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 A TRUE FRIEND.

A NOVEL.

BY ADELINE SERGEANT

Author of "The Luck of the House," "A Life Sentence," etc., etc.

MONTREAL:
JOHN LOVELL & SON,
23 ST. NICHOLAS STREET.

A TRUE FRIEND

CHAPTER I.
AN UNSUITABLE FRIENDSHIP.
Janetta was the music governess—a brown little thing of no particular
importance, and Margaret Adair was a beauty and an heiress, and the
only daughter of people who thought themselves very distinguished
indeed; so that the two had not, you might think, very much in
common, and were not likely to be attracted one to the other. Yet, in
spite of differing circumstances, they were close friends and allies;
and had been such ever since they were together at the same
fashionable school where Miss Adair was the petted favorite of all,
and Janetta Colwyn was the pupil-teacher in the shabbiest of frocks,
who got all the snubbing and did most of the hard work. And great
offence was given in several directions by Miss Adair's attachment to
poor little Janetta.
"It is an unsuitable friendship," Miss Polehampton, the principal of
the school, observed on more than one occasion, "and I am sure I do
not know how Lady Caroline will like it."
Lady Caroline was, of course, Margaret Adair's mamma.
Miss Polehampton felt her responsibility so keenly in the matter that
at last she resolved to speak "very seriously" to her dear Margaret.
She always talked of "her dear Margaret," Janetta used to say, when
she was going to make herself particularly disagreeable. For "her dear
Margaret" was the pet pupil, the show pupil of the establishment: her

air of perfect breeding gave distinction, Miss Polehampton thought,
to the whole school; and her refinement, her exemplary behavior, her
industry, and her talent formed the theme of many a lecture to less
accomplished and less decorous pupils. For, contrary to all
conventional expectations, Margaret Adair was not stupid, although
she was beautiful and well-behaved. She was an exceedingly
intelligent girl; she had an aptitude for several arts and
accomplishments, and she was remarkable for the delicacy of her
taste and the exquisite discrimination of which she sometimes showed
herself capable. At the same time she was not as clever—("not
as glaringly clever," a friend of hers once expressed it)—as little
Janetta Colwyn, whose nimble wits gathered knowledge as a bee
collects honey under the most unfavorable circumstances. Janetta had
to learn her lessons when the other girls had gone to bed, in a little
room under the roof; a room which was like an ice-house in winter
and an oven in summer; she was never able to be in time for her
classes, and she often missed them altogether; but, in spite of these
disadvantages, she generally proved herself the most advanced pupil
in her division, and if pupil-teachers had been allowed to take prizes,
would have carried off every first prize in the school. This, to be sure,
was not allowed. It would not have been "the thing" for the little
governess-pupil to take away the prizes from the girls whose parents
paid between two and three hundred a year for their tuition (the fees
were high, because Miss Polehampton's school was so exceedingly
fashionable); therefore, Janetta's marks were not counted, and her
exercises were put aside and did not come into competition with those
of the other girls, and it was generally understood amongst the
teachers that, if you wished to stand well with Miss Polehampton, it

would be better not to praise Miss Colwyn, but rather to put forward
the merits of some charming Lady Mary or Honorable Adeliza, and
leave Janetta in the obscurity from which (according to Miss
Polehampton) she was fated never to emerge.
Unfortunately for the purposes of the mistress of the school, Janetta
was rather a favorite with the girls. She was not adored, like Margaret;
she was not looked up to and respected, as was the Honorable Edith
Gore; she was nobody's pet, as the little Ladies Blanche and Rose
Amberley had been ever since they set foot in the school; but she was
everybody's friend and comrade, the recipient of everybody's
confidences, the sharer in everybody's joys or woes. The fact was that
Janetta had the inestimable gift of sympathy; she understood the
difficulties of people around her better than many women of twice
her age would have done; and she was so bright and sunny-tempered
and quick-witted that her very presence in a room was enough to
dispel gloom and ill-temper. She was, therefore, deservedly popular,
and did more to keep up the character of Miss Polehampton's school
for comfort and cheerfulness than Miss Polehampton herself was ever
likely to be aware. And the girl most devoted to Janetta was Margaret
Adair.
"Remain for a few moments, Margaret; I wish to speak to you," said
Miss Polehampton, majestically, when one evening, directly after
prayers, the show pupil advanced to bid her teachers good-night.
The girls all sat round the room on wooden chairs, and Miss
Polehampton occupied a high-backed, cushioned seat at a centre table
while she read the portion of Scripture with which the day's work
concluded. Near her sat the governesses, English, French and

German, with little Janetta bringing up the rear in the draughtiest
place and the most uncomfortable chair. After prayers, Miss
Polehampton and the teachers rose, and their pupils came to bid them
good-night, offering hand and cheek to each in turn. There was
always a great deal of kissing to be got through on these occasions.
Miss Polehampton blandly insisted on kissing all her thirty pupils
every evening; it made them feel more as if they were at home, she
used to say; and her example was, of course, followed by the teachers
and the girls.
Margaret Adair, as one of the oldest and tallest girls in the school,
generally came forward first for that evening salute. When Miss
Polehampton made the observation just recorded, she stepped back to
a position beside her teacher's chair in the demure attitude of a wellbehaved schoolgirl—hands crossed over the wrists, feet in position,
head and shoulders carefully erect, and eyes gently lowered towards
the carpet. Thus standing, she was yet perfectly well aware that
Janetta Colwyn gave her an odd, impish little look of mingled fun and
anxiety behind Miss Polehampton's back; for it was generally known
that a lecture was impending when one of the girls was detained after
prayers, and it was very unusual for Margaret to be lectured! Miss
Adair did not, however, look discomposed. A momentary smile
flitted across her face at Janetta's tiny grimace, but it was instantly
succeeded by the look of simple gravity becoming to the occasion.
When the last of the pupils and the last also of the teachers had filed
out of the room, Miss Polehampton turned and surveyed the waiting
girl with some uncertainty. She was really fond of Margaret Adair.
Not only did she bring credit to the school, but she was a good, nice,
lady-like girl (such were Miss Polehampton's epithets), and very fair

to look upon. Margaret was tall, slender, and exceedingly graceful in
her movements; she was delicately fair, and had hair of the silkiest
texture and palest gold; her eyes, however, were not blue, as one
would have expected them to be; they were hazel brown, and veiled
by long brown lashes—eyes of melting softness and dreaminess,
peculiarly sweet in expression. Her features were a very little too long
and thin for perfect beauty; but they gave her a Madonna-like look of
peace and calm which many were ready enthusiastically to admire.
And there was no want of expression in her face; its faint rose bloom
varied almost at a word, and the thin curved lips were as sensitive to
feeling as could be desired. What was wanting in the face was what
gave it its peculiar maidenly charm—a lack of passion, a little lack,
perhaps, of strength. But at seventeen we look less for these
characteristics than for the sweetness and docility which Margaret
certainly possessed. Her dress of soft, white muslin was quite
simple—the ideal dress for a young girl—and yet it was so beautifully
made, so perfectly finished in every detail, that Miss Polehampton
never looked at it without an uneasy feeling that she was too welldressed for a schoolgirl. Others wore muslin dresses of apparently the
same cut and texture; but what the casual eye might fail to observe,
the schoolmistress was perfectly well aware of, namely, that the tiny
frills at neck and wrists were of the costliest Mechlin lace, that the
hem of the dress was bordered with the same material, as if it had
been the commonest of things; that the embroidered white ribbons
with which it was trimmed had been woven in France especially for
Miss Adair, and that the little silver buckles at her waist and on her
shoes were so ancient and beautiful as to be of almost historic
importance. The effect was that of simplicity; but it was the costly

simplicity of absolute perfection. Margaret's mother was never
content unless her child was clothed from head to foot in materials of
the softest, finest and best. It was a sort of outward symbol of what
she desired for the girl in all relations of life.
This it was that disturbed Miss Polehampton's mind as she stood and
looked uneasily for a moment at Margaret Adair. Then she took the
girl by the hand.
"Sit down, my dear," she said, in a kind voice, "and let me talk to you
for a few moments. I hope you are not tired with standing so long."
"Oh, no, thank you; not at all," Margaret answered, blushing slightly
as she took a seat at Miss Polehampton's left hand. She was more
intimidated by this unwonted kindness of address than by any
imaginable severity. The schoolmistress was tall and imposing in
appearance: her manner was usually a little pompous, and it did not
seem quite natural to Margaret that she should speak so gently.
"My dear," said Miss Polehampton, "when your dear mamma gave
you into my charge, I am sure she considered me responsible for the
influences under which you were brought, and the friendships that
you made under my roof."
"Mamma knew that I could not be hurt by any friendship that I
made here," said Margaret, with the softest flattery. She was quite
sincere: it was natural to her to say "pretty things" to people.
"Quite so," the schoolmistress admitted. "Quite so, dear Margaret, if
you keep within your own grade in society. There is no pupil in this
establishment, I am thankful to say, who is not of suitable family and
prospects to become your friend. You are young yet, and do not

understand the complications in which people sometimes involve
themselves by making friendships out of their own sphere.
But I understand, and I wish to caution you."
"I am not aware that I have made any unsuitable friendships," said
Margaret, with a rather proud look in her hazel eyes.
"Well—no, I hope not," said Miss Polehampton with a hesitating little
cough. "You understand, my dear, that in an establishment like mine,
persons must be employed to do certain work who are not quite equal
in position to—to—ourselves. Persons of inferior birth and station, I
mean, to whom the care of the younger girls, and certain menial
duties, must be committed. These persons, my dear, with whom you
must necessarily be brought in contact, and whom I hope you will
always treat with perfect courtesy and consideration, need not, at the
same time, be made your intimate friends."
"I have never made friends with any of the servants," said Margaret,
quietly. Miss Polehampton was somewhat irritated by this remark.
"I do not allude to the servants," she said with momentary sharpness.
"I do not consider Miss Colwyn a servant, or I should not, of course,
allow her to sit at the same table with you. But there is a sort of
familiarity of which I do not altogether approve——"
She paused, and Margaret drew up her head and spoke with unusual
decision.
"Miss Colwyn is my greatest friend."
"Yes, my dear, that is what I complain of. Could you not find a friend
in your own rank of life without making one of Miss Colwyn?"

