“———The children of one mother,      You could not say in one short day,
 What love they bore each other.”
 
WORDSWORTH.
 
 
 
LONDON in September. A dull, close, airless day. The streets would have been dusty enough too, no doubt, had there been a breath to stir the dust, which one felt instinctively, was lying there in masses, ready on the slightest provocation to rise in choking clouds. A day when one longed for the sea, or failing that, for a breeze of fresh air. A day when one could hardly believe in the reality of cool green fields, or babbling, trickling brooks. Not that it was so much hot, for there was little sun, as dry, and heavy, and intensely dull. Dull everywhere, but especially so in one of the somewhat old-fashioned, but unmistakably respectable squares of which there are not a few in London, so much resembling each other as to require no special description. The square at this season looked its very dullest and ugliest; under these circumstances, I should suppose, the more nearly fulfilling the aim, as regards outward appearance, of the melancholy architects who planned it. Half the houses were shut-up, and of the remainder, several were evidently shortly about to be so, for in some, hot and dusty housemaids were to be seen pulling down window curtains, and in one or two more an acute observer, by dint of a little peeping, might have discovered business-like trunks and carpet-bags ready packed and strapped for starting, or else gaping open while undergoing the mysterious process called “airing,” in some of the lower regions where such domestic rites are usually performed.
 
In one of the dullest of the dull houses, in a sort of library or morning room on the first floor, a young girl sat alone. The room was not a pretty one. At the best of times it might have been called comfortable, but nothing more for its furniture, though solid and good of its kind, was like the rest of the house, heavy, dark, and ungraceful. On this day the room looked especially uninviting, for there was about it that peculiar look of business-like disorder, which, even in the neatest of households, inevitably accompanies preparations for “leaving home.” Torn letters, bits of string, and address labels, a work-basket half emptied of its contents, all told their own tale.
 
The only pretty thing in the room was its occupant. She was certainly not beautiful, but like many people to whom that word, in its ordinary and superficial sense, could not be truthfully applied, she was most thoroughly pleasant to look upon. Possibly a thought too thin, and hardly rosy enough for what one likes to see in a girl of nineteen, but with no lack of health and vigour in her firm, well set frame, and pale, though not sallow complexion. And with no want of intelligence or quick perception in her grey eyes, as a glance from them would soon have told. A good, gentle, pretty girl, just such, I think, as one would like to see one’s own daughter, though with rather more thoughtfulness of expression than seems quite natural in so young a creature. This came, however, from her rather too quiet and solitary life, and from no original dearth of the bright hopefulness and gaiety of spirit hardly in theory to be separated from the idea of healthy youth.
 
The girl sat at her writing-table, but not writing. Rather wearied with all her little preparations, she felt glad to sit still doing nothing, and though looking very thoughtful, as was her habit, still, to tell the truth, she was thinking of little in particular. There was perfect silence through the house, and the occasional roll of wheels in the neighbouring streets sounded rumbling and heavy through the still, drowsy air. Marion, I think, was very nearly on the point of succumbing to these various influences by falling asleep outright, when her reveries were disturbed by a sharp, sudden ring at the hall-door. She started up, but sat down again lazily, saying to herself,” Oh, I forgot, it will be only Cissy.” “Cissy,” evidently not being a person to be treated with much ceremony. But a second start was in store for poor Marion’s nerves, had she been conscious of possessing any such undesirable things. A moment’s interval and then came the sound of hasty feet up the stairs; the door opened suddenly and an unexpected visitor entered. A boy of course. No one but a boy, and one too in a hurry, could have come up stairs in that three-steps-at-a-time sort of way, or opened the door with that indescribable sort of fling, neither bang nor jerk, though partaking of the nature of both. Though, after all, perhaps, it is hardly fair to this particular boy, to introduce him as so thoroughly one of his rather objectionable class; for when he was not in a hurry or very unusually out of temper, Harry Vere, my Marion’s brother, did not by any means forget the small proprieties of life. A good boy, in the main; certainly neither a sneak nor a bully. His looks would have belied him had he been either. He had a fair, open, honest face, with, however, much less strength than his sister’s, and also less promise of future development. He hurried in, looking flushed and travel-stained, and anxious too, as the girl’s quick observation was not slow to discover.
 
“Harry!” she exclaimed, “you here! How did you get off, and what is the matter? Is anything wrong?” asking, after the manner of people in a hurry to get an answer, three questions, where one would have served the purpose.
 
