A Man's Privilege

Front matter

ARABELLA KENEALY'S NOVELS SOME MEN ARE SUCH GENTLEMEN Crown Svo, doth, 6s. Fifth Edition. Academy— 'We take up a book by Miss Arabella Kenealy confidently expect ing to be amused, and in her latest work we are not disappointed. The story is so brightly written that our interest is never allowed to flag. The heroine, Lois Clinton, is sweet and womanly. . . . The tale is told with spirit and vivacity, and shows no little skill in its descriptive passages.' Pall Mall Gazette— A book to be read breathlessly from beginning to end. It is decidedly original ... its vivid interest. The picture of the girl is admir ably drawn. The style is bright and easy.' Literary World — ' A really good story, original, well written and strong. A really excellent and engaging story. The materials are rare, and, we must admit, ideal . . . can be read with interest and enjoyment.' Daily Chronicle — ' Miss Kenealy has original ideas, a nice faculty of literary expression. . . .

Her description of the old house where dwelt her strange young heroine, is quite admirable. . . . There is a quaintness and an air of romance about the whole story, which are very pleasant to note and to remember.' Truth — ' Its heroine is at once original and charming.' DR JANET OF HARLEY STREET Crown Svo, cloth, 2s. 6d. Picture Boards, 2s. This Book ran through Six Editions in the Six Shilling form. Daily Chronicle — ' It is a clever book, and well worth reading ; it can outstrip the ordinary novel by many knots per day (to pursue the metaphor), and it may make one or two people think who are unaccustomed to that exercise. Miss Kenealy has imagined an interesting character, and realised her vividly.' Pall Mall Gazette — 'In "Dr Janet of Harley Street," Dr Arabella Kenealy has shown that the art of writing lively fiction is not the least of her many accom plishments.

Moreover, she has achieved the rare distinction of producing a novel which is didactic and not dull Miss Kenealy has a quick sense of humour, and a lively faculty of observation, and her style is vivid and effective.' THE HONOURABLE MRS SPOOR Crown Svo, cloth, 6s. Fourth Edition. Black and White—1 Her latest novel has advanced her to the front rank of lady novelists.' The Daily Chronicle— ■' A clever story. The most powerful piece of work that Miss Kenealy has done," The Pall Mall Gazette— 'This powerful story . . . brilliantly achieved. Her style is, as always, graceful and easy, and her character sketches are excellent and humorous-' DI&BY, LONG- & CO., Publishers, London. AMA N'S PRIVILEGE DIGBY'S POPULAR NOVEL SERIES Crown 8vo, Jiandsome cloth, price 25. 6d. per Vol. Each Book contains about 320 pp., and is printed on superior paper from new type- Those marked * may be had in Picture Boards at 2s. THE BEAUTIFUL SOUL.

Chapter I Waiting For News

One dreary November day, while the drifting rain beat on the window panes and swept along the dismal streets, two young men were waiting somewhat impatiently in the library ofa handsome but sombre-looking house in Grosvenor Place. They were not smoking ; they had seemingly nothing to do, except to stare at the drenched passers-by outside, and occasionally stir the blazing fire. They were very silent too, though both were probably thinking of the same thing ; but it was a subject which neither cared particularly to discuss. Presently the door opened, and a girl came in — a striking looking girl — and both glanced quickly at her face as she entered. ' Well, how is he now ? ' said one of them — George Her bert — looking at her inquiringly. 'There is no change,' answered the girl in a low voice; ' I have just seen Florence.' ' And Florence ? ' continued George Herbert. ' She looks awfully knocked up ; she says it is so terrible to see him suffer — poor man, I wish it was all over.' Neither of the young men made any answer to this speech.