"She is quite as good as I am," cried Margaret, indignantly. "Quite as
good, far more so, and a great deal cleverer!"
"She has capabilities," said the schoolmistress, with the air of one
making a concession; "and I hope that they will be useful to her in her
calling. She will probably become a nursery governess, or companion
to some lady of superior position. But I cannot believe, my dear that
dear Lady Caroline would approve of your singling her out as your
especial and particular friend."
"I am sure mamma always likes people who are good and clever,"
said Margaret. She did not fly into a rage as some girls would have
done, but her face flushed, and her breath came more quickly than
usual—signs of great excitement on her part, which Miss
Polehampton was not slow to observe.
"She likes them in their proper station, my dear. This friendship is not
improving for you, nor for Miss Colwyn. Your positions in life are so
different that your notice of her can but cause discontent and illfeeling in her mind. It is exceedingly injudicious, and I cannot think
that your dear mamma would approve of it if she knew the
circumstances."
"But Janetta's family is not at all badly connected," said Margaret,
with some eagerness. "There are cousins of hers living close to us—
the next property belongs to them——"
"Do you know them, my dear?"
"I know about them," answered Margaret, suddenly coloring very
deeply, and looking uncomfortable, "but I don't think I have ever seen
them, they are so much away from home——"

"I know about them, too," said Miss Polehampton, grimly; "and I do
not think that you will ever advance Miss Colwyn's interests by
mentioning her connection with that family. I have heard Lady
Caroline speak of Mrs. Brand and her children. They are not people,
my dear Margaret, whom it is desirable for you to know."
"But Janetta's own people live quite near us," said Margaret, reduced
to a very pleading tone. "I know them at home; they live at
Beaminster—not three miles off."
"And may I ask if Lady Caroline visits them, my dear?" asked Miss
Polehampton, with mild sarcasm, which brought the color again to
Margaret's fair face. The girl could not answer; she knew well enough
that Janetta's stepmother was not at all the sort of person whom Lady
Caroline Adair would willingly speak to, and yet she did not like to
say that her acquaintance with Janetta had only been made at a
Beaminster dancing class. Probably Miss Polehampton divined the
fact. "Under the circumstances," she said, "I think I should be justified
in writing to Lady Caroline and asking her to remonstrate a little with
you, my dear Margaret. Probably she would be better able to make
you understand the impropriety of your behavior than I can do."
The tears rose to Margaret's eyes. She was not used to being rebuked
in this manner.
"But—I don't know, Miss Polehampton, what you want me to do,"
she said, more nervously than usual. "I can't give up Janetta; I can't
possibly avoid speaking to her, you know, even if I wanted to——"
"I desire nothing of the sort, Margaret. Be kind and polite to her, as
usual. But let me suggest that you do not make a companion of her in

the garden so constantly—that you do not try to sit beside her in class
or look over the same book. I will speak to Miss Colwyn herself about
it. I think I can make her understand."
"Oh, please do not speak to Janetta! I quite understand already," said
Margaret, growing pale with distress. "You do not know how kind
and good she has always been to me——"
Sobs choked her utterance, rather to Miss Polehampton's alarm. She
did not like to see her girls cry—least of all, Margaret Adair.
"My dear, you have no need to excite yourself. Janetta Colwyn has
always been treated, I hope, with justice and kindness in this house.
If you will endeavor only to make her position in life less instead of
more difficult, you will be doing her the greatest favor in your power.
I do not at all mean that I wish you to be unkind to her. A little more
reserve, a little more caution, in your demeanor, and you will be all
that I have ever wished you to be—a credit to your parents and to the
school which has educated you!"
This sentiment was so effusive that it stopped Margaret's tears out of
sheer amazement; and when she had said good-night and gone to bed,
Miss Polehampton stood for a moment or two quite still, as if to
recover from the unwonted exertion of expressing an affectionate
emotion. It was perhaps a reaction against it that caused her almost
immediately to ring the bell a trifle sharply, and to say—still
sharply—to the maid who appeared in answer.
"Send Miss Colwyn to me."
Five minutes elapsed before Miss Colwyn came, however, and the
schoolmistress had had time to grow impatient.

"Why did you not come at once when I sent for you?" she said,
severely, as soon as Janetta presented herself.
"I was going to bed," said the girl, quickly; "and I had to dress myself
again."
The short, decided accents grated on Miss Polehampton's ear. Miss
Colwyn did not speak half so "nicely," she said to herself, as did dear
Margaret Adair.
"I have been talking to Miss Adair about you," said the
schoolmistress, coldly. "I have been telling her, as I now tell you, that
the difference in your positions makes your present intimacy very
undesirable. I wish you to understand, henceforward, that Miss Adair
is not to walk with you in the garden, not to sit beside you in class,
not to associate with you, as she has hitherto done, on equal terms."
"Why should we not associate on equal terms?" said Janetta. She was
a black-browed girl, with a clear olive skin, and her eyes flashed and
her cheeks glowed with indignation as she spoke.
"You are not equals," said Miss Polehampton, with icy displeasure in
her tone—she had spoken very differently to Margaret. "You have to
work for your bread: there is no disgrace in that, but it puts you on a
different level from that of Miss Margaret Adair, an earl's granddaughter, and the only child of one of the richest commoners in
England. I have never before reminded you of the difference in
position between yourself and the young ladies with whom you have
hitherto been allowed to associate; and I really think I shall have to
adopt another method—unless you conduct yourself, Miss Colwyn,
with a little more modesty and propriety."

"May I ask what your other method would be?" asked Miss Colwyn,
with perfect self-possession.
Miss Polehampton looked at her for a moment in silence.
"To begin with," she said, "I could order the meals differently, and
request you to take yours with the younger children, and in other ways
cut you off from the society of the young ladies. And if this failed, I
could signify to your father that our arrangement was not satisfactory,
and that it had better end at the close of this term."
Janetta's eyes fell and her color faded as she heard this threat. It meant
a good deal to her. She answered quickly, but with some nervousness
of tone.
"Of course, that must be as you please, Miss Polehampton. If I do not
satisfy you, I must go."
"You satisfy me very well except in that one respect. However, I do
not ask for any promise from you now. I shall observe your conduct
during the next few days, and be guided by what I see. I have already
spoken to Miss Adair."
Janetta bit her lips. After a pause, she said—
"Is that all? May I go now?"
"You may go," said Miss Polehampton, with majesty; and Janetta
softly and slowly retired.
But as soon as she was outside the door her demeanor changed. She
burst into tears as she sped swiftly up the broad staircase, and her eyes
were so blinded that she did not even see a white figure hovering on
the landing until she found herself suddenly in Margaret's arms. In

defiance of all rules—disobedient for nearly the first time in her life—
Margaret had waited and watched for Janetta's coming; and now,
clasped as closely together as sisters, the two friends held a whispered
colloquy on the stairs.
"Darling," said Margaret, "was she very unkind?"
"She was very horrid, but I suppose she couldn't help it," said Janetta,
with a little laugh mixing itself with her sobs. "We mustn't be friends
any more, Margaret."
"But we will be friends—always, Janetta."
"We must not sit together or walk together——"
"Janetta, I shall behave to you exactly as I have always done." The
gentle Margaret was in revolt.
"She will write to your mother, Margaret, and to my father."
"I shall write to mine, too, and explain," said Margaret with dignity.
And Janetta had not the heart to whisper to her friend that the tone in
which Miss Polehampton would write to Lady Caroline would differ
very widely from the one that she would adopt to Mr. Colwyn.

CHAPTER II.
LADY CAROLINE'S TACTICS.
Helmsley Court was generally considered one of the prettiest houses
about Beaminster; a place which was rich in pretty houses, being a
Cathedral town situated in one of the most beautiful southern counties
of England. The village of Helmsley was a picturesque little group of
black and white cottages, with gardens full of old-fashioned flowers
before them and meadows and woods behind. Helmsley Court was on
slightly higher ground than the village, and its windows commanded
an extensive view of lovely country bounded in the distance by a long
low range of blue hills, beyond which, in clear days, it was said, keen
eyes could catch a glimpse of the shining sea. The house itself was a
very fine old building, with a long terrace stretching before its lower
windows, and flower gardens which were the admiration of half the
county. It had a picture gallery and a magnificent hall with polished
floor and stained windows, and all the accessories of an antique and
celebrated mansion; and it had also all the comfort and luxury that
modern civilization could procure.
It was this latter characteristic that made "the Court," as it was
commonly called, so popular. Picturesque old houses are sometimes
draughty and inconvenient, but no such defects were ever allowed to
exist at the Court. Every thing went smoothly: the servants were
perfectly trained: the latest improvements possible were always

introduced: the house was ideally luxurious. There never seemed to
be any jar or discord: no domestic worry was ever allowed to reach
the ears of the mistress of the household, no cares or troubles seemed
able to exist in that serene atmosphere. You could not even say of it
that it was dull. For the master of the Court was a hospitable man,
with many tastes and whims which he liked to indulge by having
down from London the numerous friends whose fancies matched his
own, and his wife was a little bit of a fine lady who had London
friends too, as well as neighbors, whom she liked to entertain. The
house was seldom free from visitors; and it was partly for that very
reason that Lady Caroline Adair, being in her own way a wise woman,
had arranged that two or three years of her daughter's life should be
spent at Miss Polehampton's very select boarding-school at Brighton.
It would be a great drawback to Margaret, she reflected, if her beauty
were familiar to all the world before she came out; and really, when
Mr. Adair would insist on inviting his friends constantly to the house,
it was impossible to keep the girl so mewed up in the schoolroom that
she would not be seen and talked of; and therefore it was better that
she should go away for a time. Mr. Adair did not like the arrangement;
he was very fond of Margaret, and objected to her leaving home; but
Lady Caroline was gently inexorable and got her own way—as she
generally did.
She does not look much like the mother of the tall girl whom we saw
at Brighton, as she sits at the head of her breakfast-table in the
daintiest of morning gowns—a marvelous combination of silk,
muslin and lace and pale pink ribbons—with a tiny white dog
reposing in her lap. She is a much smaller woman than Margaret, and
darker in complexion: it is from her, however, that Margaret inherits

the large, appealing hazel eyes, which look at you with an infinite
sweetness, while their owner is perhaps thinking of the menu or her
milliner's bill. Lady Caroline's face is thin and pointed, but her
complexion is still clear, and her soft brown hair is very prettily
arranged. As she sits with her back to the light, with a rose-colored
curtain behind her, just tinting her delicate cheek (for Lady Caroline
is always careful of appearance), she looks quite a young woman still.
It is Mr. Adair whom Margaret most resembles. He is a tall and
exceedingly handsome man, whose hair and moustache and pointed
beard were as golden once as Margaret's soft tresses, but are now
toned down by a little grey. He has the alert blue eyes that generally
go with his fair complexion, and his long limbs are never still for
many minutes together. His daughter's tranquillity seems to have
come from her mother; certainly it cannot be inherited from the
restless Reginald Adair.
The third person present at the breakfast-table—and, for the time
being, the only visitor in the house—is a young man of seven or eightand-twenty, tall, dark, and very spare, with a coal-black beard
trimmed to a point, earnest dark eyes, and a remarkably pleasant and
intelligent expression. He is not exactly handsome, but he has a face
that attracts one; it is the face of a man who has quick perceptions,
great kindliness of heart, and a refined and cultured mind. Nobody is
more popular in that county than young Sir Philip Ashley, although
his neighbors grumble sometimes at his absorption in scientific and
philanthropic objects, and think that it would be more creditable to
them if he went out with the hounds a little oftener or were a rather
better shot. For, being shortsighted, he was never particularly fond
either of sport or of games of skill, and his interest had always centred

on intellectual pursuits to a degree that amazed the more countrified
squires of the neighborhood.
The post-bag was brought in while breakfast was proceeding, and two
or three letters were laid before Lady Caroline, who, with a careless
word of apology, opened and read them in turn. She smiled as she put
them down and looked at her husband.
"This is a novel experience," she said. "For the first time in our lives,
Reginald, here is a formal complaint of our Margaret."
Sir Philip looked up somewhat eagerly, and Mr. Adair elevated his
eyebrows, stirred his coffee, and laughed aloud.
"Wonders will never cease," he said. "It is rather refreshing to hear
that our immaculate Margaret has done something naughty. What is
it, Caroline? Is she habitually late for breakfast? A touch of
unpunctuality is the only fault I ever heard of, and that, I believe, she
inherits from me."
"I should be sorry to think that she was immaculate," said Lady
Caroline, calmly, "it has such an uncomfortable sound. But Margaret
is generally, I must say, a very tractable child."
"Do you mean that her schoolmistress does not find her tractable?"
said Mr. Adair, with amusement. "What has she been doing?"
"Nothing very bad. Making friends with a governess-pupil, or
something of, that sort——"
"Just what a generous-hearted girl would be likely to do!" exclaimed
Sir Philip, with a sudden warm lighting of his dark eyes.

