CHAPTER I.

LONDON FOG.

"YOU won't go into the city to-day of course, Stuart?"

The voice betrayed anxiety. It was breakfast-time, but gaslights shone overhead, glittering on chased silver and on broad blue borders of delicate china. Beyond the panes of the two windows only a dense yellow haze was visible.

Mr. Selwyn looked up from a deluge of morning correspondence, following his wife's glance. "It will lessen," he said tranquilly.

"Just this once," she pleaded. "Such a day! Could you not be content to spend one day at home?"

"How about appointments, my love?"

"I daresay you have none of any importance."

"Gwendoline Halcombe, at twelve,—for instance."

"The pretty girl that we met in the Academy with her father? But that need not take you out. You don't seriously suppose any lady would keep an appointment in this fog."

The lawyer's grey eyes laughed pleasantly beneath their broad brows. He was unlawyer-like in aspect, according to conventional notions, being strong and upright in build, with ruddy colouring and particularly straightforward expression.

"I don't for a moment suppose so of 'any' lady," he said. "I suppose it to be not improbable in the case of Miss Halcombe."

"I do not like young women to be too independent,—very young and pretty ones especially."

"Perhaps Miss Halcombe does not like it either. Independence becomes a matter of necessity in certain instances,—with the eldest of ten, for example."

"Is she that?"

"Ten is the number, I believe—ranging from nineteen to three in age."

"What made her fix on to-day?"

"She wrote and asked if she might have a few words with me. I named the day and hour."

"Why not telegraph to put her off?"

"That is far from being my only engagement. Also, I could not reach her. She will be at her painting in the Academy or Kensington, I don't know which."

"Painting! Yes, you promised to take me some day to see her drawings. She is clever, is she not?"

The lawyer was becoming absorbed in another letter. His wife surveyed the window afresh, trying to glean encouragement thence. Failing to do so, the conclusion at which she arrived was uttered aloud, with a sigh of despair.

"It is perfectly awful."

"Eh?" said Mr. Selwyn.

"The fog! It is awful, Stuart."

"It is rather thick, but I have seen worse," mildly admitted Mr. Selwyn.

"If this is only 'rather,' I don't know what 'very' thick may be. You will never get back from the city alive."

"That will scarcely be the fate of every city man. I hope I shall be among the survivors."

"Oh, Stuart, don't joke about it. Suppose something really did happen."

She had been married only nine months, and was as yet unaccustomed to the vicissitudes of the London atmosphere, after twenty-six years in the clear air of a country village. There was something country-like still about her soft plumpness and rosy cheeks. She was rather a pretty little woman, over twenty years her husband's junior. Mr. Selwyn had been married once before for a brief space, and had spent a long widowhood before finding a second wife to his mind. He was still in the prime of life, a lawyer in good practice, a man of considerable private means, and a general favourite, greatly esteemed by all who knew him for his unswerving rectitude and for his kindliness of heart. He had one son, Mortimer by name, four or five and twenty in age.

"Never expect evils, Isobel. I am an old hand at fogs. But, as you say, no need to jest. I have a note from Miss Withers. Lady Halcot desires an interview."

"Halcot! Isn't she the old lady at Riversmouth, who gives you so much trouble?"

"I should not like that description to reach Lady Halcot."

"Not very likely. I don't know any one belonging to her. And Miss Withers is the lady-companion, is she not? I remember. What do they want you to do?"

"I shall have to run down to Riversmouth to-morrow."

"So soon?"

"Lady Halcot expects me to-day. Impossible, unfortunately."

"I am sure I would rather have you go into the country than into the city. There would be some likelihood of your leaving this horrible fog behind you."

"Yes, but I am tied to city work to-day,—no help for it. I think the fog shows signs of lifting."

"I wish I could see them," sighed his wife.

Mr. Selwyn went to his office as usual, only not so quickly as usual, for traffic was under serious difficulties, and the promised "lifting" of the fog took place but slowly. If other people kept to their appointments that day, however, Gwendoline Halcombe unexpectedly failed in hers.

Riversmouth was a seaside place within tolerably easy distance of London, but it was by no means a seaside place of the fashionable description. No railway station existed within four miles of the village—called flatteringly by some of its inhabitants a "town." No trim parade was laid down above or below the beetling low cliffs which overhung the shingly beach, parted by only one sharp and narrow cut, through which trickled a tiny brooklet beside a rough pathway. Houses stood irregularly above, tier above tier, and two or three of the oldest buildings jutted almost over the edges of the cliffs.

Lady Halcot, the aged owner of the land in and about Riversmouth, strenuously resisted every attempt at improvement or "innovation;" her one aim being to keep the place precisely in the same condition as she had known it sixty or seventy years earlier. The traditions of her family sternly prescribed "selectness," forbade admission of strangers, discouraged popularity, abhorred excursionists, fought against social and religious changes of any kind or description. The old lady strove to carry out these traditions to the letter, and where she failed, she lamented sorely.

That the place had so far increased as to possess two churches in lieu of one was a distress to her, and no one yet ventured to suggest in her presence the growing need for a third. She was regularly to be seen each Sunday, once, if not twice, in the cushioned square pew of the parish church, where her ancestors had sat from time immemorial; but she had little to say to the Riversmouth clergy. The Rev. Charles Jay, of the chapel of ease, she had always disliked and ignored, simply from the fact that he belonged to a building the very existence of which she deprecated. The Rev. William Rossiter, of the parish church, appointed to it by herself some twelve years earlier, had long been honoured with her friendship and confidence.

But three or four years ago a change had crept quietly over the dream of peaceful parish slumbrousness, wherein the old lady delighted. Nobody knew exactly when or how it began. Only, somehow, Mr. Rossiter's placid moral essays grew into earnest expositions of Bible truth and vigorous appeals to his congregation to repent and be saved; also an active young curate came upon the scene, and Bible-classes were started, and cottage-lectures sprang into being.

