A Girl in a Thousand

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V.OL. BY JEAN MIDDLEMASS AtJTHOB OF "DANDY," " PATTY 's PARTNER," " SACKCLOTH AND BROADCLOTH," etc., etc. IN TWO VOLUMES VOL. II. LONDON: CHAPMAN AND HALL Limited LONDON : PRINTED BY J. 8. VIRTUE AND CO., LIMITED, CONTENTS OF VOL. II. CHAPTEE I. PiG1 In Terrobem . 1 CHAPTEE II. Reading the Will 18 CHAPTEE III. In His Power 35 CHAPTEE IV. A Shadow . . 51 CHAPTEE V. The Honour of the Stanhopes 67 CHAPTEE VI. True and Faithful • 83 CHAPTEE VII. Only one Way 98 CHAPTEE VIII. Like with Like . . VI CONTENTS. CHAPTEE IX. PAGE 130 Don't Leave Me CHAPTEE X. 144 Number 126 CHAPTEE XI. The Truth 158 CHAPTEE XII. A Bitter Trial 172 CHAPTEE XIII. In Bohemia 186 CHAPTEE XIV. " I hate Prigs " 199 CHAPTEE XV. Life or Death 215 CHAPTEE XVI. The Sacrifice 229 CHAPTEE XVII. Broken Chains 244 CHAPTEE XVIII. A Woman's Vengeance 259 CHAPTEE XIX. Only a Face 274

CHAPTER XX.

Passing through Fire

Chapter I. In Terrorem

Madame de Coulon, for the short time she is in London, has taken a snite of rooms at Claridge's, and there, accompanied only by a confidential maid and an old Russian man servant who seems devoted to her, she appears to be thoroughly enjoying London fashionable life. Like Prince Sergius, she speaks English fluently, to the intense surprise of all those whom she informs that she has never been in England before ! That she will repeat the visit there seems to be little doubt, that is, if admiration and adulation are as pleasing to vol. 11. B Berthe de Coulon as they are to most women. Not but what she is thoroughly accustomed to them, only London is a novel hunting ground, and she delights in " fresh woods and pastures new." She glories moreover in the fact that she has made a thorough conquest of Ferdinand Stan hope.

Prince Sergius, when he invited her over to play hostess for him at his fete, had bidden her for his sake to make as good an impression as possible on the Stanhopes. The mode, however, in which that impression should be made, and the member of the family selected for it, are not exactly what Sergius Lenskoff intended. While she sits in a pretty morning neglige, sipping chocolate, about twelve o'clock, on tlie day after the fete, she is reading a letter that has been brought in on the tray with others. " It is from Prince Sergius himself; must have been written before he went to bed," she observed to herself as she opened it. Ay, written in the flush of some annoyance with Berthe, whom he was almost sorry he IN TERROREM. had not left in Paris, so different a part was she playing to that which he had intended for her.

" Irene jealous ! Lady Fedora inclined to regard her as an intrigante, who would lure her troublesome younger son into an even greater amount of mischief than that in which he was already involved ! Ferdinand himself madly in love ! " This was scarcely the mode in which Prince Sergius intended Berthe to make herself agreeable to the Stanhopes, and so he told her in absolutely fierce language — so fierce that she tossed the letter from her with irritation, and exclaimed : — " I will not be tutored by Prince Sergius ; were it not for this young Englishman, who pleases me, I would return to Paris to-day. Tiens, if I could persuade the young savage to go with me ! I cannot see either what Ser gius wants me to do. Why should I have a magic influence over these Stanhopes, so as to enable him to marry that white-faced Irene ?