Lady Caroline smiled at him. "The schoolmistress thinks this girl an
unsuitable friend for Margaret, and wants me to interfere," she said.
"Pray do nothing of the sort," said Mr. Adair. "I would trust my Pearl's
instinct anywhere. She would never make an unsuitable friend!"
"Margaret has written to me herself," said Lady Caroline. "She seems
unusually excited about the matter. 'Dear mother,' she writes, 'pray
interpose to prevent Miss Polehampton from doing an unjust and
ungenerous thing. She disapproves of my friendship with dear Janetta
Colwyn, simply because Janetta is poor; and she threatens to punish
Janetta—not me—by sending her home in disgrace. Janetta is a
governess-pupil here, and it would be a great trouble to her if she were
sent away. I hope that you would rather take me away than let such
an injustice be done.'"
"My Pearl hits the nail on the head exactly," said Mr. Adair, with
complacency. He rose as he spoke, and began to walk about the room.
"She is quite old enough to come home, Caroline. It is June now, and
the term ends in July. Fetch her home, and invite the little governess
too, and you will soon see whether or no she is the right sort of friend
for Margaret." He laughed in his mellow, genial way, and leaned
against the mantel-piece, stroking his yellow moustache and glancing
at his wife.
"I am not sure that that would be advisable," said Lady Caroline, with
her pretty smile. "Janetta Colwyn: Colwyn? Did not Margaret know
her before she went to school? Are there not some Colwyns at
Beaminster? The doctor—yes, I remember him; don't you,
Reginald?"

Mr. Adair shook his head, but Sir Philip looked up hastily.
"I know him—a struggling man with a large family. His first wife was
rather well-connected, I believe: at any rate she was related to the
Brands of Brand Hall. He married a second time after her death."
"Do you call that being well-connected, Philip?" said Lady Caroline,
with gentle reproach; while Mr. Adair laughed and whistled, but
caught himself up immediately and apologized.
"I beg pardon—I forgot where I was: the less any of us have to do
with the Brands of Brand Hall the better, Phil."
"I know nothing of them," said Sir Philip, rather gravely.
"Nor anybody else"—hastily—"they never live at home, you know.
So this girl is a connection of theirs?"
"Perhaps not a very suitable friend: Miss Polehampton may be right,"
said Lady Caroline. "I suppose I must go over to Brighton and see
Margaret."
"Bring her back with you," said Mr. Adair, recklessly. "She has had
quite enough of school by this time: she is nearly eighteen, isn't she?"
But Lady Caroline smilingly refused to decide anything until she had
herself interviewed Miss Polehampton. She asked her husband to
order the carriage for her at once, and retired to summon her maid and
array herself for the journey.
"You won't go to-day, will you, Philip?" said Mr. Adair, almost
appealingly. "I shall be all alone, and my wife will not perhaps return
until to-morrow—there's no saying."

"Thank you, I shall be most pleased to stay," answered Sir Philip,
cordially. After a moment's pause, he added, with something very like
a touch of shyness—"I have not seen—your daughter since she was
twelve years old."
"Haven't you?" said Mr. Adair, with ready interest. "You don't say so!
Pretty little girl she was then! Didn't you think so?"
"I thought her the loveliest child I had ever seen in all my life," said
Sir Philip, with curious devoutness of manner.
He saw Lady Caroline just as she was starting for the train, with man
and maid in attendance, and Mr. Adair handing her into the carriage
and gallantly offering to accompany her if she liked. "Not at all
necessary," said Lady Caroline, with an indulgent smile. "I shall be
home to dinner. Take care of my husband, Philip, and don't let him
be dull."
"If they are making Margaret unhappy, be sure you bring her back
with you," were Mr. Adair's last words. Lady Caroline gave him a
kind but inscrutable little smile and nod as she was whirled away. Sir
Philip thought to himself that she looked like a woman who would
take her own course in spite of advice or recommendation from her
husband or anybody else.
He smiled once or twice as the day passed on at her parting injunction
to him not to let her husband be dull. He had known the Adairs for
many years, and had never known Reginald Adair dull under any
circumstances. He was too full of interests, of "fads," some people
called them, ever to be dull. He took Sir Philip round the picturegallery, round the stables, to the kennels, to the flower-garden, to his

own studio (where he painted in oils when he had nothing else to do)
with never-flagging energy and animation. Sir Philip's interests lay in
different grooves, but he was quite capable of sympathizing with Mr.
Adair's interests, too. The day passed pleasantly, and seemed rather
short for all that the two men wanted to pack into it; although from
time to time Mr. Adair would say, half-impatiently, "I wonder how
Caroline is getting on!" or "I hope she'll bring Margaret back with
her! But I don't expect it, you know. Carry was always a great one for
education and that sort of thing."
"Is Miss Adair intellectual—too?" asked Sir Philip, with respect.
Mr. Adair broke into a sudden laugh. "Intellectual? Our Daisy?—our
Pearl?" he said. "Wait until you see her, then ask the question if you
like."
"I am afraid I don't quite understand."
"Of course you don't. It is the partiality of a fond father that speaks,
my dear fellow. I only meant that these young, fresh, pretty girls put
such questions out of one's head."
"She must be very pretty then," said Sir Philip, with a smile.
He had seen a great many beautiful women, and told himself that he
did not care for beauty. Fashionable, talkative women were his
abomination. He had no sisters, but he loved his mother very dearly;
and upon her he had founded a very high ideal of womanhood. He
had begun to think vaguely, of late, that he ought to marry: duty
demanded it of him, and Sir Philip was always attentive, if not
obedient, to the voice of duty. But he was not inclined to marry a girl
out of the schoolroom, or a girl who was accustomed to the enervating

luxury (as he considered it) of Helmsley Court: he wanted an
energetic, sensible, large-hearted, and large-minded woman who
would be his right hand, his first minister of state. Sir Philip was fairly
wealthy, but by no means enormously so; and he had other uses for
his wealth than the buying of pictures and keeping up stables and
kennels at an alarming expense. If Miss Adair were so pretty, he
mused, it was just as well that she was not at home, for, of course, it
was possible that he might find a lovely face an attraction: and much
as he liked Lady Caroline, he did not want particularly to marry Lady
Caroline's daughter. That she treated him with great consideration,
and that he had once overheard her speak of him as "the most
eligible parti of the neighborhood," had already put him a little on his
guard. Lady Caroline was no vulgar, match-making mother, he knew
that well enough; but she was in some respects a thoroughly worldly
woman, and Philip Ashley was an essentially unworldly man.
As he went upstairs to dress for dinner that evening, he was struck by
the fact that a door stood open that he had never seen opened before:
a door into a pretty, well-lighted, pink and white room, the ideal
apartment for a young girl. The evening was chilly, and rain had
begun to fall, so a bright little fire was burning in the steel grate, and
casting a cheerful glow over white sheepskin rugs and rose-colored
curtains. A maid seemed to be busying herself with some white
material—all gauze and lace it looked—and another servant was, as
Sir Philip passed, entering with a great white vase filled with red
roses.
"Do they expect visitors to-night?" thought the young man, who knew
enough of the house to be aware that the room was not one in general

use. "Adair said nothing about it, but perhaps some people are coming
from town."
A budget of letters was brought to him at that moment, and in reading
and answering them he did not note the sound of carriage-wheels on
the drive, nor the bustle of an arrival in the house. Indeed, he left
himself so little time that he had to dress in extraordinary haste, and
went downstairs at last in the conviction that he was unpardonably
late.
But apparently he was wrong.
For the drawing-room was tenanted by one figure only—that of a
young lady in evening dress. Neither Lady Caroline nor Mr. Adair
had appeared upon the scene; but on the hearthrug, by the small
crackling fire—which, in deference to the chilliness of an English
June evening, had been lighted—stood a tall, fair, slender girl, with
pale complexion, and soft, loosely-coiled masses of golden hair. She
was dressed in pure white, a soft loose gown of Indian silk, trimmed
with the most delicate lace: it was high to the milk-white throat, but
showed the rounded curves of the finely-moulded arm to the elbow.
She wore no ornaments, but a white rose was fastened into the lace
frill of her dress at her neck. As she turned her face towards the new
comer, Sir Philip suddenly felt himself abashed. It was not that she
was so beautiful—in those first few moments he scarcely thought her
beautiful at all—but that she produced on him an impression of
serious, virginal grace and innocence which was almost
disconcerting. Her pure complexion, her grave, serene eyes, her
graceful way of moving as she advanced a little to receive him stirred
him to more than admiration—to something not unlike awe. She

looked young; but it was youth in perfection: there was some
marvelous finish, delicacy, polish, which one does not usually
associate with extreme youth.
"You are Sir Philip Ashley, I think?" she said, offering him her slim
cool hand without embarrassment.
"You do not remember me, perhaps, but I remember you perfectly
well, I am Margaret Adair."

CHAPTER III.
AT HELMSLEY COURT.
"Lady Caroline has brought you back, then?" said Sir Philip, after his
first pause of astonishment.
"Yes," said Margaret, serenely. "I have been expelled."
"Expelled! You?"
"Yes, indeed, I have," said the girl, with a faintly amused little smile.
"And so has my great friend, Janetta Colwyn. Here she is: Janetta, I
am telling Sir Philip Ashley that we have been expelled, and he will
not believe me."
Sir Philip turned in some curiosity to see the girl of whom he had
heard for the first time that morning. He had not noticed before that
she was present. He saw a brown little creature, with eyes that had
been swollen with crying until they were well-nigh invisible, small,
unremarkable features, and a mouth that was inclined to quiver.
Margaret might afford to be serene, but to this girl expulsion from
school had evidently been a sad trouble. He threw all the more
kindness and gentleness into his voice and look as he spoke to her.
Janetta might have felt a little awkward if she had not been so entirely
absorbed by her own woes. She had never set foot before in half so
grand a house as this of Helmsley Court, nor had she ever dined late
or spoken to a gentleman in an evening coat in all her previous life.
The size and the magnificence of the room would perhaps have

oppressed her if she had been fully aware of them. But she was for
the moment very much wrapped up in her own affairs, and scarcely
stopped to think of the novel situation in which she found herself. The
only thing that had startled her was the attention paid to her dress by
Margaret and Margaret's maid. Janetta would have put on her
afternoon black cashmere and little silver brooch, and would have felt
herself perfectly well dressed; but Margaret, after a little consultation
with the very grand young person who condescended to brush Miss
Colwyn's hair, had herself brought to Janetta's room a dress of black
lace over cherry-colored silk, and had begged her to put it on.
"You will feel so hot downstairs if you don't put on something cool,"
Margaret had said. "There is a fire in the drawing-room: papa likes
the rooms warm. My dresses would not have fitted you, I am so much
taller than you; but mamma is just your height, and although you are
thinner perhaps——But I don't know: the dress fits you perfectly.
Look in the glass, Janet; you are quite splendid."
Janetta looked and blushed a little—not because she thought herself
at all splendid, but because the dress showed her neck and arms in a
way no dress had ever done before. "Ought it to be—open—like
this?" she said, vaguely. "Do you wear your dresses like this when
you are at home?"
"Mine are high," said Margaret. "I am not 'out,' you know. But you
are older than I, and you used to teach——I think we may consider
that you are 'out,'" she added, with a little laugh. "You look very nice,
Janetta: you have such pretty arms! Now I must go and dress, and I
will call for you when I am ready to go down."

