrities  of  whom  she  has 
never  heard — gods  of  a  little  esoteric,  clique, 
whose  godhood  seldom  reaches  the  large 
inferior  outer  world. 

She  is  ushered  with  peculiar  pomp  into 
the  acquaintance  of  one  whose  name  she  is 
vaguely  conscious  of  having  seen  in  pub- 
lishers' advertising  columns.  In  a  happy 
flash  it  dawns  upon  her  that  it  was  in  con- 
nection with  a  volume  of  one  of  the  now 
frequent  '  Series.' 

They  talk  happily  for  a  few  moments, 
when  an  allusion  to  her  '  work  '  on  the  part 

II 


i62  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

of  the  lioness  emboldens  Althea  to  hazard  the 
remark  that  she  believes  the  lady  has  not 
essayed  fiction. 

'  I  have  written  one  novel.' 

'  Oh,  indeed  !  I — I  did  not  know.  I  have 
not  been  fortunate  enough  to  meet  with  it.' 

'  And  yet  it  went  through  three  editions  !' 
— not  quite  suavely. 

'  I — I  have  not  time  to  read  many  novels  ; 
and  ' — determined  to  keep  to  sure  ground — 
*  I  always  think  of  you  as  a  biographer.' 

*  A  biographer?' — with  raised  eyebrows. 

'  Yes  ' — with  rising  misgivings,  and  a  sin- 
cere desire  to  be  '  over  the  border  and  awa'.' 
'  Did  not  you  write  the  "  Life  of  Anna 
Maria  Schumann  "  in  the  "  Gifted  Women's 
Series  ".?' 

'  Yes,  I  wrote  that.' 

'  And  ' — encouraged  by  this  ray  of  success 
— '  and  the  ''  Sappho  ".^' 

'  No,  certainly  not !'  —  rather  shortly. 
'  Mme. wrote  that.' 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  163 

A  baffled  pause. 

'  How  nice-looking  that  tall  young  lady  is !' 
— indicating  one  in  the  near  distance,  and 
with  a  sudden  plunge  into  what  seems  a  safe 
subject.     But  it,  too,  has  its  pitfalls. 

'  Yes  ;  you  know,  of  course,  who  she  is  T 

'  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  do  not.' 

'She  is  Mrs.  Algernon  Smithers.' 

'  Oh  !'— rather  blankly. 

'  You  probably  only  know  her  by  her 
pseudonym  "Hellas".^'  As  the  listener's 
face  remains  distressfully  unenlightened  : 
'  You  have,  of  course,  in  common  with  the 
whole  of  the  cultured  world,  enjoyed  her 
''Ode  to  Priapus".^  It  is  more  Greek  than 
anything  since  Theocritus.' 

'I  am  afraid' — now  sore  ashamed — 'that 
I  am  very  ignorant  of  the  new  poets.' 

'New!     "Hellas"  has    been   writing  for 

ten  years.     She  and  I  began  simultaneously.' 

The  mischief  is  out !     The  lady  is  a  poet. 

This    is    only    one    of    many    blunders    and 


1 64  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

disasters.  They  multiply  so  much  upon 
Miss  Vane's  head  that  she  looks  round  at 
last  with  a  despairing  impulse  of  flight.  But 
the  wedging  is  too  close  for  anything  but  a 
very  slow  progress  towards  the  door,  and 
Faustina  too  unattainably  distant  and  sur- 
rounded for  any  looks  of  distress  to  reach 
her. 

Althea's  eyes  rove  helplessly  over  the  un- 
known crowd — both  over  those  ladies  whose 
gallant  feathers  and  careful  red  heads  show 
them  to  be  mere  butterfly  spectators  of  the 
fray,  and  those  others  whose  wildly  cropped 
grizzled  hair  and  super-manly  coats  and 
waistcoats  point  them  out  as  the  nucleus  and 
core — the  female  '  Old  Guard,'  as  it  were — of 
the  army  of  advance. 

It  is  with  a  feeling  of  strong  surprise  that 
she  presently  recognizes  among — or,  rather, 
soaring  above — the  surge  of  heads  the  face 
of  the  girl  whom  she  had  yesterday  met  at 
luncheon    at    Clare's,   and  against  poisoning 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  165 


whose  mind  with  her  own  megrims  Edward 
had  so  cruelly  warned  her. 

What  on  earth  can  she  be  doing  in  this 
galley?  And  what  would  Edward's  feelings 
be  if  he  could  see  her  here  ? 

She  has  scarcely  time  for  the  thought,  be- 
fore Miss  Delafield,  having  worked  her  way 
to  her  with  that  ease  which  having  your  head 
and  shoulders  above  the  human  mass  which 
is  impeding  your  lower  half  gives,  stands 
beside  her,  holding  out  an  obviously  delighted 
hand. 

'  Oh,  M  iss  Vane,  I  am  so  glad  to  meet  you 
here !  I  hoped  that  I  perhaps  might.  I 
forgot  to  ask  you  for  your  address  yesterday, 
and  I  could  not  persuade  Mr.  Vane  to  give 
it  me  ;  he  turned  the  subject  off  every  time  I 
mentioned  it.' 

'  Did  he  ?' 

'But  I  felt  I  must  see  you  again,  to  tell 
you — please  do  not  think  me  impertinent — 
how  ardently  I  admire — and  envy  you.' 


1 66  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

*  It  is  very  good  of  you  to  say  so  ;  but 
for  what  ?' 

'  Oh,  surely  you  must  know  for  what !  For 
doing  such  a  grand  thing.  Throwing  over 
everything — running  against  everybody  to — 
to ' 

The  action  described  sounds  so  very  much 
more  like  that  of  an  animal  not  generally 
admired — a  bull  in  a  china-shop — than  any- 
thing else,  that  Althea  cannot  forbear  a 
vexed  smile. 

'  I  hope  I  have  not  quite  done  that' 

'  Oh,  but  I  admire  you  so  much  for  it !  I 
know  that  I  express  myself  badly  ;  but  I 
think  it  such  a  splendid  thing  to  let  no 
obstacle  stop  you  in  your  path  to  what  you 
think  right.  The  moment  that  one  begins 
to  try  to  do  right — the  highest  right,  I  mean 
— how  many,  many  obstacles  one  finds !' 

She  says  it  with  a  pensive  note  as  of 
personal  experience,  and  Althea  knows  that 
she  is  alluding  to  the  good-natured  nobleman 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  167 

and  noblewoman  who  have  had  the  honour 
of  endowing  the  world  with  so  many  feet  of 
beauty  and  aspiration.  She  looks  up  with 
silent  misgiving  at  the  pretty  face  in  the 
seven-guinea  hat  above  her — so  pretty,  so 
much  in  earnest,  and  so  far  from  wise. 

'  My  mother  does  not  know  that  I  am  here 
to-day.  I  persuaded  Lady  Treadwin  to  bring 
me  ;  she  has  just  become  a  member.  But  do 
not  let  us  waste  time  talking  of  me  ;  I  want 
you  to  tell  me  about  yourself.  You  live,  do 
not  you,  with  a  friend,  a  high-minded  friend, 
who  has  thrown  over  everything,  too  ?  Is 
she  here  ?  Would  you  mind  presenting  me 
to  her  ?' 

Again  a  thought  of  Edward,  a  thought 
even  more  rueful  than  amused,  darts  across 
his  sister's  mind.  Is  this  the  young  lady  of 
whom  he  confidently  predicated  that  she 
would  not  be  likely  to  have  much  in  common 
with  /ie7^,  Althea  ?  But  blood  is  thicker  than 
water — possibly    at    this    time    yesterday    it 


i68  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

would  not  have  been  ;  she   will   not   be  the 
channel  of  introduction. 

'  I  am  afraid  it  would  not  be  possible  to 
get  hold  of  her  just  now.' 

'  No,  oh  no  !  I  see  that  it  would  not  ;  and 
I  hope  I  shall  have  many  other  opportunities  ; 
and,  after  all,  it  is  you  who  are — whom  I — 
I  thought  that  perhaps  you  would  allow  me 
to  call  upon  you.  One  ought  not  to  be 
content  with  admiring  people  like  you  ;  one 
ought  to  try  to  imitate  them.  But  it  is 
difficult — so  difficult  to  break  away  !  I 
thought  you  would  perhaps  tell  me  how  you 
did  it — how  you  began  ?' 

Instead  of  complying.  Miss  Vane  looks 
back  and  up  at  her  interlocutor  with  an  ex- 
pression that  might  be  described  without 
much  exaggeration  as  aghast. 

'  I  do  not  think  that  our  cases  are  alike 
enough  to  make  it  of  much  use  for  me  to  do 
that.  My  father's  death — the  breaking  up  of 
my  home ' 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  169 

*  Ah  yes  ;  that,  of  course,  simplified  matters 
for  you.' 

She  says  it  in  a  tone  of  pensive  envy, 
and  once  again  that  sense  of  aghastness  rolls 
over  the  elder  girl.  The  devotion  of  Lord 
and  Lady  Lanington  to  their  beautiful  ewe 
lamb  is  proverbial ;  and  that  she  should  be 
now  calmly  alluding  to  them  merely  as  dis- 
agreeable obstacles  in  her  path  to  truth  and 
glory  makes  Althea  feel  as  if  she  herself  had 
set  rolling  a  boulder  down  a  precipice  on 
their  innocent  heads,  as  they  sit  hand  in 
hand — they  have  always  been  a  model  pair 
— at  the  hill-foot. 

It  is  possible  that  her  features  express 
something  of  her  consternation,  for  the  voice 
of  her  votary  sounds  less  assui'ed  in  her  next 
speech. 

'  But  you  had  difficulties  to  contend  with  ? 
Please  do  not  think  me  impertinent,  but  I 
was  told  that  you  had  had  a  great  deal  to  go 
through.' 


I70  DEAR  FAUSTINA 


Miss  Vane  is  spared  the  embarrassment  of 
having  to  answer  this  question  by  the  fact 
that  at  this  point  the  secretary  of  the  ckib 
brings  up  another  lady  to  present  to  her, 
a  lady  too  young,  as  she  with  a  relieved 
feeling  sees,  to  have  as  yet  achieved  any 
great  renown,  and  about  whom,  therefore, 
she  need  not  fear  to  repeat  her  distressing 
blunder  of  half  an  hour  ago.  She  does  not 
catch  this  new  acquaintance's  name,  and 
thinks  it  safest  to  tell  her  so. 

'  Oh,  my  name  would  not  convey  anything 
to  you.  I  do  a  great  deal  of  anonymous 
work  journalizing.  There  is  a  great  field 
for  women  in  journalism  ;  it  is  where  general 
information  tells.' 

Althea  is  turning  over  in  her  mind  whether 
this  statement  does  not  contain  an  unintended 
implication  that  accuracy  is  not  the  forte  of 
the  now  confessedly  superior  sex,  when  the 
young  lady  adds  : 

*  My    mother's    name    will    be    no   doubt 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  171 


familiar  to  you,  though  mine  is  not — Beachy 
Head.' 

An  overpowering  sense  of  crass  Ignorance 
whelms  Althea,  and  must  be  conveyed  by 
her  face,  for,  as  in  the  case  of  the  poetess, 
the  other's  look  of  confident  expectation 
pales. 

'  She  writes  under  that  sobriquet.  She 
thought  that  it  conveyed  her  position  in  the 
world  of  speculative  thought.' 

Althea  looks  wildly  round,  and  her  eye 
alights  on  Miss  Delafield,  still  hovering 
anxiously  near.  But  to  take  refuge  with 
her  would  be  to  fall  out  of  the  frying-pan 
into  the  fire.  It  is  with  genuine  relief  that 
she  sees  Faustina  masterfully  ploughing  a 
path  towards  her  through  the  female  sea. 
She  nods  familiarly  to  the  young  journalist, 
but  her  words  are  for  Althea. 

'  I  am  afraid  I  must  take  you  away  ;  it  Is 
later  than  I  thought.'  In  a  lower  tone  : 
'  You  look  fagged,  darling.      Is  it  so  ?' 


T72  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

Though  the  tone  is  low,  the  speech  is 
overheard  by  Miss  Delafield,  and  its  tender- 
ness reveals  the  speaker.  A  glance  of 
quickened  excitement  passes  over  her  face, 
and  she  draws  a  step  nearer.  Faustina  looks 
back  at  her,  and  then  both  half  turn  towards 
Althea,  plainly  asking  an  introduction.  But 
the  thought  of  Ned  is  strong  in  his  sister's 
mind,  and  she  makes  as  though  she  sees 
not. 

'  Let  us  come.      I  am  quite,  quite  ready.' 

Her  disappointed  votary  does  not  get  even 
a  parting  hand-shake  from  her.  As  they 
stand  at  the  street-corner,  waiting  to  pick 
out  their  red  Hammersmith  bus  from  the 
endless  multicoloured  file,  Faustina  asks  : 

'  Who  was  your  pretty  May-pole  ?' 

*  Miss  Delafield.' 

*  A  bit  of  the  old  life,  I  suppose  ?' 
'Yes.' 

'  But  perhaps  with  aspirations  after  some- 
thing better  ?' 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  173 


*  If  she  has,  they  are  not  of  a  kind  that 
can  ever  be  of  the  smallest  use.' 

'H'm!' 

'  She  Is  not  In  the  least  of  our  sort.' 

'  Our !  How  sweet  of  you,  love,  to 
bracket  us  together!  But,  as  I  have  often 
told  you,  it  is  all  grist  that  comes  to  my  mill. 
And  she  looks  to  belong  to  the  very  class — 
the  aristocratic  ''  iced  slugs  " — that  I  want  to 
get  hold  of.  I  wish  I  had  asked  you  to 
introduce  me  to  her.' 

'  Do  you  ?' 

'  But  I  dare  say  I  shall  have  other  oppor- 
tunities.' 

'  I  dare  say.' 

They  reach  home  In  silence,  and  Althea 
turns  into  her  meagre  bedroom.  There  is  a 
sense  of  fatigue,  of  arrested  enthusiasm,  upon 
her,  and  it  is  in  a  not  very  brisk  voice  that 
she  answers  Faustina's  knock  and  request  to 
enter,  made  not  five  minutes  after  they  have 
parted.     She  comes  in  with  sparkling  eyes 


174  DEAR  FAUSTINA 


and  a  paper  in  her  hand.     Althea's  eyes  fall 
on  the  name  of  the  journal. 

'  Since  when  have  you  became  a  reader  of 
the  Morning  Post  ?' 

*  Since  when  indeed  ?  But  I  had  a  special 
reason  for  buying  it.  Your  aunt  Lavinia 
gives  one  of  her  big  political  parties  on 
Wednesday. ' 

'Yes.^' 

The  word  sounds  indifferent,  but  Miss 
Vane's  heart  in  uttering  it  seems  to  have 
slipped  under  the  soles  of  her  feet.  Faustina 
has  sat  down  on  the  bed  beside  her  friend— ^ 
in  the  flat  there  is  no  vulgar  superfluity  of 
chairs — and  taken  hei;  hand  with  an  air  of 
almost  solemnity. 

'  My  heart's  dear  one,  you  wounded  me 
last  night  by  an  implication — perhaps  a  just 
one — that  I  am  not  single-minded  in  my 
devotion  to  the  cause  of  suffering  humanity  ; 
that  I  allow  motives  of  personal  interest  to 
sway  my  conduct.     Nay,  do  not  be  afraid  ' — 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  175 

as  Althea  makes  a  deprecating  gesture  ;  '  I 
have  no  wish  to  reopen  the  subject,  except 
to  tell  you  that  you  have  now  an  opportunity 
of  proving — what  I  never  doubted — of  how- 
much  purer  mGial you  are  made.' 

'  //ow  P' — very  faintly. 

'  If  you  remember,  on  the  first  night  of 
your  being  here,  you  asked  me  how  you 
could  make  yourself  of  most  use,  and  I  told 
you  socially.      Do  you  recollect  ?' 

'  I  recollect  your  saying  so.' 

'  I  said  it  because  it  was,  and  is,  my  firm 
conviction.  That,  then,  is  where  you  could 
really  help.' 

Althea  moves  restlessly. 

*  Have  I  been  of  no  help,  then,  all  these 
weeks  T 

'  Of  course  you  have.  Your  sweet  presence 
has  been  an  untold  support  ;  but  as  to  the 
actual  work  you  have  done,  hundreds  of 
women  with  not  a  tithe  of  your  gifts,  but 
with   the  wholesome   habit   of  labour,   could 


176  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

have  done  it  better  ;  whereas  in  the  direction 
and  for  the  end  I  point  out  to  you,  you  would 
be  unique.' 

There  is  a  most  uncomfortable  silence, 
and  when  at  length  it  is  broken,  it  is  not  by 
Althea. 

'  If  you  feel  that  the  test  is  a  severer  one 
than  you  can  bear,  I  will,  of  course,->  not  urge 
you  ;  only,  dearest,  if  it  is  so,  I  would  ask  you 
in  future  to  be  a  little  more  lenient  to  other 
fallible  mortals.' 

Neither  the  perfectly  good-humoured  tone 
in  which  this  last  clause  is  spoken,  nor  the 
caress  by  which  it  is  accompanied,  takes,  nor 
is,  perhaps,  intended  to  take,  the  sting  out 
of  it,  and  Miss  Vane  writhes. 

'  You  are  right  ;  I  have  no  business  to 
preach  to  others,  and  yet  flinch  when  my 
own  turn  comes.  No  doubt  it  is  not  because 
there  seems  to  me  something  as  unworthy 
and  underhand  in  picking  people's  confidence 
as  their   purse,  but   because   it  would  be  so 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  177 


intensely  disagreeable  to  myself,  that  I  shrink. 
What  is  it  you  want  me  to  do  ?' 

'  My  noble  darling,  I  knew  that  you  only 
needed  to  have  it  brought  home  to  you.' 

'  What  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?' 

Faustina  has  the  sense  to  see  that  her 
friend  would  rather  that  she  dropped  her 
hand,  and  she  does  so,  while  the  business- 
like glitter  comes  into  her  black  eyes. 

'  You  have  heard  me  speak  of  the  Child 
Insurance  Bill  ?' 

'Yes.' 

'  You  know  how  keen  I  am  to  get  up  the 
facts  about  it  ?' 

'Yes.' 

'  And  how  hard  I  have  found  it  to  do  so  ?' 

'Yes.' 

'  How  impossible  to  approach  the  Home 
Secretary  ?' 

'Yes.' 

'Well,  through  you,  I  have  now  an  oppor- 
tunity of  getting  at  him.     The  Ministers  are 

12 


1 78  DEAR  FAUSTINA 


sure  to  be  at  your  aunt  s  party,  and  he  among 
them.' 

'  So  will  two  hundred  other  people  be.' 

'  I  think  you  once  told  me  that  he  was  an 
old  friend  of  yours  ?' 

'  Of  my  father's.  My  acquaintance  with 
him  is  very  slight.' 

'  But  enough  to  justify  your  addressing 
him,  I  suppose  ?' 

'  I  suppose  so.' 

A  pause.  Althea  feels  the  net  closing 
round  her,  but  she  makes  one  more  despair- 
ing effort  to  break  through  its  meshes. 

'  My  aunt  is  not  in  the  least  likely  to  send 
me  a  card.' 

'  And  you  could  not  get  one  through  Clare 
— Mrs.  Boteler,  as  I  suppose  I  ought  to  call 
her?' 

'  If  she  suspected  my  motive  for  asking  it, 
certainly  not.' 

'  Why  need  she  suspect  it }  Why  need 
anyone  suspect  it  ?' 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  179 

Althea  starts  up  and  goes  to  the  window, 
inhaling  as  much  air  as  the  blank  wall,  three 
feet  off,  opposite,  and  the  projection  of  their 
own  kitchen,  thrusting  itself  forward  at  right 
angles,  to  still  further  cut  off  any  troublesome 
zephyrs,  allow  her  to  do.  It  is  this  very 
underhandedness,  what  seems  to  her  the 
social  treachery  of  her  intended  ro/e,  which 
makes  it  so  hard  a  mouthful  to  swallow. 

Faustina  wisely  leaves  her  for  a  few 
moments  to  battle  alone  with  herself,  and 
when  she  speaks  there  is  neither  reproach 
nor  further  urgency  in  tone  or  words,  only 
affection,  touched  with  pity. 

'  If  the  sacrifice  is  a  greater  one  than  you 
can  manage,  let  us  say  no  more  about  it.  I 
dare  say  I  had  no  right  to  ask  it,  and  perhaps 
in  time  I  may  gain  my  object  by  some  other 
road.  It  is  on  these  sort  of  occasions  that  I 
feel  the  hardness  of  the  doors  that  are  shut  in 
my  face.  That  must  be  my  excuse  for  teasing 
you  ;  and  also  that  my  love  and  admiration 


i8o  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

throned  you  so  high  that  I  thought  no  test 
— not  even  ' — with  an  indulgent  smile — '  the 
fiery  trial  of  asking  a  few  innocent  questions 
of  an  old  acquaintance — could  be  too  strong 
for  you.' 

Althea's  head  is  still  out  of  the  window, 
and  for  a  few  minutes  it  seems  doubtful  to 
her  companion  whether  she  has  heard.  But 
that  doubt  is  removed  by  the  girl's  next 
movement,  which  is  to  leave  her  post  and 
put  a  hand  on  each  shoulder  of  Miss  Bateson, 
as  she  still  sits  in  patient,  cool  expectation  on 
the  bed.  Althea's  eyes  are  shining,  though 
her  cheeks  are  pale. 

'  You  are  right.  I  talk  tall,  and  think 
myself  entitled  to  reproach  you,  who  are  so 
far,  far  ahead  of  me  in  every  respect  ;  but 
when  anything  painful  to  myself  is  required 
of  me,  I  cry  off.  Thank  you  for  showing  me 
what  I  really  am.      I  will  go.' 


[  -S'   ] 


I 


CHAPTER  IX. 

There  is  not  the  least  difficulty  as  to  the 
card  for  Aunt  Lavinia's  party ;  and  the 
delight  with  which  Clare  writes  to  propose 
Althea's  dining  with  the  Boteler  mdnage,  and 
going  with  them  to  it,  shows  the  latter  in  how 
false  a  position  Miss  Bateson  has  placed  her. 
Her  family  clearly  believe,  and  joy  in  the 
belief,  that  she  is  beginning  to  look  back 
from  her  plough,  when,  in  point  of  fact,  her 
one  object  in  this  sudden  return  to  the  world 
is  to  drive  her  share  still  deeper  through  the 
furrow. 

It  is  impossible  for  her  to  explain  this  to 
them,  and  she  feels  a  sense  of  sailing  under 


I82 


DEAR  FAUSTINA 


false  colours  when  they  all  softly  make  much 
of  her.  They  do  it  very  delicately ;  and  there 
is  no  allusion  to  the  past  or  to  former  dis- 
crepancies, except  one  abortive  jocosity 
strangled  by  his  wife  in  its  cradle  on  the 
part  of  the  host,  whose  strong  point  is  not 
his  tact.  But  the  air  seems  to  have  been 
warmed  to  receive  her.  Edward,  who  is, 
somehow,  up  again  from  Oxford,  looks  a  little 
confused  on  first  meeting,  and  she  had  meant 
to  be  very  stiff  with  him  ;  but  his  intention  is 
so  evidently  conciliatory  that  she  finds  after 
the  first  minute  or  two  confusion  and  stiffness 
both  merging  in  the  general  pleasantness. 
The  dinner  is  very  merry,  and  Althea 
would  have  enjoyed  it  thoroughly  but  for 
the  weight  of  her  own  duplicity  and  the 
incubus  of  the  coming  task  imposed  upon 
her. 

They  have  dined  very  late,  and  the  in- 
tervening space  before  it  is  time  to  set  off 
flies  but  too  quickly.     The  three  sisters  and 


i 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  183 


the  brother  talk  all  at  once  about  their  child- 
hood, reminding  each  other  of  long-forgotten 
jests  and  catastrophes  ;  and  William  Boteler, 
who  has  naturally  no  share  in  the  topic,  sits 
by  listening  with  a  beatified  smile,  and  his 
arm — an  attitude  which  seems  chronic — round 
Fanny's  waist.  Althea  wonders  how  he 
would  have  disposed  of  that  twining  limb 
had  she  been  the  resident  sister-in-law. 

But  now  enjoyment  is  over,  and  labour 
and  sorrow  begun.  There  is  plenty  of  time 
for  disagreeable  anticipation,  as  it  is  long 
before  i\unt  Lavinia's  door  is  reached,  so 
interminable  is  the  string  —early  as  it  is  in 
the  season,  there  is  evidently  going  to  be  a 
real  crush  ;  it  is  longer  still  before  all  the 
steps  of  her  wide  stairs  are  climbed,  her 
flower-banked  landing  attained,  and  her  hand 
briefly  shaken. 

Short  as  the  hostess's  greeting  necessarily 
is,  there  seems  to  be  in  the  touch  of  her  fingers 
such  an  emphasized  warmth  for  Althea  that 


i84  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

the  latter  has  time  for  a  fresh  tweak  of  that 
odious  sense  of  dishonesty  and  false  pretences 
on  her  own  part.  As  she  follows  slowly  in 
Clare's  wake  through  the  rapidly-filling  rooms, 
she  is  greeted  by  many  old  acquaintances. 
All  are  civil  and  glad  to  see  her,  though  most 
of  them  in  the  hurry  of  their  own  lives  have 
never  missed  her  ;  and  thanks  to  that,  and 
the  conditions  of  throng  and  haste  in  which 
they  meet,  there  is  no  need  and  no  demand 
for  explanation. 

So  thick  does  the  crowd  become,  that 
Althea  is  beginning  to  give  herself  the 
cowardly  comfort,  inwardly  blushed  for,  yet 
none  the  less  felt,  that  she  will  be  able  to  tell 
Faustina  conscientiously  that  she  has  failed 
in  her  mission  through  never  having  even 
caught  sight  of  the  object  of  her  quest,  when, 
by  the  action  of  some  wave  in  the  starred 
and  jewelled  sea,  she  suddenly  finds  herself 
shoulder  to  shoulder  with  him.  His  eye  falls 
accidentally    upon    her,    but    in    it    there    is 


i 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  185 

obviously  no  recognition.  Her  heart  sinks 
even  lower  than  before  ;  but  she  knows  that 
if  she  does  not  take  her  courage  in  both  hands 
and  '  rush  '  it,  the  opportunity  will  be  lost, 
probably  not  to  return. 

'  1  am  afraid  that  you  do  not  recollect  me.' 
The  great  man  looks  at  her  once  again, 
but,    alas !    with    no    glance    of    knowledge, 
though  he  is  far  too  courteous  to  allow  it. 

'Not  recollect  you!  How  could  that  be 
possible  }  You  are  ' — it  is  evident  that  she 
will  not  let  him  off — '  you  are  ' — then,  as  he 
still  gazes  in  benevolent  concern,  not  un- 
mixed with  admiration,  at  the  very  pretty 
and  strangely  -  agitated  face  lifted  towards 
him,  the  lacking  memory,  to  his  intense 
relief,  flashes  back  upon  him — '  you  are  one 
of  my  dear  old  friend  Vane's  girls.  I  have 
not  seen  you  since  —  ah,  that  was  a  loss  ! 
Let  us  try  and  find  a  quiet  corner  where  you 
can  tell  me  all  about  yourselves.' 


J 86  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

Half  an  hour  later  a  young  man,  who  has 
been  working  his  way  through  the  brilHant 
press,  giving  and  receiving  greetings,  but 
such  occasional  ones  as  show  him  to  be  not 
an  habitue  of  the  London  world,  comes  upon 
Althea.  She  is  not  speaking  to  anyone 
when  he  first  catches  sight  of  her,  and  he 
remarks  with  surprise  the  extreme  discom- 
posure of  her  countenance.  Apparently  his 
face  expresses  some  of  his  astonishment,  for 
on  recognizing  him  she  evidently  makes  an 
effort  to  pull  herself  together,  and  says,  with 
an  air  of  affected  lightness  and  surprise  as 
real  as  his  own  : 

'  Are  the  skies  going  to  fall  ?  You  at  an 
evening  party  ?' 

'  And  you  P' 

At  once  the  clouds  rush  back  and  darken 
all  her  features. 

'  I  had  a  motive.  I  came  here  for  a  special 
object.' 

'  Which  I  hope  you  have  attained  ?' 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  187 

'  Oh,  do  not  ask  me,'  she  says  in  a  low 
voice  of  anguish,  and  with  an  arrested  gesture, 
as  of  one  who  would  cover  her  face  with  her 
hands,  and  only  remembers  just  in  time  how 
far  too  public  is  the  place  for  such  a  relief. 
'  I — I  ' — her  voice  sinking  to  a  whisper  almost 
inaudible  in  the  universal  buzz — '  I  have  ex- 
perienced one  of  the  most  bitter  mortifica- 
tions of  my  life.  I  cannot  tell  you  about  it 
here.' 

He  has  a  moment  of  gratification,  whose 
sharpness  surprises  himself,  at  the  implication 
that  under  more  favourable  circumstances  she 
would  tell  him  of  her  disaster,  before  he  says  : 

'  You  look  as  if  you  wanted  more  air  and 
space  to  recover  in  ;  you  know  the  house — 
is  there  no  room  where  you  would  be  able  to 
find  them  ?' 

'  There  is  Aunt  Lavinia's  boudoir  ;  it  is  not 
generally  thrown  open.' 

'  Let  me  take  you  there.' 

She  assents  in  a  small  and  rather  guilty 


1 88  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

voice.  According  to  the  code  of  manners  of 
the  world  to  which  she  has  made  this  brief 
and  disastrous  return,  she  is  doing  rather  an 
odd  thing ;  but,  after  all,  what  are  its  laws  to 
her  ? — and,  besides,  she  does  feel  rather  faint. 
The  boudoir,  though  lit  and  flower-banked 
like  the  more  public  rooms,  is  empty  ;  and 
after  a  few  moments  of  silent  repose — silent, 
for  Drake  does  not  disturb  her  —  Althea 
recovers. 

'  I  am  all  right  again.  I  had  better  go 
back  to  Clare — to  my  sister,  Mrs.  Boteler.' 

'  Then,  you  are  not  going  to  tell  me  ?' 

His  tone,  though  respectfully  acquiescent, 
is  yet  obviously  disappointed,  and  she  hesi- 
tates. For  some  perverse  reason  he  is  the 
one  person  to  whom  it  would  be  a  relief  to 
her  to  reveal  her  discomfiture. 

'  I  do  not  know  why  I  should  not,'  she 
says  doubtfully ;  '  perhaps  you  might  hit 
upon  something  to  say  that  would  restore  my 
self-respect.' 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  189 

'  Voii7'  self-respect  7 

'  Yes  ;  it  lies  in  the  dust.' 

He  is  standing  beside  her  as  she  leans 
back  in  Aunt  Lavinia's  own  special  chair. 
The  shaded  electric  light  falls  on  her  pretty 
shoulders  and  on  her  faintly-indicated  collar- 
bones. The  thought  that  they  ought  not  to 
be  visible  at  all  passes  across  Drake's  mind, 
harnessed  to  the  rather  angry  wonder  whether 
Faustina  gives  her  enough  to  eat. 

'  Possibly  you  are  exaggerating.  I  would 
not  for  worlds  urge  you,  but  if  I  knew  what 
had  happened,  I  might  perhaps  put  it,  what- 
ever it  may  be,  in  a  less  humiliating  light.' 

She  shakes  her  head  slowly. 

'  There  is  no  other  light  possible,  as  you 
will  see  when  I  tell  you.' 

She  draws  herself  slowly  up,  and  he  is 
glad.  When  she  sits  up  the  collar-bones 
disappear,  and  he  feels  fonder  of  Miss  Bate- 
son. 

'  You  know — or  do  you  know  i* — how  very 


I90  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

much  interested  In  the  Child  Insurance  Bill 
Faustina  is  ?' 

'Yes.' 

'  How  much  she  has  regretted  her  inability 
to  get  at  the  facts  she  wanted  about  it  ?' 

'  Yes.' 

'  Well,  to-night  she  thought  she  had  found 
her  opportunity.' 

'  Yes  ?' 

'  She  has  always  had  an  idea  that  I  could 
help  her  socially,  if  I  would.' 

'  I  know  she  has.' 

'  She  mentioned  it  once  before,  and  I  com- 
bated it  strongly.' 

'  Did  you  ?' 

'  But  this  time  she  was  so  urgent — and  I 
could  not  help  suspecting  that  my  refusing 
was  because  it  was  so  personally  distasteful 
to  me — that  I  ended  by  consenting.  You 
know  what  the  service  she  asked  of  me  was  ?' 

'  I  do  not  know  precisely  ;  of  course  I  can 
guess  its  general  drift.' 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  191 

'  I  had  mentioned  to  her  that  the  present 
Home  Secretary  was  an  old  friend  of  my 
father's  ;  and  what  she  asked  of  me  was  that 
I  should  go  to  this  party,  renew  acquaintance 
with  him,  and,  without  his  suspecting  It,  pick 
his  brains !' 

She  pronounces  this  last  phrase  with  an 
accent  of  almost  as  much  horror  as  if  It  had 
been  a  question  of  a  literal  attack  with  a 
'jemmy'  upon  the  skull  of  the  dignitary  In 
question. 

'  Well  ?' 

She  hears — and  it  gives  her  a  ray  of 
comfort — that  her  listener  is  drawing  his 
breath  sympathetically  short. 

'  I  thought  at  first  that  I  should  not  have 
the  chance  of  getting  near  him  In  the  crowd 
— oh,  if  I  had  not  ! — but  by  accident  I  hap- 
pened to  find  myself  close  to  him.  He  did 
not  know  me  at  first,  but  when  he  remem- 
bered me  he  was  so  kind,  so  courteous ! 
took  me  away  Into  a  recess  to  ask  all  sorts 


192  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

of  interested  questions  about  us — real  interest, 
not  pretended.  He  talked  with  such  genuine 
affection  and  regret  of  my  father  ;  paid  him 
such  a  noble  tribute ' 

Her  agitation  is  gaining  on  her,  and  she 
stops ;  nor  does  Drake  offer  any  remark. 
She  feels  the  tact  of  his  silence,  and  is  able 
after  a  little  while  to  go  on. 

*  When  we  had  been  talking  for  ten 
minutes,  I  remembered — I  had  quite  for- 
gotten it — the  object  with  which  I  had  forced 
myself  upon  him,  and  tried  to  turn  the  con- 
versation from  my  private  affairs  to  public 
ones.  I  am  sure  I  did  it  very  clumsily — I 
was  so  agitated,  I  scarcely  knew  what  I 
said ' 

Another  break.  The  increased  strain  of 
suffering  effort  shows  that  she  is  nearing  the 
catastrophe. 

'  Faustina  had  coached  me  as  to  the  way 
I  was  to  approach  the  subject — the  sort  of 
indirect    inquiries    I    was    to    make ;    but    I 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  193 

bungled  terribly,  and  the  feeling  that  I  was 
bungling  made  me  bungle  more  ;  and  then — 
I  saw  his  face  begin  to  stiffen  and  harden. 
At  first  he  had  only  looked  puzzled,  not 
knowing  what  I  would  be  at ;  but  he  listened 
politely,  and  when  I  stopped — not  because 
I  had  said  in  the  least  what  I  wanted,  but 
simply  because  I  cou/d  not  go  on — he  took 
my  hand — not  nearly  so  kindly  as  he  had  done 
before — and  said :  ''My  dear  young  lady, 
may  I  tell  you  a  story  ?"  I  was  too  choked 
to  answer ;  and  he  went  on  :  "  Some  years 
ago,  during  the  Premiership  of  Lord  Beacons- 
field,  and  during  an  acute  political  crisis,  a 
certain  great  lady  sat  one  night  at  dinner 
beside  the  Prime  Minister.  She  thought  it 
a  good  opportunity  for  getting  a  few  State 
secrets  out  of  him,  and  pumped  him,  as  she 
thought,  very  artfully  for  some  time.  He 
listened  attentively  and  in  perfect  silence  till 
she  finished,  and  then  he  turned  to  her  and — 
though  she  was  not  a  very  wise  woman,  she 


194  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

was  an  exceedingly  pretty  one — said  very 
affectionately  :  '  You  darling  !'  "  ' 

At  the  close  of  this  terrible  anecdote 
Althea's  fortitude  gives  way,  and  she  yields 
to  the  impulse  which  she  had  with  difficulty 
resisted  in  the  more  public  rooms,  and  hides 
her  burning  face  in  her  gloved  hands.  As, 
however,  it  is  quite  possible  that  she  may 
have  a  glint  of  sight  left  between  her  fingers, 
Drake  controls  the  smile  which  is  tickling  the 
corners  of  his  mouth,  and  which,  if  indulged 
in,  would  certainly  do  to  death  a  friendship 
so  promisingly  budding. 

Again  his  silence  seems  to  soothe  hen 
for  in  a  minute  or  so  her  distressed  face 
re-emerges. 

'  I  was  struck  dumb  with  mortification,  and 
he  just  bowed  and  left  me.  Of  course,  what 
I  ought  to  feel  is  the  having  so  signally 
failed  Faustina,  but  just  at  present  I  can 
think  of  nothing  but  the  personal  humilia- 
tion.' 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  195 

'  She  had  no  business  to  put  such  a  task 
upon  you  —  no  right  to  credit  you  with 
a  hide  like  her  own!'  he  answers  indig- 
nantly. 

The  phrase  horrifies  her  less  than  it  would 
have  done  three  days  ago,  but  the  shocked 
surprise  it  engenders  is  still  strong  enough 
to  make  her  for  the  moment  forget  her  own 
woes. 

He  goes  on  : 

*  If  she  does  not  take  care  she  will  over- 
reach herself,  and  make  you  chuck — give  up 
the  whole  thing — disgust  you,  I  mean,  with 
the  whole  Cause.' 

'  No,  that  she  will  never  do !' 

Her  eyes,  veiled  with  a  slight  mist  that 
might  distil  in  tears,  clear  and  sparkle ;  and 
he  looks  at  her  with  an  admiration  that, 
since  it  may  be  construed  into  a  tribute  to 
her  apostleship,  and  not  her  womanhood,  he 
does  not  take  much  pains  to  hide. 

'  By-the-by,'  he  adds,  changing  the  subject, 


196  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

partly  with  the  good-natured  motive  of  dis- 
tracting her  thoughts,  '  will  you  let  me  ask 
you  which  of  us,  you  or  I,  proved  to  be  right 
as  to  the  subject  which  we  discussed  when  I 
met  you  in  Flood  Street  ?' 

Again  her  face  falls. 

'  The  chromate  of  potash  article  ?' 

'Yes/ 

'  Vou  were.' 

She  divines  a  something  of  triumph  in  his 
silence,  and  adds  : 

'  But  she  gave  me  reasons — what  seemed 
to  her  sufficient  reasons — for  her  refusal.' 

'  Did  they  seem  to  you  sufficient  ?' 

Her  look  meets  his  with  a  sort  of  defiance. 
She  will  not  be  trapped  into  a  disloyalty  to 
her  leader. 

'  I  do  not  think  that  a  wretched  bungling 
amateur  has  any  right  to  criticize  the  action 
of  an  expert.' 

He  likes  her  none  the  less  for  her  fidelity  ; 
but  he  feels  that  their  acquaintance,   much 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  197 

as  it  has  stridden  forward  within  the  last 
half-hour,  is  scarcely  ripe  enough  to  tell 
her  so. 

'  Have  you  found  any  other  writer  to  do 
for  you  what  she — did  not  see  her  way  to 
doing  ?' 

*  Not  yet' 

'  I  wish  I  could  help  you,  but  it  seems ' — 
despondently — '  that  I  am  equally  futile  with 
tongue  and  pen ;  and  yet,  Heaven  knows 
— oh,  how  those  facts  you  told  me  the  other 
day  haunted  me !  And  I  suppose  they  are 
only  a  few  out  of  hundreds  equally  heart- 
rending ?' 

'  Only  a  very  few.' 

'  Tell  me  more  about  the  chromate  of 
potash.     What  is  it  ?     What  is  it  used  for  ?' 

'  It  scarcely  seems  congruous  talk  here  and 
to-night.' 

*  Bah !'  she  says,  casting  an  almost  revo- 
lutionary eye  round  upon  her  aunt's  bibelots 
and    hangings.      'It    is    a   good    thing    that 


198  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

these  walls  should  hear  a  few  ugly  truths  for 
once.' 

*  It  is  used  for  dyeing,  and  in  great  calico- 
printing  works.' 

^  And  why  is  it  so  deadly  ?' 
'  Unfortunately,  it  has  to  be  made  fast  with 
sugar  of  lead.' 

*  Sugar  of  lead  ?' 

'  Yes  ;  the  disease — but,  indeed,  I  tell  you 
under  protest ;  I  think  you  have  had  quite 
enough  disagreeables  for  one  night.' 

'  I  may  as  well  fill  up  my  cup  while  I  am 
about  it.     The  disease  ?' 

'  It  comes  from  the  dust  entering  the  men's 
nostrils,  and  giving  them  a  nipping,  tickling 
sensation,  which  makes  them  rub  their  noses 
w4th  fingers  already  covered  with  the  powder. 
You  may  imagine  the  result.' 

*  And  is  there  no  remedy  ?' 

Her  tone  is  one  of  the  deepest  interest ; 
she  has  forgotten  the  insult  which  Dizzy  has 
been  made  the  vehicle  of  conveying  to  her ; 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  199 

from  the  tension,  and  In  the  excitement  of  the 
moment,  she  has  stood  up,  to  be  more  nearly 
on  a  level  with  her  companion.  It  Is  as 
fellow  -  champions,  brother  fighters  In  the 
battle  of  mercy,  that  they  Involuntarily  draw 
together.  But  to  an  onlooker  their  attitude 
would  be  misleading. 

Althea's  back  and  Drake's  face  are  turned 
towards  the  door ;  and,  since  he  does  not 
answer  her  eager  question,  she  is  about  to 
repeat  it,  when  she  learns  the  reason  of  his 
silence.     They  are  no  longer  alone. 

'  Clare  Is  looking  for  you  everywhere.' 

'  Is  she  ?' 

'  Oh,  Miss  Vane,  how  glad  I  am  !  Is  Miss 
Bateson  here  ?' 

'  No,  she  is  not.' 

'  Mr.  Drake  !' — turning  with  scarcely  more 
veiled  enthusiasm  to  Althea's  companion. 
'  I  thought  you  never  went  to  evening  parties.' 

'  Did  you  ?' 

'  I   have  not  seen  you  since  to  thank  you 


200  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

for  your  wonderful  speech.  I  cannot  tell  you 
how  some  of  your  phrases  literally  burnt  into 
my  brain.  And  what  an  audience !  You 
might  have  heard  a  pin  drop.  And,  large 
as  the  room  was,  your  voice  carried  to  the 
very  end  of  it.' 

The  brother  and  sister — for  the  intruders 
are  Ned  and  Miss  Delafield — stand  silently 
listening,  their  rising  anger  against  each 
other — his  at  her  action,  hers  at  his  tone — 
sunk  in  surprise  at  the  apparent  intimacy 
revealed  as  existing  between  their  respective 
friends. 

'  I  am  glad  that  it  interested  you.' 

Nothing  can  be  quieter  or  less  fatuous 
than  this  acceptance  of  a  compliment ;  but 
either  it,  or  more  probably  the  effusion  that 
made  it  necessary,  are  as  much  as  Edward 
can  bear.  His  vexation  spurts  out  in  his 
next  speech  to  his  sister : 

'  Clare  has  been  looking  for  you  every- 
where— everywhere  in  the  least  likely! 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  201 


'  I  will  go  to  her  at  once.' 

They  all — since  Miss  Delafield  is  clearly 
determined  not  to  be  detained  there — leave 
the  room  together,  and  make  their  way 
through  the  now  thinning  throng,  the  young 
girl  throwing  out  reminiscences  of  the  meet- 
ing she  has  alluded  to,  and  overtures, 
rendered  a  little  hesitating  by  the  passive 
nature  of  Miss  Vane's  acceptance  of  them,  to 
Althea  as  they  pass  along. 


'  Oh,  what  kave  you  done  to  Edward  ?' 

This  cry  of  the  soul  escapes  from  Mrs. 
Boteler's  lips  almost  before  the  carriage-door 
is  shut  upon  her  and  Althea.  Fanny  is  on 
the  back-seat ;  but,  then,  she  never  counts. 

*I?     Nothing!' 

'  He  came  to  me  just  now^  in  sue  A  a  state 
of  mind !' 

'  Did  he  ?     What  about  ?' 

*  He   said    he   had  just    come    upon    you 


202  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

sitting  in  Aunt  Lavinia's  boudoir,  where  you 
had  no  business  to  take  anyone.' 

'  As  much  business  as  he  had  to  take  Miss 
Delafield; 

*  Oh,  poor  fellow !  he  wanted  to  find  a 
place  where  he  might  have  a  little  quiet  talk 
with  her.' 

'  And  why  might  not  I  want  to  find  a 
place  where  I  could  have  a  little  quiet  talk 
with  Mr.  Drake  ?' 

Her  words  sound  brazenly  in  her  own  ears, 
but  they  are  falsified  by  her  voice,  which 
a  jumble  of  feelings,  all  disagreeable,  makes 
shaky. 

'  Drake — is  that  his  name  ?  Oh,  dearest 
Thee,  where  do  you  pick  up  such  kind  of 
people  ?' 

'Where?  In  the  slums,  of  course,  where 
I  reside.' 

A  laugh,  more  hysterical  than  defiant, 
ornaments  this  reply. 

