Chance: A Tale in Two Parts, Page 4

  PART ONE, CHAPTER 4.

  THE GOVERNESS.

  And the best of it was that the danger was all over already. There wasno danger any more. The supposed nephew's appearance had a purpose. Hehad come, full, full to trembling--with the bigness of his news. Theremust have been rumours already as to the shaky position of the deBarral's concerns; but only amongst those in the very inmost know. Norumour or echo of rumour had reached the profane in the West-End--letalone in the guileless marine suburb of Hove. The Fynes had nosuspicion; the governess, playing with cold, distinguished exclusivenessthe part of mother to the fabulously wealthy Miss de Barral, had nosuspicion; the masters of music, of drawing, of dancing to Miss deBarral, had no idea; the minds of her medical man, of her dentist, ofthe servants in the house, of the tradesmen proud of having the name ofde Barral on their books, were in a state of absolute serenity. Thus,that fellow, who had unexpectedly received a most alarming straight tipfrom somebody in the City arrived in Brighton, at about lunch-time, withsomething very much in the nature of a deadly bomb in his possession.But he knew better than to throw it on the public pavement. He ate hislunch impenetrably, sitting opposite Flora de Barral, and then, on someexcuse, closeted himself with the woman whom little Fyne's charitydescribed (with a slight hesitation of speech however) as his "Aunt."

  What they said to each other in private we can imagine. She came out ofher own sitting-room with red spots on her cheek-bones, which havingprovoked a question from her "beloved" charge, were accounted for by acurt "I have a headache coming on." But we may be certain that the talkbeing over she must have said to that young blackguard: "You had bettertake her out for a ride as usual." We have proof positive of this inFyne and Mrs Fyne observing them mount at the door and pass under thewindows of their sitting-room, talking together, and the poor girl allsmiles; because she enjoyed in all innocence the company of Charley.She made no secret of it whatever to Mrs Fyne; in fact, she hadconfided to her, long before, that she liked him very much: a confidencewhich had filled Mrs Fyne with desolation and that sense of powerlessanguish which is experienced in certain kinds of nightmare. For howcould she warn the girl? She did venture to tell her once that shedidn't like Mr Charley. Miss de Barral heard her with astonishment.How was it possible not to like Charley? Afterwards with naive loyaltyshe told Mrs Fyne that, immensely as she was fond of her she could nothear a word against Charley--the wonderful Charley.

  The daughter of de Barral probably enjoyed her jolly ride with the jollyCharley (infinitely more jolly than going out with a stupid oldriding-master), very much indeed, because the Fynes saw them coming backat a later hour than usual. In fact it was getting nearly dark. Ondismounting, helped off by the delightful Charley, she patted the neckof her horse and went up the steps. Her last ride. She was then withina few days of her sixteenth birthday, a slight figure in a riding habit,rather shorter than the average height for her age, in a black bowlerhat from under which her fine rippling dark hair cut square at the endswas hanging well down her back. The delightful Charley mounted again totake the two horses round to the mews. Mrs Fyne remaining at thewindow saw the house door close on Miss de Barral returning from herlast ride.

  And meantime what had the governess (out of a nobleman's family) sojudiciously selected (a lady, and connected with well-known countypeople as she said) to direct the studies, guard the health, form themind, polish the manners, and generally play the perfect mother to thatluckless child--what had she been doing? Well, having got rid of hercharge by the most natural device possible, which proved her practicalsense, she started packing her belongings, an act which showed her clearview of the situation. She had worked methodically, rapidly, and well,emptying the drawers, clearing the tables in her special apartment ofthat big house, with something silently passionate in her thoroughness;taking everything belonging to her and some things of lessunquestionable ownership, a jewelled penholder, an ivory and gold paperknife (the house was full of common, costly objects), some chased silverboxes presented by de Barral and other trifles; but the photograph ofFlora de Barral, with the loving inscription, which stood on herwriting-desk, of the most modern and expensive style, in a silver-giltframe, she neglected to take. Having accidentally, in the course of theoperations, knocked it off on the floor she let it lie there after adownward glance. Thus it, or the frame at least, became, I suppose,part of the assets in the de Barral bankruptcy.

  At dinner that evening the child found her company dull and brusque. Itwas uncommonly slow. She could get nothing from her governess butmonosyllables, and the jolly Charley actually snubbed the various cheeryopenings of his "little chum"--as he used to call her at times,--but notat that time. No doubt the couple were nervous and preoccupied. Forall this we have evidence, and for the fact that Flora being offendedwith the delightful nephew of her profoundly respected governess sulkedthrough the rest of the evening and was glad to retire early. Mrs--Mrs--I've really forgotten her name--the governess, invited her nephewto her sitting-room, mentioning aloud that it was to talk over somefamily matters. This was meant for Flora to hear, and she heard it--without the slightest interest. In fact there was nothing sufficientlyunusual in such an invitation to arouse in her mind even a passingwonder. She went bored to bed and being tired with her long ride sleptsoundly all night. Her last sleep, I won't say of innocence--that wordwould not render my exact meaning, because it has a special meaning ofits own--but I will say: of that ignorance, or better still, of thatunconsciousness of the world's ways, the unconsciousness of danger, ofpain, of humiliation, of bitterness, of falsehood. An unconsciousnesswhich in the case of other beings like herself is removed by a gradualprocess of experience and information, often only partial at that, withsaving reserves, softening doubts, veiling theories. Herunconsciousness of the evil which lives in the secret thoughts andtherefore in the open acts of mankind, whenever it happens that evilthought meets evil courage; her unconsciousness was to be broken intowith profane violence with desecrating circumstances, like a templeviolated by a mad, vengeful impiety. Yes, that very young girl, almostno more than a child--this was what was going to happen to her. And ifyou ask me, how, wherefore, for what reason? I will answer you: Why, bychance! By the merest chance, as things do happen, lucky and unlucky,terrible or tender, important or unimportant; and even things which areneither, things so completely neutral in character that you would wonderwhy they do happen at all if you didn't know that they, too, carry intheir insignificance the seeds of further incalculable chances.