Janetta felt decidedly doubtful as to whether she were not a great deal
too grand for the occasion; but she altered her mind when she saw
Margaret's dainty silk and lace, and Lady Caroline's exquisite
brocade; and she felt herself quite unworthy to take Mr. Adair's
offered arm when dinner was announced and her host politely
convoyed her to the dining-room. She wondered whether he knew
that she was only a little governess-pupil, and whether he was not
angry with her for being the cause of his daughter's abrupt departure
from school. As a matter of fact, Mr. Adair knew her position exactly,
and was very much amused by the whole affair; also, as it had
procured him the pleasure of his daughter's return home, he had an
illogical inclination to be pleased also with Janetta. "As Margaret is
so fond of her, there must be something in her," he said to himself,
with a critical glance at the girl's delicate features and big dark eyes.
"I'll draw her out at dinner."
He tried his best, and made himself so agreeable and amusing that
Janetta lost a good deal of her shyness, and forgot her troubles. She
had a quick tongue of her own, as everybody at Miss Polehampton's
was aware; and she soon found that she had not lost it. She was a good
deal surprised to find that not a word was said at the dinner table about
the cause of Margaret's return: in her own home it would have been
the subject of the evening; it would have been discussed from every
point of view, and she would probably have been reduced to tears
before the first hour was over. But here it was evident that the matter
was not considered of great importance. Margaret looked serene as
ever, and joined quietly in talk which was alarmingly unlike Miss
Polehampton's improving conversation: talk about county gaieties
and county magnates: gossip about neighbors—gossip of a harmless

although frivolous type, for Lady Caroline never allowed any talk at
her table that was anything but harmless, about fashions, about old
china, about music and art. Mr. Adair was passionately fond of music,
and when he found that Miss Colwyn really knew something of it he
was in his element. They discoursed of fugues, sonatas, concertos,
quartettes, and trios, until even Lady Caroline raised her eyebrows a
little at the very technical nature of the conversation; and Sir Philip
exchanged a congratulatory smile with Margaret over her friend's
success. For the delight of finding a congenial spirit had brought the
crimson into Janetta's olive cheeks and the brilliance to her dark eyes:
she had looked insignificant when she went in to dinner; she was
splendidly handsome at dessert. Mr. Adair noticed her flashing,
transitory beauty, and said to himself that Margaret's taste was
unimpeachable; it was just like his own; he had complete confidence
in Margaret.
When the ladies went back to the drawing-room, Sir Philip turned
with a look of only half-disguised curiosity to his host. "Lady
Caroline brought her back then?" he said, longing to ask questions,
yet hardly knowing how to frame them aright.
Mr. Adair gave a great laugh. "It's been the oddest thing I ever heard
of," he said, in a tone of enjoyment. "Margaret takes a fancy to that
little black-eyed girl—a nice little thing, too, don't you think?—and
nothing must serve but that her favorite must walk with her, sit by
her, and so on—you know the romantic way girls have? The
schoolmistress interfered, said it was not proper, and so on; forbade
it. Miss Colwyn would have obeyed, it seems, but Margaret took the
bit in a quiet way between her teeth. Miss Colwyn was ordered to take
her meals at a side table: Margaret insisted on taking her meals there

too. The school was thrown into confusion. At last Miss Polehampton
decided that the best way out of the difficulty was first to complain to
us, and then to send Miss Colwyn home, straight away. She would
not send Margaret home, you know!"
"That was very hard on Miss Colwyn," said Sir Philip, gravely.
"Yes, horribly hard. So Margaret, as you heard, appealed to her
mother, and when Lady Caroline arrived, she found that not only were
Miss Colwyn's boxes packed, but Margaret's as well; and that
Margaret had declared that if her friend was sent away for what was
after all her fault, she would not stay an hour in the house. Miss
Polehampton was weeping: the girls were in revolt, the teachers in
despair, so my wife thought the best way out of the difficulty was to
bring both girls away at once, and settle it with Miss Colwyn's
relations afterwards. The joke is that Margaret insists on it that she
has been 'expelled.'"
"So she told me."
"The schoolmistress said something of that kind, you know. Caroline
says the woman entirely lost her temper and made an exhibition of
herself. Caroline was glad to get our girl away. But, of course, it's all
nonsense about being 'expelled' as a punishment; she was leaving of
her own accord."
"One could hardly imagine punishment in connection with her," said
Sir Philip, warmly.
"No, she's a nice-looking girl, isn't she? and her little friend is a good
foil, poor little thing."

"This affair may prove of some serious inconvenience to Miss
Colwyn, I suppose?"
"Oh, you may depend upon it, she won't be the loser," said Mr. Adair,
hastily. "We'll see about that. Of course she will not suffer any injury
through my daughter's friendship for her."
Sir Philip was not so sure about it. In spite of his intense admiration
for Margaret's beauty, it occurred to him that the romantic
partisanship of the girl with beauty, position, and wealth for her less
fortunate sister had not been attended with very brilliant results. No
doubt Miss Adair, reared in luxury and indulgence, did not in the least
realize the harm done to the poor governess-pupil's future by her
summary dismissal from Miss Polehampton's boarding-school. To
Margaret, anything that the schoolmistress chose to say or do
mattered little; to Janetta Colwyn, it might some day mean prosperity
or adversity of a very serious kind. Sir Philip did not quite believe in
the compensation so easily promised by Mr. Adair. He made a mental
note of Miss Colwyn's condition and prospects, and said to himself
that he would not forget her. And this meant a good deal from a busy
man like Sir Philip Ashley.
Meanwhile there had been another conversation going on in the
drawing-room between the three ladies. Margaret put her arm
affectionately round Janetta's waist as they stood by the hearthrug,
and looked at her mother with a smile. Lady Caroline sank into an
easy-chair on the other side of the fireplace, and contemplated the two
girls.
"This is better than Claremont House, is it not, Janet?" said Margaret.

"Indeed it is," Janetta answered, gratefully.
"You found the way to papa's heart by your talk about music—did
she not, mamma? And does not this dress suit her beautifully?"
"It wants a little alteration in the sleeve," said Lady Caroline, with the
placidity which Janetta had always attributed to Margaret as a special
virtue, but which she now found was merely characteristic of the
house and family in general, "but Markham can do that to-morrow.
There are some people coming in the evening, and the sleeve will look
better shortened."
The remark sounded a little inconsequent in Janetta's ear, but
Margaret understood and assented. It meant that Lady Caroline was
on the whole pleased with Janetta, and did not object to introducing
her to her friends. Margaret gave her mother a little smile over
Janetta's head, while that young person was gathering up her courage
in two hands, so to speak, before addressing Lady Caroline.
"I am very much obliged to you," she said at last, with a thrill of
gratitude in her sweet voice which was very pleasant to the ear.
"But—I was thinking—what time would be the most convenient for
me to go home to-morrow?"
"Home? To Beaminster?" said Margaret. "But you need not go, dear;
you can write a note and tell them that you are staying here."
"Yes, my dear; I am sure Margaret cannot part with you yet," said
Lady Caroline, amiably.
"Thank you; it is most kind of you," Janetta answered, her voice
shaking. "But I must ask my father whether I can stay—and hear what
he says; Miss Polehampton will have written to him, and——"

"And he will be very glad that we have rescued you from her
clutches," said Margaret, with a soft triumphant little laugh. "My poor
Janetta! What we suffered at her hands!"
Lady Caroline lying back in her easy chair, with the candle light
gleaming upon her silvery grey and white brocade with its touches of
soft pink, and the diamonds flashing on her white hands, so calmly
crossed upon the handle of her ivory fan, did not feel quite so tranquil
as she looked. It crossed her mind that Margaret was acting
inconsiderately. This little Miss Colwyn had her living to earn; it
would be no kindness to unfit her for her profession. So, when she
spoke it was with a shade more decision than usual in her tones.
"We will drive you over to Beaminster to-morrow, my dear Miss
Colwyn, and you can then see your family, and ask your father if you
may spend a few days with Margaret. I do not think that Mr. Colwyn
will refuse us," she said, graciously. "I wonder when those men are
coming, Margaret. Suppose you open the piano and let us have a little
music. You sing, do you not?"
"Yes, a little," said Janetta.
"A little!" exclaimed Margaret, with contempt. "She has a delightful
voice, mamma. Come and sing at once, Janetta, darling, and astonish
mamma."
Lady Caroline smiled. She had heard a great many singers in her day,
and did not expect to be astonished. A little governess-pupil, an
under-teacher in a boarding-school! Dear Margaret's enthusiasm
certainly carried her away.

But when Janetta sang, Lady Caroline was, after all, rather surprised.
The girl had a remarkably sweet and rich contralto voice, and it had
been well trained; and, moreover, she sang with feeling and passion
which were somewhat unusual in one so young. It seemed as if some
hidden power, some latent characteristic came out in her singing
because it found no other way of expressing itself. Neither Lady
Caroline nor Margaret understood why Janetta's voice moved them
so much; Sir Philip, who came in with his host while the music was
going on, heard and was charmed also without quite knowing why; it
was Mr. Adair alone whose musical knowledge and experience of the
world enabled him, feather-headed as in some respects he was, to lay
his finger directly on the salient features of Janetta's singing.
"It's not her voice altogether, you know," he said afterwards to Philip
Ashley, in a moment of confidence; "it's soul. She's got more of that
commodity than is good for a woman. It makes her singing lovely,
you know—brings tears into one's eyes, and all that sort of thing—
but upon my honor I'm thankful that Margaret hasn't got a voice like
that! It's women of that kind that are either heroines of virtue—or go
to the devil. They are always in extremes."
"Then we may promise ourselves some excitement in watching Miss
Colwyn's career," said Sir Philip, dryly.
After Janetta, Margaret sang; she had a sweet mezzo-soprano voice,
of no great strength or compass, but perfectly trained and very
pleasing to the ear. The sort of voice, Sir Philip thought, that would
be soothing to the nerves of a tired man in his own house. Whereas,
Janetta's singing had something impassioned in it which disturbed
and excited instead of soothing. But he was quite ready to admire

when Margaret called on him for admiration. They were sitting
together on a sofa, and Janetta, who had just finished one of her songs,
was talking to, or being talked to, by Mr. Adair. Lady Caroline had
taken up a review.
"Is not Miss Colwyn's voice perfectly lovely?" Margaret asked, with
shining eyes.
"It is very sweet."
"Don't you think she looks very nice?"—Margaret was hungering for
admiration of her friend.
"She is a very pretty girl. You are very fond of each other?"
"Oh, yes, devoted. I am so glad I succeeded!" said the girl, with a
great sigh.
"In getting her away from the school?"
"Yes."
"You think it was for her good?"
Margaret opened her lovely eyes.
"For her good?—to come here instead of staying in that close
uncomfortable house to give music lessons, and bear Miss
Polehampton's snubs?——" It had evidently never occurred to her
that the change could be anything but beneficial to Janetta.
"It is very pleasant for her, no doubt," said Sir Philip, smiling in spite
of his disapproval. "I only wondered whether it was a good
preparation for the life of hard work which probably lies before her."