“No, no, nothing is wrong,” said the boy “at least, nothing much. I have not been expelled, or broken my legs, as you can see for yourself. Don’t get into a fuss. I only came up because I wanted so much to see you before you go. You shall hear all about it in a minute; but first tell me one thing. My father is still away? There no fear of his seeing me today?”
 
“Oh no, not the least,” replied the girl, evidently by no means surprised at the unfilial spirit of the question; “he has been away since Monday, and won’t return till the day after tomorrow. But I am leaving tomorrow, you know. When I heard your ring I thought it was Cissy Archer, for I am expecting her this afternoon, to settle definitely about our train. I see though,” she added, glancing at the time-piece, “she won’t be here for an hour yet, so we have plenty of time for a talk.”
 
“Not so very much,” said Harry, “for I must have some luncheon, as I can’t get back to school till late, and my train goes in an hour and a half. You can fancy how very much I wanted to see you, Marion, for even though I came second-class, my fare will all by clear me out; and I can’t now get leave to be away again before Christmas, so I shall miss the match at Barrow next week.”
 
Before answering Marion rang the bell and ordered some cold provisions in the way of luncheon for her brother. As the servant was leaving the room Harry said to him rather awkwardly and hesitatingly, “Brown, you needn’t say anything to your master about my having come up to see Miss Vere before she goes.”
 
Brown being fortunately of the order of discreet domestics, answered simply:
 
“Very well, Sir, I will take care that your wishes are attended to;” muttering however to himself as soon as he was outside the door, “Lucky for poor Master Harry that none of them other chattering idiots saw him come, and that I got the cold beef and bread unbeknownst to cook.”
 
When Harry was comfortably seated at his repast, Marion repeated her request.
 
“Now, Harry, tell me all about it.”
 
“Well, Marion, the long and the short of it is, I’ve got into a scrape. Not a bad one though,” added he hurriedly, seeing the increasing anxiety in his sister’s eyes, “nothing disgraceful or ungentlemanly. You would never fear that for me, May? It was a good while ago; but I did not tell you about it at Midsummer, because I thought then I should be able to set it right, but now it has got worse. I know I was a fool for my pains to hide it from you. Several months ago, one holiday at school, I hired a horse. Of course it is against the rules but lots of follows do it. I am really very fond of riding, though I don’t know about it, but I don’t think I should have been tempted to do it in this underhand sort of way if my father had sometimes let me have a little in the holidays. But then—you know as well as I how he thwarts me; but that’s an old story. Well, as ill-luck would have it I lamed the beast. I am no judge of horses, but still I think it was above the average of a livery stable. The man made an awful row, said he had that morning refused sixty pounds for it, and it was now worthless. He threatened to complain to the head-master. I don’t know what is the law in such matters, but I was in such a fright that he would really tell on me, that I made on the spot the best terms I could with him, which were to pay him twenty pounds down the next morning; though when I promised this I had not the least idea where to get the money. I went straight to Cuthbert, my great chum, you know, Marion, and told him all about it. He begged me not to make a fuss, and I should have the money in time. And sure enough by next morning he had it for me, and I paid the man, as I had promised.”
 
“But Cuthbert!” said Marion, in amazement, “how could he get it, Harry? His people are not at all rich, and I should think he has even less pocket-money than you.”
 
“Yes, indeed,” replied Harry,” there’s the pull. Cuthbert knew I would pay him as soon as I could, and he has been awfully good about it. But only last week he came to me in great distress and told me the whole affair. It seems he got the money in his own name from a wretched Jew at a hideous rate of interest, trusting to my being able to pay him, in part, any way, last mouth; as I quite hoped I should have got something from Aunt Tremlett on my birthday. Of course she was ill and sent me nothing. Now poor Cuthbert must pay it before the 15th of October, and this wretch has made it somehow or other come to thirty instead of twenty pounds. The exposure would utterly ruin Cuthbert. That’s the horrible part of it; to think what my folly has brought him into, good fellow that he is. Why he never spends a sixpence he can help on himself! Now Marion what can I do? How ever am I to get thirty pounds before the 15th of October?”
 
“If only I had it,” sighed poor Marion, “but you know I never have five pounds in my own hands, much less thirty.”
 