  Of course, all the chances were that de Barral should have fallen upon aperfectly harmless, naive, usual, inefficient specimen of respectablegoverness for his daughter; or on a commonplace silly adventuress whowould have tried, say, to marry him or work some other sort of commonmischief in a small way. Or again he might have chanced on a model ofall the virtues, or the repository of all knowledge, or anything equallyharmless, conventional, and middle class. All calculations were in hisfavour; but, chance being incalculable, he fell upon an individualitywhom it is much easier to define by opprobrious names than to classifyin a calm and scientific spirit--but an individuality certainly, and atemperament as well. Rare? No. There is a certain amount of what Iwould politely call unscrupulousness in all of us. Think for instanceof the excellent Mrs Fyne, who herself, and in the bosom of her family,resembled a governess of a conventional type. Only, her mental excesseswere theoretical, hedged in by so much humane feeling and conventionalreserves, that they amounted to no more than mere libertinage ofthought; whereas the other woman, the governess of Flora de Barral, was,as you may have noticed, severely practical--terribly practical. No!Hers was not a rare temperament, except in its fierce resentment ofrepression; a feeling which like genius or lunacy is apt to drive peopleinto sudden irrelevancy. Hers was feminine irrelevancy. A male genius,a male ruffian, or even a male lunatic, would not have behaved exactlyas she did behave. There is a softness in masculine nature, even themost brutal, which acts as a check.
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  While the girl slept those two, the woman of forty, an age in itselfterrible, and that hopeless young "wrong 'un" of twenty-three (also wellconnected I believe) had some sort of subdued row in the cleared rooms:wardrobes open, drawers half pulled out and empty, trunks locked andstrapped, furniture in idle disarray, and not so much as a single scrapof paper left behind on the tables. The maid, whom the governess andthe pupil shared between them, after finishing with Flora, came to thedoor as usual, but was not admitted. She heard the two voices indispute before she knocked, and then being sent away retreated at once--the only person in the house convinced at that time that there was"something up."

  "Dark and, so to speak, inscrutable spaces being met with in life theremust be such places in any statement dealing with life. In what I amtelling you of now--an episode of one of my humdrum holidays in thegreen country, recalled quite naturally after all the years by ourmeeting a man who has been a blue-water sailor--this eveningconfabulation is a dark, inscrutable spot. And we may conjecture whatwe like. I have no difficulty in imagining that the woman--of forty,and the chief of the enterprise--must have raged at large. And perhapsthe other did not rage enough. Youth feels deeply it is true, but ithas not the same vivid sense of lost opportunities. It believes in theabsolute reality of time. And then, in that abominable scamp with hisyouth already soiled, withered like a plucked flower ready to be flungon some rotting heap of rubbish, no very genuine feeling about anythingcould exist--not even about the hazards of his own unclean existence. Asneering half-laugh with some such remark as: `We are properly sold andno mistake' would have been enough to make trouble in that way. Andthen another sneer, `Waste time enough over it too,' followed perhaps bythe bitter retort from the other party, `You seemed to like it wellenough though, playing the fool with that chit of a girl.' Something ofthat sort. Don't you see it--eh..."

  Marlow looked at me with his dark penetrating glance. I was struck bythe absolute verisimilitude of this suggestion. But we were alwaystilting at each other. I saw an opening and pushed my uncandid thrust.

  "You have a ghastly imagination," I said with a cheerfully scepticalsmile.

  "Well, and if I have," he returned unabashed. "But let me remind youthat this situation came to me unasked. I am like a puzzle-headed chiefmate we had once in the dear old _Samarcand_ when I was a youngster.The fellow went gravely about trying to `account to himself'--hisfavourite expression--for a lot of things no one would care to botherone's head about. He was an old idiot but he was also an accomplishedpractical seaman. I was quite a boy and he impressed me. I must havecaught the disposition from him."

  "Well--go on with your accounting then," I said, assuming an air ofresignation.

  "That's just it." Marlow fell into his stride at once. "That's justit. Mere disappointed cupidity cannot account for the proceedings ofthe next morning; proceedings which I shall not describe to you--butwhich I shall tell you of presently, not as a matter of conjecture butof actual fact. Meantime returning to that evening altercation indeadened tones within the private apartment of Miss de Barral'sgoverness, what if I were to tell you that disappointment had mostlikely made them touchy with each other, but that perhaps the secret ofhis careless, railing behaviour, was in the thought, springing up withinhim with an emphatic oath of relief. `Now there's nothing to prevent mefrom breaking away from that old woman.' And that the secret of herenvenomed rage, not against this miserable and attractive wretch, butagainst fate, accident and the whole course of human life, concentratingits venom on de Barral and including the innocent girl herself, was inthe thought, in the fear crying within her, `Now I have nothing to holdhim with...'"

  I couldn't refuse Marlow the tribute of a prolonged whistle "Phew! Soyou suppose that..."

  He waved his hand impatiently.

  "I don't suppose. It was so. And anyhow why shouldn't you accept thesupposition. Do you look upon governesses as creatures above suspicionor necessarily of moral perfection? I suppose their hearts would notstand looking into much better than other people's. Why shouldn't agoverness have passions, all the passions, even that of libertinage, andeven ungovernable passions; yet suppressed by the very same means whichkeep the rest of us in order: early training--necessity--circumstances--fear of consequences; till there comes an age, a time when the restraintof years becomes intolerable--and infatuation irresistible..."

  "But if infatuation--quite possible I admit," I argued, "how do youaccount for the nature of the conspiracy."

  "You expect a cogency of conduct not usual in women," said Marlow. "Thesubterfuges of a menaced passion are not to be fathomed. You think itis going on the way it looks, whereas it is capable, for its own ends,of walking backwards into a precipice."

  When one once acknowledges that she was not a common woman, then allthis is easily understood. She was abominable but she was not common.She had suffered in her life not from its constant inferiority but fromconstant self-repression. A common woman finding herself placed in acommanding position might have formed the design to become the secondMrs de Barral. Which would have been impracticable. De Barral wouldnot have known what to do with a wife. But even if by some impossiblechance he had made advances, this governess would have repulsed him withscorn. She had treated him always as an inferior being with an assured,distant politeness. In her composed, schooled manner she despised anddisliked both father and daughter exceedingly. I have a notion that shehad always disliked intensely all her charges including the two ducal(if they were ducal) little girls with whom she had dazzled de Barral.What an odious, ungratified existence it must have been for a woman asavid of all the sensuous emotions which life can give as most of herbetters.

  She had seen her youth vanish, her freshness disappear, her hopes die,and now she felt her flaming middle-age slipping away from her. Nowonder that with her admirably dressed, abundant hair, thickly sprinkledwith white threads and adding to her elegant aspect the piquantdistinction of a powdered coiffure--no wonder, I say, that she clungdesperately to her last infatuation for that graceless young scamp, evento the extent of hatching for him that amazing plot. He was not so fargone in degradation as to make him utterly hopeless for such an attempt.She hoped to keep him straight with that enormous bribe. She wasclearly a woman uncommon enough to live without illusions--which, ofcourse, does not mean that she was reasonable. She had said to herself,perhaps with a fury of self-contempt. "In a few years I shall be tooold for anybody. Meantime I shall have him--and I shall hold him bythrowing to him the money of that ordinary, silly, little girl of noaccount." Well, it was a desperate expedient--but she thought it worthwhile. And besides there is hardly a woman in the world, no matter howhard, depraved or frantic, in whom something of the maternal instinctdoes not survive, unconsumed like a salamander, in the fires of the mostabandoned passion. Yes there might have been that sentiment for himtoo. There _was_ no doubt. So I say again: No wonder! No wonder thatshe raged at everything--and perhaps even at him, with contradictoryreproaches: for regretting the girl, a little fool who would never inher life be worth anybody's attention, and for taking the disasteritself with a cynical levity in which she perceived a flavour of revolt.

