CORNHILL MAGAZINE.

MAY, 1882.

Damocles.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "FOR PERCIVAL."

CHAPTER VI.

MISS WHITNEY.

MR. LAURISTON had pledged himself to hold his life at Miss Conway's beck and call. He was so much in earnest that existence seemed to gain a new meaning as he spoke, an 1 desire to serve her demanded an instant outlet of expression. But when he had sent Mr. Goodwin's letter to her lodgings, and despatched a telegram to Charles Eastwood, he found nothing better to do than to return her novel to the library. He hoped as he gave back Sir Hubert's Vow, a Romance of

Real Life, that the action of paying twopence for it was ennobled by the depth of his feelings, since otherwise it seemed inadequate. He could only remind himself, as he took his change from the counter, that feelings and opportunities are often grotesquely mismatched. If splendid VOL. XLV.-NO. 269.

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deeds spring occasionally from a combination of good luck and rather queer motives, it is certain that devotion enough to equip a forlorn hope may find no better expression than an inquiry at the door, and the one chance might as well befall him as the other.

He strolled back to his hotel, and dined, slowly and meditatively, looking out at the picture of sea and sky which was framed by the open window. It lost its brightness as he watched it, and took the soft indistinctness of twilight. From his lighted room he saw how the night, flowing into the little bay like a dusky tide, filled its narrow bounds with all that they could hold of mystery and suggestive sadness, and the greyness of the dim expanse made a fitting background for the pale vision of Rachel Conway which ruled his thoughts. His sympathy with her was like a talisman, suddenly revealing the existence of a multitude of obscure and unsuspected sorrows, stirring confusedly beneath the surface of ordinary life. He touched the little ring upon his hand, as if it might by chance call up an obedient genius to ask his pleasure, though if the twilight had thickened then and there to such a shape, he would not have known what command he could utter. This was not one of the simple difficulties of the old fairy tales; and only a power which could undo the past, and alter the complex influences which had shaped the lives of Conways and Rutherfords dead and gone, could be of any service. The facts of the case were cold and hard as adamant, and the girl's quivering life was driven against them. Lauriston pictured it as actual tender flesh, dashed on cruel rocks, and himself as a bystander. And yet, in spite of these inexorable facts, he was well aware that the whole matter had its fanciful and visionary aspect. It belonged to a world of shadows, though a world in which shadows took the form of unconquerable fate. "Eastwood would say that Rachel Conway and I were mad together," was the sum of Mr. Lauriston's reflections, as he threw himself back in his chair, and looked at the thin circlet of gold. "And upon my word I am not at all sure that we are not. But it is a kind of madness which will be more than a match for Master Charley's sanity, I fancy." And, with all his knowledge of Rachel's pain, he laughed softly at the thought of Charley's discomfiture.

He had sent word with Mr. Goodwin's letter that he would call in the evening to see if he could be of any service to the two ladies, and he rose, with the smile still on his lips, to fulfil his promise. He had not far to go. Five minutes' walk, through cool evening air which smelt of the sea, brought him to a tiny garden, where a miniature flagstaff was erected in the midst of fuchsias and marigolds, and after a brief pause he was ushered into a little gaslit sitting-room where Rachel came forward to meet him and to introduce him to Miss Whitney.

The introduction might have made a queer little picture for an untroubled spectator, and even Rachel perceived the contrast between Mr. Lauriston's easy courtesy and pliant grace of attitude, and Miss

Whitney's timid formality. Miss Whitney was not ugly. In earlier years she had possessed a certain blonde girlish prettiness; but she had stiffened and grown cold, till she was like one of those prim, pale figures which archæologists discover on a whitened wall. She was gentle, bloodless, depressing. She measured out a little smile, and extended a chalk-white hand to her visitor; but she eyed him cautiously through her bleached lashes as she did so, for men, in her opinion, were dangerous creatures. It is true that she was slightly acquainted with an archdeacon who was very nearly perfect, and she knew two or three beneficed clergymen, and one family doctor, who might be trusted; but, as a rule, she disapproved of men. They broke right and left through the little code of laws by which she regulated morals and manners; they offended her sense of propriety, almost by the fact of their existence; they made jokes, they laughed at things which should not be laughed at, they were careless and extravagant, they stayed out late at night, they unsettled the servants, and they smelt of smoke. She supposed that Mr. Charles Eastwood was a deserving and right-minded young man, and she had sanctioned his attentions to Rachel, partly for his mother's sake, though she did not approve of his style of dress and conversation. She saw that his friend did not at all resemble him; but she was not certain that it was altogether a gain, for the brilliant swiftness of Mr. Lauriston's glances, and something a little picturesque and singular in his general appearance, made her vaguely uneasy.

Meanwhile, Mr. Lauriston, bowing politely, saw through Miss Whitney at once, as a clever man sees through a prudish, narrowminded woman-he understood her too clearly. The very touch of her chilly, reluctant fingers was a revelation to him, and every word she uttered helped to justify Rachel in her longing for the warmth and kindliness of the Eastwoods' home. It seemed strange to him that Miss Whitney, with her timid scruples and hesitations, should feel herself qualified to rule the girl, but that was because he could not understand how feebly she apprehended her own incompetence.

Miss Whitney realised the change in Rachel's prospects as small people always realise a great fact, that is, in its smaller aspects. She was anxious about their packing, and their lodgings, and preoccupied concerning mourning. She moved restlessly about the room, taking up things and laying them down in an aimless way, and talking disconnectedly. "Isn't it wonderful?" she said. "Such a legacy! And coming all at once, too!" She repeated this two or three times, as if a legacy usually took the form of a succession of sixpences.