It was their uncle, Mr Dane, of whom the girl spoke; their wealthy uncle, who was supposed to be dying, and in whose house for the last year they had chiefly lived. His niece, Florence Dane, also lived with him, and as he himself was A childless, these two nephews — George Herbert and Stephen Wilde — were supposed to be his heirs. But he was a re served and peculiar man, and had said very little of his future intentions. Suddenly, however — in the chill November weather — he was attacked by inflammation of the lungs, and after a brief illness the doctors declared he was sinking. He had not asked to see either of his nephews since his attack, but seemed pleased that his niece, Florence, should be near him. She was with him during the whole of the dreary November day which was fated to be his last; with him when her cousins were waiting downstairs ; when the shadow of death lay over the rich man's household.

He knew of the approaching change, and in his silent and reserved way had long prepared for it. He was a man also of keen observation, and had noted things around him that probably no one ever suspected he had done. And as the dreary hours wore on, and the twilight gathered round his bed, he beckoned to his niece to approach nearer to him. _ ' Florence,' he said slowly, amid the painful gasps of his disease, ' I — know you have chosen wisely — George Herbert is the best.' ' Oh ! uncle ! ' she answered, deeply moved, and took his hand. She was handsome, this Florence Dane, tall, stately and noble-looking, and the expression of her face was singularly fine. It was so perfectly honest ; it seemed almost im possible that an untrue word should stain her lips. She was the daughter of a clergyman— Mr Dane's younger brother— who had died early, and left a poor widow and only child.

Then, in a few years, the mother died also, and Florence, when she was fifteen, had gone to live with her rich uncle. It was a great change, but it is very much easier to go up in the world than to come down. She soon got used to a large household, and to having plenty of money at her command. Mr Dane was a wealthy London merchant, and he spared nothing in the education of his young niece. Florence went to classes, and had masters, and at one of these classes she met and made the acquaint ance of another young girl, who was fated afterwards to be intimately connected with her future life. This was Nora Ford, who had been born with a brand WAITING FOR NEWS 3 upon her life. She neither bore her father's nor her mother's name, and had been brought up at a school, with the knowledge that when she was old enough she was ex pected to earn her own bread.

These things got whispered about, and her unfortunate and lonely position came to the ears of Florence Dane. It was this which first attracted the generous heart of the supposed rich girl to the poor and slighted one. Florence took a sort of fancy to Nora Ford ; admiring her undoubted beauty, though it was a beauty which a keen physiognomist would have viewed with doubtful eyes. It ended in Florence asking her uncle's leave to take Nora Ford to live with her as a companion, and after some hesitation Mr Dane gave his consent. They were both nearly twenty when Nora exchanged the hard school life that she had been reared in — where she was expected to teach the younger girls what she herself had been taught — for the luxurious one under Mr Dane's roof. Florence treated her from the first with every kindness and consideration, and the two became fast friends.

Mr Dane, however, would not allow her to accompany himself and Florence when they visited their friends. 'My dear, it would only place her in a false position,' he told his niece ; and Florence was conscious, from a hint or two which she had received, that this would be the case. One of these hints was given her by Stephen Wilde, one of Mr Dane's nephews. Stephen Wilde was a barrister, a journalist, and man of the world, and he did not, or pre tended he did not, approve of this handsome addition to his rich uncle's household. ' My dear Flo,' he said, when he was told of it, ' do you think it a very wise thing to take a girl like that into the house ? ' 'I like her, and I pity her,' answered Florence, with kindling eyes. 'Liking and pitying are all very well in their way,' an swered Mr Wilde, smiling, ' but the rich City folk won't care for a nameless, good-looking girl to be introduced to their sons and heirs.

There will be the devil to pay.' Stephen Wilde was a tall, good-looking man of some thirty years when he gave this piece of advice to his young cousin, and it was not without influence on Florence. It made her, perhaps, kinder than ever to Nora Ford, but she began to understand what her uncle and cousin meant. It might only hurt the poor girl, whom she had befriended, to force her on the society of people who despised her. Nora, too, was perhaps conscious of this, and at times her words were bitter and hard. 'It's a just world, truly!' she said one day, passionately and scornfully, when suffering from some slight. ' What have I done ? Yet you see everyone looks upon me as a leper.' ' Oh, no, no, dear Nora ! ' answered Florence, with quick feeling, ' you know I love you — that nothing can make any difference to me.' ' That's because you are one in a thousand,' said Nora, still bitterly. ' Look at that woman who has just gone out, tossing her head at me.