  And so the altercation in the night went on, over the irremediable. Hearguing, "What's the hurry? Why clear out like this?" perhaps a littlesorry for the girl and as usual without a penny in his pocket,appreciating the comfortable quarters, wishing to linger on as long aspossible in the shameless enjoyment of this already doomed luxury.There was really no hurry for a few days. Always time enough to vanish.And, with that, a touch of masculine softness, a sort of regard forappearances surviving his degradation: "You might behave decently at thelast, Eliza." But there was no softness in the sallow face under thegala effect of powdered hair, its formal calmness gone, the dark-ringedeyes glaring at him with a sort of hunger. "No! No! If it is as yousay then not a day, not an hour, not a moment." She stuck to it, verydetermined that there should be no more of that boy and girlp
hilandering since the object of it was gone; angry with herself forhaving suffered from it so much in the past, furious at its having beenall in vain.

  But she was reasonable enough not to quarrel with him finally. What wasthe good? She found means to placate him. The only means. As long asthere was some money to be got she had hold of him. "Now go away. Weshall do no good by any more of this sort of talk. I want to be alonefor a bit." He went away, sulkily acquiescent. There was a room alwayskept ready for him on the same floor, at the further end of a shortthickly carpeted passage.

  How she passed the night, this woman with no illusions to help herthrough the hours which must have been sleepless I shouldn't like tosay. It ended at last; and this strange victim of the de Barralfailure, whose name would never be known to the Official Receiver, camedown to breakfast, impenetrable in her everyday perfection. From thevery first, somehow, she had accepted the fatal news for true. All herlife she had never believed in her luck, with that pessimism of thepassionate who at bottom feel themselves to be the outcasts of a morallyrestrained universe. But this did not make it any easier, on openingthe morning paper feverishly, to see the thing confirmed. Oh yes! Itwas there. The Orb had suspended payment--the first growl of the stormfaint as yet, but to the initiated the forerunner of a deluge. As anitem of news it was not indecently displayed. It was not displayed atall in a sense. The serious paper, the only one of the great dailieswhich had always maintained an attitude of reserve towards the de Barralgroup of banks, had its "manner." Yes! a modest item of news! Butthere was also, on another page, a special financial article in ahostile tone beginning with the words "We have always feared" and aguarded, half-column leader, opening with the phrase: "It is adeplorable sign of the times" what was, in effect, an austere, generalrebuke to the absurd infatuations of the investing public. She glancedthrough these articles, a line here and a line there--no more wasnecessary to catch beyond doubt the murmur of the oncoming flood.Several slighting references by name to de Barral revived her animosityagainst the man, suddenly, as by the effect of unforeseen moral support.The miserable wretch!...

  "You understand," Marlow interrupted the current of his narrative, "thatin order to be consecutive in my relation of this affair I am tellingyou at once the details which I heard from Mrs Fyne later in the day,as well as what little Fyne imparted to me with his usual solemnityduring that morning call. As you may easily guess the Fynes, in theirapartments, had read the news at the same time, and, as a matter offact, in the same august and highly moral newspaper, as the governess inthe luxurious mansion a few doors down on the opposite side of thestreet. But they read them with different feelings. They werethunderstruck. Fyne had to explain the full purport of the intelligenceto Mrs Fyne whose first cry was that of relief. Then that poor childwould be safe from these designing, horrid people. Mrs Fyne did notknow what it might mean to be suddenly reduced from riches to absolutepenury. Fyne with his masculine imagination was less inclined torejoice extravagantly at the girl's escape from the moral dangers whichhad been menacing her defenceless existence. It was a confoundedly bigprice to pay. What an unfortunate little thing she was! `We might beable to do something to comfort that poor child at any rate for the timeshe is here,' said Mrs Fyne. She felt under a sort of moral obligationnot to be indifferent. But no comfort for anyone could be got byrushing out into the street at this early hour; and so, following theadvice of Fyne not to act nastily, they both sat down at the window andstared feelingly at the great house, awful to their eyes in its stolid,prosperous, expensive respectability with ruin absolutely standing atthe door."

  By that time, or very soon after, all Brighton had the information andformed a more or less just appreciation of its gravity. The butler inMiss de Barral's big house had seen the news, perhaps earlier thananybody within a mile of the Parade, in the course of his morning dutiesof which one was to dry the freshly delivered paper before the fire--anoccasion to glance at it which no intelligent man could have neglected.He communicated to the rest of the household his vaguely forcibleimpression that something had gone damnably wrong with the affairs of"her father in London."

  This brought an atmosphere of constraint through the house, which Florade Barral coming down somewhat later than usual could not help noticingin her own way. Everybody seemed to stare so stupidly somehow; shefeared a dull day.

  In the dining-room the governess in her place, a newspaperhalf-concealed under the cloth on her lap, after a few words exchangedwith lips that seemed hardly to move, remaining motionless, her eyesfixed before her in an enduring silence; and presently Charley coming into whom she did not even give a glance. He hardly said good morning,though he had a half-hearted try to smile at the girl, and sittingopposite her with his eyes on his plate and slight quivers passing alongthe line of his clean-shaven jaw, he too had nothing to say. It wasdull, horribly dull to begin one's day like this; but she knew what itwas. These never-ending family affairs! It was not for the first timethat she had suffered from their depressing after-effects on these two.It was a shame that the delightful Charley should be made dull by thesestupid talks, and it was perfectly stupid of him to let himself be upsetlike this by his aunt.

  When after a period of still, as if calculating, immobility hergoverness got up abruptly and went out with the paper in her hand,almost immediately afterwards followed by Charley who left his breakfasthalf eaten, the girl was positively relieved. They would have it outthat morning whatever it was, and be themselves again in the afternoon.At least Charley would be. To the moods of her governess she did notattach so much importance.

  For the first time that morning the Fynes saw the front door of theawful house open and the objectionable young man issue forth, hisrascality visible to their prejudiced eyes in his very bowler hat and inthe smart cut of his short fawn overcoat. He walked away rapidly like aman hurrying to catch a train, glancing from side to side as though hewere carrying something off. Could he be departing for good?Undoubtedly, undoubtedly! But Mrs Fyne's fervent "thank goodness"turned out to be a bit, as the Americans--some Americans--say"previous." In a very short time the odious fellow appeared again,strolling, absolutely strolling back, his hat now tilted a little on oneside, with an air of leisure and satisfaction. Mrs Fyne groaned notonly in the spirit, at this sight, but in the flesh, audibly; and askedher husband what it might mean. Fyne naturally couldn't say. Mrs Fynebelieved that there was something horrid in progress and meantime theobject of her detestation had gone up the steps and had knocked at thedoor which at once opened to admit him.