'  Ned  says  that  he  is  a  man  who  has  been 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  203 

kicked  out  of  society,  and  turned  out  by  his 
own  family,  for  his  disgraceful  opinions.' 

'  Dear,  charitable  Ned  !' 

'  Of  course,  I  took  what  he  said  with  a 
grain  of  salt ;  he  was  so  agitated,  so — well, 
so  indignant  at  your  having  introduced  such 
a  person  to  Cressida  Delafield  !' 

'  He  said  that  /  introduced  Mr.  Drake  to 
Miss  Delafield.?' 

'  Yes  ;  he  thought  her  so  unlikely  to  have 
met  him  otherwise.' 

'If  he  had  not  been  so  w^arped  by  pre- 
judice, he  might  have  seen  that  my  astonish- 
ment at  their  being  acquainted  was  quite  as 
great  as  his.' 

'  I  told  him  I  was  sure  he  was  wrong. 
But,  oh.  Thee !  Thee  !  why  will  you  know 
such  people  ?  Ned  said  he  was  talking  to 
you  with — do  not  be  angry — such  offensive 
intimacy.  Never  mind  Fanny  ;  she  is  asleep. 
Are  not  you,  Fanny  T 

'  Do    you    know    what    we    were    talking 


204  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

about  ?'  asks  Althea  in  an  ominously  quiet 
voice.  '  I  am  sure,  when  I  tell  you,  you  will 
think  I  am  no  longer  worthy  of  a  place  in 
your  brougham.  We  were  talking  of  chr ornate 
of  potash  /' 


[  205  ] 


CHAPTER  X. 

No  one  can  say  that  Faustina  does  not  take 
her  disappointment  well.  No  reproach  passes 
her  lips.  Not  only  does  her  robust  philosophy 
enable  her  to  accept  the  collapse  of  her 
scheme  with  cheerful  equanimity,  but  she 
takes  all  the  blame  of  its  failure  upon  herself. 

'  I  ought  to  have  better  known  your 
delicacy  of  fibre,  darling.  I  cannot  think 
what  could  have  made  me  show  such  a  want 
of  adaptation  of  means  to  ends.  What  I 
shall  not  forgive  myself  in  a  hurry  is  the 
suffering  I  have  been  the  means  of  inflicting 
upon  you.' 

*  Thank  you  very,  very  much  for  looking 


2o6  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

at  It  in  that  way,'  answers  Althea,  with  a 
rush  of  gratitude.  '  I  might  have  known  that 
you  would  take  the  largest,  noblest  view  of 
my  failure  ;  but  I  feared  lest  when  you  found 
how  completely  I  had  broken  down  in  the 
only  kind  of  work  for  which  you  had  thought 
me  fitted ' 

'  The  only  kind  f 

'  You  said  so  the  other  day/ 

'  Did  I  ?  I  have  no  recollection  of  it.  We 
were  both  a  little  heated  with  argument, 
perhaps.  Even  if  I  did  say  so — even  if  it 
were  true— what  would  it  matter  compara- 
tively .-*  All  that  is  asked  of  such  as  you  is 
to  be  r 

Here  they  fall  into  each  other's  arms. 
And  even  when  they  emerge,  the  talk  keeps 
at  a  high  level  of  tenderness. 

'  I  cannot  forgive  myself  these  dear,  pale 
cheeks  !' 

'  If  you  could  give  me  your  physique,  as 
well   as   your   indomitable  spirit !     It  seems 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  207 

ridiculous  that  one  wound  to  my  vanity 
should  make  me  look  as  I  know  I  do,  and 
feel  such  a  wreck.  But  you  need  not  reproach 
yourself;    1  had  other  annoyances,  too.' 

Faustina  looks  curious  ;  but  not  even  their 
renewed  condition  of  melting  fondness,  nor 
the  revived  heat  of  Althea's  admiration  for 
her  friend,  prevails  upon  her  to  dish  up  her 
family  for  that  friend's  delectation. 
■  Faustina  does  not  press  her;  and  although, 
as  a  rule,  her  own  iron  strength  makes  her 
sceptical  as  to  anyone  ever  being  '  not  up '  to 
any  exertion,  she  to-day  insists  on  Althea 
abiding,  like  Achilles,  in  her  tent  ;  while  she 
herself  goes  forth  to  war  against  the  Troy  of 
'  Capital '  on  a  trades-union  platform. 

With  sincere  self-contempt,  Althea  ends 
by  acquiescing.  On  the  previous  night  she 
has  scarcely  closed  an  eye,  and  angry  Nature, 
wronged  of  her  dues,  avenges  herself  by 
tapping  with  a  tiresome  litde  hammer  on 
her  temples,  and  hanging  weights  on  her  legs. 


2o8  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

*  I  can,  at  all  events,  do  some  typing,'  she 
has  said,  in  a  faint  effort  to  restore  her  self- 
esteem  ;  but  when  Miss  Bateson  has  gone, 
she  finds  that  even  here  she  has  promised 
more  than  she  can  perform. 

Her  eyes  swim  and  her  hands  tremble. 
There  is  nothing  for  it  but  to  give  in.  Think- 
ing that  the  air  may  do  her  good,  she  puts  on 
her  hat,  and  telling  the  *  Eliza '  of  the  day, 
whom  she  has  of  late  been  trying  to  lick  into 
a  little  shape,  that  she  is  going  out  for  a 
stroll,  she  saunters  along  Cheyne  Walk  until 
she  reaches  Old  Chelsea  Church,  and,  seeing 
the  door  open,  wanders  aimlessly  in. 

She  has  never  hitherto  entered  it,  the 
rush  of  Faustina's  life  into  which  she  has 
been  swept  leaving  no  leisure  for  the  quiet 
amities  of  converse  with  the  past,  for  which, 
indeed,  and  the  sciences  that  deal  with  it. 
Miss  Bateson  has  as  sincere  a  contempt  as 
it  is  possible  to  entertain. 

But  as  Althea  stands  in  the  little  fourteenth- 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  209 

century  chancel,  looking  at  the  monument  to 
Sir  Thomas  More,  surmounted  by  his  punning 
blackamoor's-head  crest,  a  wave  of  tenderness 
over  the  departed  and  the  bygone  rolls  over 
her — both  over  her  own  past — recent,  insig- 
nificant, yet  dear — and  that  greater  past  of 
which  the  gray  slab  before  her,  with  its  Latin 
inscription  penned  by  him  who  was  to  lie 
beneath  it,  whose  hallowed  reliques,  'when 
the  heat  of  persecution  somewhat  subsided, 
were  devoutly  carried  to  the  village  of  Chel- 
sea,' is  the  representative. 

The  past  to  the  girl  always  means  her 
father — means  graceful  tastes,  leisurely  culti- 
vation, tender  high-breeding,  nice  honour. 
With  a  rush  of  bitter  discouragement  she 
feels  how  far,  in  the  short  space  since  his 
death,  she  has  travelled  from  them  all — all 
but  the  last,  nice  honour. 

Her  cheeks  begin  to  burn.  Was  her 
action,  her  pitiful  action,  of  last  night  con- 
sistent even  with  that.^^     How  much  she  has 

14 


2IO  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

given  up !  and  of  what  profit  to  herself,  or  to 
the  Cause  for  which  she  has  sacrificed  her- 
self, has  she  been  ?  Her  very  own  familiar 
friend  and  guide  has  told  her,  with  a  blunt- 
ness  that  she  cannot  blame,  how  valueless  the 
services  that  had  seemed  to  her  so  laborious 
in  the  acting  had  been  ;  that  any  trained 
drudge  could  have  done  them  better.  And 
yet  the  flame  that  burnt  her  was,  and  is,  a 
true  one,  though  in  her  dejection  she  feels 
that  Faustina  is  beginning  to  disbelieve  it. 
*  They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait.' 
Is  it  to  be  her  portion  through  life  to  *  stand 
and  wait,'  while  she  sees  other  happier  ones 
do  the  work  and  bear  the  palms  ? 

*  They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait.' 
She  repeats  the  line  aloud,  thinking-  that  it 
is  a  hard  saying,  with  hands  clasped,  and  eyes 
still  perusing  the  memorial  to  him  who  had 
done  so  much  more  than  '  only  stand  and 
wait,'  when  the  door  space,  over  half  of  which 
Sir  Thomas  More's  monument  oddly  projects. 


DEAR  FAUSTINA 


is  still  further  filled  by  the  figure  of  a  man, 
whom  she  at  once  recognizes  to  be  Drake. 
He  glances  quickly  round. 

'Are  you  alone?  '  I  thought  I  heard  you 
talking.' 

She  colours  faintly. 

'  I  was — to  myself.  How  did  you  know  I 
was  here  T 

There  seems  to  him  to  be  in  her  eye  some 
expected  explanation  of  his  pursuit. 

*  I  heard  you  had  gone  for  a  stroll,  and,  as 
I  know  there  is  not  much  room  for  strolling 
in  your  life  generally,  I  feared  you  were 
feeling  the  effects  of ' 

*  Of  last  night  ?  Yes,  I  am.  I  have  been 
assassinated  by  an  anecdote.' 

'  I  would  not  be  that  if  I  were  you.' 
'  It  was  the  one  thing  that  Faustina  thought 
I  could  do.     It  has  been  such  a  disappoint- 
ment   to    her,    and    she    has    borne    it   so 
well.' 

Her  lip  is  trembling. 


212  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

'It  is  a  method  I  have  never  had  any 
sympathy  with.  I  have  often  told  her 
so.' 

There  is  such  a  robust  anger  in  his  tone 
that  Althea  looks  at  him  with  surprise. 

'  I  never  can  quite  understand  your  re- 
lations with  Faustina.  You  appear  intimate, 
and  yet  there  are  moments  when  you  seem 
absolutely  to  dislike  her.' 

'  There  are  moments  when  I  do  absolutely 
dislike  her,  and  the  present  is  one.' 

There  is  no  mistaking  the  out-and-out  par- 
tizanship  bespoken  by  both  voice  and  eye, 
and  a  small  stir  of  comforted  warmth  makes 
itself  felt  about  her  heart.  Her  own  family 
misunderstand  and  chide  her ;  her  chosen 
guide  has  weighed  her  in  the  balance  and 
found  her  wanting.  But  this  comparative 
stranger — oh  no  !  no  longer  that — himself 
proved  capable  of  the  highest  self-sacrifice, 
recognizes  through  the  wretchedness  of  her 
performance  the  high  reality  of  her  endeavour 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  213 


■ — recognizes  it  as  the  truly  noble  are  ever 
quick  to  recognize  the  dimmest  spark  of 
nobility  in  others. 

'  Of  course,  that  is  only  a  fagon  de  parler, 
a  way  of  conveying  your  compassion  for  my 
disaster,'  she  answers,  in  a  voice  that  is  more 
colourless  and  quiet  than  her  eye  and  cheek  ; 
'  but  I  do  not  want  kindness  to-day  :  I  want 
bracing.' 

'How  is  it  to  be  done  ?' 

'  Did  you  ever  feel  the  utter  failure  of  faith 
in  yourself  that  I  am  feeling  to-day  ?'  she 
asks  suddenly,  with  a  carrying  of  the  seat  of 
war  from  the  stage  of  her  heart  to  his,  which 
he  is  so  unprepared  for  as  to  have  no  instant 
reply  ready.  She  answers  herself:  '  But 
no  ;  the  resolution  that  could  string  you  up 
to  such  a  sacrifice  as  yours  is  not  likely  to 
know  any  after- faltering.' 

'  What  sacrifice  ?     What  do  you  mean  ?' 

'You  do  not  mind  Faustina  having  told 
me  ?'  she  asks  gently,  noting  the  disturbance 


214  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

in  his  countenance.  *  I  hope  she  thought  I 
was  worthy  of  the  pleasure  of  hearing  that 
such  things  are  done,  and  that  there  are 
people  to  do  them.' 

He  looks  thoroughly  uncomfortable. 

'  I  dare  say  she  greatly  exaggerated  the 
— what  you  are  alluding  to.' 

'  Why  should  you  try  to  depreciate,  because 
you  have  done  it  yourself,  an  action  that  you 
would  be  the  first  to  exalt  if  it  had  been  done 
by  anybody  else  ?' 

She  has  taken  a  brief  for  him  thus  prettily 
against  himself ;  but,  seeing  his  confusion  at 
being  so  praised,  she  hastens  to  change  the 
subject. 

'  I  think  that  nothing  would  help  so  much 
to-day  to  cure  me  of  my  sentimental  woes — 
I  dare  say  you  look  upon  them  as  no  better — 
than  if  you  were  to  be  good  enough  to  tell 
me  of  some  real  sorrow — some  such  facts  as 
you  were  relating  last  night  when — when  we 
were  interrupted.' 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  215 


*  Am  I  never  to  be  anything  but  a  pur- 
veyor of  horrors  ?' 

There  is  a  slight  impatience  in  his  tone, 
and  a  little  resentment  in  her  rejoinder : 

'  I  thought  it  was  the  subject  nearest  your 
heart.' 

He  gives  his  head  a  sort  of  toss. 

*  Yes,  I  suppose  it  is  ;  but  cannot  you 
understand  the  wish  to  escape  for  a  little 
while  from  the  obsession  of  a  lifelong  hobby — 
and  such  a  hobby,  too  ?' 

'  It  is  new  to  me,  and  I  am  not  yet  tired 

of  it; 

He  lets  the  little  fleer  pass  in  good- 
humoured  silence.  They  have  moved  from 
before  the  More  monument,  and  are  standing 
side  by  side  at  the  old  oak  altar-rails — before 
that  altar  at  which  probably  Henry  VHI. 
stood  with  Jane  Seymour  ;  at  which  so  many 
a  man  and  maid,  in  the  four  centuries,  or 
more  nearly  five,  since  the  church  was 
founded,  have  stood  to  engage  in  that  sacred 


2i6  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

contract  for  which  both  the  present  man  and 
maid,  as  each  has  been  separately  informed, 
feel  and  express  so  deep  an  abhorrence. 

The  idea  darts  simultaneously  into  both 
their  minds,  that  they  look  as  if  they  were 
being  married.  It  gives  him  an  annoyed 
sense  of  being  always,  in  reference  to  his 
companion,  seeming  something  that  he  is 
not,  and  it  makes  her  move  away  down  the 
aisle.  He  follows  her  in  silence  between  the 
old  oak  pews,  upon  which  no  architect  has 
yet  laid  an  abolishing  hand.  The  influence 
of  the  place  is  stilling,  in  the  completeness 
of  its  belonging  to  the  departed  centuries. 
Amono-  the  monuments  there  is  not  one 
intrusion  on  the  part  of  the  pushing  present. 
What  common-place  dead  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  indeed,  would  venture  to  thrust  them- 
selves into  the  lofty  company  of  Sir  Thomas 
More  and  Spenser's  'Alcyon,'  to  squeeze 
his  paltry  modern  tablet  between  the  ruined 
beauty  of  the  resting-place  of  the  Northumber- 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  217 


land  family  and  the  superb  monument  where, 
recumbent  and  canopied,  the  noble  Dacre  pair 
await  the  blare  of  the  last  trumpet  upon  their 
altar-tomb  ? 

Partly  for  fear  of  crossing  her  mood,  partly 
because  his  own  spirit  feels  the  quelling  of 
the  historic  past,  thus  brought  before  his 
bodily  eyes,  Drake  breaks  into  her  thoughts 
by  no  remark  until,  having  made  the  circuit 
of  the  church,  they  stand  in  final  contempla- 
tion before  the  brasses  of  the  Northumber- 
land tomb,  where  the  Duchess  kneels  with 
her  fiY^  daughters  behind  her.  A  freakish 
vandalism  o^  some  former  age  has  picked 
out  the  effigies  of  the  five  sons  that  once 
balanced  the  female  members  of  the  family. 

For  the  first  time  Althea  speaks  in  a  low 
voice,  and  looking  curiously  at  the  vacant 
spaces  :  '  I  wonder  which  was  Lord  Guildford 
Dudley's — Lady  Jane  Grey's  husband  ?' 

He  has  nothing  to  suggest,  and  it  makes 
him  feel  stupid. 


2i8  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

'  Do  you  know  that  she  must  have  often 
come  to  church  here  ?' 

'  I  did  not  know  It.' 

'  And  Queen  Elizabeth,  too,  when  she  was 
Princess.' 

'  Yes.' 

'  The  Countess  of  Nottingham — the  one 
who  kept  back  Essex's  ring — is  buried  here.' 

Her  face  is  flushing  with  delicate  emotion. 
For  the  moment  she  has  forgotten  the  Cause, 
Progress — all  that  has  made  up  her  life 
of  late.  He  sees  her  in  a  new  and,  as  it 
seems  to  him,  a  lovely  light. 

'  And  you  expected  me  to  ^11  you  /lere 
grisly  anecdotes  of  chromate  of  potash  and 
bisulphate  of  carbon !' 

With  an  unexpected  spring  she  is  back 
in  the  present. 

'You  never  told  me  anything  about  bi- 
sulphate of  carbon.' 

He  looks  at  her  with  an  expression  of 
decision. 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  219 

*  And,  what  is  more,  I  will  not — at  least, 
not  to-day,  now,  here  f 

*  Perhaps  you  are  right ;  it  might  give 
them  bad  dreams,'  she  says,  looking  round 
at  the  sculptured  effigies  ;  then,  with  a  sudden 
spring  to  another  topic :  '  I  did  not  know 
that  you  were  acquainted  with  Miss  Dela- 
field.' 

'  No  more  I  am.  I  never  saw  her  before 
last  night,  except  at  the  meeting  to  which 
she  alluded.' 

'  Over  which  she  was  so  ecstatic  ?' 

'  Her  enthusiasm  deserved  a  better  theme; 
but  I  thought  it  pretty.' 

This  is  not  the  light  in  which  it  had  struck 
Miss  Vane,  and  she  maintains  a  dry  silence 
which  she  dimly  feels  to  be  ungenerous. 

'  Where  was  it  at  ?' 

'At  Canning  Town.  I  was  only  talking 
to  our  own  people — our  dockers.'  As  she 
makes  no  comment,  he  presently  adds  :  '  You 
have  never  seen  our  Settlement.' 


2  20  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

'  I  do  not  think  Faustina  has  ever  been 
asked  to  speak  there.' 

'  I  am  sure  she  has  not ;  she  came  to 
loggerheads  with  my  chief  over  a  County 
Council  election.' 

'  Then,  I  am  afraid  I  never  shall.' 

'  You  are  not  absolutely  inseparable,'  he 
says,  with  a  tinge  of  impatience.  '  Could 
not  you  come  without  her  ?' 

'  By  myself  7 

'  If  you  would  allow  me,  I  should  be  very 
glad  to  be  your  escort.' 

Her  sole  answer  is  a  slight  blush;  and, 
with  an  inward  reflection  how  very  far  she 
still  is  from  that  complete  emancipation  from 
the  trammels  of  convention  which  she 
imagines  herself  to  have  reached,  he  lets  the 
subject  drop.  She  harks  back  to  the  Dela- 
field  topic. 

'  Do  you  know  Miss  Delafield's  parents — 
Lord  and  Lady  Lanington  ?' 

'  I    used  to  ;  I  do  not  know  anyone  now. 


DEAR  FAUSTINA 


Last  night  I  felt  like  Rip  Van  Winkle.  I 
never  go  out  in  London  now.  I  have  not 
the  time ;  and,  besides  —  nobody  wants 
me.' 

'  Nobody  wants  you  /' 

There  is  a  delicate  flavour  of  incredulity 
about  this  repetition  of  his  own  words. 

'In  my  differences  with  my  father,  society, 
in  so  far  as  it  troubled  itself  about  us  at  all, 
which  was  not  much,  sided  with  him  ;  and, 
indeed,  it  was  by  no  means  altogether  in 
the  wrong.  I  was  very  ill-judged  and  in- 
temperate. If  it  had  to  be  done  over  again, 
I  should  do  it  quite  differently.' 

'  But  you  WOULD  do  it  ?' 

There  is  a  fiery  spark  of  enthusiasm  in  her 
eye,  and  an  imperative  anxiety  in  her  voice, 
which  make  him  feel  that  he  would  be  com- 
pelled to  give  the  answer  she  expects,  even 
if  it  were  not  the  true  one. 

'  Yes  ;  I  should  do  it.     And  you  ?' 


2  22  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

*  Yes.  If  it  were  to  do  over  again,  would 
you  repeat  your  sacrifice — one  so  infinitely 
greater  than  mine  ?' 

'  Greater  than  yours  /' 

Once  again  she  has  repeated  his  words, 
this  time  with  an  unmistakable  accent  of 
mixed  scorn  and  reverence.  Which  of  these 
emotions  is  for  herself,  which  for  him,  is  to 
the  young  man  delightfully  clear. 

'Infinitely  greater,'  he  repeats;  'mine 
was  a  mere  throwing  away  of  superfluities, 
yours  the  abandonment  of  every  habit  and 
tradition  and  household  tie,  and  I  should 
imagine  that  household  ties  would  be  very 
dear  to  you  ' — with  a  softened  inflection — 
'  the  acceptance  of  every  possible  galling 
paltry  hardship  and  discomfort,  from  drunken 
cooks  upward  or  downward.' 

'  Cook,  not  cooks.  There  was  only  one, 
and  she  left  next  day.' 

He  laughs  a  little.  '  She  was  a  host  in 
herself.' 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  223 

'  One  would  indeed  be  a  poor  creature  if 
one  could  be  turned  aside  from  one's  life- 
purpose  by  the  loss  of  a  few  little  luxuries. 
I  confess  I  was  ashamed  to  find  how  much  I 
missed  them  at  first ;  but  I  very  soon  got 
used  to  doing  without  them  ;  and  you  must 
remember  that  I  had  Faustina  to  set  against 
them.' 

*  Yes,  you  had  Faustina.' 

Her  face,  which  a  moment  ago  had 
been  rippled  over  by  a  little  smile  of  inward 
gratification  at  the  heroic,  if  somewhat  erro- 
neous, light  in  which  he  had  set  her  career, 
droops  again  into  unaffected  dejection. 

'It  is  not  the  want  of  cotton -wool,  as 
Faustina  calls  it — you  must  not  think  that — 
which  is  depressing  me ;  the  sting  lies  in 
the  fact  that  I  have  fallen  so  far  short  of  her 
expectations.  She  is  rather  apt  to  idealize 
those  whom  she  loves — do  not  you  think  so  ? 
Do  you  happen  to  remember  whether  she 
idealized  Miss  Lewis  ?' 


224  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

The  channel  In  which  her  thoughts  are 
running — following  the  late  favourite  to  her 
unhonoured  extinction  —  is  so  obvious  that 
a  streak  of  affectionate  amusement  tinges  the 
real  sympathy  in  his  heart. 

'  Not  that  I  recollect.  It  would  have  been 
difficult.' 

*  Sometimes  I  think  I  might  have  done 
better  if  I  had  been  with  a  person  nearer  my 
own  level  intellectually — someone  who  would 
have  made  mistakes  too,  whom  I  might  have 
gone  hand -in -hand  with,  helped  as  well  as 
been  helped  by.' 

In  their  talk  they  have  again  rambled 
round  the  church,  and  have  now  paused 
opposite  the  full-length  reclining  figure  in 
the  North  Chapel  of  the  Lady  Jane,  who 
has  lent  her  surname  to  pleasant  and  now 
illustrious  Cheyne  Walk.  Neither  looks  at 
her,  for  the  excellent  reason  that  they  are 
looking  at  each  other.  Althea  has  raised 
her  eyes,  full  of  a  delicate,  wistful  distress,  to 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  225 


his,  and  he,  for  the  first  time  off  his  guard, 
has  dropped  his  plumb  into  them. 

'  Someone  whom  I  could  have  gone  hand- 
in-hand  with,'  she  repeats. 

***** 

Either  Miss  Vane  must  have  spent  more 
time  in  lionizing  Old  Chelsea  Church  than 
she  was  aware  of,  or  Miss  Bateson  must 
have  demolished  '  Capital '  with  fewer  strokes 
of  her  biting  eloquence  than  she  had  expected, 
for  before  Althea  opens  the  door  of  the  litde 
sitting-room  she  is  made  aware  of  her  leader's 
return  by  hearing  her  voice  in  fluent  inter- 
change with  another  female  one.  It  strikes 
her  confusedly  that  she  has  heard  that  other 
voice  before,  yet  on  her  entrance  she  does  not 
for  the  first  moment  recognize  the  figure 
seated  in  an  attitude  of  eager  devotion  at 
Faustina  s  knee.  It  is  only  when  six  feet  of 
elegant  stature  and  perfectly-cut  clothes  raise 
themselves  with  youth's  quick  suppleness, 
and  hasten  to  meet  her,  that,  with  a  shock 

15 


226  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

of  displeased  surprise,  she  realizes  that  it  Is 
Miss  Delafield. 

'  You  see  that  I  have  found  out  your  £-z^e  /' 
cries  she,  in  a  tone  of  childish  triumph.  '  I 
have  made  Miss  Bateson's  acquaintance  with- 
out your  kind  help.  Oh,  why  were  not  you 
at  the  meeting  ?  You  do  not  know  what  you 
have  lost.      I  could  have  listened  for  ever !' 

A  slight  flash  of  ironic  wonder  as  to 
whether  Drake  would  consider  this  enthu- 
siasm— so  identical  In  quality,  and  equal  in 
quantity,  to  what  his  own  speech  had  called 
forth — as  '  pretty '  as  he  had  done  when  he 
himself  had  evoked  it,  darts  athwart  Althea  s 
mind,  but  she  remains  tongue-bound. 

*  I  do  not  know  whether  you  will  endorse 
Miss  Bateson's  invitation,'  continues  the 
visitor,  with  a  very  faint  cloud  of  doubt 
resting  on  her  radiant  brow,  '  but  she  has 
most  kindly  invited  me  to  stay  with  you  for 
a  couple  of  nights.' 

'  To  s^ay  with  us  !' 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  227 

There  is  such  undisguised  consternation  in 
the  accent  with  which  this  is  uttered  that 
Faustina  comes  to  the  rescue. 

*  Miss  Delafield  expressed  such  a  strong 
curiosity  to  know  how  we  working  women 
Hve,  that  I  told  her  her  best  plan  would  be 
to  come  back  with  me  and  make  practical 
trial  of  it.  I  have  engaged  to  treat  her 
exactly  as  one  of  ourselves.' 

She  says  it  with  calm  good-humour,  as 
if  suggesting  the  most  natural  and  feasible 
project  imaginable. 

Althea's  brain  whirls  round  like  a  peg-top. 

'  I  do  not  understand.  Our  accommodation 
is  so  limited,  the  space  so  cramped ' 

'  I  have  arranged  all  that  Miss  Delafield 
will  have  my  room.' 

'  And  you  ?' 

'I?  Oh,  I  shall  swing  a  hammock  in  the 
passage  ;  I  have  often  done  it  before.' 


[    228    ] 


CHAPTER  XL 

For  the  next  two  days  there  can  be  no 
manner  of  doubt  that  the  inhabitants  of 
4,  More  Mansions  are  inconveniently  thick 
upon  the  ground.  To  two  of  the  ladies  thus 
brought  into  such  close  juxtaposition  this 
overcrowding  is  a  matter  of  supreme  indif- 
ference. The  newcomer,  indeed,  evidently 
regards  it  as  a  delightful  picnic — a  piquant 
and  salutary  change  from  the  large  and 
luxurious  dulness  of  Grosvenor  Square. 
Her  one  heartfelt  regret  is  that  it  is  not 
she  who  is  to  swing  in  the  hammock. 

With    a    rather     acrid     interest     Althea 
watches    the     stranger    taking    the    fences 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  229 

over  which  she  herself  had  so  sadly  bungled, 
and  speculates  whether  the  superior  gusto 
with  which  she  attacks  the  unappetizing 
food  is  due  to  the  fact  that  she  knows  that 
the  experiment  is  to  end  in  forty-eight  hours, 
or  to  some  superior  toughness  of  fibre.  The 
amusement  with  which  she  sees  her  own 
history  repeated  is  so  diluted  by  other  feel- 
ings as  to  be  hardly  amusement  at  all. 

The  fact  that  Lord  and  Lady  Lanington 
are  entirely  ignorant  of  their  daughter's 
escapade,  but  think  her,  during  a  short 
absence  of  their  own,  safely  chaperoned  by 
an  aunt,  though  imparted  to  her  as  a  good 
joke,  does  not  strike  her  as  highly  comic  ; 
neither  does  the  possibility  of  Edward's  dis- 
covering his  beloved's  freak,  and  attributing 
to  her — Althea — the  credit  of  it. 

But  superior  in  pain  to  either  of  these 
causes  of  disquiet  is  the  discovery  of  what 
unsuspected  capacities  for  jealousy  lie  in  her 
own   breast.     Faustina  is,   if  possible,   more 


230  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

demonstratively  tender  than  ever  to  her 
when  they  are  alone  ;  but  the  memory  of  the 
rise  of  their  reciprocal  devotion  is  too  recent 
for  her  not  to  be  able  to  trace  an  exact 
reproduction  of  its  earlier  stages  in  Miss 
Bateson's  method  of  recommending  herself 
to  the  newcomer.  Little  tricks  of  phrase, 
slight  but  expressive  caresses,  which  she  had 
believed  to  belong  to  her  alone,  she  now 
sees  to  have  an  equal  fitness  of  application 
to  another. 

Faustina's  apparent  unconsciousness  of 
giving  any  cause  for  offence,  coupled  with 
her  own  sense  of  shame  at  harbouring  such 
suspicions  of  her  al^er  egos  fidelity,  make 
her  struggle  painfully  against  her  wounded 
feelings  during  the  two  days  of  Miss  Dela- 
field's  visit ;  but  on  the  morning  of  her  de- 
parture Althea's  self-command  breaks  down 
under  a  new  and  final  provocation. 

'  I  am  afraid,  darling,  I  must  let  you  go 
to   the   committee   meeting  at    the    Pickaxe 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  231 

Club   this   afternoon    by  yourself.     Cressida 
has  asked  me ' 

*  Cressida  !  Have  you  got  to  ''  Cressida  " 
already  ?' 

*  How  long  was  it  before  I  got  to 
**  Althea  "  ?' — with  sly  tenderness. 

'  Do  you  mean  to  imply  that  this  is  a 
parallel  case  ?' 

Faustina  looks  at  her  flushed  subaltern 
with  a  cool  surprise — cool,  though  her  words 
have  the  customary  boiling  affection. 

'  A  parallel  case !  Is  it  likely,  my  own  ? 
But  you  are  not  going  to  pick  a  quarrel  with 
me  because  I  wish  to  escort  the  poor  little 
girl  to  her  aunt's  door  ?  She  has  to  go  there 
for  a  night  or  two,  so  as  to  hoodwink  her 
people.' 

'  Does  not  it  strike  you  that  that  is  rather 
underhand  ?' 

Miss  Bateson  makes  a  gesture  of  supreme 
indifference. 

'  Parents  have  only  themselves  to   thank 


232  DEAR.  FAUSTINA 

If,  in  their  efforts  to  make  water  run  uphill, 
they  develop  duplicity  in  their  children.' 

Althea  is  too  angry  to  rejoin — a  result  of 
the  situation  which  the  soothing  tone  of  her 
friend's  next  words  seems  calculated  to  meet. 

'  You  may  be  very  sure,  sweetest,  that  I 
shall  not  go  beyond  the  door,  as  the  old 
Countess  is,  it  seems,  a  ten-fossil-power 
obstructive.' 

In  ordinary  times  Althea  would  not  have 
felt  the  smallest  inclination  to  take  up  the 
cudgels  for  the  lady  in  question,  but  to  a 
wrathful  hand  no  weapon  comes  amiss. 

'  Are  not  you  rather  fond  of  calling  names  ?' 
she  asks,  in  a  very  quiet  voice,  which  yet 
strikes  a  sort  of  surprised  alarm  into  Faus- 
tina's stout  heart ;  and  without  giving  her 
time  to  reply  to  the  not  very  conciliatory 
question,  the  younger  woman  goes  on  : 

*  That  reminds  me  to  ask  you  whether  you 
would  give  up  always  alluding  to  my  people 
as  ''  Philistines  "  and  ''  Philistia  "?     It  did  not 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  233 

matter  once  in  a  way  when  we  were  alone, 
but  a  crystallized  joke  becomes  tiresome,  do 
not  you  think  ?' 

*  I  had  not  an  idea  that  you  minded.' 

'  I  mind  very  much.  As  I  am  very  fond 
of  my  brother  Edward,  it  hurts  me  a  good 
deal  to  hear  him  spoken  of  to  a  perfect 
stranger  as  Goliath  of  Gath.' 

Faustina's  cheek  takes  on  its  rare  and 
dusky  flush. 

'  Why  did  not  you  mention  it  before  ?'  she 
asks  in  a  tone  of  real  and  unresentful  concern. 
'  Of  course,  you  shall  never  have  to  complain 
of  it  again.  Do  not  you  know  that  I  had 
rather  cut  out  my  tongue  than  that  it  should 
wound  you  ?  I  am  afraid  I  am  not  very 
sensitive  myself;  my  life  of  struggle  has  not 
allowed  me  to  be  so ;  and  sometimes  my 
high  spirits  run  away  with  me.  Forgive  my 
clumsiness,  dear,  and  believe  that  I  had 
rather  die  a  thousand  deaths  than  give  your 
tender  spirit  the  very  least  wound  !' 


234  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

The  amende  is  magnificent,  and  puts 
Althea  completely  in  the  wrong,  as  she 
remorsefully  feels  ;  but  that  does  not  hinder 
her  being  very  wretched,  as  she  sees  from 
the  gimcrack  little  one-foot  balcony  of  their 
drawing-room  the  two  other  ladies  gaily  get 
into  their  hansom,  and  trot  away  behind  a 
good  fresh  horse. 

The  wretchedness  pursues  her  through  the 
committee  meeting,  conscientiously  attended, 
where  she  has  to  excuse  Miss  Bateson's  non- 
appearance, and  be  made  to  feel  how  poor  a 
substitute  she  is  for  her.  It  buses  home 
with  her  to  the  flat,  which  she  finds  still 
empty  of  its  joint  occupier.  The  servant  has 
gone  out,  and  the  dispirited  girl  has  not 
energy  to  make  herself  a  cup  of  tea. 

Among  her  more  real  grievances,  the 
rather  fanciful  one  of  the  epithet  used  by 
Faustina  to  her  takes  an  undue  and  ridicu- 
lous prominence.  The  adjective  '  tender '  is 
generally  held  to   be   a  flattering    one  ;  but 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  235 

when  applied  to  a  '  spirit,'  it  carries  with  it  a 
sense  of  incapacity,  brittleness,  futiHty. 

Since  the  word  *  Out '  is,  as  she  beHeves, 
still  affixed  to  her  name  in  the  hall  below,  it 
is  with  no  expectation  of  a  visitor,  but  rather 
of  a  tradesman  or  of  the  truant  Eliza,  that 
Althea  answers  in  person  the  sharp,  quivering 
thrill  of  the  electric  bell. 

'  You  are  in  !  The  porter  told  me  you  had 
been  back  half  an  hour,  and ' — lowering  a 
cautious  voice,  and  peeping  through  the 
half-opened  door  before  venturing  a  bronze 
shoe  over  the  threshold — '  nobody  else  at 
home  ?' 

'  Nobody ;  I  am  absolutely  and  entirely 
alone. ' 

Thus  reassured,  Clare,  for  it  is  she,  steps 
in,  though  still  hesitating. 

'  And  are  you  likely  to  be  alone  for  a  few 
minutes  ?' 

'  That  is  more  than  I  can  tell  you.  I  am 
expecting  Faustina  back  at  any  moment.' 


236  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

The  answer  is  made  without  any  symptom 
of  indignation  at  the  implied  hope  of  avoiding 
Miss  Bateson,  a  fact  which  her  sister  notes 
with  inward  surprise,  and  is  accompanied  by 
a  warm  hug,  and  an  '  Oh,  I  a7/i  glad  to  see 
you  !     How  nice  of  you  to  come  !' 

There  can  be  no  doubt  as  to  the  verity  of 
the  feeling  expressed ;  nor  is  Mrs.  Boteler 
the  person  to  risk  hurting  the  feelings  of 
even  anyone  whom  she  disliked  by  rebutting 
their  endearments ;  and  yet  there  is  un- 
doubted embarrassment  in  her  way  of  rather 
accepting  than  returning  her  sister's  kisses. 

'  Do  not  be  too  sure  that  it  is  nice  of  me.' 

'  What  do  you  mean  ?' 

'  Do  not  be  too  sure  that  I  have  not  come 
to  make  myself  disagreeable.' 

'  To  make  yourself  disagreeable  !  Oh,  do 
not,  do  not  !' 

There  is  such  a  piercing  accent  of  appeal 
in  the  words  that  Clare  looks  at  her 
curiously. 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  237 


'  Why  not  ?  D9  you  mean  that  anyone 
has  been  beforehand  with  me  ?' 

'  No,  no  ;  rather  the  other  way.  But  why 
should  you  ?  I  have  not  done  anything 
fresh,  have  I  ?' 

To  this  rather  plaintive  cry  for  mercy  Mrs. 
Boteler's  answer  is  delayed,  through  the  dis- 
traction of  her  attention  to  a  fresh  object. 
They  have  reached  the  drawing-room,  which 
can  hardly  be  said  to  be  looking  its  best. 

'  My  dear  creature  !'  looking  round  with  a 
sort  of  gasp.  *  What  a  dog-hole !  and  /low 
untidy !' 

Althea's  pale  face  takes  on  a  faint  red. 

'  Very  busy  people  cannot  have  everything 
in  as  apple-pie  order  as  those  who  do  nothing, 
and  have  a  score  of  lackeys  to  help  them.' 

The  phrase  is  Batesonian.  A  year  ago 
Althea  would  never  have  thought  of  alluding 
to  a  footman  as  a  '  lackey  ';  and  in  her  own 
ear  it  perhaps  rings  a  little  offensively,  for 
she  adds  in  quite  a  different  key  : 


238  DEAR  FAUSTINA 


'  We  are  not  generally  in  such  disorder  ; 
but  just  before  she  left  Faustina  turned  out 
a  whole  drawerful  of  papers  in  search  of  a 
list  of  members  of  a  society,  which  she  wanted 
to  show  to ' 

Miss  Vane  makes  a  sudden  break  off. 

'  To  show  to  Cressida  Delafield,'  says  Clare, 
finishing  the  sentence  in  a  cold  voice.  '  You 
need  not  hesitate  to  mention  her ;  I  know 
that  she  has  been  staying  here.' 

Once  again  Althea  reddens. 

'Yes  ;  she  has  been  here  for  two  days.' 

She  begins  as  she  speaks,  partly  to  hide 
her  own  emotion,  partly  to  clear  a  seat  for 
her  sister,  to  make  short  work  with  Faus- 
tina's literary  litter,  a  labour  in  which  she  is 
arrested  by  Clare's  next  sentence,  spoken 
almost  under  her  breath. 

*  And  you  were  Edward's  favourite  sister !' 

The  past  tense  used  in  such  a  connection 
would  always  have  cut  Althea  to  the  quick ; 
but  just  now,  when  she  has  been  feeling  so 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  239 

heart  and  home  sick,  it  goes  nigh  to  over- 
setting her. 

'  You  need  not  tell  me  that  I  no  longer  am 
so,'  she  answers  drearily  ;  'but  I  do  not  see 
what  that  has  got  to  say  to  it.' 

'  I   own  that  he  has  not  been  quite  fair  to 
you,  poor  old  fellow  !  but,  oh,   I  did  not  think  - 
you  would  have  stooped  to  such  a  revenge  !' 

Althea  makes  no  answer.  She  has  sat 
down,  a  sort  of  dismal  pleasure  in  seeing  how 
much  injustice  can  be  heaped  upon  her  from 
all  sides  tying  her  tongue. 

But  from  her  silence  Clare  draws  the 
natural,  though  erroneous,  inference  of  her 
acquiescence. 

'  I  told  you  that  you  need  not  thank  me 
for  coming.  My  one  object  was  to  beg  you 
— but  I  fear  I  might  have  saved  my  labour — 
to  choose  some  other  victim.' 

Still  silence. 

*  She  was  quite  inclined  to  like  him  until 
you  set  her  against  him.' 


240  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

Silence. 

'  She  will  never  do  you  any  credit  ;  she  is 
really  very  silly — far  sillier  than  Fanny.' 

Silence. 

*  I  cannot  but  think  you  might  have  spared 
her.' 

It  is  a  provision  of  Nature  that,  when  an 
emotion  becomes  too  acute  to  be  represented 
by  the  words  or  action  appropriate  to  it,  it 
borrows  those  used  to  portray  its  opposite. 
There  is  a  joy  that  can  speak  itself  only  in 
tears,  and  when  vexation  has  reached  its  most 
poignant  degree  it  translates  itself  by  a  laugh. 

Althea  has  now  attained  to  that  pitch,  and 
she  bursts  out  laughing. 

'You  must  forgive  me,'  she  says  ;  '  but  do 
you  imagine  that  it  was  by  my  invitation 
that  Cressida  Delafield  came  here  ?' 

'  By  whose  else  ?' 

Althea  has  risen,  and  two  steps  bring  her 
face  to  face — with  angry  eyes  on  a  level — to 
her  sister. 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  241 

'  Then,  let  me  tell  you  '  —  she  feels  a 
sensible  relief  in  thus  venting  her  pent 
passion  —  '  that  you  can't  detest  her  being 
here  more  cordially  than  I  did  and  do !' 

There  is  no  mistaking  the  accent  of  truth 
that  rings  through  this  fiery  disclaimer,  and 
the  anger  in  Mrs.  Boteler's  eyes  dies  into 
bewilderment. 

'  But  I  do  not  understand.  If  you  did  not 
ask  her,  who  did  ?  I  happen  to  know  that 
less  than  a  week  ago  she  did  not  know  that 
— did  not  know  Miss  Bateson.' 

*  She  scraped  acquaintance  with  her  at  a 
meeting.' 

*  And  you  had  no  hand  in  it  ?' 

To  Althea  such  a  question  hardly  seems 
worth  answering,  and  her  brief  '  None !' 
making  Clare  still  maintain  a  dubious  silence, 
she  bursts  forth  with  concentrated  indignation : 

'  Is  it  because  I  have  tried  to  live  my  life 
by  my  lights,  however  dim,  that  you  have 
thought  me  capable  of  such  baseness  ?' 

16 


242  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

Mrs.  Boteler's  answer  is  to  turn  the  hose 
of  her  resentment  upon  an  object  which  she 
is  always  dehghted  to  deluge. 

'It  was  Faustina's  doing,  of  course!  I 
might  have  known  it.  She  never  could  bear 
him  !' 

'  Faustina  has  some  better  employment  in 
life  than  the  wreaking  of  petty  spites,'  re- 
joins the  younger  sister  in  a  tone  which 
makes  Mrs.  Boteler  feel  extremely  small, 
'  even  if  she  knew  that  there  was  a  spite  to 
wreak  ;  but,  little  as  you  may  believe  it,  I  am 
not  in  the  habit  of  regaling  her  with  my 
family's  weaknesses.' 

'  You  mean  that  she  does  not  know  about 
poor  Ned  ?' 

'  She  knows  as  little  as  she  would  care  if 
she  did  know.' 

'  Then,  what  could  have  been  her  motive  ?' 

'  If  you  can  conquer  your  prejudices 
enough  to  credit  her  for  once  with  an 
innocent  one,  you   may  believe  that   it  was 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  243 

simply  because  Miss  Delafield  expressed  a 
wish  to  see  how  people  like  us — working 
women — lived.' 

The  expression  grates  upon  Clare's  ear — 
it  is  probable  that  it  was  meant  to  do  so — 
almost  as  much  as  the  icy  tone,  so  different 
from  the  tender  expansion  of  her  sister's 
earlier  greeting,  chills  her. 

'  I  hope  she  was  pleased  with  the  experi- 
ment,' she  says  dryly. 

'  I  believe  so  ;  in  fact ' — with  bitterness — 
'  she  will  probably  repeat  it  before  long.' 

Mrs.  Boteler  throws  out  her  hands  with  a 
gesture  of  desperation. 

'  Then  Ned  will  go  mad  !' 

'  Judging  from  his  actions,  he  is  not  far 
from  it  already  !' 

The  tone  is  one  of  ire  still  well  on  the  boil, 
but  Clare  does  not  seem  to  notice  it. 

'  Cannot  you  hinder  it  ?  But  of  course 
you  can !  Your  paramount  influence  with 
Faustina ' 


244  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

Althea  winces.  Is  her  influence  indeed  so 
paramount  ?     But  she  only  says  : 

'  Do  you  think  it  easy  to  tell  persons  that 
their  acquaintance  is  considered  so  damaging 
that  they  are  requested  to  withdraw  it  ?' 

'  Oh,  there  are  ways  of  doing  things  !'  cries 
Clare  urgently  ;  '  you  know  that  as  well  as  I. 
Tell  her  how  little  credit  Cressida  will  ever  do 
her.  What  a  fool  she  is  !  She  is  really  far 
sillier  than  Fanny.' 

As  Fanny  has  always  been  the  recognized 
foolometer  of  the  Vane  family,  neither  of  the 
sisters  sees  anything  unkind  or  unusual  in 
the  comparison. 

'  I  could  not  say  anything  in  detraction  of 
her,'  says  Althea  sadly  and  proudly ;  '  it 
would  be  unworthy  ;  and,  besides,  it  would 
look  like  jealousy.' 

There  is  an  uneasy  pause,  broken  by  the 
visitor. 

