CHAPTER I.

A LITTLE QUARREL.

St. Pucelle never looked more beautiful than it did on the day that I took that walk with Charlie Sandilands. The summer glories, yet unfaded, had been overtaken by those of autumn, and the rich clusters of purple grapes that hung upon the walls of my guardian’s house made a brilliant contrast to the scarlet and white and rose-coloured geraniums that still bloomed luxuriantly on the window-sills. The purple heather reigned alone upon the hill-side, but ferns of various sorts were arching their graceful fronds above it, and the merry brown hares were leaping amongst the brushwood and filling the place with life. As I led Charlie up the hill (for I would not let Tessie’s silly remark deter me from showing him the glorious expanse of scenery to be gained from the summit) I pointed out the beauties of the country to him with so much interest as to excite the remark that I appeared entirely to have forgotten poor old Norwood in my new love for St. Pucelle.

This was exactly the sort of thing I had hoped Charlie would say to me, for I had had two reasons in inviting him to a confidential interview: one was to ask his advice about writing to Mr. Warrington; the other to find out if he intended to be sensible during his stay in our neighbourhood, and permit me to enjoy his company without being annoyed by his sentimentality. So I answered briskly:

‘I never cared for Norwood itself, you know, Charlie, and you would scarcely expect me to get up an enthusiastic admiration for a suburb of London, composed of bricks and mortar and stunted trees. Its recollections are sacred to me, because my dear mother lies there, but that is all.’

‘I was sure that coming abroad would give you a distaste for all the old things,’ he said, in a desponding manner.

‘Don’t talk rubbish, Charlie! You were sure of no such thing! If you ask me if I was happy at Norwood, I answer “_yes_” most fervently. If you ask me if I liked the place as a residence, I answer, as fervently, “_no_.” I should have been happy with my mother in St. Giles’s; but I should not have admired the locality.’

‘Ah well! Let us return to St. Pucelle,’ he said, with a sigh.

‘No! I refuse to return to St. Pucelle until I have spoken a few words to you. Do you mean to enjoy your holiday here, Charlie, and to let me enjoy it, or not?’

‘I don’t understand what you’re driving at.’

‘I’m driving at you, or rather at that receptacle for nonsense you call your brain. Now you know I am very fond of you, Charlie, and have been for years. You are so associated with my darling mother, that you seem like a link with the past to me; and I should like to treat you like a younger brother, and to feel that you looked upon me as a sister. But that can never be whilst you attempt to stuff any of your sentiment down my throat.’

‘Really, Hilda——’

‘Really, Charlie, please to hear me out first, and have your say afterwards. If I thought that what you told me at Norwood proceeded from a feeling such as men conceive in their maturity, and preserve for their whole lives, I should not dare broach the subject to you again. But I am sure it did not.’

‘You imagine, in fact, that I am such a _boy_,’ with a withering accent on the word, ‘that I am incapable of a lasting passion.’

‘Just so! That is just what I do think; at least, I am sure the fancy you took for me was born entirely of association and compassion.’

‘I confess I do not follow you.’

‘Oh yes, you do! There are several kinds of love, Charlie, but only one is the right one with which to enter upon a partnership for life. You had known me for so long: you had become so _used_ to me, in fact, that when you thought of our separation, and under such melancholy circumstances, the pain seemed too hard to bear, and your mind flew to the only means by which you could have kept me with you. I have often and often thought of it since, and I am sure I am right. It was very good and sweet and true of you, Charlie, and I love you the better for it, but you should thank God I was more clear-sighted than yourself, for we should have been a very miserable couple.’

‘Do you think so, Hilda?’

‘I am _sure_ of it! My dear boy, you are just at that age when men think they can live happily with any woman who is young and passably good-tempered and passably good-looking. But the daily companionship of a married life is a terrible crucible through which to pass the affections, and only the true ore will bear the test of it.’

‘I suppose you have found the “true ore” in St. Pucelle,’ he grumbled.

‘Don’t be impudent, Charlie! Every word you say convinces me more and more of the truth of my conviction. Now do be reasonable, my dear child——’

‘I won’t be called your “dear child.”’

‘My dear boy, then.’

‘Nor your “dear boy.”’

‘What then, my dear Mr. Sandilands? Oh, you baby! If you were fifty-two instead of twenty-two, you would be skipping with pleasure at being called a child. However, I will try not to hurt your feelings again. I won’t call you “dear” at all.’

