The crisis, however, was averted—“mercifully,” as Lady Markham said. Dr Howard from Southampton—whom she had thought of only by chance, on the spur of the moment, as a way of getting rid of Markham—produced some new lights; and in reality was so successful with the invalid, that he rallied, and it became possible to remove him by slow stages to his own house, to die there, which he did in due course, but some time after, and decorously, in the right way and place. Frances felt herself like a spectator at a play during all this strange interval, looking on at the third act of a tragedy, which somehow had got involved in a drawing-room comedy, with scenes alternating, and throwing a kind of wretched reflection of their poor humour upon{v2-268} the tableaux of the darker drama. She thought that she never should forget the countenance of Nelly Winterbourn as she took her seat beside her husband in the invalid carriage in which he was conveyed away, and turned to wave a farewell to the little group which had assembled to watch the departure. Her face was quivering with a sort of despairing impatience, wretchedness, self-pity, the miserable anticipations of a living creature tied to one who was dead—nerves and temper and every part of her being wrought to a feverish excitement, made half delirious by the prospect, the possibility, of escape. A wretched sort of spasmodic smile was upon her lips as she waved her hand to the spectators—those spectators all on the watch to read her countenance, who, she knew, were as well aware of the position as herself. Frances was learning the lesson thus set practically before her with applications of her own. She knew now to a great extent what it all meant, and why Markham disappeared as soon as the carriage drove away; while her mother, with an aspect of intense relief, returned to her guests. “I{v2-269} feel as if I could breathe again,” Lady Markham said. “Not that I should have grudged anything I could do for poor dear Nelly; but there is something so terrible in a death in one’s house.”

“I quite enter into your feelings, dear—oh, quite!” said Mrs Montague; “most painful, and most embarrassing besides.”

“Oh, as for that!” said Lady Markham. “It would have been indeed a great annoyance and vexation to break up our pleasant party, and put out all your plans. But one has to submit in such cases. However, I am most thankful it has not come to that. Poor Mr Winterbourn may last yet—for months, Dr Howard says.”

“Dear me; do you think that is to be desired?” said the other, “for poor Nelly’s sake.”

“Poor Nelly!” said the young ladies. “Only fancy months! What a terrible fate!”

“And yet it was supposed to be a great match for her, a penniless girl!”

“It was a great match,” said Lady Markham composedly. “And dear Nelly has always be{v2-270}haved so well. She is an example to many women that have much less to put up with than she has. Frances, will you see about the lawn-tennis? I am sure you want to shake off the impression, you poor girls, who have been so good.”

“Oh, dear Lady Markham, you don’t suppose we could have gone on laughing and making a noise while there was such anxiety in the house. But we shall like a game, now that there is no impropriety——”

“And we are all so glad,” said the mother, “that there was no occasion for turning out; for our visits are so dovetailed, I don’t know where we should have gone—and our house in the hands of the workmen. I, for one, am very thankful that poor Mr Winterbourn has a little longer to live.”

Thus, after this singular episode, the ordinary life of the household was resumed; and though the name of poor Nelly recurred at intervals for a day or two, there were many things that were of more importance—a great garden-party, for instance, for which, fortunately, Lady Markham had not cancelled the invitations; a yachting{v2-271} expedition, and various other pleasant things. The comments of the company were diverted to Claude, who, finding Frances more easily convinced than the others that draughts were to be carefully avoided, sought her out on most occasions, notwithstanding her plain-speaking about his fancifulness.

“Perhaps you were right,” he said, “that I think too much about my health. I shouldn’t wonder if you were quite right. But I have always been warned that I was very delicate; and perhaps that makes one rather a bore to one’s friends.”

“Oh, I hope you will forgive me, Mr Ramsay! I never meant——”

“There is poor Winterbourn, you see,” said Claude, accepting the broken apology with a benevolent nod of his head and the mild pathos of a smile. “He was one of your rash people, never paying any attention to what was the matter with him. He was quite a well-preserved sort of man when he married Nelly St John; and now you see what a wreck! By Jove, though, I shouldn’t like my wife, if I married, to treat me like Nelly. But I promise{v2-272} you there should be no Markham in my case.”

