HESTER'S HISTORY

A NOVEL

CHAPTER XII

HESTER'S CHARACTER DESCRIBED

LADY HUMPHREY'S carriage, rather dingy, though with an air of importance, was seen stopping, soon after this, before that black ancient archway in Blank Square.

Never in her life, perhaps, had this lady looked so beaming, so benevolent, so perfectly convinced of and satisfied with the generosity of the world, as in that hour which saw her present herself in the quiet reception room of the convent, to enquire for her charming Hester, and to thank that dear courteous abbess for her hospitality to the poor child.

"Ah, good madam!" she said to the Mother Augustine, while shaking her finger playfully at Hester, "how well it is for the world that such charity as yours is to be met with occasionally! When naughty girls get astray from their chaperons at balls, they do not deserve to be rewarded with such a treat as being taken into such a delightful home as this, being entertained by such a charming person as you. How shall I ever thank you enough? And your noble brother. You must please make my acknowledgments to Sir Archie Munro. I have the pleasure of knowing him slightly, through my son."

Now, behind Lady Humphrey's smiles there lurked a puzzle in her mind. Did this sister of Sir Archie, the daughter of Sir Archie's mother, recognise in her, Lady Humphrey, that Judith Blake whose young days were remembered amongst the elders of her home, who had truly not been approved in the days that were so remembered? If not, it would be well; but if luck were so far against her, then it would now be her part to remove, by appearing in a new character, whatever hostile or doubtful impressions might have laid their mark upon the mind of this good abbess.

"Such enthusiasts are apt to indulge charitable opinions," she reflected, and she set about winning the full faith of this new ally; for an ally in some shape or other Lady Humphrey had resolved that she must prove. She had once known an abbess before, but she was a homely old woman, with the poor

of a country district under her wing-as homely as a hen among her chickens. But a young abbess like this must be of the kind known in poems; where she is usually found sitting with her back to a mediaeval church window, with an unfortunate love-story in the background of her life, a crushed heart ever open to the public inspection, and with an unhesitating belief in the virtue and misfortunes of all who may draw near to hear the story of her sorrows and see her praying by moonlight.

"It should be easy to manage her," thought Lady Humphrey, but looked in vain for the seraphic although heartbroken smile, the lackadaisical self-conscious drooping of the eyelids; listened fruitlessly for the half-smothered, egotistical sigh. This was no etherealised victim of romance whom Lady Humphrey had to deal with; and indeed the graceful young woman in her black garb was so much, in very honesty, like the creature she had been born to be, to wit, the good guileless daughter of one-of two-whom Lady Humphrey could remember, that, albeit her ladyship held a stout heart within her body, she had some twitches at her conscience, some pains. about her memory, which threatened a persecution from unwholesome recollections.

It was ominous to Lady Humphrey to see Hester affect no joy at their meeting; to see her take a pale grave stand at her new friend's right elbow; to feel the confidence which already existed between these two, the conviction that her own late efforts to bind Hester to herself had failed, while a stranger had accomplished in one night and day what she could not effect through all the years that had changed a babe into a

woman.

And Lady Humphrey was now in a difficulty. She wished to appear anxious to take Hester back into her arms, and yet she hoped that the nun might assist her in getting the girl transported into Ireland. She must let this daughter of Glenluce see the uneasiness of her kind heart; how she did long to keep the girl with her, and be a mother to her, yet found herself disabled by circumstances from indulging this desire of her affection. It was impossible to do this while Hester was standing by, so quiet and resolute; so wickedly forgetful, it would appear, of all the gratitude and enthusiasm that was due from her to the benefactress of her youth. But Lady Humphrey was not to be daunted by a trifle.

"I must ask you, my love," she said, I to allow me to have a few words with this dear lady in private. You look tired, my Hester, after your raking and your fright. Go and

rest, my dear pet! You need not weary yourself with attending to a tiresome conversation."

"To the garden," said the Mother Augustine; and Hester sat under a sunny wall with ripe plums about her ears, and saw the sun set in a fierce glare behind the city spires and chimneys, and heard all the clocks, from towers and churches, dropping down their music or their clangour, many times round and round, before Lady Humphrey's lean horses took their way out of Blank Square, and the Mother Augustine might be seen coming thoughtfully along between the lavender and the rose bushes, casting about her glances, looking for some one.

But the conversation in the parlour had gone on somewhat in this way.

"You may have heard my name mentioned before, dear madam," began Lady Humphrey, cautiously, fully alive to the importance of being sure of the ground she trod, before venturing to take an excursion of any length into ways where she had cause to doubt the foundations under her feet. Had the Mother Augustine said "no," she was prepared to back from her suggestion with some graceful apology. But the nun, not having a taste for the art of dissembling, gave her a knowledge of her position on the instant.

"Yes," she said, readily, "I have heard your name before, Lady Humphrey. My brother has mentioned it to me.

And I understand, moreover, that you had some acquaintance with our family many years ago."

