CHAPTER XXXVI.
The frost goes, but so does not St. John. He hunts all day, and all thelong evenings lounges sedulously on the sofa beside Constance, tryingto feel affectionate: trying to make her talk--trying, metaphorically,to pull the string at his fine wax-doll's side, to make her say"Pap-pa" and "Mam-ma" prettily. "Since I am to spend my life with thiswoman," he says to himself, heavily, "I must try and make the best ofher."
And, alas! alas! the best is not very good. He is thirty now, and--theGerards are a long-lived, tough race--he may live till ninety. Heasks himself, now and then, in a sort of startled terror, is he tosee opposite him at breakfast, every day for the next sixty years,this carven face, changeless as the stone saints on the walls ofFelton Church? Of all the one-half of creation, is this unsuggestive,unresponsive, negative woman to be his sole portion? "It is hermisfortune that she is not a woman of science," as Mr. Shandy mildlyremarked of his wife, "but she _might_ ask a question." Strive as hemay against the conviction, the yoke that he has taken upon himselfin careless apathy has already begun to gall his withers. And yetit was not (as you may imagine) _pique_ that first made Gerard MissBlessington's lover. It was partly that numb indifference as toanything that might happen to him, that always follows a great blow,partly sheer weariness of his father's importunities upon the subjectof his marriage.
He is the last scion of a family that has come down in direct maleline from a Norman robber: if it be tersely predicated of him on histombstone that he died S. P., the Hall, and the lake, and the wide fatlands will go to some distant needy cousins, with whom Sir Thomas isat dagger's drawing, and for whom he cherishes a hatred livelier eventhan that which poachers, Irish beggars, and vulpecides inspire in hisgentle breast. The fact of his responsibilities has been chimed intoSt. John's ears till he is rather weary of it: he has been hearing itfor the last five-and-twenty years--ever since indeed, that solemn daywhen, petticoats being cast aside, he was invested with the viriledignity of round jacket and breeches.
"Why don't we cut off the entail?" he asks impatiently, one day,shortly after Esther's visit--a visit which has naturally given him agreater distaste for the subject than he had ever before experienced."You and I together can do it, cannot we, Sir Thomas, and leavethe property to the Foundling, or Hanwell, or to some hospital orpenitentiary, where it would do a deal more good, I don't doubt, thanit ever has in our hands?" But he does not mean it; his pride in theold house and the old name is as great, though not as offensivelyshown, as his father's.
"It's all your cursed selfishness," says his parent, strutting andfuming about, one morning, over the crimson and ash-coloured squares ofthe library carpet; puffing out his feathers, as it were, and beginningto gobble-obble. "You prefer your lazy, lounging club life, your Frenchchef, and d----d sybarite habits, to everything else under heaven;you don't reflect that, when a man has been given such advantages asyours, he owes corresponding duties to his country and his estate,and--and--and his _father_----" concludes Sir Thomas, rather at a lossfor a peroration.
St. John lifts his eyebrows almost imperceptibly at the last clause."If you like to look out for a wife for me," he says, flinginghimself indolently into an arm-chair, and speaking half-seriously,half-derisively, "and will engage to undertake all the bore of thepreliminaries--love-making, dancing attendance, etc.--I have noobjection to marrying, since the duty of continuing this illustriousrace has been perverse enough to devolve on me, who, God knows, am notambitious of perpetuating myself."
"Love-making!--pooh!" repeats Sir Thomas, contemptuously; "we need havenone of that rubbish; respect and esteem are a deal the best basis togo upon; that's what your mother and I began life with----"
"And have continued undiminished up to the present day," says St.John, with a slight sneer. "Well" (yawning), "if you can find, amongstthe wide range of your acquaintance, any young lady who is willing torespect and esteem me--which is not likely--or to respect and esteemFelton--which is more probable, and, after all, comes to much the samein the end--she may have the felicity of being your daughter-in-law,for all I shall do to hinder it: anything for a quiet life."
Sir Thomas turns his bright little fierce eyes sharply upon hisoffspring, prepared, at a moment's notice, to precipitate himself intoone of his blustering, sputtering, God damning rages if he detect theslightest sign of mirth or derision on the young man's face. But nonesuch is to be found; his downcast eyes are fixed with lazy interestupon his own substantial legs, stretched in black-and-crimson-ribbedstockings, straight before him. The ire of his parent's gaze ismitigated. "If you are in earnest," he says, surlily, "and notmaking a jest of this, as you mostly do of every serious subject,why--why--there's no use in going far afield for what one has ready toone's hand."
