CHAPTER I.

THE DAWN OF NEW DAYS.

It was August; the second August since that memorable one in 1862. This year, that of 1864, was in many respects a remarkable one in the annals of commerce, more especially in that branch of it known as the cotton trade.

Strange events had been witnessed; amongst others, a wondering world had looked on at the great ‘scare’ which took place amongst the cotton lords, when the first mistaken rumours of peace were spread. The members of a trade whose greatest friend, it might have been supposed, would be peace, turned pale and trembled when peace was mentioned, and actually wished for the continuance of war; some of them saying that for them the alternative was war or ruin. Things grew somewhat more sane and better balanced, later; but the fact remained, that for once a great industry had seriously inclined her ear unto warlike councils, and had sought therein her profit. Despite all drawbacks, however, this last mighty daughter of civilisation was slowly arousing, and shaking off the paralysis which oppressed her. She stretched her huge limbs, and found that there was still life and vigour in them. Factories were being reopened on every side, and amongst those which were again working full time was that of Sebastian Mallory.

He sat breakfasting one Friday morning, alone, opening his letters, and with the unopened newspapers beside him. He usually breakfasted alone now, and had grown quite accustomed to it. Mrs. Mallory rather avoided his society, and he, when he thought about the matter at all, felt the absence to be a relief rather than otherwise.

Two years may or may not make a great change both in the character and appearance of a man. Sebastian Mallory was somewhat altered in the latter respect since he had parted from Myles Heywood one evening, which, when he thought of it, seemed a long time ago. His face had taken an older, more decided expression; his lips were more firmly closed; his eyes had lost much of their listlessness. He had found plenty of work ready to his hand, and he was not one of those persons whose work decreases. Business accumulated about him. People had discovered that he was useful, capable, and impartial. He did not know himself how great his influence was, or rather he had not known it until a few days before, when, to his great surprise, he had been asked to contest the borough in the Radical interest, so soon as a vacancy should occur. He had promised to take the matter into consideration. In a few days his answer was to be given. He was not wont to waver or vacillate; generally he could sum up the reasons for and against a course, and decide in the most prudent and reasonable way. On this occasion he had not found the matter so easily disposed of. ‘He would, and he would not.’ Many considerations urged him to accept; he could scarcely assign any for declining. The only one which would have been valid--that he felt no desire for a public life, and no wish to increase his present occupations--was absent. He had often felt a strong inclination for such a life; and he knew that he could manage to give time enough to it. The core of the matter was that his heart was not in it. As he read his letters this morning, he thought of the coming interview with his supporters, and had an odd sensation that he absolutely did not know what to say to them, and that it was a case which might appropriately be settled by tossing up.

He laid two of his letters on one side, until the business communications were disposed of, and then he took one of them up. They both bore the Prussian stamp of two and a half groschen, and both were addressed in a German handwriting. He took up the first of them, with a slight smile hovering about his lips, or ever he began to read.

‘DEAR SEBASTIAN,’ it began,

‘What an age it is since I heard from you! I look out fervently every day for the postman, and he never comes. I suppose you are _busy_! How completely changed you are, you who never used to be busy. I am writing this at the midnight hour, because I have news for you. Good news, of course; if it were bad news, I should leave it to travel to you on its own legs. Old Biermann, the _Direktor_, and I have, so to speak, buried the tomahawk, and sworn an alliance; and he is going to give my little cantata, _Hermann u. Dorothea_, at the next concert but one. This is a great step in advance. I hardly know what has induced him to be so gracious; but his word is given now, and let him repent him never so much, he will be obliged to carry it out. I need not tell you, however, that I look upon it only as a step, and that my hopes and wishes continue to turn always to the opera. I am not hurrying about it, because I want it to be worth hearing when it is done. Mozart was only eighteen when his first opera (it’s true it was a comic one) was produced, and I am nearly twenty.

‘I am in luck’s way, too. I have earned ten pounds by my own exertions, teaching, in the last six months. It is spread out before me in a beautiful shining row. No money ever looked so charming before. Please remember this, and make your next remittance ten pounds less than usual, or else I shall not feel as if I had really earned it.

