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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 11371 ***
+THE MOORLAND COTTAGE.
+
+
+
+By the author of MARY BARTON.
+
+
+
+
+NEW YORK: 1851.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+CHAPTER I.
+
+If you take the turn to the left, after you pass the lyke-gate at
+Combehurst Church, you will come to the wooden bridge over the brook; keep
+along the field-path which mounts higher and higher, and, in half a mile or
+so, you will be in a breezy upland field, almost large enough to be called
+a down, where sheep pasture on the short, fine, elastic turf. You look down
+on Combehurst and its beautiful church-spire. After the field is crossed,
+you come to a common, richly colored with the golden gorse and the purple
+heather, which in summer-time send out their warm scents into the quiet
+air. The swelling waves of the upland make a near horizon against the sky;
+the line is only broken in one place by a small grove of Scotch firs, which
+always look black and shadowed even at mid-day, when all the rest of the
+landscape seems bathed in sunlight. The lark quivers and sings high up in
+the air; too high--in too dazzling a region for you to see her. Look! she
+drops into sight; but, as if loth to leave the heavenly radiance, she
+balances herself and floats in the ether. Now she falls suddenly right into
+her nest, hidden among the ling, unseen except by the eyes of Heaven,
+and the small bright insects that run hither and thither on the elastic
+flower-stalks. With something like the sudden drop of the lark, the path
+goes down a green abrupt descent; and in a basin, surrounded by the grassy
+hills, there stands a dwelling, which is neither cottage nor house, but
+something between the two in size. Nor yet is it a farm, though surrounded
+by living things. It is, or rather it was, at the time of which I speak,
+the dwelling of Mrs. Browne, the widow of the late curate of Combehurst.
+There she lived with her faithful old servant and her only children, a boy
+and girl. They were as secluded in their green hollow as the households in
+the German forest-tales. Once a week they emerged and crossed the common,
+catching on its summit the first sounds of the sweet-toned bells, calling
+them to church. Mrs. Browne walked first, holding Edward's hand. Old Nancy
+followed with Maggie; but they were all one party, and all talked together
+in a subdued and quiet tone, as beseemed the day. They had not much to say,
+their lives were too unbroken; for, excepting on Sundays, the widow and
+her children never went to Combehurst. Most people would have thought the
+little town a quiet, dreamy place; but to those two children if seemed
+the world; and after they had crossed the bridge, they each clasped more
+tightly the hands which they held, and looked shyly up from beneath their
+drooped eyelids when spoken to by any of their mother's friends. Mrs.
+Browne was regularly asked by some one to stay to dinner after morning
+church, and as regularly declined, rather to the timid children's relief;
+although in the week-days they sometimes spoke together in a low voice
+of the pleasure it would be to them if mamma would go and dine at Mr.
+Buxton's, where the little girl in white and that great tall boy lived.
+Instead of staying there, or anywhere else, on Sundays, Mrs. Browne thought
+it her duty to go and cry over her husband's grave. The custom had arisen
+out of true sorrow for his loss, for a kinder husband, and more worthy man,
+had never lived; but the simplicity of her sorrow had been destroyed by the
+observation of others on the mode of its manifestation. They made way for
+her to cross the grass toward his grave; and she, fancying that it was
+expected of her, fell into the habit I have mentioned. Her children,
+holding each a hand, felt awed and uncomfortable, and were sensitively
+conscious how often they were pointed out, as a mourning group, to
+observation.
+
+"I wish it would always rain on Sundays," said Edward one day to Maggie, in
+a garden conference.
+
+"Why?" asked she.
+
+"Because then we bustle out of church, and get home as fast as we can, to
+save mamma's crape; and we have not to go and cry over papa."
+
+"I don't cry," said Maggie. "Do you?"
+
+Edward looked round before he answered, to see if they were quite alone,
+and then said:
+
+"No; I was sorry a long time about papa, but one can't go on being sorry
+forever. Perhaps grown-up people can."
+
+"Mamma can," said little Maggie. "Sometimes I am very sorry too; when I am
+by myself or playing with you, or when I am wakened up by the moonlight
+in our room. Do you ever waken and fancy you heard papa calling you? I
+do sometimes; and then I am very sorry to think we shall never hear him
+calling us again."
+
+"Ah, it's different with me, you know. He used to call me to lessons."
+
+"Sometimes he called me when he was displeased with me. But I always dream
+that he was calling us in his own kind voice, as he used to do when he
+wanted us to walk with him, or to show us something pretty."
+
+Edward was silent, playing with something on the ground. At last he
+looked round again, and, having convinced himself that they could not be
+overheard, he whispered:
+
+"Maggie--sometimes I don't think I'm sorry that papa is dead--when I'm
+naughty, you know; he would have been so angry with me if he had been here;
+and I think--only sometimes, you know, I'm rather glad he is not."
+
+"Oh, Edward! you don't mean to say so, I know. Don't let us talk about him.
+We can't talk rightly, we're such little children. Don't, Edward, please."
+
+Poor little Maggie's eyes filled with tears; and she never spoke again to
+Edward, or indeed to any one, about her dead father. As she grew older, her
+life became more actively busy. The cottage and small outbuildings, and the
+garden and field, were their own; and on the produce they depended for much
+of their support. The cow, the pig, and the poultry took up much of Nancy's
+time. Mrs. Browne and Maggie had to do a great deal of the house-work; and
+when the beds were made, and the rooms swept and dusted, and the
+preparations for dinner ready, then, if there was any time, Maggie sat down
+to her lessons. Ned, who prided himself considerably on his sex, had been
+sitting all the morning, in his father's arm-chair, in the little
+book-room, "studying," as he chose to call it. Sometimes Maggie would pop
+her head in, with a request that he would help her to carry the great
+pitcher of water up-stairs, or do some other little household service;
+with which request he occasionally complied, but with so many complaints
+about the interruption, that at last she told him she would never ask
+him again. Gently as this was said, he yet felt it as a reproach, and
+tried to excuse himself.
+
+"You see, Maggie, a man must be educated to be a gentleman. Now, if a woman
+knows how to keep a house, that's all that is wanted from her. So my time
+is of more consequence than yours. Mamma says I'm to go to college, and be
+a clergyman; so I must get on with my Latin."
+
+Maggie submitted in silence; and almost felt it as an act of gracious
+condescension when, a morning or two afterwards, he came to meet her as
+she was toiling in from the well, carrying the great brown jug full of
+spring-water ready for dinner. "Here," said he, "let us put it in the shade
+behind the horse-mount. Oh, Maggie! look what you've done! Spilt it all,
+with not turning quickly enough when I told you. Now you may fetch it again
+for yourself, for I'll have nothing to do with it."
+
+"I did not understand you in time," said she, softly. But he had turned
+away, and gone back in offended dignity to the house. Maggie had nothing to
+do but return to the well, and fill it again. The spring was some distance
+off, in a little rocky dell. It was so cool after her hot walk, that she
+sat down in the shadow of the gray limestone rock, and looked at the ferns,
+wet with the dripping water. She felt sad, she knew not why. "I think
+Ned is sometimes very cross," thought she. "I did not understand he was
+carrying it there. Perhaps I am clumsy. Mamma says I am; and Ned says I
+am. Nancy never says so and papa never said so. I wish I could help being
+clumsy and stupid. Ned says all women are so. I wish I was not a woman. It
+must be a fine thing to be a man. Oh dear! I must go up the field again
+with this heavy pitcher, and my arms do so ache!" She rose and climbed the
+steep brae. As she went she heard her mother's voice.
+
+"Maggie! Maggie! there's no water for dinner, and the potatoes are quite
+boiled. Where _is_ that child?"
+
+They had begun dinner, before she came down from brushing her hair and
+washing her hands. She was hurried and tired.
+
+"Mother," said Ned, "mayn't I have some butter to these potatoes, as there
+is cold meat? They are so dry."
+
+"Certainly, my dear. Maggie, go and fetch a pat of butter out of the
+dairy."
+
+Maggie went from her untouched dinner without speaking.
+
+"Here, stop, you child!" said Nancy, turning her back in the passage. "You
+go to your dinner, I'll fetch the butter. You've been running about enough
+to-day."
+
+Maggie durst not go back without it, but she stood in the passage till
+Nancy returned; and then she put up her mouth to be kissed by the kind
+rough old servant.
+
+"Thou'rt a sweet one," said Nancy to herself, as she turned into the
+kitchen; and Maggie went back to her dinner with a soothed and lightened
+heart.
+
+When the meal was ended, she helped her mother to wash up the old-fashioned
+glasses and spoons, which were treated with tender care and exquisite
+cleanliness in that house of decent frugality; and then, exchanging her
+pinafore for a black silk apron, the little maiden was wont to sit down to
+some useful piece of needlework, in doing which her mother enforced the
+most dainty neatness of stitches. Thus every hour in its circle brought a
+duty to be fulfilled; but duties fulfilled are as pleasures to the memory,
+and little Maggie always thought those early childish days most happy, and
+remembered them only as filled with careless contentment.
+
+Yet, at the time they had their cares.
+
+In fine summer days Maggie sat out of doors at her work. Just beyond the
+court lay the rocky moorland, almost as gay as that with its profusion of
+flowers. If the court had its clustering noisettes, and fraxinellas, and
+sweetbriar, and great tall white lilies, the moorland had its little
+creeping scented rose, its straggling honeysuckle, and an abundance of
+yellow cistus; and here and there a gray rock cropped out of the ground,
+and over it the yellow stone-crop and scarlet-leaved crane's-bill grew
+luxuriantly. Such a rock was Maggie's seat. I believe she considered it her
+own, and loved it accordingly; although its real owner was a great lord,
+who lived far away, and had never seen the moor, much less the piece of
+gray rock, in his life.
+
+The afternoon of the day which I have begun to tell you about, she was
+sitting there, and singing to herself as she worked: she was within call of
+home, and could hear all home sounds, with their shrillness softened down.
+Between her and it, Edward was amusing himself; he often called upon her
+for sympathy, which she as readily gave.
+
+"I wonder how men make their boats steady; I have taken mine to the pond,
+and she has toppled over every time I sent her in."
+
+"Has it?--that's very tiresome! Would it do to put a little weight in it,
+to keep it down?"
+
+"How often must I tell you to call a ship 'her;' and there you will go on
+saying--it--it!"
+
+After this correction of his sister, Master Edward did not like the
+condescension of acknowledging her suggestion to be a good one; so he went
+silently to the house in search of the requisite ballast; but not being
+able to find anything suitable, he came back to his turfy hillock, littered
+round with chips of wood, and tried to insert some pebbles into his vessel;
+but they stuck fast, and he was obliged to ask again.
+
+"Supposing it was a good thing to weight her, what could I put in?"
+
+Maggie thought a moment.
+
+"Would shot do?" asked she.
+
+"It would be the very thing; but where can I get any?"
+
+"There is some that was left of papa's. It is in the right-hand corner of
+the second drawer of the bureau, wrapped up in a newspaper."
+
+"What a plague! I can't remember your 'seconds,' and 'right-hands,' and
+fiddle-faddles." He worked on at his pebbles. They would not do.
+
+"I think if you were good-natured, Maggie, you might go for me."
+
+"Oh, Ned! I've all this long seam to do. Mamma said I must finish it before
+tea; and that I might play a little if I had done it first," said Maggie,
+rather plaintively; for it was a real pain to her to refuse a request.
+
+"It would not take you five minutes."
+
+Maggie thought a little. The time would only be taken out of her playing,
+which, after all, did not signify; while Edward was really busy about his
+ship. She rose, and clambered up the steep grassy slope, slippery with the
+heat.
+
+Before she had found the paper of shot, she heard her mother's voice
+calling, in a sort of hushed hurried loudness, as if anxious to be heard by
+one person yet not by another--"Edward, Edward, come home quickly. Here's
+Mr. Buxton coming along the Fell-Lane;--he's coming here, as sure as
+sixpence; come, Edward, come."
+
+Maggie saw Edward put down his ship and come. At his mother's bidding it
+certainly was; but he strove to make this as little apparent as he could,
+by sauntering up the slope, with his hands in his pockets, in a very
+independent and _négligé_ style. Maggie had no time to watch longer; for
+now she was called too, and down stairs she ran.
+
+"Here, Maggie," said her mother, in a nervous hurry;--"help Nancy to get a
+tray ready all in a minute. I do believe here's Mr. Buxton coming to call.
+Oh, Edward! go and brush your hair, and put on your Sunday jacket; here's
+Mr. Buxton just coming round. I'll only run up and change my cap; and you
+say you'll come up and tell me, Nancy; all proper, you know."
+
+"To be sure, ma'am. I've lived in families afore now," said Nancy, gruffly.
+
+"Oh, yes, I know you have. Be sure you bring in the cowslip wine. I wish I
+could have stayed to decant some port."
+
+Nancy and Maggie bustled about, in and out of the kitchen and dairy; and
+were so deep in their preparations for Mr. Buxton's reception that they
+were not aware of the very presence of that gentleman himself on the scene.
+He had found the front door open, as is the wont in country places, and had
+walked in; first stopping at the empty parlor, and then finding his way to
+the place where voices and sounds proclaimed that there were inhabitants.
