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 TABLE OF CONTENTS
Introduction
Why Isn’t My Brain Working?
Chapter One
Brain Basics 101
Chapter Two
Brain Plasticity And Hope
Chapter Three
The Failing Brain
Chapter Four
The Needs of the Neuron
Chapter Five
Blood Sugar Imbalances
Chapter Six
Stress and the Brain
Chapter Seven
Brain Circulation and Oxygen
Chapter Eight
Gluten Sensitivity and Beyond
Chapter Nine
The Gut-Brain Axis
Chapter Ten
Brain Inflammation
Chapter Eleven
What is Neurological Autoimmunity?
Chapter Twelve
Introduction to Neurotransmitters
Chapter Thirteen
Acetylcholine
Chapter Fourteen
Serotonin
Chapter Fifteen
Gaba
Chapter Sixteen
Dopamine
Chapter Seventeen
The Hormone-Brain Connection
Chapter Eighteen
Alternative Therapies, Brain Stimulation,and Brain
Function
Chapter Nineteen
Essential Fatty Acids
Chapter Twenty
Toxins and the Brain
Chapter Twenty One
The Brain Health Reference Guide
WHY ISN’T MY BRAIN WORKING?
A revolutionary understanding of brain decline and
effective strategies to recover your brain’s health
By Datis Kharrazian, DHSc, DC, MS
 Why Isn’t My Brain Working?
Copyright ©2013 Datis Kharrazian. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system,

or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise, except as permitted under
Sections 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without either
the prior written permission of the Publisher.

LIMIT OF LIABILITY/DISCLAIMER OF WARRANTY: WHILE THE

PUBLISHER AND AUTHOR HAVE USED THEIR BEST EFFORTS IN
PREPARING THIS BOOK, THEY MAKE NO REPRESENTATIONS OR
WARRANTIES WITH RESPECT TO THE ACCURACY OR
COMPLETENESS OF THE CONTENTS OF THIS BOOK AND
SPECIFICALLY DISCLAIM ANY IMPLIED WARRANTIES OF
MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A PARTICULAR PURPOSE.
NO WARRANTY MAY BE CREATED OR EXTENDED BY SALES
REPRESENTATIVES, WRITTEN SALES OR PROMOTIONAL
MATERIALS. THE ADVICE AND STRATEGIES CONTAINED
HEREIN MAY NOT BE SUITABLE FOR YOUR SITUATION. THIS
BOOK IS SOLD WITH THE UNDERSTANDING THAT THE
PUBLISHER IS NOT ENGAGED IN RENDERING MEDICAL, LEGAL,
ACCOUNTING, OR OTHER PROFESSIONAL SERVICES. YOU
SHOULD CONSULT WITH A PROFESSIONAL WHERE
APPROPRIATE. NEITHER THE PUBLISHER NOR AUTHOR SHALL
BE LIABLE FOR ANY LOSS OF PROFIT OR ANY OTHER
COMMERCIAL DAMAGES, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO
SPECIAL, INCIDENTAL, CONSEQUENTIAL, OR OTHER DAMAGES.

ISBN 978-0-9856904-5-8

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012948479

Published by:
Elephant Press LP
7040 Avenida Encinas, Suite 104
Carlsbad, CA 92011 USA
www.ElephantPressBooks.com

Book cover and design and by Laurie Griffin / LaurieGriffin.com

 DEDICATION
First, I would like to dedicate this book to my wife, Andrea, and to my
daughter, Maizy, for their continued support and the sacrifices they have
endured. Developing, writing, and teaching this information has meant
many days and nights locked up in my home office writing and researching,
countless hours in airports and hotels during trips all over the world, and
many late nights at the office working with patients.
Second, I would like to dedicate this book to the millions of patients
who have been ignored and overlooked when suffering from a head injury,
brain dysfunction, or brain degeneration. Nobody understands the difficulty
you face as you appear normal to those around you.
Third, I would like to dedicate this book to all the health care
practitioners who are reading this book because they want to better serve
their patients. The world needs more caring and passionate doctors like you.
 FINANCIAL DISCLOSURE
Dr. Datis Kharrazian is a member of Apex Energetics, Inc.’s Scientific
Advisory Board, is a paid consultant to Apex Energetics, and, as a
researcher, developer and/or formulator, receives royalties on the sale of
various Apex Energetics nutritional products. He is not an employee of and
has no ownership interest in Apex Energetics.
He is also a member of the editorial board of the Journal of Functional
Neurology, Rehabilitation, and Ergonomics. He receives no financial
compensation for his service on the board.
Dr. Kharrazian serves on the Curriculum Advisory Committee of the
Institute for Functional Medicine. He receives no financial compensation
for his participation on this committee.
Dr. Kharrazian has been engaged as an industry expert by Cyrex
Laboratories, LLC to assist in the development of clinical assays and to
educate health care practitioners in the technology and application of its
arrays. As such, he receives commissions from Cyrex as permitted by and
in compliance with federal and state laws, codes and regulations, including
Stark and other anti-kickback provisions. He is not an employee of Cyrex
and has no ownership in it.
 INTENDED USE STATEMENT
The content of this book is intended for information purposes only. The
medical information in this book is intended as general information only
and should not be used in any way to diagnose, treat, cure, or prevent
disease. The goal of the book is to present and highlight nutritionally
significant information and offer suggestions and protocols for nutritional
support and health maintenance.
It is the sole responsibility of the user of this information to comply with
all local and federal laws regarding the use of such information, as it relates
to the scope and type of the user’s practice.
 DISCLAIMER AND NOTICES
The information and recommendations outlined in this book are not
intended as a substitute for personalized medical advice; the reader of this
book should see a qualified health care provider. This book proposes certain
theoretical methods of nutrition not necessarily mainstream. It is left to the
discretion and it is the sole responsibility of the user of the information
indicated in this book to determine if procedures and recommendations
described are appropriate. The author of this information cannot be held
responsible for the information or any inadvertent errors or omissions of the
information.
The information in this book should not be construed as a claim or
representation that any procedure or product mentioned constitutes a
specific cure, palliative, or ameliorative. Procedures and nutritional
compounds described should be considered as adjunctive to other accepted
conventional procedures deemed necessary by the attending licensed doctor.
It is the concern of the Department of Health and Human Services that
no homeopathic or nutritional supplements be used to replace established
medical approaches, especially in cases of emergencies or serious or life-
threatening diseases or conditions. The author shares in this concern, as
replacing conventional treatment with such remedies, especially in serious
cases, may deprive the patient and pose a major legal liability for the health
professional involved. The nutritional compounds mentioned in the book
should not be used as replacements for conventional medical treatment.
The Food and Drug Administration has not evaluated the information
detailed in this book. The nutritional supplements mentioned in this manual
are not intended to diagnose, treat, cure, or prevent disease.
 ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Datis Kharrazian, DHSc, DC, MS, MNeuroSci, FAACP, DACBN,
DABCN, DIBAK, CNS