'  It  is  not  so  much,  or,  at  least,  not  only, 
Faustina's  influence  that  he  dreads  ;  he  has 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  245 

a  terror  of  her  meeting  men  here — men  of 
the  type  of — of  that  Mr.  Drake,  who  has  a 
sort  of  good  looks,  has  not  he  ?  and  is  a 
plausible  kind  of  person.  Though  Cressida 
looks  such  a  baby,  she  is  nearly  of  age  ;  and 
Ned  is  in  terror  lest  this  Mr.  Drake,  or 
someone  like  him,  should  try  to  get  hold  of 
her  for  the  sake  of  her  fortune.' 

To  Mrs.  Boteler's  unfeigned  surprise, 
Althea's  first  answer  to  this  speech  is  a 
deluge  of  crimson  that  submerges  face  and 
throat.     It  is  followed  bywords  that  match  it: 

'  I  should  have  thought  that  one  who  had 
given  up  twenty  thousand  pounds  a  year  for 
conscience'  sake  scarcely  came  under  the 
head  of  a  vulgar  and  mercenary  adven- 
turer. ' 

Clare's  jaw  drops. 

'  Twenty  thousand  a  year !  But  are  you 
sure  of  it  ?' 

'  Quite  sure.' 

'  Did  he  tell  you  so  himself.'*' 


246  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

A  slight  Ironic  curl  of  Althea's  lip  shows 
that  she  detects  the  implied  incredulity. 
'  No  ;  I  was  told  by  another  person.' 
Miss  Vane  alludes  thus  vaguely  to  her 
authority  because  she  is  aware  that,  if  she 
gave  it  up,  an  even  superior  degree  of  dis- 
belief to  that  already  shown  by  her  sister 
would  attend  it. 

'  Twenty  thousand  a  year  !'  repeats  Clare, 
in  that  tone  of  deep  respect  which  in  the 
mouth  of  even  the  best  of  Britons  always 
attends  the  mention  of  a  large  sum  of  money. 

*  Then  why  was  he  ki ' 

'  Kicked  out  of  society !'  says  Althea, 
snatching  the  words  out  of  her  sister's  mouth, 
as  if  she  could  not  bear  to  hear  them  uttered 
by  any  tongue  but  her  own.  '  If  you  re- 
member, in  former  ages  of  the  world  there 
were  people  to  whom  the  same  thing  hap- 
pened ;  they  even  went  a  step  further,  and 
wandered  about  in  sheepskins  and  goat- 
skins  ' 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  247 

'  My  dear  Thee !' — in  shocked  interruption 
— '  are  you  classing  this  man  with  the 
saints  ?' 

The  never-quite-ebbed  red  rushes  back  over 
Althea's  cheeks  as  the  outraged  common- 
sense  of  Clare's  words  brings  home  to  her 
the  fact  that  she  is  making  a  fool  of  herself. 
But  she  does  what  is,  perhaps,  the  wisest 
course  to  pursue  in  such  a  case — she  sticks 
to  her  guns,  and  even  fires  a  new  volley  with 
yet  more  smoke  and  smell  of  sulphur  than 
before. 

'  I  class  him  with  the  martyrs  of  humanity, 
the  noble  and  good,  who  in  all  ages  have 
been  wronged  and  misinterpreted  by  the 
ignoble  because  they  were  incapable  of  com- 
prehending them.' 

This  tirade  has  for  the  moment  the  effect 
of  reducing  its  auditor  to  a  dismayed 
silence,  and  it  is  in  a  tone  of  shocked  ap- 
prehension that  she  at  length  brings  out  the 
words  : 


248  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

'  You  take  up  the  cudgels  very  warmly  for 
him.  If  I  had  had  any  idea  that  he  was 
such  an  intimate  friend  of  yours ' 

'  I  never  said  that  he  was  a  friend  of  mine  ; 
it  is  no  question  of  friendship.  But  I  have 
suffered  too  much  myself  from  being  mis- 
judged and  misunderstood  not  to  stand  up 
for  anyone  whom  I  see  wronged,  though  in 
a  thousandfold  greater  degree,  in  the  same 
way.' 

The  speech  is  hostile,  but  the  voice  is  so 
trembling,  and  the  eyes  so  bright  with 
imminent  tears,  that  no  feeling  of  anger — 
rather  one  of  yearning  pity  and  affection — 
is  produced  by  the  somewhat  offensive  words 
in  Clare's  heart. 

'  Do  not  you  think  that  you  may  have 
misunderstood  us  a  little,  too  ?'  she  asks 
sadly.  '  And  as  to — Mr.  Drake,  I  dare  say 
that  Ned  may  have  been  misinformed  about 
him  ;  and  in  any  case  we  need  not  say  more 
about  him,  as   I   feel  sure  that   there  is  no 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  249 

cause  for  alarm  in  the  case  of  Cressida  Dela- 
field  with  regard  to  him.' 

Whether  intentionally  or  not,  she  lays  a 
slight  stress  upon  the  name — a  stress  which 
conveys  to  her  hearer  the  impression  that  the 
freedom  from  danger  is  limited  to  the  lady 
indicated.  It  makes  another  lady  turn  away 
and  begin  to  finger  uneasily  and  uncon- 
sciously Faustina's  papers.  In  spite  of 
Clare's  assertion  that  there  need  now  be  no 
further  mention  of  Drake,  her  very  next 
speech  relates  to  him  : 

'  Is  he  one  of  the  Devonshire  Drakes  ?' 

'  Yes  ;  at  least ' — she  would  have  weakly 
liked  to  leave  the  '  Yes '  unqualified,  but  con- 
science forbids — '  his  mother  was.' 

'  And  his  father  ?' 

'  His  father  owns  a  chemical  factory  in  the 
East  End,  which  brings  him  in  twenty 
thousand  a  year.' 

'  And  which  this  man  will  not  inherit  ?' — 
with  an  accent  of  scarcely-veiled  regret. 


250  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

Althea  draws  her  head  up  proudly,  as  if 
proclaiming  some  noble  deed  done  by  one 
near  akin  to  her. 

'  He  has  renounced  it  because  he  has  a 
foolish  prejudice  against  fattening  upon  the 
hearts'  blood  of  his  fellow-creatures,  and  for 
such  a  crime  society  has  naturally  kicked 
him  out.' 


[  251  ] 


CHAPTER  XII. 

The  project  of  introducing  Miss  Vane  to  the 
scene  of  his  labours  in  Canning  Town  is  too 
dear  to  Drake's  heart  to  be  let  go  ;  and  he 
does  not  rest  till  he  has  found  a  means  of 
combining  its  execution  with  what  he  would 
not  for  worlds,  even  to  his  own  heart,  call 
Althea's  prudery.  Since  not  all  the  generous 
precepts  of  Faustina  can  reconcile  Miss  Vane 
to  making  such  an  excursion  tete-a-tete — and, 
indeed,  he  has  never  gone  near  to  repeating 
the -overture — he  has  called  to  his  aid  a  female 
friend  and  fellow-worker  of  his  own,  who, 
with  a  newly  -  married  and  like  -  minded 
husband,  has  pitched  her  tent  in  the  Settle- 


252  DEARIFAUSTINA 

ment ;  and  under  her  auspices,  with  Drake 
for  guide,  Althea  has  visited  each  and  every 
portion  of  the  work — infirmary,  lodging- 
house,  recreation  hall,  lads'  club,  residence, 
etc.  Her  quiet  yet  fervid  appreciation  of 
the  energy,  the  method,  the  selfless,  tireless 
industry,  the  high  hope,  the  large  love,  that 
have  gone  to  build  this  unpretending  ark  in 
the  middle  of  the  wretched  human  sea  around, 
seems  to  him  to  set  upon  his  share  of  labour 
a  crown  far  beyond  his  deserts. 

To  her  the  realization  of  the  post  he 
occupies — modestly,  yet  worthily,  filled — in 
that  great  army,  of  which  she  feels  herself 
to  be  but  a  lagging  straggler,  gives  her  a 
reasonless  personal  exultation.  She  does  not 
think  it  necessary  to  mention  to  Miss  Bateson 
that  first  visit,  any  more  than  those  which 
follow  it,  explaining  to  herself  her  silence  by 
the  knowledge  that  Faustina  has  quarrelled 
with  the  Warden  of  the  Settlement. 

Althea  has  more  time  on  her  hands  than 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  253 

during  the  first  portion  of  her  stay  at  More 
Mansions.  Neither  she  nor  Drake  puts  the 
perception  Into  words,  but  both  are  keenly 
aware  that  Faustina,  under  one  pretext  or 
another,  Is  more  and  more  separating  her  so 
lately  Inseparable  comrade  from  her  own  work. 
When  they  are  together,  she  is,  if  possible, 
more  effusive  than  ever  ;  but  the  shower 
of  sugared  phrases  that  hail  round  the 
younger  girl  when  In  presence  cannot  blind 
her  to  the  fact  that,  as  regards  all  serious 
concerns,  a  daily  deeper  fosse  is  being  dug 
between  them.  It  Is  In  part,  though  only  in 
part,  to  ease  the  ache  of  her  bitter  pain  at  the 
withdrawal  of  that  confidence,  which  had  once 
been  so  full  and  complete,  that  she  has  sought 
the  distraction  of  other  interests. 

'  Shall  you  want  me  this  evening,  Faustina  ?' 
she  asks  one  day. 

Faustina   is    writing,    but   looks    up  for  a 
second. 

'  Do  not  I  always  want  you  ?' 


254  DEAR  FAUSTINA 


'  But  have  you  any  special  employment  for 
me  ?' 

'  i\ny  special  employment  ?'  repeats  Miss 
Bateson.  '  Not  that  I  can  think  of  at  this 
moment ;  but  even  if  I  had,  do  you  suppose 
that  I  should  allow  myself  to  tyrannize  over 
your  disposal  of  your  time  ?' 

'  I  only  put  the  question  because  I  rather 

wish — I  have  been  asked '    She  stumbles, 

embarrassed,  and  the  other  comes  to  her 
aid. 

'  Do  not  tell  me — never  tell  me  what  you 
wish  to  do,  but  do  it.  The  maintenance  of 
individual  liberty  is  the  true  basis  of  friend- 
ship.' 

Althea  is  by  no  means  sure  that  she 
admires  this  magnificent  axiom,  which  rings 
rather  differently  from  some  of  its  predecessors 
shrined  in  her  memory  ;  but  at  least  it  leaves 
her  untrammelled  for  the  social  evening  in 
Canning  Town,  which  is  the  engagement  she 
has  alluded  to.     On  this  occasion  she  is  her- 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  255 

self  to  give  the  tea  and  entertainment  to  the 
club  of  factory  girls  ;  and  though  the  manner 
of  her  dismissal  has  sent  her  off  with  rather  a 
weighted  heart,  yet  by  the  time  she  reaches 
Liverpool  Street  it  is  sensibly  lightened. 

Drake  meets  her  at  the  station,  and  they 
walk  up  together  to  the  house  of  his  ally,  Mrs. 
Crabbe,  where  they  are  to  have  a  preliminary 
tea  on  their  own  account. 

'  I  am  afraid  you  will  find  us  rather  rough 
to-night,'  he  says,  as  they  pace  the  broad 
mean  thoroughfare  in  happy  comradeship — 
'  since  at  your  request  the  girls  have  been 
given  leave  to  bring  their  friends.' 

He  glances  sideways  at  her  a  little  doubt- 
fully, but  she  takes  the  news  with  joyous 
lightness  ;  it  even  seems  to  put  a  more 
dancing  gaiety  into  eye  and  step. 

*  You  need  not  try  to  frighten  me.' 

*  I  only  want  to  prepare  you.  The 
"  friends  "  are  often  job  hands,  who  are 
always  much  rougher  than  the  regular  ones. 


256  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

They  are  of  the  class  who  go  hop-picking, 
and  have  not  a  very  high  standard  of  polite- 
ness.' 

She  looks  back  at  him  cheerfully. 

'  All  the  better  ;  we  shall  have  the  more 
glory  in  humanizing  them.' 

The  entertainment  is  not  held  in  the  large 
recreation  hall,  but  in  a  smaller  room,  which 
it  is  supposed  will  meet  the  requirements  of 
the  invitations  issued.  A  slight  misgiving 
as  to  the  accuracy  of  this  calculation  assails 
the  breasts  of  the  organizers  of  the  feast,  as 
their  little  party,  swelled  by  the  amateur 
performers  whom  Althea  has  pressed  into 
her  service,  enter  the  room,  and  see  how 
thickly  the  benches  are  already  packed. 

But  at  first  there  seems  no  need  for  Drake's 
warning  to  Althea,  since  the  expectant 
audience  are  behaving  nearly  as  well  as  if 
they  were  seated  in  St.  James's  Hall. 

Althea  makes  her  way  among  them, 
speaking   to    those    she    knows.     She    has 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  257 


already  made  a  good  many  friends  on  former 
occasions,  particularly  in  a  group  of  girls 
whom  Drake  has  pointed  out  to  her  as 
having  been  turned  off  by  their  employer  for 
having  given  evidence  to  the  factory  inspector 
of  having  been  worked  over-hours.  On  her 
last  visits  she  had  danced  with  them,  trying 
to  teach  them  the  pretty  measures  that 
D'Egville  had  taught  her,  and  had  essayed 
to  persuade  them  that  the  human  face  is  not 
really  improved  by  being  ringed  or  half 
ringed  by  a  semicircle  of  patent  hair-curlers. 
It  has  puzzled  her  to  reflect  for  what  great 
occasions  the  imprisoned  locks  can  be  set 
free,  since  she  has  never  seen  her  young- 
friends  without  their  hair-curlers.  She  has 
even  consulted  Drake,  but  he  has  been 
unable  to  enlighten  her. 

To-night  she  finds  that,  though  the  inventor 
has  bested  her,  his  votaries  bear  her  no  malice 
for  her  unsuccessful  effort  to  dethrone  him, 
but  greet  her  with  loud  acclaim.     She  is  still 

17 


258  DEAR  FAUSTINA 


responding  to  their  greetings,  when  Drake 
makes  his  way  to  her  through  the  crowded 
rows. 

'  I  think  we  had  better  begin  ;  it  is  no  use 
waiting  till  they  have  all  come  ;  there  seems 
no  end  to  the  arrivals.' 

He  glances  a  little  anxiously  towards 
the  doorway,  which  is  filled  with  would-be 
enterers,  beyond  whom  glimpses  of  a  sea 
of  velvet  hats  and  hired  ostrich-plumes  still 
surging  up  the  stairs  is  caught.  She  nods 
assentingly. 

'  My  party  is  going  to  be  the  success  of  the 
season.' 

The  first  two  performers  mount  the  plat- 
form, and  execute  a  noisy  duet — how  noisy 
is  only  noticed  when  its  cessation  proves 
how  large  a  clamour  it  has  been  covering. 
The  '  friends '  are  still  thronging  in,  and  a 
rising  excitement  is  apparent  among  the  girls, 
a  pushing  and  hustling  —  perfectly  good- 
humoured,  as  is  evidenced  by  the  loud  laughter 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  259 


that  accompanies  It,  but  not  quite  reassuring 
to  the  onlookers.  The  duet  is  succeeded  by 
a  song,  but  there  is  a  delay  before  it  can  be 
uttered  with  any  chance  of  being  heard,  and 
the  partial  lull  that  had  accompanied  It  is 
made  up  for  by  a  redoublement  of  tempest  at 
its  close.  All  the  available  seats  have  long 
been  seized  upon,  and  every  inch  of  standing- 
room  is  now  more  than  filled,  while  elemental 
sarcasm  and  loud  repartee  begin  to  be  ban- 
died about,  and  the  wail  of  a  cross  and  un- 
comfortable baby  pierces  the  air.  The  tea- 
table  Is  set  along  the  wall  close  to  the  door 
of  entrance  at  the  back  of  the  room,  and  in 
front  of  it  the  giver  of  the  feast  has  taken  her 
stand,  in  a  space  between  it  and  the  last  row 
of  chairs,  which  would  have  been  ample  had 
the  number  of  the  guests  not  so  far  out- 
swelled  what  had  been  expected.  As  it  is, 
the  limits  assigned  to  her  sway  have  been  so 
hopelessly  overstepped  that  she  begins  very 
seriously  to  wish  that  she  could  get  behind 


26o    •  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

the  board  that  groans  with  her  intended 
hospitahty.  But  this  is  impossible.  The 
table  is  long  and  heavy,  and  in  the  packed 
state  of  the  room  it  would  be  impossible  to 
move  it  without  serious  risk.  Althea  looks 
round,  with  incipient  nervousness,  for  Drake  ; 
but  his  turn  is  come,  and  he  has  just  succeeded 
on  the  platform  a  lady  who,  with  a  relieved 
air,  has  borne  away  the  violin  on  which  she 
has  been  performing  a  classical  solo.  Althea 
has  never  heard  Drake  sing,  and  for  a  few 
minutes  she  forgets  the  discomfort  of  her  own 
position  in  the  pleasure  of  listening  to  him. 
For  these  few  minutes  the  pressure  around 
her  is  less,  the  audience  paying  to  him  the 
tribute,  which  they  have  denied  to  every 
previous  performance,  of  an  almost  entire 
cessation  of  punching  and  giggling. 

'  Jack's  the  boy  for  work, 
Jack's  the  boy  for  play, 
Jack's  the  lad 
When  girls  are  sad 
To  kiss  their  tears  away.' 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  261 

Down  the  long  room,  through  the  hot  and 
loaded  atmosphere,  the  pleasant  tenor  comes 
ringing.  They  applaud  uproariously  both 
singer  and  sentiment.  But  the  performer 
who  takes  his  place  is  not  so  fortunate  in 
enchaining  their  attention.  It  is  a  little 
lady,  who  embarks  on  a  recitation  of  a  gently 
comic  character.  Her  voice  is  not  a  strong 
one,  and  is  evidently  rendered  lower  and 
more  indistinct  by  her  having  to  face  an 
audience  of  so  unruly  a  kind.  Facetious 
comments  upon  performer  and  performance 
begin  to  be  distressingly  audible  ;  but  it  is 
at  the  back  of  the  room  that  the  sedition 
is  growing  most  alarming.  It  has  been 
arranged  that  tea  is  to  be  served  as  soon 
as  the  trembling  lady  on  the  platform  shall 
have  ended ;  and,  with  this  view,  boiling 
water  has,  at  some  peril  to  life  and  limb, 
owing  to  the  press,  just  been  poured  into  the 
urns.  Whether  the  sight  is  too  much  for  the 
patience  of  the  hungry  and  frolicsome  girls,  or 


262  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

that  the  spirit  of  horse-play  is  too  potent  to 
be  any  longer  kept  within  bounds,  certain  it 
is  that  at  this  point  one  of  the  guests  makes 
a  snatch  at  a  bun.  Her  nearest  neighbours 
follow  suit  ;  others  pillage  the  cake  and 
bread-and-butter  dishes ;  and  one  or  two 
seize  cups  and  turn  the  taps  of  the  urns. 
The  depredations  have  been  begun  by  the 
standing  ones,  but  those  who  have  seats  are 
determined  not  to  be  behindhand,  and  with 
horror  Althea  sees  them  scrambling  over 
their  chair-backs  and  hasting  as  fast  as  the 
encumbered  nature  of  the  ground  will  let 
them  to  the  buffet. 

The  pressure  around  her  is  growing  suffo- 
cating, and  in  another  second  she  feels  that 
it  must  pin  her  crushed  and  helpless  against 
the  wall.  But  she  tries  to  keep  her  presence 
of  mind,  and  to  find  words  cogent  enough  to 
make  an  impression  upon  the  riotous  but 
still  quite  good-humoured  mass  around  her. 
That    her    appeal    is  not   altogether   vain   is 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  263 

evidenced  by  a  voice  that  she  hears  from  the 
direction  of  the  chairs,  whence  the  stampede 
is  still  continuing,  a  voice  addressing  its 
neighbours  in  urgent  entreaty  : 

'  For  Gawd's  sake,  sit  down !' 

But  the  spirit  of  misrule  is  too  fully  at 
large  to  be  reined  in  by  any  such  invocation, 
and  the  sounds  begin  to  come  huskily  from 
Althea's  oppressed  chest,  when  she  becomes 
aware,  by  an  additional  squeezing  and  cram- 
ming of  the  rioters  around  her,  that  someone 
is  making  vigorous  efforts  to  clear  a  way 
through  their  mass,  and  in  another  second, 
to  her  infinite  relief,  she  sees  Drake  shoulder- 
ing his  way  with  little  ceremony  to  her  side. 

It  is  a  long  minute  yet  before  he  reaches 
her,  but  his  voice  rings  out  clear  and  sharp 
ahead  of  him  : 

'  Are  not  you  ashamed  of  yourselves  ?  Go 
back  to  your  seats  ;  and  those  who  have  not 
any,  stand  still.' 

It   is  the  same  voice  whose  utterance  of 


264  DEAR  FAUSTINA 


the  swaggering  sailor  song  they  have  so 
lately  applauded,  and  its  effect  is  instan- 
taneous. The  pillaging  hands  cease  to 
pillage,  and  there  is  an  evident,  though 
only  partial,  effort  to  obey  him.  It  enables 
him  to  ofain  Althea's  side — was  she  ever 
before  so  glad  to  see  him  ?  though  even  at 
this  moment  it  flashes  upon  her  as  a  revela- 
tion that  she  has  never  been  anything  but 
glad — and,  putting  her  behind  him,  he  stands 
shieldwise  before  her,  while  again  his  voice 
rings  out. 

'  Is  this  your  gratitude  to  the  lady  who  is 
so  kindly  giving  you  this  entertainment  ?  If 
this  is  the  way  that  we  treat  her,  do  you 
think  that  she  is  very  likely  to  come  among 
us  again  ?' 

Whether  it  is  that  his  audience  are  touched 
by  his  thus  bracketing  himself  with  them,  or 
subdued  by  the  authority  of  his  tones,  is  un- 
certain, but  for  a  moment  or  two  the  tumult 
dies  into  almost  silence.     There  is  an  evident 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  265 


disposition  among  the  major  part  of  the 
offenders  to  comply  with  Drake's  request  as 
far  as  they  are  able  ;  but  a  proportion  of  less 
well-dispositioned  girls  still  try  to  revive  the 
subsiding  riot  by  fresh  shoving  and  horse- 
play and  loud  personalities. 

It  is  just  touch  and  go  which  element  gains 
the  upper  hand,  when  the  arrival  of  a  timely 
aid,  in  the  shape  of  several  male  members  of 
the  Settlement,  decides  the  question.  In  ten 
minutes  order  is  almost  entirely  restored, 
and  in  another  the  abundant  libations  of 
tea  poured  on  the  floor,  through  the  turning 
of  the  urn-taps,  have  been  wiped  up,  fresh 
tea  made,  and  the  rifled  cake  and  bread-and- 
butter  dishes  replenished. 

'  It  is  all  right  now.  I  can  get  you  out 
into  the  open  air  quite  easily.' 

She  looks  back  at  him  with  a  spirited,  pale 
smile. 

'  Why  should  you  get  me  into  the  open 
air  ?     I  am  not  faint.' 


266  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

'  Appearances  are  deceitful,  then.  I  f  you 
take  my  advice ' 

'  I  do  not  think  it  at  all  likely ' 

'  You  will  let  me  escort  you  to  Mrs. 
Crabbe's  house,  where  you  can  be  cool  and 
rest.' 

'  I  do  not  want  to  be  cool  and  rest.  I 
want  to  pour  out  tea.' 

'  You  have  not  had  enough  yet  ?'  with  eye- 
brows raised,  and  an  expressive  glance  at  a 
large  area  of  tea-stains  on  her  linen  gown. 

'  Not  nearly.' 

She  is  still  very  white,  and  her  limbs 
trembling  from  the  stress  of  her  late  en- 
counter ;  but  her  look  is  so  cheerfully  radiant, 
and  her  words  so  determined,  that  he  makes 
no  further  effort  to  dissuade  her.  Only  he 
keeps  near  her  through  the  rest  of  the 
function  to  ward  off  any  possible  repetition 
of  disorder. 

No  sign  of  any  such  occurs  ;  the  second 
part   of  the   programme    is    gone    through 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  267 

peacefully,  and  at  its  close  the  girls  troop 
out  in  orderly  good-humour.  Althea's  hand 
would  have  been  glad  if  quite  so  many  had 
not  insisted  on  shaking  it,  but  her  heart  does 
not  endorse  the  sentiment. 

Later,  Drake  walks  with  her  to  the  station, 
through  the  street  alive  with  its  ugly  even- 
ing noisiness,  but  over-smiled  by  a  great 
moon.  She  has  forgotten  to  think  whether 
it  is  proper,  and  knows  only  that  it  is 
pleasant.  Her  gown  is  torn,  her  legs  still 
shake,  but  her  heart  is  strangely  light. 

'  I  still  think  that  my  party  was  the  success 
of  the  season,'  she  says,  with  gay  defiance  of 
contradiction  of  her  paradox. 

It  strikes  him  that  he  has  never  seen  her 
gay  before  ;  and  how  well  it  becomes  her  ! 

'  You  had  a  pretty  bad  moment,  too,  in  the 
course  of  it.' 

'  Yes,  07te.  It  was  not  a  pleasant  idea  to 
be  spatch-cocked  against  the  wall  ;  but  the 
instant  I  saw  you  I  knew  that  it  was  all  right.' 


268  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

The  phrase,  so  innocently  turned,  stirs 
him  too  deeply  for  him  to  find  an  answer, 
and  she  prattles  happily  on  : 

'  And  they  were  so  nice  afterwards  !  Did 
you  see  how  they  shook  hands  with  me  ? 
And  some  of  them  wiped  my  gown  with 
their  own  pocket-handkerchiefs,  and  one  of 
them  lent  me  a  smelling-bottle.' 

'  It  was  the  least  they  could  do,  after 
nearly  squeezing  the  life  out  of  you,'  he 
answers  with  a  slight  shudder,  adding,  as  if  in 
excuse  for  his  emotion  :  '  It  might  have  been 
an  extremely  nasty  accident.' 

She  goes  on — he  has  never  known  her  so 
talkative  : 

'  It  was  our  own  fault.  We  ought  to  have 
had  the  big  hall.  Next  time,  if  we  invite 
"friends,"  we  must  have  the  big  hall.' 

'  Nex^  time  ?  Will  there  ever  be  a  next 
time  ?  Do  you  mean  to  say  that,  after  the 
way  in  which  we  have  treated  you  to-night, 
you  will  ever  venture  among  us  again  i^' 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  269 

They  have  reached  the  station,  and  by  one 
consent  pause  facing  each  other,  ere  enter- 
ing it.  Her  gay  excitement  gives  way  to  a 
touched  gravity. 

'  Bver  venture  among  you  again  /'  she  says, 
repeating  his  words.  '  Do  you  know  that 
sometimes — often  of  late — it  has  struck  me 
that,  if  it  were  not  for  Faustina  and  all  I 
owe  her,  I  should  like  to  come  among  you 
for  good  !' 


[  270  ] 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

It  Is  In  a  very  much  brighter  mood  than  she 
has  for  some  time  enjoyed  that  Althea,  on 
the  following  morning,  Is  walking  through 
the  Park  on  an  errand  for  Faustina.  She 
does  not  pry  too  nicely  Into  the  component 
parts  of  her  good  spirits,  though.  If  the  ques- 
tion were  pressed,  she  could  give  a  very 
handsome  and  creditable  account  of  them. 

But  there  Is  no  use  to  seek  officiously  an 
explanation  of  her  unwonted  light-hearted- 
ness ;  and  she  enjoys  it,  as  she  does  the 
flower-beds  between  Stanhope  and  Grosvenor 
Gates,  which  are  just  beginning  to  develop 
the  intricate  beauty  of  their  bedded-out  pat- 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  271 

terns,  and  console  the  '  fond  gazer '  for  the 
departed  hyacinths  and  tuHps. 

She  is  quickening  her  pace  as  she  nears 
the  Marble  Arch,  and  the  floral  temptations 
to  linger  lessen,  when  she  is  aware  that  one 
of  the  carriages  rolling  in  the  same  direction 
as  herself  is  pulling  up  at  the  rails  alongside 
of  her. 

She  has  got  into  the  habit  of  not  looking 
at  the  occupants  of  any  of  the  barouches  and 
victorias  that  pass  or  meet  her,  in  order  to 
avoid  the  tiresomeness  of  recognition  by  some 
of  the  former  acquaintances  from  whom  her 
present  course  of  life  has  separated  her ;  but 
a  glance  at  the  large  smart  vehicle  which 
has  evidently  stopped  d  son  intention  is  now 
unavoidable,  and  in  its  solitary  occupant  she 
at  once  recognizes  the  mother  of  Cressida 
Delafield. 

Despite  her  real  innocence  of  any  sin 
against  Lady  Lanington's  peace,  she  is  the 
one  of  her  late  society  whom  she  would  least 


272  DEAR  FAUSTINA 


soon  have  come  across  ;  and  it  is  with  a 
sinking  heart  that,  in  obedience  to  the 
sound  of  her  own  name,  she  now  stays  her 
steps. 

'  Oh,  Miss  Vane,  I  am  going  in  your  direc- 
tion.' 

An  earnest  desire  to  avoid  the  '  lift  '  so 
obviously  about  to  be  offered  is  '  writ  so 
large  '  on  Althea's  face  that  the  person  who 
has  addressed  her  adds  hastily  : 

'  Indeed,  in  whatever  direction  you  are 
going — it  is  all  one  to  me — may  I  take  you  ?' 

To  so  limitless  an  invitation  refusal  is  out 
of  the  question,  and  the  girl — since  the 
blessed  '  I  had  rather  not,'  which  would 
rescue  us  all  from  so  many  unpleasant  plea- 
sures, is  relegated  to  Utopia — with  a  civil 
answer  and  leaden  heels,  walks  on  the  few 
necessary  steps  to  the  next  opening  in  the 
railings,  and  in  another  moment  the  two 
ladies  are  seated  side  by  side,  and  the  vehicle, 
after  Althea  has  given  an  address  of  which 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  273 

the  coachman  feels,  or  feigns,  a  dignified 
ignorance,  rolls  on  again. 

'  I  wanted  so  much  to  meet  you,'  is  the 
elder's  opening. 

The  younger  is  so  very  far  from  echoing 
this  wish  that  a  smile,  which  may  pass  at  a 
pinch  for  one  of  acquiescence,  is  the  '  nearest 
thing  she  can  do '  to  it. 

'  I  thought  of  writing  to  you.' 

'  Did  you  ?' 

'  But  I  could  not  help  feeling  that  a  per- 
sonal appeal  would  be  better.' 

'  An — an  appeal  ?' 

'  Only  I  did  not  know  how  to  manage  it. 
You  are  never  to  be  seen  anywhere  about 
now,  and  Cressida  has  positively  refused  to 
give  me  your  address.' 

indeed!' 

'  I  was  so  fond  of  your  father,  and  I  always 
used  to  like  you  so  much.' 

The  exceeding  discomfort  of  Althea's  mind 
in  her  present  situation   is  here  crossed   by 

18 


274  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

the  bitter  reflection  that  whoever  now  speaks 
of  a  liking  for  her  puts  it  into  the  past  tense. 

'  It — it  was  very  good  of  you  !'  she  stam- 
mers baldly. 

'  How  little  I  thought  in  those  days — I 
mean  during  your  dear  father's  lifetime — that 
it  would  be  yotir  hand  which  would  deal  me 
such  a  blow  !' 

*  I  do  not  know — you  must  please  explain 
— what  you  are  alluding  to.' 

Although  vaguely  prepared  for  something 
disagreeable,  a  look  of  startled  dismay  has 
come  into  the  girl's  face ;  but  her  speech  has 
a  truthful  dignity  that  her  companion  is  too 
much  agitated  and  preoccupied  to  perceive. 

'  Oh,  do  not  let  us  have  any  fencing  !'  she 
cries  impatiently  ;  '  we  both  know  what  we 
mean — why  should  we  pretend  that  we  do 
not?' 

'  I  must  emphatically  answer  that  I  do  not 
know. ' 

The  rejoinder,   though   made  very  gently 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  275 

and  civilly,  seems  to  drive  the  hearer  over 
the  limits,  already  reached,  of  self-control. 

'  Oh,  Miss  Vane,  is  it  possible  that  you 
are  going  to  add  to  the  injury  of  having 
robbed  me  of  my  daughter  the  insult  of 
denying  it  ?' 

The  words  are  rude  even  to  violence  ;  but 
they  produce  no  sense  of  resentment  in 
Althea's  breast.  It  is  with  a  compassion 
largely  streaked  with  fellow-feeling  that  she 
looks  at  the  twitched,  flushed  features  of  the 
usually  good-natured,  well-bred  woman  be- 
side her. 

'  You  are  mistaken.  I  am  truly  sorry  that 
you  imagine  anyone  has  robbed  you  of  your 
daughter ;  but  I  assure  you  it  is  not  I.' 

'  No  doubt  you  do  not  call  it  robbing  ' — in 
a  perfectly  unconvinced  and  still  more  exas- 
perated key — '  but  that  is  a  mere  quibble  ; 
you  did  rob  me  of  her  by  introducing  her  to 
that  horrible,  horrible  woman  who ' 

'  If  you   are   alluding  to   Miss   Bateson,   I 


276  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

must  again  repeat  that  1  did  not  introduce 
them  to  each  other  ;  I  do  not  even  know 
who  did.' 

'  But  for  you  she  would  never  have  known 
her — never  have  wished  to  know  her !  It 
was  your  example — youx  fatal  example ' 

Althea  has  turned  very  pale.  There  are 
limits  even  to  her  patience. 

'  Will  you  mind  setting  me  down  ?'  she 
says  in  a  low  voice.  *  I  do  not  see  that  any 
purpose  is  served  by  my  staying  with  you  ; 
you  do  not  believe  a  word  I  say.' 

The  request  brings  Lady  Lanington  back 
in  some  measure  to  a  recollection  of  the 
claims  of  good  manners,  forgotten  as  they 
always  are  when  the  elemental  emotions  have 
us  in  their  clutch. 

'  Oh,  pray  do  not  go !  I  have  so  much 
more  that  I  want  to  say  to  you.  I  had  no 
intention  of  being  rude  ;  the  words  escaped 
me.  I  really  scarcely  know  what  I  am  doing 
or  saying !' 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  277 

Her  agitation  is  so  painfully  obvious,  and 
the  passion  that  dictates  it  has  so  clearly 
broken  down  all  the  dykes  of  good-breeding 
and  habit,  that  Althea's  short-lived  wrath 
dies  out. 

'  I  would  not  mind  what  kind  of  things 
you  said  to  me,'  she  rejoins  gently,  '  if  it  did 
you  any  good  ;  but  indeed  I  think  you  are 
making  yourself  unnecessarily  miserable.  As 
far  as  I  am  aware,  Miss  Delafield  and  the 
person  whose  influence  you  so  much  dread 
for  her  never  now  meet  except  in  the  most 
casual  passing  way.' 

'  Never  now  meet  f  repeats  the  other,  in 
a  tone  of  indignant  incredulity  ;  and  the  eyes 
which,  at  the  softness  of  the  girl's  answer, 
had  begun  to  twinkle  behind  her  pince- 
nez  with  tears,  now  blaze  again  with  angry 
distrust. 

Althea's  heart  sinks,  but  she  replies 
steadily  : 

'  Never,   upon   my  honour,   to  my  know- 


278  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

ledge,  except  in  the  way  I  have  mentioned.' 
Then,  as  her  companion  continues  to  glare 
at  her  with  ireful  disbelief,  she  adds  :  'Miss 
Delafield  spent  two  nights  at  our  flat  upon 
Miss  Bateson's  invitation,  but  that  was  weeks 
ago  ;  and  since  then ' 

'  Since  then  you  are  under  the  impression 
that  they  have  never  met  ?' 

'  I  have  never  heard  of  their  having  done 
so.' 

The  perfect  steadiness  with  which  Althea 
sustains  the  mother's  angry  scrutiny  seems 
at  length  to  convince  the  latter  of  the  truth 
of  her  asseverations,  for  she  says,  in  a 
changed  key  : 

'  If  that  is  your  belief,  I  can  only  tell  you 
that  they  have  been  keeping  you  in  the 
dark.' 

*  What  do  you  mean  ?' 

'  What  do  I  mean  ?  I  mean  that,  so  far 
from  the  intimacy  between  my  daughter  and 
that — that  person  being  at  an  end,   as  you 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  i^g 


seem  to  Imagine,  not  a  day — scarcely  a  day 
passes  without  their  spending  hours  of  it 
together.  In  Cressida  it  has  become  a 
madness,  a  frenzy  ;  in  the  other — well,  eis 
she  is  your  friend,  I  will  not  qualify  it ;  but 
if  she  were  not,  I  should  say  that  it  is  an 
iniquitous  case  of  child-stealing !' 

While  Lady  Lanington,  with  growing 
excitement,  has  been  running  up  the  gamut 
of  her  woes,  the  knowledge  has  come  coldly 
home  to  Althea  that  she  had  had  an  in- 
stinctive foreboding  of  what  is  now  being 
told  her  all  along.  None  the  less  does  the 
certainty  of  her  supersession,  and  of  the 
smashing  of  her  ideal,  strike  her  dumb  and 
unprotesting. 

'  She  used  to  be  such  a  dear,  affectionate 
child — never  very  strong-minded,  but  so 
loving  and  nice  ' — this  very  falteringly — '  and 
now Oh,  tell  him  to  drive  on  any- 
where—  round  the  Park — anywhere' — this 
to   the   footman,   who  has   got  down  to  ask 


28o  DEAR  FA  USTINA 

for  minuter  directions  as  to  Althea  s  obscure 
destination.  'And  7ww /  She  is  to  come 
of  age  next  month.  Unfortunately,  she  is 
quite  independent  of  us  pecuniarily,  as  she 
inherits  from  an  uncle  ;  and  last  night  she 
told  us,  her  father  and  me — oh,  I  can  scarcely 
bear  to  repeat  it ' 

'  What  did  she  tell  you  ?' 

'  I  can  hardly  believe  it  even  now ;  it 
seems  incredible !' 

'  Yes  ?' 

'  If  anyone  had  prophesied  it  to  me  six 
months  ago,  I  should  have  laughed  in  their 
face.' 

'  But  you  have  not  yet  told  me  what  it  is.' 

'  She  told  us — and  oh,  Miss  Vane,  to  think 
that  we  should  owe  it  (indirectly,  at  all 
events)  to  yozc ! — that  she  was  weary  of  the 
idle,  senseless,  soul-numbing  existence  she  was 
compelled  by  us  to  lead,  and  that  since,  while 
she  remained  with  us,  all  her  best  energies 
were  paralyzed,  and  she  was  prevented  from 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  281 

following  out  the  high  ends  for  which  she 
was  created  (I  am  quoting  the  poor  child 
verbally),  it  would  be  best  for  us  to  part.' 

'  Part  !' 

'  Yes,  part.  And  when  we  found  words 
to  remonstrate  with  her — at  first,  as  you 
may  imagine,  we  were  paralyzed  with  grief 
and  astonishment — she  quoted  you  as  a 
triumphant  instance  of  a  girl  who  had  cut 
herself  adrift  from  family  ties  for  conscience* 
sake.' 

The  '  triumphant  instance '  does  not  much 
justify  the  adjective  assigned  to  her,  as  she 
sits  wide-eyed  in  wretched  listening.  Among 
the  chaos  of  painful  feelings  in  which  Lady 
Lanington's  words  are  making  her  welter, 
one  has  risen  prominently  to  the  surface.  It 
dictates  the  speech  which  comes — half  hurry, 
half  lag — across  her  lips. 

'  If  she  is  going  to  part  from  you  and 
Lord  Lanington,  whom  does  she  mean  to 
join  ?     She  will  not  live  alone,  I  suppose  ?' 


282  DEAR  FAUSTINA 


'  She  absolutely  refused  to  answer  that 
question  when  it  was  put  to  her ;  but  I  can 
guess — I  can  guess !  I  thought  that  you 
were  her  accomplice  ;  but  I  begin  to  believe 
—  I  quite  believe — that  you  are  not.' 

To  a  proposition  so  monstrous  as  that 
she  has  been  wielding  the  axe  to  cut  off 
her  own  head,  Althea  is  incapable  of  a 
rejoinder. 

'  But  that  is  not  the  worst — not  nearly  the 
worst !  Oh,  I  hardly  know  how  to  tell  you  ! 
putting  it  into  words  seems  to  make  it  worse. 
Do  you  know — because,  if  you  do,  it  will 
spare  me  the  shame  of  telling  you  ;  but  I 
see  by  your  face  that  you  do  not — do  you 
know  the  kind  of  work  that  my  poor  insane 
child  is  going  to  devote  herself  to  ? — she 
told  us  so  to  our  faces !' 

'  What  work  ?' 

*  I  would  not  have  believed  it  on  any 
less  evidence — at  /ler  age,  with  Aer  appear- 
ance  ' 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  283 

'  Oh,  what — WHAT  ?  Why  do  not  you  tell 
me  ?' 

Althea  has  unconsciously  grasped  the  arm 
of  her  companion  that  is  nearest  to  her,  and 
her  strenuous  pressure  seems  to  squeeze  out 
the  difficult  answer. 

'  She  is  going  to  devote  her  life ' — with 
a  voice  sunk  almost  beyond  the  audible,  and 
an  apprehensive  glance  at  the  servants'  backs 
— to  rescue  work  /  Do  you  understand  ?  At 
ker  age,  and  with  her  appearance,  she  is 
going    out    into    the    Haymarket    at    night 

among  those  degraded  creatures '     She 

breaks  off,  adding  in  another  key  :  '  You  are 
not  going  io  faint  P' 

'  No,  no  ;  I  never  fainted  in  my  life. 
Go  on.' 

'  Go  on  P  repeats  the  other  in  a  tone  of  the 
bitterest  indignation.  '  Is  not  that  enough  ? 
What  more  would  you  have  ?' 

Apparently  it  is  quite  enough  for  the 
auditor,    whose    blanched    rigidity    of    look 


284  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

calls  forth  a  repetition  of  Lady  Lanington's 
just-expressed  fear. 

'  I  believe  you  are  going  to  faint.' 

'  No,  no !' 

'  Can't  you  help  me  ? ,  Can't  you  do  some- 
thing to  prevent  such  a  crime,  such  an 
outrage  ?  You  must  have  influence  with 
this  woman,  since  you  gave  up  everything — 
quarrelled  with  your  whole  family — for  her 
sake.' 

'  I  have  never  quarrelled  with  my  whole 
family  ' — faintly. 

'  Oh,  what  does  it  matter  what  you  call  it  ? 
I  will  call  it  by  what  name  you  like  ;  but  you 
cannot  deny  that  there  is  entire  separation 
between  you  and  them,  and  that  she  is  the 
cause.  In  return,  you  must  have  some 
influence  with  her  ;  you  cannot  deny  that  you 
have  influence  with  her,  if  only  you  would 
use  it.' 

The  mother's  tone  has  changed  from  a 
key  of  bitterest,  upbraiding  to  one  of  almost 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  285 

abject  entreaty,  and  to  emphasize  her  request 
she  wrings  the  girl's  fingers  with  an  even 
tighter  grip  than  Althea,  in  the  height  of  her 
excitement,  had  used  a  few  moments  ago 
towards  herself. 

Althea  almost  laughs.  Her  influence  ! 
But  even  now  she  cannot  bear  to  admit  to  a 
third  person  the  only  half-realized  depth  of 
her  own  fall. 

'  What  would  you  have  me  do  ?' 

'  Do  !  Why,  go  to  her,  beg  her,  entreat 
her,  command  her — you  know  what  argu- 
ments have  most  hold  on  such  a — such  a — 
to  let  my  child  go  !  She  will  be  able  to  find 
plenty  more  victims  to  infect  with  her  pes- 
tilent opinions  !  Is  not  it  enough  for  her  to 
have  been  the  ruin  of  you  ?' 

Althea  gives  a  horrified  start. 

'Ruin!  How  dare  you  apply  such  a 
word  to  me  ?' 

But  the  mother  is  off  again  on  the  track  of 
her  own  woe,  and  does  not  seem  to  hear  her. 


286  DEAR  FAUSTINA 


'  You  cannot  refuse  me  this  reparation, 
such  a  poor  one  as  It  is,  for  the  horrible 
wrong  you  have  done  me.  After  all,  it  is 
you  that  have  done  it — indirectly,  at  least. 
I  should  have  had  my  child  still  with  me  if 
she  had  not  learnt  from  you,  from  your 
example,  to  laugh  at  all  constituted  autho- 
rities, at  religion,  at  decency,  at  whatever 
she  had  been  taught  to  respect' 

Lady  Lanington  pauses,  not,  certainly, 
because  she  has  exhausted  her  armoury  of 
vituperation,  but  arrested  by  the  deathly 
whiteness  beside  her,  and  adds  : 

*  Oh,  I  do  not  know  what  I  am  saying. 
I  can  keep  no  measure,  can  think  of  nothing 

but ' 

Under  the  storm  of  obloquy  that  has  hailed 
upon  her,  Althea  has  put  her  hand  to  her 
head,  as  if  some  stone  had  hit  her  ;  but  she 
now  straightens  her  limp  back,  and  sits  up. 

'  I  must  again  ask  you  to  let  me  get  out ; 
indeed,  I  must  insist  upon  it.     It  is  necessary 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  287 

for  me  to  go  home  at  once,  and  Inquire  Into 
the  truth  of  the  charges  you  have  been  bring- 
ing against  my — my/rzend;  to  find  out  how 
much  of  mistake  and  misapprehension  there 
is  in  them.' 