  He had been only as far as the bank.

  His reason for leaving his breakfast unfinished to run after Miss deBarral's governess, was to speak to her in reference to that very errandpossessing the utmost possible importance in his eyes. He shrugged hisshoulders at the nervousness of her eyes and hands, at thehalf-strangled whisper "I had to go out. I could hardly containmyself." That was her affair. He was, with a young man'ssqueamishness, rather sick of her ferocity. He did not understand it.Men do not accumulate hate against each other in tiny amounts,treasuring every pinch carefully till it grows at last into a monstrousand explosive hoard. He had run out after her to remind her of thebalance at the bank. What about lifting that money without wasting anymore time? She had promised him to leave nothing behind.

  An account opened in her name for the expenses of the establishment inBrighton, had been fed by de Barral with deferential lavishness. Thegoverness crossed the wide hall into a little room at the side where shesat down to write the cheque, which he hastened out to go and cash as ifit were stolen or a forgery. As observed by the Fynes, his uneasyappearance on leaving the house arose from the fact that his firsttrouble having been caused by a cheque of doubtful authenticity, thepossession of a document of the sort made him unreasonably uncomfortabletill this one was safely cashed. And after all, you know it wasstealing of an indirect sort; for the money was de Barral's money if theaccount was in the name of the accomplis
hed lady. At any rate thecheque was cashed. On getting hold of the notes and gold he recoveredhis jaunty bearing, it being well-known that with certain natures thepresence of money (even stolen) in the pocket, acts as a tonic, or atleast as a stimulant. He cocked his hat a little on one side as thoughhe had had a drink or two--which indeed he might have had in reality, tocelebrate the occasion.

  The governess had been waiting for his return in the hall, disregardingthe side-glances of the butler as he went in and out of the dining-roomclearing away the breakfast things. It was she, herself, who had openedthe door so promptly. "It's all right," he said touching hisbreast-pocket; and she did not dare, the miserable wretch withoutillusions, she did not dare ask him to hand it over. They looked ateach other in silence. He nodded significantly: "Where is she now?" andshe whispered, "Gone into the drawing-room. Want to see her again?"with an archly black look which he acknowledged by a muttered, surly: "Iam damned if I do. Well, as you want to bolt like this, why don't we gonow?"

  She set her lips with cruel obstinacy and shook her head. She had heridea, her completed plan. At that moment the Fynes, still at the windowand watching like a pair of private detectives, saw a man with a longgrey beard and a jovial face go up the steps helping himself with athick stick, and knock at the door. Who could he be?

  He was one of Miss de Barral's masters. She had lately taken uppainting in water-colours, having read in a high-class woman's weeklypaper that a great many princesses of the European royal houses werecultivating that art. This was the water-colour morning; and theteacher, a veteran of many exhibitions, of a venerable and jovialaspect, had turned up with his usual punctuality. He was no greatreader of morning papers, and even had he seen the news it is verylikely he would not have understood its real purport. At any rate heturned up, as the governess expected him to do, and the Fynes saw himpass through the fateful door.

  He bowed cordially to the lady in charge of Miss de Barral's education,whom he saw in the hall engaged in conversation with a very good-lookingbut somewhat raffish young gentleman. She turned to him graciously:"Flora is already waiting for you in the drawing-room."

  The cultivation of the art said to be patronised by princesses waspursued in the drawing-room from considerations of the right kind oflight. The governess preceded the master up the stairs and into theroom where Miss de Barral was found arrayed in a holland pinafore (alsoof the right kind for the pursuit of the art) and smilingly expectant.The water-colour lesson enlivened by the jocular conversation of thekindly, humorous, old man was always great fun; and she felt she wouldbe compensated for the tiresome beginning of the day.

  Her governess generally was present at the lesson; but on this occasionshe only sat down till the master and pupil had gone to work in earnest,and then as though she had suddenly remembered some order to give, rosequietly and went out of the room.

  Once outside, the servants summoned by the passing maid without a bellbeing rung, and quick, quick, let all this luggage be taken down intothe hall, and let one of you call a cab. She stood outside thedrawing-room door on the landing, looking at each piece, trunk, leathercases, portmanteaus, being carried past her, her brows knitted and heraspect so sombre and absorbed that it took some little time for thebutler to muster courage enough to speak to her. But he reflected thathe was a free-born Briton and had his rights. He spoke straight to thepoint but in the usual respectful manner.

  "Beg you pardon, ma'am--but are you going away for good?"

  He was startled by her tone. Its unexpected, unladylike harshness fellon his trained ear with the disagreeable effect of a false note. "Yes.I am going away. And the best thing for all of you is to go away too,as soon as you like. You can go now, to-day, this moment. You had yourwages paid you only last week. The longer you stay the greater yourloss. But I have nothing to do with it now. You are the servants ofMr de Barral--you know."

  The butler was astounded by the manner of this advice, and as his eyeswandered to the drawing-room door the governess extended her arm as ifto bar the way. "Nobody goes in there." And that was said still inanother tone, such a tone that all trace of the trained respectfulnessvanished from the butler's bearing. He stared at her with a frankwondering gaze. "Not till I am gone," she added, and there was such anexpression on her face that the man was daunted by the mystery of it.He shrugged his shoulders slightly and without another word went downthe stairs on his way to the basement, brushing in the hall past MrCharles who hat on head and both hands rammed deep into his overcoatpockets paced up and down as though on sentry duty there.

  The ladies' maid was the only servant upstairs, hovering in the passageon the first floor, curious and as if fascinated by the woman who stoodthere guarding the door. Being beckoned closer imperiously and asked bythe governess to bring out of the now empty rooms the hat and veil, theonly objects besides the furniture still to be found there, she did soin silence but inwardly fluttered. And while waiting uneasily, with theveil, before that woman who, without moving a step away from thedrawing-room door was pinning with careless haste her hat on her head,she heard within a sudden burst of laughter from Miss de Barral enjoyingthe fun of the water-colour lesson given her for the last time by thecheery old man.

  Mr and Mrs Fyne ambushed at their window--a most incredible occupationfor people of their kind--saw with renewed anxiety a cab come to thedoor, and watched some luggage being carried out and put on its roof.The butler appeared for a moment, then went in again. What did it mean?Was Flora going to be taken to her father; or were these people, thatwoman and her horrible nephew, about to carry her off somewhere? Fynecouldn't tell. He doubted the last, Flora having now, he judged, novalue, either positive or speculative. Though no great reader ofcharacter he did not credit the governess with humane intentions. Heconfessed to me naively that he was excited as if watching some actionon the stage. Then the thought struck him that the girl might have hadsome money settled on her, be possessed of some means, of some littlefortune of her own and therefore--

  He imparted this theory to his wife who shared fully his consternation."I can't believe the child will go away without running in to saygood-bye to us," she murmured. "We must find out! I shall ask her."But at that very moment the cab rolled away, empty inside, and the doorof the house which had been standing slightly ajar till then was pushedto.