I suppose I ought to have devoted myself to the two elders, and bewitched them as I know I can " (with a glance at a mirror) " then I should have been sent as ambassadress to demand Mademoiselle Irene's hand for the Prince. Pah ! Well, I preferred ce beau Ferdinand ; and the mother thinks me an intrigante ; I wonder what the father thinks. Ser gius does not mention him — he only looked at me — I will give him a chance of saying a few words when next we meet." She took up the next missive. " To-day, at five, Lady Fedora Stanhope at home." "Generous-minded woman, who can open her door to an intrigante ! Only intrigantes, I suppose, who come in the train of a prince. Madame, have no doubt on the subject ; I will make you pay for that observation. I wonder why Sergius told me ; it was with an intention; he never acts without.

Intrigante, indeed ! next perhaps she will say that I, the daughter of a Russian noble, am also an adventuress. I will teach her to beware. Intrigante ! an intrigante can work much misery, my Lady Fedora." IN TERR0REM. At last the chocolate was drunk, and the subject having been mentally discussed with more persistence than feather-brained Berthe de Coulon usually bestowed on any one thing, she rang the bell for her confidential abigail, who was French. " I want the most becoming toilette I possess. I am going to an apres-midi, un the — as they call it in this country — at the house of some great English people." "The blue satin embroidered in pearls is charming, madame." " Absurd, Denise ; you are mad. Sim plicity suits English taste best — my pink cotton, with the tiny straw bonnet, trimmed with rose-buds."

" Mais, madame, c'est une toilette de cam pagne." " Then they can't say it is une toilette d'intrigante" she answered, laughing; "go quickly and get it ready." Denise understood nothing about the " intrigante " joke, but went off with many an ah ! and oh ! to do her mistress's bidding. And very sweet and captivating Berthe de Coulon looked in her simple, but exquisitely made, little cotton dress, and most gracefully did she accept the hommage she received when she appeared in the Eaton-square drawing-room. It was not very full of guests, the party being an impromptu one, and composed chiefly of people whom Lady Fedora had invited verbally at Prince Sergius' fete, to which she intended it to be a sort of sequel. The Prince had already arrived when Madame de Coulon entered, and he was bending over the now radiant Irene in tender and earnest conversation.

Irene rose, however, when she saw Madame de Coulon, and came towards her with extended hands. "Hem! The Prince and mademoiselle understand each other," decided the widow, " or she would not be so civil to me, for I see she does not like me." And she was right. Irene's reception was almost too cordial to be genuine, and the expression of her face almost told the fearful effort she was making. IN TERR0REM. " Pauvre petite, this is by no means the last time you will be compelled to appear what you are not; c'est a dire, if you marry our Russian bear," thought Berthe to herself, as she talked gay platitudes to Irene and looked searchingly round the room for Ferdinand, who was not there. " Ordered to stay away," she decided, " lest I should throw the mantle of my charms more completely over him.

No use, papa and mamma Stanhope ; those things never are. If I mean to have Ferdinand for a slave, I'll have him, never fear, whatever you may do to prevent it. Ah, there is M. Stanhope glaring at me, as if he thought my beauty eclipsed his daughter's. Good peres de famille these English, so I have always heard. He is coming across the room to see more closely whether I am really as dreadful as I am painted. An intrigante! perhaps he never saw one before." When Henry Stanhope came up, Irene introduced him to the widow, and then moved away to converse with some guests who had just arrived. Henry Stanhope's manner when he addressed Madame de Coulon was almost tender; it would have suprised her had she known how stern he usually was, but she was too much accustomed to empressement and ten derness from men to regard it as anything unusual.

Ferdinand was not there ; why not captivate the father? It would be a step gained, she thought, and amuse her not a little to find out what our English peres de famille were really like. So she put on the most innocent of manners, to match her toilette, as she herself would have said, and looked up into his face with a baby smile, all dimples and innocence. " I am so glad to have an opportunity of talking to you," she said; "Prince Sergius tells me you have been in Russia. Any link between me and my country, now that I am among strangers, is most precious." "You surely never feel that you are in a strange land," said Mr. Stanhope, gallantly. " And why not, pray ? " "Beauty finds slaves in every land." "Pooh, nonsense — don't let us talk about my beauty which does not exist, but about Russia, and what you saw and did there."