+So he stood there, stooping a little under the low-browed lintels of the
+kitchen door, and looking large, and red, and warm, but with a pleased and
+almost amused expression of face.
+
+"Lord bless me, sir! what a start you gave me!" said Nancy, as she suddenly
+caught sight of him. "I'll go and tell my missus in a minute that you're
+come."
+
+Off she went, leaving Maggie alone with the great, tall, broad gentleman,
+smiling at her from his frame in the door-way, but never speaking. She went
+on dusting a wine-glass most assiduously.
+
+"Well done, little girl," came out a fine strong voice at last. "Now I
+think that will do. Come and show me the parlor where I may sit down, for
+I've had a long walk, and am very tired."
+
+Maggie took him into the parlor, which was always cool and fresh in the
+hottest weather. It was scented by a great beau-pot filled with roses; and,
+besides, the casement was open to the fragrant court. Mr. Buxton was so
+large, and the parlor so small, that when he was once in, Maggie thought
+when he went away, he could carry the room on his back, as a snail does its
+house.
+
+"And so, you are a notable little woman, are you?" said he, after he had
+stretched himself (a very unnecessary proceeding), and unbuttoned his
+waistcoat, Maggie stood near the door, uncertain whether to go or to stay.
+"How bright and clean you were making that glass! Do you think you could
+get me some water to fill it? Mind, it must be that very glass I saw you
+polishing. I shall know it again."
+
+Maggie was thankful to escape out of the room; and in the passage she met
+her mother, who had made time to change her gown as well as her cap. Before
+Nancy would allow the little girl to return with the glass of water she
+smoothed her short-cut glossy hair; it was all that was needed to make her
+look delicately neat. Maggie was conscientious in trying to find out
+the identical glass; but I am afraid Nancy was not quite so truthful in
+avouching that one of the six, exactly similar, which were now placed on
+the tray, was the same she had found on the dresser, when she came back
+from telling her mistress of Mr. Buxton's arrival.
+
+Maggie carried in the water, with a shy pride in the clearness of the
+glass. Her mother was sitting on the edge of her chair, speaking in
+unusually fine language, and with a higher pitched voice than common.
+Edward, in all his Sunday glory, was standing by Mr. Buxton, looking happy
+and conscious. But when Maggie came in, Mr. Buxton made room for her
+between Edward and himself, and, while she went on talking, lifted her on
+to his knee. She sat there as on a pinnacle of honor; but as she durst not
+nestle up to him, a chair would have been the more comfortable seat.
+
+"As founder's line, I have a right of presentation; and for my dear old
+friend's sake" (here Mrs. Browne wiped her eyes), "I am truly glad of it;
+my young friend will have a little form of examination to go through; and
+then we shall see him carrying every prize before him, I have no doubt.
+Thank you, just a little of your sparkling cowslip wine. Ah! this
+gingerbread is like the gingerbread I had when I was a boy. My little lady
+here must learn the receipt, and make me some. Will she?"
+
+"Speak to Mr. Buxton, child, who is kind to your brother. You will make him
+some gingerbread, I am sure."
+
+"If I may," said Maggie, hanging down her head.
+
+"Or, I'll tell you what. Suppose you come to my house, and teach us how to
+make it there; and then, you know, we could always be making gingerbread
+when we were not eating it. That would be best, I think. Must I ask mamma
+to bring you down to Combehurst, and let us all get acquainted together? I
+have a great boy and a little girl at home, who will like to see you, I'm
+sure. And we have got a pony for you to ride on, and a peacock and guinea
+fowls, and I don't know what all. Come, madam, let me persuade you. School
+begins in three weeks. Let us fix a day before then."
+
+"Do mamma," said Edward.
+
+"I am not in spirits for visiting," Mrs. Browne answered. But the quick
+children detected a hesitation in her manner of saying the oft spoken
+words, and had hopes, if only Mr. Buxton would persevere in his invitation.
+
+"Your not visiting is the very reason why you are not in spirits. A little
+change, and a few neighborly faces, would do you good, I'll be bound.
+Besides, for the children's sake you should not live too secluded a life.
+Young people should see a little of the world."
+
+Mrs. Browne was much obliged to Mr. Buxton for giving her so decent an
+excuse for following her inclination, which, it must be owned, tended
+to the acceptance of the invitation. So, "for the children's sake," she
+consented. But she sighed, as if making a sacrifice.
+
+"That's right," said Mr. Buxton. "Now for the day."
+
+It was fixed that they should go on that day week; and after some further
+conversation about the school at which Edward was to be placed, and some
+more jokes about Maggie's notability, and an inquiry if she would come and
+live with him the next time he wanted a housemaid, Mr. Buxton took his
+leave.
+
+His visit had been an event; and they made no great attempt at settling
+again that day to any of their usual employments. In the first place, Nancy
+came in to hear and discuss all the proposed plans. Ned, who was uncertain
+whether to like or dislike the prospect of school, was very much offended
+by the old servant's remark, on first hearing of the project.
+
+"It's time for him. He'll learn his place there, which, it strikes me, he
+and others too are apt to forget at home."
+
+Then followed discussions and arrangements respecting his clothes. And then
+they came to the plan of spending a day at Mr. Buxton's, which Mrs. Browne
+was rather shy of mentioning, having a sort of an idea of inconstancy and
+guilt connected with the thought of mingling with the world again. However,
+Nancy approved: "It was quite right," and "just as it should be," and "good
+for the children."
+
+"Yes; it was on their account I did it, Nancy," said Mrs. Browne.
+
+"How many children has Mr. Buxton?" asked Edward.
+
+"Only one. Frank, I think, they call him. But you must say Master Buxton;
+be sure."
+
+"Who is the little girl, then," asked Maggie, "who sits with them in
+church?"
+
+"Oh! that's little Miss Harvey, his niece, and a great fortune."
+
+"They do say he never forgave her mother till the day of her death,"
+remarked Nancy.
+
+"Then they tell stories, Nancy!" replied Mrs. Browne (it was she herself
+who had said it; but that was before Mr. Buxton's call). For d'ye think his
+sister would have left him guardian to her child, if they were not on good
+terms?"
+
+"Well! I only know what folks say. And, for sure, he took a spite at Mr.
+Harvey for no reason on earth; and every one knows he never spoke to him."
+
+"He speaks very kindly and pleasantly," put in Maggie.
+
+"Ay; and I'm not saying but what he is a very good, kind man in the main.
+But he has his whims, and keeps hold on 'em when he's got 'em. There's them
+pies burning, and I'm talking here!"
+
+When Nancy had returned to her kitchen, Mrs. Browne called Maggie up
+stairs, to examine what clothes would be needed for Edward. And when they
+were up, she tried on the black satin gown, which had been her visiting
+dress ever since she was married, and which she intended should replace
+the old, worn-out bombazine on the day of the visit to Combehurst.
+
+"For Mrs. Buxton is a real born lady," said she; "and I should like to be
+well dressed, to do her honor."
+
+"I did not know there was a Mrs. Buxton," said Maggie. "She is never at
+church."
+
+"No; she is but delicate and weakly, and never leaves the house. I think
+her maid told me she never left her room now."
+
+The Buxton family, root and branch, formed the _pièce de résistance_ in the
+conversation between Mrs. Browne and her children for the next week. As the
+day drew near, Maggie almost wished to stay at home, so impressed was she
+with the awfulness of the visit. Edward felt bold in the idea of a new
+suit of clothes, which had been ordered for the occasion, and for school
+afterwards. Mrs. Browne remembered having heard the rector say, "A woman
+never looked so lady-like as when she wore black satin," and kept her
+spirits up with that observation; but when she saw how worn it was at the
+elbows, she felt rather depressed, and unequal to visiting. Still, for her
+children's sake, she would do much.
+
+After her long day's work was ended, Nancy sat up at her sewing. She had
+found out that among all the preparations, none were going on for Margaret;
+and she had used her influence over her mistress (who half-liked and
+half-feared, and entirely depended upon her) to obtain from her an old
+gown, which she had taken to pieces, and washed and scoured, and was now
+making up, in a way a little old-fashioned to be sure; but, on the whole,
+it looked so nice when completed and put on, that Mrs. Browne gave Maggie
+a strict lecture about taking great care of such a handsome frock and
+forgot that she had considered the gown from which it had been made as
+worn out and done for.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II.
+
+At length they were dressed, and Nancy stood on the court-steps, shading
+her eyes, and looking after them, as they climbed the heathery slope
+leading to Combehurst.
+
+"I wish she'd take her hand sometimes, just to let her know the feel of
+her mother's hand. Perhaps she will, at least after Master Edward goes to
+school."
+
+As they went along, Mrs. Browne gave the children a few rules respecting
+manners and etiquette.
+
+"Maggie! you must sit as upright as ever you can; make your back flat,
+child, and don't poke. If I cough, you must draw up. I shall cough whenever
+I see you do anything wrong, and I shall be looking at you all day; so
+remember. You hold yourself very well, Edward. If Mr. Buxton asks you, you
+may have a glass of wine, because you're a boy. But mind and say, 'Your
+good health, sir,' before you drink it."
+
+"I'd rather not have the wine if I'm to say that," said Edward, bluntly.
+
+"Oh, nonsense! my dear. You'd wish to be like a gentleman, I'm sure."
+
+Edward muttered something which was inaudible. His mother went on:
+
+Of course you'll never think of being helped more than twice. Twice of
+meat, twice of pudding, is the genteel thing. You may take less, but never
+more."
+
+"Oh, mamma! how beautiful Combehurst spire is, with that dark cloud behind
+it!" exclaimed Maggie, as they came in sight of the town.
+
+"You've no business with Combehurst spire when I'm speaking to you. I'm
+talking myself out of breath to teach you how to behave, and there you go
+looking after clouds, and such like rubbish. I'm ashamed of you."
+
+Although Maggie walked quietly by her mother's side all the rest of the
+way, Mrs. Browne was too much offended to resume her instructions on
+good-breeding. Maggie might be helped three times if she liked: she had
+done with her.
+
+They were very early. When they drew near the bridge, they were met by a
+tall, fine-looking boy, leading a beautiful little Shetland pony, with a
+side-saddle on it. He came up to Mrs. Browne, and addressed her.
+
+"My father thought your little girl would be tired, and he told me to bring
+my cousin Erminia's pony for her. It's as quiet as can be."
+
+Now this was rather provoking to Mrs. Browne, as she chose to consider
+Maggie in disgrace. However, there was no help for it: all she could do was
+to spoil the enjoyment as far as possible, by looking and speaking in a
+cold manner, which often chilled Maggie's little heart, and took all the
+zest out of the pleasure now. It was in vain that Frank Buxton made the
+pony trot and canter; she still looked sad and grave.
+
+"Little dull thing!" he thought; but he was as kind and considerate as a
+gentlemanly boy could be.
+
+At last they reached Mr. Buxton's house. It was in the main street, and the
+front door opened upon it by a flight of steps. Wide on each side extended
+the stone-coped windows. It was in reality a mansion, and needed not
+the neighboring contrast of the cottages on either side to make it look
+imposing. When they went in, they entered a large hall, cool even on that
+burning July day, with a black and white flag floor, and old settees
+round the walls, and great jars of curious china, which were filled with
+pot-pourrie. The dusky gloom was pleasant, after the glare of the street
+outside; and the requisite light and cheerfulness were given by the peep
+into the garden, framed, as it were, by the large door-way that opened into
+it. There were roses, and sweet-peas, and poppies--a rich mass of color,
+which looked well, set in the somewhat sombre coolness of the hall. All the
+house told of wealth--wealth which had accumulated for generations, and
+which was shown in a sort of comfortable, grand, unostentatious way. Mr.
+Buxton's ancestors had been yeomen; but, two or three generations back,
+they might, if ambitious, have taken their place as country gentry, so much
+had the value of their property increased, and so great had been the amount
+of their savings. They, however, continued to live in the old farm till Mr.
+Buxton's grandfather built the house in Combehurst of which I am speaking,
+and then he felt rather ashamed of what he had done; it seemed like
+stepping out of his position. He and his wife always sat in the best
+kitchen; and it was only after his son's marriage that the entertaining
+rooms were furnished. Even then they were kept with closed shutters
+and bagged-up furniture during the lifetime of the old couple, who,
+nevertheless, took a pride in adding to the rich-fashioned ornaments and
+grand old china of the apartments. But they died, and were gathered to
+their fathers, and young Mr. and Mrs. Buxton (aged respectively fifty-one
+and forty-five) reigned in their stead. They had the good taste to make no
+sudden change; but gradually the rooms assumed an inhabited appearance, and
+their son and daughter grew up in the enjoyment of great wealth, and no
+small degree of refinement. But as yet they held back modestly from putting
+themselves in any way on a level with the county people. Lawrence Buxton
+was sent to the same school as his father had been before him; and the
+notion of his going to college to complete his education was, after some
+deliberation, negatived. In process of time he succeeded his father, and
+married a sweet, gentle lady, of a decayed and very poor county family, by
+whom he had one boy before she fell into delicate health. His sister had
+married a man whose character was worse than his fortune, and had been left
+a widow. Everybody thought her husband's death a blessing; but she loved
+him, in spite of negligence and many grosser faults; and so, not many years
+after, she died, leaving her little daughter to her brother's care, with
+many a broken-voiced entreaty that he would never speak a word against
+the dead father of her child. So the little Erminia was taken home by her
+self-reproaching uncle, who felt now how hardly he had acted towards his
+sister in breaking off all communication with her on her ill-starred
+marriage.