‘I cannot give you any news, for there is none; still, I will tell you what happened to me the other day. I was walking in the _Hofgarten_, when I met a lady walking alone. I looked up, and I thought: ‘Helena Spenceley! How did she come here?’ In the surprise of the moment I did not look at her attentively enough, but raised my cap, held out my hand, and was going to accost her, when she smiled and uttered a rather astonished ‘_Mein Herr_, you are mistaken!’ She was German, and when she smiled I saw the difference; she had not Helena’s fire and spirit, and yet the likeness was wonderful. The incident set me thinking about these old days. You never mention Helena now. Do you never see her? Tell me when you write. I have never seen any one like her. I suppose you are too busy to think of such things. I used to wonder at your coolness all the time that she was suffering so, in consequence of that wicked father and brother of hers. I used to make her, in my own mind, the heroine of a hundred tragedies and romances, in those days. And yet--forgive me for saying so, I have always said things I ought not to say, to you--I was nothing to her but an enthusiastic boy, to whom she was kind, and you were a great deal--a man--I believe _the_ man. Since I met that lady in the gardens, I have thought a great deal about it, and as I found a little poem the other day, called _Hélène_, I composed an air for it, and made it into a song; but I shall not sell it. You may have it if you like; but I shall not send it until I hear from you.

‘Ever your devoted ‘HUGO.’

Sebastian put the letter down, the smile fading from his face. The meeting with a strange girl, a passing likeness, had set Hugo’s memory working; had prompted him to write words which seemed striking to Sebastian. He had thought, more than once--often--of Helena Spenceley, but he had never seen her since, with disasters falling thick upon her young head, she, with her mother, had left Thanshope. They had gone to Manchester, he had heard. Once or twice he had asked his mother if she had not heard from Helena, for he remembered that Mrs. Mallory had told him how Helena had been a ‘kind of daughter’ to her; but she had composedly answered ‘No,’ and had added that she did not know their address, and had reason to think they did not wish to keep up any of their old Thanshope acquaintances, which, she feelingly added, was really very natural under the circumstances. At the time of their departure, business had pressed upon Sebastian, as it had continued to press upon him ever since. He had been smarting under the disappointment of his refusal by Adrienne. Helena and her misfortunes had touched him deeply; her calmness, and the real heroism with which she met her fate, had impressed him. He had firmly intended that he should not be one of the Thanshope acquaintances whom they dropped entirely; but, by some means, they had slipped out of his ken, and he had not been able to find them again. Yet, many a time, Helena’s beautiful face had seemed to start up before his eyes, at strange moments: sometimes when he was most busy, sometimes when he was in one of his rare idle moods. Sometimes a song or a strain of music would summon up the vision; sometimes in a busy street, or in a silent hour, it would hover before him. This morning, after reading Hugo’s letter, he saw it more strongly than ever; but with the strength of will which belongs to daylight and activity, he thrust it away, and took up his other letter.

It was from his old friend, Herr Süsmeyer, who asked him if he was never coming to see him again, and added, that he expected his son home some time during the autumn, to take his place in the business. There were further domestic details, and then the remark, ‘Young Heywood, whom you sent here to me, is my right hand, now that I am somewhat laid up; but he has been invaluable ever since he fairly mastered the language. I should like to speak to you about him too. There will have to be some change when Julius returns.’

‘Julius will return, will he?’ murmured Sebastian to himself. ‘And Heywood is invaluable. He has gained the old man’s affections, and has not hardened his heart against him, or indeed against any one but me. But I know the reason, and can forgive him. It is an old story now. Still, if ever I had the chance, I should like to test once again his feelings, and see if he is as stiffnecked as ever.’

He put the letters into his pocket-book, and, having finished breakfast, took his way to his office, pondering as to whether it would be possible for him to get a brief holiday some time during the autumn, run over to Eisendorf, see Herr Süsmeyer, and observe with his own eyes how ‘young Heywood’ was getting on; then go on to where Hugo was studying, and carry him off with him to--Italy, perhaps, or Switzerland. He began to long all at once that he might be able to do so, and to yearn, almost, for the sound of Hugo’s voice; to feel a sudden weariness of this grey, dismal town--this never-ending strife with starvation, this strained suspense, this sensation of standing on the brink of a precipice, which had been present with him, as it was with most men in his position, during all those troubled years. The last two of them he had fought out alone: to-day, for the first time, he felt the battle weary and monotonous--almost ignoble.

‘Please, sir,’ said Ben, who still retained his place in the office, as Sebastian entered it, ‘there’s a message from Mr. Sutcliffe to say he’s very poorly this morning, and can’t come. He’s very sorry, and he hopes he’ll be better to-morrow.’

‘Ill, is he?’ said Sebastian, going into his private room. Mr. Sutcliffe had often been ill lately, and when he came to his work he walked feebly, and coughed a good deal.

‘That’s another question that must be settled, and before long, too,’ reflected Mr. Mallory, a shade of care upon his brow, when he found himself alone. ‘I must have a serious talk with Sutcliffe, but how I’m to manage to make him have assistance, and yet take the same salary, I don’t know. He is so confoundedly conscientious.’