  They remained silent staring at it till Mrs Fyne whispered doubtfully"I really think I must go over." Fyne didn't answer for a while (his isa reflective mind, you know), and then as if Mrs Fyne's whispers had anoccult power over that door it opened wide again and the white-beardedman issued, astonishingly active in his movements, using his stickalmost like a leaping-pole to get down the steps; and hobbled awaybriskly along the pavement. Naturally the Fynes were too far off tomake out the expression of his face. But it would not have helped themvery much to a guess at the conditions inside the house. The expressionwas humorously puzzled--nothing more.

  For, at the end of his lesson, seizing his trusty stick and coming outwith his habitual vivacity, he very nearly cannoned just outside thedrawing-room door into the back of Miss de Barral's governess. Hestopped himself in time and she turned round swiftly. It wasembarrassing; he apologised; but her face was not startled; it was notaware of him; it wore a singular expression of resolution. A verysingular expression which, as it were, detained him for a moment. Inorder to cover his embarrassment, he made some inane remark on theweather, upon which, instead of returning another inane remark accordingto the tacit rules of the game, she only gave him a smile ofunfathomable meaning. Nothing could have been more singular. Thegood-looking young gentleman of questionable appearance took not theslightest notice of him in the hall. No servant was to be seen. He lethimself out pulling the door to behind him with a crash as, in a manner,he was forced to do to get it shut at all.

  When the echo of it had died away the woman on the landing leaned overthe banister and called out bitterly to the man below "Don't you want tocome up and
say good-bye." He had an impatient movement of theshoulders and went on pacing to and fro as though he had not heard. Butsuddenly he checked himself, stood still for a moment, then with agloomy face and without taking his hands out of his pockets ran smartlyup the stairs. Already facing the door she turned her head for awhispered taunt: "Come! Confess you were dying to see her stupid littleface once more,"--to which he disdained to answer.

  Flora de Barral, still seated before the table at which she had beenworking on her sketch, raised her head at the noise of the opening door.The invading manner of their entrance gave her the sense of somethingshe had never seen before. She knew them well. She knew the womanbetter than she knew her father. There had been between them anintimacy of relation as great as it can possibly be without the finalcloseness of affection. The delightful Charley walked in, with his eyesfixed on the back of her governess whose raised veil hid her foreheadlike a brown band above the black line of the eyebrows. The girl wasastounded and alarmed by the altogether unknown expression in thewoman's face. The stress of passion often discloses an aspect of thepersonality completely ignored till then by its closest intimates.There was something like an emanation of evil from her eyes and from theface of the other, who, exactly behind her and overtopping her by half ahead, kept his eyelids lowered in a sinister fashion--which in the poorgirl, reached, stirred, set free that faculty of unreasoning explosiveterror lying locked up at the bottom of all human hearts and of thehearts of animals as well. With suddenly enlarged pupils and a movementas instinctive almost as the bounding of a startled fawn, she jumped upand found herself in the middle of the big room, exclaiming at thoseamazing and familiar strangers.

  "What do you want?"

  You will note that she cried: What do you want? Not: What has happened?She told Mrs Fyne that she had received suddenly the feeling of beingpersonally attacked. And that must have been very terrifying. Thewoman before her had been the wisdom, the authority, the protection oflife, security embodied and visible and undisputed.

  You may imagine then the force of the shock in the intuitive perceptionnot merely of danger, for she did not know what was alarming her, but inthe sense of the security being gone. And not only security. I don'tknow how to explain it clearly. Look! Even a small child lives, playsand suffers in terms of its conception of its own existence. Imagine,if you can, a fact coming in suddenly with a force capable of shatteringthat very conception itself. It was only because of the girl beingstill so much of a child that she escaped mental destruction; that, inother words she got over it. Could one conceive of her more mature,while still as ignorant as she was, one must conclude that she wouldhave become an idiot on the spot--long before the end of thatexperience. Luckily, people, whether mature or not mature (and whoreally is ever mature?) are for the most part quite incapable ofunderstanding what is happening to them: a merciful provision of natureto preserve an average amount of sanity for working purposes in thisworld...

  "But we, my dear Marlow, have the inestimable advantage of understandingwhat is happening to others," I struck in. "Or at least some of us seemto. Is that too a provision of nature? And what is it for? Is it thatwe may amuse ourselves gossiping about each other's affairs? You forinstance seem--"

  "I don't know what I seem," Marlow silenced me, "and surely life must beamused somehow. It would be still a very respectable provision if itwere only for that end. But from that same provision of understanding,there springs in us compassion, charity, indignation, the sense ofsolidarity; and in minds of any largeness an inclination to thatindulgence which is next door to affection. I don't mean to say that Iam inclined to an indulgent view of the precious couple which broke inupon an unsuspecting girl. They came marching in (it's the veryexpression she used later on to Mrs Fyne) but at her cry they stopped.It must have been startling enough to them. It was like having the masktorn off when you don't expect it. The man stopped, for good; he didn'toffer to move a step further. But, though the governess had come inthere for the very purpose of taking the mask off for the first time inher life, she seemed to look upon the frightened cry as a freshprovocation. `What are you screaming for, you little fool?' she saidadvancing alone close to the girl who was affected exactly as if she hadseen Medusa's head with serpentine locks set mysteriously on theshoulders of that familiar person, in that brown dress, under that hatshe knew so well. It made her lose all her hold on reality. She toldMrs Fyne: `I didn't know where I was. I didn't even know that I wasfrightened. If she had told me it was a joke I would have laughed. Ifshe had told me to put on my hat and go out with her I would have goneto put on my hat and gone out with her and never said a single word; Ishould have been convinced I had been mad for a minute or so, and Iwould have worried myself to death rather than breathe a hint of it toher or anyone. But the wretch put her face close to mine and I couldnot move. Directly I had looked into her eyes I felt grown on to thecarpet.'"

  It was years afterwards that she used to talk like this to Mrs Fyne--and to Mrs Fyne alone. Nobody else ever heard the story from her lips.But it was never forgotten. It was always felt; it remained like amark on her soul, a sort of mystic wound, to be contemplated, to bemeditated over. And she said further to Mrs Fyne, in the course ofmany confidences provoked by that contemplation, that, as long as thatwoman called her names, it was almost soothing, it was in a mannerreassuring. Her imagination had, like her body, gone off in a wildbound to meet the unknown; and then to hear after all something whichmore in its tone than in its substance was mere venomous abuse, hadsteadied the inward flutter of all her being.

  "She called me a little fool more times than I can remember. I! Afool! Why, Mrs Fyne! I do assure you I had never yet thought at all;never of anything in the world, till then. I just went on living. Andone can't be a fool without one has at least tried to think. But whathad I ever to think about?"