‘No, Hilda! don’t say that.’

‘Confess, then, that you made a mistake the other day at Norwood, and that I, with my independent spirit and intolerance of control, would never have made you happy in the way you wished me to do.’

‘I will confess no such thing!’

‘But your heart is not broken, Charlie. Come!’ I said, looking round into his face.

He caught my glance and smiled.

‘Eureka!’ I exclaimed; ‘I knew I should get at the truth at last.’

‘Well! of course it’s not _broken_,’ he replied, in a foolish, half-shamed manner; ‘or I shouldn’t be walking here, but you made me very miserable, you know, Hilda! I am sure I hardly ate anything for a month after you left. But you had said it was of no use, and you never should change your mind, and so I tried to make the best of it. A man cannot go on crying over spilt milk for ever, can he?’

‘Of course not,’ I said energetically; ‘and it is so brave and nice of you to tell me the truth, Charlie. It makes me feel we shall be such real friends henceforward. And I want your friendship so much. I should have been unhappy to think that you had put it out of my power to confide in you; for things are not quite so straight here as they ought to be.’

‘What! with the Lovetts! Aren’t they kind to you?’

‘The girls are sweetness itself. I never had more lovable companions.’

‘The one I saw first seemed very jolly; the pretty one, I mean!’

‘What, Tessie? the one with fair hair?’

‘Yes!’

‘Oh! we call little Ange the beauty! Her face is perfectly lovely when you look into it.’

‘I didn’t see so much of her. She kept right behind her sister. But Miss Lovett appeared the prettiest girl I had ever seen, to me—except yourself, Hilda, of course,’ added Charlie, pulling himself up with a sudden recollection of the proprieties.

I laughed so heartily that I entirely discomposed him.

‘Oh, Charlie! you have not half learned your lesson yet! I know I’m a very pretty girl, because you’ve so often told me so; but I do not expect nor wish that you should never meet somebody you think much better-looking than myself. And Tessie Lovett and I are formed upon two such entirely opposite models! How could you think my wounded vanity would require that little postscript of yours as salve?’

‘I’ll tell you what I _do_ think, Hilda,’ said Charlie, with sudden bluntness, ‘and that is, that you are the most honest and straightforward woman I’ve ever known; and I’m sure the man who gets you will be an out-and-out lucky fellow, whoever he may be.’

‘Well, never mind him, Charlie; he has not appeared upon the scene as yet, so we can go on very well without him. Tessie has, as you say, a very sweet and pretty face, and the goodness of her heart shines through her eyes and makes it beautiful. She has a great deal of trouble and anxiety to bear, and she bears it with the utmost meekness and patience. I have a great affection for her, and I hope I shall live to see her the wife of some good man whose love will make up for the sorrows of her youth. And as this brings me to the very point on which I want to consult you, Charlie, suppose we sit down on this bank whilst I tell you my difficulties.’

We had reached the Calvary now, the very place where I had first met the Mère Fromard, and were as much alone and more secure from listeners than if we had been shut up within four walls. So I commenced to recount the perplexity in which I found myself with regard to money—the attempts I had made to procure it and the failures that had succeeded them—and ended by asking him to tell me whether it would be advisable to communicate with Mr. Warrington on the subject, or to wait and see what time might bring me.

I had called Charlie Sandilands a ‘baby,’ and in some things a young man in love, or supposing himself to be so, is a very great baby compared to an energetic and helpful woman with all her wits about her. Yet I knew when it came to a question of business, _pur et simple_, that his decision would be worth twenty of mine, being less likely to be actuated by any other feeling than a desire to see justice done to his friend. His advice was that I should write without any delay to Mr. Warrington, and tell him all I knew.

‘Who had the management of your mother’s affairs during her lifetime, Hilda?’

‘Mr. Lovett entirely, I believe; at least, you see it was on this wise, Charlie. My mother had a small pension granted to her by Government, on account of my father’s scientific discoveries being adopted by the nation, but that dies with her. The only real property my father left behind him consists of shares in a tea-raising company in the Himalayas, producing annually one hundred and fifty pounds, and that is the money for which Mr. Lovett is still trustee for me.’

‘But there should be two trustees, Hilda.’

‘There were two, I think; but the other one died, and mamma never appointed a successor to him. Mr. Warrington mentioned something about it to me, I remember, but I forgot it again. Will you be the other trustee, Charlie?’