Dr. Datis Kharrazian has spent more than a decade teaching several
thousand hours of postgraduate education in non-pharmaceutical
applications for chronic illnesses, autoimmune disorders, and complex
neurological disorders all over the world to health care providers. He has
trained thousands of health care professionals in an evidence- and
physiological-based model of clinical practice. His reputation not only as an
educator but also as a clinician has become renowned worldwide. Patients
from all over the world fly to his practice in San Diego, California to
understand his perspective regarding their condition and to apply natural
medicine alternatives to help them improve their quality of life. Dr.
Kharrazian has become the referral source for many doctors nationally and
internationally for complex cases.
Dr. Kharrazian is one of the most sought-after educators and clinicians
in natural medicine, laboratory analysis, and nutrition. His seminar schedule
is booked years in advance. He lectures both nationally and internationally
at major medical and scientific conferences worldwide. He conducts several
professional and scientific presentations a year in addition to giving radio
and television interviews and appearances in movie documentaries. Dr.
Kharrazian has personally trained a group of more than a dozen exceptional
doctors to lecture nationally to meet the demands by health care providers
on how he clinically manages complex cases.
Dr. Kharrazian’s first book, Why Do I Still Have Thyroid Symptoms
When My Lab Tests Are Normal? quickly became the best-selling thyroid
book. It has been listed as the number-one selling thyroid book on Amazon
since its release in October of 2009. His book created an international
explosion of interest in his detailed review of the scientific literature
regarding thyroid disease and his clinical model of patient management.
Hundreds of positive testimonials have been received globally from patients
and doctors worldwide.
Dr. Kharrazian has published numerous professional papers, post-
graduate course manuals, and professional journal articles about functional
medicine, nutrition, laboratory analysis, and case studies. Dr. Kharrazian is
also on the editorial board of the Journal of Functional Neurology,
Rehabilitation and Ergonomics.
Dr. Kharrazian is an adjunct faculty member for Bastyr University
California, where he teaches neuroscience, neuroanatomy, and human brain
dissection. Several institutes and universities have asked Dr. Kharrazian to
develop advanced academic programs for graduate and post-graduate
programs outlining the latest information in natural approaches to various
chronic disorders. He serves on the education advisory committee for the
Institute for Functional Medicine that is recognized by the Accreditation
Council for Continuing Medical Education (ACCME). He is currently
teaching postgraduate education courses that are approved for continuing
educations by the University of Bridgeport.
Dr. Kharrazian earned his Bachelor of Science degree from the
University of the State of New York with honors and his Doctor of
Chiropractic degree graduating with honors from Southern California
University of Health Sciences, where he was distinguished with the Mindlin
Honors at Entrance Award, the Dean’s List, and the Delta Sigma Award for
Academic Excellence. He has earned a Master of Science degree in Human
Nutrition from the University of Bridgeport, a Master of Neurological
Sciences from the Carrick Institute of Graduate Studies, and a Doctor of
Health Science from Nova Southeastern University.
Dr. Kharrazian has completed many postgraduate specialty programs
and has been board certified in numerous specialties that include Diplomate
of the Board of Nutrition Specialists, Diplomate of the American Board of
Clinical Nutrition, Diplomate of the Chiropractic Board of Clinical
Nutrition, Diplomate of the American Board of Chiropractic Neurology,
and Diplomate of the International Board of Applied Kinesiology.
His contributions and devotions to clinical practice and educations have
earned him several fellowships including Fellow of the American Board of
Vestibular Rehabilitation, Fellow of the American Academy of Chiropractic
Physicians, Fellow of the International Academy of Functional Neurology
and Rehabilitation, and Fellow of the American College of Functional
Neurology.
Dr. Kharrazian has been a consultant to the nutritional industry and has
formulated more than 90 nutritional products, including topical creams,
protein powders, liquid supplements, sublingual hormones, and sublingual
nutrients. His formulations are used by thousands of health care
professionals nationally for various health disorders.
Dr. Kharrazian was recognized by his peers and awarded the Clinician
Trailblazer award at the 2010 Annual Conference of Functional Neurology.
This award was given to him by his peers in recognition for his
contributions to the practice of functional neurology. He was also given a
special recognition award by the International Association of Functional
Neurology and Rehabilitation for his contributions to the field of neurology
in 2011.
 SPECIAL THANKS AND RECOGNITION
My sincere gratitude to the readers who support and share my work.
My sincere gratitude to the talented doctors and dear friends that teach
my model of functional medicine and nutritional neurochemistry all over
the country: Dr. Mark Flannery, Dr. Steve Noseworthy, Dr. Tom Culleton,
Dr. Shane Steadman, Dr. Sam Yanuck, Dr. Brandon Brock, Dr. Glen
Zielinski, Dr. David Arthur, Dr. Nancy Doreo, Dr. Richard Herbold, Dr.
Jeannette Birnbach, Dr. Kari Vernon, Linda Clark, MA NC, Dr. Chris
Turnpaugh, Dr. Mike Pierce, Dr. Robert Mathis, Dr. Ben Anderson, and Dr.
John Saman.
My sincere ongoing gratitude to my clinical assistant Sandra Arender
who has helped make my life and the life of my patients so much easier.
My sincere gratitude to Elaine Fawcett for her help in editing my
information and helping me organize this book.
My sincere gratitude to Aristo Vojdani, PhD, the undisputed “Father of
Clinical and Functional Immunology,” for his mentorship, friendship, and
his dedication to teaching me complex immunology.
My sincere gratitude to Jeffrey Bland, PhD, the undisputed “Father of
Functional Medicine,” for his inspiration and devotion to changing the
practice of health care and for efforts that have made functional medicine
mainstream medicine all over the world.
My sincere gratitude to Frederick Carrick, DC, PhD, the undisputed
“Father of Functional Neurology,” for starting the concept of functional
neurology that has now evolved into so many new levels of application.
My sincere gratitude to Gerry Leisman, MD, PhD and Robert Melillo,
DC, PhD for their ongoing work in organizing functional neurology
publications, conferences, and educational materials.
My sincere gratitude to Trish Merlin and the faculty of Carrick Institute.
 BOOK ASPIRATIONS
I aspire for this book to empower and give insights to readers so they
can develop strategies to improve the function of their brain and to become
all they can and should be.
I aspire for this book to change the practice of functional neurology to
include strategies of patient care that go beyond brain exercises and
rehabilitation to truly question all of the mechanisms of brain impairment. I
also aspire for functional neurology health care providers to become versed
in more than just brain rehabilitation and to understand clinical relationships
of the brain and autoimmunity, immunology, endocrinology, nutrition,
neurochemistry, and metabolism. Without understanding these relationships
they can never become clinical experts in neurology.
I aspire for this book to change the practice of functional medicine to
include understanding of the gut-brain axis and the role the brain plays in
various metabolic, endocrinological, and immunological conditions
typically not associated with brain function.
 PREFACE
After I published my first book Why Do I Still Have Thyroid Symptoms?
I was shocked to see it become a best-selling book. I really did not think
anyone would read it. After the book was released I received so many
emails, faxes, phone calls, and stories from thyroid patients all over the
world about how the book made such a positive impact on their lives that it
completely changed me forever. Although I commonly received praise from
my own patients and from doctors I taught, and I enjoyed hearing their
success stories, it did not compare to the magnitude of positive impact
publishing a book had on so many lives. I knew at that point I had to
publish more books and bring this information directly to the public instead
of just to postgraduate seminars for health care professionals. I am now on a
mission to share my personal research and the insights I have gained
through practicing with the general public.
I initially became interested in health care after I sustained a severe back
injury in high school. The only treatment given to me was pain medication,
which adversely affected my ability to focus and offered me very little help.
I continued to suffer for weeks until a friend of the family took me to his
chiropractor. I experienced immediate relief and knew then I wanted to be a
chiropractor.
I went to chiropractic school simply expecting to learn how to adjust the
spine. Instead, I was immersed in human physiology, biochemistry,
pathology, histology, radiology, physical examination, laboratory analysis,
and many other classes that helped me mature and become a primary care
provider.
After I graduated and went into practice, I was horrified by what I
discovered about the health care field. I could not believe how many
patients were medically mismanaged and how poorly they were treated in
the system. I was also shocked at the amount of medication patients were
prescribed in the simple model of “one symptom = one drug.”
As I cared for my patients, I realized many of them were not receiving
direction in improving their overall health. Instead, symptoms or signs were
masked with medication. Patients constantly asked me to help them as they
did not know where else to go. They had all seen numerous specialists and
the simple “take a pill” model was not serving them. Also, many of them
felt awful but did not have a disease, so they were dismissed in the health
care system.
I have never been anti-medicine, but it became clear to me patients need
more than what is being offered. I remember looking at the mechanisms of
the top 50 most prescribed medications and realizing almost all of them
block, inhibit, or shut down a system of the body, such as beta-blockers,
serotonin reuptake inhibitors, calcium channel blockers, protein-pump
inhibitors, and so on. But none offered the body support.
Most patients who were suffering had impaired function but did not have
disease. The health care model did very little to improve their actual health
or it blatantly dismissed their complaints. These realizations inspired my
passion to learn more about nutrition and pursue clinical strategies for
patients who do not have a clear black-or-white model of disease or health,
but instead are somewhere in a gray area.
To this day I am not anti-medicine. I have a high-degree of respect and
admiration for the practice of medicine and medical physicians. However,
there is no doubt a void exists in the current practice of medicine. Many
areas of specialization and training are not provided to medical physicians
despite being accepted models in the scientific community, such as diet,
nutrition, and lifestyle changes.
I was forced into a unique position very early in my career. As I began to
create efficient ways to manage my chronic patients, I wrote some papers
and was given opportunities to lecture to other health care providers. This
was immediately successful and I began practicing and lecturing. I
alternated weeks, seeing patients one week and researching, writing, and
lecturing the other week, something I continue today.
Lecturing to skilled clinicians forces me to stay current with the research
and the clinical applications for the various topics I teach. Working with
patients guides me to know which questions to ask when researching and
developing education seminars. As I began to lecture nationally, doctors
referred their failed cases and complex patients to me, which further drove
me to develop the highest clinical competence I could achieve. The
combination of needing to perform at a high level both as a postgraduate
educator and as a clinician seeing patients with complex conditions created
a demanding cycle that has led to the information I share with you now.
At this point in my career I have seen patients from literally all over the
world with various complex conditions. I am not always able to help them
but I can usually find strategies to improve their quality of life in some way.
Sometimes it is profound and sometimes it is not. There is no question
many chronic patients who cannot be helped are suffering from brain
dysfunction or early brain degeneration. My aspiration to write this book is
to share some fundamental concepts and strategies for those types of cases.
I really hope you enjoy reading this book and that it empowers you. I
have made every attempt for this book to serve you and help you gain
insights and strategies into supporting your brain health and to get your
brain working again.

Datis Kharrazian, DHSc, DC, MS, MNeuroSci

Fellow of the American College of Functional Neurology
Fellow of the American Board of Vestibular Rehabilitation
Fellow of the American Academy of Chiropractic Physicians
Fellow of the International Academy of Functional Neurology
and Rehabilitation
Diplomate of the American Board of Clinical Nutrition
Diplomate of the Board of Nutrition Specialists
Diplomate of the Chiropractic Board of Clinical Nutrition
Diplomate of the International Board of Applied Kinesiology
Diplomate of the American Board of Chiropractic Neurology
 DISCLOSURE ABOUT
CASE STUDIES IN THIS BOOK
I have included case studies in this book. Some are from my own
practice and some are from health care practitioners I have trained in my
brain health model. Specific case studies are intentionally chosen to help
illustrate how the concepts in the book relate to actual patients and their
lives.
Although many nutritional theories exist today, the concepts in this book
have been used by thousands of clinicians with real patients. The model I
present always begins with a review of the scientific literature; a deep
appreciation for human physiology; and applications of diet, nutrition, and
lifestyle. This model is not a miracle, a promised cure, or anti-medicine.
Many patients may require medication or conventional medical treatment
outside the concepts presented in this book in order to improve their lives.
I debated putting cases in this book because some reviewers of my
thyroid book accused me of using them as a marketing tactic. However,
after careful consideration of the criticisms, I am convinced the case stories
are necessary to connect complex information with real-life people. I shared
this book with several of my patients before its release, and they said the
case studies gave them hope while facing terrifying scenarios of poor brain
function.
Hope and optimism are very important to improving health. However, it
is also very important to note that many patients with poor brain health do
not respond to the models presented in this book. Many talented health care
practitioners and I have countless failed cases.
 I hope the case studies help you see how some of the concepts presented
in this book have helped others, even though they are not guaranteed to help
everyone. I also hope this book is never accused of promoting false
promises, gimmicks, or sales. The book represents years of exhaustive
research, clinical trial and error, and countless hours of work to develop
strategies that help patients and their families support brain function
naturally.
The case studies are there to help motivate you and connect you with the
lives of real people. Although not all cases have positive outcomes,
sometimes for reasons we don’t understand, the vast majority do. I feel it’s
worth sharing them to help generate optimism and positivity to assist you
on your journey.
 INTRODUCTION
WHY ISN’T MY BRAIN WORKING?