He saw that Margaret colored, and wondered whether she would be
offended by his suggestion. After a moment's pause, she answered,
gravely, but quite gently—
"I never thought of it in that way before, exactly. I want to keep her
here, so that she should never have to work hard at all."
"Would she consent to that?"
"Why not?" said Margaret.
Sir Philip smiled and said no more. It was curious, he said to himself,
to see how little conception Margaret had of lives unlike and outside
her own. And Janetta's brave but sensitive little face, with its resolute
brows and lips and brilliant eyes, gave promise of a determination and
an originality which, he felt convinced, would never allow her to
become a mere plaything or appendage of a wealthy household, as
Margaret Adair seemed to expect. But his words had made an
impression. At night, when Lady Caroline and her daughter were
standing in the charming little room which had always been
appropriated to Margaret's use, she spoke, with the unconscious habit
of saying frankly anything that had occurred to her, of Sir Philip's
remarks.
"It was so odd," she said; "Sir Philip seemed to think that it would be
bad for Janetta to stay here, mamma. Why should it be bad for her,
mamma, dear?"
"I don't think it will be at all bad for her to spend a day or two with
us, darling," said Lady Caroline, keeping somewhat careful watch on
Margaret's face as she spoke. "But perhaps it had better be by-and-

bye. You know she wants to go home to-morrow, and we must not
keep her away from her duties or her own sphere of life."
"No," Margaret answered, "but her duties will not always keep her at
home, you know, mamma, dear."
"I suppose not, my dearest," said Lady Caroline, vaguely, but in the
caressing tone to which Margaret was accustomed. "Go to bed, my
sweetest one, and we will talk of all these things to-morrow."
Meanwhile Janetta was wondering at the luxury of the room which
had been allotted to her, and thinking over the events of the past day.
When a tap at the door announced Margaret's appearance to say goodnight, Janetta was standing before the long looking-glass, apparently
inspecting herself by the light of the rose-tinted wax candles in silver
sconces which were fixed on either side of the mirror. She was in her
dressing-gown, and her long and abundant hair fell over her shoulder
in a great curly mass.
"Oh, Miss Vanity!" cried Margaret, with more gaiety of tone than was
usual with her, "are you admiring your pretty hair?"
"I was thinking," said Janetta, with the intensity which often
characterized her speech, "that now I understood you—now I know
why you were so different from other girls, so sweet, so calm and
beautiful! You have lived in this lovely place all your life! It is like a
fairy palace—a dream-house—to me; and you are the queen of it,
Margaret—a princess of dreams!"
"I hope I shall have something more than dreams to reign over some
day," said Margaret, putting her arms round her friend's neck. "And
whatever I am queen over, you must share my queendom, Janet. You

know how fond I am of you—how I want you to stay with me always
and be my friend."
"I shall always be your friend—always, to the last day of my life!"
said Janetta, with fervor. The two made a pretty picture, reflected in
the long mirror; the tall, fair Margaret, still in her soft white silk frock,
with her arm round the smaller figure of the dark girl whose curly
masses of hair half covered her pink cotton dressing-gown, and whose
brown face was upturned so lovingly to her friend's.
"And I am sure it will be good for you to stay with me," said Margaret,
answering an unspoken objection in her mind.
"Good for me? It is delicious—it is lovely!" cried Janetta, rapturously.
"I have never had anything so nice in my whole life. Dear Margaret,
you are so good and so kind—if there were only anything that I could
do for you in return! Perhaps some day I shall have the chance, and if
ever I have—then you shall see whether I am true to my friend or
not!"
Margaret kissed her, with a little smile at Janetta's enthusiasm, which
was so far different from the modes of expression customary at
Helmsley Court, as to be almost amusing.

CHAPTER IV.
ON THE ROAD.
Miss Polehampton had, of course, written to Mr. and Mrs. Colwyn
when she made up her mind that Janetta was to be removed from
school; and two or three letters had been interchanged before that
eventful day on which Margaret declared that if Janetta went she
should go too. Margaret had been purposely kept in the dark until
almost the last moment, for Miss Polehampton did not in the least
wish to make a scandal, and annoyed as she was by Miss Adair's
avowed preference for Janetta, she had arranged a neat little plan by
which Miss Colwyn was to go away "for change of air," and be
transferred to a school at Worthing kept by a relation of her own at
the beginning of the following term. These plans had been upset by a
foolish and ill-judged letter from Mrs. Colwyn to her stepdaughter,
which Janetta had not been able to keep from Margaret's eyes. This
letter was full of reproaches to Janetta for giving so much trouble to
her friends; "for, of course," Mrs. Colwyn wrote, "Miss
Polehampton's concern for your health is all a blind in order to get
you away: and if it hadn't been for Miss Adair taking you up, she
would have been only too glad to keep you. But knowing Miss Adair's
position, she sees very clearly that it isn't fit for you to be friends with
her, and so she wants to send you away."

This was in the main true, but Janetta, in the blithe confidence of
youth, would never have discovered it but for that letter. Together she
and Margaret consulted over it, for when Margaret saw Janetta
crying, she almost forced the letter from her hand; and then it was that
Miss Adair vindicated her claim to social superiority. She went
straight to Miss Polehampton and demanded that Janetta should
remain; and when the schoolmistress refused to alter her decision, she
calmly replied that in that case she should go home too. Miss
Polehampton was an obstinate woman, and would not concede the
point; and Lady Caroline, on learning the state of affairs, at once
perceived that it was impossible to leave Margaret at the school where
open warfare had been declared. She accordingly brought both girls
away with her, arranging to send Janetta to her own home next
morning.
"You will stay to luncheon, dear, and I will drive you over to
Beaminster at three o'clock," she said to Janetta at breakfast. "No
doubt you are anxious to see your own people."
Janetta looked as if she might find it difficult to reply, but Margaret
interposed a remark—as usual at the right moment.
"We will practice our duets this morning—if Janetta likes, that is; and
we can have a walk in the garden too. Shall we have the landau,
mamma?"
"The victoria, I think, dear," said Lady Caroline, placidly. "Your
father wants you to ride with him this afternoon, so I shall have the
pleasure of Miss Colwyn's society in my drive."

Margaret assented; but Janetta became suddenly aware, by a flash of
keen feminine intuition, that Lady Caroline had some reason for
wishing to go with her alone, and that she had purposely made the
arrangement that she spoke of. However, there was nothing to
displease her in this, for Lady Caroline had been most kind and
considerate to her, so far, and she was innocently disposed to believe
in the cordiality and sincerity of every one who behaved with
common civility.
So she spent a pleasant morning, singing with Margaret, loitering
about the garden with Mr. Adair, while Margaret and Sir Philip
gathered roses, and enjoying to the full all the sweet influences of
peace, refinement, and prosperity by which she was surrounded.
Margaret left her in the afternoon with rather a hasty kiss, and an
assurance that she would see her again at dinner. Janetta tried to
remind her that by that time she would have left the Court, but
Margaret did not or would not hear. The tears came into the girl's eyes
as her friend disappeared.
"Never mind, dear," said Lady Caroline, who was observing her
closely, "Margaret has forgotten at what hour you were going and I
would not remind her—it would spoil her pleasure in her ride. We
will arrange for you to come to us another day when you have seen
your friends at home."
"Thank you," said Janetta. "It was only that she did not seem to
remember that I was going—I had meant to say good-bye."

"Exactly. She thinks that I am going to bring you back this afternoon.
We will talk about it as we go, dear. Suppose you were to put on your
hat now. The carriage will be here in ten minutes."
Janetta prepared for her departure in a somewhat bewildered spirit.
She did not know precisely what Lady Caroline meant. She even felt
a little nervous as she took her place in the victoria and cast a last look
at the stately house in which she had spent some nineteen or twenty
pleasant hours. It was Lady Caroline who spoke first.
"We shall miss your singing to-night," she said, amiably. "Mr. Adair
was looking forward to some more duets. Another time, perhaps——
"
"I am always pleased to sing," said Janetta, brightening at this
address.
"Yes—ye—es," said Lady Caroline, with a doubtful little drawl. "No
doubt: one always likes to do what one can do so well; but—I confess
I am not so musical as my husband or my daughter. I must explain
why dear Margaret did not say good bye to you, Miss Colwyn. I
allowed her to remain in the belief that she was to see you again tonight, in order that she might not be depressed during her ride by the
thought of parting with you. It is always my principle to make the
lives of those dear to me as happy as possible," said Margaret's
mother, piously.
"And if Margaret had been depressed during her ride, Mr. Adair and
Sir Philip might have suffered some depression also, and that would
be a great pity."
"Oh, yes," said Janetta. But she felt chilled, without knowing why.

"I must take you into my confidence," said Lady Caroline, in her
softest voice. "Mr. Adair has plans for our dear Margaret. Sir Philip
Ashley's property adjoins our own: he is of good principles, kindhearted, and intellectual: he is well off, nice-looking, and of a suitable
age—he admires Margaret very much. I need say no more, I am sure."
Again she looked keenly at Janetta's face, but she read there nothing
but interest and surprise.
"Oh—does Margaret know?" she asked.
"She feels more than she knows," said Lady Caroline, discreetly. "She
is in the first stage of—of—emotion. I did not want the afternoon's
arrangements to be interfered with."
"Oh, no! especially on my account," said Janetta, sincerely.
"When I go home I shall talk quietly to Margaret," pursued Lady
Caroline, "and tell her that you will come back another day, that your
duties called you home—they do, I am sure, dear Miss Colwyn—and
that you could not return with me when you were so much wanted."
"I'm afraid I am not much wanted," said Janetta, with a sigh; "but I
daresay it is my duty to go home——"
"I am sure it is," Lady Caroline declared; "and duty is so high and
holy a thing, dear, that you will never regret the performance of it."
It occurred dimly to Janetta at that point that Lady Caroline's views
of duty might possibly differ from her own; but she did not venture
to say so.
"And, of course, you will never repeat to Margaret——"