'  And  if  you  find  that  they  are  ^rue — true 
— true  as  Gospel  ?' 

Again  the  sHght  hand  goes  up  to  the  brow 
that  still  smarts  from  its  lapidation. 

'  I  cannot — cannot  believe  It.' 

'  But  if—\Y ' 

*  I  will  not  face  such  an  if.' 


[  288  ] 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

To  her  coachman's  disgust,  Lady  Lanington 
insists  upon  driving  Althea  to  the  portal  of 
her  flat,  in  the  feverish  hope  that  the  inter- 
view between  the  latter  and  Miss  Bateson 
may  be  thereby  hastened.  During  the  drive 
the  younger  woman  scarcely  speaks,  save  to 
put  a  decided  veto  upon  the  elder's  proposal 
that  she  shall  await  the  result  outside,  and  to 
give,  on  leaving  her,  a  mechanical  assent  to 
the  distracted  prayer  that  she  will  not  keep 
her  in  suspense  one  second  longer  than  is 
necessary. 

It  is  with  a  foggy  sense  of  relief  at  being 
alone  that  Althea  speeds  up  the  dirty  stairs, 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  289 

and  with  a  mixed  and  also  foggy  feeling  of 
eagerness  to  face  the  worst  and  desire  to 
shove  the  crucial  moment  a  little  farther  off 
that  she  presses  her  door-bell.  It  is  the  first 
of  these  aspirations  which  is  destined  to  be 
gratified,  as  it  is  Faustina  herself  who  opens. 

One  glance  at  Miss  Bateson's  face  shows 
her  house-fellow  that  it  was  not  she  who  was 
expected,  though  to  a  stranger  the  ready 
ejaculation,  '  Back  already,  darling !  Well, 
you  are  an  ideal  messenger !'  would  seem  to 
hold  even  more  rapture  than  astonishment. 
The  bitterness  of  the  intuition,  which  shows 
Miss  Vane  that  she  has  been  hoodwinked 
into  being  got  out  of  the  way  to  clear  the 
stage  for  her  supplanter,  gives  her  the 
impetus  necessary  for  an  instant  rush  upon 
the  fray. 

'  I  have  not  been  to  Rodney  Street.' 
/  No  .'^     Then,  why  are  you  back  ?' 

Faustina  is  still  fondly  smiling,  but  in  her 
tone  there  is  the  slight  tang  of  displeasure 

19 


290  DEAR  FAUSTINA 


of  a  General  whose  aide-de-camp  has  gratui- 
tously disobeyed  him. 

'  Because  I  met  Lady  Lanington.' 

*  Because  you  met  Lady  Lanington  !  That 
sounds  rather  a  non  sequitur! 

'  She  told  me  something  which  made  it 
necessary  that  I  should  return  home  at  once.' 

'  You  are  dealing  in  riddles,  dearest.  If 
it  is  quite  convenient  to  you,  I  should  like  to 
know  what  you  are  talking  about.' 

The  tone  is  playful,  and  might  possibly 
have  deceived  Althea  into  a  belief  that  her 
antagonist  is  ignorant  of  the  coming  thrust, 
had  not  she  detected  an  instantaneous  flash 
of  consciousness  in  the  eyes — eyes  at  once, 
and  in  a  second,  on  their  guard  again. 

They  are  in  the  drawing-room  by  now  ; 
and  if  other  indications  of  a  rising  storm  were 
wanting,  the  care  with  which  Althea  closes 
the  door — a  door  generally  left  to  bang,  to 
jar,  or  to  gape,  according  to  its  own  wild  will 
— would  suffice  as  a  warning. 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  291 

'She  told  me  facts — a  fact — about  her 
daughter  which  1  refused  to  beHeve.' 

'  Indeed !  That  was  not  very  polite  of 
you.' 

'  Faustina,  were  those  facts — was  that  fact 
true  ?' 

'  As  I  have  not  any  Rontgen  rays  to  turn 
upon  your  mind,  I  must  respectfully  repeat 
that  I  am  in  the  dark  as  to  what  you  are 
alluding  to.' 

'  It  is  useless  to  try  and  put  me  off  with  a 
jest.     Was  it — is  it  true  ?' 

'  Was  wAa^ — is  what  true  ?' 

The  waxing  pressure  of  the  one  speaker, 
and  the  waning  gaiety  of  the  other,  though 
the  latter  is  obviously  anxious  to  cling  as 
long  as  possible  to  her  light  tone,  reveal  that 
the  stress  of  the  storm  is  nigh. 

'  I  was  told  by  Lady  Lanington  that  you 
have  contracted  an  intimacy  with  her 
daughter.' 

'  Well  ?' 


292  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

Faustina  has  sat  down.  In  a  quarrel  the 
sitter  has  always  an  advantage  over  the 
stander,  as  evidencing  a  greater  self-control  ; 
and  her  '  Well  ?'  is  uttered  with  a  cold  and 
slightly  contemptuous  patience,  which  makes 
the  indictment  fall  flat  even  upon  the  in- 
dicter's  ear. 

*  That  you  have  been  meeting  her 
secretly ' 

'  There  was  no  secrecy  about  it. ' 

*  That  you  have  been  having  daily — almost 
daily  meetings  with  her  all  through  the 
time  during  which  you  conveyed — implied 
to  me  that  you  have  had  no  intercourse  with 
her.' 

'  I  never  conveyed  or  implied  anything 
about  the  subject  to  you.' 

Once  again  there  is  a  controlled  contempt 
in  the  unhesitating  answer,  which,  making 
the  less-skilled  combatant  feel  the  apparent 
paltriness  of  her  preliminary  accusations, 
hurries  her  to  the  gist. 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  293 

*  That  you  have  been  setting  her  against 
her  parents.' 

'  Against  such  parents,  it  was  the  kindest 
thing  I  could  do — the  greatest  service  I 
could  render  her.' 

'  That  you  have  been  inducing  her  to 
embrace — go  in  for  a  line  of  work  which, 
though  no  doubt  a  great  and  necessary  one 
when  undertaken  by  the  proper  people,  is 
grossly,  indecently  unsuitable  for  a  girl  of 
her  age,  character,  and  appearance !' 

In  the  first  part  of  this  sentence  there  is 
an  attempt  at  judicial  calm,  but  the  latter  half 
comes,  contrary  to  its  utterer's  intention,  in 
intemperate,  scarlet  hurry. 

'  Are  you  alluding  to  her  wish  to  devote 
herself  to  "  rescue  "  work  ?' 

'Yes.' 

Faustina  heaves  a  sigh— the  kind  of  sigh 
which  any  and  all  of  the  world's  great  teachers 
and  creed-founders  may  have  uttered,  when 
the  inability  of  their  disciples  to  understand 


294  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

their  lessons  was  brought  home  to  them — 
a  sigh  of  impatient  patience. 

*I  suppose  I  had  better  answer  your 
accusations  in  the  order  in  which  you  have 
brought  them.  I  /lave  been  seeing  a  good 
deal  of  Cressida  Delafield.' 

She  pauses,  as  if  to  give  her  companion 
time  for  a  rejoinder,  but  none  comes,  so  she 
goes  on  : 

'  The  secrecy  with  which  you  twit  me 
consists  in  my  not  having  thought  it  neces- 
sary to  impart  to  you  a  fact  whose  true 
bearing  my  knowledge  of  your  character  and 
disposition  taught  me  you  would  be  unable 
to  comprehend.' 

Althea  brushes  a  hand  quickly  across  her 
eyes,  not  because  a  tear  is  within  miles  of 
them,  but  because  of  the  mist  of  delusion 
which  the  tone  of  calm  and  lenient  explana- 
tion with  which  Miss  Bateson  is  uttering  her 
defence  is  calculated  to  draw  over  them. 

'  As    for   the    rescue   work   which   I    have 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  295 


persuaded  her  to  take  up — 1  do  not  for  a 
moment  deny  that  it  was  my  suggestion, 
which  at  the  first  hint  she  seized  with  joyful 
alacrity — my  defence — if  defence  is  needed, 
which  I  am  far  from  admitting — is  that,  with 
me,  the  Cause  always  goes  before  the  in- 
dividual. I  look  upon  the  persons  whom 
I  am  able  to  influence  primarily  as  its  in- 
struments, and  only  very  secondarily  in  their 
relation  to  myself  or  to  themselves.' 

She  shuts  her  lips,  as  if  the  subject  were 
ended  ;  and  with  another  sigh — of  relief  this 
time — leans  carelessly  back  in  her  chair. 
For  a  moment  Althea  clutches  her  temples 
with  both  hands  ;  then  she  speaks  : 

'  I  do  not  think  you  have  been  very  success- 
ful in  your  choice  of  an  instrument  this  time.' 

'  No  .'^  I  cannot  agree  with  you.  She 
has  been  very  useful  to  me  already.' 

'  Useful !     In  what  way  ?' 

'  By  her  social  gifts  she  has  succeeded  in 
obtaining    for  me   from    the    proper    sources 


296  DEAR  FAUSTINA 


that  information  about  the  Child  Insurance 
Bill  which,  as  you  may  remember,  you  were 
rather  unsuccessful  in  getting.' 

The  shaft  tells.  A  quiver  of  pain  passes 
over  Althea's  face. 

'  Not  that  I  blame  you,'  returns  the  other 
dispassionately.  '  I  quite  believe  that  you 
did  your  best.' 

'  I  ought  never  to  have  attempted  it.' 

'  So  the  result  proved  ;  but  you  must  re- 
member how  much  and  often  you  importuned 
me  to  put  you  to  whatever  branch  of  work  I 
thought  you  best  fitted  for.' 

The  very  slight,  but  perceptible,  flavour  of 
contempt  which  seasons  this  speech  conveys 
to  Althea  how  little  adapted  for  any  labour, 
worthy  of  the  name,  her  quondam  friend 
regards  her.  It  has  the  effect  of  a  whiplash 
curling  and  tingling  round  her  shoulders. 

'  We  are  wandering  from  the  point,'  she 
says,  in  a  high,  strained  voice.  'It  is  no 
question  now  of  me  and  my  insufficiency,  but 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  297 

of  whether  you  are  justified  In  kidnapping  a 
foolish  young  girl  from  her  home,  and  setting 
her  to  an  employment  of  which  it  Is  always 
doubtful  whether  the  good  can  predominate 
over  the  evil,  but  which  In  her  case — In  her 
circumstances — would  be  a  disgrace — an 
outrage !' 

The  speaker  stops,  white  and  shaking  ;  and 
there  Is  a  slight  answering  alteration  in  Miss 
Bateson's  steady  complexion  and  composed 
voice,  when,  after  a  moment's  interval,  to 
get  herself  well  in  hand,  she  replies  : 

'  I  deny,  absolutely  and  entirely,  the  right 
of  you  or  of  anyone  else  to  challenge  my 
actions.  I  am  my  own  judge  and  censor  ; 
to  myself  I  stand  or  fall.  But  in  deference 
to  the  intimacy  of  the  relations  that  have 
subsisted  between  us,  I  am  willing  to  give 
you  as  a  favour  that  explanation  which  I 
refuse  you  as  a  due.'  She  pauses,  and  then 
adds  dryly  :  '  Whether  you  will  enjoy  hearing 
it  is  another  question.' 


298  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

*  Go  on/ 

'  I  spared  you  the  knowledge  of  my  inter- 
course with  Cressida  Delafield,  not  because  I 
had  any  motive  for  concealment,  but  out  of 
tenderness  to  you— out  of  consideration  for  a 
weakness  which  from  the  first  I  divined  to 
exist  in  your  character,  but  which  until  lately 
I  hoped  might  remain  latent.  You  must 
know  that  I  am  alluding  to  that  tendency 
towards  jealousy  which  I  have  always  thought 
somewhat  unworthy  of  you.' 

Only  a  quickened  drawing  of  the  listener's 
already  short-drawn  breath  as  answer,  so  she 
goes  on  : 

'  As  to  your  indictment  of  ''  kidnapping  a 
foolish  young  girl,"  well  ' — with  a  shrug — 
'  folly  is  a  relative  term.  In  some  lights 
many  of  us  do  not  appear  particularly  wise  ' 
— a  stung  start  shows  that  the  hearer  has 
made  the  personal  application  intended — 
'  and  if  to  "  kidnap  "  is  to  do  for  her  what  I 
did  for  you — that  is,  to  give  her  the  impetus 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  299 

necessary  for  cutting  herself  adrift  from  an 
ignoble  entourage — I  not  only  admit,  but  I 
glory  in,  the  accusation.' 

Still  no  rejoinder  but  that  rapid  breathing. 

'  With  regard  to  the  rescue  work,  which 
appears  to  be  the  head  and  front  of  my 
offending,  as  I  have  already  told  you,  with 
me  the  Cause  always  goes  before  the  indi- 
vidual. But  even  were  it  not  so,  even  if  I 
were  to  allow  personal  feeling  to  outweigh 
abstract  right,  I  should  still  have  no  scruple 
in  directing  upon  such  a  course  one  who, 
with  no  prurient  squeamishness,  but  with  a 
noble  alacrity,  leapt  at  the  first  suggestion  to 
her  post  in  the  grandest  crusade  ever  under- 
taken by  humanity.' 

The  voice  is  steady,  the  look  quasi-in- 
spired ;  the  words  are — except  for  the  side- 
hit  at  Althea's  prurience— of  much  the  same 
quality  as  those  which  had  often  stirred  her 
like  a  trumpet-call.  Bitterly  she  recognizes 
this,    as   they  now   fall  in  dead  mockery  on 


300  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

her  ear.  It  is  a  full  minute  before  she 
regains  utterance. 

'  I  am  to  understand,  then,  that  you  refuse 
to  loose  your  prey  ?' 

'  You  word  it  offensively.  But,  yes,  I  do 
refuse. ' 

'  I  know  ' — with  an  unsuccessful  effort  to 
imitate  her  companion's  sang-froid — 'that 
you  deny  the  authorit}'  of  the  Book  that 
gives  it,  but  you  must  allow  the  justice  of  the 
prohibition  to  us  to  do  evil  that  good  may 
come.' 

*  We  start  from  different  premises.  I  deny 
that  I  am  doing  evil.' 

'  N'o^  doing  evil  f — the  poor  rag  of  judicial 
calm  flung  aside,  and  with  an  outblazing  of 
passionate  expostulation  which  comes  much 
more  naturally  :  '  Is  not  it  doing  evil  to  lay 
waste  a  happy  home,  to  bring  desolation 
and  ruin  upon  two  good  and  innocent  lives, 
even  if  the  question  of  the  girl  herself  is 
waived  ?' 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  301 


'  It  cannot  be  waived  ;  since  it  is  the  only 
one  with  which  I  have  any  concern.' 

'  Does  that  mean  that,  in  spite  of  what 
I  have  said,  you  are  still  determined  to 
carry  out  your  scandalous  and  disgraceful 
plan  ?' 

'  You  observed  to  me  some  little  while  ago 
that  I  was  fond  of  calling  names.  I  think  I 
might  now  retort  the  accusation.' 

'  I  do  not  wish  to  call  names,  because  I 
have  not — there  are  not  any  strong  enough 
to  characterize  such  an  iniquity.  But  are 
you — you  have  not  answered  me — still  de- 
termined to  stick  to  it  ?' 

*  What  reason  have  you  given  me — bluster 
is  not  reasoning — for  abandoning  it  ?  But 
even  if  your  powers  of  ratiocination  were 
stronger  than  they  are,  they  would  be  power- 
less to  move  me  from  a  course  of  action  of 
whose  righteousness  and  desirability  I  am 
absolutely  convinced.' 

*  Then,  all  I  can  say  is,  that  you  will  have 


302  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

to  choose  between  Cressida  Delafield  and 
me.' 

The  bolt  which  a  month  ago  would  have 
shattered  the  firmament,  now  falls  apparently 
innocuous ;  and  so  much  still  remains  in 
Althea's  mind  of  the  habit  of  belief  in  the 
eternity  of  their  intimacy,  that  she  thinks 
Faustina  cannot  have  grasped  her  propo- 
sition.    She  restates  it  : 

'  If  you  adhere  to  your  resolution,  I  shall 
be  compelled  to  leave  you.' 

'  That  is  as  you  please.' 

'  At  once.' 

'  Yes  ?' 

'  And  for  ever.' 

*  We  are  certainly  not  very  likely  to  resume 
our  relations.' 

There  is  a  cool  dryness,  an  indifferent 
common-sense,  in  this  last  sentence  which 
oversets  the  other's  tottering  balance. 

'  And  this  is  what  it  has  come  to,'  she 
says,    clutching   her    own    head    with    both 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  303 

hands,  as  if  to  assure  herself  that  it  is  still 
on  her  shoulders.  '  After  all  your  protesta- 
tions, this  is  what  it  has  come  to  !' 

'It  is  what  you  yourself  have  brought 
it  to.' 

With  one  of  her  grasping  hands  Althea 
hits  herself  on  the  forehead. 

'  Oh,  how  blind  I  have  been!  How  right 
my  people  were !  How  bitterly,  bitterly 
disappointed,  disillusioned,  I  am  in  you !' 

'And  do  you  think,'  rejoins  Faustina,  in 
whom  during  the  last  apostrophes  signs  of 
some  emotion  have  become  evident,  and  who, 
in  token  of  waning  self-control,  now  rises 
from  her  careless  sitting  posture  to  her  feet 
— '  and  do  you  think,  pray,  that  /  have  not 
been  disappointed,  disillusioned,  in  you  ?' 

To  this  agreeable  inquiry  Althea  has  no 
answer  but  dropped  hands  and  staring  eyes. 

'  Do  you  think  that  as  week  by  week, 
day  by  day,  the  paltriness  of  your  character 
unfolded  itself;  your  inability  to  embrace  a 


304  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

great  design  or  to  soar  above  petty  details — 
do  you  think,  I  say,  that  my  heart  did  not 
sink  at  the  thought  of  the  clog  with  which  I 
had  fettered  myself?' 

Again  receiving  no  audible  reply,  she  sails 
on  with  spread  canvas. 

'  It  is  such  as  you,  whose  petulant  feeble- 
ness, whose  irritable  self-love,  whose  silly 
conventions  and  minute  brain  power,  have 
brought  us  where  we  are  ;  have  palliated, 
justified,  explained  man's  attitude  to  us.' 

She  pauses  to  take  in  a  fresh  supply  of 
breath,  and  Althea's  voice  makes  itself  just 
heard  In  a  dreary  whisper  : 

'  That  is  enough  !  that  Is  enough  !  I  will 
go!' 

'  I  shall  make  no  attempt  to  stop  you  ' — 
giving  way  with  evident  relief  to  a  long-pent 
burst  of  frank  brutality — '  but  please  to  re- 
member that  the  breach  comes  from  you  ;  it 
would  never  have  come  from  me.  Out  of 
loyalty   to  my  original  Idea  of  you,  and  as 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  305 

a  penance  for  my  folly  In  crediting  you  with 
excellences  and  aptitudes  of  which  you  are 
conspicuously  destitute,  I  should  have  gone 
on  putting  up  with  you,  enduring  even  your 
impertinent  efforts  to  Interfere  with  my  best- 
laid  and  most  deeply  considered  schemes, 
and  your  contemptible  willingness  to  be  the 
cat's-paw^  of  John  Drake.' 

The  storm  of  missiles  which  has  been 
whistling  round  her  head  has  had  the  effect 
of  rendering  Althea  dizzy  and  deaf,  but  this 
last  well-aimed  flint  stings  her  back  into  a 
cruelly  full  possession  of  her  senses  : 

'  The — cat's-paw — of — John — Drake  !' 

'  Yes,  the  cat's-paw  of  John  Drake.  I  do 
not  know  why  you  should  have  credited  me 
with  so  much  less  keen  sight  than  yourself  ; 
why  you  should  have  supposed  me  Ignorant 
of  those  frequent  meetings  with  him  of  late, 
which  you  have  either  happened  to  forget^ 
or  not  thought  it  worth  while  to  7nention.^ 

A    sort    of    dimness    comes    before    the 

20 


3o6  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

hearer's  vision.  It  is  as  if  the  blood  of  that 
flint-wound  were  dripping  into  her  eyes  and 
blinding  her. 

'  Do  you  think  that  I  have  not  seen  you, 
in  spite  of  all  I  have  told  you  of  the  horror 
of  men's  lives,  in  spite  of  your  hypocritical 
air  of  repulsion — do  you  think  that  I  have 
not  seen  you  drifting  Into  the  miserable  old 
path,  the  wretched  old  attitude  of  inferiority 
and  appeal  }  Has  it  ever  struck  you  that, 
had  I  been  cast  in  the  same  mould  as  you,  I, 
too,  might  have  played  at  jealousy  ?' 

The  other's  answer  is  nothing  but  a 
groping  movement  towards  the  door,  but 
Miss  Bateson  has  not  yet  quite  done  with 
her. 

*  If  I  had  not  become  aware  of  that  head- 
strong self- opinion  in  you  which,  coupled 
with  your  intellectual  weakness,  makes  you 
so  impossible  to  deal  with,  I  would  have 
given  you  a  friendly  hint  that,  since  John 
Drake   has   a   rather  firmer   hold   upon   his 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  307 

convictions  than  you,  your  attentions  to  him 
are  not  likely  to  lead  to  the  only  close  which 
would  seem  a  satisfactory  one  to  yourself  and 
your  highly  respectable  family.' 

Then  she  lets  her  go,  and  the  other,  feeling 
first  for  the  drawing-room  door,  and  then  for 
the  outer  one,  stumbles  off  down  the  public 
stairs.  Before  she  reaches  the  bottom  of 
these,  practical  common-sense  has  resumed 
its  sway  over  Faustina's  mind,  and  she  calls 
down  the  w^ell  of  the  staircase  in  much  her 
ordinary  voice  : 

'  Your  boxes  shall  be  sent  at  once  to  what- 
ever address  you  like  to  give.' 

***** 

In  blind  ignorance  of  the  way  she  is  taking, 
Althea  walks  along — walks  on  and  on.  She 
is  half  conscious  that  she  has  reached  the 
Embankment  by  the  pleasantness  of  the  fresh 
air  from  the  river.  Then  she  walks  on  and 
on  again,  half  blind,  half  deaf,  every  sense 
muffled  like  a  knocker  in  a  kid  glove.     She 


3o8  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

has  reached  the  end  of  the  endless  length  of 
Grosvenor  Road  before  the  sun,  beating 
hotly  on  her  head — she  has  left  parasol  and 
gloves  behind — and  the  urgent  weariness  of 
the  knees  that  knock  together  beneath  her, 
bid  her  find  some  place  of  shelter. 

The  thought  of  the  Aerated  Bread  Com- 
pany passes  foggily  across  her  mind  —  that 
beneficent  institution  which,  during  the  last 
months,  has  often  provided  her  with  a  frugal 
luncheon  or  inexpensive  tea.  She  has  to 
drag  her  tired  limbs  yet  a  little  further  before, 
in  a  street  in  Westminster,  the  welcome  letters 
'A.  B.  C  salute  her  eyes  over  a  shop-door. 
She  enters,  and  sits  down  at  one  of  the  little 
round  marble-topped  tables  which  chances  to 
be  vacant. 

At  first  she  is  conscious  only  of  a  sense  of 
bodily  relief  and  ease.  It  is  not  till  instructed 
by  the  blank  look  of  surprise  on  the  face  of 
the  waitress  who  comes  to  know  her  require- 
ments—  surprise   at   the  silence  with  which 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  309 

Althea  stares  at  her — that  the  latter  pulls  her- 
self together  and  orders  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a 
wheat-cake.  When  they  come,  she  feels 
disappointed  that,  for  want  of  a  preciser 
order,  the  cup  is  a  small  one.  She  drains 
it  at  a  draught :  it  does  her  the  doubtful  kind- 
ness of  clearing  her  brain. 

Leaning  both  elbows  on  the  table,  and 
taking  her  head  in  her  two  hands,  she 
reviews  her  situation.  An  earthquake  has 
swallowed  up  her  home.  At  the  memory 
of  that  so  recent  convulsion  she  shudders 
strongly,  then  glances  round,  afraid  lest  she 
should  have  been  observed. 

An  earthquake  has  swallowed  up  her  home ! 
Where  is  she  to  find  another  one  ? 

But  from  this  question,  though  she  is  aware 
in  a  woolly  way  that  it  claims  an  immediate 
answer,  mind  and  memory  keep  slipping 
back  to  the  exquisite  humiliation  of  the  past 
interview. 

It  is  not  the  absoluteness  and   ignominy 


310  DEAR  FAUSTINA 


of  her  failure  to  save  Cressida,  though  at 
another  time  that  would  have  oriven  her  keen 
pain,  which  is  crushing  her.  It  is  not  even 
the  sight  of  the  ignoble  clay  shards  into  which, 
under  her  eyes,  her  reputed  god  of  gold  and 
silver  has  flown,  shivered.  It  is  in  those 
phrases  into  which  Faustina  had  packed  the 
poison  of  her  final  sting  that  lies  the  secret 
of  the  girl's  prostration. 

She  had  carried  her  white  maiden  pennon 
so  high  ;  and  now  it  lies  draggled  and  defiled 
in  the  filth  of  the  public  street. 

'  The  cat's-paw  of  John  Drake  !'  '  Atten- 
tions to  him  not  likely  to  lead  to  the  only 
close !'  etc.  Horrible,  horrible  phrases  !  And 
can  it  be  that  there  is  a  grain  of  infinitely 
more  horrible  truth  in  them  ?  Has  she  paid 
him  any  attentions  ?  Can  this  odious  colour- 
ing be  put  upon  that  intercourse  which  of 
late  has  formed  the  only  solace  of  her  life  ? 

Her  mind,  having  fastened  upon  this  point, 
refuses  to  quit  it.      Inquiries  as   to   whether 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  311 

no  further  steps  are  possible  for  restoring  to 
the  Laningtons  their  strayed  child,  and  also 
as  to  where  Althea  is  to  house  herself  for  the 
coming  night,  drift  across  her  brain,  and 
remain  indifferently  unanswered. 

The  one  question  that  puts  itself  unceas- 
ingly as  the  only  one  really  worthy  of  re- 
sponse is,  F^as  she  paid  attentions  to  John 
Drake  ?  The  question  is  asked  with  shame- 
dropped  head,  and  hands  pentwise  shading 
burning  eyes.  It  is  not  till  a  step  stayed 
beside  her  singles  itself  out  from  the  coming 
and  going  feet  in  the  restaurant  that  she 
snatches  herself  upright,  and  sees  that  the 
object  of  her  anguished  query  is  present  to 
answer  it  if  she  will  in  person. 


I  3'2  ] 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Althea  starts  to  her  feet. 

*  What  are  you  doing  here  ?' 

Drake  looks  at  her  in  unfeigned  surprise. 

'  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  you  through  the 
door,  and  thought  I  would  come  and  ask 
whether  you  are  any  the  worse  for  our  ex- 
cursion.' 

'  Our  excursion  ?' 

*  Yes  ;  have  you  already  forgotten  Canning 
Town  ?' 

She  does  not  answer  ;  and,  with  growing 
alarm,  he  scans  her  more  narrowly. 

'  Has  anything  happened  ?     Are  you  ill  ?' 
'  No,  I  am  not  ill.' 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  313 

There  is  something  so  indescribably  frosty 
and  distant  in  her  voice  that  he  replaces  the 
chair  which  he  had  begun  to  move  from  the 
table,  in  order  to  sit  down  opposite  her. 

'  You  had  rather  be  alone.      I  will  go.' 

His  tone  tells  her  what  her  own  has  been, 
and  she  makes  a  frightened  effort  to  be  natural 
and  normal. 

'I  —  I  was  not  expecting  you.  I  came 
in  here  to — to  think  quietly  over  some- 
thing.' 

He  cannot  quite  keep  out  of  his  eyes  the 
earnest  wish  that  burns  behind  them  to  know 
what  that  something  Is ;  but  his  hand  is 
taken  off  the  chair,  and  his  whole  attitude  a 
going  one. 

She  glances  up  at  him  with  what  he  feels 
to  be  an  acutely  painful,  strange  shyness, 
while  in  her  heart,  through  the  new  veil  of 
shame  and  shrinking,  begins  to  rise  the  old 
longing  for  his  sympathy. 

*  Something  has  happened.' 


314  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

'Something  that  you  had  rather  not  tell 
me  ?' 

'  No-o.  You  would  —  everybody  would 
have  to  know  it  soon.  I  have  left  More 
Mansions.' 

'  For  good  ?' 

'  Yes.      Faustina  and  I  have  quarrelled  !' 

He  forbids  his  face  to  express  how  little 
the  arrival  of  this  denouement  surprises  him, 
and  tries  to  look  only  sympathetic. 

'  Irremediably  ?' 

'  Oh,  yes — yes  !' 

She  has  sat  down  again  at  the  table,  and 
her  distress — her  need  for  comfort — is  so 
obvious  that  he  cannot  resist  the  temptation 
to  sit  down,  too. 

'  I  am  so  sorry.  Quarrels  are  such  mis- 
takes, are  not  they  ?  Could  I  be  of  any 
use?  Could  not  you  use  me  as  a  go- 
between  ?' 

This  suggestion,  to  his  consternation, 
drowns  her  in  crimson. 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  315 

'  Vozi  !  Oh,  no — no  !'  Then,  feeling  how 
Inevitably  the  violent  unwisdom  of  her  dis- 
claimer must  have  made  him  draw  the  in- 
ference that  he  himself  was  the  object  of 
contention,  she  rushes  into  a  true,  though 
misleading,  admission.  '  We  quarrelled  about 
Cressida  Delafield.' 

'  Indeed.' 

*  I  told  Faustina  that  she  must  choose  be- 
tween her  and. me.' 

'  And  she  chose  Miss  Delafield  ?' 

'Yes.' 

He  is  silent,  afraid  to  seem  as  if  he  would 
push  into  her  confidence — a  reticence  the 
less  meritorious  since  he  knows  that,  having 
gone  so  far,  she  must  go  further,  and  unable 
to  feign  an  astonishment  that  he  is  far  from 
feeling. 

*  I  ought  to  tell  you  that  my  making  this 
stipulation  was  not  due  to  a  petty  jealousy, 
as  you  might  think,  but  to  Faustina's  having 
persuaded  the  girl  to  leave  her  parents.' 


3i6  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

'  Faustina  has  not  much  opinion  of  parents ' 
— dryly — '  but  why  ?' 

'  In  order  that  she  may  devote  her  Hfe 
to ' 

'  To  wka^  P' 

Althea  hesitates,  divided  between  her 
native  maiden  shrinking  from  embarking  on 
so  scabrous  a  topic  with  a  young  man  and 
the  teaching  of  the  last  months,  which  has 
instructed  her  that  all  topics  are  to  be  handled 
indifferently  between  the  sexes.  It  is  not 
the  latter,  after  all,  which  produces  her  low 
answer  : 

'  To  rescue  work.' 

'  To  wAal  ?' 

'  To  rescue  work ' — still  lower. 

For  a  second  he  stares  at  her  in  stupefac- 
tion.    Then  : 

'  We  cannot  be  referring  to  the  same 
person.  I  thought  you  were  alluding  to  the 
young  lady  whom  I  met  at  Lady  Lavinia 
Jerome's  party.' 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  317 

'  And  who  complimented  you  upon  your 
speech  to  the  dockers — so  I  am.' 

'That  ^^^7^/' 

'  She  is  not  such  a  child  as  you  think  ;  she 
is  twenty- one.' 

He  still  looks  bewildered. 

'  Rescue  work  !  Why,  even  Faustina — 
and  do  I  understand  that  when  you  remon- 
strated with  her  she  refused  to  listen  to  you  Y 

'  She  insulted  me  grossly.' 

Again  that  smarting  blush  smites  her  like 
a  blow,  and  her  voice  grows  rigid  again. 

*  Insulted  you  grossly — how  7 

'  I  cannot  tell  you — you  must  never  ask 
me  !' — almost  inaudibly. 

His  face  hardens,  and  he  stands  up. 

'  Then,  I  will  ask  her  !' 

'  I  will  never  speak  to  you  again  if  you 
do !'  She,  too,  has  started  to  her  feet,  but, 
recalled  to  herself  by  the  publicity  of  the 
place,  and  still  more  by  the  unbounded 
wonder  in    Drake's  eyes,    sits  down   again. 


3i8  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

*  I  mean  to  say  that  it  is  no  question  of  me  ; 
that  after — after  what  has  passed,  it  would 
be  useless  to  try  and  patch  up  a  reconciliation 
between  me  and  Faustina !' 

An  overpowering  wind  of  recollection 
seems  to  bow  her  head,  and  she  bends  before 
it.  She  looks  such  a  monument  of  woe  that 
even  his  curiosity  fades  before  his  earnest 
desire  to  succour  her. 

'  And  is  there  nothing  that  you  will  let  me 
do  to  help  you  ?' 

'  I  do  not  know  what  there  is  that  you — 
that  anyone  can  do.' 

Silenced  for  the  moment  by  this  finality 
of  affliction,  he  can  only  send  mute  messages 
of  cautious  sympathy  across  her  unbroken 
wheat-cake  to  her,  and  when  he  does  speak, 
it  is  to  make  a  homely  suggestion. 

'  Had  not  you  better  eat  something?' 

'  I  could  not ;  it  would  stick  in  my  throat.' 

'  If  you  will  forgive  my  asking  you,  have 
you  made  any  plan — thought  out  at  all  what 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  319 

it  will  be  best  for  you  to  do  for — ^just  the 
present — for  now  ?' 
*No; 

*  But  you  will  have  to  make  up  your  mind 
— to  take  some  step,  will  not  you  ?' 

*  Oh,  I  suppose  so.' 

There  is  such  cold  dismissal  of  the  topic 
in  her  tone  that  he  dares  not  pursue  it. 

Presently  she  begins  to  stir  restlessly  ;  to 
look  about  her  for  the  gloves  whose  absence 
she  has  forgotten  ;  to  show  feverish  signs  of 
departure. 

'  Are  you  going  ?' 

'  I  am  wasting  time,  and  there  is  none  to 
lose.  I  must  take  some  other  step.  I  can- 
not leave  that  girl  to  her  fate.' 

There  is  a  painful  look  of  wool-gathering 
in  her  white  face,  which  shows  her  still  half 
stunned  from  her  recent  blow.  Destitute  as 
he  is  of  any  right  to  prevent  her,  he  cannot 
allow  her  to  set  forth  on  an  enterprise  for 
which  she  is  so  plainly  unfit.      He  interposes 


320  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

himself  between   her  and  the  door,   towards 

which  she  has  turned. 

'  Will  not  you  eat  something  first  ?' 

'  I  tell  you  it  would  stick  in  my  throat  if 

I  did; 

'  Will  not  you  at  least  sit  down  again  for 

a  moment,  and  let  us  talk  it  over  quietly  ?' 

*  What  good  would  talking  it  over  quietly 
do?' 

'  We  miofht  strike  out  somethino^.  You 
might  see  your  way  to  let  me  help  you.' 

'  You  ?     Oh  no  !' 

At  any  other  time  her  emphasis  of  negation 
would  have  hurt  him  ;  now,  in  the  concentra- 
tion of  his  eagerness  to  stop  her,  he  passes 
it  by. 

*  You  might  at  least  let  me  use  whatever 
influence  I  have  with  Faustina.' 

Her  only  answer  is  a — to  him — incompre- 
hensible shudder. 

*  Perhaps  you  doubt  my  possessing  any  ; 
but  I  really  have  some.' 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  321 

She  has  collapsed  into  her  chair  again — 
not  because  convinced  by  his  arguments,  but 
unable  to  trust  her  knocking  knees.  With 
an  effort  she  collects  her  swimming  thoughts 
to  answer  him. 

'  You  did  not  seem  to  have  much  when 
you  tried  to  persuade  her  about  the  chromate 
of  potash.' 

'  That  is  true.' 

Her  shaking  fingers  begin  to  fidget  with 
the  spoon  of  her  coffee-cup. 

'  I  must  think  of  something  else.  I  must 
do  something — do  something — at  once.' 

'  I  cannot  see  that  you  have  any  respon- 
sibility in  the  matter.' 

'  Oh  yes,  I  have — there  are  reasons.  And, 
besides,  her  mother — I  met  her  this  morning  ; 
did  I  tell  you  that  it  was  from  her  I  heard 
the  news  ? — lays  all  the  blame  upon  me  !' 

'  Upon  you  ?' 

'  Yes.      She  says   that  if  it   had  not  been 

for  my  fatal  example ' 

21 


32  2  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

Her  throat  seems  to  close. 

'  I  would  treat  such  gross  injustice  with 
the  contempt  it  deserves  '—indignantly. 

'  I  am  not  so  sure  that  it  is  unjust.' 

Seeing  her  thus  resolute  to  heap  ashes 
on  her  own  head,  he  resumes  the  path  of 
practical  suggestion. 

'  Would  it  be  any  use  for  you  to  appeal 
to  Miss  Delafield  herself.?' 

'  Not  the  slightest.' 

'  Or  to  your  own  people  —  your  own 
family?  I  think  they  are  acquainted  with 
her?' 

'  No,  no  !  They  are  the  last  people  who 
must  hear  a  word  of  it !' 

Such  a  frenzy  of  opposition  shrills  in  her 
answer  to  this  last  proposal  that  he  looks 
round  nervously  ;  but  the  denizens  of  this 
A.  B.  C,  like  those  of  all  others,  are  stoking 
themselves  stolidly,  unmindful  of  their  neigh- 
bours' concerns. 

'  And  you  think  the  matter  urgent — need- 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  323 

ing  instant  action  ?  You  think  that  Faustina 
will ' 

She  snatches  the  sentence  away  from  him, 
as  if  unable  to  bear  any  ending  he  can  put 
to  it. 

'  Yes,  I  know  it !  She  never  lets  the  grass 
grow  under  her  feet' 

A  hopeless  pause.  Trivial  but  tenderly 
compassionate  speculations  cross  Drake's 
mind  as  to  what  she  has  done  with  her 
gloves,  coupled  with  the  sudden  perception 
that  she  looks  ten  years  older  than  she  did 
when  he  parted  from  her  last  night. 

'  I  should  be  the  last  person  to  press  my 
suggestion,  if  you  had  a  better  one  to  offer,' 
he  says  at  last,  with  deprecating  respect ; 
'  but  if  you  have  not,  I  think  I  should  advise 
you  to  let  me  try  my  luck  with  Faustina.' 

She  looks  at  him  desperately.  Her  mind 
seems  a  boiling  cauldron,  full  of  whirling 
thoughts,  which  she  tries  in  vain  to  arrest 
and    sort.      After    awhile    a   kind    of    order 


324  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

comes  into  the  chaos,  and  from  it  issues  a 
voice  which  tells  her  that  in  this  proposal — 
the  most  repugnant  that  could  possibly  have 
been  made  to  her — lies  her  only  chance  of 
averting  the  threatened  evil.  Dares  she 
reject  it  ?  Through  a  species  of  woolly  fog, 
her  companion's  voice,  still  urging,  reaches 
her. 

*  I  really  have  some  influence  with  her, 
though  I  do  not  wonder  at  your  doubting  it  ; 
but  if  I  put  pressure  on,  I  really  have  a  good 
deal.' 

Silence.  Her  thoughts  are  clearing,  and 
out  of  them  rises  in  odious  distinctness  a 
horrid  picture  of  Drake  confronting  Faustina 
— of  her  own  name  bandied  about  between 
them,  sullied  by  the  calumnies  with  which 
Miss  Bateson  had  so  freely  bespattered  her- 
self, and  of  which  she  will  certainly  not  be 
more  sparing  to  her  advocate — that  advocate 
whose  very  partisanship  will  give  a  plausible 
colour    to    her    accusations.     And    yet    what 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  325 

alternative  from  this  agony  of  degradation 
lies  open  to  her  ?  In  the  extremity  of  her 
misery  she  hides  her  face. 

'  I  do  not  know  what  to  do  ;  I  am  at  my 
wits'  end/ 

He  stands  beside  her  patiently  waiting, 
marvelling  at,  and  yet  trying  not  even  in 
his  own  mind  to  probe,  the  reasons  of  her 
anguished  shrinking  from  his  proposal.  When 
he  sees  her  a  little  calmer  he  gently  repeats  it : 

'  I  think  you  had  better  trust  me  to  do 
what  I  can  for  you.' 

For  a  second  or  two  she  yields  to  the 
infinite  sense  of  relief  of  having  someone  to 
lean  on  ;  then  Faustina's  venomed  phrases, 
flashing  back,  poison  the  infant  fountain  of 
her  comfort  at  its  source. 

'  I  could  not  bear  it — I  could  not  bear  it !' 

At  the  obstinacy  of  her  apparent  unreason 
his  patience  gives  way  a  little. 

'  I  am  afraid  I  have  nothing  else  to 
suggest.' 


326  DEAR  FAUSTINA 


She  lifts  her  forlorn  head  quickly.  Is  he 
going  ?  Dreadful  as  is  his  presence  beside 
her,  she  suddenly  realizes^  how  much  more 
dreadful  his  leaving  her  will  be. 

'  If — I — consent  to  what  you  propose,  will 
you — will  you — promise  not  to — not  to  listen 
— to — stop  your  ears  to — any — any — any  in- 
sulting accusations  that  she  may  bring  against 
me?' 

It  would  be  invidious  to  say  which  was 
the  more  highly  coloured,  the  young  woman 
at  making  this  suggestion,  or  the  young  man 
at  hearing  it. 

'  Is  not  it  an  insult  to  me  to  exact  such  a 
promise  ?' 

'  Oh  that  it  should  have  come  to  this  !' 
she  says,  the  memory  of  her  former  in- 
fatuation wringing  a  little  low  cry  out  of  her 
at  its  so  ignominious  ending. 

'  I  would  not  think  about  that,  if  I  were 
you,  now.' 

She  heaves  a  great  sigh,  and  then  draws 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  327 

her  scattered  wits  together,  as  if  trying  to 
take  his  advice. 

'  If  you — really  mean — to  carry  out — your 
— your  suggestion,  I  suppose  it  had  better  be 
— at  once.  She  is  not  a  person  who  ever 
loses  time  ;  and  she  may  be  meaning  to 
put  her — her  scheme  into  execution  to-ni — 
at  once.' 

Deep  repugnance  and  fevered  hurry  strive 
together  in  her  speech,  and  the  pitiful  conflict 
stirs  him  to  an  even  tenderer  compassion 
than  he  has  yet  felt. 

'  You  may  depend  upon  me.  Should  I 
find  her  at  home  this  afternoon  T 

'  I  think  so  ;  she  was  evidently  expecting 
Cressida.'  The  corners  of  her  mouth  go 
down,  pulled  at  by  a  very  bitter  recollection, 
and  he  looks  at  her  with  silent  commiseration. 
'  She  has  an  engagement  for  this  evening. 
As  it  is  a  long  way  off,  she  will  set  off  early  ; 
so  you  had  better  be  on  the  safe  side,  and  go 
now.' 


328  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

Drake's  heart  gives  a  throb  of  pleasure  at 
her  taking  his  eagerness  to  serve  her  so  much 
as  a  matter  of  course  as  to  need  neither 
apology  nor  thanks  ;  but  there  is  no  sign  of 
it  in  his  answer. 

'  I  will  go  as  soon  as  I  know  what  is  to 
become  of  you.' 

'  Of  me  ?' 

'  Yes,  of  you.' 

'  Oh,  I  do  not  know  !' 

'  You  must  decide  upon  something ;  the 
day  is  getting  on.' 

'  Yes  ;  I  suppose  so.' 

'  Are  your  people  in  town  ?' 

*  As  far  as  I  know.' 

'  Your  sister,  Mrs.  Boteler  ?' 

*  I  dare  say.' 

'  Will  not  it  be  best  for  you  to  be  with 
your  own  family  ?' 

*  My  family  disapproves  of  me  a  good 
deal.  It  seems  to  me  that  most  people  dis- 
approve of  me.' 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  329 

*  Do  they  disapprove  of  you  enough  to 
turn  you  away  from  their  door  ?' 

Her  answer  is  a  tarrying  one.  Do  they  ? 
He  had  put  the  question  as  propounding  an 
absurdity  ;  but  to  her  it  seems  quite  within 
the  range  of  possibility  that  they  should. 
For  weeks  she  has  kept  away  from  Clare, 
deterred  by  that  long- unfulfilled  promise ; 
and  now  that  what  her  family  will  look  upon 
as  the  result  of  her  bad  faith  has  broken  in 
thunder  upon  them,  how  can  she  venture 
to  present  herself  before  them  ?  A  dreadful 
vision  of  Edward  confronting  her  in  loud 
or,  still  more  terrible,  speechless  wrath  under 
Clare's  palms  rises  before  her  swimming 
eyes. 

'  I  do  not  know  ;  they  may.  Oh,  how  I 
wish  ' — catching  at  a  straw — '  that  I  could 
go  to  Canning  Town  !' 

'  I  am  afraid  that  is  not  possible  to-day.' 

'  Could  not  that  nice  couple  take  me  in  ?' 

'  I  am  afraid  not.' 


330  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

His  words  are  chilling,  but  the  throb  at  his 
heart  is  louder  than  before.  She  heaves 
another  prodigious  sigh,  and  once  again 
looks  about  mechanically  for  her  absent 
gloves. 

'  Then,  I  suppose  there  is  no  help  for  it.' 

'  Shall  I  call  you  a  hansom  ?' 

'  If  you  like.' 