"Where?" asks St. John, thoroughly mystified by the Delphic obscurityof his papa's remark, looking vaguely round the room, out on theterrace, at the laughing, tumbling fountain, at the garden roller.
"Where?" repeats Sir Thomas, rather irritated at his son's obtuseness."Why, here! not five yards off! in this very house!" Then, seeinghim still look puzzled: "God bless my soul, sir! where are your witsto-day? How can you do better than Conny? That bit of land of hers downat Four Oaks dovetails into ours as neatly as possible; it seems as ifit were intended by Providence," ends Sir Thomas, piously.
St. John gives a long, low whistle. "Conny!" he repeats, in unfeignedsurprise. "I should as soon have thought of marrying my mother. Why, wehave been like brother and sister all our lives."
"Fiddlesticks!" says Sir Thomas, gruffly. "She is no more your sisterthan I am. When I was young, if people were born brothers and sistersthey called themselves so, and if they were not they did not. I hateyour adopted brother and sister and father and motherhoods."
"Conny!" ejaculates St. John, again, reflectively.
The idea is thoroughly new, certainly, but it does not altogetherdisplease him.
He is thinking of her approvingly, as the one woman whom, above allothers, it would be impossible for him to love. After all, it is nota wife for him that is required; God knows, he has no desire for suchan appendage; it is a mother for the heir to Felton that is wanted;and for that purpose she will do as well as another--better than most,indeed, being statelier, fairer, of better growth. If she can transmitto her progeny her own straight features, instead of Sir Thomas'sbottle nose, or St. John's long nondescript one, so much the better forthem.
"Well?" says Sir Thomas, impatiently, strutting up and down, with hishands under his green-coat tails.
"If she have no objection, neither have I; 'one woman is as good asanother, if not better,' as the Irishman said," answers the young man,indifferently. "Well, Sir Thomas," rising and looking excessivelybored, "I suppose I may go now, mayn't I? I promised Bellew to go downto the kennels with him, and as it is past twelve o'clock, I'm afraidmy bliss cannot well be consummated to-day."
He wants an heir, and she wants diamonds, and so the bargain is struck.
"She is good to look at, and she does not pretend to care two strawsabout me--both causes for special thankfulness," he says to himself,with a sort of sardonic philosophy, after his decisive interview withhis betrothed. "'On this day two years I married: Whom the Lord lovethHe chasteneth.' Will Byron's summary of wedded felicity be mine also?Probably. I suppose one may think oneself tolerably lucky nowadays ifone steer clear of Sir James Wilde, and if one's children do not bear avery striking resemblance to one's neighbour."
"And I know he's Mary's cousin; For my firstborn son and heir Much resembles that young guardsman, With the selfsame curly hair."
Meanwhile Esther's little holiday is succeeded by no others; it remainsone green oasis, with well and palm-trees, among long stretches ofshifting, blinding, desert sand. Mr. Linley, indeed, has been to call,and has been rewarded for his attention by a three-quarters-of-an-hour_tete-a-tete_ with Mrs. Blessington. Esther is aware of his presence;is visited, indeed, by a small and contemptible desire to go down andchat with the young
fellow; feels a weak craving for the touch of afriendly hand, for the greeting of admiring eyes and courteous words.But, being dimly conscious that the small acquaintance she has alreadyhad with him has made Gerard conceive an even worse opinion of her thanhe had before nourished, she restrains herself, in her great desire toprove to him that she is not the insatiable greedy coquette he falselythinks her; and stays upstairs in the cold, in her great bare barrack,curled up on the broad paintless window-seat, and vainly trying toread "Pamela"--the hairbreadth escapes from RUIN (in big letters), inthe shape of a handsome and generous master, of that most austerelyvirtuous and priggish of waiting-maids being one of the newest works offiction in the Blessington library.
And St. John hears of Linley's visit, and does not hear of Esther'slittle self-abnegation; and, too proud to ask any questions about thematter, pictures to himself soft _oeillades_, challenging smiles,hand-pressures, under the purblind eyes of the old lady, and, sopicturing, eats his heart out with a dumb gnawing jealousy.
