STRANGE THOUGHTS

"HOPE, what are you doing?"

"Something that she ought not to do. She is thinking."

"Don't be cynical, Jim. Do you want me, Aunt Gertrude?"

The young girl who spoke rose from her seat by the window and came towards a stout old lady, who was carrying on an animated conversation with two or three of her Sunday visitors.

They were in a London drawing-room, and though outside the sun shone, and the flowers in the park close by were bright with colour; it was early enough in the spring to need a fire.

Mrs. Daubeney's room looked the picture of cosy warmth and comfort. Tea was being handed round; and as Hope St. Clair came into the little circle round the fire, there were two who regarded her very critically. Her aunt saw a tall slight girl, exquisitely gowned, whose walk and voice and movement all proclaimed her to be one of Society's successes. Mrs. Daubeney noted nothing of which to complain, as her eyes travelled from the Paris gown to the delicate oval face, the wealth of soft dark hair, the sensitively cut features, and the bright, vivacious grey eyes that were alive with a thousand lights and shadows, and seemed to reflect to the world in general a charming personality from within.

But Jim Horrocks's eyes saw further. He noted that the girl's lips were quivering, that her eyes were troubled, and that, in spite of her apparently gay demeanour, that seat by the window had been taken with a purpose. For about twenty minutes she had withdrawn herself from her fellow-creatures, and those twenty minutes had been full of troubled thought. He drew a chair forward for her, and offering her a cup of tea, he said persuasively:

"Just tell me how far away you got from us, and if you are very sorry to be back again."

Hope looked at him rather gravely.

"The Murrays took me to St. Ambrose's this morning."

"Oh, I wish I had known! I would have come too. That fellow is the last sensation. They say he lashes us with a most able and cutting tongue. Lady May Fosberry has given up all gaiety for five whole days and taken to the slums. What did he tell you? It's rotten bad form, I consider, to abuse the class by whom he lives."

"You must hear him for yourself."

Hope's eyes were mirthful now. She added:

"I wonder where and when you heard your last sermon, Jim."

"In India," he replied promptly, "six years ago. Sermons are an unnecessary appendage to any service, I consider. Your aunt talks of leaving town; surely she is not going to do so yet?"

"Her doctor says she must. We are thinking of trying what a quiet life will do."

Jim Horrocks laughed.

"When I see a fish flourishing on dry ground, then I shall see Mrs. Daubeney's health improve in a quiet atmosphere! No wonder such a prospect, combined with the Canon's discourse, has depressed you."

"I am never depressed; I don't know the meaning of the word."

Hope spoke emphatically. Jim smiled at her provokingly. He and she were the best of friends. Once, he had been in love with her. That was when she was just launching into her first season, and having known him from the time she was a little maiden in short frocks, had constituted him as her cavalier and comrade. But Mrs. Daubeney nipped it in the bud. She reminded Jim that he could not make his income suffice for his own needs, being an impecunious younger son and only having a secretaryship in some Government billet to supplement his allowance; and she told him that until she died, Hope would only receive from her £400 a year.

"I am likely to live some years yet," she informed him. "Hope has no idea of economy; she spends more than £400 on her clothes as it is. How do you imagine you could set up house together? No, she must do better than take you, Jim, for her own sake and for yours."

The young people had accepted the wisdom of their elder. Neither were very disturbed at this ultimatum, for Hope had boundless anticipations of the future, and Jim was fast becoming resigned to the fact that the best things in life were not to be his.

He remained her friend; he was always at hand if she wanted his help; and he watched her progress through the daily routine of her full and busy life with amusement, and sometimes with concern.

Mrs. Daubeney, as she was wont to declare, "knew everybody worth knowing." Her energy never flagged, her worldly wisdom never failed. And yet, though Hope was popular with all her friends, she was still unmarried, and there seemed no prospects of her bestowing her affections upon any of those who desired her favour. For four years she and her aunt had been swept along in the social tide. No race-meeting, no regatta, no Society function was without their presence. They had travelled, they had yachted, they had wintered on the Riviera, at Cairo, and in Spain, and when they were not exercising their hospitality in their Park Lane house, they were visiting their friends' country houses. Hope's supreme freshness and energy, her capacity for all games, from bridge to hockey and golf, her gay spirits, and, above all, her warm-hearted sympathy with the world in general, made her a universal favourite.

