Which is the Heroine? A novel

Front matter

NEW NOVELS. In 2 Vols. THE SQUIRES OF BRUDENEL. By the Author of " My Brides," &c. "This novel is calculated to engage attention, and secure con tinuity of perusal. The author has a decided faculty for drawing good, worthy, amiable people, and this , without any disparagement to her capability of delineating indifferent ones.'' — Morning Post. " One of the most healthy, clevernovels of the year.''— Scarborough Mercury . "Well and entertainingly told."— Liverpool Albion. In 3 Vols. CAUGHT IN A TRAP. ' ' One of the most readable novels we have taken up for some time. The author has hit up a story which has both interest and novelty, and he tell it freshly and naturally."— Standard. " It is highly amusing, being both racy and bright in construction, and containing an interesting story." — Bell's Messenger.

" May be safely recommended. A good stirring novel, with plenty of incident, and some interesting love-making."— Daily News. In 3 Vols. EVEN BETTING. "The author of ' Even Betting ' almost rivals 'Harry Lorrequer' in the brilliancy of his word painting, and in the force and incisive ness of his style." — Daily Telegraph. "In depicting military, fashionable, and sporting life, the author is thoroughly at home. Some of the characters are inimitable, and the descriptive scenes show real skill." — John Bull. "A clever, interesting novel."— Westminster Keview. — Railways, postages— in a word, all the numerous facilities of the age—have almost annihilated distance, and, as a natural result, caused an individual trade between country customers and London establishments. Those who do not visit town, so as to select and purchase directly, send for patterns from which they can give their orders.

But as all apparent advantages on the one hand have more or less their corresponding drawbacks, so this system is not without its bane. Pushing tradesmen make a market by offering goods at lower rates than they can possibly be sold at to realise a fair profit. The bait traps the unreflective, and the result is that the receipts en masse are not equal to the tempting samples. There is-no new inven tion in this ; it has been practised in wholesale merchandise and by candidates for contracts, as the proverb hath it, since there were hills and valleys. But we grieve to add it is sometimes resorted to by those whom one would credit for more integrity. Ladies, therefore, need exercise caution, and place confidence only in houses of old established fame, for rapidly-made businesses are not generally reli able.

Chapter I

" Well, Marjory, buried in books as usual !" " What is it, mamma ?" said the person so addressed, half rising from her recumbent posi tion in a low chair, lazily, and as if unwilling to have her studies, or dreams interrupted. " What is it ? only that I'm come to try and talk to you about plans, and I find you, as usual, deep in books." At the word " plans " Marjory gave a sigh, only half concealed, but said, all the same, she was ready to hear what her mother had to say. " You see, my dear, it's the middle of June VOL. II. B ? 2 now and much too hot to stay in London, so I'm thinking of a move to some good, bracing sea place, where there will be fresh breezes for us all, and some pleasant little society to amuse us." Marjory shrank within her at this prospect. She hated moves of any kind, above all when they were made by the whole family en masse, and where fuss and discomfort were sure to reign paramount ; fuss, for nothing could be done with out that, where Mrs. Graham managed, and dis comfort, because of not very large means, there fore everything had to be done as economically as possible, and this involved, Marjory felt, a small house and few rooms, therefore, one at least of her sisters being the partner of her bed room, and poor Marjory, if there was one thing more than another she hated, it was having her solitude broken in upon by a noisy, chattering, younger sister.

" Of course, Marjory, you don't care about the plan; but I really can't help it; you all want change, from your papa down." ? 3 " Yes, mamma, I'm sure we do, but I can't help being lazy about the move." " I'm sure I don't wonder at it, my dear. If I read as many books as you do, and sat and dreamed when I wasn't reading, I should be very lazy, too ; but 1 really never had time for such things. I've your papa to think of, and the children, and managing the house, and all those hundred little cares that must devolve upon a married woman. If you had them, Marjory, you'd be far happier than sitting mooning among your books or setting problems in your brain." " I dare say, mamma," said Marjory, listlessly. " But, my dear child, you're not going the right way about it. What man would ever speak to a woman who read such books as these ?