"It is long ago since I was in Russia ; you could not have been born." " Oh, I am older than you think — a widow, you know." "Yes," he said casually, "the name is French." " My poor husband was French. My father and I lived in Paris for a long while after he lost his second wife — my step-mother. Un fortunate, was he not? My mother died when I was born, and then, when I was about five he married again, and his second wife died in two years. He hated Petersburg after that, so we came to Paris, and never went back to Russia any more. I wonder if you knew my father ? He was Baron Kelpi, a first cousin to Prince Sergius. He left me under the Prince's care when he died, and a tolerably troublesome ward I have turned out. But, good gracious! you look quite ill. What is the matter ? " " Nothing, nothing ; I am subject to mo ments of faintness.

Of course I knew Baron Kelpi." " I thought you did. Prince Sergius knows you so well that I felt sure you must know my father. I have a sort of idea too that I have heard him speak of you." " No, no, I do not think so. We were not latterly on the best of terms." " Gracious ! fancy any one quarrelling with my father ; he was so good and gentle — not a bit like Prince Sergius. You will quarrel with me next, because I am his daughter." " Impossible," answered Mr. Stanhope, struggling back to his wonted courteous manner with ladies; and, as if wanting to get away from any allusion to his acquaintance with Baron Kelpi, he added, "I knew your mother well." " Ah ! I don't remember her one bit. My only recollection is of my step-mother. Did you know her ? " The same white look came over Mr. Stan hope's face, that it had assumed when the Baron Kelpi was mentioned, and he said hur riedly — "I think not.

I do not know who she was." "Desidera Blanchi," she answered; "she was very beautiful, not a happy woman though; she had a history, but I never found out the details of it till after her death." " Ah! you discovered the details, were they interesting ?" " As a book," she answered almost briskly ; shall I tell them to you ? " He nodded his head in acquiescence, as though scarcely capable of speaking, while the sort of fascination Madame de Coulon seemed to exercise over him prevented him from leaving her or cutting short a subject which was very painful ; perhaps, too, he really wanted to know these details as she could supply them. " Well, it seems that my father was not her first husband, though he himself did not know this till she was on her death-bed. She had married secretly a young Englishman, who had left her a few months after their marriage, gone back to his own country to settle some business matters, and there had died ; and she would have died too, only Prince Sergius was very good to her, and sent her away to some poor relations of his where her baby boy was born, and kept her secret, for it seems that General Blanchi was a fearfully rigid man and would have killed her if he had found out about this secret marriage, and since the Englishman was dead it was no use telling him, was it ?

" "No, certainly not. What was the English man's name?" " Captain Henry, I believe ; did you know him?" " Who — I — why should I know him ? " " Oh, only because you seem to know a good many people." " I belonged to the diplomatic service and was only in Russia for awhile." "Yes, so Prince Sergius has told me." There was a short pause. " And the offspring of this secret marriage— your half-brother, you know, what has become of him ? " " Oh, he's alive, I believe, in some trade. I never saw him in my life ; but Prince Sergius can tell you all about him. He is just looking this way, let us ask him at once." " No, no — he is going to take Lady Castle ton down to tea, another time will be better. Allow me to follow his example and get you some tea." She shook her head. "That is an English custom I shall never fall into — tea ! mon Dieu.

What does one want with tea at this hour ? " Madame de Coulon's affected disapproval of English tea-drinking habits was however scarcely due to a real righteous horror of the custom ; but to the fact that Ferdinand at that moment made his appearance at the door, and that she was consequently most anxious to get rid of the father that she might make way for the son. Nor was Henry Stanhope loth to be sent away. The purgatory he had undergone during the last few minutes was almost more than he could endure, and no sooner had he left Madame de Coulon, saying her prettiest bonjour to Ferdinand, than he escaped down stairs into his own study, of which he locked the door. The chalice of misery which his past sin — for years he had called it weakness — had brought to him, was full almost to the brim.