Lady Caroline did not complete her sentence. The coachman
suddenly checked the horses' speed: for some unknown reason he
actually stopped short in the very middle of the country road between
Helmsley Court and Beaminster. His mistress uttered a little cry of
alarm.
"What is the matter, Steel?"
The footman dismounted and touched his hat.
"I'm afraid there has been an accident, my lady," he said, as
apologetically, as if he were responsible for the accident.
"Oh! Nothing horrible, I hope!" said Lady Caroline, drawing out her
smelling-bottle.
"It's a carriage accident, my lady. Leastways, a cab. The 'orse is lying
right across the road, my lady."
"Speak to the people, Steel," said her ladyship, with great dignity.
"They must not be allowed to block up the road in this way."
"May I get out?" said Janetta, eagerly. "There is a lady lying on the
path, and some people bathing her face. Now they are lifting her up—
I am sure they ought not to lift her up in that way—oh, please, I must
go just for one minute!" And, without waiting for a reply, she stepped,
out of the victoria and sped to the side of the woman who had been
hurt.
"Very impulsive and undisciplined," said Lady Caroline to herself, as
she leaned back and held the smelling-bottle to her own delicate nose.
"I am glad I have got her out of the house so soon. Those men were
wild about her singing. Sir Philip disapproved of her presence, but he

was charmed by her voice, I could see that; and poor, dear Reginald
was positively absurd about her voice. And dear Margaret
does not sing so well—it is no use pretending that she does—and Sir
Philip is trembling on the verge—oh, yes, I am sure that I have been
very wise. What is that girl doing now?"
The victoria moved forward a little, so that Lady Caroline could
obtain a clearer view of what was going on. The vehicle which caused
the obstruction—evidently a hired fly from an inn—was uninjured,
but the horse had fallen between the shafts and would never rise
again. The occupants of the fly—a lady, and a much younger man,
perhaps her son—had got out, and the lady had then turned faint, Lady
Caroline heard, but was not in any way hurt. Janetta was kneeling by
the side of the lady—kneeling in the dust, without any regard to the
freshness of her cotton frock, by the way—and had already placed her
in the right position, and was ordering the half-dozen people who had
collected to stand back and give her air. Lady Caroline watched her
movements and gestures with placid amusement, and went so far as
to send Steel with the offer of her smelling salts; but as this offer was
rejected she felt that nothing else could be done. So she sat and looked
on critically.
The woman—Lady Caroline was hardly inclined to call her a lady,
although she did not exactly know why—was at present of a ghastly
paleness, but her features were finely cut, and showed traces of
former beauty. Her hair was grey, with rebellious waves in it, but her
eyebrows were still dark. She was dressed in black, with a good deal
of lace about her; and on her ungloved hand Lady Caroline's keen
sight enabled her to distinguish some very handsome diamond rings.
The effect of the costume was a little spoiled by a large gaudy fan, of

violent rainbow hues, which hung at her side; and perhaps it was this
article of adornment which decided Lady Caroline in her opinion of
the woman's social status. But about the man she was equally positive
in a different way. He was a gentleman: there could be no doubt of
that. She put up her eye-glass and gazed at him with interest. She
almost thought that she had seen him somewhere before.
A handsome man, indeed, and a gentleman; but, oh, what an illtempered one, apparently! He was dark, with fine features, and black
hair with a slight inclination to wave or curl (as far at least as could
be judged when the extremely well-cropped state of his head was
taken into consideration); and from these indications Lady Caroline
judged him to be "the woman's" son. He was tall, muscular, and active
looking: it was the way in which his black eyebrows were bent above
his eyes which made the observer think him ill-tempered, for his
manner and his words expressed anxiety, not anger. But that frown,
which must have been habitual, gave him a distinctly ill-humored
look.
At last the lady opened her eyes, and drank a little water, and sat up.
Janetta rose from her knees, and turned to the young man with a smile.
"She will soon be better now," she said. "I am afraid there is nothing
else that I can do—and I think I must go on."
"I am very much obliged to you for your kind assistance," said the
gentleman, but without any abatement of the gloom of his expression.
He gave Janetta a keen look—almost a bold look—Lady Caroline
thought, and then smiled a little, not very pleasantly. "Allow me to
take you to your carriage."

Janetta blushed, as if she were minded to say that it was not her
carriage; but returned to the victoria, and was handed to her seat by
the young man, who then raised his hat with an elaborate flourish
which was not exactly English. Indeed, it occurred to Lady Caroline
at once that there was something French about both the travelers. The
lady with the frizzled grey hair, the black lace dress and mantel, the
gaudy blue and scarlet fan, was quite foreign in appearance; the young
man with the perfectly fitting frock-coat, the tall hat, the flower in his
button-hole, was—in spite of his perfectly English accent—foreign
too. Lady Caroline was cosmopolitan enough to feel an access of
greater interest in the pair in consequence.
"They have sent to the nearest inn for a horse," said Janetta, as the
carriage moved on; "and I dare say they will not have long to wait."
"Was the lady hurt?"
"No, only shaken. She is subject to fainting fits, and the accident quite
upset her nerves, her son said."
"Her son?"
"The gentleman called her mother."
"Oh! You did not hear their name, I suppose?"
"No. There was a big B on their traveling bag."
"B—B—?" said Lady Caroline, thoughtfully. "I don't know any one
in this neighborhood whose name begins with B, except the Bevans.
They must have been merely passing through; and yet the young
man's face seemed familiar to me."
Janetta shook her head. "I never saw them before," she said.

"He has a very bold and unpleasant expression," Lady Caroline
remarked, decidedly. "It spoils him entirely: otherwise he is a
handsome man."
The girl made no answer. She knew, as well as Lady Caroline, that
she had been stared at in a manner that was not quite agreeable to her,
and yet she did not like to endorse that lady's condemnation of the
stranger. For he was certainly very nice-looking—and he had been so
kind to his mother that he could not be entirely bad—and to her also
his face was vaguely familiar. Could he belong to Beaminster?
As she sat and meditated, the tall spires of Beaminster Cathedral came
into sight, and a few minutes brought the carriage across the grey
stone bridge and down the principal street of the quaint old place
which called itself a city, but was really neither more nor less than a
quiet country town. Here Lady Caroline turned to her young guest
with a question—"You live in Gwynne Street, I believe, my dear?"
"Yes, at number ten, Gwynne Street," said Janetta, suddenly starting
and feeling a little uncomfortable. The coachman evidently knew the
address already, for at that moment he turned the horse's heads to the
left, and the carriage rolled down a narrow side-street, where the tall
red brick houses had a mean and shabby aspect, and seemed as if
constructed to keep out sun and air as much as possible.
Janetta always felt the closeness and the shabbiness a little when she
first came home, even from school, but when she came from
Helmsley Court they struck her with redoubled force. She had never
thought before how dull the street was, nor noticed that the railings
were broken down in front of the door with the brass-plate that bore
her father's name, nor that the window-curtains were torn and the

windows sadly in need of washing. The little flight of stone steps that
led from the iron gate to the door was also very dirty; and the servant
girl, whose head appeared against the area railings as the carriage
drove up, was more untidy, more unkempt, in appearance than ever
Janetta could have expected. "We can't be rich, but we might
be clean!" she said to herself in a subdued frenzy of impatience, as
she fancied (quite unjustly) that she saw a faint smile pass over Lady
Caroline's delicate, impassive face. "No wonder she thinks me an
unfit friend for dear Margaret. But—oh, there is my dear, darling
father! Well, nobody can say anything against him at any rate!" And
Janetta's face beamed with sudden joy as she saw Mr. Colwyn coming
down the dirty steps to the ricketty little iron gate, and Lady Caroline,
who knew the surgeon by sight, nodded to him with friendly
condescension.
"How are you, Mr. Colwyn?" she said, graciously. "I have brought
your daughter home, you see, and I hope you will not scold her for
what has been my daughter's fault—not your's."
"I am very glad to see Janetta, under any circumstances," said Mr.
Colwyn, gravely, as he raised his hat. He was a tall spare man, in a
shabby coat, with a careworn aspect, and kindly, melancholy eyes.
Janetta noticed with a pang that his hair was greyer than it had been
when last she went back to school.
"We shall be glad to see her again at Helmsley Court," said Lady
Caroline. "No, I won't get out, thank you. I have to get back to tea.
Your daughter's box is in front. I was to tell you from Miss
Polehampton, Mr. Colwyn, that her friend at Worthing would be glad
of Miss Colwyn's services after the holidays."

"I am much obliged to your ladyship," said Mr. Colwyn, with grave
formality. "I am not sure that I shall let my daughter go."
"Won't you? Oh, but she ought to have all possible advantages! And
can you tell me, Mr. Colwyn, by any chance, who are the people
whom we passed on the road to Beaminster—an oldish lady in black
and a young man with very dark hair and eyes? They had B on their
luggage, I believe."
Mr. Colwyn looked surprised.
"I think I can tell you," he said, quietly. "They were on their way from
Beaminster to Brand Hall. The young man was a cousin of my wife's:
his name is Wyvis Brand, and the lady in black was his mother. They
have come home after an absence of nearly four-and-twenty years."
Lady Caroline was too polite to say what she really felt—that she was
sorry to hear it.

CHAPTER V.
WYVIS BRAND.
On the evening of the day on which Lady Caroline drove with Janetta
Colwyn to Beaminster, the lady who had fainted by the wayside was
sitting in a rather gloomy-looking room at Brand Hall—a room
known in the household as the Blue Drawing-room. It had not the
look of a drawing-room exactly: it was paneled in oak, which had
grown black with age, as had also the great oak beams that crossed
the ceiling and the polished floor. The furniture also was of oak, and
the hangings of dark but faded blue, while the blue velvet of the chairs
and the square of Oriental carpet, in which blue tints also
preponderated, did not add cheerfulness to the scene. One or two great
blue vases set on the carved oak mantel-piece, and some smaller blue
ornaments on a sideboard, matched the furniture in tint; but it was
remarkable that on a day when country gardens were overflowing
with blossom, there was not a single flower or green leaf in any of the
vases. No smaller and lighter ornaments, no scrap of woman's

handiwork—lace or embroidery—enlivened the place: no books were
set upon the table. A fire would not have been out of season, for the
evenings were chilly, and it would have had a cheery look; but there
was no attempt at cheeriness. The woman who sat in one of the highbacked chairs was pale and sad: her folded hands lay listlessly clasped
together on her lap, and the sombre garb that she wore was as
unrelieved by any gleam of brightness as the room itself. In the
gathering gloom of a chilly summer evening, even the rings upon her
fingers could not flash. Her white face, in its setting of rough, wavy
grey hair, over which she wore a covering of black lace, looked
almost statuesque in its profound tranquillity. But it was not the
tranquillity of comfort and prosperity that had settled on that pale,
worn, high-featured face—it was rather the tranquillity that comes of
accepted sorrow and inextinguishable despair.
She had sat thus for fully half an hour when the door was roughly
opened, and the young man whom Mr. Colwyn had named as Wyvis
Brand came lounging into the room. He had been dining, but he was
not in evening dress, and there was something unrestful and reckless
in his way of moving round the room and throwing himself in the
chair nearest his mother's, which roused Mrs. Brand's attention. She
turned slightly towards him, and became conscious at once of the
fumes of wine and strong tobacco with which her son had made her
only too familiar. She looked at him for a moment, then clasped her
hands tightly together and resumed her former position, with her sad
face turned to the window. She may have breathed a sigh as she did
so, but Wyvis Brand did not hear it, and if he had heard it, would not
perhaps have very greatly cared.
"Why do you sit in the dark?" he said at last, in a vexed tone.