+
+"Where is Erminia, Frank?" asked his father, speaking over Maggie's
+shoulder, while he still held her hand. "I want to take Mrs. Browne to your
+mother. I told Erminia to be here to welcome this little girl."
+
+"I'll take her to Minnie; I think she's in the garden. I'll come back to
+you," nodding to Edward, "directly, and then we will go to the rabbits."
+
+So Frank and Maggie left the great lofty room, full of strange rare
+things, and rich with books, and went into the sunny scented garden, which
+stretched far and wide behind the house. Down one of the walks, with a
+hedge of roses on either side, came a little tripping fairy, with long
+golden ringlets, and a complexion like a china rose. With the deep blue of
+the summer sky behind her, Maggie thought she looked like an angel. She
+neither hastened nor slackened her pace when she saw them, but came on with
+the same dainty light prancing step.
+
+"Make haste, Minnie," cried Frank.
+
+But Minnie stopped to gather a rose.
+
+"Don't stay with me," said Maggie, softly, although she had held his hand
+like that of a friend, and did not feel that the little fairy's manner was
+particularly cordial or gracious. Frank took her at her word, and ran off
+to Edward.
+
+Erminia came a little quicker when she saw that Maggie was left alone; but
+for some time after they were together, they had nothing to say to each
+other. Erminia was easily impressed by the pomps and vanities of the world;
+and Maggie's new handsome frock seemed to her made of old ironed brown
+silk. And though Maggie's voice was soft, with a silver ringing sound in
+it, she pronounced her words in Nancy's broad country way. Her hair was cut
+short all round; her shoes were thick, and clumped as she walked. Erminia
+patronized her, and thought herself very kind and condescending; but they
+were not particularly friendly. The visit promised to be more honorable
+than agreeable, and Maggie almost wished herself at home again. Dinner-time
+came. Mrs. Buxton dined in her own room. Mr. Buxton was hearty, and jovial,
+and pressing; he almost scolded Maggie because she would not take more than
+twice of his favorite pudding: but she remembered what her mother had said,
+and that she would be watched all day; and this gave her a little prim,
+quaint manner, very different from her usual soft charming unconsciousness.
+She fancied that Edward and Master Buxton were just as little at their ease
+with each other as she and Miss Harvey. Perhaps this feeling on the part of
+the boys made all four children unite after dinner.
+
+"Let us go to the swing in the shrubbery," said Frank, after a little
+consideration; and off they ran. Frank proposed that he and Edward should
+swing the two little girls; and for a time all went on very well. But
+by-and-by Edward thought, that Maggie had had enough, and that he should
+like a turn; and Maggie, at his first word, got out.
+
+"Don't you like swinging?" asked Erminia.
+
+"Yes! but Edward would like it now." And Edward accordingly took her place.
+Frank turned away, and would not swing him. Maggie strove hard to do it,
+but he was heavy, and the swing bent unevenly. He scolded her for what
+she could not help, and at last jumped out so roughly, that the seat hit
+Maggie's face, and knocked her down. When she got up, her lips quivered
+with pain, but she did not cry; she only looked anxiously at her frock.
+There was a great rent across the front breadth. Then she did shed
+tears--tears of fright. What would her mother say?
+
+Erminia saw her crying.
+
+"Are you hurt?" said she, kindly. "Oh, how your cheek is swelled! What a
+rude, cross boy your brother is!"
+
+"I did not know he was going to jump out. I am not crying because I am
+hurt, but because of this great rent in my nice new frock. Mamma will be so
+displeased."
+
+"Is it a new frock?" asked Erminia.
+
+"It is a new one for me. Nancy has sat up several nights to make it. Oh!
+what shall I do?"
+
+Erminia's little heart was softened by such excessive poverty. A best frock
+made of shabby old silk! She put her arms round Maggie's neck, and said:
+
+"Come with me; we will go to my aunt's dressing-room, and Dawson will give
+me some silk, and I'll help you to mend it."
+
+"That's a kind little Minnie," said Frank. Ned had turned sulkily away. I
+do not think the boys were ever cordial again that day; for, as Frank said
+to his mother, "Ned might have said he was sorry; but he is a regular
+tyrant to that little brown mouse of a sister of his."
+
+Erminia and Maggie went, with their arms round each other's necks, to Mrs.
+Buxton's dressing-room. The misfortune had made them friends. Mrs.
+Buxton lay on the sofa; so fair and white and colorless, in her muslin
+dressing-gown, that when Maggie first saw the lady lying with her eyes
+shut, her heart gave a start, for she thought she was dead. But she opened
+her large languid eyes, and called them to her, and listened to their story
+with interest.
+
+"Dawson is at tea. Look, Minnie, in my work-box; there is some silk there.
+Take off your frock, my dear, and bring it here, and let me see how it can
+be mended."
+
+"Aunt Buxton," whispered Erminia, "do let me give her one of my frocks.
+This is such an old thing."
+
+"No, love. I'll tell you why afterwards," answered Mrs. Buxton.
+
+She looked at the rent, and arranged it nicely for the little girls to
+mend. Erminia helped Maggie with right good will. As they sat on the floor,
+Mrs. Buxton thought what a pretty contrast they made; Erminia, dazzlingly
+fair, with her golden ringlets, and her pale-blue frock; Maggie's little
+round white shoulders peeping out of her petticoat; her brown hair as
+glossy and smooth as the nuts that it resembled in color; her long black
+eye-lashes drooping over her clear smooth cheek, which would have given the
+idea of delicacy, but for the coral lips that spoke of perfect health: and
+when she glanced up, she showed long, liquid, dark-gray eyes. The deep red
+of the curtain behind, threw out these two little figures well.
+
+Dawson came up. She was a grave elderly person, of whom Erminia was far
+more afraid than she was of her aunt; but at Mrs. Buxton's desire she
+finished mending the frock for Maggie.
+
+"Mr. Buxton has asked some of your mamma's old friends to tea, as I am not
+able to go down. But I think, Dawson, I must have these two little girls to
+tea with me. Can you be very quiet, my dears; or shall you think it dull?"
+
+They gladly accepted the invitation; and Erminia promised all sorts of
+fanciful promises as to quietness; and went about on her tiptoes in such
+a labored manner, that Mrs. Buxton begged her at last not to try and be
+quiet, as she made much less noise when she did not. It was the happiest
+part of the day to Maggie. Something in herself was so much in harmony with
+Mrs. Buxton's sweet, resigned gentleness, that it answered like an echo,
+and the two understood each other strangely well. They seemed like old
+friends, Maggie, who was reserved at home because no one cared to hear what
+she had to say, opened out, and told Erminia and Mrs. Buxton all about her
+way of spending her day, and described her home.
+
+"How odd!" said Erminia. "I have ridden that way on Abdel-Kadr, and never
+seen your house."
+
+"It is like the place the Sleeping Beauty lived in; people sometimes seem
+to go round it and round it, and never find it. But unless you follow a
+little sheep-track, which seems to end at a gray piece of rock, you may
+come within a stone's throw of the chimneys and never see them. I think you
+would think it so pretty. Do you ever come that way, ma'am?"
+
+"No, love," answered Mrs. Buxton.
+
+"But will you some time?"
+
+"I am afraid I shall never be able to go out again," said Mrs. Buxton, in
+a voice which, though low, was very cheerful. Maggie thought how sad a lot
+was here before her; and by-and-by she took a little stool, and sat by Mrs.
+Buxton's sofa, and stole her hand into hers.
+
+Mrs. Browne was in full tide of pride and happiness down stairs. Mr. Buxton
+had a number of jokes; which would have become dull from repetition (for he
+worked a merry idea threadbare before he would let it go), had it not been
+for his jovial blandness and good-nature. He liked to make people happy,
+and, as far as bodily wants went, he had a quick perception of what was
+required. He sat like a king (for, excepting the rector, there was not
+another gentleman of his standing at Combehurst), among six or seven
+ladies, who laughed merrily at all his sayings, and evidently thought Mrs.
+Browne had been highly honored in having been asked to dinner as well as
+to tea. In the evening, the carriage was ordered to take her as far as a
+carriage could go; and there was a little mysterious handshaking between
+her host and herself on taking leave, which made her very curious for the
+lights of home by which to examine a bit of rustling paper that had been
+put in her hand with some stammered-out words about Edward.
+
+When every one had gone, there was a little gathering in Mrs. Buxton's
+dressing-room. Husband, son and niece, all came to give her their opinions
+on the day and the visitors.
+
+"Good Mrs. Browne is a little tiresome," said Mr. Buxton, yawning. "Living
+in that moorland hole, I suppose. However, I think she has enjoyed her day;
+and we'll ask her down now and then, for Browne's sake. Poor Browne! What a
+good man he was!"
+
+"I don't like that boy at all," said Frank. "I beg you'll not ask him again
+while I'm at home: he is so selfish and self-important; and yet he's a bit
+snobbish now and then. Mother! I know what you mean by that look. Well! if
+I am self-important sometimes, I'm not a snob."
+
+"Little Maggie is very nice," said Erminia. "What a pity she has not a new
+frock! Was not she good about it, Frank, when she tore it?"
+
+"Yes, she's a nice little thing enough, if she does not get all spirit
+cowed out of her by that brother. I'm thankful that he is going to school."
+
+When Mrs. Browne heard where Maggie had drank tea, she was offended. She
+had only sat with Mrs. Buxton for an hour before dinner. If Mrs. Buxton
+could bear the noise of children, she could not think why she shut herself
+up in that room, and gave herself such airs. She supposed it was because
+she was the granddaughter of Sir Henry Biddulph that she took upon herself
+to have such whims, and not sit at the head of her table, or make tea for
+her company in a civil decent way. Poor Mr. Buxton! What a sad life for a
+merry, light-hearted man to have such a wife! It was a good thing for him
+to have agreeable society sometimes. She thought he looked a deal better
+for seeing his friends. He must be sadly moped with that sickly wife.
+
+(If she had been clairvoyante at that moment, she might have seen Mr.
+Buxton tenderly chafing his wife's hands, and feeling in his innermost soul
+a wonder how one so saint-like could ever have learnt to love such a boor
+as he was; it was the wonderful mysterious blessing of his life. So little
+do we know of the inner truths of the households, where we come and go like
+intimate guests!)
+
+Maggie could not bear to hear Mrs. Buxton spoken of as a fine lady assuming
+illness. Her heart beat hard as she spoke. "Mamma! I am sure she is really
+ill. Her lips kept going so white; and her hand was so burning hot all the
+time that I held it."
+
+"Have you been holding Mrs. Buxton's hand? Where were your manners? You are
+a little forward creature, and ever were. But don't pretend to know better
+than your elders. It is no use telling me Mrs. Buxton is ill, and she able
+to bear the noise of children."
+
+"I think they are all a pack of set-up people, and that Frank Buxton is the
+worst of all," said Edward.
+
+Maggie's heart sank within her to hear this cold, unkind way of talking
+over the friends who had done so much to make their day happy. She had
+never before ventured into the world, and did not know how common and
+universal is the custom of picking to pieces those with whom we have just
+been associating; and so it pained her. She was a little depressed, too,
+with the idea that she should never see Mrs. Buxton and the lovely Erminia
+again. Because no future visit or intercourse had been spoken about, she
+fancied it would never take place; and she felt like the man in the Arabian
+Nights, who caught a glimpse of the precious stones and dazzling glories
+of the cavern, which was immediately after closed, and shut up into the
+semblance of hard, barren rock. She tried to recall the house. Deep blue,
+crimson red, warm brown draperies, were so striking after the light
+chintzes of her own house; and the effect of a suite of rooms opening out
+of each other was something quite new to the little girl; the apartments
+seemed to melt away into vague distance, like the dim endings of the arched
+aisles in church. But most of all she tried to recall Mrs. Buxton's face;
+and Nancy had at last to put away her work, and come to bed, in order to
+soothe the poor child, who was crying at the thought that Mrs. Buxton would
+soon die, and that she should never see her again. Nancy loved Maggie
+dearly, and felt no jealousy of this warm admiration of the unknown lady.
+She listened to her story and her fears till the sobs were hushed; and the
+moon fell through the casement on the white closed eyelids of one, who
+still sighed in her sleep.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III.
+
+In three weeks, the day came for Edward's departure. A great cake and a
+parcel of gingerbread soothed his sorrows on leaving home.
+
+"Don't cry, Maggie!" said he to her on the last morning; "you see I don't.
+Christmas will soon be here, and I dare say I shall find time to write to
+you now and then. Did Nancy put any citron in the cake?"
+
+Maggie wished she might accompany her mother to Combehurst to see Edward
+off by the coach; but it was not to be. She went with them, without her
+bonnet, as far as her mother would allow her; and then she sat down, and
+watched their progress for a long, long way. She was startled by the sound
+of a horse's feet, softly trampling through the long heather. It was Frank
+Buxton's.