I do declare in one small space I find ' Whately's Logic ;' ' Smith's Moral Sentiments ;' ' Gervinus' Criticism on Shakespere;' ' Faust,' in the original Schlegel, do. ; the ' Idylls of the King,' and ' Plato's Republic,' a book, by the way, I believe you oughtn't to read at all. " b ? 4 " Oh ! mamma, mine's Vaughan and Davies' edition, and it's quite proper." " Is it, dear ? In my day it wasn't considered so ; but be that as it may, what good will one of those books do you ? Will one of them teach you to make yourself pleasant in society, or make you what a man would think of asking for his wife ?" Marjory quivered at this plain way of putting things. " I dare say you think me dreadful for saying all this ; but who will say it if I don't ? And after all, what are women put into this world for, but to learn to be good wives and mothers ?

I can't see what other use they have." " Oh ! mamma, how can you say so, when you know all the good single women do?" " Do they, dear ? Oh ! 1 believe old maids are always said to do good." Mrs. Graham knew as much about old maids as anyone else ; she came across just as many as her neighbours ; but she had a way of pretending not to know or understand plain facts when it suited her purpose. Marjory knew this, so did not attempt to argue the subject. " Well, Marjory, we won't talk about single women, as you call them — I say old maids — I always call things by their right names. (Marjory knew this to her cost.) What have we got to say to them, as none of you are ever to belong to them ? " " Really, mamma," said Marjory. " Of course not. There's your younger sister right well married ; you're to follow her example, and then I can think of my own girls."

" I'm afraid, mamma, as far as I'm concerned, you'll be disappointed." " I'm never disappointed, dear; I set my heart on Bessie's marrying, and she did ; and as to you—" " Stop, mamma ; Bessie and I are two different beings ; she was sure to marry, for she was so fascinating no one could resist her. She married as a matter of course, and never stopped to think who had set their heart upon it." ? Marjory was goaded to this speech. As to the thought of her little sister — her bright little para gon of all that was most charming and perfect — ever marrying for any reason but because she wished it herself, ever stopping to consider whether anyone, her stepmother, least of all, had set their hearts upon it — a thing so contrary to her nature, so contrary to fact — this Marjory would not stand, so whenever she could she si lenced Mrs. Graham on this matter, and yet she felt sure there were times, when she was not by, that her stepmother insinuated to strangers that it was all on account of her that Bessie had made this good match — captivating Sir Francis Love lace, governor of a colony, handsome, courteous, and rich, but old enough to be her father, so that there was some foundation for a good story of clever scheming contrivances, not one of which however told, as Bessie never brooked interference, and had married Sir Francis simply because she loved him.

But this, though Mrs. Graham knew to be true, it never suited her to see. She didn't ? 7 see Marjory's meaning now, but went on as if she had never been interrupted, laughing good humouredly — " And now I've set my heart on your marrying. 1 know you're not as fascinating as Bessie, I don't know why, but you're not." " As if I ever could be compared to Bessie !" said Marjory, at last roused to interest by the thought of her sister, and forgetting her vexation in the memory of her. " Well, I don't know why you shouldn't. You're tall; she was short. You're thin; she was plump. You think ; she talked ; You sing, and she sang — only your songs are grave while hers are gay. That's all the difference I can see. " " Is it mamma ?" said Marjory, warming with her subject, " is it ? I see a little more.

I see wherever she went she was the centre of admira tion ; wherever I go, no one cares to look at me. Wherever she went she talked and made every one else talk ; she laughed and made everyone else laugh. Wherever 1 go I can neither talk myself nor make anyone else talk, or laugh or make anyone else laugh. When she sang the simplest little French song everyone was en chanted ; when I sing a song full of the deepest, truest music, no one cares to listen. I didn't care, I was only too delighted when I had her to watch, and see, and hear admired ; but now that I'm neither admired myself nor have her either, the whole thing is become more stupid than ever." And her eyes filled with tears, but she drove them back at once, for as to displaying feeling before Mrs. Graham, that was out of the question ; so she tried to smile instead.

" And I say," said her stepmother quite calmly, " that if this is the case, it's all your own fault. Throw away your books ; don't think ; be merry, and laugh, and talk, and you'll be just as much liked. You're quite as good looking in your way, if you only looked brighter ; but even if you must look sad, manage your sadness well, and you'll be admired too." Marjory wouldn't notice this part of the speech, ? 9 though she couldn't help laughing at the idea of her managing her sadness, but remarked that Bessie read a great deal and yet she was ad mired. " She read books that would help her in so ciety — Shakespere and Tennyson and even German books, because all girls learn German now ; but I'd like to see her waste her time over moral sentiments or problems in logic, things that would drive a man to the other end of the room if he knew they were even in the house with him — she knew better."