Do you think, if we could look straight into her life, it would be all of snow ? No, my dear, but she wears the outward garb of a virtuous British matron, and so can afford to sneer at a poor, nameless waif.' The speaker of these words was a somewhat remarkable looking young woman, whose golden hair— the true Venetian gold — added not a little to her attractions. But it was by no means a perfect face, though the complexion was fresh and delicate, and the brown eyes sine. It was the lower part that to a certain extent destroyed its beauty — the heavy jaws, the coarse, red lips. Still, Nora Ford was handsome, and her form full of a subtle womanly grace. Men as a rule admired her, if women did not, and among her other charms was a clear, ringing voice of singular sweetness and power. She had been an inmate of Mr Dane's house nearly a year when George Herbert —his other nephew — appeared on the scene.

George Herbert's father had held a Civil appointment out in India, and had married Mr Dane's younger sister, while Stephen Wilde's father had married his elder one. On the death of his father, George came to England, and naturally frequented his uncle's house. He began also to study for the Bar, as his private fortune was of a very meagre description. Mr Dane received him kindly, and made him welcome whenever he choose to go to Grosvenor Place. The two girls also made him welcome, for George WAITING FOR NEWS 5 Herbert was good-looking, like his cousin, Stephen Wilde, but good-looking in a very different way. The two young men were, however, apparently very good friends. If Stephen Wilde did not quite approve of another nephew being admitted to terms of intimacy in his uncle's house, he was too much a man of the world to show this.

At first he was inclined somewhat to patronise the Anglo- Indian, but George Herbert soon showed he was not easily led. ' They are both, I suppose, rather handsome young men,' one day Nora Ford said to Florence Dane, shortly after George's arrival. ' But which do you think the best looking, Flo?' Florence slightly coloured at this direct question. ' I think George has the best face,' she answered. 'So do I ; the best features, and the best expression. Mr Wilde is, of course, very agreeable.' 'When he chooses,' said Florence, with a bright little laugh, and the other girl laughed also. Thus things went on apparently very smoothly under Mr Dane's roof, but there are always undercurrents, deep and strong, in the sea of life. Stephen Wilde secretly ad mired Nora Ford more than his cousin Florence, but he did not wish his cousin Florence to see this.

Nora's beauty — the strong, hidden fires of her nature — had more affinity to his own than the simple nobility of Florence's heart. ' She's a dear, good girl,' he told himself; but the other — ' and then he would pause and smile. He took very good care, however, to be on the best of terms with ' the dear, good girl.' He was a man who had debts and troubles of his own, and he had a shrewd guess that a good portion of his uncle's wealth would be left to his favourite niece. He had seen the old man's eyes soften as they rested on Florence's fine face, in a way that they never did when they looked at him. He expected, and fully believed, that his uncle would leave him money, but he was almost sure that Florence would inherit a fortune. He was ' biding his time,' and meant to guide his actions by events ; but in the serious considerations of his future which he sometimes indulged in, Nora Ford did not enter.