Jackie, 42, a mother of two children ages 4 and 6, worked as an

attorney. She had a caring husband and a successful career she
had worked very hard to create for herself. She had paid her own
way through college and throughout life, as she had come from a
modest background. Jackie had always had an incredible memory
and could always count on her brain. However, over the past few
years she noticed she couldn’t remember phone numbers long
enough to put them in her iPhone and was unable to keep up with
her work and family responsibilities.
She knew she was no longer dependable at work, which really
bothered her, but that was nothing compared to the guilt and
frustration she felt because she wasn’t able to be the mother she
wanted to be. She suffered from bouts of depression and although
she was never a fan of medications, her depression had gotten so
bad she began taking antidepressants. The medications worked
initially, but she stopped taking them when she did not notice any
effect from them after a couple of months. Jackie also started to
gain weight and have headaches as well as various aches and
pains throughout her body.
Jackie had always been the kind of person who could read an
entire book in one sitting and remember everything she read. Now
she could no longer focus and she found herself fatiguing after
reading just a few pages. She was also unable to remember what
she had read after finishing just one paragraph.
Jackie started to worry and went to see her doctor, who
performed a complete physical examination, ran routine blood
work, and diagnosed her with high blood pressure and high
cholesterol. He told her she was overweight and needed to eat
better and exercise, but he did not give her any specifics. When
Jackie explained her symptoms of declining memory and poor
brain function symptoms, he laughed and told her she was just
getting older and not to worry about it. Jackie left her doctor’s
appointment feeling embarrassed and ashamed.
After months of feeling depressed she finally decided to take
control and figure out what was going on. She read an article on
chronic fatigue syndrome and was convinced she was suffering
from it. She then spent the next few years trying various
treatments, such as bioidentical hormones, heavy metal chelation,
adrenal fatigue support, and countless nutritional supplements
with no effect. Her symptoms continued to progress.
Finally, a doctor who had seen me speak at a conference
referred Jackie to my office. When I saw Jackie she was barely
functioning. She came in with countless natural supplements and a
long list of practitioners she had seen. The instant I saw her I knew
her brain was not working very well. She had facial paresis
(drooping of her face), she had ptosis (drooping of her eye lids),
and she walked very slowly with very little arm swing. Her
handwriting was terrible, and when I asked her about it she said it
had been declining the past few years. These were all signs of a
brain that was not working well.
Her examination demonstrated she couldn’t perform cognitive
tasks, such as counting backwards by sevens, or basic memory
tasks, such as remembering a few numbers. She was so shocked to
realize how far things had deteriorated that she started crying
during the exam. She was unable to balance herself when standing
with her eyes closed, she had lost her sense of smell and taste, she
couldn’t touch her nose accurately with her finger if her eyes were
closed, and her inability to do various other tasks demonstrated
that her brain was not working well.
Despite seeing so many practitioners, none took her brain
health into question. One tried to give her some amino acids to
support her depression, and another gave her a product for
general brain support, but they were all superficial strategies and
nobody ever asked why her brain was failing.
 After I evaluated Jackie, I could see severe blood sugar
fluctuations were impacting her brain chemistry. She was eating a
poor diet and she had chronic gastrointestinal inflammation and
brain inflammation. She was also suffering from significant
impairment of her serotonin and acetylcholine systems. I
implemented many of the concepts presented in this book and,
unsurprisingly, Jackie began to emerge from the dark place she
once inhabited. I checked up on her every month and within three
months she said, “I am finally back.”
Jackie’s story is like so many others’. All her symptoms were
blamed on aging while both the conventional and alternative
medicine models completely overlooked her brain. Most people
who have brain impairment and even early brain degeneration
suffer from fatigue, depression, and lack of motivation, and they
eventually lose some sense of self. Jackie was expressing early
signs of brain degeneration and early Alzheimer’s disease
symptoms. She was very lucky she was able to catch it early
enough and change the expression of her brain’s future through
appropriate diet, nutrition, and lifestyle intervention.
Unfortunately, many people will not be as lucky as Jackie. Most
people will have their brain deteriorate more every year thinking
that is part of normal aging, until they become impaired enough to
be diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease or dementia—with virtually
no treatment options to make any difference at that point.