He  is  so  afraid  of  her  vacillating  away 
once  again  from  the  only  sensible  plan  which 
it  is  in  her  power  to  adopt,  that  he  gives  her 
no  time  to  change  her  mind,  and  in  another 
minute  a  cab  stands  at  the  door.  She  submits 
passively  while  he  puts  her  in,  forgetting  even 
that  she  has  not  paid  for  her  coffee  ;  and  at 
first  it  seems  as  if  she  were  to  be  packed  off 
like  a  parcel,  and  without  any  more  power  of 
utterance  than  if  she  had  been  wrapped  in 
brown  paper  and  tied  with  string.  But  the 
noise  of  the  flaps,  which  he  stands  upon  the 
step  to  shut  down  upon  her,  seems  to  give 
her  back  her  speech. 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  331 


'  You  will  let  me  hear,  whatever  there  is  to 
hear,  at  once' 

*  At  once' 

'  And  you  will  not  believe — you  will  try 
not  to  believe ' 

The  wheels  drown  what  he  is  not  to 
believe,  but  he  knows  it  pretty  well. 

Althea  drives  along  through  a  mist,  al- 
though the  sun  is  showing  to  foreigners  all 
and  sundry  what  he  can  do,  when  he  is  put 
to  it,  in  the  way  of  shining  upon  that  town 
whose  chimneys  are  believed  to  have  bested 
him.  It  is  the  fullest  time  of  the  afternoon, 
and  a  block  often  brings  her  to  a  standstill. 
She  sees  that  people  are  looking  harder  at 
her  than  usual,  and,  though  accustomed  to 
being  stared  at  for  her  prettiness,  feels  that 
there  is  something  different  to-day. 

Clare's  butler — he  is  new  since  her  last 
visit  —  announces  to  her  with  apparent 
pleasure  that  his  mistress  is  '  Not  at  home,' 


332  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

and,  when  she  feebly  says  that  she  will  come 
in  and  wait,  looks  respectfully  doubtful. 

'  Mrs.  Boteler  is  not  very  well,  m,  and 
her  borders  were  that  no  one,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  one  or  two  hintimate  friends,  was 
to  be  admitted.' 

'  I  am  one  of  the  exceptions.  I  am  Mrs. 
Boteler's  sister.' 

At  that  he  ceases  his  opposition,  and  she 
follows  him,  quakingly  asking  herself  whether 
she  has  indeed  spoken  truth. 

Clare  is  lying  on  the  sofa,  and  Althea  has 
time  for  one  moment  of  poignant  anxiety  as 
to  what  emotion  she  shall  see  succeeding  the 
first  inevitable  one  of  surprise  before  Mrs. 
Boteler  jumps  up,  with  no  appearance  of  ill- 
health,  and  runs  to  meet  her. 

'  A^  last  r  she  cries.  '  Now,  are  not  you 
ashamed  of  yourself  ?' 

The  reproach  is  so  gay  and  gentle,  and 
applies  so  obviously  to  no  worse  crime  than 
her   having   absented    herself,    that   Althea, 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  ^2,3 

breaking  down  under  the  reaction,  bursts 
into  tears. 

'  My  dear,  how  ill  you  look  !     What  is  it  ?' 

The  other's  sobs  make  her  scarcely  in- 
telligible. 

'I  have  come — to  ask — whether — you  will 
take  me — take  me. — in.' 

The  arms  instantly  clasped  round  her  thin 
shoulders  would  be  answer  enough,  even 
without  the  galloping  response  : 

'  There  is  so  much  need  to  ask  that,  is 
not  there  ?' 

She  draws  the  humbled  girl  down  on  the 
sofa  beside  her,  and,  not  teasing  her  with 
questions,  waits  for  her  to  explain  herself. 
But  Althea's  first  words  have  no  relation  to 
herself. 

'  You  were  lying  down.  Are  not  you 
well  ?' 

Clare  blushes  slightly. 

'  I  never  felt  better  in  my  life ;  but,  you 
know,  William  is  so  fussy  about  me.' 


334 


DEAR  FAUSTINA 


Althea  stares  stupidly  at  her.  The  squalid 
tornado  that  has  rent  her  life  seems  to  have 
blown  away  half  her  wits. 

'And — and  the  others?  How  is — how  is 
Fanny  ?' 

'  Fanny  is  a  tremendous  success.' 

The  figures  of  Pharaoh's  butler  and  baker, 
with  their  unexplained  variety  of  fate,  rise 
quaintly  before  Althea's  dimmed  mental  eye, 
the  one  with  his  head  lifted  up,  and  the  other 
hanged.  Fanny  a  tremendous  success,  and 
sAe  ! 

'  I  must  say  that,  if  I  am  tired,  William  is 
excellent  about  taking  her  to  balls.' 

A  trivial  vision  of  William  with  his  arm 
chronically  twined  round  Fanny's  waist  dis- 
places the  butler  and  baker  before  the  eyes 
of  William's  sister-in-law,  lessening  the  virtue 
of  his  sacrifice,  but  does  not  detain  her  a 
moment  from  the  real  subject  of  her  pre- 
occupation. 

'  And— and  Ned  ?' 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  335 

Mrs.  Boteler's  soft  face  stiffens  a  little. 

'  He  has  not  been  up  for  some  weeks  ;  he 
is  reading  hard  for  Greats.  Poor  fellow  !  he 
realizes  that  work  is  the  best  thing  for  him.' 

Tone  and  words  are  dry,  and  ^an^  soit  peu 
reproachful,  but  to  Althea  they  bring  an 
untold  relief.  He  knows  nothing ;  he  has 
heard  nothing.  That  terrible  vision  of  a 
brother  vengefully  confronting  her  is  only  a 
figment  of  her  own  brain.  For  the  moment, 
at  least,  she  may  let  herself  go  to  the  un- 
speakable ease  and  solace  of  this  reached 
haven.  Her  tired  head  falls  back  on  the 
sofa-cushion,  and  the  water  stands  again  in 
her  eyes.  Her  whole  look  is  so  bruised  and 
pitiful  that  the  other's  conscience  smites  her 
for  her  transient  severity. 

'  I  see  that  something  very  bad  has  hap- 
pened. Do  not  you  think  you  could  tell  me 
what  it  is  ?' 

At  the  delicate  kindness  of  this  inquiry  the 
shower  falls. 


336  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

'  You  have  left  her  ?' 

A  speechless  nod. 

'  For  good  ?' 

'  Yes.' 

'  You  have  quarrelled  with  her  ?' 

'Yes.' 

*  And  you  never  mean  to  go  back  ?' 

'  God  forbid !' 

A  crescendo  of  cautious  but  eager  cheer- 
fulness has  marked  Mrs.  Boteler's  questions, 
and  at  the  energy  of  this  last  disclaimer  she 
flings  both  arms  again  round  her  sister's 
neck. 

'  Oh,  I  am  glad  !  Do  not  be  angry  with 
me,  but  I  am  glad !  I  knew  that  you  must 
find  out  in  time  what  a  fraud  she  is ;  but  I 
feared  it  might  be  a  long  while  first.' 

'  Do  not  call  her  names !'  cries  Althea, 
with  a  shiver  of  stung  loyalty  to  her  broken 
ideal.  '  I  loved  her  dearly ;  I  believed  in 
her — oh,  Aow  I  believed  in  her ! — but  I  have 
been  dreadfully — dreadfully  disillusioned.' 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  337 

'  Since  when  ?' 

Althea  heaves  a  sigh  of  deep  humiliation. 

'  I  can  see  now  that  it  has  been  coming 
for  a  long  time,  that  she  has  been  growing 
sick  of  me  ;  but  it  culminated  this  morning 
when  I  remonstrated  with  her  about  some- 
thing she  was  going  to  do,  which  I  thought 
absolutely  criminal.' 

'  Criminal  f 

Clare's  eyes  sparkle  at  the  thought  of  Miss 
Bateson  having  placed  herself  within  the 
clutch  of  the  law. 

'  Morally  criminal,  I  mean.' 

'  And  her  answer  was,  to  turn  you  out  of 
doors  ?' 

'  I  turned  myself  out.  I  could  not  stay  to 
hear  any  more  such — such  outrages  as  she 
was  heaping  upon  me.' 

Clare  reddens  in  sympathy  with  the  scarlet 
that  has  bathed  her  sister. 

'  I  always  felt  that  there  were  great  possi- 
bilities of  Billingsgate  latent  in  her.' 

22 


338  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

'  I  left  all  my  things  behind  me  ;  I  did  not 
even  ' — with  a  half-scared  look  at  her  hands 
— '  remember  to  take  my  gloves.' 

'  I  will  send  for  them  at  once  ' — rising  and 
ringing  the  bell.  *  If  I  do  not ' — with  a  burst 
of  disgust  and  anger — '  she  will  probably 
pawn  them.' 

And  again  i\lthea  shivers. 


[  339  ] 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

The  servant  sent  to  recover  Miss  Vane's 
wardrobe  from  the  apprehended  pawnshop 
returns  in  time  for  her  to  appear  in  her  own 
clothes  at  her  sister's  dinner- table.  It  is  not 
likely  that  at  the  height  of  the  season  she 
will  find  her  relations  dining  alone ;  but  she 
has  been  too  self-absorbed  to  realize  this, 
and,  on  finding  that  she  will  have  to  face 
strangers,  begs  ofT  appearing.  But  Clare 
gently  discourages  the  proposal. 

'  They  are  only  men  ;  and  so  William  will 
take  you  in.  I  will  tell  him  not  to  talk  much 
to  you.' 

'  I  am  afraid  I  shall  be  rather  a  kill-joy. 


340 


DEAR  FAUSTINA 


'  Oh  no,  you  will  not.  There  are  only 
three  or  four  old  Etonians  come  up  for  the 
match.' 

*  What  match  ?' 

'  TV/ia^  match  /'  —  laughingly  mimicking 
her.  '  You  had  better  not  let  William 
and  Fanny  hear  you.  Do  you  mean  to  say 
you  do  not  know  that  it  is  the  first  day  of 
the  Eton  and  Harrow  ?' 

Nothing  can  be  kinder  than  William's 
greeting  when  they  meet  in  the  drawing- 
room  before  the  arrival  of  the  guests. 

'  Very  glad  to  see  you  !'  he  says,  shaking 
her  hand  almost  as  heartily  as  if  it  had  been 
Fanny's. 

There  is  an  intention  to  kiss  her  in  his 
eye,  but  something  in  her  manner  makes 
him  abandon  it,  and  substitute  the  not  par- 
ticularly felicitous  remark  : 

'  I  thought  we  should  end  by  rescuing  you 
from  the  shrieking  sisterhood.' 

His  wife,  standing  near,  puts  in  a  gently 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  341 


hasty  '  We  will  not  talk  about  that,'  which 
diverts  her  husband's  attention  to  herself, 
making  him  ply  her  with  what  seem  to 
Althea  very  teasing  questions,  as  to  whether 
she  has  obeyed  his  injunctions  in  lying  long 
enough  on  the  sofa  ;  whether  she  is  sure  she 
has  not  seen  too  many  people,  etc. 

Fanny  next  claims  his  attention,  her  toilet 
demanding  a  good  deal  of  facetious  criticism 
and  some  fingering,  so  that,  on  the  whole, 
the  returned  truant  tells  herself  that,  con- 
sidering what  William  is,  she  has  come  off 
pretty  cheaply. 

And  there  is  real  kindness  in  his  '  Now 
that  we  have  got  you,  we  shall  not  let  you 
go  in  a  hurry,'  as  he  presses  the  fingers  that 
rest  on  his  arm  against  his  side  during  their 
downward  march  to  the  dining-room. 

He  relapses  into  funniness  two  or  three 
times  during  dinner — as  when,  with  a  glance 
at  her  collar-bones,  he  expresses  a  playful 
wonder  that  two  such  radicals  as  she  and  her 


342  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

friend  should  have  dined  so  often  with  Duke 
Humphrey.  But  for  the  most  part,  in  obedi- 
ence, probably,  to  his  wife's  orders,  he  leaves 
her  in  peace. 

The  conversation  rolls  almost  wholly  upon 
the  match,  and  Mr.  Boteler  throws  his  bad 
jokes  upon  it  about  the  table — ^jokes  which 
Fanny  receives  with  low  bursts  of  ecstatic 
laughter,  such  as,  indeed,  she  bestows  upon 
the  sallies  of  all  the  other  men.  Fanny  has 
no  repartee,  and  does  much  better  without  a 
gift  which  in  general  brings  to  its  possessor, 
if  a  woman,  neither  love  nor  money. 

The  absolute  aloofness  of  the  interests 
about  her  from  that  one  which  has  been 
tyrannizing  her  whole  being  makes  Althea 
feel  inexpressibly  stupid.  It  is  with  difficulty 
that  she  can  keep  enough  wits  about  her  to 
produce  the  '  Yes '  or  '  No '  occasionally 
asked  of  her  in  their  right  places  ;  to  abstract 
herself  for  even  a  moment  from  the  devouring 
fever  of  her  apprehensions    as    to    how  her 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  343 

messenger  is  prospering  on  that  mission, 
upon  which  seems  to  her  to  hang  whatever 
of  peace  may  be  in  store  for  her  future  life. 
How  soon  is  it  possible  for  her  to  hear  the 
result  of  Drake's  quest  ? 

As  time  wears  on,  her  preoccupation 
becomes  more  and  more  painful.  The 
ladies  have  returned  to  the  drawing-room, 
and  Fanny,  'with  a  thoughtful  husbanding 
of  the  charms  which  are  to  be  exhibited  at 
two  balls,  curls  herself  up  on  a  sofa  and  goes 
to  sleep,  after  prettily  saying  how  too  pleasant 
for  words  it  is  to  have  Althea's  company 
again.  The  other  sister,  with  a  nicer  obser- 
vation and  a  sincerer  solicitude,  urges  the 
jaded  girl  to  go  to  bed. 

'  No,  no  ;  I  cannot.  I  should  not  sleep  ! 
I  will  stay,  at  all  events,  until  Fanny  goes  to 
dress.' 

There  is  such  a  strange  excitement  in  her 
manner  that  Clare  looks  at  her  alarmed  and 
puzzled. 


344  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

*  You  are  not — not  expecting — anyone  ?' 

^No.' 

Presently  the  men  come  up,  and  Fanny 
wakes  just  in  time  to  shake  out  her  ruffled 
plumes  and  stroll  on  to  the  balcony  with  one 
or  two  of  them,  pleasing  their  ears  with  her 
little  observations  on  the  stars,  which  make 
them  feel  quite  clever. 

William  devotes  himself  to  his  other  sister- 
in-law,  and  plays  with  somewhat  clumsy 
variations  upon  the  kindly  theme  of  his 
determination  not  to  let  her  go  again  now 
he  has  got  her,  and  his  congratulations  and 
rejoicings  over  her  recovered  reason.  She 
scarcely  hears  him,  the  heightening  distress 
of  her  mind  making  her  deaf  to  any  other 
theme. 

It  is  growing  evident  that  she  will  not 
learn  her  fate  to-night  ;  that  she  will  have 
to  bridge  the  enormous  chasm  that  parts  her 
from  another  day  with  sleepless  hours  of  un- 
relieved suspense.   The  telegraph- offices  must 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  345 

long  have  been  closed,  for  Is  not  midnight 
nearing  ? 

Fanny  has  pecked  her  good-night  upon 
her  sisters'  cheeks,  and  danced  away  to  the 
brougham  ;  and  William,  lingering  to  impress 
fondly  fussy  orders  upon  his  wife  not  to  stay 
up  chattering,  has  followed. 

'  We  do  not  feel  at  all  inclined  to  disobey 
him,  do  we  ?'  says  Clare,  with  a  pitying 
glance  at  her  sister's  white  face. 

But  the  other  utterly  repudiates  the  hope 
of  slumber. 

'  1  should  like  to  sit  up  all  night.' 

'  Do  not  you  sleep  ?' 

*  If  I  do  not,  that  is  no  reason  for  keeping 
you  out  of  bed.' 

She  follows  Clare  upstairs  with  dragging 
limbs. 

'  I  will  not  come  in,  though  it  is  a  sore 
temptation,'  says  Mrs.  Boteler,  pausing  at 
the  threshold  of  her  sister's  door ;  '  but  I 
should  never  hear  the  last  of  it  if  I   did ' — 


346  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

smiling.  *  Sleep  well,  and  do  not  come  down 
to  breakfast' 

She  turns  reluctantly,  as  if  loath  to  leave 
anything  so  uncomforted  ;  and  the  next 
moment  Althea  hears  her  voice  speaking  to 
the  butler,  who  has  apparently  followed  her 
upstairs—  '  For  me  ?'  and  his  answer  :  '  No  ; 
for  Miss  Vane.' 

In  an  instant  Althea  has  sprung  into  the 
passage,  and  snatched  .the  telegram  out  of 
the  man's  hand,  not  heeding  his  explanation  : 
'  It  was  left  by  mistake  at  No.  24,  and  has 
only  just  been  sent  in.' 

Though  in  such  haste  to  open  it,  a  moment 
or  two  passes  before  she  can  master  its 
import,  though  the  message  is  of  the  briefest. 

*'«^  -Jc  %'s  7f  Vf 

It  is  through  no  dilatoriness  on  the  part 
of  Drake  that  Miss  Vane  has  been  kept  so 
long  upon  her  gridiron.  No  sooner  has  he 
put  her  into  one  hansom  than  he  puts  him- 
self into  a  second,    and    gives    the    familiar 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  347 

address,  *  4,  More  Mansions.'  Not  only  with 
the  object  of  arresting  Faustina  at  the  earliest 
period,  but  because  he  knows  that  the  more 
he  looks  at  his  errand  the  less  he  will  like 
it,  does  he  thus  bustle  its  fulfilment. 

Drake  has  no  particular  objection — ade- 
quate cause  given — to  a  row  with  one  of 
his  own  sex  ;  but,  like  all  other  able-bodied, 
healthy-minded  men,  anything  in  the  nature 
of  a  quarrel  with  a  woman  is  extremely  dis- 
tasteful to  him. 

Faustina  herself  opens  the  door,  as  she 
had  done  earlier  in  the  day  to  Althea. 

'  I  am  ''  not  at  home,"  '  she  says  cavalierly, 
'  as  I  must  go  out  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ; 
but  you  may  come  in  for  a  minute  or  two.' 

She  leads  the  way  to  the  drawing-room, 
which  seems  to  his  fancy  still  to  show 
marks  of  the  morning's  battle,  as  if  that 
battle  had  been  one  where  literal  instead  of 
metaphorical  missiles  had  hurtled. 

Miss    Bateson    has    no    more    opinion    of 


348  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

order  and  neatness  in  her  surroundings  than 
she  has  of  filial  piety,  reverence,  etc.,  and 
to  the  young  man's  eyes  the  absence  of 
Altheas  refining  and  straightening  influence 
is  already  perceptible. 

*  You  are  apt  to  come  at  inconvenient 
moments;  but  I  am  not  sorry  to  see  you,' 
Faustina  says,  and  so  holds  out  her  hand. 

His  makes  no  answering  motion. 

'  What  does  this  mean  ?' 

He  had  been  doubtful  whether  the  bluff 
offhandness  of  her  manner  had  not  con- 
cealed some  suspicion  of  his  purpose  ;  but 
her  air  of  apparently  unaffected  surprise 
staggers  him. 

'  It  means  that  shaking  hands  implies  a 
friendly  relation,  and  that  it  is  with  no 
friendly  feeling  that  I  come  to  you  to-day.' 

The  surprise,  whether  real  or  only  well 
counterfeited,  passes  out  of  her  eyes,  and  she 
sits  down. 

'  If  we  are  going  to  say  unpleasant  things 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  349 

to  each  other,  we  may  as  well  do  it  comfort- 
ably.' 

'  Thank  you,  I  had  rather  stand.' 

*  As  you  please.' 

There  is  a  slight  pause,  both  combatants 
arming.  It  is,  perhaps,  a  false  move  on  the 
part  of  Faustina  that  it  is  she  who  gives  the 
signal  to  fire.  It  is,  at  all  events,  a  relief  to 
her  antagonist. 

'  I  gather  that  Althea  has  been  visiting 
you  with  her  finger  in  her  eye.' 

She  laughs  slightingly. 

'  Then,  you  gather  what  is  absolutely  false.' 

Faustina  shrugs  her  shoulders. 

'  She  has  been  communicating  with  you — 
the  method  Is  unimportant.  You  cannot 
deny  that,  I  suppose  ?' 

'  I  see  no  reason  for  introducing  her  name 
into  the  discussion.' 

'  If  they  have  no  reference  to  her,  I  am 
quite  at  a  loss  to  guess  the  meaning  of  these 
heroics.'     Her  voice  is  contemptuous,  and  she 


35° 


DEAR  FAUSTINA 


half  strangles  a  yawn.  '  And  time  is  short,' 
she  adds,  with  a  meaning  glance  clockwards. 

*  It  will  be  long  enough  for  me,'  he  says, 
stung  by  her  tone  ;  *  I  shall  not  detain  you 
long.  I  have  only  one  brief  request — one 
demand  to  make  of  you.' 

'  And  that  is  ?' 

'  That  you  will  abandon  the  at  once 
nefarious  and  ridiculous  scheme  with  regard 
to  Miss  Delafield  that  I  hear  you  have 
framed.' 

The  answer  takes  a  moment  before  it  can 
come  as  smilingly  as  its  utterer  wishes. 

'  You  have  said  your  lesson  well,  and  you 
have  almost  as  much  command  of  language 
as  your — your  employer ;  but,  as  you  know, 
I  have  never  objected  to  plain  speaking,  and 
I  should  be  glad  if  you  would  tell  me  what 
inducement  you  hold  out  to  me  to  comply 
with  a  request  which  may  seem  to  me  as 
ridiculous  and  nefarious  as  my  project  does 
to  you.' 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  351 


*  What  inducement !'  he  repeats  slowly,  as 
if  the  shape  of  the  question  made  it  difficult 
to  him  for  the  moment  to  answer  it. 

'  Or  perhaps  I  should  rather  say,  what 
deterrent  to  frighten  me  from  it/ 

He  pauses  for  a  second. 

'  The  absolute  and  glaring  unfitness  of  the 
tool  for  the  task — has  that  no  weight  with 
you  ?' 

'  I  deny  your  premise.  If  I  had  not 
thought  the  tool  fitted  for  the  task,  I  should 
not  have  picked  it  out.' 

'  The  misery  entailed  upon  the  girl's 
family  ?' 

She  shakes  her  head. 

'  You  know  what  my  opinions  are  as  to 
the  so-called  rights  of  parents  to  mutilate 
and  cramp  their  children's  lives.  You  may 
forget  the  fact ;  but  you  once  shared  them.' 

He  passes  by  the  personal  application 
with  quiet  contempt. 

*  The  horrors  to  which  you  expose  her  ?' 


352  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

She  smiles. 

'  You  may  keep  your  breath  to  cool  your 
porridge,  and  your  rhetoric  for  a  paragraph 
in  a  society  paper.  Have  you  yet  to  learn 
that  with  me  the  implement  is  always  a  most 
secondary  consideration,  and  is  esteemed 
solely  as  it  may  lend  its  polish  or  its  blade 
to  the  service  of  the  Cause  ?' 

He  puts  out  his  hand  impatiently. 

'  Connu  !  I  have  heard  it  before.  Save 
it  for  someone  to  whom  it  is  fresher.' 

Her  good-humour,  or  at  least  her  self- 
command,  seems  proof  even  against  this 
shaft. 

'  Have  you  come  to  the  bottom  of  your 
bag  of  bombs  ?'  she  asks  jeeringly. 

'  Not  quite  ;  I  have  one  or  two  left.' 

Something  in  the  look  of  his  face  or  the 
determination  of  his  manner  makes  her 
vaguely  restless. 

She  takes  up  a  paper-knife  and  balances  it 
on  her  fingers.     It  was  an  early  love-token 


DEAR  FAUSTINA 


353 


from  Althea,  and  has  Auf  Ewig  foolishly 
slanting  across  its  blade  in  gilt  letters  ;  but 
neither  of  them  notices  this.  He  looks  down 
at  her  calmly ,  before  again  speaking ;  and 
she,  suddenly  feeling  that  the  inequality  of 
their  levels  is  giving  him  an  advantage  over 
her,  rises  and,  standing  firmly  on  her  well- 
planted  feet,  draws  up  her  tall  stature. 

*  You  are  very  self-confident,'  he  says,  with 
an  inflection  that  sounds  almost  one  of  pity — 
*  very  sure  of  yourself  It  is  a  valuable 
quality,  but  it  may  land  you  in  a  morass.' 

'  Would  you  mind  keeping  to  the  text,  or 
shall  we  have  the  rest  of  the  sermon  another 
day?' 

Her  voice  is  still  a  jeering  one,  but  there 
has  come  into  it  an  indefinable  accent  of  alarm. 

'  Have  you  reflected  what  a  hornets'  nest 
you  will  bring  about  your  ears  by  provoking 
the  enmity  of  a  family  as  powerful  by  con- 
nection and  social  standing  as  Miss  Dela- 
field's  ?' 

23 


354 


DEAR  FAUSTINA 


'  What  harm  can  they  do  to  me  ?  The 
claws  have  been  pared  and  the  fangs  drawn 
of  such  as  they  this  many  a  year.' 

Again  he  halts  for  a  moment.  She  is  so 
close  to  him  that  he  can  feel  her  breath  on 
his  cheek,  and  knows  that  it  is  coming  hot 
and  anxiously. 

*  They  could  make  the  place  too  hot  to 
hold  you.'  He  waits  a  moment  for  this 
statement  to  have  time  to  sink  well  in,  and 
then  adds  :  '  I  think  you  would  find  other 
people  beside  me  withdrawing  from  your 
acquaintance.' 

'  You  are  threatening  me  with  the  loss  of 
your  acquaintance  ?' 

'  I  am  threatening  nothing.  I  am  simply 
telling  you  what  will  be  the  result  of  your 
action.' 

'  It  comes  to  the  same  thing.  You  are 
implying  that  you  will  withdraw  your  ac- 
quaintance— what  I  used  once  humorously 
to  call  your  friendship — from  me  if  I  persist.' 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  355 

*  What  you  used  humorously  to  call  my 
friendship  for  you — yes.' 

Her  next  question  comes  heralded  and,  as 
it  were,  delayed  by  a  dark  blush  : 

'  That  means,  in  plain  English,  that  you 
will  withdraw  the  help — the  pecuniary  help 
— which  you  have  given  me  all  these  years  ; 
given  by  you  and  accepted  by  me  without 
humiliation,  because  we  were  both  in  the 
same  boat.' 

*  We  were  never  in  the  same  boat.' 

'  We  were  in  the  same  boat,  inasmuch  as 
we  had  both  been  turned  out  of  doors  for  our 
fidelity  to  our  opinions.' 

*  Was  it  for  your  opinions  that  you  were 
turned  out  of  doors  ?' 

He  looks  at  her  piercingly,  well  in  the 
eyes,  and  hers,  after  trying  to  brazen  it  out 
for  an  instant,  drop. 

*  It  was  for  carrying,  or  trying  to  carry, 
them  to  their  logical  conclusion,'  she  answers; 
but  though   there  is  defiance,   there  is  also 


356  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

fear  in  her  tone.  The  young  man  shrugs 
his  shoulders  contemptuously. 

'  I  have  no  wish  to  stir  up  that  old  mud. 
I  helped  you  because  I  could  not  see  an  old 
playmate  starve  ;  because  I  believed  that 
injustice  had«  been  meted  out  to  you — that 
your  convictions  were  convictions,  although 
they  had  led  you  into  extravagant  and 
immoral  action ' 

She  breaks  in,  unable — though  conscious 
of  the  ticklish  nature  of  her  situation — to 
deny  herself  the  poignant  pleasure  of  a 
gibe  : 

'Extravagant  and  immoral!  Give  me 
time  to  enjoy  this  new  strain.  Since  when 
has  this  admiring  loyalty  to  the  Marriage 
Laws  blossomed  out  in  you  ?' 

He  does  what  it  is  always  wise,  and  almost 
as  always  difficult,  to  do  in  the  case  of  angry 
speech,  passes  it  by,  continuing  his  own 
theme  as  if  she  had  not  spoken. 

'  All   these   years   I  have  been   trying  to 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  357 


keep  my  belief  in  you — a  belief  that,  under 
all  the  puff  and  push  and  vulgar  striving 
for  notoriety,  there  still  existed  something 
of  the  real  thing — some  grain  of  selfless 
love,  of  righteous  anger,  of  noble  faith ; 
but  during  the  last  months  that  belief  has 
been  daily  growing  weaker,  and  to-day  it 
has  died.' 

His  voice  has  throughout  been  neither 
loud  nor  vituperative,  despite  the  stinging 
severity  of  his  words,  and  through  the  last 
clause  of  his  speech  there  runs  an  intonation 
of  sadness.     Her  answer  begins  in  bluster  : 

'  What  is  it  to  me  whether  you  or  such  as 
you  weary  me  with  your  stupid  belief,  or 
insult  me  with  your  stupider  disbelief  ?' 
Then,  as  he  continues  to  hold  her  with  the 
quiet  determination  of  his  eye,  she  changes 
her  tone  :  'It  would  be  more  to  the  purpose 
if,  instead  of  slanging  me,  you  were  to  treat 
me  to  a  practical  statement  of  what  it  is  that 
you  wish  me  to  do.' 


358  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

*  I  wish  you  to  sit  down  at  once  and  write 
a  note  to  Miss  Delafield.' 

'  Dictated  by  you  ?' 

*  If  you  prefer  it' 

He  has  baffled  her  by  taking  her  derisive 
question  as  if  seriously  asked,  and  for  a 
moment  she  hesitates. 

'  And  supposing  that  I  refuse  ?' 

'  I  think  you  will  repent  it.' 

*  Supposing  that  I  fling  your  petty  help  in 
your  face,  and  defy  you  ?' 

He  wisely  leaves  this  query  to  answer 
itself,  which  after  a  while  it  does,  by  its 
author  walking  slowly  to  the  writing-table 
and  sitting  down  at  it.  Her  self-respect  is 
almost  as  much^restored  by  the  utterance  of 
her  threat  of  renunciation  as  if  she  had 
carried  it  out,  and  it  is  with  what  she  feels 
to  be  real  dignity  that,  when  seated,  she  turns 
to  him. 

*  You  have  interfered  in  a  matter  with 
which   you  have   no  smallest  concern ;  you 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  359 

have  stooped  to  be  the  tool  of  a  girl  as 
contemptible  in  character  as  puny  in  intellect ; 
you  have  used  a  lever  which  no  generous 
mind  would  have  employed  ;  and  now,  will 
you  please  tell  me  what  I  am  to  say  ?' 


[  360 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

'  All  right !' 

When  Althea's  eyes  allow  her  to  read  it, 
she  finds  that  these  two  words  compose  her 
wire. 

She  is  standing  lost  in  the  immensity  of 
her  relief,  when  Clare's  voice  sounds  in  her 
ear. 

'  No  bad  news,  I  hope  ?' 

'  Oh  no — none.' 

Mrs.  Boteler  has,  after  all,  crossed  her 
sister  s  threshold,  prepared  to  throw  William's 
prohibition  to  the  winds  on  the  smallest  en- 
couragement. But  she  gets  none,  and  after 
a  moment  or  two  retires,  rather  reluctantly, 
but  without  putting  any  further  question. 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  361 

Althea  is  left  to  the  enjoyment  of  her  re- 
bound from  suspense — an  enjoyment  that  at 
first  seems  perfect,  but  afterwards  is  nibbled 
at  by  carping  questions. 

'  All  right !'  What  does  it  mean  ?  How 
much  ground  does  it  cover  ?  Is  the  reprieve 
only  a  temporary  one,  or  is  the  overhanging 
evil  for  ever  averted  ?  If  so,  what  means 
has  Drake  employed  ?  By  what  lever  has 
he  been  able  to  remove  the  mountain  of 
Faustina's  purpose  ? 

Over  these  problems  she  tosses  most  of 
the  night — a  regrettable  waste  of  time  and 
tissue,  since  morning  brings  the  solution  of, 
at  all  events,  one  of  them  in  a  letter  from 
Drake  himself : 

'  Dear  Miss  Vane, 

'  I  hope  that  the  telegram  I  have  just 
sent  you  will  relieve  your  anxiety.  I  am 
very  pleased  to  say  that  I  have  been  able 
to   persuade    Miss    Bateson   permanently   to 


362  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

abandon  her  project.  She  Is  leaving  London 
at  once  for  some  little  time,  so  that  you 
need  not  fear  the  disagreeableness  of  a 
meeting. 

'  Trusting  that  this  will  set  your  mind  quite 
at  rest, 

'  I  am, 

'Yours  very  truly, 

'John  Trecothick  Drake.' 

She  turns  the  page,  to  see  whether  there 
Is  nothing  more  on  the  other  side  ;  but  the 
postscript  is  not  as  sure  a  find  in  a  man's 
letter  as  in  a  woman's,  and  from  this  one  It 
is  altogether  absent. 

She  reads  the  note  again  with  deep  breaths 
of  relief  as  she  goes  along.  '  Permanently 
to  abandon  her  project  P  How  has  he  done 
it?  Oh,  what  a  relief!  She  can  face  Ned 
again  !  Ned  need  never  know  !  But  how 
has  he  done  it  .^^  He  might  have  gone  a 
little  more  into  detail. 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  363 

She  reads  it  a  third  time.  Nothing — 
absolutely  nothing  but  the  bare  facts  ! 

They,  at  least,  are  entirely  satisfactory, 
thank  God  !  but  he  must  have  known  how 
she  would  hunger  for  an  explanation.  He 
need  not  have  been  quite  so  short,  nor — with 
a  fourth  survey — quite  so  dry. 

At  that  she  takes  herself  up  for  carping  at 
one  who  has  just  done  her  such  an  un- 
speakable service.  Ah  !  but  in  letting  him 
do  it  has  she  lost  him  }  Has  Faustina  re- 
peated to  him  the  calumnies  that  had  driven 
her  (Althea)  blind  and  staggering  into  the 
public  street  ?  And  has  he,  in  part  at  least, 
and  against  his  will,  believed  them  ? 

The  question  buries  her  face  downwards  in 
her  pillows,  so  deep  that  the  light  knock  with 
which  someone  prefaces  her  entrance  is  un- 
heard by  her.  She  jumps  back  to  the  con- 
sciousness that  Clare,  in  a  pretty  dressing- 
gown,  and  with  a  still  prettier  morning  smile, 
is  standing  by  her  bed. 


364  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

'  Were  you  asleep  ?  and  do  you  always  lie 
on  your  face  ?' 

'  Never.' 

'  I  came  to  ask  how  you  are.' 

'  How  kind  of  you  !' 

'  Did  you  sleep  well  ?' 

'  Middling.' 

*  And  had  a  satisfactory  post  ?' 

'A  very  small  one.' 

With  a  careless  air,  Althea's  hand  goes 
out  towards  the  letter  lying  face  uppermost 
on  the  counterpane,  and  covers  it. 

'  But  a  pleasant  one  ?' 

'Oh  yes,  quite  pleasant' 

The  elder  sister  makes  a  slight  pause,  as  it 
expecting  something  further ;  but  nothing 
comes,  and  with  a  faint  and  very  passing 
cloud  on  her  brightness  she  goes  away. 

All  through  that  day  Althea  has  the  dis- 
agreeable consciousness  that  Clare  is  naturally 
expecting  some  further  explanation  of  the 
cause    that    has    thrown    her    upon    William 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  365 

Boteler's  hospitality,  expecting  her  to  give  a 
slight  sketch  of  the  levin  bolt  that  has  split 
a  friendship  proudly  warranted  to  outlive  the 
everlasting  hills. 

But  such  explanation,  such  sketch,  Althea 
is  absolutely  Incapable  of  giving.  Her  deity 
lies  in  shivers,  proved  to  have  been  no  more 
a  deity  than  '  the  brutish  gods  of  Nile,'  Its 
godhood  having  never  existed  save  in  the 
dulness  of  her  own  belief ;  but  the  days  are 
yet  too  recent,  when  from  its  shrine  It  sent 
out  inspiration,  and  she  knelt  in  adoration  on 
its  altar-steps,  for  her  to  be  able  to  face  the 
storm  of  well-merited  stones  that  would  assail 
her  fallen  Dagon  were  she  to  explain  to 
what  a  depth  it  had  sunk. 

She  shivers  away  from  the  topic  as  often 
as  she  sees  any  approach  made  to  it ;  and 
Clare,  after  one  or  two  delicate  essays  at  a 
fuller  confidence,  desists,  hiding  whatever 
disappointment  she  may  feel  under  the  mantle 
of  tender  compassion  in  which  she  wraps  the 


366  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

strayed  lamb.  And,  after  all,  she  does  not 
feel  much. 

Althea  has  recovered  her  wits — that  is  all 
that  really  matters — though  by  so  mortifying  a 
method  that  she  naturally  has  no  great  desire 
to  talk  of  it ;  through  the  agency  of  plenty  of 
new  milk  and  strong  consomme  she  will  soon 
also  regain  her  looks  and  spirits  ;  and  mean- 
while it  is  kindest  to  let  her  alone. 

Althea  accepts  with  dumb  gratitude  this 
discreet  and  merciful  mode  of  treatment.  For 
the  first  day  or  two  she  is  still  so  numbed 
and  bruised,  that  she  has  little  feeling  save 
for  the  physical  repose  and  well-being  that 
are  to  repair  the  ravages  made  even  more  by 
Faustina's  cruelty  than  by  her  cuisine. 

The  immensity  of  the  relief  from  her  ap- 
prehension is  followed  by  a  proportionate 
reaction.  She  has  explained  to  herself  the 
brevity  of  Drake's  note  by  the  natural  hypo- 
thesis that  he  will  call  in  person  to  eke  out  the 
scantiness  of  his  communication.     Her  brain 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  367 

busies  Itself  in  a  woolly  way  with  the  problem 
of  how  to  manoeuvre  for  him  an  opportunity 
to  see  her  alone  when  he  does  call.  But  no 
need  for  such  manoeuvring  arises,  and  the 
first  thing  that  lifts  the  girl  out  of  her 
lethargy  is  the  realization  that  the  days  are 
going  by,  and  that  Drake  has  made  no  sign. 

*  She  is  a  pretty  girl,  and  you  know  I 
would  do  anything  for  either  of  your  sisters,' 
William  says  one  day  to  his  wife,  with  the 
natural  resentment  of  a  mauvais  plaisant 
whose  wit  has  miscarried ;  '  but  I  must  say 
that  she  is  a  bit  of  a  wet-blanket.' 

'  I  am  afraid  she  is  barely  up  to  joking 
yet,'  replies  his  wife  soothingly. 

'  She  must  be  precious  thin-skinned  if  she 
cannot  stand  a  little  chaff.  I  thought  she 
liked  It' 

'  So  she  will,  I  am  sure,  when  she  Is  herself 
again,'  rejoins  Mrs.  Boteler  sweetly  and  sin- 
cerely. 

But  William  is  not  to  be  so  easily  mollified, 


36S  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

and  he  goes  off  grumbling,  '  So  unlike  Fanny  !' 
It  is  with  Fanny  that  he  seeks  comfort. 

'  You  will  not  burst  into  tears  if  I  say 
anything  a  little  amusing  to  you,  as  Althea 
does  ?' 

'  Burst  into  tears !'  echoes  Fanny,  with 
renovating  surprise — 'what  do  you  mean? 
You  know  that  you  always  make  me  die  of 
laughing.  1  do  not  know  how  you  manage 
it,  but  you  do.' 

His  brow  clears.  But  it  is  destined  to  be 
overcast  again  for  the  same  cause  many  times 
during  the  ensuing  weeks,  since  it  is  as  im- 
possible for  William  not  to  make  jokes  as  it 
is  for  Althea  to  laugh  at  them.  In  vain  she 
tells  herself  that  the  part  of  the  day  during 
which  she  is  exposed  to  the  fire  of  his 
pleasantries  is  so  small  that  her  gratitude 
might  pay  to  his  hospitality  the  tribute  of  a 
little  mirth.  The  quality  of  his  humour 
seems  to  have  the  faculty  of  inevitably 
stiffening  her  muscles. 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  369 

And  if  there  is  anything  else  about  him 
that  tries  her  more  than  his  fun,  it  is  his 
tiresome  soHcitude  about  his  wife's  health — 
the  pushing  of  needless  stools,  and  insisting 
on  undesired  sofas,  proclaiming  as  they  do 
to  each  chance  comer  Clare's  hopes  of 
maternity.  The  first  two  or  three  times 
that  this  occurs,  Althea  glances  at  her  sister 
with  sympathetic  indignation  ;  but  seeing  her 
with  cheerful  gratitude  accept  the  superfluous 
footstool,  and  lie  down  upon  the  sofa  on 
which  she  had  rather  have  sat  upright,  she 
withdraws  her  unneeded  compassion,  and 
centres  it  all  upon  herself. 

And  in  truth  she  is  very  unhappy.  The 
recovery  of  her  nerves  from  the  shock  of  the 
explosion  is  so  incomplete  as  to  leave  an 
irritability  behind  it  which  renders  her  diffi- 
cult to  live  with. 

The  violent  death  by  which  her  passionate 
love  and  reverence  for  Faustina  has  perished 
has  left  a  void  which,  as  she  gloomily  tells 

24 


370  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

herself,  nothing  can  ever  fill ;  her  plan  of 
noble  life  is  in  ignoble  shivers ;  and  till 
intercourse  with  him  has  ceased,  she  has 
not  realized  how  much  she  had  grown  to 
lean  upon  Drake.  He  had  done  his  best 
for  her,  as  his  high  heart  always  prompts 
him  to  do  for  any  suffering  creature ;  but 
now  that  his  task  is  ended  he  has  passed 
on  from  her  to  some  other  pain  that  needs 
him  more. 

Is  there  any  such  ?  She  shakes  her  head. 
And  these  happy  people  into  whose  lives  she 
has  thrust  herself,  only  to  take  the  edge  off 
their  pleasantness,  do  not  need  her.  Often 
it  fills  her  with  a  grieved  surprise,  that  yet 
does  not  alter  the  case,  to  find  how  abso- 
lutely out  of  touch  she  has  grown  with  their 
interests. 

Those  months  of  face-to-faceness  with  the 
grimnesses  of  life  appear  to  have  robbed  her 
of  all  zest  for  its  graces.  And  yet  her  whole 
scheme  of  existence  seems  now  to  have  been 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  371 

SO  entirely  bound  up  with  Faustina's  as  to 
have  necessarily  perished  with  her. 

There  is  one  person  who  could  have 
helped  her  to  reconstruct  it,  to  weave  afresh 
the  strands  of  the  broken  web ;  but  he  has 
thought  it  best  to  abstain  from  meddling  any 
further  in  her  concerns.  He  has  probably, 
like  Faustina,  recognized  her  incapacity  to 
grapple  with  any  real  difficulties,  to  carry  out 
any  worthy  task.  If  he  had  not,  would  he 
at  such  a  turning-point  of  her  history  have 
left  her  ? 

And  meanwhile  she  will  have  to  make 
some  plan  for  her  future  life.  The  place  of 
resident  sister-in-law,  once  so  affectionately 
offered  her,  is  no  longer  vacant.  Fanny  has 
more  than  justified  by  brilliant  success  her 
appointment  to  it,  and  a  man  would  have 
to  be  '  either  a  wild  beast  or  a  god '  who 
could  desire  the  permanent  presence  of  ^wo 
'  in-laws '  by  his  hearthstone. 

Even  if  William  came  under  one  of  these 


372  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

heads,  of  which  Althea  sees  no  sign,  the 
approaching  baby  will  at  its  advent  make  an 
extra  inmate  impossible,  or  at  least  highly 
inconvenient.  She  points  this  out  to  her 
sister,  and  Clare,  though  sweetly  and  hos- 
pitably waving  away  the  subject,  does  not 
deny  the  fundamental  truth  of  the  proposi- 
tion. Perhaps  she  is  beginning  to  realize 
that  it  is  through  Althea  that  have  come  to 
her  the  only  conjugal  jars  that  have  marred 
her  bliss. 

And  Althea  herself.'*  With  daily  deepen- 
ing gloom  she  realizes  that  she  has  cast 
herself  out  of  her  own  sphere,  without  having 
gained  a  footing  in  any  other.  There  is  not 
a  spot  on  earth  where  she  is  not  a  super- 
fluity. 

The  season  draws  towards  it  close,  and 
London  is  nearing  its  most  smelly  and  gasping 
moment.  William's  anxieties  about  his  wife 
are  now  complicated  by  fears  of  the  possible 
effect  upon  her  of  the  unusual  heat,  and  his 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  573 

fussy  exertions  to  keep  Clare  cool  send  up 
everybody  else's  temperature. 

The  villa  at  Wimbledon  which  is  the  out- 
come of  his  cares,  and  to  which  the  family 
now  migrate  from  Saturday  to  Monday,  is  a 
sensible  relief  to  all.  It  is  a  large  villa,  with 
an  Italian  name,  and  charming  grounds  that 
wander  away  into  a  pretty  wood — -a  real 
wood,  with  well-girthed  trees  and  flourishing 
bracken.  One  might  be  a  hundred  miles 
from  London,  which  each  visitor  remarks  as 
punctually  as  we  all  annually  comment  with 
surprising  surprise  upon  the  lengthening  days 
of  March  and  the  drawing-in  evenings  of 
October.  It  is  not  too  distant  from  London 
for  Fanny  to  accomplish  her  tale  of  balls 
from  it,  and  on  Sundays  limp  Londoners  are 
only  too  glad  to  avail  themselves  of  its  green 
shades  and  its  bamboo  chairs. 