“I know that quite well. I never had the least idea of getting it from you, May. All thought of was, that as two heads are better than one you might help me to find out some way of getting it. Of course, if the worst comes to the worst, rather than let Cuthbert suffer I will go to my father. He would pay it. I have no doubt, but would probably never speak to me again. Any way all chance of my going into the army would be over, and just when I am so close upon it too: leaving school at Christmas for good. Oh, what a fool I was! But for both your sake and my own, May, I would rather do anything than speak to my father. It would be perfectly horrible to have to do it. I declare I would rather run away, if only I could beg, borrow, or steal the money in the first place.”
 
“Hush, Harry,” said his sister, “don’t talk nonsense, but think seriously what to do. If only Aunt Tremlett had not been so ill, she might have helped us.”
 
“Not she, indeed,” replied the boy impatiently, “or if she had even agreed to do so, she would have been pretty sure to discover that it was her duty to tell my father. Old idiot that she is.”
 
“You need not waste your time in abusing her, Harry, for as things are, she is out of the question. But Harry, dear,” she added anxiously, as the sound of the clock striking caught her ear, “I fear your time is almost up?”
 
“All but,” said the boy, with a rather poor attempt at a laugh, “so Marion you don’t see any way to helping me out of my trouble? And think what a time it will be before we see each other again! You are to be at Altes with Cissy Archer for six months, didn’t you say?”
 
“Six months, certainly, I believe,” said his sister, “I should like the thoughts of it exceedingly, but for the one drawback of not seeing you in the holidays. But that can’t be helped! And now about this trouble or yours, Harry. Do nothing just yet. Wait, any way, till the end of the month; that will be a fortnight from now, and I will see if by then I can hit upon any plan to prevent your having to tell Papa; for that would really be too dreadful. Not so much the disagreeable of it as the after consequences, for he would never forgive it, or trust you again.”
 
“Never,” said Harry, emphatically. “But Marion, I must go. Thank you, dear, for being so kind about it. Many a sister would have scolded or preached, but I am far more sorry than if you had done either. Well, then, you’ll write within a fortnight and send your address. I suppose you don’t know it yet? Good bye, and mind you don’t fuss about me more than you can help.” And with a more affectionate parting hug than he would perhaps have liked Brown major or Jones minor, to be witness to, Harry departed, his heart considerably lighter, as is the way with selfish mankind, for having shared its burden with another.
 
Marion, poor child, sat down again where he had found her, burying her face in her hands as she vainly tried to solve the problem so unexpectedly placed before her: “Where to find thirty pounds?” She had never before actually cared about the possession of any sum of money, for though by no means luxuriously brought up, still, as is the case with many young people, the comforts of life had, as it were, “grown for her.” Her father’s peculiar ideas as to the inexpediency of treating his children as reasonable or responsible beings, had left her, in many practical respects, singularly inexperienced. She had certainly often wished, like all young people in a passing way, for things beyond her reach; but still, whatever was really necessary to her comfort, or suitable for her position, Mr. Vere had provided and paid for. In proportion, therefore, to her previous exemption from anything in the shape of financial anxieties, were her alarm and consternation at the present difficulty. And terrible, indeed, appeared the alternative of laying the matter before her falter. Sad perversion of what should be the most tender and trustful of relations; that between parent and child, when, in his distress and perplexity, or even in his shame and remorse, the child’s first impulse, instead of being to fly for counsel or comfort to the one friend who should never refuse it, is, at all costs, to conceal his trouble from the parent who has indeed succeeded in inspiring him with fear and distrust,—but alas with nothing more! And this is done every day, not by hard or indifferent fathers only, but by many who, according to their light, honestly enough desire to do their best by the young creatures committed to their charge.
 