Lately Mrs. Daubeney had been out of health. She would not own it for a long time; but she was forced to take a physician's advice, and the result was that a move from London was contemplated.

"What quiet place will hold you?" Jim asked, and Hope, with a little laugh, said:

"Brighton or Homburg, I expect."

Then fresh visitors were announced, and Hope turned to them. It was late before the last ones took their departure. For a few minutes aunt and niece were alone. Hope drew up an easy chair to the fire and let herself drop into it with a little sigh of satisfaction.

"Now we can be silent," she said, with a mixture of mirth and wistfulness in her tone.

"No," said Mrs. Daubeney; "I have been waiting to speak to you all day. You were so long at church this morning that you did not return before the Seatons arrived to lunch, and I have had no opportunity since. I heard from your father by the late post last night."

"From my father?" Hope repeated the words in wonder. "Why, Aunt Gertrude, we have not heard from him since I first went to school!"

"No, he washed his hands of you—to use a vulgar phrase—from the time I adopted you."

"I began to think I had no father," Hope continued. "He is a myth to me. Is he still in Canada?"

"Yes. Your stepmother is dead. It is a sad story; he was driving her with some young horses, and they bolted, and there was a terrible upset. She was killed on the spot, and one of the children with her, and your father very much injured. That was some time ago, but your father says though he is nearly right again, he is not able to farm much, and he talks of coming home. He asks if you are married."

"Poor father!" Hope's eyes grew meditative. "I wish I knew him, aunt. I have only a recollection of a jolly handsome man tossing me up in the air and calling me puny! How dreadfully he must feel the loss of his wife! She was such a capable person."

"His letter is very like him," said Mrs. Daubeney. "He wonders whether you will be of any use to him if he returns to England and finds you still unmarried, or whether you would like to go out to him. George's one idea is how to use people. He has never taken the slightest notice of you till now, when he fancies you may help him."

"Usefulness is an unknown term to me."

Something in the girl's tone made her aunt look sharply at her. Hope returned the look with one of her low laughs.

"You have not brought me up to be useful, have you?" she said.

"No, thank goodness! There has been no necessity for that."

"I am afraid I could not help him," said Hope slowly and meditatively. Her thoughts went back to the first years of her childhood spent in a dreary suburban house; her young stepmother, with a crowd of babies, managing her household wisely and well, but with little time or sympathy for her small stepdaughter, who was then very delicate.

Young Mrs. St. Clair was more relieved than otherwise when, on the eve of their migration to Canada, her husband's sister came forward and offered a home to Hope. The child left her home with little regret, and had long ago ceased to correspond with her relations. Her father had never seen much of her, and he did not encourage correspondence.

Now as she thought of the suggestion her father had made, she dimly began to wonder whether he had not some claim upon her. After all, he was her father, and she was his eldest daughter.

Mrs. Daubeney saw the growing thought in her eyes. She spoke at once.

"Of course, I am going to write to your father immediately, and show him the ridiculousness of such a proposition. He must get some housekeeper out there. I can read between the lines. The farm is not paying, and he wants to throw off all his responsibilities like an old glove, and be off to some other sphere. We need not think any more about it. I did not adopt you or educate you, to lose you just when I want your society most. Now will you give me your attention to another matter? I have been thinking of a small house of mine at Kayminster. It has been let furnished to a tenant for eight years. She has just left it to join her husband in India. I feel very much inclined to go down, and take possession of it for a few weeks. Of course we should vegetate; but I know some nice people there, and it is rather a pretty neighbourhood. You know how stagnant a cathedral town is, so you must not expect any gaiety, and if we find it too dull, we can come back to town. I should not dream of staying there beyond a week or two. What do you think?"

"I am quite willing," said Hope brightly. "Is the house in order for us to take possession at once?"

"I wondered if you would take Nelson down and inspect it for me. I cannot quite trust her—she takes such prejudices."

Nelson had been maid to Mrs. Daubeney for fifteen years, and her rule over her mistress was a masterful one. Hope was the only one who could manage her.

"Of course I will. Let me go to-morrow, and then I can cut the Blakes' dinner-party. I always hoped something would turn up to prevent my appearance at it."