It  is  a  pleasant  life,  and  for  the  first  few 
days  even  Althea's  spirits  feel  the  tonic  of  its 
cool  charm  ;    then,  with  returning  energies, 


374  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

seems  to  come  an  added  power  of  tasting  the 
bitterness  of  her  own  failure.  Her  irritation 
reaches  its  culminating-point  one  Saturday 
afternoon,  when  Fanny,  having  been  sHghtly 
stung  by  a  wasp  in  the  morning — a  calamity 
which  has  made  William  spend  himself  in 
caresses  and  remedies — has  been  recom- 
pensed on  his  return  from  the  Stock  Ex- 
change by  the  present  of  a  pair  of  mechanical 
toys,  bought  with  the  object  of  distracting 
her  attention  from  her  sufferings. 

Fanny  is  fond  of  toys,  and  at  once  kneels 
delightedly  down  on  the  veranda,  and,  wind- 
ing up  one,  sets  it  off.  William  follows  suit 
with  the  other,  and  soon  two  pigs — a  woolly 
white  and  a  snuffy  brown  one — are  racing 
in  short  chopping  gallop  across  the  tiled  floor, 
to  the  accompaniment  of  their  owner's  un- 
bounded mirth.  Althea  laughs,  too,  inevitably 
at  the  clicking,  bumping,  colliding  swine,  but 
at  some  thought  checks  herself. 

*  Are  not  they  too  funny  for  words  ?'  cries 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  375 

Fanny,  still  kneeling,  flushed  and  rapturous. 
'  Did  you  ever  see  such  archangels  ?' 

'  Come,  do  not  be  too  strong-minded  to 
smile  once  in  a  way,'  adds  William  waggishly. 

If  she  complies,  it  is  a  little  austerely. 

*  The  fact  is,  I  am  always  afraid  to  be 
amused  at  anything  of  the  sort  until  I  know 
how  they  are  made.' 

Fanny  sits  back  on  her  heels,  opening  her 
eyes. 

'How  they  are  made?  What  do  you 
mean  ?' 

'  I  mean  that  I  like  to  know  how  much 
human  suffering  they  imply.'  Then,  seeing 
both  her  companions,  with  arrested  gaiety, 
look  to  her  for  explanation,  she  goes  on  : 
'  For  instance,  one  would  think  that  children's 
balloons  and  indiarubber  toys  were  harmless 
things,  would  not  one  ?  Yet  in  the  factories 
where  they  are  made,  where  carbon  bi- 
sulphide is  employed,  the  vapours  are  so 
noxious  that  workers  have  been  known  to  go 


376  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

mad,  and  try  to  throw  themselves  out  of  the 
windows.' 

There  Is  a  rather  dismal  silence,  and 
Althea  proceeds  further  to  Improve  the 
occasion. 

•  It  is  as  well  to  know  how  many  tears  go 
to  make  up  one  laugh,  is  not  It  ?' 

'  You  are,  at  all  events,  resolved  that  there 
shall  not  be  too  much  laugh  where  yoti  are,' 
replies  William  rudely. 

She  retorts  In  the  same  tone,  and  for 
the  first  time  their  covert  exasperation  with 
each  other  breaks  out  in  too  candid  speech. 
Fanny  wisely  slides  away,  and  they  are  left 
to  fight  it  out. 

It  is  of  no  use  that,  in  a  paroxysm  of  sub- 
sequent remorse,  Althea  flings  herself  at 
Clare's  knees,  crying  : 

'  You  had  better  let  me  go  before  I  have 
quite  spoilt  all  your  lives.' 

'  I  am  sure  you  do  not  mean  to  do  it,' 
replies  poor  Mrs.  Boteler  rather  miserably. 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  377 

The  next  day  is  Sunday,  and  by  the  after- 
noon, when  the  London  visitors  begin  to 
arrive,  the  brows  of  the  family  are  smoothed. 
William  has  injudiciously  insisted  upon 
formally  apologizing,  which  has  made  things 
much  worse ;  but  outwardly  the  halcyon 
seems  to  brood. 

Althea  has  ardently  tried  to  stem  the 
current  of  her  brother-in-law's  too  florid 
acknowledgments  by  the  candid  confession 
of  her  own  superior  faultiness,  and  though 
the  personal  distaste  for  him  lasts,  and  must 
last,  it  is  against  herself  that  her  whole 
contrite  soul  is  crying  out  during  the  morn- 
ing service  in  the  church  on  the  Common. 

If  hearts  could  be  laid  bare,  what  strangely 
various  tributary  streams  of  confession  would 
be  seen  flowing  into  that  General  one  to 
whose  noble  tune  our  lips  weekly  move ! 
How  much  more  of  temper  and  spite  than 
real  concern  for  the  sufferers  by  the  abuse 
she  had  so  superfluously  dragged  in  had  she 


378  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

felt  yesterday !  The  fact  so  clumsily  intro- 
duced is  true,  and  can  be  matched  with 
hundreds  of  other  heartrending  ones  of  the 
vSame  kind.  But  how  much  more  harm  than 
good  had  she  done  by  lugging  it  in  so  mal- 
apropos by  the  head  and  shoulders!  How 
full  of  alloy  are  her  best  motives  !  how  profit- 
less her  activities  !  how  pitiable  the  outcome 
of  both ! 

•  I  shall  never  do  anything  with  my  life,' 
she  says  to  herself  as  she  walks  home. 

She  repeats  it  in  deeper  dejection  later  in 
the  afternoon  as  she  sits  alone — since  every- 
one else,  both  visitors  and  housemates,  have 
strayed  away  garden-  and  woodwards — at  the 
deserted  tea-table.  It  is  set  in  the  verandah, 
where  every  variety  of  wicker  chair  and 
lounge  invites  to  repose.  On  the  pleasant 
house  the  awnings  are  still  lowered  against 
the  heat,  but  a  little  lazy  air  comes  from 
courting  the  gay  flower-beds  to  lift  the  hair 
of  the  drooping  girl. 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  379 

She  has  been  pouring  out  tea  for  Clare, 
having  caught  with  remorseful  eagerness  at 
even  this  poor  little  chance  of  being  useful. 
But  now  all,  like  Wordsworth's  stag,  have 
'  drunk  their  fill,'  and  left  her. 

Her  head,  beautifully  dressed  by  Clare's 
maid  in  the  latest  mode,  hangs  over  the  back 
of  her  bamboo  chair ;  her  feet,  in  pale  silk 
stockings  and  broidered  shoes,  rest  on  the 
rung  of  a  vacated  seat  near  her  ;  and  her 
faint-coloured  gown,  thin  and  expensive, 
drifts  about  her  as  the  light  wind  gently 
pulls  at  it.  A  more  exquisite  picture  of 
opulent  idleness  it  would  be  difficult  to  see, 
or  one  more  unlike  that  working  woman 
whom  she  had  been  so  proud  to  call  herself 

It  is  the  sharp  consciousness  of  this  contrast, 
both  to  the  setting  in  which  he  had  been 
wont  to  see  her,  and  still  more  to  the  con- 
dition in  which  he  had  last  parted  from  her, 
that  is  for  the  first  moment  uppermost  in  the 
jumble  of  feelings  with  which  a  late  arrival 


38o  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

from  London  is  overwhelmed   and  silenced 
as  he  now  looks  at  her. 

He  has  stepped,  footman-led,  through  the 
wide-open  drawing-room  windows,  and,  hear- 
ing steps,  she  lifts  her  head  languidly,  think- 
ing that  it  is  the  servants  coming  to  take 
away  the  tea. 


[38i  ] 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

The  discovery  of  her  mistake  brings  her  to 
her  feet  In  a  second.  Even  In  the  hurry  of 
springing  up  from  a  low  chair,  '  How  graceful!' 
is  his  thought.  For  awhile  she  stands,  a 
silent  lily — silent  as  her  sisters  in  the  parterre 
— before  him  ;  then  speaks  sighingly : 

'  You  have  been  a  long  while  in  coming.' 

They  are  far  from  being  the  words  which 
she  would  have  chosen,  but  they  seem  to  say 
themselves. 

'Yes.' 

^  I  began  to  think  that  you  were  not  coming 
at  all.' 

'  Did  you  ?' 


382  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

'  I  have  been  very  anxious  to  see  you  ' — 
a  slight  interval — 'in  order  to  thank  you.' 

'  You  did  thank  me.' 

'  Only  on  paper — for  such  a  service  !' 

She  stops,  words  running  short,  as  they 
are  apt  to  do  when  any  extra  demand  is 
made  upon  them. 

'  Indeed  you  are  overrating  it.' 

'  Overrating  it !  I  wonder,  have  you  any 
idea  how  great — how  infinite  the  relief  was  ?' 

'  I  hoped  it  would  be.' 

'  I  can  never,  never,  never  thank  you 
enough  !  But  how  did  you  do  it  ?  By  what 
miracle  ?     What  arguments  did  you  use  ?' 

Her  questions  tumble  over  each  other  in 
her  haste,  but  there  is  in  her  companion  no 
corresponding  hurry  to  answer. 

'  How  did  you  do  it?  You  do  not  know 
how  I  have  thirsted  to  hear!  Oh,  do  tell 
me!' 

Her  hands  are  clasped  together,  and  held 
up  close  under  her  chin,  which  always  gives 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  383 

a  greater  air  of  urgency.  But  in  his  eyes 
she  reads  no  acquiescence,  only  a  deep 
embarrassment. 

'  Do  not  you  think  it  is  just  as  well  some- 
times not  to  know  how  the  strings  are  pulled  ?' 

She  is  silenced  for  a  moment,  brought  up 
against  the  dead  wall  of  his  resistance ;  then 
persists  : 

'  Surely  you  must  understand  of  what  pro- 
found interest  it  is  to  me  to  learn  how  you 
succeeded  where  /failed  so  egregiously.' 

'  I  am  afraid  I  cannot  tell  you.' 

His  face  is  so  full  of  distress,  and  his  tone 
so  final,  that  she  has  no  choice  but  to  yield. 
She  turns  away  to  the  table,  and  in  a  con- 
strained voice  offers  him  tea.  As  he  takes  it 
from  her,  he  sees  that  a  far-reaching  blush, 
extending  from  ear  to  ear,  has  swallowed  up 
her  pallor. 

She  has  interpreted  his  refusal  after  her 
own  manner.  The  reason  why  he  is  unable 
to  give  her  the  details  of  his  interview  with 


384  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

Faustina  Is  because  those  details  have 
largely  consisted  in  such  shameful  accusations 
against  herself  as  have  never  quite  ceased 
their  odious  chime  in  her  ears  since  the 
dreadful  hour  when  she  first  heard  them. 
Her  tone  is  stiff  and  changed  when  she  next 
speaks  : 

'  You,  at  least,  will  not  mind  telling  me — 
if  you  remember,  you  said  in  your  note  that 
she  was  leaving  London  for  awhile — whether 
she  has  yet  returned.' 

*  She  has  gone  to  America  on  a  lecturing 
tour.' 

'  Gone  to  America !'  She  falls  into  her 
bamboo  chair  again,  as  if  her  legs  could  not 
support  the  weight  of  such  news,  while  a 
long  sigh  of  relief  heaves  her  laces  and  lawns. 
'  And  to  think  that  I  should  have  lived  to  be 
glad  that  she  is  in  another  hemisphere !' 

It  is  his  turn  to  put  a  question  : 

'  And  Miss  Delafield  ?' 

'  She  has  gone  into  the  country  with  her 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  385 

parents  to  celebrate  her  coming  of  age.     My 
eldest  brother  is  staying  with  them.' 

The  news  had  given  her  a  sensible  pleasure 
when  she  heard  it,  but  she  announces  it  now 
in  a  tone  of  the  deepest  dejection. 

*  But  you  are  glad  ?' 

'  Oh  yes — very  glad  !' 

There  is  so  little  of  the  quality  alluded  to 
in  Althea's  voice  or  words  that  he  looks  at 
her  puzzled  and  chilled.  Naturally  unable  to 
follow  the  course  of  her  thoughts,  her  change 
of  weather  vaguely  disheartens  him  ;  while 
the  conviction  to  which  his  refusal  to  enter 
into  explanations  has  made  her  leap,  that  he 
has  heard  and  believed  Faustina's  calumnies, 
and  that  to  them  has  been  owing  his  delay 
in  seeking  her,  ties  lead  to  the  tongue  which 
in  many  imaginary  dialogues  since  they 
parted  has  been  so  eagerly  glib. 

Since  she  has  not  given  him  leave  to  sit 
down,  he  remains  standing  by  her,  hat  in 
hand,  while  in  the  distance,  across  the  bosky 

25 


386  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

lawn,  little  groups  of  people  are  moving  in 
leisurely  enjoyment.  Among  them  Althea 
detects  the  Boteler  pair.  William  has  made 
Clare  lean  on  his  arm,  as  he  is  fond  of  doing 
in  public — a  tiresome  mode  of  announcement 
of  his  hopes  of  paternity,  which  always  makes 
his  sister-in-law  very  angry.  She  forgets  to 
be  angry  now,  in  the  anxiety  of  gauging 
the  likelihood  of  their  turning  housewards. 
There  seems  to  be  no  immediate  fear  of  it, 
as  they  are  talking  to  successive  guests. 
Althea  knows  that  Clare  likes  to  be  near 
William  when  he  is  in  company,  both  to  act 
as  a  gentle  drag  upon  his  sprightliness,  and 
to  hinder  his  asking  after  people's  dead  or 
disgraced  relations,  as  he  has  a  well-meant, 
but  uncomfortable,  way  of  doing. 

After  all,  why  should  Althea  desire  their 
absence,  seeing  that  their  presence  would  be 
no  interruption,  since  she  and  Drake  seem  to 
have  absolutely  nothing  to  say  to  each  other? 
After  a  while  it  appears  that  he  has  some- 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  387 

thing  to  say,  and  when  he  can  speak  from 
beneath  the  douche  of  cold  water  that  her 
manner  had  poured  over  him,  he  says  it  : 

'  I  should  have  been  earlier  to  see  you, 
only  that ' 

*  Only  that ;  what  ?' 

He  wonders  why  her  voice  should  tremble 
so  much ;  he  does  not  know  that  she  is 
breathlessly  asking  herself  with  what  words 
not  grossly  insulting  he  can  put  the  explana- 
tion of  his  repugnance  to  meet  her. 

*  Only  that  I  thought  it  kinder  to  stay 
away.' 

*  Kinder  /' 

How  painfully  she  is  reddening  again  ! 
'  I  thought  that   the  sight  of  me  must  be 
odious  to  you.' 

She  says  neither  '  Yes  *  nor  '  No.' 

*  It  was  not  my  fault ;  but  I  knew  that  to 
you  I  must  be  associated  with  the  most 
painful  and  repulsive  experience  of  your  life.* 

He  gets  no  contradiction. 


388  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

'  I  see  by  your  silence  that  I  was  right, 
and  so,  as  I  say,  I  thought  it  kinder  not  to 
thrust  myself  upon  you  till  those  associations 
had  had  time  to  weaken.  If  I  had  been  really 
kind,  I  suppose  I  should  have  kept  away 
altogether  ;  but  I  was  not  quite  up  to  that.' 

She  listens  in  apparently  acquiescent 
dumbness  ;  and,  after  waiting  vainly  for  any 
reassuring  utterance  from  her,  he  adds,  in  a 
tone  of  deeply-wounded  feeling,  and  with 
what,  though  she  is  not  looking  at  him,  she 
knows  to  be  a  comprehensive  glance  at  her 
luxurious  surroundings  : 

'  At  all  events,  now  you  have  found  your 
right  setting.' 

There  is  something  so  unmistakably 
'  going '  about  the  air  that  accompanies  this 
last  phrase  that  she  rouses  herself,  and, 
sitting  upright  in  her  chair,  with  a  hand  on 
each  wicker  arm,  lifts  a  strangely-moved, 
indignant  face  towards  him,  speaking  at  last 
in  an  intense  low  voice  : 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  389 


*  I  cannot  compliment  you  upon  your 
penetration.' 

'  Are  you  Implying  that  I  am  wrong  ?  that 
you  are  not  happy  ?' 

'  I  am  miserable.' 

'  Is  It  possible .^' — with  agitation — 'and  yet, 
when  I  first  caught  sight  of  you,  I  had  such 
an  Impression  of  perfect  well-being — of  the 
right  woman  In  the  right  place.' 

*  The  right  woman  In  the  right  place — 
lying  In  a  wicker  chair  doing  nothing ;  that 
Is  all  you  think  I  am  fit  for.'  He  makes  a 
sign  of  eager  denial  ;  but  she  goes  on  : 
'  However,  appearances  are  deceitful,  as  I 
told  you  w^hen  you  accused  me  of  going  to 
faint  at  my  tea-party  In  Canning  Town.' 

The  mention  of  that  stormy  entertainment 
draws  them  at  once  nearer  together ;  and 
without  waiting  any  longer  for  leave,  he  sits 
down  beside  her. 

'  And  you  are  miserable  f 

'  I   say  It  advisedly — I  am  miserable  ;  not 


390  DEAR  FA  USTINA 

only  so,  but  I  am  the  cause  of  misery  in 
others.'  She  reads  such  a  refreshing  in- 
credulity of  this  last  statement  in  her  listener's 
face  that  she  sails  on  with  a  high  courage  : 
*  They  took  me  in  when,  on  your  advice,  I 
threw  myself  upon  their  compassion  ;  they 
did  their  best  to  cheer  and  comfort  me,  and, 
in  return,  I  am  the  viper  who  has  come  out 
of  the  heat  and  stung  them.'  She  is  surprised 
herself  at  the  force  and  beauty  of  this 
metaphor ;  but  he  receives  it  only  with  open- 
eyed  amazement.  '  I  know  that  it  is  very 
tiresome  to  be  made  the  recipient  of  an 
unasked  confidence ;  but  it  is,  or  seems,  so 
long  since  I  have  had  anyone  to  talk  to 
a  cceur  ouvert,  that  you  must  try  to  forgive 
me.' 

He  has  an  impression  that  her  hand  has 
half  slidden  out  towards  him,  but  the  in- 
tention remains  only  a  sketch  ;  and  they  are 
both  growing  so  upset  that  neither  is  quite 
sure  about  it. 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  391 

'  I  was  afraid  that  it  would  be  some  time 
before  you  got  over  such  a  shock,'  he  says,  in 
a  tone  of  the  gravest,  kindest  sympathy,  his 
words  coming  very  unreadily,  through  the 
excess  of  his  apprehension  lest  he  should 
happen  upon  any  that  might  touch  her  on  the 
raw.  '  I  know  that  to  you  it  was  the  loss, 
not  only  of  the  person  you  loved  best  in  the 
world,  but  of  a  creed.' 

She  gives  a  slow  assent,  head  downbent, 
the  toe  of  one  little  shoe  drawing  restless 
designs  on  the  floor  ;  then,  as  if  dissatisfied, 
qualifies  it  : 

'  And  yet,  no  ;  that  does  not  cover  the 
area  of  my  unhappiness.  I  could  do  with- 
out Faustina' — pronouncing  her  name  very 
distinctly,  to  show  him  how  well  she  can 
manage  it — '  since  I  have  learnt  that  she 
never  existed  as  I  believed  her  to  be.  I 
could  do  without  her,  if  only  I  could  find 
someone  else  to  teach  me  how  to  set  about 
rebuilding  my  life  ;   the  bricks  are  there,  if 


392  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

only  some  mason  would  show  me  how  to  lay 
them  upon  each  other.  Left  to  myself,  it 
will  be  but  a  jerry-built  edifice.' 

Her  words,  grown  very  low,  though  per- 
fectly audible,  die  into  silence.  She  has 
addressed  them,  apparently,  to  the  red  tiles 
at  her  feet.  It  seems  to  her  a  very  long 
moment  before  he  takes  up  her  challenge. 

'  I  have  not  yet  told  you  the  chief  motive 
that  brought  me  here  to-day.' 

She  snatches  a  half-reproachful  glance  at 
him. 

'  I  hoped  that  it  was  a  friendly  feeling  for 
me.      Had  you  any  other  ?' 

He  does  not  answer  her  directly. 

'  Do  you  remember,'  he  says  slowly,  '  that 
evening  at  Canning  Town,  just  before  we 
parted ' 

'  Yes.' 

'  You  said  to  me  that  if  it  were  not  for 
Faustina,  and  what  you  owed  her,  you  would 
be   inclined    to   come   among   us   for   good. 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  393 


What  I  have  come  here  for  to-day  is  to  ask 
you  whether  that  was  a  passing  impulse,  or 
the  expression  of  a  lasting  desire.' 

Her  gray  eyes  have  leapt  up  from  the  tiles 
to  throw  themselves  into  his.  That  is  at 
first  the  sole  response  he  gets  ;  but  presently 
a  trembling  sentence  falters  forth  : 

'  Do  not  tantalize  me.  Is  there  any  place 
— can  any  place  for  me  be  found  among 
you  ?' 

'  Have  not  you  already  suffered  enough 
maltreatment  at  our  hands  ?* 

They  both  laugh  joyfully. 

'  Not  nearly  !' 

A  moment  later  a  slight  cloud  obscures  her 
brilliancy. 

'  But  the  question  is,  Can  you  find  any 
sphere  of  work  for  me  where  I  shall  not  do 
you  discredit  ?  Voic  know  how  apt  I  am  to 
bungle  everything  I  attempt.' 

*  I  will  risk  it.' 

Again  eyes  and  smiles  meet,  and  there  is 


394  DEAR  FAUSTINA 


a  blissful  pause.  He  Is  the  first  to  become 
business-like. 

'  I  need  not  say  that  I  have  tied  you  to 
nothing.  I  came  here  with  not  very  high 
hopes  ;  but  if  you  really  care  to  cast  in  your 
lot  with  us,  there  is  a  place  waiting  for 
you.' 

'  What  sort  of  a  place  ?  Shall  I  be  up  to 
it  ?     Shall  I  dare  to  undertake  it  ?' 

'  I  think  so.  Do  you  know  that  we  have 
at  last  got  our  Women's  Settlement  on  its 
feet?' 

'  Yes  ?' 

'It  is  open  to  all  women,  and  does  not 
postulate  a  University  education.' 

'No?' 

'  We  have  knocked  three  or  four  houses 
into  one,  and  got  our  Lady  Principal,  and 
started  our  classes,  and  have  been  for  a  week 
in  working  order.* 

'  Yes  r 

'  The   residents  are   boarded   and  lodged  ; 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  395 

each  has  a  little  room  of  her  own,  and 
common  sitting  and  dining  rooms  ;  and  each 
takes  up  a  special  branch  of  work.' 

'  Such  as ' 

'  Such  as  nursing  the  poor  in  their  own 
homes,  teaching  classes  of  boys.' 

She  has  been  following  him  with  breathless 
attention,  but  at  the  enumeration  of  the  two 
kinds  of  service  he  has  instanced  shakes 
her  head  despondently. 

'  Should  I  be  any  good  at  either  }  I  have 
grown  to  distrust  myself  so  utterly.' 

'  You  must  not  be  impatient.  I  have  not 
reached  your  place  among  us  yet.'  At  that 
she  cheers  up  again.  '  You  remember  your 
special  girls — the  ones  who  were  turned  off 
from  their  factory  for  giving  information  to 
the  inspector  ?' 

'  Of  course  I  do  !' 

'  If  you  recollect,  you  were  very  kind  to 
them  —  dancing  with  them  at  our  social 
evenings ' 


396  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

'You  are  not  going  to  suggest  that  I 
shall  set  up  as  the  D'Egville  of  Canning 
Town  ?' 

*  Will  not  you  let  me  unfold  my  plan  before 
you  begin  to  pick  holes  In  It  ?'  She  lays  her 
hand  across  her  lips  with  a  pretty  gesture  of 
determined  silence,  and  he  goes  on  :  *  What 
I  came  here  to  suggest  was  that  you  should 
utilize  a  talent  I  know  that  you  possess  In 
their  behalf.' 

She  lifts  her  eyebrows  Incredulously,  but 
In  her  voice  Is  an  eager  hope  : 

*  Do  I  possess  one  ?' 

'  I  know  that,  like  Desdemona,  you  are 
"  delicate  with  your  needle."  ' 

'  Yes,  that  Is  the  one  thing  I  am  not 
mediocre  at.' 

She  looks  to  him  with  joyful  alertness  for 
further  explanation. 

*  Well,  then,  you  could  render  us  really 
valuable  help  by  getting  those  girls  together 
and  starting  a  co-operative  workroom.' 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  397 


There  Is  a  slight  pause,  but  Althea's 
kindling  look  and  genial  expansion  reassure 
him  as  to  Its  not  being  one  of  disapproval. 

*  I  think  you  Aave  found  something  for  me 
that  I  might  venture  to  undertake,'  she  says 
humbly,  yet  with  confidence.  '  How  clever 
of  you  to  have  hit  upon  my  one  gift !  It  has 
lain  In  a  napkin  so  long — Faustina  could  not 
bear  the  sight  of  a  needle — that  I  hope  It  has 
not  grown  rusty.' 

'  Let  me  give  you  a  rough  outline  of  my 
Idea,'  he  says,  a  slight  conscientious  mis- 
giving at  the  unquestioning  docility  of  her 
acquiescence  mingling  with  his  relief  and 
joy,  '  that  I  may  not  feel  I  am  letting  you  In 
for  what  you  do  not  understand.' 

She  makes  a  sign  of  eager  assent. 

*  I  thought  that  you  might  get  them  to 
come  to  one  of  the  class-rooms  —  they  are 
out  of  work,  and  would  be  only  too  thank- 
ful ;  and  send  out  circulars  to  your  friends, 
telling   them   at   what  rate   you  would    take 


398  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

in  every  kind  of  needlework  and  dress- 
making"/ 

She  gives  him  a  nod  of  bright  agreement, 
and  he  goes  on  : 

'  I  am  only  giving  you  the  idea  in  the 
rough,  but  I  am  sure  that  it  has  the  elements 
of  success  in  it,  as  it  would  supply  an  already 
badly -felt  want.  I  know  that  you  could 
make  something  of  it.' 

*  Do  you  really  believe  that  I  might  ?  At 
all  events,  I  shall  be  only  too  thankful  to 
try  ' — with  a  long  sigh  of  relief.  '  When  may 
I  come  ?' 

'  The  sooner  the  better.' 

In  the  eagerness  of  their  project  and  their 
proximity,  both  have  again  risen. 

*And  if  I  get  into  difficulties — if  I  want 
advice — help — will  you  be  within  reach  to 
give  it  me  ?' 

*  I  shall  be  close  at  hand ;  I  live  at  the 
Men's  Settlement.' 

Both    are    silent   for   awhile,    a   delightful 


DEAR  FAUSTINA  399 

dawning  sense  of  the  unity  of  interest  that 
is  for  the  future  to  connect  their  lives  giving 
their  spirits  that  sort  of  hush  that  comes  with 
the  real  dawn.  It  is  Althea  who  first  regains 
tremulous  speech  : 

'  How  recklessly  I  am  adding  to  my  debt 
of  gratitude  to  you,  which  was  already  far  too 
big  ever  to  be  discharged !' 

He  answers  her  look  with  a  tender  fixity. 

'  And  you  have  counted  the  cost  ?  You 
will  not  regret  all  this  ?' 

His  eye  takes  in  with  a  comprehensive 
look  all  the  details  of  her  high  civilization. 
She  breaks  into  emotional  laughter. 

*  The  gown  is  Clare's ;  the  shoes  are 
Fanny's — I  renounce  them  all !' 

'  What  are  you  renouncing  ?'  cries  William, 
appearing  round  an  unexpected  corner,  with 
his  wife  still  leaning  on  his  unnecessary  arm, 
and  looking  curiously  at  Althea's  unknown 
companion,  while  he  adds,  in  a  fine  vein 
of  flat  pleasantry  :  '  What  are  you  renouncing 


400  DEAR  FAUSTINA 

— your  godfathers  and  godmothers?  Is  not 
it  rather  late  In  the  day  to  do  that  ?' 

She  turns  upon  him  with  a  radiant  smile. 

'  Not  my  godfathers  and  godmothers — but 
my  brother-in-law !' 


THE    END. 


BILLING  AND  SONS,   I'RINTERS,    GUILDFORD. 

y.  D.  &>  Co. 


Autumn,  1896. 


Bentleys'  favourite  floVels, 

SELECTED  FROM  AMONG  THE  BEST  WORKS  OF 
FICTION  OF  EACH  YEAR. 

Each  vohune  can  he  obtained  se2oarately  in  crown  Svo.,  cloth, 
price  6s.,  dt  all  booksellers'  a7id  raihvay  bookstalls  in  the 
United  Kingdom,  and  at  all  the  leading  booksellers'  and 
importers'  in  the  Colonies,  and  at  the  railway  bookstalls  in 
India  and  Australia. 


^  THE  INITIALS. 

By  the  Baeoness  Tautphceus  {n4e  Montgomery). 

*VOne  of  those  special  and  individual  tales  the  coming  of  which  is 
pleasantly  welcomed.  It  must  please  all  who  love  character  in  persons 
lower  than  Antonys  and  Cleopatras.  No  better  humoured  or  less  carica- 
tured picture  of  life  in  Germany  has  ever  been  executed  by  an  English 
pencil." — The  Athenceum. 

7  QUITS ! 

By  the  Baroness  Tautphceus  (n^e  Montgomery). 

*'  •  Quits  !'  is  an  admirable  novel.  Witty,  sententious,  graphic,  full  of 
brilliant  pictures  of  life  and  manners,  it  is  positively  one  of  the  best  of 
modern  stories,  and  may  be  read  with  delightful  interest  from  cover  to 
cover." — 77/e  Mornimj  Post. 

"  Interesting  in  the  highest  degree." — The  Observer, 


BENTLEYS'  FAVOURITE  NOVELS. 


8  TOO  STRA.NGE  NOT  TO  BE  TRUE. 

By  Lady  Geoegiana  Fullekton. 

"  One  of  the  most  fascinating  and  delightful  works  I  ever  had  the  good 
fortune  to  meet  with,  in  which  genius,  goodness,  and  beauty  meet  together 
in  the  happiest  comlDination,  with  the  additional  charm  of  an  historical 
basis." — "EiNONACH,"  in  Notes  and  Queries. 

10  THE  THREE   CLERKS. 

By  Anthony  Teollope. 

*' .  .  .  Trollope's  next  novel  was  '  The  Three  Clerks,'  which  we  have 
always  greatly  admired  and  enjoyed,  but  which  we  fancied  had  come  before 
the  ecclesiastical  fictions.  The  sorrows,  the  threatened  moral  degradation 
of  poor  Charlie  Tudor,  the  persecution  he  underwent  from  the  low  money- 
lender— all  these  things  seemed  very  actual  to  us,  and  now  we  know  that 
they  were  photographs  reproduced  from  the  life.  The  novel  seems  to  have 
been  a  special  favourite  of  its  author's,  and  perhaps  he  places  almost  higher 
than  we  should  be  inclined  to  do  the  undoubtedly  pathetic  love-scenes  of 
which  Kate  Woodward  is  the  heroine.  He  declares  elsewhere,  if  we  re- 
m(  mber  aright,  that  one  of  these  scenes  was  the  most  touching  he  ever 
wrote.  And  he  says  here,  *  The  passage  in  which  Kate  Woodward,  think- 
ing she  will  die,  tries  to  take  leave  of  the  lad  she  loves,  still  brings  tears  to 
my  eyes  when  I  read  it.  I  had  not  the  heart  to  kill  her.  I  never  could 
do  that.  And  I  do  not  doubt  but  that  they  are  living  happily  together  to 
this  day.'  " — The  T'imes  (reviewing  Anthony  Trollope's  Autobiography ). 

*'  Mr.  Trollope  amply  bears  out  in  the  work  the  reputation  he  acquired 
by  'Barchester  Towers.'  We  regard  the  tenderness  and  self-sacrifice  of 
Linda  as  one  of  the  most  graceful  and  touching  pictures  of  feminine  heroism 
in  the  whole  range  of  modern  novels." — John  Bull. 

"I  return  '  The  Three  Clerks  '  with  our  true  thanks  and  appreciation. 
I  was  wrung  to  tears  by  the  third  volume.  What  a  thoroughly  man's  book 
it  is  !" — Letter  of  Mrs,  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning, 

11  UNCLE  SILAS. 

By  Joseph  Sheridan  Le  Fanu. 

'*  We  cordially  recommend  this  remarkable  novel  to  all  who  have  leisure 
to  read  it,  satisfied  that  for  many  a  day  afterwards  the  characters  there 
portrayed  will  haunt  the  minds  of  those  who  have  become  acquainted  with 
them.  Shakespeare's  famous  line,  '  Macbeth  hath  murdered  sleep,'  might 
be  altered  for  the  occasion,  for  certainly  '  Uncle  Silas  '  has  murdered  sleep 
in  many  a  past  night,  and  is  likely  to  murder  it  in  many  a  night  to  come, 
by  that  strange  mixture  of  fantasies  like  truths  and  truths  like  fantasies 
which  make  us  feel,  as  we  rise  from  the  perusal,  as  if  we  had  been  under  a 
wizard's  spell." — The  Times. 

'♦  The  first  character  is  Uncle  Silas,  that  mysterious  man  of  sin  ;  the 
next  is  the  ghoul-like  goblin  of  a  French  governess— the  most  awful  gover- 
ness in  fiction.  Then  we  have  the  wandering  lunatic  whom  we  take  for  a 
ghost,  and  who  is  even  more  dreadful.  Finally,  there  is  the  tremendous 
scene  in  the  lonely  Irish  house.  No  one  who  has  read  it  can  forget  it,  or 
the  chapters  which  precede  it ;  no  one  who  has  not  read  it  should  have  his 
pleasure  spoiled  by  a  description." — The  Daily  News. 


BENTLEYS'  FAVOURITE  NOVELS. 


12  LADYBIRD. 

By  Lady  Georgiana  Fullerton. 

"Lady  Georgiana  Fullerton  has  wrought  out  her  plot  with  power, 
delicacy,  occasional  depth  of  thought,  and  general  felicity  of  language. " — 
The  Athenmum.  [Reprinting. 

14        THE  HOUSE  BY  THE  CHURCHYARD. 

By  Joseph  Sheeidan  Le  Fanu. 

"  Le  Fanu  was  one  of  the  best  story-tellers  that  ever  wrote  English. 
We  protest  that,  as  we  write,  one  fearful  story  comes  to  our  mind  which 
brings  on  a  cold  feeling  though  we  read  it  years  ago.  The  excitement  is 
so  keen  that  anyone  but  a  reviewer  will  find  himself  merely  *  taking  the 
colour '  of  whole  sentences  in  his  eagerness  to  get  to  the  finish.  His  instinct 
is  so  rare  that  he  seems  to  pick  the  very  mood  most  calculated  to  excite 
your  interest.  Without  explanation,  without  affectation,  he  goes  on  piling 
one  situation  on  another  until  at  last  he  raises  a  perfect  fabric.  We  know 
not  one  improvisatore  who  can  equal  him." — Vanity  Fair. 

'*  Le  Fanu  possessed  a  peculiar — an  almost  unique — faculty  for  combining 
the  weird  and  the  romantic.  His  fancy  had  no  limit  in  its  ranges  amongst 
themes  and  images  of  terror.  Yet  he  knew  how  to  invest  them  with  a 
romantic  charm  which  ended  in  exerting  over  his  readers  an  irresistible 
fascination." — The  Daily  News. 

18  COMETH  UP  AS  A  FLOWER. 

By  Rhoda  Beoughton. 

"  A  strikingly  original  and  clever  tale,  the  chief  merits  of  which  consist 
in  the  powerful,  vigorous  manner  of  its  telling,  in  the  exceeding  beauty 
and  poetry  of  its  sketches  and  scenery,  and  in  the  soliloquies,  sometimes 
quaintly  humorous,  sometimes  cynically  bitter,  sometimes  plaintive  and 
melancholy  which  are  uttered  by  the  heroine." — The  Times. 

19  A  SISTER'S  STORY. 

By  Mes.  Augustus  Ceaven  (Pauline  de  la  Feeeonays). 

*' A  book  which  took  all  France  and  all  England  by  storm." — Black- 
wood's Magazine. 

"  '  A  Sister's  Story '  is  charmingly  written,  and  excellently  translated. 
It  is  full  of  fascinating  revelations  of  family  life.  Montalembert's  letters, 
and  the  mention  of  him  as  a  young  man,  are  delightful.  Interwoven  with 
the  story  of  Alexandrine  are  accounts  of  the  different  members  of  the 
family  of  La  Ferronays.  The  story  of  their  lives  and  deaths  is  beautiful  ; 
their  letters  and  diaries  abound  in  exquisite  thoughts  and  tender  religious 
feeling." — The  Athenaeum. 


BENTLEYS'  FAVOURITE  NOVELS. 


20  BREEZIE  LANGTON. 

By  Majoe  Hawley  Smaet. 

"A  capital  novel,  full  of  sweet  English  girls  and  brave,  open-hearted 
English  gentlemen.  It  abounds  with  stirring  scenes  on  the  racecourse 
and  in  the  camp,  told  with  a  rare  animation,  and  a  thorough  knowledge  of 
what  the  writer  is  talking  about." — The  Guardian. 

**  We  predict  for  this  book  a  decided  success.  Had  the  author  omitted 
his  name  from  the  title-page,  we  should  unhesitatingly  have  credited 
Mr.  Whyte  Melville  with  his  labours.  The  force  and  truth  of  the  hunting 
and  racing  sketches,  the  lively  chat  of  the  club  and  the  barracks,  the 
pleasant  flirting  scenes,  and  the  general  tone  of  good  society,  all  carry  us 
back  to  the  days  of  *  Kate  Coventry  '  and  '  Digby  Grand.'  "—  The  Saturday 
Review. 

21  SENSE  AND  SENSIBILITY. 

By  Jane  Austen. 

"  I  have  now  read  over  again  all  Miss  Austen's  novels.  Charming  they 
are.  There  are  in  the  world  no  compositions  which  approach  nearer  to 
perfection." — Macaulay's  Journal,  May  1st,  1851. 

"  First  and  foremost  let  Jane  Austen  be  named,  the  greatest  artist  that 
has  ever  written,  using  the  term  to  signify  the  most  perfect  master  over 
the  means  to  her  end.  Life,  as  it  presents  itself  to  an  English  gentle- 
woman, peacefully  yet  actively  engaged  in  her  quiet  village,  is  mirrored  in 
her  works  with  a  purity  and  fidelity  that  must  endow  them  with  interest 
for  all  time.  To  read  one  of  her  books  is  like  an  actual  experience  of  life. 
You  know  the  people  as  if  you  had  lived  with  them,  and  you  feel  something 
of  personal  affection  towards  them.  The  marvellous  reality  and  subtle 
distinctive  traits  noticeable  in  her  portraits  has  led  Macaulay  to  call  her  a 
prose  Shakespeare." — George  Eliot. 

"  Or  is  it  thou,  all  perfect  Austen  ?    Here 
Let  one  poor  wreath  adorn  thy  early  bier. 
That  scarce  allowed  thy  modest  youth  to  claim 
It's  living  portion  of  thy  certain  fame  ! 
Oh  !  Mrs.  Bennet  !  Mrs.  Norris  too  ! 
While  memory  survives  we'll  dream  of  you. 
And  Mr.  Woodhouse,  whose  abstemious  lip 
Must  thin,  but  not  too  thin,  his  gruel  sip. 
Miss  Bates,  our  idol,  though  the  village  bore  ; 
And  Mrs.  Elton,  ardent  to  explore. 
While  the  dear  style  flows  on  without  pretence. 
With  unstained  purity  and  unmatched  sense. 
Or,  if  a  sister  e'er  approached  the  throne, 
She  called  the  rich  *  Inheritance '  her  own." 

The  Earl  of  Carlisle. 


BENTLEYS'  FAVOURITE  NOVELS. 


22  PRIDE  AND  PREJUDICE. 

By  Jane  Austen. 

"  S.  T.  Coleridge  would  sometimes  burst  out  into  high  encomiums  of 
Miss  Austen's  novels  as  being,  *  in  their  way,  perfectly  genuine  and  indi- 
vidual productions.'  " — The  Table-talk  of  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 

"  Farrier  and  Austen  have  given  portraits  of  real  society  far  superior  to 
anything  vain  man  has  produced  of  the  like  nature.  I  have  read  again, 
and  for  the  third  time,  Miss  Austen's  very  finely  written  novel  of  *  Pride 
and  Prejudice.'  That  young  lady  had  a  talent  for  describing  the  involve- 
ments and  feelings  and  characters  of  ordinary  life,  which  is  to  me  the  most 
wonderful  I  ever  met  with.  Her  exquisite  touch,  which  renders  common- 
place things  and  characters  interesting  from  the  truth  of  the  description 
and  the  sentiment,  is  denied  to  me.  What  a  pity  so  gifted  a  creature  died 
so  early  !" — Sir  Walter  Scott. 

**  *  Pride  and  Prejudice,'  by  Jane  Austen,  is  a  perfect  type  of  a  novel  of 
common  life  ;  the  story  so  concisely  and  dramatically  told,  the  language  so 
simple,  the  shades  of  human  character  so  clearly  presented,  and  the  opera- 
tion of  various  motives  so  delicately  traced,  attest  this  gifted  woman  to 
have  been  the  perfect  mistress  of  her  art." — Arnold's  English  Literature. 

"  One  of  the  best  of  Miss  Austen's  unequalled  works.  How  perfectly  it 
is  written  !" — The  Spectator. 

23  EMMA. 

By  Jane  Austen. 

"  I  am  a  great  novel  reader,  but  I  seldom  read  German  or  French  novels. 
The  characters  are  too  artificial.  My  delight  is  to  read  English  novel?, 
particularly  those  written  by  women.  'C'est  toute  ime  ecole  de  morale.' 
Miss  Austen,  Miss  Ferrier,  etc.,  form  a  school  which  in  the  excellence  and 
profusion  of  its  productions  resembles  the  cloud  of  dramatic  poets  of  the 
great  Athenian  age." — Gdizot. 

"Shakespeare  has  neither  equal  nor  second.  But  among  the  writers 
who  have  approached  nearest  to  the  manner  of  the  great  master  we  have 
no  hesitation  in  placing  Jane  Austen,  a  woman  of  whom  England  is  jastly 
proud." — Macaulay's  Essays. 

"Alfred  Tennyson  talked  very  pleasantly  that  evening  to  Annie 
Thackeray.  He  spoke  of  Jane  Austen,  as  James  Spedding  does,  as  next 
to  Shakespeare." — Sir  Henry  Taylor'' s  Autobiography. 

"Dear  books  !  bright,  sparkling  with  wit  and  animation,  in  which  the 
homely  heroines  charm,  the  dull  hours  fly,  and  the  very  bores  are  enchant- 
ing."— Miss  Thackeray. 

2*  MANSFIELD  PARK. 

By  Jane  Austen. 

**  I  have  the  picture  fetill  before  me  of  Lord  Holland  lying  on  his  bed, 
when  attacked  with  gout,  his  sister.  Miss  Fox,  beside  him  reading  aloud, 
a3  she  always  did  on  these  occasions,  some  one  of  Miss  Austen's  novels,  of 
which  he  was  never  wearied.  I  well  recollect  the  time  when  these  charm- 
ing novels,  almost  unique  in  their  style  of  humour,  burst  suddenly  on  the 


6  BENTLEYS'  FAVOURITE  NOVELS. 

world.  It  was  sad  that  their  writer  did  not  live  to  witness  the  growth  of 
her  fame." — Sir  Henry  Holland's  Recollections. 

"All  the  greatest  writers  of  fiction  are  pure  of  the  sin  of  writing  to  a 
text — Chaucer,  Shakespeare,  Scott,  Jane  Austen  :  and  are  not  these  pre- 
cisely the  writers  who  do  most  good  as  well  as  give  most  pleasure?" — 
Mary  Kussell  Mitford. 

"Miss  Austen  has  great  power  and  discrimination  in  delineating  com- 
monplace people,  and  her  writings  are  a  capital  picture  of  real  life  with 
all  the  little  wheels  and  machinery  laid  bare  like  a  patent  clock." — 
Longfellow's  Diary. 

"  Miss  Austen's  fame  will  outlive  the  generations  that  did  not  appreciate 
her,  and  her  works  will  be  ranked  with  the  English  classics  as  long  as  the 
language  lasts." — The  Atlas. 

"Jane  Austen's  novels  are  more  true  to  nature,  and  have  for  my  sym- 
pathies passages  of  finer  feeling  than  any  others  of  this  age. " — Southey. 


25       NORTHANGER  ABBEY.— PERSUASION. 
By  Jane  Austen. 

"Dr.  Whewell,  afterwards  Master  of  Trinity,  often  spoke  to  me  with 
admiration  of  Miss  Austen's  novels.  On  one  occasion  I  eaid  that  I  had 
found  *  Persuasion  '  rather  dull.  He  quite  fired  up  in  defence  of  it,  insist- 
ing that  it  was  the  most  beautiful  of  her  works.  This  accomplished 
philosopher  was  deeply  versed  in  works  of  fiction.  I  recollect  his  writing 
to  me  from  Caernarvon,  that  he  was  weary  of  his  stay,  for  he  had  read  the 
circulating  library  twice  through." — Sir  Denis  Le  Marchant. 

"  Read  Dickens's  *  Hard  Times'  and  another  book  of  Pliny's  '  Letters.' 
Read  'Northanger  Abbey,'  worth  all  Dickens  and  Pliny  together.  Yet 
it  was  the  work  of  a  girl.  She  was  certainly  not  more  than  twenty-six. 
Wonderful  creature  !" — Macaulay's  Journal,  August  12th,  1854. 