  "And no doubt," commented Marlow, "her life had been a mere life ofsensations--the response to which can neither be foolish nor wise. Itcan only be temperamental; and I believe that she was of a generallyhappy disposition, a child of the average kind. Even when she was askedviolently whether she imagined that there was anything in her, apartfrom her money, to induce any intelligent person to take any sort ofinterest in her existence, she only caught her breath in one dry sob andsaid nothing, made no other sound, made no movement. When she wasviciously assured that she was in heart, mind, manner and appearance, anutterly common and insipid creature, she remained still, withoutindignation, without anger. She stood, a frail and passive vessel intowhich the other went on pouring all the accumulated dislike for all herpupils, her scorn of all her employers (the ducal one included), theaccumulated resentment, the infinite hatred of all these unrelievedyears of--I won't say hypocrisy. The practice of perfect hypocrisy is arelief in itself, a secret triumph of the vilest sort, no doubt, butstill a way of getting even with the common morality from which some ofus appear to suffer so much. No! I will say the years, the passionate,bitter years, of restraint, the iron, admirably mannered restraint atevery moment, in a never-failing perfect correctness of speech, glances,movements, smiles, gestures, establishing for her a high reputation, animpressive record of success in her sphere. It had been like livinghalf-strangled for years."

  And all this torture for nothing, in the end! What looked at last likea possible prize (oh, without illusions! but still a prize) broken inher hands, fallen in the dust, the bitter dust, of disappointment, sherevelled in the miserable revenge--pretty safe too--only regretting theunworthiness of the girlish figure which stood for so much she hadlonged to be able to spit venom at, if only once, in perfect liberty.The presence of the young man at her back increased both hersatisfaction and her rage. But the very violence of the attack seemedto defeat its end by rendering the representative victim as it wereinsensible. The cause of this outrage naturally escaping the girl'simagination her attitude was in effect that of dense, hopelessstupidity. And it is a fact that the worst shocks of l
ife are oftenreceived without outcries, without gestures, without a flow of tears andthe convulsions of sobbing. The insatiable governess missed these signsexceedingly. This pitiful stolidity was only a fresh provocation. Yetthe poor girl was deadly pale.

  "I was cold," she used to explain to Mrs Fyne. "I had had time to getterrified. She had pushed her face so near mine and her teeth looked asthough she wanted to bite me. Her eyes seemed to have become quite dry,hard and small in a lot of horrible wrinkles. I was too afraid of herto shudder, too afraid of her to put my fingers to my ears. I didn'tknow what I expected her to call me next, but when she told me I was nobetter than a beggar--that there would be no more masters, no moreservants, no more horses for me--I said to myself: Is that all? Ishould have laughed if I hadn't been too afraid of her to make the leastlittle sound."

  It seemed that poor Flora had to know all the possible phases of thatsort of anguish, beginning with instinctive panic, through thebewildered stage, the frozen stage and the stage of blanchedapprehension, down to the instinctive prudence of extreme terror--thestillness of the mouse. But when she heard herself called the child ofa cheat and a swindler, the very monstrous unexpectedness of this causedin her a revulsion towards letting herself go. She screamed out all atonce "You mustn't speak like this of Papa!"

  The effort of it uprooted her from that spot where her little feetseemed dug deep into the thick luxurious carpet, and she retreatedbackwards to a distant part of the room, hearing herself repeat, "Youmustn't, you mustn't," as if it were somebody else screaming. She cameto a chair and flung herself into it. Thereupon the somebody elseceased screaming and she lolled, exhausted, sightless, in a silent room,as if indifferent to everything and without a single thought in herhead.

  The next few seconds seemed to last for ever so long; a black abyss oftime separating what was past and gone from the reappearance of thegoverness and the reawakening of fear. And that woman was forcing thewords through her set teeth:

  "You say I mustn't, I mustn't. All the world will be speaking of himlike this to-morrow. They will say it, and they'll print it. You shallhear it and you shall read it--and then you shall know whose daughteryou are."

  Her face lighted up with an atrocious satisfaction. "He's nothing but athief," she cried, "this father of yours. As to you I have never beendeceived in you for a moment. I have been growing more and more sick ofyou for years. You are a vulgar, silly nonentity, and you shall go backto where you belong, whatever low place you have sprung from, and begyour bread--that is if anybody's charity will have anything to do withyou, which I doubt--"

  She would have gone on regardless of the enormous eyes, of the openmouth of the girl who sat up suddenly with the wild staring expressionof being choked by invisible fingers on her throat, and yet horriblypale. The effect on her constitution was so profound, Mrs Fyne toldme, that she who as a child had a rather pretty delicate colouring,showed a white bloodless face for a couple of years afterwards, andremained always liable at the slightest emotion to an extraordinaryghost-like whiteness. The end came in the abomination of desolation ofthe poor child's miserable cry for help: "Charley! Charley!" comingfrom her throat in hidden gasping efforts. Her enlarged eyes haddiscovered him where he stood motionless and dumb.

  He started from his immobility, a hand withdrawn brusquely from thepocket of his overcoat, strode up to the woman, seized her by the armfrom behind, saying in a rough commanding tone: "Come away, Eliza." Inan instant the child saw them close together and remote, near the door,gone through the door, which she neither heard nor saw being opened orshut. But it was shut. Oh yes, it was shut. Her slow unseeing glancewandered all over the room. For some time longer she remained leaningforward, collecting her strength doubting if she would be able to stand.She stood up at last. Everything about her spun round in an oppressivesilence. She remembered perfectly--as she told Mrs Fyne--that clingingto the arm of the chair she called out twice "Papa! Papa!" At thethought that he was far away in London everything about her became quitestill. Then, frightened suddenly by the solitude of that empty room,she rushed out of it blindly.

  With that fatal diffidence in well doing, inherent in the presentcondition of humanity, the Fynes continued to watch at their window."It's always so difficult to know what to do for the best," Fyne assuredme. It is. Good intentions stand in their own way so much. Whereas ifyou want to do harm to anyone you needn't hesitate. You have only to goon. No one will reproach you with your mistakes or call you aconfounded, clumsy meddler. The Fynes watched the door, the closedstreet door inimical somehow to their benevolent thoughts, the face ofthe house cruelly impenetrable. It was just as on any other day. Theunchanged daily aspect of inanimate things is so impressive that Fynewent back into the room for a moment, picked up the paper again, and ranhis eyes over the item of news. No doubt of it. It looked very bad.He came back to the window and Mrs Fyne. Tired out as she was she satthere resolute and ready for responsibility. But she had no suggestionto offer. People do fear a rebuff wonderfully, and all her audacity wasin her thoughts. She shrank from the incomparably insolent manner ofthe governess. Fyne stood by her side, as in those old-fashionedphotographs of married couples where you see a husband with his hand onthe back of his wife's chair. And they were about as efficient as anold photograph, and as still, till Mrs Fyne started slightly. Thestreet door had swung open, and, bursting out, appeared the young man,his hat (Mrs Fyne observed) tilted forward over his eyes. After himthe governess slipped through, turning round at once to shut the doorbehind her with care. Meantime the man went down the white steps andstrode along the pavement, his hands rammed deep into the pockets of hisfawn overcoat. The woman, that woman of composed movements, ofdeliberate superior manner, took a little run to catch up with him, anddirectly she had caught up with him tried to introduce her hand underhis arm. Mrs Fyne saw the brusque half turn of the fellow's body asone avoids an importunate contact, defeating her attempt rudely. Shedid not try again but kept pace with his stride, and Mrs Fyne watchedthem, walking independently, turn the corner of the street side by side,disappear for ever.