One evening, in one of her late lonely saunters (Miss Blessington neveraccompanies her on her walks), Esther has strayed outside the parkpaling into the road, lured by the splendour of a great holly-bush,all afire with thousand clustered berries, amid the dark glister ofvarnished leaves. Now, although having well understood (as
"Johnny and his sister Jane, While walking down a shady lane,"
unfortunately for themselves, did not) that
"Fruit in lanes is seldom good,"
Esther has coveted those berries. Fond of bright colours as a childor a savage, she has been wrestling obstinately with the stouttough stems, and has come off ultimately victor, with only one veryconsiderable scratch, and several lesser ones on each bare hand. Thisspoil, robbed from niggard winter, will make the old rat palace at homeso bravely, warmly gay. As she strolls slowly along, considering hertreasures, the sound of a trotting horse on the road behind her reachesher ears. She turns, and sees a glimmer of scarlet flashing through themisty light. Is it St. John coming back from hunting? If St. John havea figure light and spare as a jockey's, have a large red moustache, anda small questioning _retrousse_ face, this is he; if he have not, thisis not he.
"How de-do, Miss Craven?" says Linley, throwing himself off his horse,and coming towards her with ready right hand heartily outstretched."Could not imagine who you were. I thought, perhaps, you were thespirit of a departed Blessington, and as I am rather nervous, andfrightened out of my wits at ghosts, I had half a mind to turn andflee."
"Only curiosity got the better of fear," she says, smiling up at him,or rather down on him, through the steaming January evening; "youthought I might prove human, after all?"
"Why did not you come and see me the other day when I came to call uponyou?" he asks, walking along beside her; "I believe you were at homeall the time." In his heart he does not in the least believe it.
She does not answer; but, without thinking of what she is doing, picksoff the berries, the procuring of which had cost her so many wounds,and strews them along the road.
"Were you _really_ at home?" he repeats, a misgiving as to such havingbeen the case crossing his mind, and giving his vanity a slight prick.
"Yes, I was."
"And knew I was there all the time?"
"Yes."
"A prey to Mrs. Blessington----?"
"Yes."
"And never came to my rescue?"
"Did you expect the butler and housekeeper to come and entertain you?"she asks, a little bitterly. "Have you forgotten what I told you theother day--that I am Mrs. Blessington's _valet?_ I have as littleconcern with her visitors as the kitchen-maids have."
"But I was not _her_ visitor," objects the young fellow, stoutly--"atleast" (laughing) "I _was_, but Heaven knows I did not mean to be!However, 'God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb,' and I obtained agreat deal of information gratis upon a subject on which I really neverhad reflected as seriously as, it appears, I ought to have done----"
"Draughts and sandbags! I know what you are going to say," interruptsEsther, breaking into a childish lighthearted laugh. "We do hear agreat deal about them; but I don't mind now; I'm used to it. I fallinto a sort of waking trance when the subject is first broached, andsay 'Yes' and 'No,' and 'H'm' and 'Oh,' at stated intervals; it doesjust as well as listening all through."
Linley laughs too. He is always glad of an excuse for laughing. Lifehas been to him as yet only laughable or smileable.
"Not a bad plan," ha says, commendingly; "but, really now, I flatteredmyself I struck out one or two very original thoughts on the subjectof sash-windows; I said several rather brilliant things, only she didnot seem to see them. I hoped she would have found my conversation soimproving that she would have asked me to come again; but she did notdo anything of the kind."
"They never ask anybody to Blessington," says Esther, feeling thestring of her tongue loosed, and experiencing, despite herself, greatenjoyment in having some one to chatter to, at whom it is not necessaryto bawl, and who does not answer her monosyllabically with _fade_chilly smiles. "They are too old to care for society; like Barzillaithe Gileadite, they cannot hear any more 'the voice of singing menand singing women.' They have the clergyman and his wife to dine onChristmas Day, and there their gaiety for the year begins and ends."
"And yours too?"
"And mine too. But I don't wish for gaiety," she answers, gravely, withan involuntary glance at her crape, which has grown very brown, andrusty, and shabby genteel.
"It must be an awful fate being shut up with those two old mummies,"says Linley, compassionately, his pity for Miss Craven made vivid byhis personal recollections of Mrs. Blessington's conversational power."I had rather live in a lighthouse, or sweep a crossing, by long odds."
"So would I," she answers, drily, "if any one would set on foot asubscription to buy me a broom."
"You have Miss Blessington now as a companion, at all events," rejoinshe, glad to fix on any bright spot in his poor new acquaintance'smud-coloured life.
"Yes; she is pleasant to look at."
"And to talk to."
"She never talks."