+
+"My father thought Mrs. Browne would like to see the Woodchester Herald. Is
+Edward gone?" said he, noticing her sad face.
+
+"Yes! he is just gone down the hill to the coach. I dare say you can see
+him crossing the bridge, soon. I did so want to have gone with him,"
+answered she, looking wistfully toward the town.
+
+Frank felt sorry for her, left alone to gaze after her brother, whom,
+strange as it was, she evidently regretted. After a minute's silence, he
+said:
+
+"You liked riding the other day. Would you like a ride now? Rhoda is very
+gentle, if you can sit on my saddle. Look! I'll shorten the stirrup. There
+now; there's a brave little girl! I'll lead her very carefully. Why,
+Erminia durst not ride without a side-saddle! I'll tell you what; I'll
+bring the newspaper every Wednesday till I go to school, and you shall have
+a ride. Only I wish we had a side-saddle for Rhoda. Or, if Erminia will let
+me, I'll bring Abdel-Kadr, the little Shetland you rode the other day."
+
+"But will Mr. Buxton let you?" asked Maggie, half delighted--half afraid.
+
+"Oh, my father! to be sure he will. I have him in very good order."
+
+Maggie was rather puzzled by this way of speaking.
+
+"When do you go to school?" asked she.
+
+"Toward the end of August; I don't know the day."
+
+"Does Erminia go to school?"
+
+"No. I believe she will soon though, if mamma does not get better." Maggie
+liked the change of voice, as he spoke of his mother.
+
+"There, little lady! now jump down. Famous! you've a deal of spirit, you
+little brown mouse."
+
+Nancy came out, with a wondering look, to receive Maggie.
+
+"It is Mr. Frank Buxton," said she, by way of an introduction. "He has
+brought mamma the newspaper."
+
+"Will you walk in, sir, and rest? I can tie up your horse."
+
+"No, thank you," said he, "I must be off. Don't forget, little mousey, that
+you are to ready for another ride next Wednesday." And away he went.
+
+It needed a good deal of Nancy's diplomacy to procure Maggie this pleasure;
+although I don't know why Mrs. Browne should have denied it, for the circle
+they went was always within sight of the knoll in front of the house, if
+any one cared enough about the matter to mount it, and look after them.
+Frank and Maggie got great friends in these rides. Her fearlessness
+delighted and surprised him, she had seemed so cowed and timid at first.
+But she was only so with people, as he found out before holidays ended.
+He saw her shrink from particular looks and inflexions of voice of her
+mother's; and learnt to read them, and dislike Mrs. Browne accordingly,
+notwithstanding all her sugary manner toward himself. The result of his
+observations he communicated to his mother, and in consequence, he was the
+bearer of a most civil and ceremonious message from Mrs. Buxton to Mrs.
+Browne, to the effect that the former would be much obliged to the latter
+if she would allow Maggie to ride down occasionally with the groom, who
+would bring the newspapers on the Wednesdays (now Frank was going to
+school), and to spend the afternoon with Erminia. Mrs. Browne consented,
+proud of the honor, and yet a little annoyed that no mention was made of
+herself. When Frank had bid good-bye, and fairly disappeared, she turned to
+Maggie.
+
+"You must not set yourself up if you go among these fine folks. It is their
+way of showing attention to your father and myself. And you must mind and
+work doubly hard on Thursdays to make up for playing on Wednesdays."
+
+Maggie was in a flush of sudden color, and a happy palpitation of her
+fluttering little heart. She could hardly feel any sorrow that the kind
+Frank was going away, so brimful was she of the thoughts of seeing his
+mother; who had grown strangely associated in her dreams, both sleeping
+and waking, with the still calm marble effigies that lay for ever clasping
+their hands in prayer on the altar-tombs in Combehurst church. All the
+week was one happy season of anticipation. She was afraid her mother was
+secretly irritated at her natural rejoicing; and so she did not speak to
+her about it, but she kept awake till Nancy came to bed, and poured into
+her sympathizing ears every detail, real or imaginary, of her past or
+future intercourse with Mrs. Buxton, and the old servant listened with
+interest, and fell into the custom of picturing the future with the ease
+and simplicity of a child.
+
+"Suppose, Nancy! only suppose, you know, that she did die. I don't mean
+really die, but go into a trance like death; she looked as if she was in
+one when I first saw her; I would not leave her, but I would sit by her,
+and watch her, and watch her."
+
+"Her lips would be always fresh and red," interrupted Nancy.
+
+"Yes, I know you've told me before how they keep red--I should look at them
+quite steadily; I would try never to go to sleep."
+
+"The great thing would be to have air-holes left in the coffin." But Nancy
+felt the little girl creep close to her at the grim suggestion, and, with
+the tact of love, she changed the subject.
+
+"Or supposing we could hear of a doctor who could charm away illness. There
+were such in my young days; but I don't think people are so knowledgeable
+now. Peggy Jackson, that lived near us when I was a girl, was cured of a
+waste by a charm."
+
+"What is a waste, Nancy?"
+
+"It is just a pining away. Food does not nourish nor drink strengthen them,
+but they just fade off, and grow thinner and thinner, till their shadow
+looks gray instead of black at noonday; but he cured her in no time by a
+charm."
+
+"Oh, if we could find him."
+
+"Lass, he's dead, and she's dead, too, long ago!"
+
+While Maggie was in imagination going over moor and fell, into the hollows
+of the distant mysterious hills, where she imagined all strange beasts and
+weird people to haunt, she fell asleep.
+
+Such were the fanciful thoughts which were engendered in the little girl's
+mind by her secluded and solitary life. It was more solitary than ever, now
+that Edward was gone to school. The house missed his loud cheerful voice,
+and bursting presence. There seemed much less to be done, now that his
+numerous wants no longer called for ministration and attendance. Maggie did
+her task of work on her own gray rock; but as it was sooner finished, now
+that he was not there to interrupt and call her off, she used to stray up
+the Fell Lane at the back of the house; a little steep stony lane, more
+like stairs cut in the rock than what we, in the level land, call a lane:
+it reached on to the wide and open moor, and near its termination there
+was a knotted thorn-tree; the only tree for apparent miles. Here the sheep
+crouched under the storms, or stood and shaded themselves in the noontide
+heat. The ground was brown with their cleft round foot-marks; and tufts of
+wool were hung on the lower part of the stem, like votive offerings on some
+shrine. Here Maggie used to come and sit and dream in any scarce half-hour
+of leisure. Here she came to cry, when her little heart was overfull at her
+mother's sharp fault-finding, or when bidden to keep out of the way, and
+not be troublesome. She used to look over the swelling expanse of moor, and
+the tears were dried up by the soft low-blowing wind which came sighing
+along it. She forgot her little home griefs to wonder why a brown-purple
+shadow always streaked one particular part in the fullest sunlight; why the
+cloud-shadows always seemed to be wafted with a sidelong motion; or she
+would imagine what lay beyond those old gray holy hills, which seemed to
+bear up the white clouds of Heaven on which the angels flew abroad. Or she
+would look straight up through the quivering air, as long as she could bear
+its white dazzling, to try and see God's throne in that unfathomable and
+infinite depth of blue. She thought she should see it blaze forth sudden
+and glorious, if she were but full of faith. She always came down from the
+thorn, comforted, and meekly gentle.
+
+But there was danger of the child becoming dreamy, and finding her pleasure
+in life in reverie, not in action, or endurance, or the holy rest which
+comes after both, and prepares for further striving or bearing. Mrs.
+Buxton's kindness prevented this danger just in time. It was partly out of
+interest in Maggie, but also partly to give Erminia a companion, that she
+wished the former to come down to Combehurst.
+
+When she was on these visits, she received no regular instruction; and yet
+all the knowledge, and most of the strength of her character, was derived
+from these occasional hours. It is true her mother had given her daily
+lessons in reading, writing, and arithmetic; but both teacher and taught
+felt these more as painful duties to be gone through, than understood them
+as means to an end. The "There! child; now that's done with," of relief,
+from Mrs. Browne, was heartily echoed in Maggie's breast, as the dull
+routine was concluded.
+
+Mrs. Buxton did not make a set labor of teaching; I suppose she felt that
+much was learned from her superintendence, but she never thought of doing
+or saying anything with a latent idea of its indirect effect upon the
+little girls, her companions. She was simply herself; she even confessed
+(where the confession was called for) to short-comings, to faults, and
+never denied the force of temptations, either of those which beset little
+children, or of those which occasionally assailed herself. Pure, simple,
+and truthful to the heart's core, her life, in its uneventful hours and
+days, spoke many homilies. Maggie, who was grave, imaginative, and
+somewhat quaint, took pains in finding words to express the thoughts to
+which her solitary life had given rise, secure of Mrs. Buxton's ready
+understanding and sympathy.
+
+"You are so like a cloud," said she to Mrs. Buxton. "Up at the Thorn-tree,
+it was quite curious how the clouds used to shape themselves, just
+according as I was glad or sorry. I have seen the same clouds, that, when
+I came up first, looked like a heap of little snow-hillocks over babies'
+graves, turn, as soon as I grew happier, to a sort of long bright row of
+angels. And you seem always to have had some sorrow when I am sad, and turn
+bright and hopeful as soon as I grow glad. Dear Mrs. Buxton! I wish Nancy
+knew you."
+
+The gay, volatile, willful, warm-hearted Erminia was less earnest in all
+things. Her childhood had been passed amid the distractions of wealth; and
+passionately bent upon the attainment of some object at one moment, the
+next found her angry at being reminded of the vanished anxiety she had
+shown but a moment before. Her life was a shattered mirror; every part
+dazzling and brilliant, but wanting the coherency and perfection of
+a whole. Mrs. Buxton strove to bring her to a sense of the beauty of
+completeness, and the relation which qualities and objects bear to each
+other; but in all her striving she retained hold of the golden clue of
+sympathy. She would enter into Erminia's eagerness, if the object of
+it varied twenty times a day; but by-and-by, in her own mild, sweet,
+suggestive way, she would place all these objects in their right and
+fitting places, as they were worthy of desire. I do not know how it was,
+but all discords, and disordered fragments, seemed to fall into harmony and
+order before her presence.
+
+She had no wish to make the two little girls into the same kind of pattern
+character. They were diverse as the lily and the rose. But she tried to
+give stability and earnestness to Erminia; while she aimed to direct
+Maggie's imagination, so as to make it a great minister to high ends,
+instead of simply contributing to the vividness and duration of a reverie.
+
+She told her tales of saints and martyrs, and all holy heroines, who forgot
+themselves, and strove only to be "ministers of Him, to do His pleasure."
+The tears glistened in the eyes of hearer and speaker, while she spoke in
+her low, faint voice, which was almost choked at times when she came to the
+noblest part of all.
+
+But when she found that Maggie was in danger of becoming too little a
+dweller in the present, from the habit of anticipating the occasion for
+some great heroic action, she spoke of other heroines. She told her how,
+though the lives of these women of old were only known to us through some
+striking glorious deed, they yet must have built up the temple of their
+perfection by many noiseless stories; how, by small daily offerings laid
+on the altar, they must have obtained their beautiful strength for the
+crowning sacrifice. And then she would turn and speak of those whose names
+will never be blazoned on earth--some poor maid-servant, or hard-worked
+artisan, or weary governess--who have gone on through life quietly, with
+holy purposes in their hearts, to which they gave up pleasure and ease,
+in a soft, still, succession of resolute days. She quoted those lines of
+George Herbert's:
+
+  "All may have,
+  If they dare choose, a glorious life, or grave."
+
+And Maggie's mother was disappointed because Mrs. Buxton had never offered
+to teach her "to play on the piano," which was to her the very head and
+front of a genteel education. Maggie, in all her time of yearning to become
+Joan of Arc, or some great heroine, was unconscious that she herself showed
+no little heroism, in bearing meekly what she did every day from her
+mother. It was hard to be questioned about Mrs. Buxton, and then to have
+her answers turned into subjects for contempt, and fault-finding with that
+sweet lady's ways.
+
+When Ned came home for the holidays, he had much to tell. His mother
+listened for hours to his tales; and proudly marked all that she could note
+of his progress in learning. His copy-books and writing-flourishes were a
+sight to behold; and his account-books contained towers and pyramids of
+figures.
+
+"Ay, ay!" said Mr. Buxton, when they were shown to him; "this is grand!
+when I was a boy I could make a flying eagle with one stroke of my pen,
+but I never could do all this. And yet I thought myself a fine fellow, I
+warrant you. And these sums! why man! I must make you my agent. I need one,
+I'm sure; for though I get an accountant every two or three years to do
+up my books, they somehow have the knack of getting wrong again. Those
+quarries, Mrs. Browne, which every one says are so valuable, and for the
+stone out of which receive orders amounting to hundreds of pounds, what
+d'ye think was the profit I made last year, according to my books?"
+
+"I'm sure I don't know, sir; something very great, I've no doubt."