Had he the courage to drink it or — and he unlocked a case containing a pair of pistols and looked at them. No use to deceive him self now with the fallacy that it was all Sergius Lenskoff's fault — that he had induced and tempted him to act as he had done. He must stand or fall by his own acts. Besides, was not Sergius Lenskoff the very man who was hold ing the poisoned chalice to his lips ? And for what purpose ? For that the Russian had a purpose in bringing Berthe de Coulon to London Henry Stanhope did not doubt for a single moment. "Was it not to tell him that the boy — Desidera Blanchi's boy— was alive, and thus hold a sword over his head with which to enforce his consent to a marriage between this Russian noble and his sweet, well-loved Irene." Ay, there he sat for awhile, the open pistol case before him, the sound of many footsteps and joyous voices passing and repassing his very door.

His eye fell on a large photograph of Lady Fedora, smiling benignly upon him from the mantelshelf. He got up and walked towards it. No, he had never wronged her except in as far as Geoffrey was concerned. Desidera Blanchi, his rightful Russian wife, was dead before he married Lady Fedora Grey ; but he had never dared tell her aught about the early secret marriage, or the birth of the son whom with his mother he had deserted. Could he bear the reproach Lady Fedora's usually trust ful eyes would cast on him when she learnt how utterly undeserving of all love and confi dence he had rendered himself by his miserable, contemptible past ? No, he could never endure Lady Fedora's censure ; he must do one of two things, he must either put himself out of the way of hearing any answers that might be given to questions asked, or he must silence the one only living man who could tell that tale of bygone weakness and dishonour — silence him by giving him Irene's hand.

It was an awful price when taken into considera tion with the fact that as a perpetrator of dark deeds Henry Stanhope knew that Sergius Len skoff had been a worthy associate. Yet he had made a good husband to Lady Fedora, and why should not Prince Sergius do the same to Irene ? Besides, was he justified in crushing his family by adding self-murder to his former crime ? Or still farther, was he justified in robbing Geoffrey of the birthright to which he believed himself to be entitled, and bringing forward this Russian mechanic, who knew of no missed birthright since he had never heard the name of Stanhope in his life? With such specious reasoning as this did Henry Stanhope seek to quiet his conscience, till at last he closed the pistol-case and pushed it away under a cabinet out of sight. Then he sat down before his writing-table and wrote a few lines to Sergius Lenskoff, asking him to dinner at his club, on the following evening.

It was a genial letter ; such as he used to write Prince Sergius, in the old days when he leaned on, rather than feared him, and it was the first friendly advance he had made him since he came to London. Even while he was writing he could hear the Prince's voice at the very door of his study, talking to Madame de Coulon, whom he was offering to drive home. But Henry Stanhope felt he could face no more people that day ; he must quiet his shat tered nerves before he took another step on the road of deception he still elected to follow. c VOL.

Chapter II. Reading The Will

If Simon Knight had been a man in an elevated position and a millionaire, there could scarcely have been more interest about the opening of his will than was shown by those people about Wandsworth who happened to be acquainted with him, Mrs. Knight and Phyllis excepted ; and yet naturally they should have been the most interested. It was not that outsiders expected any legacies from the Wandsworth builder ; only curiosity was aroused by a sort of impression that existed to the effect that Simon Knight's will was an unusual one ; and that if, as report said, he had been started at Wandsworth by Mr. Stanhope, likely enough all the money would now go back to the Stan hopes, and perhaps his widow and daughter would be mere paupers. The arrival of Mr. Stanhope on the day of Simon's death had somewhat increased this view, which became to most people an absolute certainty, when it was hinted that he intended to be present when the document was read.