"And Gerard? He is not particularly pleasant to look at, certainly----"
"Not particularly," she assents; feeling a hot glow steal all over her,as at an insult to herself.
"But when he is not in one of his sulks, as he was the other day--doyou remember?--he is not a bad fellow, as fellows go."
"Isn't he?"
He looks at her with surprise. "Why, surely, living in the same housewith him, you ought to know him, at least as well as I do?"
"I never speak to him, and he never speaks to me," she answers, shortly.
Linley bursts out laughing. "Good heavens! what a horrible picture youdraw! You remind one of Mr. Watts's pretty little hymn--
"'Where'er I take my walks abroad How many poor I see! And as I never speaks to them They never speak to me.'"
Esther laughs; but anyone listening might have heard a melancholy ringin her merriment.
"Does _nobody_ speak to _anybody_ then at Blessington?" asks the youngman, aghast at the state of things as revealed by his companion'sanswers.
"Mr. Blessington roars at Mrs. Blessington, and Mrs. Blessington roarsat Mr. Blessington, and I roar at them both."
"And the other two--do not they speak?"
"We are, none of us, much addicted to conversation," she answers,grimly; "but, _en revanche_, what we do say we say very loud."
"Are you _all_ deaf, then?"
"No; but when one lives with deaf people, one gets into the habitof thinking that the whole world is hard of hearing; one bawls ateveryone."
"What an exhausting process!" he says, with a shrug; "takes a greatdeal out of you, doesn't it?"
"A good deal; lately, I have generally ended the day without any voiceat all. I don't mind making short remarks at the top of my voice, butshouting out six columns of the _Times_, as is daily my pleasing task,is rather fatiguing."
/>
"How inhuman of them to allow you!" he cries, indignantly, lookingat the slender, fragile figure, at the childish face--so appealing,so touching in its utter paleness, now that he sees it without thetemporary rose-flush of excitement.
"Not at all," she answers, simply; "they pay me for it."
"It would require very high pay to indemnify any one for the sacrificeof the best years of their lives to those two old fossils; I thoughtI was entitled to something considerable for standing the old womanfor three-quarters of an hour the other day without uttering a groan,"answers the young man, more seriously than he generally takes thetrouble of saying anything.
"My pay is fifty pounds a year," she answers, frankly, "if you callthat high."
Fifty pounds! It would not find him in cigars. He has thrown away fivetimes that sum, before now, at lansquenet at one sitting.
Involuntarily his thoughts glance back over his own life--theluxurious sybarite life in which, hitherto, the heaviest misfortuneshave been a too-prolonged frost, a disease among the grouse, the comingin second at a steeplechase, or the pressure of a heavy helmet on hisforehead when on duty on a hot summer afternoon. Involuntarily, hecompares this life of his with the existence of the slight frail childbeside him: but the comparison is disagreeable, and so he stifles it,as he always stifles, on principle, every painful thought, as a sinagainst his religion of ease.
"Fifty pounds!--what a pittance!" he ejaculates.
"Do you think so?" she answers, surprised. "I think it is a good deal.Considering that they find me in food and lodging, and that I do forthem only what any charity-school boy could do nearly as well, it issurely enough."
Her companion differs widely in opinion from her, but
"When ignorance is bliss 'Tis folly to be wise;"
and reflecting that it is fortunate that she is satisfied, on whateverinsufficient grounds her satisfaction rests, he drops the subject, andcontinues his catechism on a different head.
"Have you no amusement of any kind_--none?_"
"Oh dear, yes! We drive into Shelford every day in a close carriage,with all the windows up."
"Terrific! And what do you do when you get there?"
"We come back again."
"And have you no visitors? Does no one ever come to call?"
"Yes; you came the other day."
"And am I a solitary instance of would-be sociability?"
"Not quite. Mr. Blessington gets into a panic about himself, sometimes,and thinks that he is drawing near his latter end; and he bids us allgood-bye; and _he_ cries, and _we_ cry, and then Mr. Brand, the doctor,comes and reassures us."
"I had no idea that there was anything the matter with the oldgentleman."
"No more there is. He has no more idea of dying _really_ than you have;less, probably. You may break your neck out hunting, and he cannotwell break his out of his armchair. When a person has got into such aconfirmed habit of living as he has," she concludes, drily, "they findit extremely difficult to break themselves of it."
He smiles.
"After all," she continues, thoughtfully, "since it is wear-and-tearof mind, brain and heart-work, that drives people to the churchyard, Idon't see any reason why mere sleeping and eating machines should notgo on for ever."