"It is true," said Lady Humphrey, pensively. "Ah! how pleasant it is after years have passed away to find the memories of one's youth still shared by friends, even if-as alas! has been my case-those friends have been estranged from us. I knew your father and your mother, when they and I were boy and girls. I loved them dearly, as a sister, and I received much kindness from their hands. But I was a sadly wild girl in those days, my dear madam, and it was easy for evil tongues to do me a mischief if they would. Unkindness and interference divided us, and I fear much that cruel stories, perhaps provoked by my waywardness and foolishness, must have lingered at Glenluce with the memory of my name. But ah! how the world tames one, dear madam!"

And Lady Humphrey cast her eyes upon the backs of her nice gloves, and studied them with a sorrowful little smile, as though she saw her youthful follies mirrored in the shining kid, and compassionated them out of the depths of her mind, now grown so sage, of her heart, now grown so tender.

The nun smiled in good faith and good-humour. She was

willing to believe all she could, through the charity of her desire.

"If all the world of the good were to be judged by the hastiness of youth, Lady Humphrey," she said, "I fear there would be but few to receive honour or praise. It is after the battle that the victor is crowned. No fighting, no laurels."

Lady Humphrey glanced furtively at the Mother's sweet serious face, and was satisfied that her story had been fully known, that her apology had been received. She sighed, and resumed.

"Ah, yes! there is fighting needed, as you say, and it costs care and anxiety to the friends of youth before the training can be happily accomplished. I was even wilder, I believe, and more difficult to manage than that dear girl who has just left the room. And it is about her I would take your counsel, dear madam, knowing your charitable interest in all good works and honest cares. You see me with this poor girl. She is an orphan, and has depended on me for food, and clothing, and protection, since she could speak. I have educated her well, and yet of late I have found it necessary that she should be taught some means of supporting herself. I had wished, it is true, to make her independent of such need, but that is impossible. I cannot keep her as a daughter under my own roof, and this displeases her. Her tastes, alas! are beyond her station, and I tremble to think of the dangers which surround her in this great city. She is wild, I will own to you, and frets at my control. I fear she is not grateful. I fear she is inclined to be rebellious and a little vindictive. But, ah! dear madam, I need not tell you, who know it so well, that we should not do good in this world through a seeking for gratitude. She is not a bad girl, I believe, only, as I have said, a little wilful and wild. You have an example of it before you, my dear madam, in the circumstances which have brought her under your notice. I cannot even take her out for a little amusement under my own wing without the risk of some accident like this which has happened. And consider how dreadful it would have been, what distraction I must have suffered, had she fallen into less kind hands than yours."

The nun's face had been growing gradually very grave indeed as this recital went on.

"I am sorry to hear this of the young girl," she said. She has seemed to me good and charming."

Ah, charming she is indeed, madam !" said Lady Humphrey, sighing, as if that were the very worst of the whole story.

"And good, I think," said the nun, with a gentle persistence.

"Good, yes, surely, in the main-I trust so," said Lady Humphrey; "but so charming, as you say, and so impatient of control-alone, as she must be when following her employment, in London! Do you wonder at my uneasiness, dear madam ?"

The nun was silent for some moments, then she said :—

"Have you thought of any way in which I may be of service to this child? I presume that you have, since you have taken the trouble to inform me of so much."

Lady Humphrey felt her breath a little taken away. This nun would so bring her to the point. However, it could only have been conscience that made her so reluctant to speak out; for surely there could be nothing discreditable in her desire when it did come to be stated, though without much of that circumlocution which had been intended to accompany it.

"It is true," she said, boldly, "that I have wished to be able to remove the dear girl to some quiet country place, where she might be able to support herself in respectability, and also be removed from the dangerous excitements which lie in wait for her in London. And I confess, dear madam, that, knowing of your generous sympathies, and also that you have connexions in the country, I have been presumptuous enough to hope that you might interest yourself to assist me in so placing her."

The Mother Augustine brightened at this speech. Surely it held nothing unfair, could have no ungenerous motive lurking behind the judicious anxiety which prompted it. Perhaps, indeed, the Mother might have thought within herself, just in passing, that, had she been interested from babyhood in such a girl, she would not have been so eager to banish her from her presence. But this unacknowledged thought was in itself a little triumph for Lady Humphrey, seeing that here was only a small sin, and but a negative sort of misconduct, after all, wherewith to charge a person of whom many hard things had been said, and whom she herself, despite the remonstrance of her charity, had not been able to meet without a prejudice.

"I thank you, Lady Humphrey," she said, warmly. "I am glad that you have placed this trust in me. It is true I may be of use in this way. I will do my best to find a home for the poor child. But there is one favour I must ask of you," she added. "I must beg you to leave Hester with me, here, for a few days. I shall the better be able to judge of her temper and capabilities."

Lady Humphrey was not altogether glad of this arrangement, but when so much had been gained she must relinquish a part of her will, must consent to run some little risk. And