+
+"Just seven-pence three farthings," said he, bursting into a fit of merry
+laughter, such as another man would have kept for the announcement of
+enormous profits. "But I must manage things differently soon. Frank will
+want money when he goes to Oxford, and he shall have it. I'm but a rough
+sort of fellow, but Frank shall take his place as a gentleman. Aha, Miss
+Maggie! and where's my gingerbread? There you go, creeping up to Mrs.
+Buxton on a Wednesday, and have never taught Cook how to make gingerbread
+yet. Well, Ned! and how are the classics going on? Fine fellow, that
+Virgil! Let me see, how does it begin?
+
+  'Arma, virumque cano, Trojae qui primus ab oris.'
+
+That's pretty well, I think, considering I've never opened him since I left
+school thirty years ago. To be sure, I spent six hours a day at it when I
+was there. Come now, I'll puzzle you. Can you construe this?
+
+  "Infir dealis, inoak noneis; inmud eelis, inclay noneis."
+
+"To be sure I can," said Edward, with a little contempt in his tone. "Can
+you do this, sir?
+
+  "Apud in is almi des ire,
+  Mimis tres i neve require,
+  Alo veri findit a gestis,
+  His miseri ne ver at restis."
+
+But though Edward had made much progress, and gained three prizes, his
+moral training had been little attended to. He was more tyrannical than
+ever, both to his mother and Maggie. It was a drawn battle between him and
+Nancy, and they kept aloof from each other as much as possible. Maggie fell
+into her old humble way of submitting to his will, as long as it did not go
+against her conscience; but that, being daily enlightened by her habits of
+pious aspiring thought, would not allow her to be so utterly obedient as
+formerly. In addition to his imperiousness, he had learned to affix the
+idea of cleverness to various artifices and subterfuges which utterly
+revolted her by their meanness.
+
+"You are so set up, by being intimate with Erminia, that you won't do a
+thing I tell you; you are as selfish and self-willed as"--he made a pause.
+Maggie was ready to cry.
+
+"I will do anything, Ned, that is right."
+
+"Well! and I tell you this is right."
+
+"How can it be?" said she, sadly, almost wishing to be convinced.
+
+"How--why it is, and that's enough for you. You must always have a reason
+for everything now. You are not half so nice as you were. Unless one chops
+logic with you, and convinces you by a long argument, you'll do nothing. Be
+obedient, I tell you. That is what a woman has to be."
+
+"I could be obedient to some people, without knowing their reasons, even
+though they told me to do silly things," said Maggie, half to herself.
+
+"I should like to know to whom," said Edward, scornfully.
+
+"To Don Quixote," answered she, seriously; for, indeed, he was present in
+her mind just then, and his noble, tender, melancholy character had made a
+strong impression there.
+
+Edward stared at her for a moment, and then burst into a loud fit of
+laughter. It had the good effect of restoring him to a better frame of
+mind. He had such an excellent joke against his sister, that he could not
+be angry with her. He called her Sancho Panza all the rest of the holidays,
+though she protested against it, saying she could not bear the Squire, and
+disliked being called by his name.
+
+Frank and Edward seemed to have a mutual antipathy to each other, and the
+coldness between them was rather increased than diminished by all Mr.
+Buxton's efforts to bring them together. "Come, Frank, my lad!" said he,
+"don't be so stiff with Ned. His father was a dear friend of mine, and I've
+set my heart on seeing you friends. You'll have it in your power to help
+him on in the world."
+
+But Frank answered, "He is not quite honorable, sir. I can't bear a boy who
+is not quite honorable. Boys brought up at those private schools are so
+full of tricks!"
+
+"Nay, my lad, there thou'rt wrong. I was brought up at a private school,
+and no one can say I ever dirtied my hands with a trick in my life. Good
+old Mr. Thompson would have flogged the life out of a boy who did anything
+mean or underhand."
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV.
+
+Summers and winters came and went, with little to mark them, except the
+growth of the trees, and the quiet progress of young creatures. Erminia was
+sent to school somewhere in France, to receive more regular instruction
+than she could have in the house with her invalid aunt. But she came home
+once a year, more lovely and elegant and dainty than ever; and Maggie
+thought, with truth, that ripening years were softening down her
+volatility, and that her aunt's dewlike sayings had quietly sunk deep, and
+fertilized the soil. That aunt was fading away. Maggie's devotion added
+materially to her happiness; and both she and Maggie never forgot that this
+devotion was to be in all things subservient to the duty which she owed to
+her mother.
+
+"My love," Mrs. Buxton had more than once said, "you must always recollect
+that your first duty is toward your mother. You know how glad I am to see
+you; but I shall always understand how it is, if you do not come. She may
+often want you when neither you nor I can anticipate it."
+
+Mrs. Browne had no great wish to keep Maggie at home, though she liked to
+grumble at her going. Still she felt that it was best, in every way, to
+keep on good terms with such valuable friends; and she appreciated, in some
+small degree, the advantage which her intimacy at the house was to Maggie.
+But yet she could not restrain a few complaints, nor withhold from her, on
+her return, a recapitulation of all the things which might have been done
+if she had only been at home, and the number of times that she had been
+wanted; but when she found that Maggie quietly gave up her next Wednesday's
+visit as soon as she was made aware of any necessity for her presence at
+home, her mother left off grumbling, and took little or no notice of her
+absence.
+
+When the time came for Edward to leave school, he announced that he had no
+intention of taking orders, but meant to become an attorney.
+
+"It's such slow work," said he to his mother. "One toils away for four or
+five years, and then one gets a curacy of seventy pounds a-year, and no end
+of work to do for the money. Now the work is not much harder in a lawyer's
+office, and if one has one's wits about one, there are hundreds and
+thousands a-year to be picked up with mighty little trouble."
+
+Mrs. Browne was very sorry for this determination. She had a great desire
+to see her son a clergyman, like his father. She did not consider whether
+his character was fitted for so sacred an office; she rather thought that
+the profession itself, when once assumed, would purify the character; but,
+in fact, his fitness or unfitness for holy orders entered little into her
+mind. She had a respect for the profession, and his father had belonged to
+it.
+
+"I had rather see you a curate at seventy pounds a-year, than an attorney
+with seven hundred," replied she. "And you know your father was always
+asked to dine everywhere--to places where I know they would not have asked
+Mr. Bish, of Woodchester, and he makes his thousand a-year. Besides, Mr.
+Buxton has the next presentation to Combehurst, and you would stand a good
+chance for your father's sake. And in the mean time you should live here,
+if your curacy was any way near."
+
+"I dare say! Catch me burying myself here again. My dear mother, it's a
+very respectable place for you and Maggie to live in, and I dare say
+you don't find it dull; but the idea of my quietly sitting down here is
+something too absurd!"
+
+"Papa did, and was very happy," said Maggie.
+
+"Yes! after he had been at Oxford," replied Edward, a little nonplussed by
+this reference to one whose memory even the most selfish and thoughtless
+must have held in respect.
+
+"Well! and you know you would have to go to Oxford first."
+
+"Maggie! I wish you would not interfere between my mother and me. I want
+to have it settled and done with, and that it will never be if you keep
+meddling. Now, mother, don't you see how much better it will be for me to
+go into Mr. Bish's office? Harry Bish has spoken to his father about it."
+
+Mrs. Browne sighed.
+
+"What will Mr. Buxton say?" asked she, dolefully.
+
+"Say! Why don't you see it was he who first put it into my head, by telling
+me that first Christmas holidays, that I should be his agent. That would be
+something, would it not? Harry Bish says he thinks a thousand a-year might
+be made of it."
+
+His loud, decided, rapid talking overpowered Mrs. Browne; but she resigned
+herself to his wishes with more regrets than she had ever done before. It
+was not the first case in which fluent declamation has taken the place of
+argument.
+
+Edward was articled to Mr. Bish, and thus gained his point. There was no
+one with power to resist his wishes, except his mother and Mr. Buxton. The
+former had long acknowledged her son's will as her law; and the latter,
+though surprised and almost disappointed at a change of purpose which he
+had never anticipated in his plans for Edward's benefit, gave his consent,
+and even advanced some of the money requisite for the premium.
+
+Maggie looked upon this change with mingled feelings. She had always from a
+child pictured Edward to herself as taking her father's place. When she had
+thought of him as a man, it was as contemplative, grave, and gentle, as she
+remembered her father. With all a child's deficiency of reasoning power,
+she had never considered how impossible it was that a selfish, vain,
+and impatient boy could become a meek, humble, and pious man, merely by
+adopting a profession in which such qualities are required. But now, at
+sixteen, she was beginning to understand all this. Not by any process of
+thought, but by something more like a correct feeling, she perceived that
+Edward would never be the true minister of Christ. So, more glad and
+thankful than sorry, though sorrow mingled with her sentiments, she learned
+the decision that he was to be an attorney.
+
+Frank Buxton all this time was growing up into a young man. The hopes both
+of father and mother were bound up in him; and, according to the difference
+in their characters was the difference in their hopes. It seemed, indeed,
+probable that Mr. Buxton, who was singularly void of worldliness or
+ambition for himself, would become worldly and ambitious for his son. His
+hopes for Frank were all for honor and distinction here. Mrs. Buxton's
+hopes were prayers. She was fading away, as light fades into darkness on a
+summer evening. No one seemed to remark the gradual progress; but she was
+fully conscious of it herself. The last time that Frank was at home from
+college before her death, she knew that she should never see him again;
+and when he gaily left the house, with a cheerfulness, which was partly
+assumed, she dragged herself with languid steps into a room at the front
+of the house, from which she could watch him down the long, straggling
+little street, that led to the inn from which the coach started. As he
+went along, he turned to look back at his home; and there he saw his
+mother's white figure gazing after him. He could not see her wistful eyes,
+but he made her poor heart give a leap of joy by turning round and running
+back for one more kiss and one more blessing.
+
+When he next came home, it was at the sudden summons of her death.
+
+His father was as one distracted. He could not speak of the lost angel
+without sudden bursts of tears, and oftentimes of self-upbraiding, which
+disturbed the calm, still, holy ideas, which Frank liked to associate with
+her. He ceased speaking to him, therefore, about their mutual loss; and it
+was a certain kind of relief to both when he did so; but he longed for
+some one to whom he might talk of his mother, with the quiet reverence of
+intense and trustful affection. He thought of Maggie, of whom he had
+seen but little of late; for when he had been at Combehurst, she had
+felt that Mrs. Buxton required her presence less, and had remained more at
+home. Possibly Mrs. Buxton regretted this; but she never said anything.
+She, far-looking, as one who was near death, foresaw that, probably, if
+Maggie and her son met often in her sick-room, feelings might arise which
+would militate against her husband's hopes and plans, and which, therefore,
+she ought not to allow to spring up. But she had been unable to refrain
+from expressing her gratitude to Maggie for many hours of tranquil
+happiness, and had unconsciously dropped many sentences which made Frank
+feel, that, in the little brown mouse of former years, he was likely to
+meet with one who could tell him much of the inner history of his mother in
+her last days, and to whom he could speak of her without calling out the
+passionate sorrow which was so little in unison with her memory.
+
+Accordingly, one afternoon, late in the autumn, he rode up to Mrs.
+Browne's. The air on the heights was so still that nothing seemed to stir.
+Now and then a yellow leaf came floating down from the trees, detached from
+no outward violence, but only because its life had reached its full limit
+and then ceased. Looking down on the distant sheltered woods, they were
+gorgeous in orange and crimson, but their splendor was felt to be the sign
+of the decaying and dying year. Even without an inward sorrow, there was a
+grand solemnity in the season which impressed the mind, and hushed it into
+tranquil thought. Frank rode slowly along, and quietly dismounted at the
+old horse-mount, beside which there was an iron bridle-ring fixed in
+the gray stone wall. He saw the casement of the parlor-window open, and
+Maggie's head bent down over her work. She looked up as he entered the
+court, and his footsteps sounded on the flag-walk. She came round and
+opened the door. As she stood in the door-way, speaking, he was struck by
+her resemblance to some old painting. He had seen her young, calm face,
+shining out with great peacefulness, and the large, grave, thoughtful eyes,
+giving the character to the features which otherwise they might, from their
+very regularity, have wanted. Her brown dress had the exact tint which a
+painter would have admired. The slanting mellow sunlight fell upon her as
+she stood; and the vine-leaves, already frost-tinted, made a rich, warm
+border, as they hung over the old house-door.
+
+"Mamma is not well; she is gone to lie down. How are you? How is Mr.
+Buxton?"
+
+"We are both pretty well; quite well, in fact, as far as regards health.
+May I come in? I want to talk to you, Maggie!"
+
+She opened the little parlor-door, and they went in; but for a time they
+were both silent. They could not speak of her who was with them, present
+in their thoughts. Maggie shut the casement, and put a log of wood on the
+fire. She sat down with her back to the window; but as the flame sprang up,
+and blazed at the touch of the dry wood, Frank saw that her face was wet
+with quiet tears. Still her voice was even and gentle, as she answered his
+questions. She seemed to understand what were the very things he would care
+most to hear. She spoke of his mother's last days; and without any word of
+praise (which, indeed, would have been impertinence), she showed such a
+just and true appreciation of her who was dead and gone, that he felt as if
+he could listen forever to the sweet-dropping words. They were balm to his
+sore heart. He had thought it possible that the suddenness of her death
+might have made her life incomplete, in that she might have departed
+without being able to express wishes and projects, which would now have the
+sacred force of commands. But he found that Maggie, though she had never
+intruded herself as such, had been the depository of many little thoughts
+and plans; or, if they were not expressed to her, she knew that Mr. Buxton
+or Dawson was aware of what they were, though, in their violence of early
+grief, they had forgotten to name them. The flickering brightness of the
+flame had died away; the gloom of evening had gathered into the room,
+through the open door of which the kitchen fire sent a ruddy glow,
+distinctly marked against carpet and wall. Frank still sat, with his head
+buried in his hands against the table, listening.