‘I should like to be so very much, but I cannot say if I am fitted for such a post. You had better ask Warrington. Used Mr. Lovett to send you mamma the interest of these shares regularly?’

‘I don’t think he did, of late years; but it always came eventually, or we should not have been able to live. It seems very strange, though, that now he should be unable to lay his hand on a few pounds for me, does it not?’

‘I don’t like it at all, Hilda, and I wish you would write to Warrington about it by this night’s post.’

‘Suppose my letter should bring him over here?’

‘All the better if it is necessary! You may be sure he will not come unless he considers it so.’

‘I shall tell him with twice the confidence now that I have had your advice, Charlie. I was so very undecided whether to write to him or your mother. In fact, I had begun a letter to Mrs. Sandilands when you arrived.’

‘Mother couldn’t have advised you on her own responsibility. It isn’t a matter for a woman’s decision—nor for a man’s, except he be a lawyer. I hope Warrington may ask you to sell out your shares and invest them in something else. I don’t like tea; it’s so very uncertain. A rainy season—or a dry one—might deprive you of half your income.’

‘That would be awkward! But I confess to an entire and appalling ignorance concerning shares and selling out and all that kind of thing. I am afraid I did not even know where the money came from till Mr. Warrington told me.’

‘That is not like your usual sense, Hilda; and since it is all you have to depend upon, I should think the sooner you made yourself acquainted with its source and securities the better.’

‘Yes, I feel I have been foolish. There is another thing, Charlie. Do you think I could get my money into my own hands? Mr. Warrington promised me I should be quite independent, and I should feel so much more so if I paid Mr. Lovett what we agreed upon, instead of having it kept back from me like a child.’

‘I should say it would be not only feasible but right that you should manage your own income. I don’t think you have been treated at all fairly, Hilda, and I have not conceived a very high idea of your reverend guardian in consequence.’

‘You had better wait till you see him and judge for yourself, Charlie. You know the old adage, “What is one man’s meat is another man’s poison.” I may have been viewing the old gentleman through distorted lenses. But I fear the rosiest glasses would never make him look a saint to me again.’

‘Who’s that foreign-looking chap staring at you, Hilda?’ interposed Charlie, abruptly.

I followed his glance and encountered the graceful form of the Baron de Nesselrode. He was attired in a velveteen shooting-suit of a golden-brown hue; had a game-bag slung across his shoulder, and carried a gun in his hand. Following at his heels were several dogs, amongst which the two gaunt wolf-hounds that we had seen at the château contributed to form a most picturesque group.

As the Baron met my gaze, he smiled slightly, lifted his _sombrero_, and with a low bow passed on his way. But not before I had caught the look of decided dissatisfaction he threw towards my companion, who was sitting very close to me upon the bank. The look annoyed me, though I scarcely knew why. I certainly did not wish Monsieur de Nesselrode nor anybody else in St. Pucelle to think I was indulging in a flirtation with Charlie Sandilands, but at the same time I liked him too well to see any slight cast upon him without inwardly resenting it. So a blight fell on my spirits as the Baron passed out of sight.

‘Who is he? do you know him?’ asked Charlie, as soon as we were alone again.

‘Of course I know him, or I should not have returned his bow. That is the Baron de Nesselrode—a great friend of all the Lovetts—and a particular one of Tessie’s.’

‘A particular friend of Miss Lovett’s!’ repeated my companion. ‘How do you mean?’

‘I mean what I say; and I hope and think that at some future time he will be more than a friend to her. They would make a charming couple, for he is so thoroughly well-bred and courtier-like, and she has been reared in the atmosphere of a Court, although her father is now too poor to permit them to mix in society.’

‘Do you mean that he’ll marry her?’ demanded Charlie, who was rather dull of comprehension.

‘What else do you suppose I could mean? Nothing is settled, remember; but the Baron wants a wife terribly, and Tessie is so sweet, I think she would love anybody who was kind to her.’

‘Well, I should have thought she could do a deal better than that for herself.’

This disparaging remark was a signal-match for my bad temper, and I fired up immediately.

‘What a commonplace manner you have of expressing your ideas, Charlie. Besides, you do not know what you’re talking about. Monsieur de Nesselrode belongs to one of the first and oldest families of France. His ancestors have been barons by feudal right ever since the days of Charlemagne; and if it were not that he had been a little wild and careless of his money, you would not have seen him in a place like St. Pucelle at all. The Château des Roses, which he occupies here, is the least important portion of his estates. He possesses land in Switzerland, and Normandy, and Anjou, and is the owner of extensive house property in Paris. The De Nesselrodes have been attached to the King’s service ever since one of their ancestors saved a royal life. I believe you would not find better blood in all France than runs in the veins of the gentleman who has just passed us.’

