lows her bright companion along the platform, and up the long, steep, dark stairs that lead them out of the sulphurous atmosphere into the welcome freshness of the early spring evening. The wind is westerly, and a breath of primroses and violets seems carried straight from the country on its wide-spread, rain-charged wings. As the girls step out into the fragrant air both inhale it with a delightful sense of relief. The Underground may be convenient at times,' remarks Susie laughingly, but it is always decidedly nasty.' Then she remembers a question she has previously asked, and to which she received no reply. She now repeats it in a new form. 'I suppose you live near this station? I hope you do, because I very much wish to be friends with you, if you will let me. Do you mind my taking hold of your arm, dear? It seems more cosy as we are walking side by side ?' Clare answers by a gentle pressure of the small fingers so timidly resting upon her arm. Susie, who is half afraid of her silent stately companion, feels relieved and reassured by this encouraging sign, and at once resumes her easy bird-like chirruping. 'You did not tell me your name, dear,' she says, never suspecting that there can be voluntary hesitation about stating so very simple a fact. 'Please do, so that I may know what to say to Gran. She likes forms and ceremonies-most foreigners do, I believe-and I want to introduce you in quite grand style. That will impress the dear old lady favourably from the first. Her name really is Madame La Marquise de Laigne, you must know, but she condescends to call herself Delaine now.' Susie spells the two names, and watches the effect of her communication on her silent companion. 'My poor dear mother married beneath her, so Granny says, and my father's name, John Robinson, was not aristocratic, I confess. When I went on the stage I wanted to call myself Suzanne de Laigne ; but Grannie objected to the degradation of her name; and the manager thought Susie looked better in the bills, as I was only a very little thing when first I began. Of course I accommodated myself to circumstances, as we all have to do sooner or later, and finally I compromised the matter by calling myself Vivia Delane in the bills. And that name has stuck to me ever since. No one at least only one person -knows anything about Robinson or the marchioness. And that person knows all about me in every way.' Clare smiles, as she thinks there can never be much difficulty in learning Susie's profoundest secrets. 'My name is Maud Smith,' she says, after a moment's hesitation. She would have preferred to tell this simple confiding little maiden the truth at once; but her late experience has taught her extraordinary caution. Susie's mention of the Kaleidoscope Theatre has further alarmed her; for she distinctly remembers that as the name of one of Lord Verstrume's favourite haunts. 'I am glad your name is Maud,' says Susie. "You look like the heroine of a novel or the leading lady in a sensation drama-beautiful, proud, haughty, silent, and awfully reserved, don't you know.' Clare laughs. 'Indeed I do not know,' she says, amused at the other's lighthearted prattle; but I am glad you are pleased.' 'I am pleased with Maud, for the name suggests poetry and mystery, as you really do; but Smith ! Smith does not suit you the least little bit. You must make haste and change it, dear. And if you are half as nice as you look, any gentleman would be proud to give you his name. I can quite fancy you as Mrs. Vivian or Mrs. Vavasour. And O, Miss Maud, I do wish you would tell me if you were ever in love yourself, or-or -anything of that sort ?' Clare smiles, and speedily determines to lead the girl's thoughts into some channel which cannot fail to be more interesting than the experiences of a stranger, and at the same time less embarrassing to herself. I almost fancy you know more about "things of that sort" than I do, Susie,' she says pleasantly. Indeed I think it very probable that you are in love with somebody at this moment.' Susie pauses in her walk, and faces her companion with a rosy flush upon her bright young face, and a delighted sparkle in her frank blue eyes. 'In love!' she cries; 'what could lead you to think that?' 'I was right,' says Clare, 'and you won't attempt to deny it. Some day-if you ever do learn to know and trust me-I shall ask you to tell me all about him! Susie wisely resists a strong impulse to fling her arms around Clare's neck, and then and there to tell her little love-story, which began but a week ago, on the occasion of her chance encounter with Lord Kempton in the wings at the Kaleidoscope. 'You have invited me to go home with you now, Susie,' says Clare, and I shall no doubt astonish you greatly by asking you if you know of a lodging anywhere near yours. I only want one room; but it must be cheap and clean. Do you think you can direct me to such a place just for to-night?' 'How strange!' remarked Susie. 'You don't mean to say that you are without a home to go to ?' Clare feels inclined to resent a question she deems impertinent; but, checking her momentary indignation, as she realises its injustice, she says, 'I was obliged to leave my apartments suddenly to-day, and I desire to find some in quite another locality.' This is literally true, therefore Clare is glad to be able to say it. 