It was on this account, probably, that Geoffrey was absent. The little party, assembled in the room where the lawyer sat with the important parch ment on the table before him, consisted only of Mr. Stanhope, the widow and child of the deceased, Tom Chilton, and Greaves, the foreman, who did not expect to be wholly forgotten. To a physiognomist Henry Stanhope's face was a study. " Did he fear lest his money should not be restored to him, or why that anxious, troubled look ? Surely if it was his own he could claim it without wanting any will to be drawn up in his favour." So thought Tom Chilton, who, only there as a friend of the family, and looking for nothing himself, devoted all his attention to the perusal of Mr. Stanhope's face. He little guessed that it was the fear lest a reason should be given for money having been advanced that was troubling Mr. Stanhope so deeply.

At last Mr. Pettigrew, the solictor, having adjusted his spectacles and cleared his throat, the reading began. People were right when they looked for an unexpected will ; but no one had in the very least hit on the exact arrangements that Simon Knight wished to have carried out. There was no mention in it from first to last of Henry Stanhope, nor of the source, as far as the Wandsworth business was concerned, whence Simon Knight's money had been derived, the whole of which he left absolutely to his daughter, Phyllis, with the understand ing that, having a head on her shoulders, she would carry on the business and strive to double the money he left her at his death. If she were unmarried at the time, she was not to marry for two years or she would forfeit every penny, which would, in that case, go to a distant cousin of Simon Knight, of whom no one there assembled had ever heard before.

A breathlessness fell on the whole party while the proviso was being read, and they waited in some suspense for the naming of the sum of money left to provide for the now somewhat ailing Hannah, who had been a true and loving wife to her quarrelsome and overbearing spouse. But not in any way was she mentioned — even as though she had never existed had he left her out. Not exactly out of unkindness, if the truth be told, but because Simon Knight never for a moment expected Hannah to survive him, and his sole care was to arrange for the future of the business which had been nearer to him than kith or kin. He believed in Phyllis' practical habits and natural acumen, and he would confide the business to her care, being unmarried. If she married he would re-frame his will ; and that he would have done so at once on the discovery of her engagement to Geoffrey Stanhope there is little doubt, had not a sterner decree than he could control summoned him to obedience.

Greaves — yes, Greaves was not wholly dis appointed; his was the only legacy, "a hun dred pounds to Abel Greaves — fifty for faithful service in the past, and fifty as prepayment for good work to be done for Phyllis Knight in the future." This was the only actual sum mentioned ; all, in one sweeping monosyllable, was to go to Phyllis ; but till day-books were gone into, and ledgers totted up, no one could exactly tell what that all conveyed. Mr. Pettigrew had laid the document once more on the table, and had taken off his spec tacles, replaced them in their case, and put the case in his pocket : still, not one word had been uttered in the room. Phyllis had risen from her seat, and kneeling beside her mother, her head buried in her lap, was sobbing con vulsively, while poor, fragile-looking Mrs. Knight, with a sort of dazed expression on her face, down which the tears were slowly trickling, was softly stroking with one hand the girl's thick curling hair.

Mr. Stanhope was the first to speak ; he tried to raise Phyllis from her crouching posi tion and bade her not cry, or she would make herself quite ill. Relief seemed to have come to Henry Stanhope by the reading of that will. Strange, too, since he had not been mentioned in any way. He looked a brisker and younger man than he had looked when he entered the room. In an unusual course, the individual who had obtained the most was the most indig nant. "It is a shame, a crying, burning shame," exclaimed Phyllis, rising to her feet, and pushing her hair back off her weeping face ; " such a good, kind wife and mother as she has always been; but never mind, darling," and she took the thin white hand between her strong brown fingers, "it is only on trust for you that I shall keep to the letter of that unjust will ; you shall have every luxury, every penny that you can possibly want out of the concern.

Keep heart, my own mother. Father must have known how to trust me when he left you to my care ; but he shouldn't have risked it, all the same." A murmur of applause fell from the lips of every one present when they heard Phyllis' words. Only Mrs. Knight's lips were still pinched and white ; she could not accept the situation as readily as Phyllis would have wished. Poor body, how could . she be expected to do so ? She murmured something about "charity, and not troubling anyone long," which almost angered her daughter, who, strong in her resolve that life, if she could make it so, should be a bed of roses for the mother she loved, was scarcely pleased at finding her intention of more than making up for her father's remissness met by a sort of unbeliev ing coldness. "You have no right to talk so," she said, turning shortly on Mrs. Knight ; " have I ever led you to think you trouble me ?