"I will ring for lights," Mrs. Brand answered quietly.
"Do as you like: I am not going to stay: I am going out," said the
young man.
The hand that his mother had stretched out towards the bell fell to her
side: she was a submissive woman, used to taking her son at his word.
"You are lonely here," she ventured to remark, after a short silence:
"you will be glad when Cuthbert comes down."
"It's a beastly hole," said her son, gloomily. "I would advise Cuthbert
to stay in Paris. What he will do with himself here, I can't imagine."
"He is happy anywhere," said the mother, with a stifled sigh.
Wyvis uttered a short, harsh laugh.
"That can't be said of us, can it?" he exclaimed, putting his hand on
his mother's knee in a rough sort of caress. "We are generally in the
shadow while Cuthbert is in the sunshine, eh? The influence of this
old place makes me poetical, you see."
"You need not be in the shadow," said Mrs. Brand. But she said it with
an effort.
"Needn't I?" said Wyvis. He thrust his hands into his pockets and
leaned back in his chair with another laugh. "I have such a lot to make
me cheerful, haven't I?"
His mother turned her eyes upon him with a look of yearning
tenderness which, even if the room had been less dimly lighted, he
would not have seen. He was not much in the habit of looking for
sympathy in other people's faces.

"Is the place worse than you expected?" she asked, with a tremor in
her voice.
"It is mouldier—and smaller," he replied, curtly. "One's childish
impressions don't go for much. And it is in a miserable state—roof
out of repair—fences falling down—drainage imperfect. It has been
allowed to go to rack and ruin while we were away."
"Wyvis, Wyvis," said his mother, in a tone of pain, "I kept you away
for your own sake. I thought you would be happier abroad."
"Oh—happier!" said the young man, rather scornfully. "Happiness
isn't meant for me: it isn't in my line. It makes no difference to me
whether I am here or in Paris. I should have been here long ago if I
had had any idea that things were going wrong in this way."
"I suppose," said Mrs. Brand, carefully controlling her voice, "that
you will not have the visitors you spoke of if the house is in so bad a
state."
"Not have visitors? Of course I shall have visitors. What else is there
for me to do with myself? We shall get the house put pretty straight
by the 12th. Not that there will be any shooting worth speaking of
on my place."
"If nobody comes before the 12th, I think we can make the house
habitable. I will do my best, Wyvis."
Wyvis laughed again, but in a softer key. "You!" he said. "You can't
do much, mother. It isn't the sort of thing you care about. You stay in
your own rooms and do your needle-work; I'll see to the house. Some
men are coming long before the 12th—the day after to-morrow, I
believe."

"Who?"
"Oh, Dering and St. John and Ponsonby, I expect. I don't know
whether they will bring any one else."
"The worst men of the worst set you know!" sighed his mother, under
her breath. "Could not you have left them behind?"
She felt rather than saw how he frowned—how his hand twitched
with impatience.
"What sort of friends am I likely to have?" he said. "Why not those
that amuse me most?"
Then he rose and went over to the window, where he stood for some
time looking out. Turning round at last, he perceived from a slight
familiar movement of his mother's hand over her eyes that she was
weeping, and it seemed as if his heart smote him at the sight.
"Come, mother," he said, kindly, "don't take what I say and do so
much to heart. You know I'm no good, and never shall do anything in
the world. You have Cuthbert to comfort you—"
"Cuthbert is nothing to me—nothing—compared with you, Wyvis."
The young man came to her side and put his hand on her shoulder.
The passionate tone had touched him.
"Poor mother!" he said, softly. "You've suffered a good deal through
me, haven't you? I wish I could make you forget all the past—but
perhaps you wouldn't thank me if I could."

"No," she said, leaning forward so as to rest her forehead against his
arm. "No. For there has been brightness in the past, but I see little
brightness in the future either for you or for me."
"Well, that is my own fault," said Wyvis, lightly but bitterly. "If it had
not been for my own youthful folly I shouldn't be burdened as I am
now. I have no one but myself to thank."
"Yes, yes, it was my fault. I pressed you to do it—to tie yourself for
life to the woman who has made you miserable!" said Mrs. Brand, in
a tone of despairing self-accusation. "I fancied—then—that we were
doing right."
"I suppose we were doing right," said Wyvis Brand sternly, but not
as if the thought gave him any consolation. "It was better perhaps that
I should marry the woman whom I thought I loved—instead of
leaving her or wronging her—but I wish to God that I had never seen
her face!"
"And to think that I persuaded you into marrying her," moaned the
mother, rocking herself backward and forward in the extremity of her
regretful anguish; "I—who ought to have been wiser—who might
have interfered——"
"You couldn't have interfered to much purpose. I was mad about her
at the time," said her son, beginning to walk about the room in a
restless, aimless manner. "I wish, mother, that you would cease to talk
about the past. It seems to me sometimes like a dream; if you would
but let it lie still, I think that I could fancy it was a dream. Remember
that I do not blame you. When I rage against the bond, I am perfectly
well aware that it was one of my own making. No remonstrance, no

command would have availed with me for a moment. I was
determined to go my own way, and I went."
It was curious to remark that the roughness and harshness of his first
manner had dropped away from him as it did drop now and then. He
spoke with the polished utterance of an educated man. It was almost
as though he at times put on a certain boorishness of demeanor,
feeling it in some way demanded of him by circumstances—but not
natural to him after all.
"I will try not to vex you, Wyvis," said his mother, wistfully.
"You do not vex me exactly," he answered, "but you stir my old
memories too often. I want to forget the past. Why else did I come
down here, where I have never been since I was a child? where Juliet
never set foot, and where I have no association with that miserable
passage in my life?"
"Then why do you bring those men down, Wyvis? For they know the
past: they will recall old associations——"
"They amuse me. I cannot be without companions. I do not pretend
to cut myself off from the whole world."
As he spoke thus briefly and coldly, he stopped to strike a match, and
then lighted the wax candles that stood on the black sideboard. By
this act he meant perhaps to put a stop to the conversation of which
he was heartily tired. But Mrs. Brand, in the half-bewildered
condition of mind to which long anxiety and sorrow had reduced her,
did not know the virtue of silence, and did not possess the magic
quality of tact.

"You might find companions down here," she said, pertinaciously,
"people suited to your position—old friends of your father's,
perhaps——"
"Will they be so willing to make friends with my father's son?" Wyvis
burst out bitterly. Then, seeing from her white and stricken face that
he had hurt her, he came to her side and kissed her penitently.
"Forgive me, mother," he said, "if I say what you don't like. I've been
hearing about my father ever since I came to Beaminster two days
ago. I have heard nothing but what confirmed my previous idea about
his character. Even poor old Colwyn couldn't say any good of him.
He went to the devil as fast as ever he could go, and his son seems
likely to follow in his footsteps. That's the general opinion, and, by
George, I think I shall soon do something to justify it."
"You need not live as your father did, Wyvis," said his mother, whose
tears were flowing fast.
"If I don't, nobody will believe it," said the young man, moodily.
"There is no fighting against fate. The Brands are doomed, mother:
we shall die out and be forgotten—all the better for the world, too. It
is time we were done with: we are a bad lot."
"Cuthbert is not bad. And you—Wyvis, you have your child."
"Have I? A child that I have not seen since it was six months old!
Brought up by its mother—a woman without heart or principle or
anything that is good! Much comfort the child is likely to be to me
when I get hold of it."
"When will that be?" said Mrs. Brand, as if speaking to herself rather
than to him. But Wyvis replied:

"When she is tired of it—not before. I do not know where she is."
"Does she not draw her allowance?"
"Not regularly. And she refused her address when she last appeared
at Kirby's. I suppose she wants to keep the child away from me. She
need not trouble. The last thing I want is her brat to bring up."
"Wyvis!"
But to his mother's remonstrating exclamation Wyvis paid no
attention in the least: his mood was fitful, and he was glad to step out
of the ill-lighted room into the hall, and thence to the silence and
solitude of the grounds about the house.
Brand Hall had been practically deserted for the last few years. A
tenant or two had occupied it for a little time soon after its late
master's withdrawal from the country; but the house was inconvenient
and remote from towns, and it was said, moreover, to be damp and
unhealthy. A caretaker and his wife had, therefore, been its only
inhabitants of late, and a great deal of preparation had been required
to make it fit for its owner when he at last wrote to his agents in
Beaminster to intimate his intention of settling at the Hall.
The Brands had for many a long year been renowned as the most
unlucky family in the neighborhood. They had once possessed a great
property in the county; but gambling losses and speculation had
greatly reduced their wealth, and even in the time of Wyvis Brand's
grandfather the prestige of the family had sunk very low. In the days
of Mark Brand, the father of Wyvis, it sank lower still. Mark Brand
was not only "wild," but weak: not only weak, but wicked. His career
was one of riotous dissipation, culminating in what was generally

spoken of as "a low marriage"—with the barmaid of a Beaminster
public-house. Mary Wyvis had never been at all like the typical
barmaid of fiction or real life: she was always pale, quiet, and refinedlooking, and it was not difficult to see how she had developed into
the sorrowful, careworn woman whom Wyvis Brand called mother;
but she came of a thoroughly bad stock, and was not untouched in
reputation. The county people cut Mark Brand after his marriage, and
never took any notice of his wife; and they were horrified when he
insisted on naming his eldest son after his wife's family, as if he
gloried in the lowliness of her origin. But when Wyvis was a small
boy, his father resolved that neither he nor his children should be
flouted and jeered at by county magnates any longer. He went abroad,
and remained abroad until his death, when Wyvis was twenty years
of age and Cuthbert, the younger son, was barely twelve. Some people
said that the discovery of some particularly disgraceful deed was
imminent when he left his native shores, and that it was for this reason
that he had never returned to England; but Mark Brand himself
always spoke as if his health were too weak, his nerves too delicate,
to bear the rough breezes of his own country and the brusque manners
of his compatriots. He had brought up his son according to his own
ideas; and the result did not seem entirely satisfactory. Vague rumors
occasionally reached Beaminster of scrapes and scandals in which the
young Brands figured; it was said that Wyvis was a particularly black
sheep, and that he did his best to corrupt his younger brother Cuthbert.
The news that he was coming back to Brand Hall was not received
with enthusiasm by those who heard it.
Wyvis' own story had been a sad one—perhaps more sad than
scandalous; but it was a story that the Beaminster people were never

to hear aright. Few knew it, and most of those who knew it had agreed
to keep it secret. That his wife and child were living, many persons in
Paris were aware; that they had separated was also known, but the
reason of that separation was to most persons a secret. And Wyvis,
who had a great dislike to chatterers, made up his mind when he came
to Beaminster that he would tell to nobody the history of the past few
years. Had it not been for his mother's sad face, he fancied that he
could have put it out of his mind altogether. He half resented the
pertinacity with which she seemed to brood upon it. The fact that she
had forwarded—had almost insisted upon—the unfortunate marriage,
weighed heavily upon her mind. There had been a point at which
Wyvis would have given it up. But his mother had espoused the side
of the girl, persuaded the young man to fulfill his promises to her—
and repented it ever since. Mrs. Wyvis Brand had developed an
uncontrollable love for strong drink, as well as a temper that made
her at times more like a mad woman than an ordinary human being;
and when she one day disappeared from her husband's home, carrying
his child with her, and announcing in a subsequent letter that she did
not mean to return, it could hardly be wondered at if Wyvis drew a
long breath of relief, and hoped that she never would.