" Mamma, Bessie never thought of what would help her in society. I believe her carelessness about all that sort of thing was her great charm. She just read because she liked it, and never thought of anything else." " I'm sure I wish you'd be like her." "Mamma, I'm afraid that's an impossibility." " Oh, no, dear, not the least — nothing's an im possibility, but you must make haste about it ; o at five-and-twenty you really ought to begin to exert yourself." Marjory smiled outwardly, but sighed inwardly. It's never pleasant to a woman to be told that her age makes it a necessity she should exert herself, and Marjory, however much of a philosopher she seemed, was not one whit above her sex in that respect. ?he kept her feelings to herself, how ever, as she did most things before Mrs. Graham, who, though really most good-natured, and ful filling all her duties of stepmother in the highest degree, lacked, at the same time, the smallest particle of tact or fineness of feeling, therefore was utterly unable to deal with the peculiarly sensitive nature with which she was brought in contact.

Poor Marjory ! shall we pity or despise her most for being that most piteous spectacle, a sensitive woman ? It is certain, if her stepmother thought about her nature at all, she did the latter ; but as we ? 11 are not Mrs. Graham, we may, perhaps be al lowed to do the former — pity her for possessing the one thing so fatal to a girl in this rough, fast, busy age ; the one thing that will clog her foot steps and be a barrier to her path — a tender, trembling, sensitive nature. Ah, pity is the word to be applied there — pity, in contradistinction to despising ; but sympathy is the better word still, the word before all others, the word to help out such a nature in its hard passage through the world; and till it gets such sympathy it will either shrink and collapse into itself, hiding its true self in terror of a harsh thrust it cannot en dure, or else sink and perish out of life, unable to bear up any more at all.

Marjory instinctively felt all this, but as with all her sensitiveness her nature possessed a certain strength, her course would be the former, she preferred the process of shrinking and collapsing, building herself a home within herself where she might live in quiet, if not in happiness, free from rubs at least, if free also from much that if once ? enjoyed would fully, and more than fully, com pensate for these same rubs. Perhaps some day she will be sorry she has not faced them more bravely, even now she is beginning to feel there is something wanting in her life — a life if quiet and pretty smooth on the whole, and free from any very dark shadows, yet lacks also any bright sunshine, and as she begins to feel this, she begins to grow unquiet and dissatisfied, longing for something she scarce knows what, yet too fearful to venture forth in search of it.

Oh the pity of it, when such a nature is left without one stray helping hand to lead it on ! Sirs. Graham after her last remark turned to leave the room, feeling, no doubt, she could not have chosen a better speech for her exit. She did not mean to be unkind, or to wound Marjory's feelings — how could she, when she did not know there were such feelings as Marjory's in the world ? Everything that was plain before her eyes she could understand well enough, no one better — no matter how far distant it was, only a speck on the horizon even, those sharp eyes of hers could make it out, but anything that was below the range of her vision was as dead to her as if it had no existence, and she had the happy knack of making herself believe that what she did not perceive was not there at all, and what she did not understand was just nonsense.

No wonder that with all her kindness, such a woman should have made Marjory feel somewhat in the light of a victim under the hands of an inquisitor. One word as to her personal appearance before we dismiss her. If you are at all a physiognomist, you will not be surprised when I tell you, that the word " jammed" described everything about her. She looked as if she had been shut up in a door once, and forgotten, and never let out till her whole appearance had gained its present squeezed look. Her head was squeezed, her face was squeezed, and her body was squeezed, and as to her clothes, they followed suit; her cap was squeezed, her bonnet was squeezed, and her dress was squeezed. ? Not that the clothes were crumpled ; no, everything about her was scrupulously neat, it only seemed as if they too had shared in the " jam ming" process, and had therefore become as squeezed as the woman herself.

Everything about her, inwardly and outwardly, was narrowed, driven up by the squeezing into one point, a point from whence she looked out upon and judged of everything in life. What a contrast to the figure in the arm-chair, which has now lazily thrown itself back again to its beloved dreams and reading, as the door closes upon its disturbing medium ! But of that figure we will speak more at length in another chapter.

Chapter II

Yes, in everything Marjory was a contrast to her little stepmother, in nothing more than in her hatred of bustling and narrowness. One could see that in the broad forehead, so full at the imaginative and meditative organs — too much so at that of causality for her own peace of mind — in the very listless way she lay back in her chair, her small hands lying idly before her, as if quite unfit for the hard work of life, the ample folds of her long white dress falling loosely about her ; her grave deep books around — books that lifted her out of this low sordid world into another and a higher one — one in which she would gladly have lived altogether — its broad, grand ways, so far ? more in keeping with all that was noblest and highest in herself; yet, long as she might, strive as she might, something always dragged her back.