"Certainly not. Will you ever lose your impulsiveness? Next week will be quite time enough."

There was a pause. Hope leant back in her chair and gazed into the glowing coals. Mrs. Daubeney was mentally composing her letter to her brother. She started when Hope spoke again.

"Aunt Gertrude, you ought to hear Canon FitzRoy. He is the most eloquent preacher I have ever heard."

"I am not fond of eloquence. It takes an unfair advantage of you."

"Oh, but he told us some home-truths!"

"I can imagine he did!"

Hope was not to be repressed by her aunt's sarcastic tone.

"His indictments were very severe; but he got them out of the Bible, and they have been ringing in my head ever since. We are 'lovers of our own selves,' 'lovers of pleasures more than lovers of God, having a form of godliness, but denying the power thereof.' Oh, I know you will say it is just cant; but I wish you had heard him take up every point and thresh it out to the bitter end. It has opened a new field of thought to me, and not a pleasant one. Captain Murray was dumbfounded. He told me he was going straight home to think it out, and his wife was in tears."

Mrs. Daubeney went to her davenport.

"I am afraid I am not interested, my dear. Do not speak to me now. I must write a line to your father."

So Hope sat with puckered brows, reviewing her life for the first time with a sense of shame. The stinging words of the preacher had burnt into her very soul. She could not get rid of them, and she at present was not conscious of any desire to do so. She was like a child awakened from a dream, and though the first touch hurt, astonishment at the possibility of a different existence kept her from resenting the awakening.

Mrs. Daubeney knew her niece too well to argue with her. She wrote her letter, and dressing for dinner followed. Hope had no more time for thinking till she went to bed, and as she was playing bridge till twelve o'clock, she was too tired to sit up after it.

As she laid her head upon her pillow, she murmured to herself:

"And Sunday bridge-playing he condemned. I wonder if the Murrays will give it up."

The following week was a very full one. Hope did not have much time for further thought; but when Sunday came round again, she slipped away to hear the famous preacher, and this time Jim accompanied her.

"Oh, Jim," she said, as they walked back together, "is life really what Canon FitzRoy makes it, or is it what we make it?"

"What do we make it?" asked Jim quizzically.

Hope knitted her pretty brows.

"Just a level bit of time to be got through as brightly and pleasantly as we can. Isn't this your experience?"

"No," said Jim sturdily. "I've had too many hard knocks to look at it with your eyes. You have never seen below the surface, and I hope you never will."

"Don't talk to me as if I am a doll or a puppet. How do you see life?"

Jim would not answer.

"Of course," Hope continued, "I know that the Canon does not quite understand us. There is a great deal of real kindness and goodness of heart amongst those he condemns. Very religious people are not half so pleasant in their manners, nor so sympathetic, as a rule, as those they judge. But I do acknowledge that 'God is not in all our thoughts.' And I, personally, love myself, and love pleasure much more than I do Him. Of course I do. I am not an infidel! But my belief in God doesn't touch my life; the Canon is quite right there."

"We'll forget the sermon," the young man said lightly. "It isn't worth becoming uncomfortable over it. You women take things so seriously. I enjoyed hearing him. His hits were given straight from the shoulder; but I have a fancy that I could stand up one day and give it to him back. I could tell the clergy a few home-truths about themselves. Couldn't you?"

"No; don't be irreverent, Jim."

Jim laughed, but did not pursue the subject, and Hope kept her thoughts to herself.

On the following Tuesday she and Nelson went down to Kayminster. They stayed at the hotel there, and were away for a couple of days; then returned to report themselves.

"I think it will be a charming retreat, aunt," said Hope. "It is in very good repair. Of course you know it; but I love the quaintness of the town; and the old house opening upon the street one side, and stretching out at the back into that beautiful old garden, took my fancy immensely. I don't know what you will do with yourself—that is the only objection I offer. We can drive, I suppose, and attend the cathedral services, and perhaps receive a few visitors. Will that satisfy you?"

Mrs. Daubeney looked rather doleful.

"We must have some nice week-end parties," she said. "It will not be for long. I dare say I shall be better for the quiet."

And so it was arranged, and a few days afterwards they left town, and took up their abode in Wistaria Lodge.