"...  Jane  Austen,  the  great  literary  artist  to  whom  we  are  indebted, 
among  other  things,  for  a  gallery  of  those  clerical  portraits  destined  to  last 
as  long  as  the  English  language.  I  am  one  of  the  regular  Austen  vassals, 
and  consider  her  as  without  a  rival  among  English  writers  in  her  own  line 
and  within  her  own  limits.  She  stands  alone  as  a  first-rate  miniature 
painter  in  her  own  particular  school  of  design.  If  we  are  on  the  look-out 
for  her  special  excellencies,  I  mean  exquisiteness  of  finish,  delicacy  of 
humour,  and  sureness  of  touch  ...  to  me  '  Persuasion  '  is  the  most  beauti- 
ful and  the  most  interesting  of  her  stories.  Especially  do  I  think  it  the 
most  interesting,  because  it  contains,  unless  I  am  mistaken,  moi-e  of  herself, 
more  of  her  own  feelings,  hopes,  and  recollections  than  the  rest  of  her  books 
put  together.  When  we  think  of  this  woman  of  genius,  at  once  delicate 
and  strong,  who  had  determined  to  live  a  life  of  duty  and  patient  submis- 
sion to  the  inevitable,  unlocking  her  heart  once  more  as  she  felt  the  approach 
of  death,  and  calling  back  to  cheer  her  last  moments  those  recollections 
which  she  had  thought  it  her  duty  to  put  aside  whilst  there  was  yet  work 
to  do  on  earth,  we  are  drawn  to  her  by  a  new  impulse,  which  heightens  our 
admiration  and  warms  it  into  a  real  personal  affection." — Sir  Francis 
Doyle's  Reminiscences. 


BENTLEYS'  FAVOURITE  NOVELS. 


26  RED  AS  A  ROSE  IS  SHE. 

By  Rhoda  Bkoughton. 

"There  are  few  readers  who  will  not  be  fascinated  by  this  tale." — 
The  Timef^. 

28  LADY  SUSAN.— THE  WATSONS. 

By  Jane  Austen. 
With  a  Memoir  of  the  Author  hy  the  Rev.  J.  E.  Austen-Leigh. 

*'  If  I  could  get  materials  I  really  would  write  a  short  life  of  that 
wonderful  woman,  and  raise  a  little  money  to  put  up  a  monument  to  her 
in  Winchester  Cathedral." — Macaulay'' n  Jcurnal,  1858. 

"  I  have  heard  Sydney  Smith,  more  than  once,  dwell  with  eloquence  on 
the  merits  of  Miss  Austen's  novels.  He  told  me  he  should  have  enjoyed 
giving  her  the  pleasure  of  reading  her  praises  in  the  '  Edinburgh  Review.' 
'  Fanny  Price  '  was  one  of  his  prime  favourites.  I  remember  Miss  Mitford's 
saying  to  me  :  *  I  would  almost  cut  off  one  of  my  hands,  if  it  would  enable 
me  to  write  like  your  aunt  with  the  other.' " — The  Rev.  J.  E.  Austkn- 
Leigh. 

**  Miss  Austen's  life  as  well  as  her  talent  seems  to  us  unique  among  the 
lives  of  authoresses  of  fiction." — The  Quarterly  Revieiv. 

*'  In  England  at  this  moment  her  reputation  is  higher  and  wider  than 
ever  it  has  been  before.  In  the  celebrated  list  of  100  best  books  lately 
published  by  the  Pall  Mall  Gazette,  no  modern  novelist  wins  so  many 
suffrages  as  Miss  Austen."— ^os^ow  Literary  World. 

32  OUGHT  WE  TO  VISIT  HER  ? 

By  Mes.  Annie  Edwakdes. 

"To  this  novel  the  epithets  spirited,  lively,  original  of  design,  and 
vigorous  in  working  it  out,  may  be  applied  without  let  or  hindrance.  In 
short,  in  all  that  goes  to  makeup  at  once  an  amusing  and  interesting  story, 
it  is  in  every  way  a  success." — The  Morning  Post. 

'*  Mrs,  Edwardes  has  never  done  better  than  in  her  charming  novel, 
'  Ought  We  to  Visit  Her?'  " — Vanity  Fair.  {Reprinting. 

35  GOOD-BYE,  SWEETHEART ! 

By  Rhoda  Bkoughton. 

'  *  We  are  more  impressed  by  this  than  by  any  of  Miss  Broughton's 
previous  works.  It  is  more  carefully  worked  out,  and  conceived  in  a  much 
higher  spirit.  Miss  Broughton  writes  from  the  very  bottom  of  her  heart. 
There  is  a  terrible  realism  about  her." — The  Echo. 


BENTLEYS'  FAVOURITE  NOVELS. 


37  THROWN   TOGETHER. 

By  Florence  Montgomery. 

'*  This  charming  story  cannot  fail  to  please." — Vanity  Fair. 
"A  delightful  story.     There  is  a  thread  of  gold  in  it  upon  which  are 
strung  many  lovely  sentiments. " — The  Washington  Daily  Chronicle. 

fis  •  NANCY. 

By  Ehoda  Broughton. 

*'  If  unwearied  brilliancy  of  style,  picturesque  description,  humorous  and 
original  dialogue,  and  a  keen  insight  into  human  nature  can  make  a  novel 
popular,  there  is  no  doubt  whatever  that  '  Nancy  '  will  take  a  higher  place 
than  anything  which  Miss  Broughton  has  yet  written.  It  is  admirable 
from  first  to  last." — The  Standard. 

54  THE  WOOING  O'T. 

By    "  Mrs.    Alexander." 

"  Singularly  interesting,  while  the  easiness  and  flow  of  the  style,  the 
naturalness  of  the  conversation,  and  the  dealing  with  individual  character 
are  such  that  the  reader  is  charmed  from  the  beginning  to  the  very  end." 
— The  Morning  Post. 

"  A  charming  story  with  a  charming  heroine." — Vanity  Fair. 

"  •  The  Wooing  o't '  and  '  Her  Dearest  Foe '  lifted  Mrs.  Alexander  at 
once  to  the  height  of  popularity — popularity  so  great  that  we  recollect,  just 
after  the  appearance  of  the  former  tale,  hearing  of  a  luncheon-party  for 
young  girls,  fourteen  in  number,  where  an  empty  chair,  flower-crowned, 
was  set  at  table  in  honour  of  Trafford,  its  hero." — The  Boston  Literary 
World. 

57  NOT  WISELY,  BUT  TOO  WELL. 

By  Ehoda  Broughton. 

"  Miss  Broughton's  popularity  in  all  ranks  of  society  shows  no  sign  of 
decline.  A  short  time  ago  Captain  Markham,  of  the  Alert,  was  introduced 
to  her  at  his  own  request.  He  told  her  that  in  some  remote  Arctic  latitudes 
an  ice-bound  mountain  was  christened  Mount  Rhoda  as  an  acknowledg- 
ment of  the  pleasure  which  her  tales  had  given  to  the  officers  of  the  Alert." 
—The  World. 

6»  COMIN'  THRO'  THE  RYE. 

By  Helen  Mathers  (Mrs.  Reeves). 

"A  clever  novel ;  never  dull,  and  never  hang:?  fire." — The  Standard. 

"There  is  a  great  deal  of  power  in  'Coniin'  thro'  the  Rye.'  There  is 
originality  in  the  tragic  plot,  arid  an  unceasing  current  of  fun  which  saves 
the  tragedy  from  becoming  sombre." — The  Athenceum. 


BENTLEYS'  FAVOURITE  NOVELS. 


«i  LEAH:  A  WOMAN  OF  FASHION. 

By  Mrs.   x\nnie  Edwardes. 

"  'Leah  '  is  the  best,  the  cleverest,  and  strongest  novel  that  we  have  as 
yet  had  in  the  season,  as  it  is  certainly  Mrs.  Edwardes's  masterpiece." — 
The  World. 

"  Mrs.  Edwardes's  last  novel  is  the  strongest  and  most  complete  which 
she  has  yet  produced." — The  Saturday  Review. 

^  HER  DEAREST  FOE. 

-By  "  Mes.  Alexander." 

"Mrs.  Alexander  has  written  nothing  better.  The  book  altogether 
abounds  in  bright  and  sparkling  passages." — The  Saturday  Review. 

"  There  is  not  a  single  character  in  this  novel  which  is  not  cleverly  con- 
ceived and  successfully  illustrated,  and  not  a  page  which  is  dull." — The 
World. 

««  SUCCESS,  AND  HOW  HE  WON  IT. 

From  the  German  of  E.  Werner. 

"'Success,  and  How  He  Won  It'  deserves  all  praise.  The  story  is 
charming  and  original,  and  it  is  told  with  a  delicacy  which  makes  it 
irresistibly  fascinating  and  attractive." — The  Standard. 

'*  A  book  which  can  hardly  be  too  highly  spoken  of.  It  is  full  of  interest, 
it  abounds  in  exciting  incidents,  though  it  contains  nothing  sensational ; 
it  is  marvellously  pathetic,  the  characters  are  drawn  in  a  masterly  style, 
and  the  descriptive  portions  are  delightful." — The  London  Figaro. 

««  JOAN. 

By  Rhoda  Beoughton. 

"  There  is  something  very  distinct  and  original  in  *  Joan.'  It  is  more 
worthy,  more  noble,  more  unselfish  than  any  of  her  predecessors,  while  the 
story  is  to  the  full  as  bright  and  entertaining  as  any  of  those  which  first 
made  Miss  Broughton  famous." — The  Daily  News. 

"Were  there  evermore  delightful  figures  in  fiction  than  'Mr.  Brown' 
and  his  fellow  doggies  in  Miss  Broughton's  'Joan  '  ?" — The  Daily  News 
{on  another  occasion). 

70     FOR  THE  TERM  OF  HIS  NATURAL  LIFE. 

By  Marcus  Clarke. 

"  A  striking  novel.  It  appeals  while  it  fascinates,  by  reason  of  the 
terrible  reality  which  marks  the  individual  characters  living  and  breathing 
in  it,  and  the  tragic  power  of  its  situations." — 2'he  Morning  Post. 

"  There  can,  indeed,  I  think,  be  no  two  opinions  as  to  the  horrible 
fascination  of  the  book.  The  reader  who  takes  it  up  and  gets  beyond  the 
Prologue — though  he  cannot  but  be  harrowed  by  the  long  agony  of  the 


lo  BENTLEYS'  FAVOURITE  NOVELS. 

story,  and  the  human  anguish  of  every  page,  is  unable  to  lay  it  down  ; 
almost  in  spite  of  himself  he  has  to  read  and  to  suffer  to  the  bitter  end. 
To  me,  I  confess,  it  is  the  most  terrible  of  all  novels,  more  terrible  than 
*  Oliver  Twist,'  or  Victor  Hugo's  most  startling  effects,  for  the  simple 
reason  that  it  is  more  real.  It  has  all  the  solemn  ghastliness  of  truth." — 
The  Eael  of  Rosebery. 

72  THE  FIRST  VIOLIN. 

By  Jessie  Fotheegill. 

'  *  The  story  is  extremely  interesting  from  the  first  page  to  the  last.  It 
is  a  long  time  since  we  have  met  with  anything  so  exquisitely  touching  as 
the  description  of  Eugen's  life  with  his  friend  Helfen.  It  is  an  idyl  of  the 
purest  and  noblest  simplicity." — The  Standard. 

"A  story  of  strong  and  deep  interest,  written  by  a  vigorous  and  cultured 
writer.,  By  such  as  have  musical  sympathies  an  added  pleasure  and  delight 
will  be  felt." — The  Dundee  Advertiser. 

73  OLIVE  VARCOE. 

By  Mrs.  Notley. 

"  A  sensational  story  with  a  substantial  fund  of  interest.  It  is  thoroughly 
exciting." — The  Athenceum. 

"  Among  the  pleasures  of  memory  may  be  reckoned  the  impression  left 
by  a  perusal  of  '  Olive  Varcoe,'  a  story  sufficiently  powerful,  picturesque, 
and  original  to  raise  hopes  of  still  more  excellent  work  to  be  achieved  by 
the  writer  of  it." — The  St.  James's  Gazette. 

7*  NELLIE'S  MEMORIES. 

By   EosA   NouCHETTE   Carey. 

'  A  pretty,  quiet  story  of  English  life,  free  from  sensation,  without  the 
shadow  of  a  mystery,  and  written  in  a  strain  which  is  very  pleasing.  Miss 
Carey  has  the  gift  of  writing  naturally  and  simply,  her  pathos  is  unforced, 
and  her  conversations  are  sprightly." — The  Standard. 

*' A  very  happily  told  domestic  story  which  reminds  us,  in  its  minute 
and  pleasant  descriptions  of  family  life,  of  Miss  Bremer's  tales." — The 
Evening  Star. 

75  PROBATION. 

By  Jessie  Fothergill. 

**  Altogether  'Probation  '  is  the  most  interesting  novel  we  have  read  for 
some  time.  We  closed  the  book  with  very  real  regret,  and  a  feeling  of  the 
truest  admiration  for  the  power  which  directed  and  the  spirit  which  inspired 
the  writer,  and  with  the  determination,  moreover,  to  make  the  acquaint- 
ance of  her  other  stories." — The  Spectator. 

"  A  noble  and  beautiful  book  which  no  one  who  has  read  is  likely  to 
forget." — The  Manchester  Examiner. 

'•  Miss  Fothergill  writes  charming  stories."— T/<e  Daily  Netcs. 


i 


BENTLEYS'  FAVOURITE  NOVELS. 


77  SECOND   THOUGHTS. 

By  Bhoda  Broughton. 

*  *  I  love  the  romances  of  Miss  Broughton  ;  I  think  them  much  truer  to 
nature  than  Ouida's,  and  more  impassioned  than  George  Eliot's.  Miss 
Broughton's  heroines  are  living  beings,  having  not  only  flesh  and  blood, 
but  also  esprit  and  soul ;  in  a  word,  they  are  real  women,  neither  animals 
nor  angels,  but  allied  to  both." — Andr^  Theuriet. 

83  NO  RELATIONS. 

From  the  French  of  Hectob  Malot. 

*'  A  fascinating  story,  written  with  unflagging  force,  and  as  full  of 
genuine  pathos  as  of  graceful  and  delicate  descriptions." — Blackwood' h 
Magazine. 

"  How  such  a  book  would  have  charmed  us  in  our  youth  !  how  many 
half -hours  we  should  have  stolen  to  pore  over  the  pages  in  which  M.  Malot 
has  so  glowingly  depicted  the  dinnerless  and  supperless  days  of  Remi  and 
his  master  Vitalis,  the  owner  of  the  performing  dogs  and  monkey,  once 
the  famous  singer  Carlo  Balzani,  who,  through  loss  of  his  voice,  was  obliged 
to  retire  from  the  gaze  of  the  enraptured  public.  How  we  should  have 
exulted  in  Remi's  strokes  of  good  luck  !  how  we  should  have  wept  with 
him  when  he  wept  1  All  this  is  left  for  many  a  happy  boy  to  do  who  little 
knows  what  a  treat  is  in  store  for  him  when  he  first  opens  the  cover  of 
'  No  Relations,'  which,  besides  the  tempting  letterpress,  contains  endless 
illustrations  of  merit.  It  is  likely  to  reach  as  many  editions  in  England  as 
it  did  in  its  birthplace,  France." — The  Whitehall  Review.     {Reprinting. 

85  KITH  AND  KIN. 

By  Jessie  Fotheegill. 

"Of  'Kith  and  Kin'  it  is  not  necessary  to  say  more  in  the  way  of 
praise  than  that  Miss  Fothergill  has  not  fallen  below  her  own  mark.  None 
of  her  usual  good  materials  are  wanting.  The  characters  affect  us  like  real 
persons,  and  their  troubles  and  their  efforts  interest  us  from  the  beginning 
to  the  end.     We  like  the  book  very  much." — The  Pall  Mall  Gazette. 

"One  of  the  finest  English  novels  since  the  days  of  'Jane  Eyre.'" — 
The  Manchester  Examiner. 

88  MISUNDERSTOOD. 
By  Florence  Montgomeey. 

**  Very  touching  and  truthful." — Bishop  Wilherforce's  Diary. 
"This  volume  gives  us  what  of  all  things  is  the  most  rare  to  find  in 
contemporary  literature — a  true  picture  of  child-life." — Vanity  Fair. 

89  SEAFORTH. 

By  Floeence  Montgomeey. 

*  *  In  the  marvellous  world  of  the  pathetic  conceptions  of  Dickens  there 
is  nothing  more  exquisitely  touching  than  the  loving,  love-seeking,  unloved 


12  BENTLEYS'  FAVOURITE  NOVELS. 

child,  Florence  Dombey.  We  pay  Miss  Montgomery  the  highest  compli- 
ment within  our  reach  when  we  say  that  in  '  Seaforth '  she  frequently 
suggests  comparisons  with  what  is  at  least  one  of  the  masterpieces  of  the 
greatest  master  of  tenderness  and  humour  which  nineteenth-century  fiction 
has  known.  '  Seaforth '  is  a  novel  full  of  beauty,  feeling,  and  interest.  .  .  . 
There  is  plenty  in  the  book  that  abundantly  relieves  the  intense  sadness  of 
Joan's  childhood,  and  the  novel  ends  happily." — The  World. 

"  Miss  Montgomery's  charming  novel.  ...  From  page  to  page  life-like 
pictures  are  brought  vividly  before  the  reader,  in  turns  pathetic,  gloomy, 
gay.  There  is  cne  scene  especially  worthy  of  remark — that  in  which  Colin 
Fraser  is  entertained  by  Olive  and  her  sister  during  Hester's  absence. 
Their  bold  innocence  and  unconventional  freedom  required  exceedingly 
delicate  treatment ;  but  Miss  Montgomery  is  more  than  equal  to  the  task. 
She  conveys  to  us,  with  the  bloom  untouched,  her  pure  conception  of 
Hester's  charming  daughters.  Hester's  is  the  finest  and  most  finished 
character  in  the  story  ;  indeed,  it  is  admirable  in  every  way.  .  .  .  The 
story  is  charmingly  fresh  and  attractive,  and  everywhere  it  reveals  remark- 
able powers  of  reflection  and  knowledge  of  human  nature  ;  and  the  interest 
is  always  well  sustained."— Pa^^  Mall  Gazette. 


91  WOOED  AND   MARRIED. 

By  Rosa  Nouchette  Caeey. 

"There  is  plenty  of  romance  in  the  heroine's  life.  But  it  would  not  be 
fair  to  tell  our  readers  wherein  that  romance  consists  or  how  it  ends.  Let 
them  read  the  book  for  themselves,  We  will  undertake  to  promise  that 
they  will  like  it." — The  Standard. 

94  BARBARA  HEATHCOTE'S  TRIAL. 

By  Rosa  Nouchette  Cabey. 

"  Fresh,  lively,  and  thanks  to  the  skill  with  which  the  heroine's  char- 
acter is  drawn,  really  interesting." — The  Athenceum. 

"A  novel  of  a  sort  which  does  not  appear  too  often  in  any  one  season, 
and  which  it  would  be  real  loss  to  miss." — The  Daily  Telegraph. 

*'  The  story  is  told  by  the  author  with  a  skilful  fascination.  If  anything, 
'  Barbara  '  is  better  than  '  Not  Like  Other  Girls,'  and  all  the  girls  know 
that  it  was  very  good." — The  Philadelphia  Times. 

97  LADY  GRIZEL. 

By  the  Hon.  Lewis  Wingfield. 

"  On  putting  down  Thackeray's  *  Esmond  '  we  seem  to  come  back  sud- 
denly from  the  days  of  Queen  Anne,  and  on  closing  *  Lady  Grizel '  one  is 
almost  tempted  to  believe  that  one  has  lived  in  the  reign  of  George  III." 
— The  Morning  Post. 

"A  clever  and  powerful  book.  The  author  has  cast  back  to  a  very 
terrible  and  a  very  difiicult  historical  period,  and  gives  us  a  ghastly  and 
vivid  presentment  of  society  as  it  was  in  Chatham's  time. " —  Vanity  Fair, 


I 
I 


BENTLEYS'  FAVOURITE  NOVELS.  13 


99  IN  A  GLASS  DARKLY. 

By  Joseph  Sheeidan  Le  Fanu. 

"  Even  *  Uncle  Silas,'  being  less  concentrated,  is  less  powerfully  terrible 
than  some  tales  in  Sheridan  Le  Fann's  '  In  a  Glass  Darkly.'  I'his  book 
was  long  as  rare  as  a  first  edition  copy  of  *  Le  Malade  Imaginaire.'  Lately 
it  has  been  reprinted  in  one  volume  by  Mr.  Bentley.  It  is  impossible,  un- 
happily, for  an  amateur  of  the  horrible  to  remain  long  on  friendly  terms 
with  anyone  who  is  not  charmed  by  '  In  a  Glass  Darkly.'  The  eerie  inven- 
tions of  the  author,  the  dreadful,  deliberate,  and  unsparing  calm  with 
which  he  works  them  out,  make  him  the  master  of  all  who  ride  the  night- 
mare. Even  Edgar  Poe,  even  Jean  Kichepin,  came  in  but  second  and 
third  to  the  author  of  'In  a  Glass  Darkly.'  His  '  Carmilla '  is  the  most 
frightful  of  vampires,  the  '  Dragon  Volant '  the  most  gruesome  of  romances  ; 
while  'A  Tale  of  Green  Tea'  might  frighten  even  Sir  Wilfrid  Lawson  into 
a  chastened  devotion  to  claret  or  burgundy.  No  one  need  find  Christmas 
nights  too  commonplace  and  darkness  devoid  of  terrors  if  he  keeps  the 
right  books  of  Le  Fanu  by  his  pillow.  The  author  is  dead,  and  beyond 
our  gratitude.  I  cast  lilies  vainly  upon  bis  tomb— e<  munerefungor  inani." 
— From  a  leading  article  in  The  Daily  N'eivs. 

100  BELINDA. 

By  Ehoda  Beoughton. 

*'  Miss  Broughton's  story  'Belinda'  is  admirably  told,  with  the  happiest 
humour,  the  closest  and  clearest  character-sketching.  Sarah  is  a  gem — 
one  of  the  truest,  liveliest,  and  most  amusing  persons  of  modern  fiction." 
—The  World. 

101  ROBERT  ORD'S  ATONEMENT. 

By  Rosa  Nouchette  Caeey. 

"A  most  delightful  book,  very  quiet  as  to  its  story,  but  very  strong  in 
character,  and  instinctive  with  that  delicate  pathos  which  is  the  salient 
point  of  all  the  writings  of  this  author." — The  Standard. 

"  Like  the  former  novels  from  this  pen  that  have  had  a  wide  popularity 
— among  them  'Not  Like  Other  Girls,'  'Queenie's  Whim,'  etc. — this  story 
is  of  lively  interest,  strong  in  its  situations,  artistic  in  its  character  and 
local  sketching,  and  charming  in  its  love-scenes.  Everybody  that  *  loves  a 
lover'  will  love  this  book." — The  Boston  Home  Journal. 

104  BERNA  BOYLE. 

By   MeS.    J.    H.    ElDDELL. 

"  In  '  Berna  Boyle  '  this  very  clever  author  has  broken  new  ground.  A 
more  fiery,  passionate,  determined,  and  we  must  add,  more  uncomfortable 
lover  than  German  Muir  could  hardly  have  been  '  evolved  out  of  the  con- 
sciousness '  of  Emily  Bronte  herself." — The  Standard. 

"'Berna  Boyle'  is  one  of  the  best  of  Mrs.  Riddell's  novels;  certainly 
the  best  I  have  read  of  hers  since  '  George  Geith.'  " — Truth. 


14  BENTLEYS'  FAVOURITE  NOVELS. 

106  NEAR  NEIGHBOUKS. 

By  Feances  M.  Peard. 

"  The  home  life  of  the  Dutch, 
Sketched  with  eloquent  touch, 
Forms  the  scene  of  Miss  Peard's  latest  labours. 
And  the  story  is  such 
That  you'll  find  there  is  much 
To  like  in  her  pleasant  'Near  Neighbours.'  " 

Punch, 

'•  We  may  say  at  once  without  hesitation  that  '  Near  Neighbours '  is  an 
excellent  novel.  It  is  a  story  of  modern  life  in  the  Netherlands,  and  it 
reminds  one  of  a  gallery  of  Dutch  pictures  without  their  coarseness. "-- 
The  Saturday  Review. 

108  NOT  LIKE  OTHER  GIRLS. 

By  Rosa  Nouchette  Caeey. 

"  The  three  heroines  are  quite  delightful,  and  their  mother,  an  excellent 
person  with  irreproachable  manners  and  a  heart  of  gold,  is  also  good. 
Phillis,  the  second  daughter,  the  brain  of  the  family,  is  as  natural  as 
amusing,  and  as  generally  satisfactory  a  young  woman  as  we  have  met 
with  in  fiction  for  a  long  time." — The.  Academy. 

**  We  have  a  specially  grateful  recollection  of  this  story: — the  author's 
masterpiece." — John  Bull. 

"The  story  is  one  of  the  sweetest,  daintiest,  and  most  interesting  of  the 
season's  publications.  Three  young  girls  find  themselves  penniless,  and 
their  mother  has  delicate  health.  This  story  relates,  in  a  charming  fashion, 
how  they  earned  their  bread  and  kept  themselves  together,  and  they  left 
upon  the  field  of  strife  neither  dead  nor  wounded." — The  New  York  Home 
Journal. 


109  GEORGE  GEITH  OF  FEN  COURT. 

By   MeS.    J.    H.    RiDDELL. 

*'  Earely  have  we  seen  an  abler  work  than  this,  or  one  which  more 
vigorously  interests  us  in  the  principal  characters  of  its  most  fascinating 
story." — The  Times. 

"  The  author  carries  the  reader  with  her  from  the  first  page  to  the  last. 
And  of  all  the  girls  we  can  call  to  mind  in  recent  novels  we  scarcely  know 
one  that  pleases  us  like  Beryl.  She  is  so  fresh,  so  bright,  so  tender- 
hearted, so  charming,  even  for  her  faults,  that  we  fall  in  love  with  her 
almost  at  first  sight.  Tl)e  subordinate  characters  are  sketched  with  great 
felicity,  and  considerable  skill  is  displayed  in  the  construction  of  the  plot. 
We  like,  too,  the  thoughts,  pithily  and  eloquently  expressed,  which  are 
scattered  throughout  the  volume." — The  Fortnightly  Review. 


BENTLEY^'  FAVOURITE  NOVELS.  15 

110  A  GIRTON  GIRL. 

By  Mes.  Annie  Edwardes. 

"  Mrs.  Edwardes  is  one  of  the  cleverest  of  living  lady  novelists.  She 
has  a  piquancy  of  style  and  an  originality  of  view  which  are  very  refresh- 
ing after  the  dreary  inanities  of  many  of  her  own  sex.  The  novel  is 
throughout  most  enjoyable  reading,  and  in  parts  distinctly  brilliant." — 
The  Academy. 

"One  of  the  best  and  brightest  novels  with  which  the  world  has  been 
favoured  for  a  very  long  time  is  *  A  Girton  Girl.'  All  the  characters  talk 
brightly  and  epigrammatically,  and  tell  their  own  stories  in  their  lively 
conversation," — The  Lady. 

"  Mrs.  Edwardes  tells  a  story  which  is  full  of  subtle  observation,  bene- 
volent sarcasm,  and  irresistible  brightness." — The  Morning  Post. 

112  A  BACHELOR'S  BLUNDER. 

By  W.  E.  NoEEis. 

"  We  have  endeavoured  in  noticing  some  previous  books  of  this  author 
to  express  our  high  appreciation  of  his  graphic  powers  and  his  right  to  be 
reckoned  one  of  the  leading  English  novelists — one  who  has  been  com- 
pared to  Thackeray  in  reference  to  his  delicate  humour  and  his  ready 
seizure  of  the  foibles  as  well  as  the  virtues  of  mankind,  and  to  Anthony 
Trollope  in  a  certain  minuteness  of  finish  in  the  depicting  of  people  and  of 
scenes.  This  story  of  a  natural  and  unsophisticated  girl  in  the  midst  of 
the  intense  worldliness  of  modern  English  society,  and  of  a  marriage  de- 
liberately viewed  in  advance  and  by  both  parties  as  one  entirely  of  con- 
venance,  affoi'ds  an  excellent  field  for  his  characteristic  modes  of  treat- 
ment."— The  Boston  Literary  World. 

"  Exceedingly  good  reading,  as  Mr.  Norris's  novels  nearly  always  are. 
The  situation  is  original,  which  is  a  rare  merit." — The  Guardian. 

"  Three  more  indiscreet  lovers  never  scattered  thorns  upon  the  path  of  a 
maiden  than  those  whose  machinations  Mr.  W.  E.  Norris  has  unfolded  in 
'  A  Bachelor's  Blunder.'  " — The  Daily  Telegraph. 

113  WEE  WIFIE. 

By  Rosa  Nouchette  Caeey. 

"  Miss  Cdrey  is  one  of  our  especial  favourites.  She  has  a  great  gift  of 
describing  pleasant  and  lovable  young  ladies." — John  Bull. 

"  Miss  Carey's  novels  are  always  welcome  ;  they  are  out  of  the  common 
run,  immaculately  pure,  and  very  high  in  tone." — The  Lady. 

115     '  DOCTOR  CUPID. 

By  Rhoda  Beoughton. 

•*  Miss  Broughton  has  so  many  thousands  of  admirers  scattered  up  and 
down  the  kingdom  that  all  the  editions  of  her  novels  are  always  eagerly 
snapped  up." — The  London  Figaro. 


BENTLEYS'  FAVOURITE  NOVELS. 


"  *  Doctor  Oupid '  is  a  very  clever  book,  aiwi  bily'jttst  escapes  being  a 
beautiful  one.  It  is  certainly  the  best  book  that  Miss  Broughton  has  yet 
written." — The  Spectator. 

* '  Miss  Broughton's  new  novel  is  likely  to  have  an  even  greater  vogue 
than  any  of  its  predecessors.  It  has  elements  both  of  humour  and  of 
pathos,  and  once  taken  up  will  retain  the  attention  of  the  reader  to  the 
close." — The  Globe. 

"  Bright  and  full  of  movement  as  are  usually  Miss  Broughton's  novels, 
few,  if  any  of  them,  have  attained  the  degree  of  pathos  which  gives  an 
especial  charm  to  her  latest  work,  *  Doctor  Cupid.' " — The  Morning  Post. 

**  The  freshness  of  her  creations  is  one  of  their  most  potent  spells,  and 
she  is  a  capital  hand  at  what,  for  lack  of  a  better  term,  is  usually  called  a 
character  sketch." — The  Lady.     ' 

116  BORDERLAND. 

By-  Jessie  Fotheegill. 

"The  scene  is  laid  in  and  around  Barnard  Castle,  and  the  story  gains  all 
the  charm  of  the  picturesque  which  Miss  Fothergill  knows  well  how  to 
use." — The  Athenaeum. 

"  Miss  Fothergill  is  one  of  those  novelists  whose  books  we  always  open 
with  assured  expectation,  and  never  close  with  disappointment.  We  do 
not  say  that  the  quality  of  excellence  is  a  characteristic  of  her  achieve- 
ment ;  she  is  too  much  a  writer  of  genius  as  distinguished  from  a  writer  of 
talent  to  work  upon  a  dead  level..  In  all  her  work  we  find  the  unmis- 
takable touch  of  mastery,  the  imaginative  grasp  of  the  creator,  not  the 
mere  craftsmanship  of  the  constructor,  'the  vision  and  the  faculty  divine' 
which  displays  itself  in  substance  and  not  in  form.  .  .  .  '  Borderland '  is 
certain  to  be  enjoyed  for  its  own  sake  as  a  story  full  of  the  strongest 
human  interest,  told  with  consummate  literary  skill." — The  Manchester 
Examiner. 

118  UNCLE  MAX. 

By  Rosa  Nouchette  Cabey. 

'  In  this  book  Miss  Carey  has  made  a  very  distinct  advance ;  she  has 
cleverly  allowed  a  wicked,  selfish,  mischief -making  woman  to  reveal  herself 
by  her  own  words  and  acts  — a  very  different  thing  to  describing  her  and 
her  machinations  from  outside.  Villains  and  their  feminine  counterparts 
are  not  characters  in  which  she  usually  deals,  for  she  sees  the  best  side  of 
human  nature.  She  has  made  an  interesting  addition  to  current  fiction, 
and  it  is  so  intrinsically  good  that  the  world  of  novel  readers  ought  to  be 
genuinely  grateful." — The  Lady. 

ii»  MAJOR  AND  MINOR. 

By  W.  E.  NoERis. 

"  The  author's  fidelity  of  analysis  throughout  this  clever  book  is  remark- 
able. As  a  rule  he  here  deals  with  ordinar)'-  sentiments,  but  the  more  com- 
plicated characters  of  Gilbert  Segrave  and  Miss  Huntley  are  drawn  with 
the  subtle  touch  of  the  accomplished  artist.  These  merits  are  familiar  to 
the  readers  of  Mr.  Norris's  former  works,  but  in  none  of  these  is  to  be 


BENT'LEYS'  FAVOURITE  NOVELS.    '  17 

found  a  vein  of  sucli  g^ufee  humour  as  in  *  Major  and  Minor.'  The  irre- 
pressible contractor  Buswell,  Mr.  Dubbiw,  and  the  fgiir  Miss  Julia,  whose 
admiration  for  poor  Brian  lands  him  in  a  more  than  awkward  dilemma, 
are  each  and  all  as  life-like  as  they  are  diverting.  In  this,  his  latest  book, 
Mr.  Norris  remains  ihe  elegant  and  slightly  caustic  writer  he  has  ever 
been,  while  his  knowledge  of  the  world  and  sympathy  with  human  nature 
have  become  wider  and  more  real." — The  Morning  Post. 

121  FICKLE  FORTUNE. 
From  the  German  of  B.  Weenee. 

*'  A  fascinating  story." — The  St.  James's  Gazette. 

"  Werner  has  established  her  claim  to  rank  with  those  very  few  writers 
whose  works  are,  or  should  be,  matters  of  interest  to  all  readers  of  cultiva- 
tion throughout  Europe." — The  Graphic. 

"  The  tale  partly  resembles  that  of  Komeo  and  Juliet,  in  so  far  as  the 
hero  and  heroine  fall  in  love  almost  at  first  sight,  and  discover  that  they 
belong  to  families  which  are  at  deadly  feud,  but  such  deadly  feud  as  can 
be  carried  on  by  means  of  lawyers  and  lawsuits..  The  style  of  writing  is 
excellent,  of  the  easy,  lucid,  vivacious  sort,  which  never  induces  weariness, 
and  scarcely  allows  time  for  a  pause." — The  Illustrated  London  News. 

"Werner  is  seen  to  the  greatest  advantage  in  those  portions  of  the 
narrative  which  appeal  to  the  graver  feelings  ;  nothing  could  of  its  kind 
be  better  than  the  interview  between  Oswald  and  his  unsuspecting  cousin 
after  the  former  had  become  aware  of  the  treachery  which  deprived  him  of 
his  right." — The  Morning  Post.  "^ 

122  ONLY  THE  GOVERNESS. 

By    Rosa    Nouchette    Caeey. 

*'  This  novel  is  for  those  who  like  stories  with  something  of  Jane 
Austen's  power,  but  with  more  intensity  of  feeling  than  Jane  Austen 
displayed,  who  are  not  inclined  to  call  pathos  twaddle,  and  who  care  to  see 
life  and  human  nature  in  their  most  beautiful  form." — The  Pall  Mall 
Gazette. 

"  One  of  the  sweetest  and  pleasantest  of  Miss  Carey's  bright  wholesome 
domestic  stories." — The  Lady. 

"Miss  Rosa  Nouchette  Carey's  novel  'Only  the  Governess'  is  an 
exceedingly  pleasant  story,  and  likely  to  be  very  popular." — The  Queen. 

124  QUEENIE'S  WHIM. 

By  Rosa  Nouchette  Caeey. 

*'  It  is  pleasant  to  be  able  to  place  at  the  head  of  our  notice  such  a 
thoroughly  good  and  wholesome  story  as  '  Queenie's  Whim.'  The  plot  is 
very  simple,  and  shows  how  fair  and  beautiful  a  web  may  be  woven  by  skill 
and  art  out  of  the  slightest  materials.  It  is  almost  impossible  to  lay  the 
book  down  without  ascertaining  what  happens  to  Queenie.  Perhaps  the 
subtle  charm  of  the  tale  lies  as  much  in  the  delicate  but  firm  touch  with 
which  the  characters  are  drawn  as  in  the  clever  management  of  the  story." 
—  The  Guardian. 

"Miss  Carey's  novel  is  one  which  will  be  read  with  pleasure." — The 
Morning  Post. 


i8  BENTLEYS'  FAVOURITE  NOVELS. 


127  SIE  CHARLES  DANVERS. 

By  Mary  Cholmondeley. 

"Novels  so  amusing,  so  brightly  written,  so  full  of  simple  sense  and 
witty  observation  as  *  Sir  Charles  Danvers '  are  not  found  every  day.  It  is 
a  charming  love  story,  lightened  up  on  all  sides  by  the  humorous,  genial 
character  sketches." — 1'he  Saturday  Review. 

"  '  Sir  Charles  Danvers '  is  really  a  delightful  book.  Sir  Charles  is 
one  of  the  most  fascinating,  one  of  the  wittiest  figures  that  advance  to 
greet  us  from  the  pages  of  contemporary  fiction.  We  met  him  with  keen 
pleasure  and  parted  from  him  with  keen  regret." — The  Daily  News. 

128  MISS  SHAFTO. 
By    W.    E.    NoEEis. 

'•  The  books  of  Mr.  Norris  are  worth  reading,  because  he  has  a  charming 
manner  of  his  own  which  is  rendered  recognisable  not  by  eccentricity  of 
whim,  but  by  a  wholesome  artistic  individuality.  One  does  not  nowadays 
often  read  a  fresher,  brighter,  cleverer  book  than  'Miss  Shafto.'" — The 
Academy. 

"  Thanks  to  dialogues  that  are  crisp  and  clever,  and  to  a  sense  of  humour 
that  is  as  keen  as  it  is  refined,  the  book  may  well  be  laid  down  with  regret. 
'  Miss  Shafto  '  is  that  each  day  rarer  production,  a  society  story  which  is 
neither  flippant  nor  coarse." — The  Morning  Post. 

129  HERIOT'S  CHOICE. 
By  Rosa  Nouchette  Caeey. 

"Everyone  should  read  'Heriot's  Choice.'  It  is  thoroughly  fresh, 
healthy,  and  invigorating,  acting  like  a  tonic  on  the  system  after  it  has 
been  debilitated  by  the  usual  three-volume  course  of  novels.  The  book 
should  be  in  the  hands  of  every  girl." — The  York  House  Papers. 

*' '  Heriot's  Choice  '  deserves  to  be  extensively  known  and  read.  It  is  a 
bright,  wholesome  story  of  a  quiet  but  thoroughly  interesting  class,  and  as 
such  will  doubtless  find  as  many  admirers  as  readers." — llie  Morning  Post. 

"An  extremely  pretty  and  well- written  novel.  The  reader's  interest 
is  never  permitted  to  flag  for  an  instant." — Standard. 

*  *  Heriot's  Choice '  is  a  well  and  carefully  written  story  of  domestic 
life,  and  the  character  of  the  principal  heroine  is  that  of  a  noble-minded 
woman."—  Myra's  Journal. 

130  BETWEEN  THE  HEATHER  AND  THE 

NORTHERN  SEA. 
By  Maey  Linskill  ("  Stephen  Yoeke"). 

**  A  remarkable  book,  the  work  of  a  woman  whose  preparation  for 
writing  has  been  her  communion  with  books  and  nature.  This  intimacy 
is  wide  and  apparent.  Shakespeare,  Milton,  Keats,  Shelley,  Kingsley, 
Carlyle,  Browning,  Tennyson,  and  many  more  are  constantly  supplying 
illustration.      The  beautiful  mottoes  to  the  chapters  would  make  up  a 


BENTLEYS'  FAVOURITE  NOVELS.  19 

choice  extract  book,  and  the  very  names  of  them  are  quotations.  Her 
familiarity  with  nature  is  as  evident  as  that  with  books.  The  grandest 
passage  in  the  story  describes  with  wonderful  vividness  and  with  subtle 
delicacy  the  shifting  scenes  of  a  great  sea  storm— we  wish  we  could  quote 
.it,  but  it  must  not  be  mutilated — and  the  aspects  of  the  wild  high  moor- 
lands ;  the  lonely,  desolate,  and  reedy  marshes  ;  the  rare  bits  of  cornland, 
the  sheltered  orchard,  whether  by  night  or  day,  in  winter  or  in  summer,  or 
in  lovely  cheerful  spring,  in  the  storm  or  in  the  sunshine — all  these  aspects 
of  nature  on  the  Yorkshire  moors  and  on  its  dangerous  shores  are  sketched 
with  the  same  perfect  knowledge,  the  same  fine  perception  of  minute 
differences  and  changes,  and  the  same  sense  of  beauty." — The  Spectator. 

"  The  scent  of  the  heather  seems  to  pervade  these  pages,  so  graphic  is 
the  picture  of  rustic  life  that  they  contain." — The  Morning  Post. 

"All  who  have  made  acquaintance  with  the  healthy,  truthful  descrip- 
tions of  Yorkshire  scenes  and  characters  penned  by  Mary  Linskill  may  be 
prepared  for  such  a  treat  as  will  assuredly  not  baffle  expectation.  The 
work  is  in  an  eminent  degree  fresh  and  forcible.  Its  freshness  rests  upon 
olden  foundations,  its  force  comes  from  gentleness.  No  one  can  doubt 
who  reads  the  epilogue  to  this  truly  dramatic  poem  of  prose-humanity  that 
the  author  was  moved  throughout  by  a  wondering  experience  of  the  fulness 
of  life,  such  as  she  quaintly  and  tenderly  expresses  in  the  speech  of  her 
hero  and  heroine." — The  Daily  Telegraph. 


132  ALAS ! 

By  Ehoda  Broughton. 

"  In  this  novel  the  author  strikes,  perhaps,  a  deeper  and  truer  note  of 
human  sympathy  than  has  been  audible  in  any  other  of  her  fictions.  The 
interest  is  not  only  well  maintained,  but  wholesome  and  edifying." — The 
Glohe.^ 

"Miss  Broughton  is  as  vivacious  and  readable  as  usual." — The  Daily 
Telegraph. 

'*  Apart  from  the  interest  of  the  plot,  *  Alas  !'  is  full  of  bright  word- 
pictures  of  Florence  and  Algiers,  and  of  a  pleasant  and  cultivated  appre- 
ciation of  their  beauties  which  lend  an  additional  merit  to  its  pages." — The 
Morning  Post. 

133  ALDYTH. 

By  Jessie  Fothekgill. 

"  A  reprint  of  a  touching  story  of  self-sacrifice  and  abnegation  which 
first  appeared  fifteen  years  ago,  and  was  the  forerunner  of  its  gifted 
author's  longer  and  more  important  novels." — The  Daily  Telegraph. 

"This  charming  story  has  been  out  of  print  for  several  years.  It  is  far 
better  than  many  a  modern  novel  which  is  eagerly  devoured,  and  its  re- 
publication cannot  fail  to  extend  the  circle  of  this  talented  author's  readers. 
The  story,  we  need  hardly  say,  is  full  of  interest,  and  the  characters  are 
well  delineated." — Manchester  Examiner. 

'*  It  is  curious  that  this,  which  is  quite  the  most  interesting  of  the  late 
Miss  Fothergill's  novels,  should  also  be  quite  the  least  known.  Its  republica- 
tion is  very  welcome,  and  there  can  be  no  doubt  that,  if  it  were  as  well  known, 


20  BENTLEYS'  FAVOURITE  NOVELS. 

it  would  be  more  widely  appreciated  than  any  of  Miss  Fothergill's  books. 
...  The  character  of  Aldyth's  sister  Caroline  is  a  very  clever  specimen  of 
Miss  Fothergill's  art,  and  one  that  will  compare  favourably  with  any  of 
the  longer  and  more  important  of  that  writer's  works." — The  Observer. 

134  MARY  ST.  JOHN. 

By  Rosa  Nouchette  Caeey. 

"  It  is  pleasant  to  turn  from  the  unwholesome  atmosphere  into  which  we 
have  been  introduced  to  the  pure  fresh  air  which  blows  through  '  Mary  St. 
John.'  This  is  a  tale  of  true  love,  of  self-sacrifice,  of  loyalty  and  unselfish- 
ness which  is  a  welcome  relief  from  affected  cynicism  and  unhealthy 
passion.  The  story  is  a  simple  one,  but  told  with  much  grace  and  with 
unaffected  pathos.  Perhaps  those  readers  whose  fount  of  tears  lies  some- 
what close  to  their  eyes  ought  to  be  warned  against  it  as  likely  to  make  too 
large  a  demand  upon  their  sympathies  ;  but  the  ordinary  reader  who  does 
not  mind  being  a  little  affected  with  that  melancholy  of  which  the  charm 
has  been  sung  by  an  English  poet,  will  find  it  well  worthy  of  perusal.  We 
are  not  ashamed  to  confess  that  we  have  ourselves  followed  the  simple  and 
unaffected  narrative  with  an  interest  and  a  pleasure  which  other  more 
exciting  and  sensational  works  have  failed  to  arouse  in  us.  The  heroine 
herself  is  a  noble  woman,  and  it  is  with  a  sensation  of  relief  that  we  find 
her  rewarded  in  the  end  for  the  self-sacrifice  which  is  forced  upon  her. 
Dollie  Maynard,  too,  is  a  fascinating  young  personage,  and  the  way  in 
which  she  gradually  awakens  to  the  merits  of  her  somewhat  grave  and  old- 
fashioned  lover  is  charmingly  depicted.  But  the  most  striking  and 
original  portrait  in  the  book  is  that  of  Janet  St.  John,  the  sister-in-law  of 
the  heroine,  and  wife  of  Maurice  St.  John,  the  hard-working  East-end 
clergyman.  This  is,  indeed,  a  masterpiece ;  and  the  handsome,  worldly 
woman,  so  hard  of  heart  in  every  respect  except  her  love  for  her  husband 
and  her  youngest  child,  must  take  rank  among  the  few  new  creations  of 
the  modern  novelist." — John  Bull. 