It would be impossible to imagine a more innocent dialogue than theforegoing, would not it? But the interlocutors have involuntarilyfallen into a very gentle saunter, as two people that, finding eachother's society agreeable, are in no haste to part. With his horse'sbridle carelessly thrown over his arm, a small muddy scarlet gentlemanstrolls along with his face turned with interest towards his companion,who is chattering away to him freely and readily--not as having anyparticular partiality for him, but as being something young, friendly,compassionate.
This is the picture--invested by twilight with an air of mystery thatit would not have worn in daylight--that salutes the eyes of a secondand larger scarlet gentleman, splashing home through the puddles ona tired horse. As he passes them, Gerard (for it is he) pulls up hishorse into a walk, for he would not have the incivility to cover anywoman with dirt, even though the woman in question be a vile greedycoquette, to whose insatiable vanity all men are meat. Then, raisinghis hat stiffly, he rides on without speaking. As he trots homewardthrough the dusk, the thought flashes into his writhing heart: "It wasan assignation! She arranged it with him on the day he came to call.Damnable flirt! Is not she satisfied with _two_ ruined lives? Is shefool enough to think that Linley will marry her? A nice time of nightfor a respectable young woman to be out walking with a man she has onlyseen twice in her life! And I heard her tell Mrs. Blessington the otherday that she never went outside the park-gates! Liar! What man was everdeep enough to be up to a woman's tricks? She'll go to the dogs, assure as fate, if she is left to herself! Pshaw! I daresay she knows theway there already. She is _so_ young; shall I warn her? Shall I speakto her? Not I. Thank God, it is no business of mine!"
"Gerard!" says Linley, as, having passed them, he strikes into a brisktrot--looking as if he were going to his own funeral, and just about tojoin the _cortege_. "Certainly being in love don't improve him; he isnot half the fellow he was last season."
But Esther, in the moment of his passing them, had caught a glimpse ofthe eager white anger of his face, and she hardly hears. "I'm afraidMr. Gerard thought it odd my being out so late," she says, tremblingwith recollected fear of those altered, wrathful eyes.
"Well, and if he did?" cries Linley, impatiently.
"It _is_ very late," she says, looking round into the dusk; "it mustbe, by the light. I never noticed how dark it has grown since youovertook me."
"It is no darker than it was before Gerard passed us," he answers,rather nettled.
"No, but--"
"Why, how scared you look!" he interrupts her. "You don't mean to sayyou are _afraid_ of him?" (incredulously.) "If I were you, I don'tthink I should pay much deference to the opinion of a person who, asyou say, never has the civility even to speak to you."
She is silent.
"It is the authority of his eye that awes you, I suppose?" says theyoung man, vexed and sneering:--
"'An eye like Mars', to threaten and command.'
"_Threaten!_ Yes--I can testify to that!"
Hearing his words, Esther recovers her self-possession, and speakswith some dignity: "You are quite wrong. Mr. Gerard's opinion has noinfluence whatever on my sayings or doings; it would be very ridiculousif it had. It was merely that his look of surprise reminded me of whatI ought to have recollected without reminding, that I _should_ havebeen home an hour ago."
"Wanted again, I suppose?" says the young man, with the air of anaggrieved person. "I wish you were not in quite such request; you arealways being wanted."
"There is a stile close here," says Esther, evidently in a hurry to beoff; "if I cross it, and make a short-cut across the park, I shall behome twenty minutes sooner than if I went by the road. Good-bye."
"Good-bye," he says, reluctantly. "I'm not a bloodthirsty fellowgenerally, but I wish that Gerard had broken his neck over thatbullfinch that he came to grief over to-day, before he had come pokinghis ugly nose here, where nobody wanted him; at least I did not, and,to judge by your face, neither did you. Well! when are we to meetagain, I wonder?"
"Never!--some time or other--soon!" answers Esther, hastily andcontradictorily, running up the gamut of adverbs in search of the onemost likely to obtain her release. Having gained that object, she jumpsover the stile, and disappears into a sea of mist.
Meanwhile St. John, having arrived at Blessington, and given up hishorse to a groom, enters the house; but the confinement of roof andwalls is insupportable to him. So he goes out again, and, walking upthe avenue, stations himself at the gate. There, resting his arms onthe topmost bar, he stands, straining his eyes down the road by whichhe expects to see Esther and her companion make their appearance.