After working doubly hard, in order to make up for Mr. Sutcliffe’s absence, Sebastian found himself, shortly after eleven o’clock, in the train on his way to Manchester, Tuesday and Friday being the market-days in that city: the days when merchants in the streets most do congregate, and when that impressive spectacle, High ’Change, is wont to be even more imposing than usual.

It was a busy day. Sebastian, after going on ’Change and visiting his Manchester office, made certain business calls, and, in the middle of the afternoon, found himself standing in Mosley Street, exactly opposite the Royal Institution.

It was a hot, close, Manchester afternoon. Scarcely a breath of air was stirring. The smoke pressed heavily down upon the thick, yellow air. Faintly the coppery sunbeams tried to struggle through it, and wavered, and seemed to fail. There was a roar and a din in the much-frequented street--all about the great black, grimy-looking buildings, shops, offices, and warehouses. Omnibuses, carts, and lorries were struggling in a ‘lock’ in the middle of the street, and two exhausted-looking policemen were trying to restore order. Sebastian’s next destination was over the way; but, surveying the scene before him, he saw no immediate prospect of getting over the way, and turned round towards the Royal Institution, as if to consult that building as to what he had better do.

Three large boards, covered with placards, caught his eye. ‘Exhibition of Pictures,’ in large letters, stood at the top of the boards, while profuse details followed in smaller print below.

‘The pictures! Why not go in and have a look?’ he reflected, and straightway walked up to the door, paid his shilling, secured a catalogue, and ran up the steps.

It was between three and four in the afternoon. If it had been sultry out of doors, it was much more so within. The rooms felt stiflingly hot, and the blaze of colour upon the walls was oppressive. There were not very many visitors present, and those who had come were going languidly round. The people who had secured seats upon the chairs or divans looked nearly asleep, and those who had not secured such seats were looking enviously at those who had, as if, with a little more provocation, they would forget conventionality and sit down on top of them.

Sebastian glanced critically around. Now and then a picture caught his eye and partially pleased it, but these were few and far between; and he passed rather quickly from one room to another, until he came to the end one of all, which was devoted to water-colours. The first object that met his eye was an empty chair, and he promptly sat down upon it. On examining the wall before him, he found that one oil-painting had been admitted amongst the water-colours, and that it was hung exactly opposite to him. He sat in rapt contemplation of it, feebly endeavouring to guess what it was meant to represent. A drab-coloured lady crouched together, nursing one of her own feet. She was scantily attired, also in drab, and had a peculiar cast of countenance, and an imbecile smile, showing rows of very fine teeth, and was glancing upwards. She was adorned with ropes of pearls of a size and value which must have surprised even the author of ‘Lothair,’ could he have seen them. An opaque veil prevented the colour of her hair from being seen. She was drab; the stones of the palace-steps upon which she reposed were likewise drab. The sand of the banks, the water of the river flowing by, were all drab. Sebastian studied the composition, and shook his head, referring in despair to his catalogue. ‘Cleopatra by the Nile, by ----. Price, one hundred guineas.’ If a little green ticket stuck in the margin of the frame were to be believed, this work of genius was sold.

‘Some fellows do have most awful strokes of luck,’ mused Sebastian. ‘Now, the man who painted this thing--I wonder if he knew how the chances were against his ever sell----’

‘You shan’t!’

‘I shall! I tell you I shall have that picture; it’s mine. I like that little pussy. Mayn’t I have that little pussy, Miss Spenceley?’

‘Well, no, dear, I’m afraid not, unless you can persuade papa to buy it; because, you see, we can’t take the things away.’

‘But I will have it! I want that little pussy for my own!’ And a howl followed.

‘Oh, hush, Jacky, dear! What shall we do if the man comes to turn us out? Come here. We’ll ask papa about the pussy, shall we?’

Sebastian started from his chair, heat, listlessness, ‘Cleopatra by the Nile,’ and everything else forgotten, and turned suddenly round. The group was behind him, close to him--yes, he knew that figure again instantly, even in its present shabbiness, compared with its former splendour. She was bending over an urchin of four or five summers, whose engaging countenance was ominously puckered up in readiness for another burst of infantile music. Two other children, a girl and a boy, both older than the would-be possessor of the pussy-cat, stood by, wrangling with each other as to the possession of another work of art. She still did not turn her face in his direction, but Sebastian, with an eagerness and a pleasure which surprised even himself, exclaimed very audibly,

‘Miss Spenceley, have you forgotten me? Won’t you look at me?’ She started violently from her stooping attitude, and, leaving the recalcitrant Jacky to his fate, at last turned to him.