+
+"Tell me more," he said, at every pause.
+
+"I think I have told you all now," said Maggie, at last. "At least, it is
+all I recollect at present; but if I think of anything more, I will be sure
+and tell you."
+
+"Thank you; do." He was silent for some time.
+
+"Erminia is coming home at Christmas. She is not to go back to Paris again.
+She will live with us. I hope you and she will be great friends, Maggie."
+
+"Oh yes," replied she. "I think we are already. At least we were last
+Christmas. You know it is a year since I have seen her."
+
+"Yes; she went to Switzerland with Mademoiselle Michel, instead of coming
+home the last time. Maggie, I must go, now. My father will be waiting
+dinner for me."
+
+"Dinner! I was going to ask if you would not stay to tea. I hear mamma
+stirring about in her room. And Nancy is getting things ready, I see. Let
+me go and tell mamma. She will not be pleased unless she sees you. She has
+been very sorry for you all," added she, dropping her voice.
+
+Before he could answer, she ran up stairs.
+
+Mrs. Browne came down.
+
+"Oh, Mr. Frank! Have you been sitting in the dark? Maggie, you ought to
+have rung for candles! Ah! Mr. Frank, you've had a sad loss since I saw you
+here--let me see--in the last week of September. But she was always a sad
+invalid; and no doubt your loss is her gain. Poor Mr. Buxton, too! How is
+he? When one thinks of him, and of her years of illness, it seems like a
+happy release."
+
+She could have gone on for any length of time, but Frank could not bear
+this ruffling up of his soothed grief, and told her that his father was
+expecting him home to dinner.
+
+"Ah! I am sure you must not disappoint him. He'll want a little cheerful
+company more than ever now. You must not let him dwell on it, Mr. Frank,
+but turn his thoughts another way by always talking of other things. I am
+sure if I had some one to speak to me in a cheerful, pleasant way, when
+poor dear Mr. Browne died, I should never have fretted after him as I did;
+but the children were too young, and there was no one to come and divert
+me with any news. If I'd been living in Combehurst, I am sure I should not
+have let my grief get the better of me as I did. Could you get up a quiet
+rubber in the evenings, do you think?"
+
+But Frank had shaken hands and was gone. As he rode home he thought much of
+sorrow, and the different ways of bearing it. He decided that it was sent
+by God for some holy purpose, and to call out into existence some higher
+good; and he thought that if it were faithfully taken as His decree there
+would be no passionate, despairing resistance to it; nor yet, if it were
+trustfully acknowledged to have some wise end, should we dare to baulk it,
+and defraud it by putting it on one side, and, by seeking the distractions
+of worldly things, not let it do its full work. And then he returned to
+his conversation with Maggie. That had been real comfort to him. What an
+advantage it would be to Erminia to have such a girl for a friend and
+companion!
+
+It was rather strange that, having this thought, and having been struck, as
+I said, with Maggie's appearance while she stood in the door-way (and I may
+add that this impression of her unobtrusive beauty had been deepened by
+several succeeding interviews), he should reply as he did to Erminia's
+remark, on first seeing Maggie after her return from France.
+
+"How lovely Maggie is growing! Why, I had no idea she would ever turn out
+pretty. Sweet-looking she always was; but now her style of beauty makes her
+positively distinguished. Frank! speak! is not she beautiful?"
+
+"Do you think so?" answered he, with a kind of lazy indifference,
+exceedingly gratifying to his father, who was listening with some eagerness
+to his answer. That day, after dinner, Mr. Buxton began to ask his opinion
+of Erminia's appearance.
+
+Frank answered at once:
+
+"She is a dazzling little creature. Her complexion looks as if it were made
+of cherries and milk; and, it must be owned, the little lady has studied
+the art of dress to some purpose in Paris."
+
+Mr. Buxton was nearer happiness at this reply than he had ever been
+since his wife's death; for the only way he could devise to satisfy his
+reproachful conscience towards his neglected and unhappy sister, was to
+plan a marriage between his son and her child. He rubbed his hands and
+drank two extra glasses of wine.
+
+"We'll have the Brownes to dinner, as usual, next Thursday," said he, "I am
+sure your mother would have been hurt if we had omitted it; it is now nine
+years since they began to come, and they have never missed one Christmas
+since. Do you see any objection, Frank?"
+
+"None at all, sir," answered he. "I intend to go up to town soon after
+Christmas, for a week or ten days, on my way to Cambridge. Can I do
+anything for you?"
+
+"Well, I don't know. I think I shall go up myself some day soon. I can't
+understand all these lawyer's letters, about the purchase of the Newbridge
+estate; and I fancy I could make more sense out of it all, if I saw Mr.
+Hodgson."
+
+"I wish you would adopt my plan, of having an agent, sir. Your affairs are
+really so complicated now, that they would take up the time of an expert
+man of business. I am sure all those tenants at Dumford ought to be seen
+after."
+
+"I do see after them. There's never a one that dares cheat me, or that
+would cheat me if they could. Most of them have lived under the Buxtons for
+generations. They know that if they dared to take advantage of me, I should
+come down upon them pretty smartly."
+
+"Do you rely upon their attachment to your family--or on their idea of your
+severity?"
+
+"On both. They stand me instead of much trouble in account-keeping, and
+those eternal lawyers' letters some people are always dispatching to their
+tenants. When I'm cheated, Frank, I give you leave to make me have an
+agent, but not till then. There's my little Erminia singing away, and
+nobody to hear her."
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V.
+
+Christmas-Day was strange and sad. Mrs. Buxton had always contrived to be
+in the drawing-room, ready to receive them all after dinner. Mr. Buxton
+tried to do away with his thoughts of her by much talking; but every now
+and then he looked wistfully toward the door. Erminia exerted herself to
+be as lively as she could, in order, if possible, to fill up the vacuum.
+Edward, who had come over from Woodchester for a walk, had a good deal to
+say; and was, unconsciously, a great assistance with his never-ending flow
+of rather clever small-talk. His mother felt proud of her son, and his new
+waistcoat, which was far more conspicuously of the latest fashion than
+Frank's could be said to be. After dinner, when Mr. Buxton and the two
+young men were left alone, Edward launched out still more. He thought he
+was impressing Frank with his knowledge of the world, and the world's ways.
+But he was doing all in his power to repel one who had never been much
+attracted toward him. Worldly success was his standard of merit. The end
+seemed with him to justify the means; if a man prospered, it was not
+necessary to scrutinize his conduct too closely. The law was viewed in its
+lowest aspect; and yet with a certain cleverness, which preserved Edward
+from being intellectually contemptible. Frank had entertained some idea of
+studying for a barrister himself: not so much as a means of livelihood as
+to gain some idea of the code which makes and shows a nation's conscience:
+but Edward's details of the ways in which the letter so often baffles the
+spirit, made him recoil. With some anger against himself, for viewing the
+profession with disgust, because it was degraded by those who embraced it,
+instead of looking upon it as what might be ennobled and purified into a
+vast intelligence by high and pure-minded men, he got up abruptly and left
+the room.
+
+The girls were sitting over the drawing-room fire, with unlighted candles
+on the table, talking, he felt, about his mother; but when he came in they
+rose, and changed their tone. Erminia went to the piano, and sang her
+newest and choicest French airs. Frank was gloomy and silent; but when she
+changed into more solemn music his mood was softened, Maggie's simple and
+hearty admiration, untinged by the slightest shade of envy for Erminia's
+accomplishments, charmed him. The one appeared to him the perfection of
+elegant art, the other of graceful nature. When he looked at Maggie,
+and thought of the moorland home from which she had never wandered, the
+mysteriously beautiful lines of Wordsworth seemed to become sun-clear to
+him.
+
+  "And she shall lean her ear
+  In many a secret place
+  Where rivulets dance their wayward round,
+  And beauty born of murmuring sound
+  Shall pass into her face."
+
+Mr. Buxton, in the dining-room, was really getting to take an interest in
+Edward's puzzling cases. They were like tricks at cards. A quick motion,
+and out of the unpromising heap, all confused together, presto! the right
+card turned up. Edward stated his case, so that there did not seem loophole
+for the desired verdict; but through some conjuration, it always came
+uppermost at last. He had a graphic way of relating things; and, as he did
+not spare epithets in his designation of the opposing party, Mr. Buxton
+took it upon trust that the defendant or the prosecutor (as it might
+happen) was a "pettifogging knave," or a "miserly curmudgeon," and rejoiced
+accordingly in the triumph over him gained by the ready wit of "our
+governor," Mr. Bish. At last he became so deeply impressed with Edward's
+knowledge of law, as to consult him about some cottage property he had in
+Woodchester.
+
+"I rather think there are twenty-one cottages, and they don't bring me in
+four pounds a-year; and out of that I have to pay for collecting. Would
+there be any chance of selling them? They are in Doughty-street; a bad
+neighborhood, I fear."
+
+"Very bad," was Edward's prompt reply. "But if you are really anxious to
+effect a sale, I have no doubt I could find a purchaser in a short time."
+
+"I should be very much obliged to you," said Mr. Buxton. "You would be
+doing me a kindness. If you meet with a purchaser, and can manage the
+affair, I would rather that you drew out the deeds for the transfer of the
+property. It would be the beginning of business for you; and I only hope I
+should bring you good luck."
+
+Of course Edward could do this; and when they left the table, it was with
+a feeling on his side that he was a step nearer to the agency which he
+coveted; and with a happy consciousness on Mr. Buxton's of having put a few
+pounds in the way of a deserving and remarkably clever young man.
+
+Since Edward had left home, Maggie had gradually, but surely, been gaining
+in importance. Her judgment and her untiring unselfishness could not fail
+to make way. Her mother had some respect for, and great dependence on her;
+but still it was hardly affection that she felt for her; or if it was it
+was a dull and torpid kind of feeling, compared with the fond love and
+exulting pride which she took in Edward. When he came back for occasional
+holidays, his mother's face was radiant with happiness, and her manner
+toward him was even more caressing than he approved of. When Maggie saw him
+repel the hand that fain would have stroked his hair as in childish days,
+a longing came into her heart for some of these uncared-for tokens of her
+mother's love. Otherwise she meekly sank back into her old secondary place,
+content to have her judgment slighted and her wishes unasked as long as he
+stayed. At times she was now beginning to disapprove and regret some things
+in him; his flashiness of manner jarred against her taste; and a deeper,
+graver feeling was called out by his evident want of quick moral
+perception. "Smart and clever," or "slow and dull," took with him the place
+of "right and wrong." Little as he thought it, he was himself narrow-minded
+and dull; slow and blind to perceive the beauty and eternal wisdom of
+simple goodness.
+
+Erminia and Maggie became great friends. Erminia used to beg for Maggie,
+until she herself put a stop to the practice; as she saw her mother yielded
+more frequently than was convenient, for the honor of having her daughter
+a visitor at Mr. Buxton's, about which she could talk to her few
+acquaintances who persevered in calling at the cottage. Then Erminia
+volunteered a visit of some days to Maggie, and Mrs. Browne's pride was
+redoubled; but she made so many preparations, and so much fuss, and gave
+herself so much trouble, that she was positively ill during Erminia's stay;
+and Maggie felt that she must henceforward deny herself the pleasure of
+having her friend for a guest, as her mother could not be persuaded from
+attempting to provide things in the same abundance and style as that to
+which Erminia was accustomed at home; whereas, as Nancy shrewdly observed,
+the young lady did not know if she was eating jelly, or porridge, or
+whether the plates were common delf or the best China, so long as she was
+with her dear Miss Maggie. Spring went, and summer came. Frank had gone to
+and fro between Cambridge and Combehurst, drawn by motives of which he felt
+the force, but into which he did not care to examine. Edward had sold the
+property of Mr. Buxton; and he, pleased with the possession of half the
+purchase money (the remainder of which was to be paid by installments), and
+happy in the idea that his son came over so frequently to see Erminia, had
+amply rewarded the young attorney for his services.
+
+One summer's day, as hot as day could be, Maggie had been busy all morning;
+for the weather was so sultry that she would not allow either Nancy or
+her mother to exert themselves much. She had gone down with the old brown
+pitcher, coeval with herself, to the spring for water; and while it was
+trickling, and making a tinkling music, she sat down on the ground. The
+air was so still that she heard the distant wood-pigeons cooing; and round
+about her the bees were murmuring busily among the clustering heath. From
+some little touch of sympathy with these low sounds of pleasant harmony,
+she began to try and hum some of Erminia's airs. She never sang out loud,
+or put words to her songs; but her voice was very sweet, and it was a great
+pleasure to herself to let it go into music. Just as her jug was filled,
+she was startled by Frank's sudden appearance. She thought he was at
+Cambridge, and, from some cause or other, her face, usually so faint in
+color, became the most vivid scarlet. They were both too conscious to
+speak. Maggie stooped (murmuring some words of surprise) to take up her
+pitcher.