Mr. Vere, the father of this boy and girl, was perhaps less to be blamed than some parents, for the fact that his children did not regard him as their friend. An extreme natural reserve of character and manner had, in his case, been so augmented by the unhappy circumstances of his life, that to his children from their earliest years, he had never appeared otherwise than hard, forbidding, and utterly unsympathising. Yet in reality he was a man of deep feeling, and capable of strong and lasting attachments; but along with these healthy characteristics were to be found in him a large amount of morbid weakness on certain points, and a peculiarity which I can best describe as narrow-heartedness. The one passion of his life had been his love for his wife, a lovely, silly, mindless baby, whose early death was certainly not the bitterest disappointment she caused him. Their carried life was short, but it lasted long enough for the freezing, narrowing process to begin in the husband’s heart. He lost faith in affection, or at least in his own power of inspiring it. The want of breadth about him prevented his seeing that though he had been so unfortunate as to make the one “grand mistake,” an uncongenial marriage, it did not necessarily follow that every other relation in life was, for him, to be in like manner a failure. He made up his mind beforehand, that were he to allow himself to seek for consolation in the love of his children, in that, too, he would but be laying up fresh disappointment for himself. And therefore he was weak and cowardly enough to stifle, so far as he could, the natural outflowings of fatherly affection. He did not altogether succeed in this, for his heart was still, in spite of himself, sound at the core; but, alas, as time went on it proved no exception to that law of our nature, by which all unused members gradually contract and wither. From his children’s earliest years, as I said, Mr. Vere checked in himself all outward demonstration of affection, and this, of course, quickly reacted upon them. Little people are not slow to understand when they and their innocent caresses are unsought, if not unwelcome. Fortunately, however, for these poor little things, they had each other; and the affection of two as honest, loving little hearts as ever beat, refused vent in one direction, only flowed the more vehemently in the remaining one. And to give the father his due, he certainly was not unmindful or careless of their actual comforts and requirements. They had everything to be desired for their health and happiness, except their father’s love. As they grew older, time brought no improvement to the state of matters. Extreme strictness, not to say severity, was the basis of Mr. Vere’s theory of education. This, and the fact that he never in the slightest degrees confided in his children, or appeared to consider them as reasonable and intelligent companions, extended the already wide gulf between them. Yet he continued, solicitous about their health and comfort, and was even scrupulously careful in his choice of their teachers, books, and the few companions he thought it wise to allow them. Had any one taxed him with not fulfilling to the utmost his duties as a parent, he would have been utterly amazed and indignant; for so one-sided and warped had his whole being become through the one great mistake of his life, that it simply never entered his imagination that, by not loving his children, he was denying to them the first of their natural rights; or that his systematic coldness could possibly be to them an actual injury and injustice.
 
For himself, he came in time to be so absorbed in other interests, those of a political life, as not in the least to miss the affection he had so deliberately stifled in its birth. In a rather narrow way a clever, though never a brilliant man; accurate, painstaking and calm, he gradually became very useful to his party. And thus, contentedly enough, he lived his life, rather congratulating himself than otherwise, on what he had made of it, and on the strength of character which had so thoroughly thrown off and outgrown the bitter disappointment of his early manhood.
 
The childhood and youth of Marion and her brother had not, however, been on the whole desolate or unhappy. Indeed, it takes a great deal, thank God, to crush the happiness out of healthy children I And they don’t miss what they have never known.
 
The first great sorrow was Harry’s going to school; but at the Name period, a kindly disposed and very terrible governess appearing on the scene, Marion’s life was by no means solitary and loveless as she had anticipated. The happiest times they remembered, poor children, were the summer months, Harry’s holidays, which with this kind Miss Jervis, they every year spent in Brentshire, their father’s native county, and where he still owned, near the little village of Bradley, a pretty cottage and a few acres of land—the remains of a once considerable property. In Brentshire, too, at the dull little town of Mallingford, lived the old Aunt Tremlett, Harry’s godmother, from whom they learned the few particulars they ever knew of their pretty young mother and her early death.
 
Their father never accompanied them to Brentshire. He still shrank with a morbid horror from ever revisiting the place where he had first met his wife, and where, so few years after, she was buried.
 
The Veres had in past days been people of no small consideration in their own county, and though for two generations the head of the family had been settled in a different part of England, there were still plenty of people about Mallingford to whom the name in itself was a recommendation to show kindness to the two children who bore it. And as they were loveable and engaging, they soon gained hearts on their own account. There was old Mr. Temple, the clergyman, who had married their parents, and seen the sad end of that story, and his two young-lady daughters, in particular Miss Veronica, who played the organ on Sundays, and sometimes invited May or Harry as a great treat to sit up in the loft beside her, Then there was jolly old Mr. Baldwin, of the Bank, always so merry and hearty; and Geoffrey, his son, the great tall schoolboy, who used to carry both children at once, when they were very small, one perched on each shoulder. He came to see them one Christmas in London, and told them of his kind father’s death, looking so sad and lonely that both Marion and Harry cried when he went away. That was several years ago, but they had never seen Geoffrey Baldwin since; for as they grew older, their visits to Brentshire became fewer, and at last ceased altogether. Their father sold the cottage, and the Midsummer holidays were now spent in London, with the exception of a fortnight or so at the seaside, if it happened to strike Mr. Were that town was unhealthy in hot weather for young people.
 