'Well, I don't know wherever your last locality may have been,' says Susie, with a touch of that pertness which is inseparable from under-breeding; 'but if it is near Sloane-square where you got in, you're well at the other side of the town now, as I suppose you know.' It has hurt Clare to find her companion wanting in the delicacy which she herself has always regarded as the first characteristic of gentle womanhood; but her good sense soon subdues the passing feeling of disappointment, and she says, in her pleasantest tone, 'Do you think you can direct me to such a lodging?' 'I am sure I can,' says Susie, delighted at the idea of being of use to her new friend. 'The very room for you is to let in our house. The only question now is for you to find favour in the eyes of Madame la Marquise. I think-I feel sure she will like you; and O, if she does, promise me faithfully to say nothing of what you suspect; for it is quite true. I am in love, though no one knows it.' CHAPTER II. FAITH BETWEEN FRIENDS. 'A generous friendship no cold medium knows, Burns with one love, with one resentment glows.' 'THAT is lovely, chérie-perfect. Of all the works you have shown to me, this is the most splendid. Your eye for colour is good, your taste excellent.' 'I am so glad you are pleased, Madame Delaine. From what Susie tells me, and from what I know of you myself, I shall always consider you an authority in all questions of taste.' 'Ah, my dear child, you will remember that my sainted mother was a great and noble lady; and I -God be praised !-may have inherited some of her fine qualities. Those things are born with us; we can never quite attain them. My poor little Susie does not suffer so much as she might from her present position at the theatre, and the contact of the low plebeians there, because the blood of her father runs in her young veins. She is not pur sang, you see; and she feels it no hardship to earn her bread among women who are by no means refined, either in nature or habits. She is a good girlthanks be to the Virgin!-is my poor little Suzanne; but she will always be mediocre. Distinction is not born with her. Was it not strange that my daughter could have allied herself to one John Robinson, of the most bourgeois? Ah, when one recalls to oneself' Madame Delaine here loses herself in silent retrospection. Her thoughts wander back to those days long ago, when Louis XVI. was king, when those terrible revolutionists had not dethroned royalty, violated faith, outraged decency. The poor old lady lives as much in that brilliant past as in the poverty-stricken present; and it is a mercy that memory lifts her above the sordid necessities of her daily life. She recalls herself by an effort: 'My poor little Suzanne, she finds it hard to work at times; but she does not rebel. She manage to content herself with so little, and she desire to be a good girl always. Indeed, she must know it would be the death to her grandmother if the child were to go the ways of those other women. for money, we need but little; and love-thank Heaven, the child knows no one to speak to, and she is heart-whole still; so there can be no danger.' As Clare listens, but makes no reply. She does not share Madame Delaine's conviction-indeed, she has reason to doubt the sound state of Susie's heart, though the girl has made no further allusion to her lover since she spoke those hurried words to her new friend when first she led her up the steps of the old house in Soho. Love, that ablest of all teachers, has actually taught Susie caution and reserve already. And though repression has been absolutely painful at times, still she has managed to keep silence; and once her lover has declared himself and implored her to keep their understanding a secret, she has firmly resolved to obey him. 'Maud' and she are now intimate and excellent friends; but no further confidences have passed between them since they made that first memorable journey together. 'What do you call those flowers you are designing now, Maud, and which I find so very pretty?' asks Madame Delaine, as Clare's busy fingers arrest her attention. "They are clematis, purple and white. When I have drawn and painted them, I shall copy them on turquoise blue velvet.' 'And that will be for what?' 'For the borders of some handsome boudoir curtains.' 'Ah, that will be magnifique in verity! And pray who means to buy anything so very fine?' "A Miss "Belle Moss" sent me the velvet, the silks, and the commission,' says Clare. She is at the Kaleidoscope, and dear kind Susie persuaded her to give me the order for this work. She is furnishing a bijou residence, I believe. Her salary at the theatre is 51. a week, and yet she offers me six guineas for some needlework. It is a strange world, this of London !' 'It is a wicked world tant pis!' says Madame Delaine, with an impatient sigh. I pray to the good God day and night to protect my poor little Susie. Her life leads her along paths of terrible danger.' 