Then came Mr Dane's sudden illness, and his relations realised what this meant to them. It was on the third and last day of it that the two young men were waiting in the library at Grosvenor Place, when Nora Ford went down to them, and after George Herbert had inquired for Florence, he walked restlessly to the window, and looked at the drifting rain. ' I think I'll go out for a bit,' he said presently ; ' if he's just the same, it's no good staying on here.' 'But it's such a beastly day,' answered Stephen Wilde, who had thrown himself back into an easy-chair by the fire, and was stretching out his long legs to its warmth, and looking lazily at Nora's fine figure, who was standing on the rug. 'Still it's something to do— I will go,' said George, pre paring to leave the room. 'You'll be back by dinner-time, I suppose, Mr Herbert?' suggested Nora. ' 1 don't know — if he's so very ill — ' hesitated George Herbert. ' But, my dear fellow, we still must dine,' said Stephen Wilde, now addressing his cousin. 'I'll look in later,' replied GeDrge, and quitted the room, and as the door closed behind him the two left glanced at each other. ' How do you really think he is, Nora ? ' asked Wilde, bending forward towards her. 'I think he is dying,' answered Nora. 'I am sure I wish he would be in a hurry about it, then,' continued Wilde. 'You should not say that; your cousin, Mr Herbert, would not say it.' 'Bat think it all the same, Miss Nora!

My cousin, Mr Herbert, as you call him, is a prig, and I am not.' ' I do not tnink he is a prig.' 'Well, define what a prig m;ans, then, my young lady. As I take it, it's a fellow tuat pretends to be better than he is; who uses a little outward starch for the purposes of deception. Wnat do you say ? ' I know nothing about it.' ' Oh ! yes you do, Nora ; but shall I tell you one thing that I know which is no deception ? and that is that you get handsomer every day, at least in my eyes ! What do you think of that, Miss Nora ? ' WAITING FOR NEWS 7 ' I think it's a silly compliment.' ' It's not a compliment, my dear girl, but the truth,' and he caught her hand as he spoke. 'What splendid hair you have ! With the firelight on it, it's just like real gold.' ' If it were real gold it would be more precious,' answered Nora Ford, smiling coquettishly. ' You men think more of gold than of all earthly things.' ' By Jove, I don't ! ' said Wilde, starting to his feet. ' Nora, you are a little witch ! ' ' I must get a cauldron and dance round it, then, and mix all sorts of wicked herbs in it.

Then I'll give you a potion, and perhaps you'll turn out — good ! ' Wilde laughed aloud. ' Perhaps,' he said ; ' but, Nora, I don't think you'll make me good ! '

Chapter II

A STRANGE WOMAN While Stephen Wilde and Nora Ford were talking non sense, George Herbert was breasting with the rain and the wind outside. He was in a very restless mood, the mood of a man strug gling to hide strong feelings beneath a calm exterior. For he too believed — as Stephen Wilde did — that his dying uncle was sure to leave Florence Dane a fortune. 'And that will end it,' he thought, bitterly enough. He meant it would end his hopes of winning his cousin's love. How could he, a poor man, he told himself, go wooing a rich girl ? He had learnt to care for Florence, truly, almost before — indeed before — he realised that he had given her his heart. But he knew this now : knew that she was something to him that no woman had ever been before. That her presence filled him with a vague joy, and her absence with a vague pain.

And before this sudden illness of his uncle's he had had his ambitious dreams of fame and hope. He might win a name, and of this, at least, there was some possibility. For he was clever, this brown-skinned, grey-eyed Anglo- Indian, with the sharply-cut features, that both the girls at Grosvenor Place secretly admired. He was also resolute and determined, and no mere pleasure-lover like his cousin, Stephen Wilde. Stephen, indeed, worked well and hard at times, but it was not for the love of it. George Herbert, on the contrary, meant to rise in life, and he knew there is but one way. ' I'll fight up step by step,' he told himself, and he also s hoped that his uncle would leave him money enough to help him on the road. Thinking of these things, he went on in the drifting storm. He turned into the almost deserted Park, the dismal weather not being unsuited to his restless mood.

And as he went along the wet footpath he noticed the drenched figure of a woman crouching down on a seat beneath one of the leafless and wind-tossed trees. There was something in her attitude — a listless hopeless ness — that attracted his attention. He turned his head ; he looked at the forlorn figure again, but the woman never moved. The rain was beating on her white, almost grey tinted face, and thinking she must be ill, after a brief hesitation, George Herbert left the footpath, and crossing the wet grass approached where the woman was sitting. She never raised her head at the sound of his footsteps. But when he spoke to her she turned a pair of pathetic, blue eyes in his direction, and looked at him with a blank stare. ' I fear you are ill ? ' repeated George Herbert, noting that the woman's face had once been pretty, and the features fine.