Datis Kharrazian, DHSc, DC, MS

The incidences of brain disorders are on the rise. Not only do one in
eight senior citizens develop Alzheimer’s these days, but one in eight
children are also diagnosed with brain development disorders, including
autism, ADD, and ADHD.1 2 3 The global prevalence of dementia has been
estimated to be as high as 24 million, and is predicted to double every 20
years until at least 2040.4 Anxiety disorders, such as obsessive compulsive
disorder, learning disabilities, and depression are much more prevalent
today, while more “garden-variety” symptoms of poor brain health—sleep
disorders, brain fog, mild depression, moodiness—have become
commonplace.
The most often prescribed drugs in the United States are
antidepressants.5 Depression is rarely due to a direct emotional cause.
Instead it is known to develop when the frontal lobes of the brain do not fire
like they should. That is why most people who are depressed also can’t
concentrate, focus, or remember things. Depression not associated with a
severe emotional trigger is a sign the brain is failing and steps to improve
brain health are crucial not only for recovery from depression, but also for
protecting against brain degeneration.
The vicious mood swings associated with premenstrual syndrome,
perimenopause (“pre-menopause”), and menopause, the results of hormone-
driven brain chemistry imbalances and brain inflammation, are so
ubiquitous these days people think they’re normal—they aren’t. Ditto the
gradual descent into andropause, or “male menopause,” when a man’s
increasingly skewed hormonal function creates the “grumpy old man”
syndrome, or triggers the stereotypical mid-life crisis. Both menopause and
male hormone disorders create an environment for early brain degeneration
that is initially preceded by a poorly functioning brain.
Thyroid disorders, which profoundly impact brain health and function,
affect an estimated 27 million Americans, causing brain fog, depression,
anxiety, and other brain-based abnormalities. But most importantly they
accelerate brain degeneration and even coexist with brain autoimmunity.
Add to these factors the ingestion of newly modified dietary proteins,
such as gluten, fried foods, and other foods high in free-radicals, a diet low
in antioxidants and essential fatty acids, and the ups and downs of a blood
sugar roller coaster thanks to too many sweets and starchy foods, and it is
no wonder we have created an environment that promotes brain decay.
A high stress, sedentary lifestyle rounds out the perfect recipe for brain
degeneration. Besides the dietary and lifestyle triggers that create poor brain
function, previous head injuries, subtle brain autoimmunity, poor
circulation, and various other factors unrelated to diet can also cause the
brain to fail and degenerate quickly.
When the brain loses its ability to do its job, people have trouble
learning. They lose their passion and motivation, their ability to enjoy
music and hobbies, and their taste perception so they no longer enjoy food
like they once did. Their balance becomes compromised, they start to get
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 CHAPTER VII.
She
“What?” cried Mariuccia, making the small monosyllable sound as if it
were the biggest word in her vocabulary.
“She has come to stay. She is my sister; papa’s daughter as much as I
am. She has come—home.” Frances was a little uncertain about the word,
and it was only “a casa” that she said—“to the house,” which means the
same.
Mariuccia threw up her arms in astonishment. “Then there has been
another signorina all the time!” she cried. “Figure to yourself that I have
been with the padrone a dozen years, and I never heard of her before.”
“Papa does not talk very much about his concerns,” said Frances in her
faithfulness. “And what we have got to do is to make her very comfortable.
She is very pretty, don’t you think? Such beautiful blond hair—and tall. I
never shall be tall, I fear. They say she is like papa; but, as is natural, she is
much more beautiful than papa.”
“Beauty is as you find it,” said Mariuccia. “Carina, no one will ever be
so pretty as our own signorina to Domenico and me.—What is the child
doing? She is pulling the things off her own bed.—My angel, you have lost
your good sense. You are fluttered and upset by this new arrival. The blue
room will be very good for the new young lady. Perhaps she will not stay
very long?”
The wish was father to the thought. But Frances took no notice of the
suggestion. She said briskly, going on with what she was doing, “She must
have my room, Mariuccia. The blue room is quite nice; it will do very well
for me; but I should like her to feel at home, not to think our house was bare
and cold. The blue room would be rather naked, if we were to put her there
to-night. It will not be naked for me, for, of course, I am used to it all, and
know everything. But when Constance wakes to-morrow morning and
looks round her, and wonders where she is—oh, how strange it all seems!—
I wish her to open her eyes upon things that are pretty, and to say to herself,
‘What a delightful house papa has! What a nice room! I feel as if I had been
here all my life.’ ”
 “Constanza—is that her name? It is rather a common name—not
distinguished, like our signorina’s. But it is very good for her, I have no
doubt. And so you will give her your own room, that she may be fond of the
house, and stay and supplant you? That is what will happen. The good one,
the one of gold, gets pushed out of the way. I would not give her my room
to make her love the house.”
“I think you would, Mariuccia.”
“No; I do not think so,” said Mariuccia, squaring herself with one arm
akimbo. “No; I do not deny that I would probably take some new things
into the blue room, and put up curtains. But I am older than you are, and I
have more sense. I would not do it. If she gets your room, she will get your
place; and she will please everybody, and be admired, and my angel will be
put out of the way.”
“I am such a horrid little wretch,” said Frances, “that I thought of that
too. It was mean, oh, so mean of me. She is prettier than I am, and taller;
and—yes, of course, she must be older too, so you see it is her right.”
“Is she the eldest?” asked Mariuccia.
Frances made a puzzled pause; but she would not let the woman divine
that she did not know. “Oh yes; she must be the eldest.—Come quick,
Mariuccia; take all these things to the blue room; and now for your clean
linen and everything that is nice and sweet.”
Mariuccia did what she was told, but with many objections. She carried
on a running murmur of protest all the time. “When there are changes in a
family; when it is by the visitation of God, that is another matter. A son or a
daughter who is in trouble, who has no other refuge; that is natural; there is
nothing to say. But to remain away during a dozen years, and then to come
back at a moment’s notice—nay, without even a moment’s notice—in the
evening, when all the beds are made up, and demand everything that is
comfortable.—I have always thought that there was a great deal to be said
for the poor young signorino of whom the priest speaks, he who had always
stayed at home when his brother was amusing himself. Carina, you know
what I mean.”
“I have thought of that too,” said Frances. “But my sister is not a
prodigal; and papa has never done anything for her. It is all quite different.
When we know each other better, it will be delightful always to have a
companion, Mariuccia—think how pleasant it will be always to have a
companion. I wonder if she will like my pictures?—Now, don’t you think
the room looks very pretty? I always thought it was a pretty room. Leave
the persiani open that she may see the sea; and in the morning don’t forget
to come in and close them before the sun gets hot.—I think that will do
now.”
“Indeed I hope it will do—after all the trouble you have taken. And I
hope the young lady is worthy of it.—But, my angel, what shall I do when I
come in to wake her? Does she expect that I can talk her language to her?
No, no. And she will know nothing; she will not even be able to say ‘Good
morning.’ ”
“I hope so. But if not, you must call me first, that is all,” said Frances
cheerfully.—“Now, don’t go to bed just yet; perhaps she will like something
—some tea; or perhaps a little supper; or—— I never asked if she had
dined.”
Mariuccia regarded this possibility with equanimity. She was not afraid
of a girl’s appetite. But she made a grimace at the mention of the tea. “It is
good when one has a cold; oh yes,” she said; “but to drink it at all times, as
you do! If she wants anything it will be a great deal better to give her a
sirop, or a little red wine.”
Frances detained Mariuccia as long as she could, and lingered herself
still longer after all was ready in the room. She did not know how to go
back to the drawing-room, where she had left these two together, to say to
each other, no doubt, many things that could be better said in her absence.
There was no jealousy, only delicacy, in this; and she had given up her
pretty room to her sister, and carried her indispensable belongings to the
bare one, with the purest pleasure in making Constance comfortable.
Constance! whom an hour ago she had never heard of, and who now was
one of them, nearer to her than anybody, except her father. But all this being
done, she had the strangest difficulty in going back, in thrusting herself, as
imagination said, between them, and interrupting their talk. To think that it
should be such a tremendous matter to return to that familiar room in which
the greater part of her life had been passed! It felt like another world into
which she was about to enter, full of unknown elements and conditions
which she did not understand. She had not known what it was to be shy in
the very limited society she had ever known; but she was shy now, feeling
as if she had not courage to put her hand upon the handle of the door. The
familiar creak and jar of it as it opened seemed to her like noisy instruments
announcing her approach, which stopped the conversation, as she had
divined, and made her father and her sister look up with a little start.
Frances could have wished to sink through the floor, to get rid of her own
being altogether, as she saw them both give this slight start. Constance was
leaning upon the table, the light of the lamp shining full upon her face, with
the air of being in the midst of an animated narrative, which she stopped
when Frances entered; and Mr Waring had been listening with a smile. He
turned half round and held out his hand to the timid girl behind him.
“Come, Frances,” he said, “you have been a long time making your
preparations. Have you been bringing out the fairest robe for your sister?” It
was odd how the parable—which had no signification in their
circumstances—haunted them all.
“Your room is quite ready whenever you please. And would you like tea
or anything? I ought to have asked if you had dined,” Frances said.
“Is she the housekeeper?—How odd!—Do you look after everything?—
Dear me! I am afraid, in that case, I shall make a very poor substitute for
Frances, papa.”
“It is not necessary to think of that,” he said hastily, giving her a quick
glance.
Frances saw it, with another involuntary, quickly suppressed pang. Of
course there would be things that Constance must be warned not to say. And
yet it felt as if papa had deserted her and gone over to the other side. She
had not the remotest conception what the warning referred to, or what
Constance meant.
“I dined at the hotel,” Constance went on, “with those people whom I
travelled with. I suppose you will have to call and be civil. They were quite
delighted to think that they would know somebody at Bordighera—some of
the inhabitants.— Yes, tea, if you please. And then I think I shall go to bed;
for twenty-four hours in the train is very fatiguing, besides the excitement.
Don’t you think Frances is very much like mamma? There is a little way
she has of setting her chin.—Look there! That is mamma all over. I think
they would get on together very well: indeed I feel sure of it.” And again
there was a significant look exchanged, which once more went like a sting
to Frances’ heart.
 “Your sister has been telling me,” said Mr Waring, with a little
hesitation, “of a great many people I used to know. You must be very much
surprised, my dear; but I will take an opportunity——” He was confused
before her, as if he had been before a judge. He gave her a look which was
half shame and half gratitude, sentiments both entirely out of place between
him and Frances. She could not bear that he should look at her so.
“Yes, papa,” she said as easily as she could; “I know you must have a
great deal to talk of. If Constance will give me her keys I will unpack her
things for her.” Both the girls instinctively, oddly, addressed each other
through their father, the only link between them, hesitating a little at the
familiarity which nature made necessary, but which had no other warrant.
“Oh, isn’t there a maid who can do it?” Constance cried, opening her
eyes.
The evening seemed long to Frances, though it was not long. Constance
trifled over the tea—which Mariuccia made with much reluctance—for half
an hour. But she talked all the time; and as her talk was of people Frances
had never heard of, and was mingled with little allusions to what had passed
before,—“I told you about him;” “You remember, we were talking of
them;” with a constant recurrence of names which to Frances meant nothing
at all,—it seemed long to her.
She sat down at the table, and took her knitting, and listened, and tried to
look as if she took an interest. She did indeed take a great interest; no one
could have been more eager to enter without arrière-pensée into the new
life thus unfolded before her; and sometimes she was amused and could
laugh at the stories Constance was telling; but her chief feeling was that
sense of being entirely “out of it”—having nothing to do with it—which
makes people who do not understand society feel like so many ghosts
standing on the margin, knowing nothing. The feeling was strange and very
forlorn. It is an unpleasant experience even for those who are strangers, to
whom it is a passing incident; but as the speaker was her sister and the
listener her father, Frances felt this more deeply still. Generally in the
evening conversation flagged between them. He would have his book, and
Frances sometimes had a book too, or a drawing upon which she could
work, or at least her knitting. She had felt that the silence which reigned in
the room on such occasions was not what ought to be. It was not like the
