Denzil Quarrier | Page 4

open volume. But
her hand was never raised to turn a page, and it was long since her eyes
had gathered the sense of the lines on which they were fixed. This
attitude had been a favourite one with her in childhood, and nowadays,
in her long hours of solitude, she often fell into the old habit. It was a
way of inviting reverie, which was a way of passing the time.

She stirred at length; glanced at the windows, at the fire, and rose.
A pleasant little sitting-room, furnished in the taste of our time; with
harmonies and contrasts of subdued colour, with pictures intelligently
chosen, with store of graceful knick-knacks. Lilian's person was in
keeping with such a background; her dark gold hair, her pale, pensive,
youthful features, her slight figure in its loose raiment, could not have
been more suitably displayed. In a room of statelier proportions she
would have looked too frail, too young for significance; out of doors
she was seldom seen to advantage; here one recognized her as the
presiding spirit in a home fragrant of womanhood. The face, at this
moment, was a sad one, but its lines expressed no weak surrender to
dolefulness; her lips were courageous, and her eyes such as brighten
readily with joy.
A small table bore a tea-fray with a kettle and spirit-lamp; the service
for two persons only. Lilian, after looking at her watch, ignited the
lamp and then went to the window as if in expectation of some one's
arrival.
The house stood in a row of small new dwellings on the outskirts of
Clapham Common; there was little traffic along the road at any time,
and in this hour of twilight even a passing footstep became a thing to
notice. Some one approached on her side of the way she listened, but
with disappointment; it was not the step for which she waited. None the
less it paused at this house, and she was startled to perceive a telegraph
messenger on the point of knocking. At once she hastened to the front
door.
"Mrs. Quarrier?" inquired the boy, holding out his missive.
Lilian drew back with it into the passage. But there was not light
enough to read by; she had to enter the sitting-room and hold the sheet
of paper close to the kettle-lamp.
"Very sorry that I cannot get home before ten. Unexpected business."
She read it carefully, then turned with a sigh and dismissed the
messenger.
In a quarter of an hour she had made tea, and sat down to take a cup.
The cat, refreshed after slumber, jumped on to her lap and lay there
pawing playfully at the trimming of her sleeves. Lilian at first rewarded
this friendliness only with absent stroking, but when she had drunk her
tea and eaten a slice of bread and butter the melancholy mood dispersed;

pussy's sportiveness was then abundantly indulged, and for awhile
Lilian seemed no less merry than her companion.
The game was interrupted by another knock at the house-door; this
time it was but the delivery of the evening paper. Lilian settled herself
in a chair by the fireside, and addressed herself with a serious
countenance to the study of the freshly-printed columns. Beginning
with the leading-article, she read page after page in the most
conscientious way, often pausing to reflect, and once even to pencil a
note on the margin. The paper finished, she found it necessary for the
clear understanding of a certain subject to consult a book of reference,
and for this purpose she went to a room in the rear--a small study,
comfortably but plainly furnished, smelling of tobacco. It was very
chilly, and she did not spend much time over her researches.
A sound from the lower part of the house checked her returning steps;
some one was rapping at the door down in the area. It happened that
she was to-day without a servant; she must needs descend into the
kitchen herself and answer the summons. When the nether regions were
illumined and the door thrown open, Lilian beheld a familiar figure,
that of a scraggy and wretchedly clad woman with a moaning infant in
her arms.
"Oh, it's you, Mrs. Wilson!" she exclaimed. "Please to come in. How
have you been getting on? And how is baby?"
The woman took a seat by the kitchen fire, and began to talk in a
whining, mendicant tone. From the conversation it appeared that this
was by no means the first time she had visited Lilian and sought to
arouse her compassion; the stories she poured forth consisted in a great
measure of excuses for not having profited more substantially by the
help already given her. The eye and the ear of experience would readily
enough have perceived in