To-day it had been so — to-day, when she had caught a glimpse of something so glorious and beautiful beyond, following in thought the sublime musings of the great Faust in his weariness of life and longings for something higher. Like him, she had pined for wings to lift her up into the sun's bright evening path, seeing the still world beneath her, hills glowing, valleys quieting, silver brooklets running in golden streams, her flight hemmed in by no wild moun tains, bounded by no boisterous sea. On, on ! eternal light to live in ! " Vor mir der Tag und hinter mir die Nacht, den Himmel fiber mir und unter mir die Wellen. Ein schoner Traum !". . . Yes, a lovely dream indeed, only in her case to be broken in upon, and dashed to pieces by reality and Mrs. Graham ! " It's always the way," she sighed, as she turned back again to her musings ; but no such musings came any more; they changed to weary puzzles — puzzles about life in general, and her own in particular.

Questions as to whether Mrs. Graham might not be right after all, and her own dreamy longings all wrong — whether the half life in her other world could ever make her happy in this ; whether in her uncertain grasp of some thing beyond, she was not losing something, perhaps better, still nearer home. Such and many such were her musings now, hardly happy it would appear by the contraction of her brow, and restless, dissatisfied expression of her pale face, deep enough, however, to absorb her so com pletely as to make her quite unaware of another little figure that had crept into the room, and was now laying a delicate little hand on her shoulder. " Auntie ! darling auntie I" she exclaimed, when roused at length by that touch, the bright ness that overspread her whole face giving it that expression which it needed to make it almost pretty, being too still and expressionless before to admit of beauty, the features far from classical enough to derive beauty from that repose so ex quisite in Grecian statues.

"When did you come?" she went on, clasping the small figure in her arms, and putting her into the chair she had just occupied. " Only about a quarter of an hour ago. I have been sitting with Mrs. Graham." "And why didn't you come first to me — I wanted you so much ?" " Why, darling, have you been worrying your self again?" she said, stroking Marjory's soft brown hair as she knelt beside her. " 0 yes, auntie, dear, it's the old thought worries — happy first, then broken in upon by plans and hateful talks, and then all turned into worries." " Poor Marjory ! — what were the plans ?'' u Going out of town to some wretched sea place, where we're to have stupid society, be all packed in a small house, and where I shall never be quiet." " My dear child, did Mrs. Graham tell you all this ?" " No, not exactly ; but I know it as well as if she had told me."

" Ah, Marjory, always looking out for miseries." " I'm afraid I do now, auntie, dear ; I don't think I used when Bessie was with me, she was always so bright, she made me — not bright, she couldn't do that: — but less stupidly downcast than I am." " Yes, dear, I know she was a great help to you," said the gentle little lady, stooping down and kissing her ; " but I want to help you a little now too, not by lecturing you, dear, that never does any good, but by proposing a little scheme of my own. I mustn't call it a plan, or it will frighten you." " Don't say that, auntie, your plans never could frighten me ; they're different to anyone else's, and I'm sure to like them." " Well, dear, my plan is, that instead of going with the rest to their sea place, you should come with me to mine." ? 20 " Oh, darling auntie, how delightful !" she exclaimed, throwing her arms again round her aunt, her pale face glowing with pleasure.

" Do you mean to say I'm to be quite alone with you in your nice quiet sea place ? " " I'm afraid it isn't quite as quiet as you would like, it's much gayer than when I first knew it. Does that frighten you?" " Not with you, for I know you won't ask me to go into the gaieties." " Perhaps if I knew the people that make it gay I might; but how should I know them, dear ? " she said, looking down at her deep weeds with a quiet sigh. " It's long since I've known anyone of that kind." " I'm glad for my sake you don't," Marjory answered, after a moment's pause, as she stroked the thin little hand that lay in hers. "You must'nt say that, dear ; you musn'thate society. What would Mrs. Graham say if she thought we two were to lead hermit lives ? She hopes against hope that you'll have a little society there though you are going with me.