talk which was supposed to go on in all the novels she had ever read where
the people were nice. And sometimes she attempted to entertain her father
with little incidents in the life of their poor neighbours, or things which
Mariuccia had told her; but he listened benevolently, with his finger
between the leaves of his book, or even without closing his book, looking
up at her over the leaves—only out of kindness to her, not because he was
interested; and then silence would fall on them, a silence which was very
sweet to Frances, in the midst of which her own little stream of thoughts
flowed on continuously, but which now and then she was struck to the heart
to think must be very dull for papa.
But to-night it was not dull for him. She listened, and said to herself this
was the way to make conversation; and laughed whenever she could, and
followed every little gesture of her sister’s with admiring eyes. But at the
end, Frances, though she would not acknowledge it to herself, felt that she
had not been amused. She thought the people in the village were just as
interesting. But then she was not so clever as Constance, and could not do
them justice in the same way.
“And now I am going to bed,” Constance said. She rose up in an instant
with a rapid movement, as if the thought had only just struck her and she
obeyed the impulse at once. There was a freedom about all her movements
which troubled and captivated Frances. She had been leaning half over the
table, her sleeves, which were a little wide, falling back from her arms, now
leaning her chin in the hollow of one hand, now supporting it with both,
putting her elbows wherever she pleased. Frances herself had been trained
by Mariuccia to very great decorum in respect to attitudes. If she did
furtively now and then lean an elbow upon the table, she was aware that it
was wrong all the time; and as for legs, she knew it was only men who were
permitted to cross them, or to do anything save sit with two feet equal to
each other upon the floor. But Constance cared for none of these rules. She
rose up abruptly (Mariuccia would have said, as if something had stung
her), almost before she had finished what she was saying. “Show me my
room, please,” she said, and yawned. She yawned quite freely, naturally,
without any attempt to conceal or to apologise for it as if it had been an
accident. Frances could not help being shocked, yet neither could she help
laughing with a sort of pleasure in this breach of all rules. But Constance
only stared, and did not in the least understand why she should laugh.
“Where have you put your sister?” Mr Waring asked.
 “I have put her—in the room next to yours, papa; between your room
and mine, you know: for I am in the blue room now. There she will not feel
strange; she will have people on each side.”
“That is to say, you have given her——”
It was Frances’ turn now to give a warning glance. “The room I thought
she would like best,” she said, with a soft but decisive tone. She too had a
little imperious way of her own. It was so soft, that a stranger would not
have found it out; but in the Palazzo they were all acquainted with it, and no
one—not even Mariuccia—found it possible to say a word after this small
trumpet had sounded. Mr Waring accordingly was silenced, and made no
further remark. He went with his daughters to the door, and kissed the cheek
which Constance held lightly to him. “I shall see you again, papa,” Frances
said, in that same little determined voice.
Mr Waring did not make any reply, but shrank a little aside, to let her
pass. He looked like a man who was afraid. She had spared him; she had
not betrayed the ignorance in which he had brought her up; but now the
moment of reckoning was near, and he was afraid of Frances. He went back
into the salone, and walked up and down with a restlessness which was
natural enough, considering how all the embers of his life had been raked
up by this unexpected event. He had lived in absolute quiet for fourteen
long years: a strange life—a life which might have been supposed to be
impossible for a man still in the heyday of his strength; but yet, as it
appeared, a life which suited him, which he preferred to others more
natural. To settle down in an Italian village with a little girl of six for his
sole companion—when he came to think of it, nothing could be more
unnatural, more extraordinary; and yet he had liked it well enough, as well
as he could have liked anything at that crisis of his fate. He was the kind of
man who, in other circumstances, in another age, would have made himself
a monk, and spent his existence very placidly in illuminating manuscripts.
He had done something as near this as is possible to an Englishman not a
Roman Catholic, of the nineteenth century. Unfortunately, Waring had no
ecclesiastical tendencies, or even in the nineteenth century he might have
found out for himself some pseudo-monkery in which he could have been
happy. As it was, he had retired with his little girl, and on the whole had
been comfortable enough. But now the little girl had grown up, and
required to have various things accounted for; and the other individuals who
had claims upon him, whom he thought he had shaken off altogether, had
turned up again, and had to be dealt with. The monk had an easy time of it
in comparison. He who has but himself to think of may manage himself, if
he has good luck; but the responsibility of others on your shoulders is a
terrible drawback to tranquillity. A little girl! That seemed the simplest of
all things. It had never occurred to him that she would form a link by which
all his former burdens might be drawn back; or that she, more wonderful
still, should ever arise and demand to know why. But both of these
impossible things had happened.
Waring walked about the salone. He opened the glass door and stepped
out into the loggia, into the tranquil shining of the moon, which lit up all the
blues of the sea, and kindled little silver lamps all over the quivering palms.
How quiet it was! and yet that tranquil nature lying unmoved, taking
whatever came of good or evil, did harm in a far more colossal way than
any man could do. The sea, then looking so mild, would suddenly rise up
and bring havoc and destruction worse than an army; yet next day smile
again, and throw its spray into the faces of the children, and lie like a
harmless thing under the light. But a man could not do this. A man had to
give an account of all that he had done, whether it was good or whether it
was evil,—if not to God—which on the whole was the easiest, for God
knew all about it, how little harm had been intended, how little anything
had been intended, how one mistake involved another,—if not to God—
why, to some one harder to face; perhaps to one’s little girl.
He came back from the loggia and the moonlight and nature, which, all
of them, were so indifferent to what was happening to him, with a feeling
that the imperfect human lamp which so easily got out of gear—as easily as
a man—was a more appropriate light for his disturbed soul; and met
Frances with her brown eyes waiting for him at the door.
 CHAPTER VIII.
“It is not because of this only, papa—I wanted before to speak to you. I was
waiting in the loggia for you, when Constance came.”
“What did you want, Frances? Oh, I quite acknowledge that you have a
right to inquire. I hoped, perhaps, I might be spared to-night; I am rather
exhausted—to-night.”
Frances dropped the hand which she had laid upon his arm. “It shall be
exactly as you please, papa. I seem to know a great deal—oh, a great deal
more than I knew at dinner. I don’t think I am the same person; and I
thought it might save us all trouble if you would tell me—as much as you
think I ought to know.”
She had sat down in her usual place, in her careful little modest pose, a
little stiff, a little prim—the training of Mariuccia. After Constance, there
was something in the attitude of Frances which made her father smile,
though he was in no mood for smiling; and it was clear that he could not,
that he ought not to escape. He would not sit down, however, and meet her
eye. He stood by the table for a few minutes, with his eyes upon the books,
turning them over, as if he were looking for something. At last he said, but
without looking up, “There is nothing very dreadful to tell; no guilty secret,
though you may suppose so. Your mother and I——”
“Then I have really a mother, and she is living?” the girl cried.
He looked at her for a moment. “I forgot that for a girl of your age that
means a great deal—I hadn’t thought of it. Perhaps if you knew—— Yes;
you have got a mother, and she is living. I suppose that seems a very
wonderful piece of news?”
Frances did not say anything. The water came into her eyes. Her heart
beat loudly, yet softly, against her young bosom. She had known it, so that
she was not surprised. The surprise had been broken by Constance’s
careless talk, by the wonder, the doubt, the sense of impossibility, which
had gradually yielded to a conviction that it must be so. Her feeling was that
she would like to go now, without delay, without asking any more
questions, to her mother. Her mother! and he hadn’t thought before how
much that meant to a girl—of her age!
 Mr Waring was a little disconcerted by having no answer. Of course it
meant a great deal to a girl; but still, not so much as to make her incapable
of reply. He felt a little annoyed, disturbed, perhaps jealous, as Frances
herself had been. It was with difficulty that he resumed again; but it had to
be done.
“Your mother and I,” he said, taking up the books again, opening and
shutting them, looking at the title-page now of one, now of another, “did not
get on very well. I don’t know who was in fault—probably both. She had
been married before. She had a son whom you hear Constance speak of as
Markham. Markham has been at the bottom of all the trouble. He drove me
out of my senses when he was a boy. Now he is a man: so far as I can make
out it is he that has disturbed our peace again—hunted us up, and sent
Constance here. If you ever meet Markham—and of course now you are
sure to meet him—beware of him.” Here he made a pause again, and looked
with great seriousness at the book in his hand, turning the leaf to finish a
sentence which was continued on the next page.
“I beg your pardon, papa,” said Frances; “I am afraid I am very stupid.
What relation is Markham to me?”
He looked at her for a moment, then threw down the book with some
violence on the table, as if it were the offender. “He is your step-brother,”
he said.
“My—brother? Then I have a brother too?” After a little pause she
added, “It is very wonderful, papa, to come into a new world like this all at
once. I want—to draw my breath.”
“It is my fault that it comes upon you all at once. I never thought——
You were a very small child when I brought you away. You forgot them all,
as was natural. I did not at first know how entirely a child forgets; and then
—then it seemed a pity to disturb your mind, and perhaps set you longing
for—what it was impossible for you to obtain.”
It surprised him a little that Frances did not breathe a syllable of
reproach. She said nothing. In her imagination she was looking back over
these years, wondering how it would have been had she known. Would life
ever be the same, now that she did know? The world seemed to open up
round her, so much greater, wider, more full than she had thought. She had
not thought much on the subject. Life in Bordighera was more limited even
than life in an English village. The fact that she did not belong to the people
among whom she had spent all these years, made a difference; and her
father’s recluse habits, the few people he cared to know, the stagnation of
his life, made a greater difference still. Frances had scarcely felt it until that
meeting with the Mannerings, which put so many vague ideas into her
mind. A child does not naturally inquire into the circumstances which have
surrounded it all its life. It was natural to her to live in this retired place, to
see nobody, to make amusements and occupations for herself—to know no
one more like herself than Tasie Durant. Had she even possessed any girl-
friends living the natural life of youth, that might have inspired a question
or two. But she knew no girls—except Tasie, whose girlhood was a sort of
fossil, and who might almost have been the mother of Frances. She saw
indeed the village girls, but it did not occur to her to compare herself with
them. Familiar as she was with all their ways, she was still a forestière—
one of the barbarous people, English, a word which explains every
difference. Frances did not quite know in what the peculiarity and
eccentricity of the English consisted; but she, too, recognised with all
simplicity that, being English, she was different. Now it came suddenly to
her mind that the difference was not anything generic and general, but that
it was her own special circumstances that had been unlike all the rest. There
had been a mother all the time; another girl, a sister, like herself. It made
her brain whirl.
She sat quite silent, thinking it all over, not perceiving her father’s
embarrassment—thinking less of him, indeed, than of all the wonderful new
things that seemed to crowd about her. She did not blame him. She was not
thinking enough of him to blame him; her mind was quite sufficiently
occupied by her discoveries. As she had taken him all her life without
examination, she continued to take him. He was her father; that was
enough. It did not occur to her to ask herself whether what he had done was
right or wrong. Only, it was all very strange. The old solid earth had gone
from under her feet, and the old order of things had been overthrown. She
was looking out upon a world not realised—a spectator of something like
the throes of creation, seeing the new landscape tremble and roll into place,
the heights and hollows all changing; there was a great deal of excitement
in it, both pain and pleasure. It occupied her so fully, that he fell back into a
secondary place.
But this did not occur to Waring. He had not realised that it could be
possible. He felt himself the centre of the system in which his little daughter
lived, and did not understand how she could ignore him. He thought her
silence—the silence of amazement, and excitement, and of that curious
spectatorship—was the silence of reproach, and that her mind was full of a
sense of wrong, which only duty kept in check. He felt himself on his trial
before her. Having said all that he had to say, he remained silent, expecting
her response. If she had given vent to an indignant exclamation, he would
have been relieved; he would have allowed that she had a right to be