Still she did not answer. She seemed half-stupefied, and Herbert could not make out what was the matter with her. ' Why do you sit here in this drenching rain ? ' he next asked, and as he spoke she moved her hand languidly. ' It's no matter — the rain,' she said slowly. ' But it is matter ; you will be bringing on inflammation of the lungs or something, getting wet through as you are. Do you want any help, or what is the matter with you ? ' The woman gave a strange, weird, little laugh. ' Nothing is any matter to me now,' she half murmured. ' Do not talk thus,' said George Herbert. ' If you want any help, let me give you some ; but for goodness' sake don't stay out in this rain — a delicate woman like you.' Again the woman gave a little ghastly laugh. ' You are a strange man,' she said. ' Why strange ? ' asked Herbert, who was becoming in terested. 'To step out of your way to inquire if you can help a miserable creature like me.

But it's too late, sir, though thank you all the same.' ' It's not too late,' said Herbert, putting his hand into his pocket and drawing out some silver. ' Here, take this, and get under shelter, at least.' But the woman only shook her head, and did not put out her hand to take the money. ' It would do me no good, sir,' she said ; ' I have taken poison ; I am waiting here to die.' ' Good God ! ' exclaimed Herbert. ' What are you saying ? Taken poison ? ' 'Yes, I was too miserable to live,' answered the woman, looking up in Herbert's face. ' I wish to die — I feel so drowsy — I — ' Her head sank a little back as she spoke, and her eyelids fell. She looked as if she were overcome by some drug, and Herbert became really alarmed. 'Rouse yourself,' he said quickly, 'and do not give way to the influence of anything you have taken.' He put his hand on her shoulder as he spoke, and shook her slightly, and again the woman listed her languid eyelids.

She tried to speak, too, but the effort seemed too much for her, and Herbert saw she was rapidly becoming uncon scious. He looked around for assistance, and by waving his handkerchief speedily attracted the attention of a police man, who presently approached the seat where the woman was. ' This woman seems very ill,' said Herbert, addressing him. ' What do you think is the matter with her ? She says she has taken poison.' The policeman bent down and smelt her breath. ' It's not drink, anyhow,' he said. ' We'd best get her to the nearest hospital at once.' He whistled for another constable a moment or two later, and after a short consultation an ambulance was sent for, though the woman tried vaguely to express that she wished to remain where she was. But whatever she had taken was fast completely overpowering her, and by the time that the ambulance arrived she appeared almost un conscious.

She was, therefore, lifted by the policemen into the ambulance and borne away to St George's Hospital. But before they started one of the policemen asked George Herbert for his name and address. 1 You see, sir,' he said ; ' she may not come round, and in that case you would have to give evidence, at the inquest, how you found her. ' Certainly,' answered George Herbert, producing his card case and giving one of his cards to the policeman. Then the poor woman was carried away, and Herbert stood still for a few moments looking after her. Somehow this chance meeting had changed the current of his thoughts. His own troubles seemed dwarfed before the overwhelming misery that had sought release in death. ' Poor soul,' he said, half aloud, and he kept wonder ing what dark tragedy had preceded this attempt on her life. ' Perhaps some love affair,' thought Herbert, and he sighed.

Then, presently, he turned his footsteps once more in the direction of Grosvenor Place, and when he rung at the hall of his uncle's house, the footman, who opened the door, had some news for him. ' Poor Mr Dane is gone, sir,' he said. ' What ! dead? ' asked Herbert, shocked and startled. ' Yes, sir, about a quarter of an hour ago ; quite sudden at the end, sir; failure of the heart's action, the doctor said.' Herbert did not speak ; he went to the hatstand and took off his wet overcoat and hat, assisted by the footman. And as he stood there, someone came running down the stairs, and when he looked round he saw it was Florence Dane. ' Florence ! ' he said, advancing to meet her, and he took her hand. ' Oh ! George,' she answered, in a low, tremulous tone, and he felt her hand flutter in his own.