  The Fynes looked at each other eloquently, doubtfully: What do you thinkof this? Then with common accord turned their eyes back to the streetdoor, closed, massive, dark; the great, clear-brass knocker shining in aquiet slant of sunshine cut by a diagonal line of heavy shade fillingthe further end of the street. Could the girl be already gone? Sentaway to her father? Had she any relations? Nobody but de Barralhimself ever came to see her, Mrs Fyne remembered; and she had theinstantaneous, profound, maternal perception of the child's loneliness--and a girl too! It was irresistible. And, besides, the departure ofthe governess was not without its encouraging influence. "I am goingover at once to find out," she declared resolutely but still staringacross the street. Her intention was arrested by the sight of thatawful, sombrely glistening door, swinging back suddenly on the yawningdarkness of the hall, out of which literally flew out, right out on thepavement, almost without touching the white steps, a little figureswathed in a holland pinafore up to the chin, its hair streaming backfrom its head, darting past a lamp-post, past the red pillar-box..."Here," cried Mrs Fyne; "she's coming here! Run, John! Run!"

  Fyne bounded out of the room. This is his own word. Bounded! Heassured me with intensified solemnity that he bounded; and the sight ofthe short and muscular Fyne bounding gravely about the circumscribedpassages and staircases of a small, very high-class, private hotel,would have been worth any amount of money to a man greedy of memorableimpressions. But as I looked at him, the desire of laughter at my verylips, I asked myself: how many men could be found ready to compromisetheir cherished gravity for the sake of the unimportant child of aruined financier with an ugly, black cloud already wreathing his head.I didn't laugh at little Fyne. I encouraged him: "You did!--verygood... Well?"

  His main thought was to save the child from some unpleasantinterference. There was a porter downstairs, page boys; some peoplegoing
away with their trunks in the passage; a railway omnibus at thedoor, white-breasted waiters dodging about the entrance.

  He was in time. He was at the door before she reached it in her blindcourse. She did not recognise him; perhaps she did not see him. Hecaught her by the arm as she ran past and, very sensibly, without tryingto check her, simply darted in with her and up the stairs, causing noend of consternation amongst the people in his way. They scattered.What might have been their thoughts at the spectacle of a shamelessmiddle-aged man abducting headlong into the upper regions of arespectable hotel a terrified young girl obviously under age, I don'tknow. And Fyne (he told me so) did not care for what people mightthink. All he wanted was to reach his wife before the girl collapsed.For a time she ran with him but at the last flight of stairs he had toseize and half drag, half carry her to his wife. Mrs Fyne waited atthe door with her quite unmoved physiognomy and her readiness toconfront any sort of responsibility, which already characterised her,long before she became a ruthless theorist. Relieved, his missionaccomplished, Fyne closed hastily the door of the sitting-room.

  But before long both Fynes became frightened. After a period ofimmobility in the arms of Mrs Fyne, the girl, who had not said a word,tore herself out from that slightly rigid embrace. She struggled dumblybetween them, they did not know why, soundless and ghastly, till shesank exhausted on a couch. Luckily the children were out with the twonurses. The hotel housemaid helped Mrs Fyne to put Flora de Barral tobed. She was as if gone speechless and insane. She lay on her back,her face white like a piece of paper, her dark eyes staring at theceiling, her awful immobility broken by sudden shivering fits with aloud chattering of teeth in the shadowy silence of the room, the blindspulled down, Mrs Fyne sitting by patiently, her arms folded, yetinwardly moved by the riddle of that distress of which she could notguess the word, and saying to herself: "That child is too emotional--much too emotional to be ever really sound!" As if anyone not made ofstone could be perfectly sound in this world. And then how sound? Inwhat sense--to resist what? Force or corruption? And even in the bestarmour of steel there are joints a treacherous stroke can always find ifchance gives the opportunity.

  General considerations never had the power to trouble Mrs Fyne much.The girl not being in a state to be questioned she waited by thebedside. Fyne had crossed over to the house, his scruples overcome byhis anxiety to discover what really had happened. He did not have tolift the knocker; the door stood open on the inside gloom of the hall;he walked into it and saw no one about, the servants having assembledfor a fatuous consultation in the basement. Fyne's uplifted bass voicestartled them down there, the butler coming up, staring and in his shirtsleeves, very suspicious at first, and then, on Fyne's explanation thathe was the husband of a lady who had called several times at the house--Miss de Barral's mother's friend--becoming humanely concerned andcommunicative, in a man to man tone, but preserving his trainedhigh-class servant's voice: "Oh bless you, sir, no! She does not meanto come back. She told me so herself"--he assured Fyne with a faintshade of contempt creeping into his tone.

  As regards their young lady nobody downstairs had any idea that she hadrun out of the house. He dared say they all would have been willing todo their very best for her, for the time being; but since she was nowwith her mother's friends ...

  He fidgeted. He murmured that all this was very unexpected. He wantedto know what he had better do with letters or telegrams which mightarrive in the course of the day.

  "Letters addressed to Miss de Barral, you had better bring over to myhotel over there," said Fyne beginning to feel extremely worried aboutthe future. The man said "Yes, sir," adding, "and if a letter comesaddressed to Mrs.."

  Fyne stopped him by a gesture. "I don't know... Anything you like."

  "Very well, sir."

  The butler did not shut the street door after Fyne, but remained on thedoorstep for a while, looking up and down the street in the spirit ofindependent expectation like a man who is again his own master. MrsFyne hearing her husband return came out of the room where the girl waslying in bed. "No change," she whispered; and Fyne could only make ahopeless sign of ignorance as to what all this meant and how it wouldend.

  He feared future complications--naturally; a man of limited means, in apublic position, his time not his own. Yes. He owned to me in theparlour of my farmhouse that he had been very much concerned then at thepossible consequences. But as he was making this artless confession Isaid to myself that, whatever consequences and complications he mighthave imagined, the complication from which he was suffering now couldnever, never have presented itself to his mind. Slow but sure (for Iconceive that the Book of Destiny has been written up from the beginningto the last page) it had been coming for something like six years--andnow it had come. The complication was there! I looked at his unshakensolemnity with the amused pity we give the victim of a funny if somewhatill-natured practical joke.