indignant. But her silence was more than he could bear. He searched
through the recesses of his own thoughts; but for the moment he could not
find any further excuse for himself. He had done it for the best. Probably
she would not see that. Waring was well enough acquainted with the human
mind to know that every individual sees such a question from his or her
own point of view: and he was prepared to find that his daughter would be
unable to perceive what was so plain to him. But still he was aware that he
had done it for the best. After a while the silence became so irksome to him
that he felt compelled to break it and resume his explanations. If she would
not say anything, there were a number of things which he might say.
“It is a pity,” he said, “that it has all broken upon you so suddenly. If I
could have divined that Constance would have taken such a step—— To tell
you the truth, I have never realised Constance at all,” he added, with an
impulse towards the daughter he knew. “She was of course a mere child: to
see her so independent, and with so distinct a will of her own, is very
bewildering. I assure you, Frances, if it is wonderful to you, it is scarcely
less wonderful to me.”
There was something in his tone that made her lift her eyes to him; and
to see him stand there so embarrassed, so subdued, so much unlike the
father who, though very kind and tender, had always been perhaps a little
condescending, patronising, towards the girl, whom he scarcely recognised
as an independent entity, went to her heart. She could not tell him not to be
frightened—not to look at her with that guilty, apologetic look, which
altogether reversed their ordinary relationship; but it added a pang to her
bewilderment. She asked hastily, by way of concealing this uncomfortable
change, a question which she thought he would have no difficulty in
answering—“Is Constance much older than I am, papa?”
He gave a sort of furtive smile, as if he had no right to smile in the
circumstances. “I don’t wonder at your question. She has seen a great deal
more of the world. But if there is a minute or two between you, I don’t
know which has it. There is no elder or younger in the case. You are twins,
though no one would think so.”
This gave Frances a further shock—though why, it would be impossible
to say. The blood rushed to her face. “She must think me—a very poor little
thing,” she said, in a hurried tone. “I never knew—I have no friend except
Tasie—to show me what girls might be.” The thought mortified her in an
extraordinary way; it brought a sudden gush of salt tears—tears quite
different from those which had welled to her eyes when he told her of her
mother. Constance, who was so different, would despise her—Constance,
who knew exactly all about it, and that Frances was as old, perhaps a few
minutes older than she. It is always difficult to divine what form pride will
take. This was the manner in which it affected Frances. The same age! and
yet the one an accomplished woman, judging for herself—and the other not
much more than a child.
“You do yourself injustice,” said Mr Waring, somewhat rehabilitated by
the mortification of Frances. “Nobody could think you a poor little thing.
You have not the same knowledge of the world. Constance has been very
differently brought up. I think my training a great deal better than what she
has had,” he added quickly, with a mingled desire to cheer and restore self-
confidence to Frances, and to reassert himself after his humiliation. He felt
what he said; and yet, as was natural, he said a little more than he felt. “I
must tell you,” he said, in this new impulse, “that your mother is—a much
more important person than I am. She is a great deal richer. The marriage
was supposed to be much to my advantage.”
There was a smile on his face which Frances, looking up suddenly,
warned by a certain change of tone, did not like to see. She kept her eyes
upon him instinctively, she could not tell why, with a look which had a
certain influence upon him, though he did not well understand it either. It
meant that the unknown woman of whom he spoke was the girl’s mother—
her mother—one of whom no unbefitting word was to be said. It checked
him in a quite curious unexpected way. When he had spoken of her, which
he had done very rarely since they parted, it had been with a sense that he
was free to characterise her as he thought she deserved. But here he was
stopped short. That very evening he had said things to Constance of her
mother which in a moment he felt that he dared not say to Frances. The
sensation was a very strange one. He made a distinct pause, and then he
said hurriedly, “You must not for a moment suppose that there was anything
wrong; there is no story that you need be afraid of hearing—nothing,
neither on her side nor mine—nothing to be ashamed of.”
All at once Frances grew very pale; her eyes opened wide; she gazed at
him with speechless horror. The idea was altogether new to her artless
mind. It flashed through his that Constance would not have been at all
surprised—that probably she would have thought it “nice of him” to
exonerate his wife from all moral shortcoming. The holy ignorance of the
other brought a sensation of shame to Waring, and at the same time a
sensation of pride. Nothing could more clearly have proved the superiority
of his training. She would have felt no consternation, only relief at this
assurance, if she had been all her life in her mother’s hands.
“It is a great deal to say, however, though you are too inexperienced to
know. The whole thing was incompatibility—incompatibility of temper, and
of ideas, and of tastes, and of fortune even. I could not, you may suppose,
accept advantages purchased with my predecessor’s money, or take the
good of his rank through my wife; and she would not come down in the
world to my means and to my name. It was an utter mistake altogether. We
should have understood each other beforehand. It was impossible that we
could get on. But that was all. There was probably more talk about it than if
there had been really more to talk about.”
Frances rose up with a little start. “I think, perhaps,” she said, “I don’t
want you to tell me any more.”
“Well—perhaps you are right.” But he was startled by her quick
movement. “I did not mean to say anything that could shock you. If you are
to hear anything at all, the truth is what you must hear. But you must not
blame me over-much, Frances. Your very impatience of what I have been
saying will explain to you why I thought that to say nothing—as long as I
could help it—was the best.”
Her hand trembled a little as she lighted her candle, but she made no
comment. “Good night, papa. To-morrow it will all seem different.
Everything is strange to-night.”
He put his hands upon her shoulders and looked down into the little
serious face, the face that had never been so serious before. “Don’t think
any worse of me, Frances, than you can help.”
Her eyes opened wider with astonishment.
 “Think of you, worse—— But, papa, I am not thinking of you at all,”
she said, simply; “I am thinking of it.”
Waring had gone through a number of depressing and humbling
experiences during the course of the evening, but this was the unkindest of
all—and it was so natural. Frances was no critic. She was not thinking of
his conduct, which was the first thing in his mind, but of It, the revelation
which had been made to her. He might have perceived that, or divined it, if
he had not been occupied by this idea, which did not occupy her at all—the
thought of how he personally had come through the business. He gave a
little faltering laugh at himself as he stooped and kissed her. “That’s all
right,” he said. “Good night; but don’t let It interfere with your sleep. To-
morrow everything will look different, as you say.”
Frances turned away with her light in her hand; but before she had
reached the door, returned again. “I think I ought to tell you, papa, that I am
sure the Durants know. They said a number of strange things to me
yesterday, which I think I understand now. If you don’t mind, I would rather
let them suppose that I knew all the time; otherwise, it looks as if you
thought you could not trust me.”
“I could trust you,” he said, with a little fervour,—“my dear child, my
dear little girl—I would trust you with my life.”
Was there a faint smile in the little girl’s limpid simple eyes? He thought
so, and it disconcerted him strangely. She made no response to that
protestation, but with a little nod of her head went away. Waring sat down at
the table again, and began to think it all over from the beginning. He was
sore and aching, like a man who has fallen from a height. He had fallen
from the pedestal on which, to Frances, he had stood all these years. She
might not be aware of it even—but he was. And he had fallen from those
Elysian fields of peace in which he had been dwelling for so long. They had
not, perhaps, seemed very Elysian while he was secure of their possession.
They had been monotonous in their stillness, and wearied his soul. But now
that he looked back upon them, a new cycle having begun, they seemed to
him like the very home of peace. He had not done anything to forfeit this
tranquillity; and yet it was over, and he stood once more on the edge of an
agitated and disturbed life. He was a man who could bear monotony, who
liked his own way, yet liked that bondage of habit which is as hard as iron
to some souls. He liked to do the same things at the same time day after
day, and to be undisturbed in doing them. But now all his quiet was over.
Constance would have a thousand requirements such as Frances had never
dreamed of; and her brother no doubt would soon turn up—that step-brother
whom Waring had never been able to tolerate even when he was a child.
She might even come Herself—who could tell?
When this thought crossed his mind, he got up hastily and left the
salone, leaving the lamp burning, as Domenico found it next morning, to
his consternation—a symbol of Chaos come again—burning in the daylight.
Mr Waring almost fled to his room and locked his door in the horror of that
suggestion. And this was not only because the prospect of such a visit
disturbed him beyond measure, but because he had not yet made a clean
breast of it. Frances did not yet know all.
Frances for her part went to the blue room, and opened the persiani, and
sat looking out upon the moonlight for some time before she went to bed.
The room was bare; she missed her pictures, which Constance had taken no
notice of—the Madonna that had been above her head for so many years,
and which had vaguely appeared to her as a symbol of the mother who had
never existed in her life. Now there seemed less need for the Madonna. The
bare walls had pictures all over them—pictures of a new life. In
imagination, no one is shy, or nervous, or strange. She let the new figures
move about her freely, and delighted herself with familiar pictures of them
and the changes that must accompany them. She was not like her father,
afraid of changes. She thought of the new people, the new combinations,
the quickened life: and the thought made her smile. They would come, and
she would make the house gay and bright to receive them. Perhaps some
time, surrounded by this new family that belonged to her, she might even be
taken “home.” The thought was delightful notwithstanding the thrill of
excitement in it. But still there was something which Frances did not know.
 CHAPTER IX.
“What is this I hear about Waring?” said General Gaunt, walking out upon
the loggia, where the Durants were sitting, on the same memorable
afternoon on which all that has been above related occurred. The General
was dressed in loosely fitting light-coloured clothes. It was one of the
recommendations of the Riviera to him that he could wear out there all his
old Indian clothes, which would have been useless to him at home. He was
a very tall old man, very yellow, nay, almost greenish in the complexion,
extremely spare, with a fine old white moustache, which had an immense
effect upon his brown face. The well-worn epigram might be adapted in his
case to say that nobody ever was so fierce as the General looked; and yet he
was at bottom rather a mild old man, and had never hurt anybody, except
the sepoys in the Mutiny, all his life. His head was covered with a broad
light felt hat, which, soft as it was, took an aggressive cock when he put it
on. He held his gloves dangling from his hand with the air of having been in
too much haste to put them to their proper use. And his step, as he stepped
off the carpet upon the marble of the loggia, sounded like that of an alert
officer who has just heard that the enemy has made a reconnaissance in
force two miles off, and that there is no time to lose. “What is this I hear
about Waring?” he said.
“Yes, indeed!” cried Mrs Durant.
“It is a most remarkable story,” said his Reverence, shaking his head.
“But what is it?” asked the General. “I found Mrs Gaunt almost crying
when I went in. What she said was, ‘Charles, we have been nourishing a
viper in our bosoms.’ I am not addicted to metaphor, and I insisted upon
plain English; and then it all came out. She told me Waring was an
impostor, and had been taking us all in; that some old friend of his had been
here, and had told you. Is that true?”
“My dear!” said Mr Durant in a tone of remonstrance.
“Well, Henry! you never said it was to be kept a secret. It could not
possibly be kept a secret—so few of us here, and all so intimate.”
“Then he is an impostor?” said General Gaunt.
 “Oh, my dear General, that’s too strong a word. Henry, you had better
tell the General, your own way.”
The old clergyman had been shaking his head all the time. He was dying
to tell all that he knew, yet he could not but improve the occasion. “Oh,
ladies, ladies!” he said, “when there is anything to be told, the best of
women is not to be trusted. But, General, our poor friend is no impostor. He
never said he was a widower.”
“It’s fortunate we’ve none of us girls——” the General began; then with
a start, “I forgot Miss Tasie; but she’s a girl—a girl in ten thousand,” he
added, with a happy inspiration. Tasie, who was still seated behind the
teacups, give him a smile in reply.
“Poor dear Mr Waring,” she said, “whether he is a widower or has a
wife, it does not matter much. Nobody can call Mr Waring a flirt. He might
be any one’s grandfather from his manner. I cannot see that it matters a bit.”
“Not so far as we are concerned, thank heaven!” said her mother, with
the air of one whose dear child has escaped a danger. “But I don’t think it is
quite respectable for one of our small community to have a wife alive and