+
+"Don't go yet, Maggie," said he, putting his hand on hers to stop her; but,
+somehow, when that purpose was effected, he forgot to take it off again. "I
+have come all the way from Cambridge to see you. I could not bear suspense
+any longer. I grew so impatient for certainty of some kind, that I went up
+to town last night, in order to feel myself on my way to you, even though
+I knew I could not be here a bit earlier to-day for doing so. Maggie--dear
+Maggie! how you are trembling! Have I frightened you? Nancy told me you
+were here; but it was very thoughtless to come so suddenly upon you."
+
+It was not the suddenness of his coming; it was the suddenness of her own
+heart, which leaped up with the feelings called out by his words. She
+went very white, and sat down on the ground as before. But she rose again
+immediately, and stood, with drooping, averted head. He had dropped her
+hand, but now sought to take it again.
+
+"Maggie, darling, may I speak?" Her lips moved, he saw, but he could not
+hear. A pang of affright ran through him that, perhaps, she did not wish to
+listen. "May I speak to you?" he asked again, quite timidly. She tried to
+make her voice sound, but it would not; so she looked round. Her soft
+gray eyes were eloquent in that one glance. And, happier than his words,
+passionate and tender as they were, could tell, he spoke till her trembling
+was changed into bright flashing blushes, and even a shy smile hovered
+about her lips, and dimpled her cheeks.
+
+The water bubbled over the pitcher unheeded. At last she remembered all the
+work-a-day world. She lifted up the jug, and would have hurried home, but
+Frank decidedly took it from her.
+
+"Henceforward," said he, "I have a right to carry your burdens." So with
+one arm round her waist and with the other carrying the water, they climbed
+the steep turfy slope. Near the top she wanted to take it again.
+
+"Mamma will not like it. Mamma will think it so strange."
+
+"Why, dearest, if I saw Nancy carrying it up this slope I would take it
+from her. It would be strange if a man did not carry it for any woman.
+But you must let me tell your mother of my right to help you. It is your
+dinner-time is it not? I may come in to dinner as one of the family may not
+I Maggie?"
+
+"No" she said softly. For she longed to be alone; and she dreaded being
+overwhelmed by the expression of her mother's feelings, weak and agitated
+as she felt herself. "Not to-day."
+
+"Not to-day!" said he reproachfully. "You are very hard upon me. Let me
+come to tea. If you will, I will leave you now. Let me come to early tea. I
+must speak to my father. He does not know I am here. I may come to tea. At
+what time is it? Three o'clock. Oh, I know you drink tea at some strange
+early hour; perhaps it is at two. I will take care to be in time."
+
+"Don't come till five, please. I must tell mamma; and I want some time to
+think. It does seem so like a dream. Do go, please."
+
+"Well! if I must, I must. But I don't feel as if I were in a dream, but in
+some real blessed heaven so long as I see you."
+
+At last he went. Nancy was awaiting Maggie, the side-gate.
+
+"Bless us and save us, bairn! what a time it has taken thee to get the
+water. Is the spring dry with the hot weather?"
+
+Maggie ran past her. All dinner-time she heard her mother's voice in
+long-continued lamentation about something. She answered at random, and
+startled her mother by asserting that she thought "it" was very good;
+the said "it" being milk turned sour by thunder. Mrs. Browne spoke quite
+sharply, "No one is so particular as you, Maggie. I have known you drink
+water, day after day, for breakfast, when you were a little girl, because
+your cup of milk had a drowned fly in it; and now you tell me you don't
+care for this, and don't mind that, just as if you could eat up all the
+things which are spoiled by the heat. I declare my head aches so, I shall
+go and lie down as soon as ever dinner is over."
+
+If this was her plan, Maggie thought she had no time to lose in making her
+confession. Frank would be here before her mother got up again to tea. But
+she dreaded speaking about her happiness; it seemed as yet so cobweb-like,
+as if a touch would spoil its beauty.
+
+"Mamma, just wait a minute. Just sit down in your chair while I tell you
+something. Please, dear mamma." She took a stool, and sat at her mother's
+feet; and then she began to turn the wedding-ring on Mrs. Browne's hand,
+looking down and never speaking, till the latter became impatient.
+
+"What is it you have got to say, child? Do make haste, for I want to go
+up-stairs."
+
+With a great jerk of resolution, Maggie said:
+
+"Mamma, Frank Buxton has asked me to marry him."
+
+She hid her face in her mother's lap for an instant; and then she lifted it
+up, as brimful of the light of happiness as is the cup of a water-lily of
+the sun's radiance.
+
+"Maggie--you don't say so," said her mother, half incredulously. "It can't
+be, for he's at Cambridge, and it's not post-day. What do you mean?"
+
+"He came this morning, mother, when I was down at the well; and we fixed
+that I was to speak to you; and he asked if he might come again for tea."
+
+"Dear! dear! and the milk all gone sour? We should have had milk of our
+own, if Edward had not persuaded me against buying another cow."
+
+"I don't think Mr. Buxton will mind it much," said Maggie, dimpling up, as
+she remembered, half unconsciously, how little he had seemed to care for
+anything but herself.
+
+"Why, what a thing it is for you!" said Mrs. Browne, quite roused up from
+her languor and her head-ache. "Everybody said he was engaged to Miss
+Erminia. Are you quite sure you made no mistake, child? What did he say?
+Young men are so fond of making fine speeches; and young women are so silly
+in fancying they mean something. I once knew a girl who thought that a
+gentleman who sent her mother a present of a sucking-pig, did it as a
+delicate way of making her an offer. Tell me his exact words."
+
+But Maggie blushed, and either would not or could not. So Mrs. Browne began
+again:
+
+"Well, if you're sure, you're sure. I wonder how he brought his father
+round. So long as he and Erminia have been planned for each other! That
+very first day we ever dined there after your father's death, Mr. Buxton as
+good as told me all about it. I fancied they were only waiting till they
+were out of mourning."
+
+All this was news to Maggie. She had never thought that either Erminia or
+Frank was particularly fond of the other; still less had she had any idea
+of Mr. Buxton's plans for them. Her mother's surprise at her engagement
+jarred a little upon her too: it had become so natural, even in these last
+two hours, to feel that she belonged to _him_. But there were more discords
+to come. Mrs. Browne began again, half in soliloquy:
+
+"I should think he would have four thousand a-year. He did not tell you,
+love, did he, if they had still that bad property in the canal, that his
+father complained about? But he will have four thousand. Why, you'll have
+your carriage, Maggie. Well! I hope Mr. Buxton has taken it kindly, because
+he'll have a deal to do with the settlements. I'm sure I thought he was
+engaged to Erminia."
+
+Ringing changes on these subjects all the afternoon, Mrs. Browne sat with
+Maggie. She occasionally wandered off to speak about Edward, and how
+favorably his future prospects would be advanced by the engagement.
+
+"Let me see--there's the house in Combehurst: the rent of that would be
+a hundred and fifty a-year, but we'll not reckon that. But there's the
+quarries" (she was reckoning upon her fingers in default of a slate, for
+which she had vainly searched), "we'll call them two hundred a-year, for
+I don't believe Mr. Buxton's stories about their only bringing him
+in seven-pence; and there's Newbridge, that's certainly thirteen
+hundred--where had I got to, Maggie?"
+
+"Dear mamma, do go and lie down for a little; you look quite flushed," said
+Maggie, softly.
+
+Was this the manner to view her betrothal with such a man as Frank?
+Her mother's remarks depressed her more than she could have thought it
+possible; the excitement of the morning was having its reaction, and she
+longed to go up to the solitude under the thorn-tree, where she had hoped
+to spend a quiet, thoughtful afternoon.
+
+Nancy came in to replace glasses and spoons in the cupboard. By some
+accident, the careful old servant broke one of the former. She looked up
+quickly at her mistress, who usually visited all such offences with no
+small portion of rebuke.
+
+"Never mind, Nancy," said Mrs. Browne. "It's only an old tumbler;
+and Maggie's going to be married, and we must buy a new set for the
+wedding-dinner."
+
+Nancy looked at both, bewildered; at last a light dawned into her mind, and
+her face looked shrewdly and knowingly back at Mrs. Browne. Then she said,
+very quietly:
+
+"I think I'll take the next pitcher to the well myself, and try my luck. To
+think how sorry I was for Miss Maggie this morning! 'Poor thing,' says I to
+myself, 'to be kept all this time at that confounded well' (for I'll not
+deny that I swear a bit to myself at times--it sweetens the blood), 'and
+she so tired.' I e'en thought I'd go help her; but I reckon she'd some
+other help. May I take a guess at the young man?"
+
+"Four thousand a-year! Nancy;" said Mrs. Browne, exultingly.
+
+"And a blithe look, and a warm, kind heart--and a free step--and a noble
+way with him to rich and poor--aye, aye, I know the name. No need to alter
+all my neat M.B.'s, done in turkey-red cotton. Well, well! every one's turn
+comes sometime, but mine's rather long a-coming."
+
+The faithful old servant came up to Maggie, and put her hand caressingly on
+her shoulder. Maggie threw her arms round her neck, and kissed the brown,
+withered face.
+
+"God bless thee, bairn," said Nancy, solemnly. It brought the low music of
+peace back into the still recesses of Maggie's heart. She began to look out
+for her lover; half-hidden behind the muslin window curtain, which waved
+gently to and fro in the afternoon breezes. She heard a firm, buoyant step,
+and had only time to catch one glimpse of his face, before moving away. But
+that one glance made her think that the hours which had elapsed since she
+saw him had not been serene to him any more than to her.
+
+When he entered the parlor, his face was glad and bright. He went up in a
+frank, rejoicing way to Mrs. Browne; who was evidently rather puzzled
+how to receive him--whether as Maggie's betrothed, or as the son of the
+greatest man of her acquaintance.
+
+"I am sure, sir," said she, "we are all very much obliged to you for the
+honor you have done our family!"
+
+He looked rather perplexed as to the nature of the honor which he had
+conferred without knowing it; but as the light dawned upon him, he made
+answer in a frank, merry way, which was yet full of respect for his future
+mother-in-law:
+
+"And I am sure I am truly grateful for the honor one of your family has
+done me."
+
+When Nancy brought in tea she was dressed in her fine-weather Sunday gown;
+the first time it had ever been worn out of church, and the walk to and
+fro.
+
+After tea, Frank asked Maggie if she would walk out with him; and
+accordingly they climbed the Fell-Lane and went out upon the moors, which
+seemed vast and boundless as their love.
+
+"Have you told your father?" asked Maggie; a dim anxiety lurking in her
+heart.
+
+"Yes," said Frank. He did not go on; and she feared to ask, although she
+longed to know, how Mr. Buxton had received the intelligence.
+
+"What did he say?" at length she inquired.
+
+"Oh! it was evidently a new idea to him that I was attached to you; and he
+does not take up a new idea speedily. He has had some notion, it seems,
+that Erminia and I were to make a match of it; but she and I agreed, when
+we talked it over, that we should never have fallen in love with each other
+if there had not been another human being in the world. Erminia is a little
+sensible creature, and says she does not wonder at any man falling in love
+with you. Nay, Maggie, don't hang your head so down; let me have a glimpse
+of your face."
+
+"I am sorry your father does not like it," said Maggie, sorrowfully.
+
+"So am I. But we must give him time to get reconciled. Never fear but he
+will like it in the long run; he has too much good taste and good feeling.
+He must like you."
+
+Frank did not choose to tell even Maggie how violently his father had set
+himself against their engagement. He was surprised and annoyed at first to
+find how decidedly his father was possessed with the idea that he was to
+marry his cousin, and that she, at any rate, was attached to him, whatever
+his feelings might be toward her; but after he had gone frankly to Erminia
+and told her all, he found that she was as ignorant of her uncle's plans
+for her as he had been; and almost as glad at any event which should
+frustrate them.
+
+Indeed she came to the moorland cottage on the following day, after Frank
+had returned to Cambridge. She had left her horse in charge of the groom,
+near the fir-trees on the heights, and came running down the slope in her
+habit. Maggie went out to meet her, with just a little wonder at her heart
+if what Frank had said could possibly be true; and that Erminia, living in
+the house with him, could have remained indifferent to him. Erminia threw
+her arms round her neck, and they sat down together on the court-steps.
+
+"I durst not ride down that hill; and Jem is holding my horse, so I may not
+stay very long; now begin, Maggie, at once, and go into a rhapsody about
+Frank. Is not he a charming fellow? Oh! I am so glad. Now don't sit smiling
+and blushing there to yourself; but tell me a great deal about it. I have
+so wanted to know somebody that was in love, that I might hear what it was
+like; and the minute I could, I came off here. Frank is only just gone. He
+has had another long talk with my uncle, since he came back from you this
+morning; but I am afraid he has not made much way yet."
+
+Maggie sighed. "I don't wonder at his not thinking me good enough for
+Frank.