‘Mr. Mallory, I--I--how you surprised me!’ she stammered, looking at first so pale and startled that he was surprised.

He was shocked too, after the first glance, at the change, the sad, mournful change, in her face.

‘You do know me again,’ he said; ‘at least you might shake hands with me. I fear you are not pleased to renew our acquaintance.’

He had taken her hand, and as his fingers touched hers, Helena’s paleness fled, and crimson dyed her cheeks. Tears rushed to her eyes; her lips opened, but she did not speak. His eyes were still fixed upon her face; he could not remove them; he did not realise that his prolonged gaze distressed her. He felt unaccountably glad to meet her, pleased, excited, light-hearted, as if he had a great deal to say to her and ask her. He forgot all about his engagements--about returning to the station, or going home; he wanted to talk to her, to hear her speak, to find out all about her.

The colour gradually died out of her cheeks, and then became again apparent the change these two years had wrought in her. She was thin, decidedly thin, compared with the full if delicate beauty of past days; there were hollows in her cheeks, and under her great dark eyes; there was a painful line about her lips, and a melancholy, which looked as if it were settled, in her expression. She looked, what he had never thought she could look, patient and subdued--not the impulsive, fiery-hearted girl whom he had known and teased and quarrelled with.

Her dress, he also saw, was sadly altered. Helena had always had a weakness for splendid things: she delighted in a rich colour, a soft silk, a sheeny satin--in all kinds of luxurious, and beautiful, and fashionable things. Formerly people used to laugh at this weakness. Other girls, whose fathers had not been so rich as Mr. Spenceley, used to turn up their noses, and say that she was vulgarly ostentatious; that it was exceedingly bad taste in a girl to dress herself as splendidly as a dowager, and so on. In truth, it had been no bad taste at all. The splendour was part of her nature--one phase of her individuality; it belonged to her as much as her queenly shape and melodious voice.

But now--there was no splendour in that dress, of poor material and last year’s fashion. The silk mantle had been handsome once--perhaps it was a relic of palmier days; now its shape was antiquated, and it was too good for the poorness of the rest of the toilette. The glove on the hand, which Sebastian still continued to hold, had been often mended. Helena looked what she used to have the strongest objection to--poor, shabby, and unprosperous, her good looks faded----

But not gone. No. Sebastian, staring on in the same rude and reprehensible manner, satisfied himself that her beauty was only clouded over, not vanished.

‘Do you know, I have been thinking about you a great deal to-day?’ he said. ‘I had a letter this morning from Hugo von Birkenau: he saw a German lady in the gardens at ----, and thought it was you. Just fancy! He made all sorts of inquiries about you. How fortunate that I happened to look in this afternoon!’

Helena seemed to have nothing to reply. Her face was still downcast; she remained silent.

‘It is nearly two years since we met,’ he urged; ‘and yet you do not say you are glad to see me.’

‘Oh, I am! Very glad,’ murmured Helena.

‘You live in Manchester still?’

‘Yes; mamma and I. We live in Woodford Street----’

She named one of the southern suburbs of Manchester.

‘Do you? That is not far away. How odd that we should never have met!’

‘I don’t think so. Woodford Street is not a fashionable locality.’

‘Is it not? I must remember the name. I asked my mother where you lived, but she said she did not know the address. But now that we have met, I am sure you will allow me to call, will you not?’

‘Our house is so very small; we have so few visitors,’ she began in some embarrassment.

‘But, my dear Miss Spenceley, you do not seriously mean that you could urge that as an objection,’ he exclaimed. ‘You are pleased to chaff me, I think, as you used to do.’

Helena turned abruptly away; her lips set; her eyes fixed upon a water-colour drawing immediately before them.

‘Do you mean that you really would rather I did not come?’ he asked earnestly, and excessively piqued at the idea.

‘If you really wish to come,’ said Helena, rather proudly, ‘of course we shall be happy to see you, but I am sure you will find it very inconvenient. I am engaged until after four o’clock, and mamma----’

‘Until after four? I shall remember that. The evenings are long now, and there are trains going to Thanshope till midnight, you know. How is Mrs. Spenceley?’

‘She is very well, thank you.’

‘Have you been bringing these young people to see the pictures?’ he inquired, for something in Helena’s manner forbade him to make the eager personal inquiries which crowded to his lips.