"Such things as were never even mentioned in my grandfather's days," Lady Halcot said in her disgust.

She remonstrated with Mr. Rossiter, but was met by a gentle resistance, on which she had not calculated. Mr. Rossiter had reached that point where the question becomes one of obedience to God rather than man. He would have spoken of a change in himself, and in his views of work to be done for his Lord and Master, but she would not listen. If he did not choose to conform to her will, she had nothing more to say to the matter—or to him. Mr. Rossiter was permitted only to bow and withdraw, and from that day he was admitted no more at the Leys. He went quietly on with what he believed to be his duty, scattering the Word of Life to right and left, as he found opportunity, and meeting with much happy encouragement at times. But he saw no more of Lady Halcot, except in her pew and her pony-carriage. She vouchsafed him occasionally an icy bow in passing; and she studiously placed every possible obstacle in the way of his labours. It never occurred to her that she was thus actually hindering work for God. The idea might have startled her, had she looked it in the face.

No London fog had found its way to Riversmouth next day, when Mr. Selwyn stood upon the eastern cliff, enjoying the strong sea-breeze. He unbuttoned his greatcoat, threw back his shoulders, and drank in large gulps of salt air, with a Londoner's appreciation of the same. Waves below were tumbling in, one upon another, with reckless haste, as the breeze helped onward the rapid spring-tide. There was not a gale, but the wind possessed sufficient force to whisk off the white wave-crests, scattering them in small spray around, and to wail weirdly among roofs and chimney-pots. Rock-boulders lay upon the beach, where at intervals in the past they had fallen from the cliffs above, and amongst them the waves splashed roughly, swirling round, and drawing back, and leaving trails of white foam to die upon the stones.

A zig-zag flight of narrow steps, guarded by a stout hand-rail, led down the face of the cliff. Mr. Selwyn, standing at the top, had made up his mind not to descend, when his eye was caught by a figure below. "If it is not!" he ejaculated.

He paused for another look. The figure was that of a girl, standing upon a low boulder near the margin of the water. Her ungloved hands were clasped lightly together, and a grey closely-fitting ulster, swaying in the breeze, encased the slim figure from head to foot. The neat little feet showed below, and the little head wore a cap of the same material as the ulster, from beneath which peeped short curly brown hair.

"What is she after here?" asked Mr. Selwyn half-aloud.

He made his way down the steps with no further hesitation, strode over the crunching shingles, and drew near. She glanced round at the sound of footsteps, and turned to meet him with a gesture of surprise.

"Mr. Selwyn!"

It was a lovely face, oval and delicate, with large brown eyes like those of a deer, liquid and wistful. The boyish shortness of the hair, and the severe simplicity of the grey suit, rather enhanced than detracted from the general effect.

"You here!" the lawyer said, in accents of unmitigated astonishment.

"I couldn't help it. I had the chance, and—I came. Was it wrong?"

"What chance?"

"Honora Dewhurst offered to bring me for two nights. It is just a reviving breath. We work together at our painting, and she is my friend. Mother said I ought to use the opportunity, but I could not feel sure about the 'ought.' Still—a third-class return doesn't come to so very much."

"No, no," Mr. Selwyn assented.

"Of course we can't really afford it," she remarked ingenuously. "But then it is a question what one ever can afford. There is always something else wanted which seems just as needful. If it comes to a question of necessaries, I suppose one could 'do' in a hovel, with dry bread and water. But, on the other hand, I can't afford another illness, and I have felt like that lately."

"Time you had a change, then. How has the work gone on?"

"Which work? The 'stitch, stitch' never does go well. Mother and Ruth have done my share as well as their own the last week, for I just 'couldn't.' And then my painting began to fail, and life was looking awry, and I began to see it was time for a change, as you say; yet I could not feel sure. Perhaps I ought to have fought on without it. How is one to know which is the right thing to do, Mr. Selwyn?"

She looked at him questioningly.

"Generally by the exercise of common sense," he said.

"Is that always enough? Common sense sometimes points in two directions equally. Mother would tell me to pray to be shown the right way."

He did not exactly smile. His was not a cynical face by any means; but his expression for a moment was curious.

Gwendoline's brown eyes had a sudden flash in them.

"And mother is right," she said. "For what we want to do is God's will—of course; and how are we to know what His will is, unless He shows us? So it 'is' the exercise of common sense to ask Him!" Gwendoline's bright eyes met Mr. Selwyn's steadily again, seeking to discover whether he agreed.

Mr. Selwyn contrived to banish from his face any manner of decisive expression. He did not wish to enter into a discussion upon this question. "So you settled to come," he said.

"Yes, they all said I ought. And, besides, I had another reason—" She stopped, and coloured brilliantly.

"Your journey prevented your coming to me yesterday, I suppose?"

"No; we did not start till the afternoon. I was near your office at twelve; but I changed my mind."

Mr. Selwyn showed surprise.

"I changed my mind," she repeated, looking down. "It was only something I wanted to consult you about, and just at last I decided not to ask you. I thought you would discourage me, and I wanted to be free."

"You would rather not tell me what the 'thing' is?"

"I'll think about it. Not now, please," she said sedately. Then, with a sudden change of manner, turning towards the sea, "Oh, that wave!"

She wrung her hands with delight, as a massive billow rolled in upon its predecessor, rising in a broad green wall of water, and curling over to fall with booming crash and hissing swirl.

Mr. Selwyn uttered a word of warning and stepped back.

Gwendoline did not move, and the foam rushed in a flood round her feet and ankles. She said only, "There!"