never to let any one know.”
“I understand, a most excellent woman; besides being a person of rank,”
said Mr Durant. “It has disturbed me very much—though, happily, as my
wife says, from no private motive.” Here the good man paused, and gave
vent to a sigh of thankfulness, establishing the impression that his
ingenuous Tasie had escaped as by a miracle from Waring’s wiles; and then
he continued, “I think some one should speak to him on the subject. He
ought to understand that now it is known, public opinion requires——
Some one should tell him——”
“There is no one so fit as a clergyman,” the General said.
“That is true, perhaps, in the abstract; but with our poor friend——
There are some men who will not take advice from a clergyman.”
“O Henry! do him justice. He has never shown anything but respect to
you.”
“I should say that a man of the world, like the General——”
“Oh, not I,” cried the General, getting up hurriedly. “No, thank you; I
never interfere with any man’s affairs. That’s your business, Padre. Besides,
I have no daughter: whether he is married or not is nothing to me.”
 “Nor to us, heaven be praised!” said Mrs Durant; and then she added, “It
is not for ourselves; it is for poor little Frances, a girl that has never known
a mother’s care! How much better for her to be with her mother, and
properly introduced into society, than living in that hugger-mugger way,
without education, without companions! If it were not for Tasie, the child
would never see a creature near her own age.”
“And I am much older than Frances,” said Tasie, rather to heighten the
hardship of the situation than from any sense that this was true.
“Decidedly the Padre ought to talk to him,” said the Anglo-Indian. “He
ought to be made to feel that everybody at the station—— Wife all right, do
you know? Bless me! if the wife is all right, what does the man mean? Why
can’t they quarrel peaceably, and keep up appearances, as we all do?”
“Oh no—not all; we never quarrel.”
“Not for a long time, my love.”
“Henry, you may trust to my memory. Not for about thirty years. We had
a little disagreement then about where we were to go for the summer. Oh, I
remember it well—the agony it cost me! Don’t say ‘as we all do,’ General,
for it would not be true.”
“You are a pair of old turtle-doves,” quoth the General. “All the more
reason why you should talk to him, Padre. Tell him he’s come among us on
false pretences, not knowing the damage he might have done. I always
thought he was a queer hand to have the education of a little girl.”
“He taught her Latin; and that woman of theirs, Mariuccia, taught her to
knit. That’s all she knows. And her mother all the time in such a fine
position, able to do anything for her! Oh, it is of Frances I think most!”
“It is quite evident,” said the General, “that Mr Durant must interfere.”
“I think it very likely I shall do no good. A man of the world, a man like
that——”
“There is no such great harm about the man.”
“And he is very good to Frances,” said Tasie, almost under her breath.
“I daresay he meant no harm,” said the General, “if that is all. Only, he
should be warned; and if anything can be done for Frances—— It is a pity
she should see nobody, and never have a chance of establishing herself in
life.”
 “She ought to be introduced into society,” said Mrs Durant. “As for
establishing herself in life, that is in the hands of Providence, General. It is
not to be supposed that such an idea ever enters into a girl’s mind—unless it
is put there, which is so often the case.”
“The General means,” said Tasie, “that seeing people would make her
more fit to be a companion for her papa. Frances is a dear girl; but it is quite
true—she is wanting in conversation. They often sit a whole evening
together and scarcely speak.”
“She is a nice little thing,” said the General, energetically—“I always
thought so; and never was at a dance, I suppose, or a junketing of any
description, in her life. To be sure, we are all old duffers in this place. The
Padre should interfere.”
“If I could see it was my duty,” said Mr Durant.
“I know what you mean,” said General Gaunt. “I’m not too fond of
interference myself. But when a man has concealed his antecedents, and
they have been found out. And then the little girl——”
“Yes: it is Frances I think of most,” said Mr Durant.
It was at last settled among them that it was clearly the clergyman’s
business to interfere. He had been tolerably certain to begin with, but he
liked the moral support of what he called a consensus of opinion. Mr
Durant was not so reluctant as he professed to be. He had not much scope
for those social duties which, he was of opinion, were not the least
important of a clergyman’s functions; and though there was a little
excitement in the uncertainty from Sunday to Sunday how many people
would be at church, what the collection would be, and other varying
circumstances, yet the life of the clergyman at Bordighera was monotonous,
and a little variety was welcome. In other chaplaincies which Mr Durant
had held, he had come in contact with various romances of real life. These
were still the days of gaming, when every German bath had its tapis vert
and its little troup of tragedies. But the Riviera was very tranquil, and
Bordighera had just been found out by the invalid and the pleasure-seeker.
It was monotonous: there had been few deaths, even among the visitors,
which are always varieties in their way for the clergyman, and often are the
means of making acquaintances both useful and agreeable to himself and
his family. But as yet there had not even been many deaths. This gave great
additional excitement to what is always exciting, for a small community—
the cropping up under their very noses, in their own immediate circle, of a
mystery, of a discovery which afforded boundless opportunity for talk. The
first thing naturally that had affected Mr and Mrs Durant was the
miraculous escape of Tasie, to whom Mr Waring might have made himself
agreeable, and whose peace of mind might have been affected, for anything
that could be said to the contrary. They said to each other that it was a hair-
breadth escape; although it had not occurred previously to any one that any
sort of mutual attraction between Mr Waring and Tasie was possible.
And then the other aspects of the case became apparent. Mr Durant felt
now that to pass it over, to say nothing about the matter, to allow Waring to
suppose that everything was as it had always been, was impossible. He and
his wife had decided this without the intervention of General Gaunt; but
when the General appeared—the only other permanent pillar of society in
Bordighera—then there arose that consensus which made further steps
inevitable. Mrs Gaunt looked in later, after dinner, in the darkening; and
she, too, was of opinion that something must be done. She was affected to
tears by the thought of that mystery in their very midst, and of what the
poor (unknown) lady must have suffered, deserted by her husband, and
bereft of her child. “He might at least have left her her child,” she said, with
a sob; and she was fully of opinion that he should be spoken to without
delay, and that they should not rest till Frances had been restored to her
mother. She thought it was “a duty” on the part of Mr Durant to interfere.
The consensus was thus unanimous; there was not a dissentient voice in the
entire community. “We will sleep upon it,” Mr Durant said. But the
morning brought no further light. They were all agreed more strongly than
ever that Waring ought to be spoken to, and that it was undeniably a duty
for the clergyman to interfere.
Mr Durant accordingly set out before it was too late, before the mid-day
breakfast, which is the coolest and calmest moment of the day, the time for
business, before social intercourse is supposed to begin. He was very
carefully brushed from his hat to his shoes, and was indeed a very agreeable
example of a neat old clerical gentleman. Ecclesiastical costume was much
more easy in those days. It was before the era of long coats and soft hats,
when a white tie was the one incontrovertible sign of the clergyman who
did not think of calling himself a priest. He was indeed, having been for a
number of years located in Catholic countries, very particular not to call
himself a priest, or to condescend to any garb which could recall the
soutane and three-cornered hat of the indigenous clergy. His black clothes
were spotless, but of the ordinary cut, perhaps a trifle old-fashioned. But yet
neither soutane nor berretta could have made it more evident that Mr
Durant, setting out with an ebony stick and black gloves, was an English
clergyman going mildly but firmly to interfere. Had he been met with in the
wilds of Africa, even there mistake would have been impossible. In his
serious eye, in the aspect of the corners of his mouth, in a certain air of
gentle determination diffused over his whole person, this was apparent. It
made a great impression upon Domenico when he opened the door. After
what had happened yesterday, Domenico felt that anything might happen.
“Lo, this man’s brow, like to a title leaf, foretells the nature of the tragic
volume,” he said to Mariuccia—at least if he did not use these words, his
meaning was the same. He ushered the English pastor into the room which
Mr Waring occupied as a library, with bated breath. “Master is going to
catch it,” was what, perhaps, a light-minded Cockney might have said. But
Domenico was a serious man, and did not trifle.
Waring’s library was, like all the rooms of his suite, an oblong room,
with three windows and as many doors, opening into the dining-room on
one hand, and the ante-room on the other. It had the usual indecipherable
fresco on the roof, and the walls on one side were half clothed with
bookcases. Not a very large collection of books, and yet enough to make a
pretty show, with their old gilding, and the dull white of the vellum in
which so many were bound. It was a room in which he spent the most of his
time, and it had been made comfortable according to the notions of comfort
prevailing in these regions. There was a square of carpet under his writing-
table. His chair was a large old fauteuil, covered with faded damask; and
curtains, also faded, were festooned over all the windows and doors. The
persiani were shut to keep out the sun, and the cool atmosphere had a
greenish tint. Waring, however, did not look so peaceful as his room. He sat
with his chair pushed away from the table, reading what seemed to be a
novel. He had the air of a man who had taken refuge there from some
embarrassment or annoyance; not the tranquil look of a man occupied in so-
called studies needing leisure, with his note-books at hand, and pen and ink
within reach. Such a man is usually very glad to be interrupted in the midst
of his self-imposed labours, and Waring’s first movement was one of
satisfaction. He threw down the book, with an apology for having ever
taken it up in the half-ashamed, half-violent way in which he got rid of it.
Don’t suppose I care for such rubbish, his gesture seemed to say. But the
aspect of Mr Durant changed his look of welcome. He rose hurriedly, and
gave his visitor a chair. “You are early out,” he said.
“Yes; the morning, I find, is the best time. Even after the sun is down, it
is never so fresh in the evening. Especially for business, I find it the best
time.”
“That means, I suppose,” said Waring, “that your visit this morning
means business, and not mere friendship, as I had supposed?”
“Friendship always, I hope,” said the tidy old clergyman, smoothing his
hat with his hand; “but I don’t deny it is something more serious: a—a—
question I want to ask you, if you don’t mind——”
Just at this moment, in the next room there rose a little momentary and
pleasant clamour of voices and youthful laughter; two voices certainly—
Frances and another. This made Mr Durant prick up his ears. “You have—
visitors?” he said.
“Yes. I will answer to the best of my ability,” said Waring, with a smile.
Now was the time when Mr Durant realised the difficult nature of his
mission. At home in his own house, especially in the midst of the consensus
of opinion, with everybody encouraging him and pressing upon him the fact
that it was “a duty,” the matter seemed easy enough. But when he found
himself in Waring’s house, looking a man in the face with whose concerns
he had really no right to interfere, and who had not at all the air of a man
ready to be brought to the confessional, Mr Durant’s confidence failed him.
He faltered a little; he looked at his very unlikely penitent, and then he
looked at the hat which he was turning round in his hands, but which gave
him no courage. Then he cleared his throat. “The question is—quite a
simple one,” he said. “There can be no doubt of your ability—to answer. I
am sure you will forgive me if I say, to begin with——”
“One moment. Is this question—which seems to trouble you—about my
affairs or yours?”
Mr Durant’s clear complexion betrayed something like a flush. “That is
just what I want to explain. You will acknowledge, my dear Waring, that
you have been received here—well, there is not very much in our power—
but with every friendly feeling, every desire to make you one of us.”
“All this preface shows me that it is I who have been found wanting. You
are quite right; you have been most hospitable and kind—to myself, almost
too much so; to my daughter, you have given all the society she has ever
known.”
“I am glad, truly glad, that you think we have done our part. My dear
friend, was it right, then, when we opened our arms to you so
unsuspectingly, to come among us in a false character—under false
colours?”
“Stop!” said Waring, growing pale. “This is going a little too far. I
suppose I understand what you mean. Mannering, who calls himself my old
friend, has been here; and as he could not hold his tongue if his life
depended upon it, he has told you—— But why you should accuse me of
holding a false position, of coming under false colours—which was what
you said——”
“Waring!” said the clergyman, in a voice of mild thunder, “did you never
think, when you came here, comparatively a young, and—well, still a good-
looking man—did you never think that there might be some susceptible
heart—some woman’s heart——”
“Good heavens!” cried Waring, starting to his feet, “I never supposed for
a moment——”
“——Some young creature,” Mr Durant continued, solemnly, “whom it
might be my duty and your duty to guard from deception; but who
naturally, taking you for a widower——”
Waring’s countenance of horror was unspeakable. He stood up before his
table like a little boy who was about to be caned. Exclamations of dismay
fell unconsciously from his lips. “Sir! I never thought——”