133  AN   OLD   MAID'S   LOVE. 

By  Maakten  Maabtens. 

"  Bears  the  impress  of  undeniable  and  original  talent." — The  Morning 
Post. 

"  As  a  description  of  Dutch  life  it  is  a  masterpiece."—  froma?i. 

"  A  story  that  holds  the  reader's  interest  throughout." — Observer. 

"  A  very  engrossing  romance.  There  are  a  dozen  carefully  drawn 
characters,  all  of  them  conscientiously  worked  out." — Athenoeum. 

"  Mr.  Maartens  writes  vigorously  in  *  An  Old  Maid's  Love,'  and  with 
life-like  fidelity  to  nature.  The  novel  is  strong  both  in  humour  and 
pathos. ' ' —  A  cademy. 

"  To  read  '  An  Old  Maid's  Love '  is  a  real  pleasure,  and  one  which  does 
not  evaporate  when  the  last  page  has  been  turned." — The  Graphic. 

"  *  An  Old  Maid's  Love '  is  of  a  far  higher  type  than  the  ordinary  run  of 
works  of  fiction,  and  very  nearly  approaches  the  offspring  of  genius.  A 
more  exciting  book  and  one  more  full  of  incident  may  every  day  be  met 
with,  but  to  the  thoughtful  reader  this  novel  will  be  infinitely  more  attrac- 
tive. " —  Vanity  Fair. 


BENTLEYS'  FA  VO URITE  NO  VELS.  2 1 

137  THE  HAVEN  UNDER  THE  HILL. 

By  Maey  Linskill. 

"Miss  Linskill's  unique  romance,  *  The  Haven  under  the  Hill,'  is  a 
marvellously  minute  and  realistic  picture  of  life  in  North  Yorkshire.  The 
story  is  just  the  simple  one  of  a  young  girl's  life,  ambitions,  and  death,  but 
it  is  told  as  the  author  of  '  Between  the  Heather  and  the  Northern  Sea ' 
alone  can  tell  a  story.  Her  work  is  of  high  artistic  value,  more  delicately 
faithful  to  the  truth  of  nature,  and  strong  in  learning,  than  highly 
coloured  or  attractive  to  every  eye,  but  warranted  to  live  when  the  grue- 
some murders  and  realisms  of  to-day  have  sunk  into  oblivion,  and  have 
served  their  purpose  of  amusing  or  terrifying  a  wasted  half-hour.  In 
years  to  come  people  will  turn  to  Miss  Linskill's  books,  as  they  do  to 
Thackeray's  and  George  Eliot's,  and  turn  to  them  again,  ever  to  find  fresh 
food  for  reflection  and  study  in  the  passages  which  she  paints  like  an  artist 
with  word-pictures  of  exquisite  and  cultivated  humour,  of  admirably  true 
and  never  overwrought  human  pathos.  .  .  .  Dorigen  (the  heroine),  a 
dreamy,  thoughtful  child,  blossoms  out  into  a  woman  of  learning,  refinement, 
and  a  grand  nature.  ...  It  would  be  impertinent  to  compliment  such  an 
author  on  producing  such  a  book,  but  its  advent  is  too  rare  an  excellence 
to  pass  without  words  of  grateful  acknowledgment." —  Whitehall  Review. 

"  No  more  vivid  and  powerful  sketches  of  shipwreck  are  to  be  found  in 
the  whole  extent  of  English  literature.  .  .  .  The  delineation  of  the  inner 
life  of  the  heroine  is  remarkable  for  subtle  insight,  and  unites  delicacy 
with  strength  in  a  wonderful  degree.  What  a  wealth  of  beautiful  sayings, 
often  phrased  with  the  crisp  felicity  of  apophthegms,  sparkle  in  Miss 
Linskill's  story  !" — Christian  Leader. 


138  THE  SIN  OF  JOOST  AVELINGH. 

By  Maaeten  Maaetens. 

"  A  masterly  treatment  of  a  situation  that  has  an  inexhaustible  fasci- 
nation for  novelists,  but  which  very  few  are  strong  enough  to  treat 
worthily.     An  admirable  novel." — 2%e  Guardian. 

"If  any  great  number  of  Dutch  writers  are  producing  work  equal  to 
Maartens'  novel,  our  insular  ignorance  is  a  thing  to  be  deplored.  It  is  a 
book  by  a  man  who  has  in  him  a  vein  of  genuine  genius,  a  true  artist.  .  .  . 
The  reader  will  feel  that  he  is  making  the  acquaintance  of  a  work  of 
singular  freshness  and  power."  —The  Academy. 

"Unmistakably  good.     Vigorous  and  well-defined  character  sketches 
faithful  pictures  of  life,  a  cleverly  written  story." — The  Morning  Post. 

*'  It  was  reserved  for  the  author  of  this  story  to  give  a  new  interest  to 
the  crime  of  murder  as  a  source  of  fiction.  The  work  is  so  good  that  it 
will  doubtless  find  many  readers  here." — The  Scotsman. 

' '  Can  honestly  be  recommended  to  readers  whether  with  consciences  or 
without." — James  Payn  in  the  Illustrated  London  News. 

"A  singularly  powerful  and  original  study,  and  full  of  pathos." — The 
Graphic. 


22  BENTLEYS'  FAVOURITE  NOVELS. 

139  IN  EXCHANGE  FOR  A  SOUL. 

By  Mary  Linskill. 

"  The  central  figure  of  the  tale  is  the  beautiful  fisher-girl,  Barbara 
Burdas.  .  .  .  She  has  the  self-restraint,  the  quiet  courage,  of  the  Puritan 
heroines  of  old.  .  .  .  From  first  to  last  she  is  an  original  as  well  as  fasci- 
nating creation." — The  Morning  Post. 

*'  The  writer  evidently  enjoys  beautiful  thoughts,  and  has  the  power  of 
conceiving  characters  in  accordance  therewith." — St.  James's  Gazette. 


140  MRS.   BLIGH. 

By  Rhoda  Beoughton. 

"No  one  of  Miss  Broughton's  stories  has  given  us  so  much  pleasure  as 
this  ;  not  even  '  Nancy,'  which  is  probably  her  best ;  not  even  '  Doctor 
Cupid,'  which  is  no  doubt  the  most  interesting  of  her  novels.  Rhoda 
Broughton  still  takes  the  form  of  an  analysis  of  woman's  feelings,  and  her 
greatest  successes  have  been  achieved  where  she  has  clearly  outlined  the 
woman's  character,  and  then  limited  the  rest  of  the  story  to  circumstances 
which  tend  to  illustrate  that  character.  In  her  latest  novel  she  has  been 
truer  to  this  principle  than  in  any  other  of  her  works,  and  it  is  this  quality 
which  makes  us  say  '  Mrs.  Bligh '  will  give  more  pleasure  than  any  other 
of  the  series.  The  book  is  a  truer  picture  of  woman's  love,  of  her  sacrifice 
of  it  to  a  girl,  and  of  the  woman's  only  possible  reward,  than  any  Miss 
Broughton  has  yet  given  us.  Time,  practice,  and  a  sense  of  literary  art 
have  produced  in  her  a  form  of  skill  in  writing  which  is  apparent  upon 
every  page  of  her  new  story.  How  the  story  is  worked  out  Miss  Broughton's 
readers  will  see  for  themselves,  and  we  repeat  that  she  has  given  them  a 
novel  more  worthy  of  remembrance  than  any  she  has  yet  written." — The 
Pall  Mall  Gazette. 


i«  CLEVEDEN. 

By  Mary  Linskill  ("  Stephen  Yorke  "). 

"The  heroine's  story  is  told,  and  her  character  drawn  with  much 
delicacy  of  touch,  and  our  sympathy  is  powerfully  enlisted  for  the  timid 
and  affectionate  nature  that  leans  upon  love,  and  the  religiousness,  vague 
but  strong,  that  bears  her  through  all  the  dreariness  of  her  desertion  by 
her  first  lover,  and  the  trust  and  dependence  that  drew  her  gradually 
towards  the  less  fascinating,  but  far  deeper  and  stronger  nature  of  the  man 
who  becomes  her  husband.  Stephen  Yorke's  sketches  of  dale  scenery  are 
beautiful,  and  clearly  the  work  of  one  who  not  only  knows  them  intimately 
and  loves  them  dt^arly,  but  whose  tasteful  and  poetic  feeling  can  appreciate 
the  minuter  delicacies  of  varying  seasons  and  weather,  and  can  gather 
from  Nature  iu  all  her  aspects  her  deeper  and  higher  meanings." — The 
Spectator. 


BENTLEYS'  FAVOURITE  NOVELS.  23 


1*2  FOR  LILIAS. 

By  Rosa  Nouchette  Caeey. 

"  The  materials  from  which  the  story  has  been  constructed  have  been 
managed,  not  only  with  exceedingly  delicate  and  tender  handling,  but  with 
such  unusual  ingenuity  and  fertility  of  resource,  that  the  result  is  a  novel 
which  not  only  abounds  in  graceful  and  touching  passages,  but  may  be 
fairly  said  to  possess  the  merit  of  originality.  All  the  characters  are 
excellently  drawn,  with  strong  strokes  and  in  decided  outlines,  yet  always 
with  the  utmost  delicacy  and  refinement  of  touch." — The  Gvardian. 

"The  story  is  decidedly  interesting,  especially  as  it  is  impossible  to 
foresee  at  any  given  point  what  will  follow  —  an  increasingly  rare 
phenomenon.  The  novel  is  well  written  and  the  various  characters  well 
described." — The  Graphic. 

143         •  AUNT  ANNE. 

By  Mrs.  W.  K.  Clifford. 

"  Mrs.  Clifford  has  achieved  a  success  of  a  very  unusual  and  remarkable 
kind  in  this  book.  She  has  had  the  extreme  daring  to  take  for  the  subject 
of  her  story  the  romance  of  an  old  woman,  and  to  fill  her  canvas  with  this 
one  figure.  .  .  .  She  and  her  treatment  are  quite  original  and  new.  She 
is  often  laughable,  but  always  touching  ;  her  little  figure  is  full  of  an  old- 
fashioned  grace,  though  grace  combined  with  oddity  ;  her  sense  of  her 
'  position,'  her  susceptibilities  in  that  respect,  her  boundless  generosity, 
are  always  delightful.  Indeed,  we  do  not  know  when  we  have  met  with 
a  more  loving  and  recognisable,  as  well  as  attractive  personage  in  fiction." 
— The  Spectator. 

*'  One  of  the  most  memorable  creations  of  modern  fiction.  The  character 
of  Aunt  Anne  is  not  a  mere  tour  de  force.  It  is  one  of  those — one  is 
almost  tempted  to  say  immortal  —  creations  whose  truth  mingles  so 
insistently  with  its  charm  in  every  touch  that  it  is  hard  to  say  whether 
it  is  its  truth  which  makes  the  charm  or  the  charm  which  persuades  you 
into  believing  in  its  truth." — The  Sunday  Sun. 

145  TALES  OF  THE  NORTH  RIDING. 

By  Mary  Linskill. 

"If  Miss  Linskill  had  written  only  her  fine  'Tales  of  the  North 
Riding,'  they  would  have  been  sufficient  to  fix  her  title  of  Novelist  of  the 
North.  Her  characters  are  portraits  of  northern  folk,  as  they  who  have 
lived  among  them  will  recognise,  and  her  scenery  is  precisely  what  one's 
memory  recalls." — The  Sheffield  Daily  Telegraph. 

"  What  Mr.  Hardy  is  to  the  Wessex  country,  Mary  Linskill  might  have 
become  to  the  North  Riding  of  Yorkshire,  had  her  life  been  spared  a  little 
longer.  The  '  Tales  of  the  North  Riding  '  give  many  evidences  of  her  real 
ability,  and,  in  the  second  story,  'Theo's  Escape,'  Miss  Linskill  rises  to  the 
level  of  her  best  novel,  and  in  it  she  displays  the  strongly  artistic  faculty 
which  is  never  absent  from  any  of  her  books." — The  Manchester  Examiner. 


24  BENTLEYS'  FAVOURITE  NOVELS. 


1*6  GOD'S  FOOL. 

By  Maaeten  Maaetens. 

"The  story  of  Elias,  God's  Fool,  is  in  some  respects  beautiful,  in  all 
curious,  and  thickset  with  gems  of  thought.  The  picture  of  the  creature 
with  the  clouded  brain,  the  missing  senses,  the  pure  and  holy  soul,  and  the 
unerring  sense  of  right,  living  in  his  deafness  and  darkness  by  the  light 
and  the  law  of  love,  is  a  very  fine  concepti(m,  and  its  contrast  with  the 
meanness  and  wickedness  of  his  surroundings  is  worked  out  with  high 
SiYt."—The  World. 

"A  very  interesting  and  charming  story.  Elias  Lossell  only  became 
a  fool  gradually,  as  the  result  of  an  accident  which  happened  to  him  in 
early  youth.  Gradually  the  light  of  this  world's  wisdom  died  out  for  him  ; 
gradually  the  light  of  God's  wisdom  dawns  and  develops  in  him.  The 
way  these  two  lights  are  opposed  and  yet  harmonized  is  one  of  the  most 
striking  features  of  the  book.  As  a  subtle  study  of  unusual  and  yet 
perfectly  legitimate  combination  of  effect,  it  is  quite  first-ratf^." — The 
Guardian. 

1^7  LOYER  OR  FRIEND  ? 

By  Rosa  Nouchette  Caeey. 

"The  refinement  of  style  and  delicacy  of  thought  will  make  'Lover  or 
Friend  ?'  popular  with  all  readers  who  are  not  too  deeply  bitten  with  a 
desire  for  things  improbable  in  their  lighter  literature." — The  Guardian. 

"  It  is  a  good  novel,  of  the  home-life,  family-gossip  class,  in  the  produc- 
tion of  which  lady  writers  specially  excel.  .  .  .  This  is  a  sensibly  and 
skilfully  written  book,  and  the  situations  at  the  end  show  a  good  deal  of 
dramatic  power." — The  Pall  Mall  Gazette. 

"  Written  with  all  that  delicate  charm  of  style  which  invariably  makes 
this  writer's  works  pleasant  reading.  No  one  could  say  they  are  ever  dull 
or  commonplace." — The  Academy. 


1*8  FROM   MOOR   ISLES. 

By  Jessie  Fotheegill. 

"  '  From  Moor  Isles  '  is  much  above  the  average,  and  may  be  read  with 
a  considerable  amount  of  pleasure,  containing,  as  it  does,  many  vigorous 
and  affecting  passages." — The  Globe. 

"The  sketches  of  North-country  life  are  true  and  healthy." — The 
Athenaeum. 

"  Miss  Fothergill  has  written  another  of  her  charming  stories,  as  charm- 
ing as  'The  First  Violin.'  'From  Moor  Isles'  will  distinctly  add  to 
Miss  Fothergill's  reputation  as  one  of  the  pleasantest  of  our  lady  novelists." 
— 2' he  Fall  Mall  Gazette. 


BENTLEYS'  FAVOURITE  NOVELS.  25 

1^9  A  BEGINNER. 

By  Rhoda  Beoughton. 

"  We  expect  to  be  amused  by  Miss  Broughton,  but  we  do  not  think  that 
for  a  long  time  past  we  have  been  so  much  exhilarated  by  any  book  of  hers 
as  by  *  A  Beginner,'  " — The  Saturday  Review. 

"  As  bright,  vivacious,  and  full  of  go  as  are  all  its  predecessors  from  the 
same  highly-skilled  pen.  It  is  not  without  a  certain  pathos,  too." — The 
Daily  Chronicle. 

**  Karely  has  Miss  Broughton  shown  the  humorous  side  of  her  genius  to 
better  advantage  than  in  this  book.  The  characters  are  cleverly  and 
artistically  drawn,  and  the  satire  is  genuinely  amusing." — Vanity  Fair. 

'''  DIANA  TEMPEST. 

By  Mary  Cholmondeley. 

"  *  Diana  Tempest  *  is  a  book  to  be  read.  It  is  more — it  is  a  book  to  be 
kept  and  read  again,  for  its  characters  will  not  pass  into  limbo  with  this 
year's  fashions.  It  will  stand  in  the  front  ranks  of  fiction  for  some  time 
to  come." — The  St.  James's  Gazette. 

*'  In  this  charming  book  are  combined  all  the  qualities  that  are  essential 
to  completeness  in  a  model  work  of  fiction." — The  Daily  Telegraph. 

"Miss  Cholmondeley  writes  with  a  brightness  which  is  in  itself  delight- 
ful. .  .  .  Let  everyone  who  can  enjo}'  an  excellent  novel,  full  of  humour, 
touched  with  real  pathos,  and  written  with  finished  taste  and  skill,  read 
'Diana  Tempest.'  " — The  Athenaeum. 

"A  novel  conspicuous  above  all  for  the  originality,  boldness,  and  neatly- 
fitted  ingenuity  of  a  plot  of  classic  directness  and  simplicity." — 7'Ae  World. 

"  Of  Miss  Cholmondeley's  clever  novels,  '  Diana  Tempest '  is  quite  the 
cleverest.  The  literary  workmanship  is  decidedly  good.  .  .  .  Miss 
Cholmondeley's  flashes  of  wit  and  wisdom  are  neither  few  nor  far  between.' 
—  The  Times. 

1'^'^  THE    GREATER    GLORY. 

By  Maaeten  Maaetens. 

"The  name  of  Maarten  Maartens  is  becoming — indeed,  it  has  already 
become— one  of  the  most  important  and  significant  names  in  the  literature 
of  contemporary  fiction.  .  .  .  We  could  point  to  scenes  and  situations  of 
exceptional  power  and  beauty,  but  we  leave  them  to  the  many  who,  we 
hope,  will  read  this  admirable  and  striking  novel." — The  Spectator. 

"'The  Greater  Glory'  is  a  strangely  beautiful  book;  but  its  greatest 
charm  is  not  in  any  one  scene,  it  is  the  gradual  evolution  of  beauty  out  of 
beauty  till  the  climax  is  reached  in  the  '  greater  glory '  of  the  old  baron's 
death-bed." — The  Guardian. 

"  It  would  be  difficult  to  conceive  figures  more  touching  than  those  of 
the  old  Baron  and  Baroness  Rexelaer,  nor,  in  a  different  way,  than  the  pair 
of  young  lovers,  Reinout  and  Wendela,  charming  creations  of  a  poetic 
fancy." — The  Morning  Post. 


26  BENTLEYS'  FAVOURITE  NOVELS. 

1^2  BASIL  LYNDHURST. 

By  Eosa  Nouchette  Caeey. 

"  Every  character  is  sketched  with  care  and  delicacy,  and  the  style  is 
excellent  throughout  and  thoroughly  healthy.  There  are  some  very  pretty 
touches,  too,  in  the  scenes  between  the  brother  and  sister,  and  there  is  real 
pathos  in  the  sketch  of  the  unhappy,  ill-fated  Aline." — The  Guardian. 

"  Miss  Carey's  pathetic  story  turns  upon  a  country  honse  in  whose  life 
and  inmates  we  come  to  feel  an  almost  painful  interest.  We  doubt 
whether  anything  has  been  written  of  late  years  so  fresh,  so  pretty,  so 
thoroughly  natural  and  bright.  The  novel  as  a  whole  is  charming. 
Tenderness  is  pourtrayed  without  the  suspicion  of  s'ckly  sentiment,  and 
the  simple  becomes  heroic  without  any  sense  of  effort  or  unreality."— 7V<e 
Pall  Mall  Gazette. 

i'^3  MY  LADY  NOBODY. 

By  Maakten   Maartens. 

"  Like  the  rest  of  Maarten  Maartens's  novels  *  My  Lady  Nobody  '  is  a 
genuine  book.  In  construction  it  is  perhaps  the  best  the  author  has  yet 
given  us.  It  has  the  striking  characteristics  of  the  books  which  have 
given  him  a  world-wide  reputation." — The  Daily  Chronicle. 

* '  It  would  be  easy  to  cull  many  clever  sayings  from  any  of  Maarten 
Maartens's  novels.  They  are  the  more  plentiful  because  he  endows  all  his 
characters  with  epigram." — Realm. 

"  The  name  of  Maarten  Maartens  has  become  a  household  word  among 
lovers  of  literature,  as  it  is  embodied  in  fiction.  This  last  book  takes  its 
place  in  the  forefront  of  contemporary  fiction.  The  power  of  the  master 
is  seen  in  every  page  ;  the  delicate  psychological  instinct  is  evident  in 
every  character  ;  a  dainty  humour  plays  about  the  deep  teaching  of  the 
situations,  and  we  never  lose  sight  of  the  artist  from  the  first  page  to  the 
last." — Woman's  Sifjnal. 

"A  book  to  be  read.  It  is  interesting  as  a  story,  admirable  as  a  study 
of  Dutch  character,  and  it  is  instinct  with  spiritual  intention.  Mr. 
Maarten  Maartens  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  personalities  among  con- 
temporary writers  of  fiction.  His  work  is  individual  in  its  simplicity  and 
significance,  its  blend  of  quaintness,  and  elevation  of  sentiment.  It  has  all 
the  high  finish  of  Dutch  art,  and  its  luminousness  of  eRect."— Daily  Neu'S. 

"Maarten  Maartens  has  taken  us  all  by  storm." — Neio  York  Herald. 

"  The  student  of  contemporary  literature  knows  that  every  product  of 
the  pen  of  this  man  will  be  worth  reading.  He  occupies  a  p'ace  among 
the  foremost  of  living  authors." — Boston  Times. 

"  Maarten  Maartens  is  a  Dutchman  who  has  suddenly  revealed  himself 
to  the  world  as  a  psychologist  of  the  first  rank." — BihlioiMque  Universelle. 

* '  Maarten  Maartens  has  suddenly  taken  his  place  in  the  foremost  rank 
of  English  novelists." — Neue  Freie  Presse,  Vienna. 

"Absolutely  certain  of  success." — Blatter  fur  lifer.  Unterhaltung, 
Berlin. 

"The  literary  reputation  of  Maarten  Maartens  is  an  established  fact."~ 
Saturday  Review. 

**  Maarten  Maartens  is  an  author  who  deserves,  and  is  sure  to  obtain, 
European  celebrity." —  Westminster  Review. 


BENTLEYS'  FAVOURITE  NOVELS.  27 


15*  SCYLLA  OR  CHARYBDIS? 

By  Rhoda  Broughton. 

*'  There  is  a  great  deal  of  breezy,  humourous  dialogue,  and  some  amusing 
situations  and  characterization,  while  the  pathos  in  other  parts  is  sympa- 
thetic and  true." — Literary  World. 

"An  exceeding  tragic  story  ;  the  point  of  highest  intensity  is  led  up  to 
with  consummate  skill,  and  there  is  no  anti -climax." — Daily  Chronicle. 

"  The  novel  is  lively  and  witty  as  a  matter  of  course.  If  it  is  not  quite 
so  full  of  the  joy  of  youth  as  some  of  the  writer's  earlier  stories,  there  is, 
by  way  of  compensation,  a  vein  of  real  tragedy  behind  its  excellent 
comedy.  It  ha?,  moreover,  a  well-devised  plot  and  a  seemingly  hopeless 
situation. " — Standard. 

'*  This  fine  story,  finely  wrought,  of  deep  human  interest,  with  many  of 
those  slight  side-touches  of  observation  and  humour  of  the  kind  for  which 
we  look  in  a  story  by  Miss  Broughton,  is  so  carefully  and  so  skilfully  con- 
structed as  to  distance  its  predecessors." — World. 

"  A  new  volume  from  the  pen  of  Miss  Rhoda  Broughton  is  a  godsend. 
She  is  sometimes  moral,  never  didactic  ;  sometimes  sentimental,  never 
gushing,  and  always  entertaining.  Her  art  is  unique,  it  is  not  old- 
fashioned  ;  neither  does  it  appeal  to  the  transient  humours  of  a  clique. 
The  question  of  literary  fashion  does  not  affect  anything  so  universal, 
sympathetic  and  so  human." — The  Illustrated  London  News. 

"  The  book,  with  its  amusing  audacities  of  style,  its  dash  of  cynicism, 
its  'go'  and  poetic  descriptive  passages,  is  a  good  Rhoda  Broughton." — 
Daily  News. 

"  As  good  as  anything  that  this  delightf  al  author  has  written.  *  Scylla 
or  Chary bdis '  is  in  fact  emphatically  a  book  to  read,  and  we  fancy  it  will 
surprise  many  people  by  the  depth  and  tenderness  of  its  feeling." — 
Manchester  Guardian. 


156  THE  MADONNA  OF  A  DAY. 

By  Lily  Dougall. 

"  Remarkably  clever  and  original." — Lady's  Pictorial. 

"  Miss  Dougall  is  among  the  cleverest  of  the  younger,  novelists." — 
Observer. 

"The  adventures  of  the  heroine  are  strangely  exciting  and  original." — 
Isle  of  Wight  Guardian. 

"Miss  L.  Dougall's  'The  Madonna  of  a  Day'  is  the  brightest  and 
cleverest  novel  she  has  yet  written.  The  idea  is  original  and  interesting, 
the  characterization  is  firm  and  convincing,  and  the  style  is  undeniably 
effective." — Daily  Telegraph. 

"  From  an  entirely  new  standpoint,  and  with  a  subtlety  all  its  own  ;  it 
lights  up  one  aspect  of  the  great,  vexed,  unsettled,  unsettleable  woman 
question  ;  and  all  this  with  a  charm  of  style,  and  a  power  of  realizing  and 
presenting  a  scene  or  a  character,  which  grow  stronger  with  each  book 
Miss  Dougall  produces." — Academy. 


28  ■     BENTLEYS'  FAVOURITE  NOVELS. 

"  A  charming  bit  of  work,  full  of  distinction  and  subtlety  of  feeling." — 
Manchester  Guardian. 

"  The  local  colouring  and  descriptive  portions  of  the  tale  are  undeniably 
good,  and  add  much  to  the  realistic  tone  and  genuine  attractiveness  of  a 
novel  that  it  is  hard  to  put  down  until  the  very  last  page  is  reached." — 
Observer. 


155      SIR  GODFREY'S  GRAND-DAUGHTERS. 
By  Rosa  Nouchette  Caeey. 

"  Out  of  very  slender  and  almost  commonplace  materials  the  author  has 
produced  a  capital  story.  The  interest  steadily  grows,  and  by  the  time 
one  reaches  the  third  volume  the  story  has  become  enthralling.  The  book 
is  well  worth  reading,  and  will  increase  Miss  Carey's  already  high  reputa- 
tion."— Observer. 

"  Certainly  one  of  the  pleasantest  of  recent  contributi<ms  to  domestic 
fiction  ;  it  is  not  lacking  in  humour,  and  there  are  passages  of  true  and 
unstrained  pathos." — Academy. 

"  Miss  Carey's  novels  are  well  written,  and  offer  very  natural  sketches 
of  the  quiet  life  with  which  they  deal." — Morning  Post. 

"  As  a  work  of  fiction,  we  must  confess  to  have  read  *  Sir  Godfrey's 
Grand- daughters '  with  far  greater  enjoyment  than  has  attended  our 
perusal  of  other  novels  of  the  same  order  for  some  time  past." — Daily 
Telegraph. 

"'Sir  Godfrey's  Grand- daughters '  is  charmingly  written,  and  will 
please  readers  who  like  their  fiction  sentimental  and  optimistic  rather  than 
realistic." — Daily  News. 


157  THE  MISTRESS  OF  BRAE  FARM. 

By  Rosa  Nouchette  Caeey. 

"  *  The  Mistress  of  Brae  Farm '  is  one  of  the  best  novels  now  before  the 
public,  whether  as  regards  its  beautiful  but  quite  unpriggish  moral  tone, 
its  careful  and  convincing  characterization,  or  its  accurate  delineation  of 
certain  phases  of  provincial  life." — County  Gentleman. 

"  Miss  Carey  is  most  minute  in  her  analysis  of  the  motives  which  influ- 
ence the  actions  of  her  personages,  and  her  delineations  of  character, 
especially  the  female,  are  delicate,  refined,  and  finished." — Ashton 
Reporter. 

*'  *  The  Mistress  of  Brae  Farm  '  is,  without  doubt,  as  interesting  and  of  as 
high  a  character  as  could  be  desired  by  the  most  captious  critic." —  Western 
Mail. 


BENTLEYS'  FAVOURITE  NOVELS. 


^9 


158 


^  DEAR  FAUSTINA; 
By  Rhoda  Beoughton. 


TJIU  ONLY  COMPLETE  EDITIONS  OF  JANE  A  USTEN'S  WORKS 
ARE  THOSE  CONTAINED  IN  THIS  SERIES. 


SENSE   AND   SENSIBILITY. 

PRIDE   AND   PREJUDICE. 

EMMA. 

LADY   SUSAN. 


MANSFIELD   PARK. 
NORTHANGER   ABBEY. 
PERSUASION. 
THE   WATSONS. 


*^*  See  pages  4,  5,  6  and  7. 


Any  of   the  above  volumes  can  be  obtained  at  all  Book" 
sellers'  or  Railway  Stations.    Price  6s. 


mon: 

THE    T^ 

t^t  (^eai»mg  of  Jic^iom 


The  So* 

by  Miss 

^S'/  DEAN  STANLEY. 

Full, ; 

W.  '/"I  have  dwelt  on  this  characteristic  of  the  Gospel  teaching — that  of 

^'ipeaking  in  parables — because  it  is  well  that  we  should  see  how  the  Bible 

/,^ itself  sanctions  a  mode  of  instruction  which  has  been,  in  a  special  sense. 

y    God's  gift  to  our  own  age.     His  grace  is  manifold.     In  various  ages  it  has 

assumed  various  forms  :  the  divine  flame  of  poetry,  the  far-reaching  gaze 

of   science,  the   searching   analysis   of  philosophy,  the   glorious   page   of 

history,  the  burning  eloquence  of  speaker  or  preacher,  the  grave  address  of 

moralist  or  divine.     These  all  we  have  had  in  ages  past ;  their  memorials 

are  around  us  here.     These  all  we  have  in  their  measure,  some  more,  some 

less,  in  the  age  in  which  we  live  ;  but  it  is,  perhaps,  not  too  much  to  say 

that  in  no  age  of   the  world  and  in  no  country  of   the  world  has  been 

developed  upon  so  large  a  scale,  and  with  such  striking  effects  as  in  our 

own,  the  gift  of  *  speaking  in  parables,'  the  gift  of  addressing  mankind  in 

romance  or  tale  or  fable. 

"  There  was  a  truth — let  us  freely  confess  it—  in  the  old  Puritan  feeling 
against  an  exaggerated  enjoyment  of  romances,  as  tending  to  relax  the  fibre 
of  the  moral  character.  That  was  a  wholesome  restraint,  which  I  re- 
member in  my  childhood,  which  kept  us  from  revelling  in  tales  of  fancy 
till  the  day's  work  was  over,  and  thus  impressed  upon  us  that  the  reading 
of  pleasant  fictions  was  the  holiday  of  life  and  not  its  serious  business. 
It  is  this  very  thing  which,  as  it  constitutes  the  danger  of  fictitious  narra- 
tives, constitutes  also  their  power.  They  approach  us  at  times  when  we 
are  indisposed  to  attend  to  anything  else.  They  fill  up  those  odd  moments 
of  life  which,  for  good  or  for  evil,  exercise  so  wide  an  effect  over  the  whole 
tenor  of  our  course.  Poetry  may  enkindle  a  loftier  fire,  the  drama  may 
rivet  the  attention  more  firmly,  science  may  open  a  wider  horizon, 
philosophy  may  touch  a  deeper  spring  ;  but  no  works  are  so  penetrating  or 
so  pervasive,  none  reach  so  many  homes  and  attract  so  many  readers  as 
the  romance  of  modern  times.  Those  who  read  nothing  else  read  eagerly 
the  exciting  tale.  Those  whom  sermons  never  reach,  whom  history  fails  to 
arrest,  are  reached  and  arrested  by  the  fictitious  characters,  the  stirring 
plot,  of  the  successful  novelist.  It  is  this  which  makes  a  good  novel — 
pure  in  style,  elevating  in  thought,  true  in  sentiment — one  of  the  best  boons 
to  the  Christian  home  and  to  the  Christian  State. 

"  0  vast  responsibility  of  those  who  wield  the  mighty  engine  !  Mighty 
it  may  be,  and  has  been,  for  corruption,  for  debasement,  for  defilement. 
Mighty  also  it  may  be,  mighty  it  certainly  has  been,  in  our  English  novels 
(to  the  glory  of  our  country  be  it  spoken),  mighty  for  edification  and  for 
purification,  for  giving  wholesome  thoughts,  high  aspirations,  soul-stirring 
recollections.  Use  these  wonderful  works  of  genius  as  not  abusing  them, 
enjoy  them  as  God's  special  gifts  to  us ;  only  remember  that  the  true 
romance  of  life  is  life  itself." — St.  James's  Gazette. 


THE  READING  OF  FICT 


PROFESSOR   HUXLEY. 

"Another  point  upon  which  he  wished  to  lay  some 
Next  to  earning  one's  living  the  most  important  thing  was  t 
fair  and  innocent  means  of  amusement  and  distraction — to  hav 
of  retiring  for  a  while  from  the  cares  of  life,  and  transport  one . 
another  atmosphere  where  the  weary  soul  might  have  time  to  rest.    j:. 
ment  people  would  have  at  any  cost,  and  if  they  were  not  provided 
innocent  forms  of  recreation,  they  would  discover  vicious  ones.   The  uti. 
of  free  libraries  had  been  questioned  on  the  ground  that  they  were  usi 
chiefly  for  the  perusal  of  works  of  fiction.     Well,  and  why  not  ?     He  du 
not  know  any  kind  of  rest  comparable  to  putting  up  one's  feet  and  going 
straight  through  a  three-volume  novel.    After  a  man  had  done  his  eight  or 
ten  hours  of  work  he  did  not  want  to  study  algebra.     That,  at  least,  was 
how  the  matter  struck  him." — Standard. 

SIR  J.  CRIGHTON  BROWNE. 

"The  profitable  and  hygienic  uses  of  imagination  are  daily  more  and 
more  widely  realized,  for  in  every  country  in  Europe  there  is  an  increasing 
demand  for  what  may  be  called  imaginative  aliments  and  stimulants  in 
literary  or  other  forms.  The  spreading  of  education  has  opened  up  a 
source  of  imaginative  recreation  to  the  masses,  and  they  are  not  slow 
to  take  advantage  of  it;  but  education  has  also  opened  up  to  them  other  de- 
partments of  literature,  and  the  fact  that  they  do  not  avail  themselves 
of  these  to  anj'thing  like  the  same  extent  shows,  I  think,  how  keen  the 
appetite  for  imaginative  literature  has  become. 

"  In  the  free  libraries  of  Birmingham  during  the  year  1888  there  were 
issued  to  readers  347,334  works  of  pure  fiction  and  20,634  works  of  poetry 
and  the  drama,  to  say  nothing  of  magazines  in  which  fiction  and  poetry 
bulk  most  largely  ;  while  in  the  same  year  there  were  issued  just  18,214 
works  on  theology  and  philosophy,  and  86,942  on  arts,  sciences,  and  natural 
history.  In  sober-minded  Scotland,  too,  the  thirst  for  imaginative  litera- 
ture has  become  generally  prevalent.  When  the  most  important  circulat- 
ing library  there  was  established  fifty  years  ago,  it  was  stated  in  the  pro- 
spectus that  novels  were,  with  rare  exceptions,  to  be  excluded  ;  and  now 
novels  constitute  63  per  cent,  of  the  whole  issue  of  that  library.  The  vast 
extension  of  the  habit  of  novel-reading  amongst  us  is  also  demonstrated  by 
an  observation  of  journalistic  literature. 

•'  That  the  demand  for  cheap  fiction  will  go  on  growing  can  scarcely  be 
doubted,  for  the  monotony  of  life,  which  the  division  of  labour  has  so 
greatly  aggravated,  the  aspirations  which  even  a  humble  education  serves  to 
implant,  and  the  increased  mental  friction  which  arises  from  the  aggregation 
of  masses  of  our  people  in  large  towns,  all  tend  to  whet  the  appetite  for  an 
imaginative  diet.  To  us  as  medical  men  it  is  interesting  to  remark  that 
this  appetite  is  most  urgent  in  spring,  when  nervous  erithism  exists,  and 
'  a  young  man's  fancy  lightly  turns  to  thoughts  of  love,'  and  is  least  press 
ing  in  autumn,  when  the  nervous  system  is  comparatively  quiescent.  In 
the  Birmingham  leading  libraries  the  issue  of  novels  reaches  its  maximum 
in  March — 32,796  were  issued  in  that  month  last  year — and  touches  its 
minimum  in  Aueust— 27,140  were  issued  in  that  month  in  1888 — a  differ- 
ence of  5,650  in  favour  of  March." — The  Timen. 


MONTHLY,     ONE    SHILLING. 


THE    TEMPLE    BAR    MAGAZINE. 

The  following  Stories  have  appeared  in  the  pages 
of  this  Magazine. 

The  S'aven  Sons  of  Mammon,  by  George  Augustus  Sala.  — For  Better,  for  Worse, 
by  Miss  Braddon.— Aurora  Floyd,  by  Miss  Braddon.— The  Adventures  of  Captain 
Dangerous,  by  George  Augustus  Sala.— The  Trials  of  the  Tredgolds.— John  March- 
mont's  Legacy,  by  Miss  Braddon.— Broken  to  Harness,  by  Edmund  Yates.— Paid  in 
Full,  by  H.  J.  Byron.— The  Doctor's  Wife,  by  l^iss  Braddon. -David  Chantrey,  by 
W.  G.  Wills,— Sir  Jasper's  Tenant,  by  Miss  Braddon— Land  at  Last,  by  Edmund 
Yates.— Archie  Lovell,  by  Mrs.  Annie  Edwardes.— Lady  Adelaide's  Oath,  by  Mrs.  Henry 
Wood.— A  Lost  Name,  by  J.  Sheridan  Le  Fanu.— Steven  Lawrence  :  Yeoman,  by  Mrs. 
Annie  Edwardes. —Kitty ,  by  M.  E.  Betham-Edwards.— Vera.— Red  as  a  Rose  is  She, 
by  Rhoda  Broughton.— Susan  Fielding,  by  Mrs.  Annie  Edwardes.— A  Race  for  a  Wife, 
by  Hawley  Smart.— The  Bird  Of  Passage,  by  J.  Sheridan  Le  Fanu.— His  Brother's 
Keeper,  by  Albany  de  Fonblanque.— The  Landlord  Of  the  Sun,  by  W.  Gilbert.--Good- 
hye.  Sweetheart!  by  Rhoda  Broughton.— Ought  We  to  Visit  Her?  by  Mrs.  Annie 
Edwardes.— The  Illustrious  Dr.  Mattheus,  by  MM.  Erckmann-Chatrian.— The  Wooing  o't, 
by  'Mrs.  Alexander.'— The  Deceased  Wife's  Sister,  by  'Sidney  Mostyn.'— The  New 
Magdalen,  by  Wilkie  Collins.— Uncle  John,  by  W.  Whyte-Melville.— A  Vagabond  Heroine, 
by  Mrs.  Annie  Edwardes.— My  Beautiful  Neighbour. —Leah :  A  Wom.an  of  Fashion,  by 
Mrs  Annie  Edwardes.— Patricia  Kemball,  by  Mrs.  Lynn  Linton.— Philip  Leigh.  -The 
Frozen  Deep,  by  Wilkie  Collins.— Bitter  Fruit,  by  A.  W.  Dubourg.—Lilith.— Ralph  Wilton's 
Weird,  by  'Mrs.  Alexander.'— The  Dream  Woman,  by  Wilkie  Collins.— Basil's  Faith,  by 
A.  W,  Dubourg.— The  American  Senator,  by  Anthony  TrollopjL— Her  Dearest  Foe,  by 
'Mrs.  Alexander.'— Vittoria  Contarini,  by  A.  W.  Dubourg.— Vbe  TWO  Destinies,  by 
Wilkie  Collins.— An  Old  Man's  Darling,  by  A.  W.  Dubourg.— jfcerry  Ripe  !  by  Helen 
Mathers.— A  Blue  Stocking,  by  Mrs.  Annie  Edwardes.— The  Owieal  of  Fay,  by  Mrs. 
Buxton.— The  'First  Violin,'  by  Jessie  Fothergill.— Two  Handsome  People,  Two  Jealous 
People,  and  a  Ring,  by  Miss  Lablache.— Jet,  her  Face  or  her  Fortune,  by  Mrs.  Annie 
Edwardes.— Auld  Robin  Gray,  by  Mrs.  Godfrey.— Probation,  by  Jessie  Fothergill.— 
Ebenezer,  by  C.  G.  Leland.— Vivian  the  Beauty,  by  Mrs.  Annie  Edwardes.— Oelia,  by 
Mrs.  Godtrey.— Adam  and  Eve,  by  Mrs.  Parr.— The  Portrait  Of  a  Painter,  by  Himself,  by 
Lady  Pollock.— A  Little  Bohemian,  by  Mrs.  Godfrey.— The  Rebel  Of  the  Family,  by  Mrs. 
Lynn  Linton.— Kith  and  Kin,  by  Jessie  Fothergill.— The  Freres,  by  '  Mrs.  Alexander.'— 
Marie  Dumont,  by  Lady  Pollock.— The  Beautiful  Miss  Roche,  by  Mrs.  Godfrey.— Wild 
Jack,  by  Lady  Margaret  Majendie. —Robin,  by  Mrs.  Parr.— A  Ball-room  Repentance, 
by  Mrs.  Annie  Edwardes. —Unspotted  from  the  World,  by  Mrs.  Godfrey.— Belinda, 
by  Rhoda  Broughton.— lone  Stewart,  by  Mrs.  Lynn  Linton.— Uncle  George's  Will.— 
A  Perilous  Secret,  by  Charles  Reade.— Mrs.  Forrester's  Secret,  by  Mrs.  Godfrey.— 
Peril,  by  Jessie  Fothergill.— Zero  :  A  Story  of  Monte  Carlo,  by  Mrs.  Campbell  Praed.— 
Mitre  Court,  by  Mrs.  Riddell.— A  Girton  Girl,  by  Mrs.  Annie  Edwardes.— A  Bachelor's 
Blunder,  by  W.  E.  Norris.— Put  Asunder,  by  Mrs.  Godfrey.— Paston  Carew,  Miser  and 
Millionaire,  by  Mrs.  Lynn  Linton.- Red  Spider,  by  the  Author  of  '  Mehalah,'  etc.— 
The  Danvers  Jewels.— The  Lady  with  the  Carnations,  by  Marie  Corel li.— Loyalty 
George,  by  Mrs.  Parr.— From  Moor  Isles,  by  Jessie  Fothergill.— The  Rogue,  by  W.  E. 
Norris.— A  Chronicle  of  Two  Months.— Paul's  Sister,  by  Frances  M.  Peard.— Sir  Charles 
Danvers,  by  the  Author  of  '  The  Danvers  Jewels.'— Alas !  by  Rhoda  Broughton.— Pearl 
Powder,  by  Mrs.  Annie  Edwardes.  —  Mr.  Chaine's  Sons,  by  W.  E.  Norris. —Those 
Westerton  Girls !  by  Florence  Warden.— Love  or  Money  ?  by*  Katharine  Lee  (Mrs. 
Jenner).— La  Bella,  by  Egerton  Castle.— Letters  Of  a  Worldly  Woman,  by  Mrs.  W.  K. 
Clifford. -The  Baron's  Quarry,  by  Egerton  Castle.— Mrs.  Bligh,  by  Rhoda  Broughton.— 
Aunt  Anne,  by  Mrs.  Clifford.  — God'S  Fool,  by  Maarten  Maartens.— The  Secret  Of  Wardale 
Court.— An  Interloper,  by  Frances  Mary  Peard.— The  Greater  Glory,  by  Maarten  Maartens. 
—The  Cremation  of  Colonel  Calverly,  by  Roger  Ayscough.— The  Beginner,  by  Rhoda 
Broughton.— Diana  Tempest,  by  Mary  Cholmondeley— Scylla  or  Charybdis,  by  Rhoda 
Broughton.— Lady  Jean's  Vagaries.— The  Adventuress,  by  Mrs.  Annie  Edwardes.— The 
Madonna  of  a  Day,  by  Lily  Dougall.— Limitations,  by  E.  F,  Benson.— The  Guests  of  the 
Wolfmaster,  by  Egerton  Castle.— A  Devotee,  by  Mary  Cholmondeley. 


RICHARD  BENTLEY  &  SON,  New  Burlington  Street,  London, 
IJuiliBhers  in  ©riiinatH  to  ^zx  ^ajestK  tlu  (Siu«n. 


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