CHAPTER VI.
JANETTA AT HOME.
When Lady Caroline drove away from Gwynne Street, Janetta was
left by the tumble-down iron gate with her father, in whose hand she
had laid both her own. He looked at her interrogatively, smiled a little
and said—"Well, my dear?" with a softening of his whole face which
made him positively beautiful in Janetta's eyes.
"Dear, dearest father!" said the girl, with an irrepressible little sob. "I
am so glad to see you again!"
"Come in, my dear," said Mr. Colwyn, who was not an emotional
man, although a sympathetic one. "We have been expecting you all
day. We did not think that they would keep you so long at the Court."
"I'll tell you all about it when I get in," said Janetta, trying to speak
cheerily, with an instinctive remembrance of the demands usually
made upon her fortitude in her own home. "Is mamma in?" She
always spoke of the present Mrs. Colwyn, as "mamma," to distinguish
her from her own mother. "I don't see any of the children."
"Frightened away by the grand carriage, I expect," said Mr. Colwyn,
with a grim smile. "I see a head or two at the window. Here, Joey,
Georgie, Tiny—where are you all? Come and help to carry your
sister's things upstairs." He went to the front door and called again;
whereupon a side door opened, and from it issued a slip-shod, untidylooking woman in a shawl, while over her shoulder and under her arm
appeared a little troop of children in various stages of growth and

untidiness. Mrs. Colwyn had the peculiarity of never being ready for
any engagement, much less for any emergency: she had been
expecting Janetta all day, and with Janetta some of the Court party;
but she was nevertheless in a state of semi-undress, which she tried
to conceal underneath her shawl; and on the first intimation of the
approach of Lady Caroline's carriage she had shut herself and the
children into a back room, and declared her intention of fainting on
the spot if Lady Caroline entered the front door.
"Well, Janetta," she said, as she advanced towards her stepdaughter
and presented one faded cheek to be kissed, "so your grand friends
have brought you home! Of course they wouldn't come in; I did not
expect them, I am sure. Come into the front room—and children,
don't crowd so; your sister will speak to you by-and-bye."
"Oh, no, let me kiss them now," said Janetta, who was receiving a
series of affectionate hugs that went far to blind her eyes to the
general deficiency of orderliness and beauty in the house to which she
had come. "Oh, darlings, I am so glad to see you again! Joey, how
you have grown! And Tiny isn't Tiny any longer! Georgie, you have
been plaiting your hair! And here are Curly and Jinks! But where is
Nora?"
"Upstairs, curling her hair," shouted the child who was known by the
name of Jinks. While Georgie, a well-grown girl of thirteen, added in
a lower tone,
"She would not come down until the Court people had gone. She
said she didn't want to be patronized."

Janetta colored, and turned away. Meanwhile Mrs. Colwyn had
dropped into the nearest arm-chair, and Mr. Colwyn strayed in and
out of the room with the expression of a dog that has lost its master.
Georgie hung upon Janetta's arm, and the younger children either
clung to their elder sister, or stared at her with round eyes and their
fingers in their mouths. Janetta felt uncomfortably conscious of being
more than usually interesting to them all. Joe, the eldest boy, a dusty
lad of fourteen, all legs and arms, favored her with a broad grin
expressive of delight, which his sister did not understand. It was Tiny,
the most gentle and delicate of the tribe, who let in a little light on the
subject.
"Did they send you away from school for being naughty?" she asked,
with a grave look into Janetta's face.
A chuckle from Joey, and a giggle from Georgie, were instantly
repressed by Mr. Colwyn's frown and Mrs. Colwyn's acid
remonstrance.
"What are you thinking of, children? Sister is never naughty. We do
not yet quite understand why she has left Miss Polehampton's so
suddenly, but of course she has some good reason. She'll explain it,
no doubt, to her papa and me. Miss Polehampton has been a great deal
put out about it all, and has written a long letter to your papa, Janetta;
and, indeed, it seems to me as if it would have been more becoming
if you had kept to your own place and not tried to make friends with
those above you——"
"Who are those above her, I should like to know?" broke in the greyhaired surgeon with some heat. "My Janet's as good as the best of
them any day. The Adairs are not such grand people as Miss

Polehampton makes out—I never heard of such insulting
distinctions!"
"Fancy Janetta being sent away—regularly expelled!" muttered Joey,
with another chuckle.
"You are very unkind to talk in that way!" said Janetta, addressing
him, because at that moment she could not bear to look at Mr.
Colwyn. "It was not that that made Miss Polehampton angry. It was
what she called insubordination. Miss Adair did not like to see me
having meals at a side-table—though I didn't mind one single bit!—
and she left her own place and sat by me—and then Miss
Polehampton was vexed—and everything followed naturally. It was
not just my being friends with Miss Adair that made her send me
away."
"It seems to me," said Mr. Colwyn, "that Miss Adair was very
inconsiderate."
"It was all her love and friendship, father," pleaded Janetta. "And she
had always had her own way; and of course she did not think that
Miss Polehampton really meant——"
Her weak little excuses were cut short by a scornful laugh from her
stepmother.
"It's easy to see that you have been made a cat's-paw of, Janetta," she
said. "Miss Adair was tired of school, and took the opportunity of
making a to-do about you, so as to provoke the schoolmistress and
get sent away. It does not matter to her, of course: she hasn't got her
living to earn. And if you lose your teaching, and Miss Polehampton's

recommendations by it, it doesn't affect her. Oh, I understand these
fine ladies and their ways."
"Indeed," said Janetta, in distress, "you quite misunderstand Miss
Adair, mamma. Besides, it has not deprived me of my teaching: Miss
Polehampton had told me that I might go to her sister's school at
Worthing if I liked; and she only let me go yesterday because she
became irritated at—at—some of the things that were said——"
"Yes, but I shall not let you go to Worthing," said Mr. Colwyn, with
sudden decisiveness. "You shall not be exposed to insolence of this
kind any longer. Miss Polehampton had no right to treat you as she
did, and I shall write and tell her so."
"And if Janetta stays at home," said his wife complainingly, "what is
to become of her career as a music-teacher? She can't get lessons here,
and there's the expense——"
"I hope I can afford to keep my daughter as long as I am alive," said
Mr. Colwyn with some vehemence. "There, don't be vexed, my dear
child," and he laid his hand tenderly on Janetta's shoulder, "nobody
blames you; and your friend erred perhaps from over-affection; but
Miss Polehampton"—with energy—"is a vulgar, self-seeking, foolish
old woman, and I won't have you enter into relations with her again."
And then he left the room, and Janetta, forcing back the tears in her
eyes, did her best to smile when Georgie and Tiny hugged her
simultaneously and Jinks beat a tattoo upon her knee.
"Well," said Mrs. Colwyn, lugubriously, "I hope everything will turn
out for the best; but it is not at all nice, Janetta, to think that Miss
Adair has been expelled for your sake, or that you are thrown out of

work without a character, so to speak. I should think the Adairs would
see that, and would make some compensation. If they don't offer to
do so, your papa might suggest it——"
"I'm sure father would never suggest anything of the kind," Janetta
flashed out; but before Mrs. Colwyn could protest, a diversion was
effected by the entrance of the missing Nora, and all discussion was
postponed to a more fitting moment.
For to look at Nora was to forget discussion. She was the eldest of the
second Mrs. Colwyn's children—a girl just seventeen, taller than
Janetta and thinner, with the thinness of immature girlhood, but with
a fair skin and a mop of golden-brown hair, which curled so naturally
that her younger brother's statement concerning those fair locks must
surely have been a libel. She had a vivacious, narrow, little face, with
large eyes like a child's—that is to say, they had the transparent look
that one sees in some children's eyes, as if the color had been laid on
in a single wash without any shadows. They were very pretty eyes,
and gave light and expression to a set of rather small features, which
might have been insignificant if they had belonged to an insignificant
person. But Nora Colwyn was anything but insignificant.
"Have your fine friends gone?" she said, peeping into the room in
pretended alarm. "Then I may come in. How are you, Janetta, after
your sojourn in the halls of dazzling light?"
"Don't be absurd, Nora," said her sister, with a sudden backward dart
of remembrance to the tranquil beauty of the rooms at Helmsley Court
and the silver accents of Lady Caroline. "Why didn't you come down
before?"

"My dear, I thought the nobility and gentry were blocking the door,"
said Nora, kissing her. "But since they are gone, you might as well
come upstairs with me and take off your things. Then we can have
tea."
Obediently Janetta followed her sister to the little room which they
always shared when Janetta was at home. It might have looked very
bare and desolate to ordinary eyes, but the girl felt the thrill of
pleasure that all young creatures feel to anything that bears the name
of home, and became aware of a satisfaction such as she had not
experienced in her luxurious bedroom at Helmsley Court. Nora
helped her to take off her hat and cloak, and to unpack her box,
insisting meanwhile on a detailed relation of all the events that had
led to Janetta's return three weeks before the end of the term, and
shrieking with laughter over what she called "Miss Poley's defeat."
"But, seriously, Nora, what shall I do with myself, if father will not
let me go to Worthing?"
"Teach the children at home," said Nora, briskly; "and save me the
trouble of looking after them. I should like that. Or get some pupils
in the town. Surely the Adairs will recommend you!"
This constant reference to possible aid from the Adairs troubled
Janetta not a little, and it was with some notion of combatting the idea
that she repaired to the surgery after tea, in order to get a few words
on the subject with her father. But his first remark was on quite a
different matter.
"Here's a pretty kettle of fish, Janet! The Brands are back again!"
"So I heard you say to Lady Caroline."

"Mark Brand was a cousin of your mother's," said Mr. Colwyn,
abruptly; "and a bad lot. As for these sons of his, I know nothing about
them—absolutely nothing. But their mother——" he shook his head
significantly.
"We saw them to day," said Janetta.
"Ah, an accident of that kind would be a shock to her: she does not
look strong. They wrote to me from the 'Clown,' where they had
stayed for the last two days; some question relative to the drainage of
Brand Hall. I went to the 'Crown' and saw them. He's a fine-looking
man."
"He has not altogether a pleasant expression," remarked Janetta,
thinking of Lady Caroline's strictures; "but I—liked—his face."
"He looks ill-tempered," said her father. "And I can't say that he
showed me much civility. He did not even know that your poor
mother was dead. Never asked whether she had left any family or
anything."
"Did you tell him?" asked Janetta, after a pause.
"No. I did not think it worth while. I am not anxious to cultivate his
acquaintance."
"After all, what does it matter?" said the girl coaxingly, for she
thought she saw a shadow of disappointment upon his face.
"No, what does it matter?" said her father, brightening up at once. "As
long as we are happy with each other, these outside people need not
disturb us, need they?"

"Not a bit," said Janetta. "And—you are not angry with me, are you,
father, dear?"
"Why should I be, my Janet? You have done nothing wrong that I
know of. If there is any blame it attaches to Miss Adair, not to you."
"But I do not want you to think so, father. Miss Adair is the greatest
friend that I have in all the world."
And she found a good many opportunities of repeating; this
conviction of hers during the next few days, for Mrs. Colwyn and
Nora were not slow to repeat the sentiment with which they had
greeted her—that the Adairs were "stuck-up" fine people, and that
they did not mean to take any further notice of her now that they had
got what they desired.
Janetta stood up gallantly for her friend, but she did feel it a little hard
that Margaret had not written or come to see her since her return
home. She conjectured—and in the conjecture she was nearly right—
that Lady Caroline had sacrificed her a little in order to smooth over
things with her daughter: that she had represented Janetta as resolved
upon going, resolved upon neglecting Margaret and not complying
with her requests; and that Margaret was a little offended with her in
consequence. She wrote an affectionate note of excuse to her friend,
but Margaret made no reply.