" " No, child, no. You have been aye good. I scarce know what I should have done without you ; but all this is a heavy trial, and him that's gone seems to have laid a doubt on me, as if I was a worthless woman." These words stirred Phyllis once more to the depths of her warm heart. " You are the best and purest. Mr. Stan hope and Lady Fedora can vouch for that ; " and Phyllis' arm was round her mother's fragile frame, while Henry Stanhope came forward to say his well-turned phrase of con dolence, and assure Mrs. Knight that no one could possibly blame her for this glaring omission of Simon's. Mr. Stanhope, however, seemed so well pleased at the omission of his own name from the will that he scarcely sympathised con amore with Mrs. Knight, but very soon after took his leave, promising to send Irene over in the carriage to give the needful com fort to her old nurse, in affording which he felt that he had utterly failed.

Mr. Stanhope gone, and Greaves having returned to the yard to begin, as he expressed it, a period of faithful service to Miss Phyllis, Mrs. Knight sat on in her arm-chair very silently, with wide-open eyes, as though she were looking into space for counsel, and Phyllis was left to a practical conversation with Tom Chilton and Mr. Petti grew. And very practical and determined she looked, very unlike the haunted nightmare dreaming Phyllis who had talked horrors with Geoffrey on the morning of her father's death. And yet it was scarcely a week ago ; what had changed her ? Circumstance — which has a potent influence in changing most of us. For the last week she had been in authority, giving orders, and seeing that work was pro perly done, after a fashion that had not a little astonished those who had witnessed how utterly crushed she had been at first by the suddenness of her father's death.

The fact was that Phyllis, through the kitchen window, had seen that meeting between the two Stanhopes and Tom Chilton in the yard. She had heard no spoken word, but she had drawn her own deductions, and these deduc tions changed her as no persuasion, no hints, would ever have done. Simon Knight was right ; he knew Phyllis to be a young person who could see clearly and would act straightforwardly according to the wisdom bestowed on her. What she saw in the yard was that Tom Chilton was preparing to assume the position of master, and was under the impression that neither Mrs. Knight nor herself would be able to do without him. That he had been kind, most useful and kind, during the ter rible and trying time they had gone through, she readily acknowledged to herself; but he must not be allowed to get the thin end of the wedge in too far, decided practical Phyllis.

There could not be two masters in that yard, and unless the business was sold, as Geoffrey had suggested, she would, with Greaves' counsel, manage it herself. Nothing, she fancied, would have given her father greater pleasure than to know that she was carrying it on. She owed him a reparation ; that reparation should be — work. Before the two Stanhopes — father and son — had strolled away again, Geoffrey not venturing to irritate his father by returning to the house, but only looking and kissing his hand to her in fare well, she had come to a decision. When Tom Chilton returned it was shining in her eyes, but she did not tell him or any one what she had decided, only, when he was not standing by, she bade Greaves take orders from her till affairs were settled, and said she would keep the order-book and accounts, as she had done once before when her father was ill.

Greaves was nothing loth, he had no love for Tom Chilton or any intruder ; so business, what little business there was while Simon Knight lay unburied, drifted into Phyllis' hands; and now that the will was read, and she was left sole mistress, she felt how right she had been in taking her place at once. Mr. Pettigrew, who had drawn up the will, had more than once tried to dissuade Simon Knight from making it ; he did not believe in giving power to women, and how could any girl carry on such a business as that, it was absurd to expect such a thing ! Before he had left the brick-house at Wandsworth, he was, however, beginning to change his opinion. There was a practical knowledge of working matters and reliance on her own judgment about Phyllis, which he had never thought to find in any woman, least of all in a beauty.