I think there is very little more to tell of Marion’s early life. Simple and uneventful enough it had been, and with but few of what are usually considered young girls’ special privileges and pleasures. But, on the whole, by no means an unwholesome training for a rich and vigorous nature, though it might have crushed and stunted a poorer one. Such society as, since she grew to womanhood, she had seen at her father’s house, had been almost confined to that of the few friends whom he now and then invited to a somewhat ponderous dinner. Clever men, all of them, in their different ways; interested, if not absorbed, in topics, much of which Marion hardly understood, but from which, not being a common-place young lady, her quick intelligence led her to glean much material for quiet thought and speculation, which certainly did her no harm, and probably more good than the “finishing” touches she would at this period have been undergoing, had her education been more in accordance with prescribed rules.
 
That anything in the shape of a “coming-out,” so called, was necessary or even advisable for his daughter, had never occurred to the pre-occupied mind of Mr. Vere; but as some of his friends took a kindly interest in the girl, she had not been quite without an occasional glimpse into the doings of the gay world. And now a very unexpected treat was before her, in the prospect of spending several months at the far-famed wintering place of Altes, under the care of the pleasantest of chaperons, the aforesaid Cissy Archer.
 
Six or seven years before this, when Marion was a thin, shy little girl of twelve or thereabouts, this cousin, then Cecilia Lacy, had been to her a vision of beauty and loveliness such as she could hardly imagine excelled by any even of her favourite fairy princesses. And this childish admiration had not been misplaced. Cissy had been an exceedingly pretty girl, and now at eight-and-twenty was an exceedingly pretty woman. A good little soul, too, as ever lived. Possibly not exactly over-flowing with discretion, but so thoroughly and genuinely amiable, bright and winning, that it was utterly impossible to wish her in any respect other than she was. She had married happily. Her husband was considerably older than herself, and by his rather overwhelming superabundance of discretion, good judgement and all other model qualities of the kind, more than atoned for his pretty, impulsive wife’s deficiencies, if indeed they could be called such. There were people who called Colonel Archer a prig, but it was well for them that loyal little Cissy never heard the sacrilege; for, dissimilar as they were, yet the two were entirely of one mind in the most important respect, of each thinking the other little short of perfection. The greater part of their married life had been spent in India, where their only trouble had been Mrs. Archer’s extremely delicate health, which at last, about a year before this time, had obliged her to return home to try the effects of the long sea voyage and English air. The experiment had in a great measure proved successful, and Cissy, now hoped to be able, before very long, to rejoin her husband. The one winter, however, which since her return she had spent in England, had rather tried her strength, in consequence of which she had been advised to spend the coming six months of cold weather in a milder climate. She was now, therefore, on the point of starting for Altes, accompanied by her only child, a very small boy known as Charlie, and also, to her great delight, by her young cousin, Marion Vere. A pretty stout battle Cissy had fought with the awful Mr. Vere, before obtaining his consent to his daughter’s joining the little party, but Mrs. Archer had what the old nurses call “a way with her,” and the uncle had rather a weakness for his captivating niece. She was the child of his dead sister, whom not so very long ago he remembered just as bright and happy as her daughter was now. So the end of it was as might have been expected. Mr. Vere gave in, and Cissy came off triumphant.
 
Master Charlie, at the age of five and a half, was already one of that devoutly-to-be-avoided class—enfants terrible. Frightfully spoilt by his mother since he had had the misfortune to be under her exclusive care, and yet a loveable little monkey too, for the spoiling had principally resulted in making him preternaturally sharp, rather than selfish or exacting. He was a chivalrous mite in his way. He firmly believed himself to have been entrusted by his father with the exclusive care of his mother, and thought it simply a matter of course that his opinion should be asked before any important step could be decided upon. His extreme views on the subject of “Mounseers” had for some days caused the journey to Altes to remain in abeyance; but a bright suggestion of his nurse’s, that he might turn his experiences to profit by writing a book about these objects of his aversion and their queer ways, had carried the day triumphantly.
 
His deficiencies in literary respects, for he had not yet succeeded in mastering the alphabet, fortunately presented no insurmountable difficulties; as he had already engaged the services of Miss Vere as amanuensis, at a liberal rate of a penny a week, provided she was “very good, and wrote all the book in red ink with a gold pen.”