Rachel looked up with a tired smile. "Dear Miss Whitney, do

sit down. You will be worn out."

"My dear," said Miss Whitney gently, "you forget that there is a great deal to do. Mr. Lauriston will excuse me, I'm sure. Somebody must do it. By all means sit still and rest, and enjoy your prospects," she added, with a little laugh. "I don't want to disturb

you. Excuse me "-she leaned before Rachel to pick up some books, and then behind her to take a workbox from a little table-"we can't all rest, you know."

"But I can't rest if you don't," Rachel answered.

Mr. Lauriston did not care whether Miss Whitney was tired or not, but there was an accent of weariness in the girl's voice which told him that she could not bear much more. "You don't know what a fuss Miss Whitney can make," she had said laughingly as he stood beside her on the cliff. Miss Whitney had been making a fuss ever since. While he was quietly eating his dinner, and looking out at the little harbour with its shadowy shores, she had been worrying Rachel. It was intolerable, but here again he was helpless. What could he do? A life's devotion was very much at Miss Conway's service, but he could not make Miss Whitney sit down and hold her tongue.

"How

"Of course there is a great deal to do," he said, wondering, as he spoke, what it could possibly be. "But I'm not tired; can't you set me to work?” "Thank you, you are very kind; but no, I think not." She put the things she had collected in a confused heap on the table. strange that you should have met Rachel this afternoon! yet I don't know. If she will go sitting about the rocksafraid you'll think I don't take proper care of her."

"I thought I was very fortunate," said Mr. Lauriston.

And

But I'm

"I can't climb up those places and sit in the sun," Miss Whitney continued. "It affects my head. And Rachel is not happy indoors. I tell her sometimes that she really ought to take an interest in this new crewel work or something; she seems to have no occupation."

He looked across to the girl where she sat, with her hands idly folded on her lap. On the wall above her head was a coloured print of the Queen and Prince Albert, in a gilt frame swathed in yellow gauze. This work of art was tilted forward so much that Rachel seemed to be under the especial patronage of the Royal family. "This is a very sad account of you, Miss Conway," he said. "What do you do with yourself when you can't get out? In a November fog, for instance?"

She lifted her tired eyelids a little. "Oh, I despair!" she answered lightly. "What else can one do in a November fog?'

"My dear, how foolish!" said Miss Whitney. "Of course, you can't see to do any black work, but you can have a strip of embroidery always on hand. It's wonderful how much I have done in really bad weather. But then I can always make myself happy indoors."

Mr. Lauriston, murmuring something about "extremely fortunate," tried to imagine what Miss Whitney's idea of happiness might be. She meanwhile gathered up most of the things which she had just laid down, and suddenly reverted to her previous remark. "I'm really afraid you I will think I don't take care of Rachel."

"Indeed you do," said Rachel herself. "I'm sure Mr. Lauriston won't think anything of the kind."

Miss Whitney cut his protestations short. be more particular, I know."

"Mrs. Eastwood would

The memory of that long afternoon in the leafy shades of Redlands Park, rose up suddenly before Lauriston and Rachel. The colour came into her face; but he answered quickly, "Oh, Redlands is a very quiet place. I meet Miss Eastwood sometimes going about the lanes; she visits the poor people, I think."

"Yes," said Rachel, "Fanny has a district."

"Oh, Rachel!" Miss Whitney exclaimed; "what are we to do about Mr. Charles Eastwood? Did you forget him?"

Rachel glanced at Mr. Lauriston. "Hadn't we better telegraph ?" she said. 66 I don't think I can write."

"It is done," he replied. "You said he must not come here, so I ventured to send word that your plans were changed." Her look of gratitude pained him. He was eager to serve her, yet he felt that only her secret loneliness drove her to accept his help. Had she been happy and hopeful she would not have worn his ring upon her finger, nor appealed to him in her difficulties. The expression of her eyes was not so much confidence in him, as helpless resignation. He felt as if he had watched some beautiful wild creature, out of his reach, and all at once it was driven to his feet by hunger, or some cruel hurt. He might lay his hand upon it if he liked, but it would never have come to him had it not been for its mischance.

"I'm sure we are very much obliged to you," Miss Whitney began, just as the door opened and the servant announced, "Mrs. Allen, ma'am, says she can come and speak to you now if it suits you."

"Thank you; tell her I will come to her almost directly," Miss Whitney replied. "Our landlady," she explained to Mr. Lauriston. "Going away so hurriedly makes it necessary to have our little settlement to-night. Rachel, my dear, have you seen my account-book-the little black one? Oh, I remember now, I took it upstairs."

"I'll get it," said Rachel, and departed in search of it.

"Don't go," said Miss Whitney to her guest. "I wanted to ask you if you knew about trains. The time-table is here somewhere; Rachel will find it when she comes down. Trains are so perplexing, aren't they? Rachel thinks she understands; she is very independent; but I like to ask somebody; I like to be sure."

"If I can be of any use I shall be delighted," Mr. Lauriston replied. "I feared I was only hindering you.”

"Not at all." She had a preoccupied air, being still inwardly troubled by his possible doubt of her efficiency as a guardian. "I am afraid," she said after a pause, "that, in consequence of my delicate health, Rachel is perhaps a little too independent. I doubt she has more liberty than is quite advisable."

Mr. Lauriston was not inclined to talk over Rachel with Miss Whitney. "But isn't liberty a very good thing?" he asked, preferring to discuss the question in the abstract.