He led her without another word into the breakfast-room, the door of which was standing open, and he saw by the light there that her eyes were still wet with tears. ' So my poor uncle is dead ? ' he said gently. ' Oh ! yes, George — it was so dreadful — he died so quickly — he — he spoke of you.' ' I am so sorry — ' ' He — he said,' continued Florence Dane, and then she suddenly paused, and a flush rose to her cheeks, and her eyes fell, for she was remembering her uncle's words. ' What did he say ? ' asked Herbert. She made no answer ; she stood there, agitated and con fused, and a strong, tender emotion swept through Herbert's heart as he looked at his young cousin's face. ' This has tried you very much, Florence, I fear ? ' he said. 'Yes — and, George, it seems all so strange, so strange!

Only a few days ago he was here, he was well, he was with us — and now.' ' Death is always a strange and solemn change, I think,' answered George Herbert ; ' and life is strange and solemn, too, Florence. My uncle's death, I fear, will make great changes for us all.' Florence raised her clear eyes to his face. ' You think that,' she said, half timidly. ' I fear so.' ' I do not know — I think, George, he liked you best — from something he said.' ' You mean better than Stephen Wilde ? ' ' Yes.' ' I do not know, I am sure, but I am certain he liked you best of all. ' You see I have been with him so long ; he half brought me up, you know.' ' Yes, I know ; and he was a shrewd man, Florence ; he recognised the true gold when he saw it. ' Then you must be the true gold, George,' said the girl again, looking half-tenderly, half-shyly in her cousin's face. ' I know he liked you.' At this moment, however, their conversation was inter rupted, for Nora Ford came hastily into the room. ' Oh ! you are here, Flo,' she said. ' I did not know, and John told me Mr Herbert had come in, so I came to tell him of Mr Dane's death.' 'We were just speaking of it,' answered George Herbert, gravely. ' I wonder how he has left his money ?

I wonder which of you will be rich ? ' continued Nora. ' Oh ! do not speak of such things, Nora ! ' said Florence. ' My dear, we may as well speak of it, for we are all thinking of it — oh ! how I should like to be rich ! ' Nora turned her large eyes in the direction of George Herbert as she expressed this hope, but he was not looking at her. He was looking down ; he was mentally comparing the two girls before him. ' If you are rich you have everything,' went on Nora ; ' you can buy everything. It's better than beauty, it's better than fame ! ' ' I do not think it's better than everything,' said Florence, in a low tone. ' What is equal to it, my dear ? ' answered Nora, scoffingly. 1 Not love, surely — if there is such a thing ! ' Neither Florence nor George Herbert spoke ; Nora Ford's careless words somehow jarred on both their ears. ' How grave you both look,' continued Nora, glancing from one to the other ; ' I suppose it's the proper thing to look grave to-day, but somehow I feel excited.

I feel as if something were going to happen.' ' Something has happened,' said George Herbert, seriously. ' But you look tired, Florence ; had you not better rest a little ? ' ' I do feel rather tired ; yes, I think I will go upstairs,' answered Florence, and she turned and quitted the room, but Nora did not follow her. ' I really wonder how the money is left ? ' she said again, half-impatiently. ' I really cannot tell you,' replied George Herbert. ' I expect Florence will have got a good slice ; but still, you see, you two young men were his own nephews. When will we know ? ' ' That also I cannot tell you.' ' It's so tiresome to wait, isn't it ? The lawyers will know, I suppose ? ' 'You seem greatly interested about it, Miss Ford.' ' Of course I am interested ! It may make a change to me, as well as to you.