'But she is good, honest, true, and therefore quite safe, I am sure,' says Clare earnestly. I cannot tell you how I admire her brave independence, her honest industry. And she is so considerate to me, and has already helped me by getting me so many orders. I am pleased to do the work; but I fear I sometimes vex Susie, for I must decline to go to the theatre; and nothing shall induce me to become acquainted with any of the ladies there. I have induced Susie to promise she will never mention my name to any one of them, or tell them anything but the simple fact that a poor girl who lodges in the same house with her is glad to execute their commissions. I never wish to see any one but Susie and yourself, Madame Delaine; and I shall be quite content, and most grateful, to stay here with you for years, if you will let me.' 'But is it wise, my child, to persist in thus shutting yourself away from the world? It seems so strange that at your age you will go nowhere, and decline to make any acquaintances. It is well to It is well to be industrious-I admire you for that; also I commend you for being careful in the selection of friends. But you lead the life of a nun, and, indeed, I fear you will really take the veil and the vows one day.' Clare flushes painfully. 'Sometimes I wish that I could do so,' she says. 'Ah, but this is folly, my child. I hope I am a good Catholic; but I have my own thoughts and my long experience, and the result is that I do not like to see young girls becoming nuns. It is a better and a happier life to be a devoted wife and a good mother. Believe an old woman when she tells you that from her heart.' Poor Clare 'A devoted wife!' feels as though a healing wound were suddenly torn open within her heart. She hides her face and bursts into a passion of tears. Madame Delaine, who has always seen the girl self-collected, tranquil, reserved, and quite unemotional, is startled. She stretches out her thin white hands, all bent and crippled with rheumatism, and lays them on her young friend's shoulders. 'My good Maud,' she says tenderly, 'you are a young girl and I a very old woman; but I have not forgotten my own youth yet, and, believe me, I can sympathise with trials and troubles. I trusted you when I saw you first, and I willingly offered you the protection of my humble home. I have forborne to ask any questions of you all these many weeks because confidence comes best without solicitation; but I have always known, as I now see, that you bear with you the burden of a great sorrow. Will you not tell it to me? 'Believe me, confession comforts and relieves. It is not intended that we should lock up our griefs in our own breast; at times they must be too hard to carry without the aid of sympathy and consolation. I tell my sins to my priest, my sorrows to my friends, and both to my God. And so it is possible, ah, almost easy, to live! The old lady's face is beautiful as she speaks. Her wrinkles are lost in a happy smile, the fading light in her erst sparkling eyes seems to shine with a reflection of the undying light from the brave soul within. Clare glances at the bent silverwhite head, at the noble old face, at the poor crippled hands stretched towards her in supplication and sympathy. O, if she dared tell this sweet kind old lady all! That would indeed be both comfort and relief; but, alas, her burden must be borne in patience and -in silence! 'I cannot, I must not speak,' she says, repressing her sobs with an effort. My sorrow is my secret. I cannot share it.' Madame Delaine feels really perplexed. Ever since Susie brought Clare home with her one evening, nearly two months ago, there has been a latent suspicion in the old lady's mind concerning the antecedents of the reserved and beautiful young stranger. She took her on trust in the first instance, impressed by the candour of her brief replies to preliminary and necessary inquiries; and she has never for a moment doubted the justice of her first impressions in the girl's favour. Having accepted her in good faith, and without demanding any explanation of her friendless condition, Madame Delaine considers herself bound to avoid asking questions later on. She is a lady by birth and breeding, and could never descend to vulgar curiosity. But, as time goes on, she has wished and hoped, for 'Maud's' own sake, that the barrier of reserve between them should be broken, and that the lonely girl should bring herself to share her secret trouble, whatever its nature, with one so ready and anxious to give her the benefit of womanly sympathy and advice. She watches that bowed head attentively now. Has the right moment come? Will Maud speak at last? Trouble, trial, perhaps temptation, have come into this girl's life; but no dishonour has ever smirched the fair robe of purity which clothes her soul and looks so innocently out of her large sad eyes. On that point Madame Delaine has never had a shadow of doubt. Suddenly Clare raises her head, looks across at the sympathetic face of the kind old lady before her, crosses over, and kneels at her feet. 'I will confess to you, dear Madame Delaine,' she says. "I will tell you all my story, and you shall judge me. I will leave my fate in your hands, and I will abide by your decision. If you disapprove of my intention to withdraw myself from a world I have found very cruel, I will do so no longer; but I am quite sure, whatever you think of my conduct, you will respect my secret, and not betray me either to my friends-if there be such-or to my enemies.' |