"They will defer their parting to the last moment--that is of course,"he says to himself, in his
lonely pain. "Well," taking out his watchand minuting them, in order to drink the cup of his jealous misery tothe dregs, "it is not more than a mile and a half from here to theplace where I passed them; let us see how long a time they will manageto be in doing the distance."
He has not long to wait. Before five minutes are over he hears thesound of a horse's feet. "Linley must not see him watching them," hethinks, with a sort of shame at himself, and so steps back into theshade of a great tree.
Linley rides by _alone_. His face is turned towards the house, in whosegreat black facade the lighted windows make oblong-shaped red glories;his eyes are trying to fix upon Esther's casement. Of course he hitsupon the wrong one, and directs his sentimental gaze towards theapartment where, with wig off and teeth out, Mrs. Blessington, aided byher maid, is slowly moving through the stages of her dinner toilette.
"She must have taken the short-cut across the park," thinks Gerard,with a sense of unwilling relief. "Afraid of my telling tales of herescapade, I suppose."
He retraces his steps down the avenue, and, following a back road thatskirts the kitchen-garden, reaches another gate that leads into thepark, and there stands and waits again.
The short-cut has proved rather a long one. Part of the park hasbeen fenced off, to keep the deer and the Scotch cattle separate; agate which she had reckoned upon finding open, she discovers to bepadlocked, and has to make a long circuit round to another gate.
As she toils weary-footed through the wet grass, vague alarms assailhim that watches for her. Can any evil have come to her in thedarkness? Most improbably in that still, safe park. After a while, andwhen his reasonless fears are beginning to gather more strongly abouthis heart, he hears the sound as of some one running pantingly. Estheris not so good at running as she was in the old Glan-yr-Afon days. Shehas been flying along in hot haste, with a mixed fear of Scotch bullsand goblins in pursuit. As she approaches the gate, Gerard opens it forher. Seeing it swing open without any apparent cause, she gives a greatnervous start; then, discovering the motive cause of the phenomenon,drops into a walk.
"It is rather late, Mr. Gerard, I'm afraid, isn't it so?" she asks,with some hesitation at this disobedience to his command of silence.And yet, surely, if he had meant not to speak to her, he would not havecome thither.
Two speech-gifted human beings could hardly be expected to meet withless civility than two pigs, who would at least exchange a grunt.
He looks at his watch again. "It is ten minutes to six," he replieswith punctilious politeness.
"Is it _really?_ I had no idea how the time went," she says,apologetically, "until your look of--of--_surprise_ reminded me."
The line of defence she has hit upon is unlucky.
"Really!" he answers, stiffly.
"I had not noticed how the light had gone, nor anything about thematter," she continues, innocently, floundering at every word intodeeper disgrace.
"I daresay not," he replies, freezingly.
She had addressed him, penitent and humble, willing to take a scoldingin all submissiveness, but the chill brevity of his answers turns hermeekness to gall.
"When one is in pleasant company," she remarks, with a ratherhysterical laugh, "one forgets the flight of time."
"Undoubtedly," replies Gerard, endeavouring to conceal his anger underan appearance of calmness, and unable to manage more than one word at atime.
"If one has not taken a vow of perpetual silence, it is a great reliefto have a little conversation with a person who is neither _deaf_ nor_dumb_," she says, emboldened by exasperation.
"An immense relief, no doubt," he answers, in deep displeasure."And yet, if you will allow me," he continues, unable to resist thetemptation to lecture her--"who am so much older than you, and can haveno interest in the matter but your own advantage--to give an opinion, Ishould recommend your choosing a fitter time of day for your meetings,even with so desirable and congenial a companion as Mr. Linley."
"Beggars must not be choosers," she answers, sulkily. "You seem toforget how very small a portion of the day I have at my own disposal."
He draws himself up to his full height, and a stern expression makeshis lip thin. "I was right," he says internally; "it was no accident!"Then aloud: "I apologise, Miss Craven, for interfering in your affairs,in which, God knows, I have small concern. I only thought that, as youare so young, you might not be aware that _nocturnal_ walks with a manof Linley's character are not advantageous to any woman's reputation."
"I know nothing about his character," retorts she, defiantly; "Idaresay it is as good as other people's. All I know is, that he isvery kind and civil to me, which is what nobody else is nowadays."
Then, to avoid the disgrace of seeming to court his compassionby tears, she darts from his side, and rushes to that harbour ofrefuge--her great, bare sleeping-chamber.