  "Oh hang it," he exclaimed--in no logical connection with what he hadbeen relating to me. Nevertheless the exclamation was intelligibleenough.

  However at first there were, he admitted, no untoward complications, noembarrassing consequences. To a telegram in guarded terms dispatched tode Barral no answer was received for more than twenty-four hours. Thiscertainly caused the Fynes some anxiety. When the answer arrived lateon the evening of next day it was in the shape of an elderly man. Anunexpected sort of man. Fyne explained to me with precision that heevidently belonged to what is most respectable in the lower middleclasses. He was calm and slow in his speech. He was wearing afrock-coat, had grey whiskers meeting under his chin, and declared onentering that Mr de Barral was his cousin. He hastened to add that hehad not seen his cousin for many years, while he looked upon Fyne (whoreceived him alone) with so much distrust that Fyne felt hurt (theperson actually refusing at first the chair offered to him) and retortedtartly that he, for his part, had _never_ seen Mr de Barral, in hislife, and that, since the visitor did not want to sit down, he, Fyne,begged him to state his business as shortly as possible. The man inblack sat down then with a faint superior smile.

  He had come for the girl. His cousin had asked him in a note deliveredby a messenger to go to Brighton at once and take "his girl" over from agentleman named Fyne and give her house-room for a time in his family.And there he was. His business had not allowed him to some sooner. Hisbusiness was the manufacture on a large scale of cardboard boxes. Hehad two grown-up girls of his own. He had consulted his wife and sothat was all right. The girl would get a welcome in his home. His homemost likely was not what she had been used to but, etcetera, etcetera.

  All the time Fyne felt subtly in that man's manner a derisivedisapproval of everything that was not lower middle class, a profoundrespect for money, a mean sort of contempt for speculators that fail,and a conceited satisfaction with his own respectable vulgarity.

  With Mrs Fyne the manner of the obscure cousin of de Barral was butlittle less offensive. He looked at her rather slyly but her cold,decided demeanour impressed him. Mrs Fyne on her side was simplyappalled by the personage, but did not show it outwardly. Not even whenthe man remarked with false simplicity that Florrie--her name wasFlorrie wasn't it? would probably miss at first all her grand friends.And when he was informed that the girl was in bed, not feeling well atall he showed an unsympathetic alarm. She wasn't an invalid was she?No. What was the matter with her then?

  An extreme distaste for that respectable member of society was depictedin Fyne's face even as he was telling me of him after all these years.He was a specimen of precisely the class of which people like the Fyneshave the least experience; and I imagine he jarred on them painfully.He possessed all the civic virtues in their very meanest form, and thefinishing touch was given by a low sort of consciousness he manifestedof possessing them. His industry was exemplary. He wished to catch theearliest possible train next morning. It seems that for seven andtwenty years he had never missed being seated on his office-stool at the
factory punctually at ten o'clock every day. He listened to Mrs Fyne'sobjections with undisguised impatience. Why couldn't Florrie get up andhave her breakfast at eight like other people? In his house thebreakfast was at eight sharp. Mrs Fyne's polite stoicism overcame himat last. He had come down at a very great personal inconvenience, heassured her with displeasure, but he gave up the early train.

  The good Fynes didn't dare to look at each other before this unforeseenbut perfectly authorised guardian, the same thought springing up intheir minds: Poor girl! Poor girl! If the women of the family werelike this too! ... And of course they would be. Poor girl! But whatcould they have done even if they had been prepared to raise objections.The person in the frock-coat had the father's note; he had shown it toFyne. Just a request to take care of the girl--as her nearestrelative--without any explanation or a single allusion to the financialcatastrophe, its tone strangely detached and in its very silence on thepoint giving occasion to think that the writer was not uneasy as to thechild's future. Probably it was that very idea which had set the cousinso readily in motion. Men had come before out of commercial crasheswith estates in the country and a comfortable income, if not forthemselves then for their wives. And if a wife could be madecomfortable by a little dexterous management then why not a daughter?Yes. This possibility might have been discussed in the person'shousehold and judged worth acting upon.--

  The man actually hinted broadly that such was his belief and in face ofFyne's guarded replies gave him to understand that he was not the dupeof such reticences. Obviously he looked upon the Fynes as beingdisappointed because the girl was taken away from them. They, by adiplomatic sacrifice in the interests of poor Flora, had asked the manto dinner. He accepted ungraciously, remarking that he was not used tolate hours. He had generally a bit of supper about half-past eight ornine. However ...

  He gazed contemptuously round the prettily decorated dining-room. Hewrinkled his nose in a puzzled way at the dishes offered to him by thewaiter but refused none, devouring the food with a great appetite anddrinking ("swilling" Fyne called it) gallons of ginger beer, which wasprocured for him (in stone bottles) at his request. The difficulty ofkeeping up a conversation with that being exhausted Mrs Fyne herself,who had come to the table armed with adamantine resolution. The onlymemorable thing he said was when, in a pause of gorging himself "withthese French dishes" he deliberately let his eyes roam over the littletables occupied by parties of diners, and remarked that his wife did fora moment think of coming down with him, but that he was glad she didn'tdo so. "She wouldn't have been at all happy seeing all this alcoholabout. Not at all happy," he declared weightily.

  "You must have had a charming evening," I said to Fyne, "if I may judgefrom the way you have kept the memory green."

  "Delightful," he growled with, positively, a flash of anger at therecollection, but lapsed back into his solemnity at once. After we hadbeen silent for a while I asked whether the man took away the girl nextday.

  Fyne said that he did; in the afternoon, in a fly, with a few clothesthe maid had got together and brought across from the big house. Heonly saw Flora again ten minutes before they left for the railwaystation, in the Fynes' sitting-room at the hotel. It was a most painfulten minutes for the Fynes. The respectable citizen addressed Miss deBarral as "Florrie" and "my dear," remarking to her that she was notvery big "there's not much of you my dear," in a familiarly disparagingtone. Then turning to Mrs Fyne, and quite loud, "She's very white inthe face. Why's that?" To this Mrs Fyne made no reply. She had putthe girl's hair up that morning with her own hands. It changed her verymuch, observed Fyne. He, naturally, played a subordinate, merelyapproving part. All he could do for Miss de Barral personally was to godownstairs and put her into the fly himself, while Miss de Barral'snearest relation, having been shouldered out of the way, stood by, withan umbrella and a little black bag, watching this proceeding with grimamusement, as it seemed. It was difficult to guess what the girlthought or what she felt. She no longer looked a child. She whisperedto Fyne a faint "Thank you," from the fly, and he said to her in verydistinct tones and while still holding her hand: "Pray don't forget towrite fully to my wife in a day or two, Miss de Barral." Then Fynestepped back and the cousin climbed into the fly muttering quiteaudibly: "I don't think you'll be troubled much with her in the future;"without however looking at Fyne on whom he did not even bestow a nod.The fly drove away.