Now that the first shock and surprise of meeting him again had passed, and she had recovered her self-possession, there was a certain pride and distance of bearing which seemed to require considerable deference on his part. Helena’s troubles had indeed made her into a woman; she had most decidedly quitted the girlish stage. She had probably, thought Sebastian, become a great deal more reasonable, and consequently a great deal less amenable to the influence of other persons--Miss Mereweather, for instance, and himself too. With regard to Miss Mereweather, it might be a matter of rejoicing that Helena had forsworn her tenets, but with regard to himself, perhaps that was not altogether delightful.

‘Yes,’ said Helena, calmly, as she looked at the three children, ‘I have. They are my pupils.’

‘Are they good?’

‘I fancy they are as good as their parents will allow them to be. It all depends upon that.’

‘How so?’ asked Sebastian. Anything to prolong the conversation!

‘Mr. and Mrs. Galloway are supplied with the newest ideas upon all subjects, education included. The new education theory is, that when children are allowed their own way, they always do right; or if they do wrong some one else is to blame for it. That is why I say they are as good as their parents will allow them to be.’

‘And are you generally the “some one else” who is to blame?’ he asked, wishing very much that she would utter some complaint, afford him some chance of offering sympathy or expressing fellow-feeling.

‘Oh no!’ she replied, quite cheerfully. ‘I only come in for my share, and they really are very fond of me; only they show it in rather a funny way. That is why I can’t see any one before four o’clock. I leave them then--reluctantly, of course,’ she added, with a smile which vexed Sebastian, because he could not tell whether it was feigned or not; ‘but still, I leave them.’

‘Won’t you sit down in this chair,’ he said reproachfully, ‘and tell me all about yourself?’ He moved the chair forward for her, for he saw that she looked tired, and indeed she was very tired, and Sebastian looked to her wearied eyes, so kind, so handsome, and so agreeable, that it was with difficulty she maintained her little air of dignified reserve: but the voice within was a powerful one: ‘What right has he to look at me in that gentle, reproachful way, as if he, and not poor mamma and I, had been neglected? It is impertinent, and I won’t submit to it.’

‘No, thank you,’ she said aloud, looking at her watch. ‘It is time to go. We must take a Victoria Park omnibus, and it will pass in three minutes. Come, children! Jacky, Amy, Ted! we must go.’

They came obediently enough, their failing appearing to be in affection towards each other. They lavished affectionate epithets upon their governess, and quarrelled, as Helena said, ‘because I have not three hands;’ but they cast looks of suspicion upon each other, and took every opportunity of falling out.

‘Good afternoon!’ said Helena to Sebastian, and as the children crowded round her and clasped her hands, she was not displeased to see that his face fell. She was glad that he should see that she was not altogether an object of pity.

‘I am going too,’ he said. ‘I will see you into the omnibus. It will save you a little trouble. Come, young lady, take hold of my hand, or you will tear Miss Spenceley to pieces.’

The little girl put her hand in his contentedly enough, merely informing her brothers that they were ‘nasty, selfish things,’ and the procession went downstairs.

As they stood on the top of the steps, waiting for the omnibus, Sebastian, turning once more to Helena, said,

‘You have not told me the number of your house. What is it?’

‘Fifty-seven,’ said Helena. ‘Jacky, dear, if you pull Teddy’s hair again, I’ll make you sit outside the omnibus.’

‘Fifty-seven. Best make a note of it, for fear I should forget it,’ he added, jotting it down, while Helena, with a brave assumption of indifference, looked straight before her, and choked back her tears.

‘You are not engaged until four o’clock on Sundays, are you?’ he suddenly asked.

‘No--but--oh, don’t come on Sunday!’ said Helena in her old tragic manner.

‘I solemnly swear that I will not come on Sunday!’ he said. ‘And equally solemnly I swear I will make you tell me why I am forbidden to come on that day.’

‘Why?’ said Helena, with a kind of half-laugh, not quite free from an hysterical sound--‘why, the reason is simple enough. Because----’

The omnibus is almost more relentless in its punctuality than time and tide. Not another word could be exchanged. They ran down the steps, and went through the ignominious performance of hailing and catching the vehicle. Sebastian, with great presence of mind, did manage to clasp Helena’s hand once more, and to repeat the words,

‘I shall come soon, and _not_ on Sunday.’

Then he stood in the middle of Mosley Street gazing after the omnibus, until an uproar caused him to look up, and he found himself surrounded with infuriated lorrie-drivers, swearing at him for getting into the way, while a hansom cabman had just pulled his horse up on to its very haunches, and was apostrophising him in a manner the reverse of complimentary. Newspaper boys were jeering at him, and an indignant policeman was ordering him to move on.

With an amiable smile, and a murmured general apology, he made his way to the footpath, and then on to the station.