I think that was one of the reasons she let you go." " I see," said Marjory, with a quiet smile. " Auntie, dear, I didn't know you were such a diplomatist." " I wasn't a diplomatist, dear, I assure you" she answered, the little soft voice growing almost as loud as other people's in her haste to repel such an imputation. " Your mother knew something about Beachhaven herself; she'd been thinking of going there, and then it did not suit your father. She knew it was growing quite gay." " Poor little auntie ! I understand. I won't call you a diplomatist again for anything. But when are we to go ? " " As soon as ever you can be ready, dear." " Oh 1 I'll be ready anytime — tomorrow, if you like." What a difference did different atmos pheres make on this woman ! " Oh, no, dear ; not to-morrow. I shouldn't be ready then," the little aunt answered, in the hesitating tone she always assumed if hurried at all.

Marjory observed this at once, and replied immediately she was in no hurry. " There's really no reason for haste, dear ; we're only going for a little change, and may move and be quiet just as we like. I never can do anything fast, you know. I wish I could for your sake, Marjory. You mustn't grow like me." " Why not, darling ? Could I be like anyone better?" "Hush, hush, dear; don't say that, it quite pains me." " Well, I won't, only you mustn't think of doing anything for me that you wouldn't do if I wasn't there. We're just both of us to creep along as we like." " And then Mrs. Graham will laugh at us, and think I only encourage you, and do nothing to help you on," replied the aunt, with a half smile, half sigh. " Never mind that, auntie, dear; we're not to mind anyone now, but live to ourselves quite happily — shan't we, dear?" she said, putting up her mouth to be kissed.

" Very well, my child." " And this day week I'll be ready, auntie — or this day fortnight, if you like." " No, dear, this day week." And this settled, the little aunt took her leave.

Chapter III

Marjory's love for Mrs. Morton, her little aunt, was one of the strongest feelings of her nature. From her she gained what she so earnestly needed, sympathy ; not a powerful, helpful sympathy, per haps, one that would have led her on and out of herself, to higher, clearer views, but at least a tender interest, a loving forbearance, and a gentle following, where she could not wholly understand or wholly agree. Marjory need fear from her no pitying laughter, no sordid suggestions, no prac tical views of life dragged in at a wrong time ; Mrs. Morton knew too well herself something of her niece's troubles to try anything of that sort for her cure ; she too had once been restless, dissatisfied, questioning, but in her case, happily the restlessness had been calmed, and the question ing answered in the way, it may be, God intended, the mind of every woman should be set at rest — by the answer of an all-absorbing, satisfying, earthly love.

She felt this now, that left alone, widowed and childless, she looked back upon her past life, she felt that God had answered her " in the joy of her heart," and meekly she bowed her head and thanked him, feeling as every true woman would, that it was better to have had that joy, even though the blank was so bitter now, than to have led a grey, uncoloured life unto the end ; feeling that a love such as hers had been was the best answer God could have devised for her. But this very satisfaction prevented her from entering altogether into Marjory's feelings. True, she had been wearied and unsettled, but all that had long passed away, and now when her niece poured forth her troubles to her she could only listen, help if possible, and long for an answer, such as her own had been. c VOL. I. This was not likely in Marjory's case.

Somehow she was not attractive to the world in general. She might be thought nice-looking, pretty even, and very lady-like, but there it ended ; after that something in her seemed to repel rather than attract, a something that puzzled those who cared for her, vexed herself, and worried her step mother beyond description. Poor Mrs. Graham! she was never weary of recounting her woes on this subject — " Isn't it vexatious," she used to say to her particular friend, Mrs. Browne, " to have to take a girl of this kind into society ? I dress her well, I do all I can to make her look nice — and she does look nice, and each time I go out with her I think, ' well, this night she's sure to be admired,' but no, night after night it's the same thing ; the instant she gets into the ball-room, she sticks herself beside me, looking so bored no one could think of speaking to her, and if they do venture, she answers them so languidly — never trying to keep up the conversation— that of course they go away." ? 27 " It's really too bad," answers Mrs. Browne.

"Isn't it?" continues Mrs. Graham — " particularly when I see plain, badly -dressed, stupid girls carrying all before them, and mine left stand ing half the night, whom I know is superior by many degrees to every one of them." " Indeed she is," says Mrs. Browne, " she's so very nice-looking, and very clever, I believe." " Hush," answers Mrs. Graham, " don't breath that for anything, I sometimes think people have heard of her cleverness — or so-called cleverness, I never can discover in what it consists, and that's the reason she doesn't get on. My dear Mrs. Browne, there's nothing so injurious, believe me, to a girl, as to get a name for that sort of thing. I'd no more let a man know the books she dabbles in, no more than I'd fly, it would frighten him out of his wits." " I believe you're right, Mrs. Graham."