Mr Durant paused to contemplate with pleasure the panic he had caused.
He put down his hat and rubbed together his little fat white hands. “By the
blessing of Providence,” he said, drawing a long breath, “that danger has
been averted. I say it with thankfulness. We have been preserved from any
such terrible result. But had things been differently ordered—think, only
think! and be grateful to Providence.”
The answer which Waring made to this speech was to burst into a fit of
uncontrollable laughter. He seemed incapable of recovering his gravity. As
soon as he paused, exhausted, to draw breath, he was off again. The
suggestion, when it ceased to be horrible, became ludicrous beyond
description. He quavered forth “I beg your pardon” between the fits, which
Mr Durant did not at all like. He sat looking on at the hilarity very gravely
without a smile.
“I did not expect so much levity,” he said.
“I beg your pardon,” cried the culprit, with tears running down his
cheeks. “Forgive me. If you will recollect that the character of a gay
Lothario is the last one in the world——”
“It is not necessary to be a gay Lothario,” returned the clergyman.
“Really, if this is to continue, it will be better that I should withdraw.
Laughter was the last thing I intended to produce.”
“It is not a bad thing, and it is not an indulgence I am given to. But I
think, considering what a very terrible alternative you set before me, we
may be very glad it has ended in laughter. Mr Durant,” continued Waring,
“you have only anticipated an explanation I intended to make. Mannering is
an ass.”
“I am sure he is a most respectable member of society,” said Mr Durant,
with much gravity.
“So are many asses. I have some one else to present to you, who is very
unlike Mannering, but who betrays me still more distinctly. Constance, I
want you here.”
The old clergyman gazed, not believing his eyes, as there suddenly
appeared in the doorway the tall figure of a girl who had never been seen as
yet in Bordighera—a girl who was very simply dressed, yet who had an air
which the old gentleman, acquainted, as he flattered himself, with the air of
fine people, could not ignore. She stood with a careless grace, returning
slightly, not without a little of that impertinence of a fine lady which is so
impressive to the crowd, his salutation. “Did you want me, papa?” she
quietly asked.
 CHAPTER X.
The revelation which thus burst upon Mr Durant was known throughout the
length and breadth of Bordighera, as that good man said, before the day was
out. The expression was not so inappropriate as might be at first supposed,
considering the limited society to which the fact that Mr Waring had a
second daughter was of any particular interest; for the good chaplain’s own
residence was almost at the extremity of the Marina, and General Gaunt’s
on the highest point of elevation among the olive gardens; while the only
other English inhabitants were in the hotels near the beach, and consisted of
a landlady, a housekeeper, and the highly respectable person who had
charge of the stables at the Bellevue. This little inferior world was
respectfully interested but not excited by the new arrival.
But to Mrs Durant and Tasie it was an event of the first importance; and
Mrs Gaunt was at first disposed to believe that it was a revelation of further
wickedness, and that there was no telling where these discoveries might
end. “We shall be hearing that he has a son next,” she said. They had a
meeting in the afternoon to talk it over; and it really did appear at first that
the new disclosure enhanced the enormity of the first—for, naturally, the
difference between a widower and a married man is aggravated by the
discovery that the deceiver pretending to have only one child has really “a
family.” At the first glance the ladies were all impressed by this; though
afterwards, when they began to think of it, they were obliged to admit that
the conclusion perhaps was not very well founded. And when it turned out
that Frances and the new-comer were twins, that altogether altered the
question, and left them, though they were by no means satisfied, without
anything further to say.
While all this went on outside the Palazzo, there was much going on
within it that was calculated to produce difficulty and embarrassment. Mr
Waring, with a consciousness that he was acting a somewhat cowardly part,
ran away from it altogether, and shut himself up in his library, and left his
daughters to make acquaintance with each other as they best could. He was,
as has been said, by no means sufficiently at his ease to return to what he
called his studies, the ordinary occupations of his life. He had run away, and
he knew it. He went so far as to turn the key in one door, so that, whatever
happened, he could only be invaded from one side, and sat down uneasily in
the full conviction that from moment to moment he might be called upon to
act as interpreter or peacemaker, or to explain away difficulties. He did not
understand women, but only his wife, from whom he had taken various
prejudices on the subject; neither did he understand girls, but only Frances,
whom, indeed, he ought to have known better than to suppose, either that
she was likely to squabble with her sister, or call him in to mediate or
explain. Frances was not at all likely to do either of these things; and he
knew that, yet lived in a vague dread, and did not even sit comfortably on
his chair, and tried to distract his mind with a novel—which was the
condition in which he was found by Mr Durant. The clergyman’s visit did
him a little good, giving him at once a grievance and an object of ridicule.
During the rest of the day he was so far distracted from his real difficulties
as to fall from time to time into fits of secret laughter over the idea of
having been in all unconsciousness a source of danger for Tasie. He had
never been a gay Lothario, as he said; but to have run the risk of destroying
Tasie’s peace of mind was beyond his wildest imagination. He longed to
confide it to somebody, but there was no one with whom he could share the
fun. Constance perhaps might have understood; but Frances! He relapsed
into gravity when he thought of Frances. It was not the kind of ludicrous
suggestion which would amuse her.
Meanwhile the girls, who were such strangers to each other, yet so
closely bound by nature, were endeavouring to come to a knowledge of
each other by means which were much more subtle than any explanation
their father could have supplied; so that he might, if he had understood
them better, have been entirely at his ease on this point. As a matter of fact,
though Constance was the cleverer of the two, it was Frances who advanced
most quickly in her investigations, for the excellent reason that it was
Constance who talked, while Frances, for the most part having nothing at
all interesting to say of herself, held her peace. Frances had been awakened
at an unusually late hour in the morning—for the agitation of the night had
abridged her sleep at the other end—by the sounds of mirth which
accompanied the first dialogue between her new sister and Mariuccia. The
Italian which Constance knew was limited, but it was of a finer quality than
any with which Mariuccia was acquainted; yet still they came to some sort
of understanding, and both repudiated the efforts of Frances to explain. And
from that moment Constance had kept the conversation in her hands. She
did not chatter, nor was there any appearance of loquacity in her; but
Frances had lived much alone, and had been taught not to disturb her father
when she was with him, so that it was more her habit to be talked to than to
talk. She did not even ask many questions—they were scarcely necessary;
for Constance, as was natural, was full of herself and of her motives for the
step she had taken. These revelations gave Frances new lights almost at
every word.
“You always knew, then, about—us?” Frances said. She had intended to
say “about me,” but refrained, with mingled modesty and pride.
“Oh, certainly. Mamma always writes, you know, at Christmas, if not
oftener. We did not know you were here. It was Markham who found out
that. Markham is the most active-minded fellow in the world. Papa does not
much like him. I daresay you have never heard anything very favourable of
him; but that is a mistake. We knew pretty well about you. Mamma used to
ask that you should write, since there was no reason why, at your age, you
should not speak for yourself; but you never did. I suppose he thought it
better not.”
“I suppose so.”
“I should not myself have been restrained by that,” said Constance. “I
think very well on the whole of papa; but obedience of that sort at our age is
too much. I should not have obeyed him. I should have told him that in such
a matter I must judge for myself. However, if one learns anything as one
grows up,” said this young philosopher, “it is that no two people are alike. I
suppose that was not how the subject presented itself to you?”
Frances made no reply. She wondered what she would have said had she
been told to write to an unknown mother. Ought she to do so now? The idea
was a very strange one to her mind, and yet what could be more natural? It
was with a sense of precipitate avoidance of a subject which must be
contemplated fully at an after-period, that she said hurriedly, “I have never
written letters. It did not come into my head.”
“Ah!” said Constance, looking at her with a sort of impartial scrutiny.
Then she added, with a sequence of thoughts which it was not difficult to
follow, “Don’t you think it is very odd that you and I should be the same
age?”
Frances felt herself grow red, and the water came to her eyes. She looked
wistfully at the other, who was so much more advanced than she felt herself
to be. “I suppose—we ought to have been like each other,” she said.
“We are not, however, a bit. You are like mamma. I don’t know whether
you are like her in mind—but on the outside. And I am like him. It is very
funny. It shows that one has these peculiarities from one’s birth; it couldn’t
be habit or association, as people say, for I have never been with him—
neither have you with mamma. I suppose he is very independent-minded,
and does what he likes without thinking? So do I. And you consider what
other people will say, and how it will look, and a thousand things.”
It did not seem to Frances that this was the case; but she was not at all in
the habit of studying herself, and made no protest. Did she consider very
much what other people would say? Perhaps it was true. She had been
obliged, she reflected, to consider what Mariuccia would say; so that
probably Constance was right.
“It was Markham that discovered you, after all, as I told you. He is
invaluable; he never forgets; and if you want to find anything out, he will
take any amount of trouble. I may as well tell you why I left home. If we
are going to live together as sisters, we ought to make confidants of each
other; and if you have to go, you can take my part. Well, then! You must
know there is a man in it. They say you should always ask, ‘Who is She?’
when there is a row between men; and I am sure it is just as natural to ask,
‘Who is He?’ when a girl gets into a scrape.”
The language, the tone, the meaning, were all new to Frances. She did
not know anything about it. When there is a row between men; when a girl
gets into a scrape: the one and the other were equally far from her
experience. She felt herself blush, though she scarcely knew why. She
shook her head when Constance added, though rather as a remark than as a
question, “Don’t you know? Oh, well; I did not mean, have you any
personal experience, but as a general principle? The man in this case was
well enough. Papa said, when I told him, that it was quite right; that I had
better have made up my mind without making a fuss; that he would have
advised me so, if he had known. But I will never allow that this is a point
upon which any one can judge for you. Mamma pressed me more than a
mother has any right to do—to a person of my age.”
“But, Constance, eighteen is not so very old.”
“Eighteen is the age of reason,” said the girl, somewhat imperiously;
then she paused and added—“in most cases, when one has been much in the
world, like me. Besides, it is like the middle ages when your mother thinks
she can make you do what she pleases and marry as she likes. That must be
one’s own affair. I must say that I thought papa would take my part more
strongly, for they have always been so much opposed. But after all, though
he is not in harmony with her, still the parents’ side is his side.”
“Did you not like—the gentleman?” said Frances. Nothing could be
more modest than this question, and yet it brought the blood to her face.
She had never heard the ordinary badinage on this subject, or thought of
love with anything but awe and reverence, as a mystery altogether beyond
her and out of discussion. She did not look at her sister as she put the
question. Constance lay back in the long wicker-work chair, well lined with
cushions, which was her father’s favourite seat, with her hands clasped
behind her head, in one of those attitudes of complete abandon which
Frances had been trained to think impossible to a girl.
“Did I like—the gentleman? I did not think that question could ever
again be put to me in an original way. I see now what is the good of a sister.
Mamma and Markham and all my people had such a different way of
looking at it. You must know that that is not the first question, whether you
like the man. As for that, I liked him—well enough. There was nothing to—
dislike in him.”
Frances turned her eyes to her sister’s face with something like reproach.
“I may not have used the right word. I have never spoken on such subjects
before.”
“I have always been told that men are dreadful prudes,” said Constance.
“I suppose papa has brought you up to think that such things must never be
spoken of. I’ll tell you what is original about it. I have been asked if he was
not rich enough, if he was not handsome enough, if it was because he had
no title: and I have been asked if I loved him, which was nonsense. I could
answer all that; but you I can’t answer. Don’t I like him? I was not going to
be persecuted about him. It was Markham who put this into my head. ‘Why
don’t you go to your father,’ he said, ‘if you won’t hear reason? He is just
the sort of person to understand you, if we don’t.’ So, then, I took them at
their word. I came off—to papa.”
“Does Markham dislike papa? I mean, doesn’t he think——”
“I know what you mean. They don’t think that papa has good sense.
They think him romantic, and all that. I have always been accustomed to