“I don’t know what Markham has to do with it,” said Frances with sudden spirit.

“Oh, you don’t know! Well,” he continued, looking at her, “perhaps you don’t know; and so much the better. Never mind about Markham. I should expect my wife to be with me when I am ill; not to leave me to servants, to give me my—everything I had to take; and to cheer me up, you know. Do you think there is anything unreasonable in that?”

“Oh no, indeed. Of course, if—if—she was fond of you—which of course she would be, or you would not want to marry her.”

“Yes,” said Claude. “Go on, please; I like to hear you talk.”

“I mean,” said Frances, stumbling a little, feeling a significance in this encouragement which disturbed her, “that, of course—there would be no question of reasonableness. She would just do it by nature. One never asks if it is reasonable or not.”

“Ah, you mean you wouldn’t. But other girls are different. There is Con, for instance.{v2-273}”

“Mr Ramsay, I don’t think you ought to speak to me so about my sister. Constance, if she were in such a position, would do—what was right.”

“For that matter, I suppose Nelly Winterbourn does what is right—at least, every one says she behaves so well. If that is what you mean by right, I shouldn’t relish it at all in my wife.”

Frances said nothing for a minute, and then she asked, “Are you going to be married, Mr Ramsay?” in a tone which was half indignant, half amused.

At this he started a little, and gave her an inquiring look. “That is a question that wants thinking of,” he said. “Yes, I suppose I am, if I can find any one as nice as that. You are always giving me renseignements, Miss Waring. If I can find some one who will, as you say, never ask whether it is reasonable——”

“Then,” said Frances, recovering something of the sprightliness which had distinguished her in old days, “you don’t want to marry any one in particular, but just a wife?”

“What else could I marry?” he asked in a{v2-274} peevish tone. Then, with a change of his voice,—“I don’t want to conceal anything from you; and there is no doubt you must have heard: I was engaged to your sister Con; but she ran away from me,” he added with pathos. “You must have heard that.”

“I do not wonder that you were very fond of her,” cried Frances. “I see no one so delightful as—she would be if she were here.”

She had meant to make a simple statement, and say, “No one so delightful as she;” but paused, remembering that the circumstances had not been to Constance’s advantage, and that here she would have been in her proper sphere.

As for Claude, he was somewhat embarrassed. He said, “Fond is perhaps not exactly the word. I thought she would have suited me—better than any one I knew.”

“If that was all,” said Frances, “you would not mind very much; and I do not wonder that she came away, for it would be rather dreadful to be married because a gentleman thought one suited him.”

“Oh, I don’t mean that would be so—in{v2-275} every case,” cried Claude, with sudden earnestness.

“In any case, I think you should never tell the girl’s sister, Mr Ramsay; it is not a very nice thing to do.”

“Miss Waring—Frances!—I was not thinking of you as any girl’s sister; I was thinking of you——”

“I hope not at all; for it would be a great pity to waste any more thoughts on our family,” said Frances. “I have sometimes been a little vexed that Constance came, for it changed all my life, and took me away from every one I knew. But I am glad you have told me this, for now I understand it quite.” She did not rise from where she was seated and leave him, as he almost hoped she would, making a little quarrel of it, but sat still, with a composure which Claude felt was much less complimentary. “Now that I know all about it,” she said, after a little interval, with a laugh, “I think what you want would be very unreasonable—and what no woman could do.”

“You said the very reverse five minutes ago,” he said sulkily.{v2-276}

“Yes—but I didn’t know what the—what the wages were,” she said with another laugh. “It is you who are giving me renseignements now.”

Claude took his complaint next morning to Lady Markham’s room. “She actually chaffed me—chaffed me, I assure you; though she looks as if butter would not melt in her mouth.”

“That is a little vulgar, Claude. If you talk like that to a girl, what can you expect? Some, indeed, may be rather grateful to you, as showing how little you look for; but you know I have always told you what you ought to try to do is to inspire a grande passion.”

“That is what I should like above all things to do,” said the young man; “but——”

“But—it would cost too much trouble?”

“Perhaps; and I am not an impassioned sort of man. Lady Markham, was it really from me that Constance ran away?”

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