‘Well, you seem to know all about him, at any rate, Hilda,’ replied Charlie, when want of breath compelled me to stop my running commentary on the Baron’s pedigree. ‘I dare say it’s all true, but his title and estates don’t alter my opinion one bit. I should still think Miss Lovett a great deal too good for him.’

‘But why? He is very handsome and accomplished, and you know nothing against his character?’

‘He’s a Frenchman! that’s quite enough for me,’ said Charlie, with beautiful British depreciation of everybody who did not belong to the same nation as himself. ‘And an English girl must be too good for him, if he’s a lord or a costermonger.’

‘What absurd prejudice!’ I replied, with a curling lip; ‘and I should have credited you with more good taste than to speak of a noble of France in that way.’

‘Noble of fiddlesticks! Does he ever wash himself, that’s the question, Hilda? I don’t believe any of these foreigners do.’

‘Why don’t you call him a “frog” at once, or a “Johnny Crapeau”?’ I returned witheringly. ‘It would be about as brilliant and as much in accordance with modern enlightenment as what you are saying now. I declare you put me out of all patience. And to think, too, that a man like Armand de Nesselrode should have been laid open, by his own folly, to the animadversions of a—a—Somerset House clerk!’

‘Hullo, Hilda! are you really angry with me? Why, what is this fellow to you, even if he should be going to marry the pretty Miss Lovett?’

‘Tessie is my friend, Charlie, and if she ever becomes the Baronne de Nesselrode, her husband will be my friend also. You can judge for yourself, then, if it is very pleasant for me to sit by and hear you talk in that way of him.’

‘You must have enough to do if you take up the cudgels for all your friends’ friends after this fashion. However, I am very sorry if I have offended you, Hilda, and I will try and believe that your fine Baron _does_ wash himself, if it pleases you I should do so.’

‘Please not to mention the subject again; it disgusts me,’ I said loftily, as I rose from my seat and commenced to descend the hill.

Poor Charlie walked by my side in silence till we had got nearly half-way home, when he said:

‘You’re not cross with me still, are you, Hilda?’

‘I have no right to be cross, but you disappoint me. Are these old prejudices never to be done away with, and the two finest nations in the world to meet on terms of perfect amity and mutual esteem? The greater intellects of earth have abandoned them long since, and it is lowering to one’s conceptions of human generosity to find they still linger in the breasts of one’s intimate friends. Why, I suppose, in the whole course of your life, you have never associated with so intellectual and highly-bred a man as Monsieur de Nesselrode; indeed, I am _sure_ you have not. Men like himself are not to be met with in the purlieus of Somerset House, or amongst the “snobbery” of London suburbs. And yet you think you have a right to laugh at him, simply because he is not an Englishman. You make me hate British patriotism! Displayed in this fashion, it is vulgar, offensive, coarse! You would receive more politeness and appreciation yourself from the commonest labourer you met on these country roads than you have accorded to-day to Monsieur de Nesselrode.’

‘Hilda, I’m awfully sorry! I had no idea you thought so much of this chap as all that.’

This insinuation nettled me still further.

‘I wish to goodness you wouldn’t call him a “chap”—your cockneyisms grate on my ears like a file,’ I said angrily. ‘Please to remember that for the last three months I have been unused to hear the elegancies of the English language.’

This put a summary end to all conversation between us until we reached the Lovetts’ house, when Charlie timidly offered me his hand, and said he supposed he had better go back to the hotel.

‘Good-bye,’ I answered curtly, without any comment on his remark, and the poor young fellow turned away and walked down the street with a very crestfallen air.

I think I was a little _too_ hard upon him, but the conviction did not strike me until some hours afterwards. I don’t remember feeling at all penitent until I went to bed that night, and then, on reviewing the day’s proceedings, I was not only sorry but surprised to think that I should have quarrelled with Charlie Sandilands, and for the first time in the course of our long acquaintanceship.

Why was it? What could have made me so quick and peppery? It could never have been a foolish disappointment because Armand de Nesselrode had passed me without speaking. As that thought struck me I buried my burning face in the pillows for shame, and resolved that I would apologise to dear old Charlie, and make it up with him again the very first thing in the morning.

[Illustration: [Fleuron]]