+
+"No! the difficulty would be to find any one he did think fit for his
+paragon of a son."
+
+"He thought you were, dearest Erminia."
+
+"So Frank has told you that, has he? I suppose we shall have no more family
+secrets now," said Erminia, laughing. "But I can assure you I had a strong
+rival in lady Adela Castlemayne, the Duke of Wight's daughter; she was the
+most beautiful lady my uncle had ever seen (he only saw her in the Grand
+Stand at Woodchester races, and never spoke a word to her in his life). And
+if she would have had Frank, my uncle would still have been dissatisfied
+as long as the Princess Victoria was unmarried; none would have been good
+enough while a better remained. But Maggie," said she, smiling up into her
+friend's face, "I think it would have made you laugh, for all you look as
+if a kiss would shake the tears out of your eyes, if you could have seen my
+uncle's manner to me all day. He will have it that I am suffering from an
+unrequited attachment; so he watched me and watched me over breakfast; and
+at last, when I had eaten a whole nest-full of eggs, and I don't know how
+many pieces of toast, he rang the bell and asked for some potted charr. I
+was quite unconscious that it was for me, and I did not want it when
+it came; so he sighed in a most melancholy manner, and said, 'My poor
+Erminia!' If Frank had not been there, and looking dreadfully miserable, I
+am sure I should have laughed out."
+
+"Did Frank look miserable?" said Maggie, anxiously.
+
+"There now! you don't care for anything but the mention of his name."
+
+"But did he look unhappy?" persisted Maggie.
+
+"I can't say he looked happy, dear Mousey; but it was quite different when
+he came back from seeing you. You know you always had the art of stilling
+any person's trouble. You and my aunt Buxton are the only two I ever knew
+with that gift."
+
+"I am so sorry he has any trouble to be stilled," said Maggie.
+
+"And I think it will do him a world of good. Think how successful his life
+has been! the honors he got at Eton! his picture taken, and I don't
+know what! and at Cambridge just the same way of going on. He would be
+insufferably imperious in a few years, if he did not meet with a few
+crosses."
+
+"Imperious!--oh Erminia, how can you say so?"
+
+"Because it's the truth. He happens to have very good dispositions; and
+therefore his strong will is not either disagreeable, or offensive; but
+once let him become possessed by a wrong wish, and you would then see how
+vehement and imperious he would be. Depend upon it, my uncle's resistance
+is a capital thing for him. As dear sweet Aunt Buxton would have said,
+'There is a holy purpose in it;' and as Aunt Buxton would not have said,
+but as I, a 'fool, rush in where angels fear to tread,' I decide that the
+purpose is to teach Master Frank patience and submission."
+
+
+"Erminia--how could you help"--and there Maggie stopped.
+
+"I know what you mean; how could I help falling in love with him? I think
+he has not mystery and reserve enough for me. I should like a man with some
+deep, impenetrable darkness around him; something one could always keep
+wondering about. Besides, think what clashing of wills there would have
+been! My uncle was very short-sighted in his plan; but I don't think he
+thought so much about the fitness of our characters and ways, as the
+fitness of our fortunes!"
+
+"For shame, Erminia! No one cares less for money than Mr. Buxton!"
+
+"There's a good little daughter-in-law elect! But seriously, I do think
+he is beginning to care for money; not in the least for himself, but as a
+means of aggrandizement for Frank. I have observed, since I came home at
+Christmas, a growing anxiety to make the most of his property; a thing he
+never cared about before. I don't think he is aware of it himself, but from
+one or two little things I have noticed, I should not wonder if he ends in
+being avaricious in his old age." Erminia sighed.
+
+Maggie had almost a sympathy with the father, who sought what he imagined
+to be for the good of his son, and that son, Frank. Although she was
+as convinced as Erminia, that money could not really help any one to
+happiness, she could not at the instant resist saying:
+
+"Oh! how I wish I had a fortune! I should so like to give it all to him."
+
+"Now Maggie! don't be silly! I never heard you wish for anything different
+from what _was_ before, so I shall take this opportunity of lecturing you
+on your folly. No! I won't either, for you look sadly tired with all your
+agitation; and besides I must go, or Jem will be wondering what has become
+of me. Dearest cousin-in-law, I shall come very often to see you; and
+perhaps I shall give you my lecture yet."
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI.
+
+It was true of Mr. Buxton, as well as of his son, that he had the seeds of
+imperiousness in him. His life had not been such as to call them out into
+view. With more wealth than he required; with a gentle wife, who if she
+ruled him never showed it, or was conscious of the fact herself; looked up
+to by his neighbors, a simple affectionate set of people, whose fathers
+had lived near his father and grandfather in the same kindly relation,
+receiving benefits cordially given, and requiting them with good will and
+respectful attention: such had been the circumstances surrounding him; and
+until his son grew out of childhood, there had not seemed a wish which he
+had it not in his power to gratify as soon as formed. Again, when Frank was
+at school and at college, all went on prosperously; he gained honors enough
+to satisfy a far more ambitious father. Indeed, it was the honors he gained
+that stimulated his father's ambition. He received letters from tutors,
+and headmasters, prophesying that, if Frank chose, he might rise to the
+"highest honors in church or state;" and the idea thus suggested, vague as
+it was, remained, and filled Mr. Buxton's mind; and, for the first time in
+his life, made him wish that his own career had been such as would have led
+him to form connections among the great and powerful. But, as it was, his
+shyness and _gêne_, from being unaccustomed to society, had made him
+averse to Frank's occasional requests that he might bring such and such a
+school-fellow, or college-chum, home on a visit. Now he regretted this, on
+account of the want of those connections which might thus have been formed;
+and, in his visions, he turned to marriage as the best way of remedying
+this. Erminia was right in saying that her uncle had thought of Lady Adela
+Castlemayne for an instant; though how the little witch had found it out I
+cannot say, as the idea had been dismissed immediately from his mind.
+
+He was wise enough to see its utter vanity, as long as his son remained
+undistinguished. But his hope was this. If Frank married Erminia, their
+united property (she being her father's heiress) would justify him in
+standing for the shire; or if he could marry the daughter of some leading
+personage in the county, it might lead to the same step; and thus at once
+he would obtain a position in parliament, where his great talents would
+have scope and verge enough. Of these two visions, the favorite one (for
+his sister's sake) was that of marriage with Erminia.
+
+And, in the midst of all this, fell, like a bombshell, the intelligence of
+his engagement with Maggie Browne; a good sweet little girl enough, but
+without fortune or connection--without, as far as Mr. Buxton knew, the
+least power, or capability, or spirit, with which to help Frank on in his
+career to eminence in the land! He resolved to consider it as a boyish
+fancy, easily to be suppressed; and pooh-poohed it down, to Frank,
+accordingly. He remarked his son's set lips, and quiet determined brow,
+although he never spoke in a more respectful tone, than while thus steadily
+opposing his father. If he had shown more violence of manner, he would have
+irritated him less; but, as it was, it was the most miserable interview
+that had ever taken place between the father and son.
+
+Mr. Buxton tried to calm himself down with believing that Frank would
+change his mind, if he saw more of the world; but, somehow, he had a
+prophesying distrust of this idea internally. The worst was, there was
+no fault to be found with Maggie herself, although she might want the
+accomplishments he desired to see in his son's wife. Her connections, too,
+were so perfectly respectable (though humble enough in comparison with Mr.
+Buxton's soaring wishes), that there was nothing to be objected to on that
+score; her position was the great offence. In proportion to his want of any
+reason but this one, for disapproving of the engagement, was his annoyance
+under it. He assumed a reserve toward Frank; which was so unusual a
+restraint upon his open, genial disposition, that it seemed to make him
+irritable toward all others in contact with him, excepting Erminia. He
+found it difficult to behave rightly to Maggie. Like all habitually cordial
+persons, he went into the opposite extreme, when he wanted to show a little
+coolness. However angry he might be with the events of which she was the
+cause, she was too innocent and meek to justify him in being more than
+cool; but his awkwardness was so great, that many a man of the world has
+met his greatest enemy, each knowing the other's hatred, with less freezing
+distance of manner than Mr. Buxton's to Maggie. While she went simply on in
+her own path, loving him the more through all, for old kindness' sake, and
+because he was Frank's father, he shunned meeting her with such evident and
+painful anxiety, that at last she tried to spare him the encounter, and
+hurried out of church, or lingered behind all, in order to avoid the only
+chance they now had of being forced to speak; for she no longer went to the
+dear house in Combehurst, though Erminia came to see her more than ever.
+
+Mrs. Browne was perplexed and annoyed beyond measure. She upbraided Mr.
+Buxton to every one but Maggie. To her she said--"Any one in their senses
+might have foreseen what had happened, and would have thought well about
+it, before they went and fell in love with a young man of such expectations
+as Mr. Frank Buxton."
+
+In the middle of all this dismay, Edward came over from Woodchester for a
+day or two. He had been told of the engagement, in a letter from Maggie
+herself; but it was too sacred a subject for her to enlarge upon to him;
+and Mrs. Browne was no letter writer. So this was his first greeting to
+Maggie; after kissing her:
+
+"Well, Sancho, you've done famously for yourself. As soon as I got your
+letter I said to Harry Bish--'Still waters run deep; here's my little
+sister Maggie, as quiet a creature as ever lived, has managed to catch
+young Buxton, who has five thousand a-year if he's a penny.' Don't go so
+red, Maggie. Harry was sure to hear of it soon from some one, and I see no
+use in keeping it secret, for it gives consequence to us all."
+
+"Mr. Buxton is quite put out about it," said Mrs. Brown, querulously; "and
+I'm sure he need not be, for he's enough of money, if that's what he wants;
+and Maggie's father was a clergyman, and I've seen 'yeoman,' with my own
+eyes, on old Mr. Buxton's (Mr. Lawrence's father's) carts; and a clergyman
+is above a yeoman any day. But if Maggie had had any thought for other
+people, she'd never have gone and engaged herself, when she might have been
+sure it would give offence. We are never asked down to dinner now. I've
+never broken bread there since last Christmas."
+
+"Whew!" said Edward to this. It was a disappointed whistle; but he soon
+cheered up. "I thought I could have lent a hand in screwing old Buxton up
+about the settlements; but I see it's not come to that yet. Still I'll go
+and see the old gentleman. I'm a bit of a favorite of his, and I doubt I
+can turn him round."
+
+"Pray, Edward, don't go," said Maggie. "Frank and I are content to wait;
+and I'm sure we would rather not have any one speak to Mr. Buxton, upon a
+subject which evidently gives him so much pain; please, Edward, don't!"
+
+"Well, well. Only I must go about this property of his. Besides, I don't
+mean to get into disgrace; so I shan't seem to know anything about it,
+if it would make him angry. I want to keep on good terms, because of the
+agency. So, perhaps, I shall shake my head, and think it great presumption
+in you, Maggie, to have thought of becoming his daughter-in-law. If I can
+do you no good, I may as well do myself some."
+
+"I hope you won't mention me at all," she replied.
+
+One comfort (and almost the only one arising from Edward's visit) was, that
+she could now often be spared to go up to the thorn-tree, and calm down her
+anxiety, and bring all discords into peace, under the sweet influences of
+nature. Mrs. Buxton had tried to teach her the force of the lovely truth,
+that the "melodies of the everlasting chime" may abide in the hearts of
+those who ply their daily task in towns, and crowded populous places; and
+that solitude is not needed by the faithful for them to feel the immediate
+presence of God; nor utter stillness of human sound necessary, before they
+can hear the music of His angels' footsteps; but, as yet, her soul was a
+young disciple; and she felt it easier to speak to Him, and come to Him for
+help, sitting lonely, with wild moors swelling and darkening around her,
+and not a creature in sight but the white specks of distant sheep, and the
+birds that shun the haunts of men, floating in the still mid-air.
+
+She sometimes longed to go to Mr. Buxton and tell him how much she could
+sympathize with him, if his dislike to her engagement arose from thinking
+her unworthy of his son. Frank's character seemed to her grand in its
+promise. With vehement impulses and natural gifts, craving worthy
+employment, his will sat supreme over all, like a young emperor calmly
+seated on his throne, whose fiery generals and wise counsellors stand alike
+ready to obey him. But if marriage were to be made by due measurement and
+balance of character, and if others, with their scales, were to be the
+judges, what would become of all the beautiful services rendered by the
+loyalty of true love? Where would be the raising up of the weak by the
+strong? or the patient endurance? or the gracious trust of her:
+
+  "Whose faith is fixt and cannot move;
+  She darkly feels him great and wise,
+  She dwells on him with faithful eyes,
+  'I cannot understand: I love.'"
+
+Edward's manners and conduct caused her more real anxiety than anything
+else. Indeed, no other thoughtfulness could be called anxiety compared to
+this. His faults, she could not but perceive, were strengthening with his
+strength, and growing with his growth. She could not help wondering whence
+he obtained the money to pay for his dress, which she thought was of a
+very expensive kind. She heard him also incidentally allude to "runs up
+to town," of which, at the time, neither she nor her mother had been made
+aware. He seemed confused when she questioned him about these, although he
+tried to laugh it off; and asked her how she, a country girl, cooped up
+among one set of people, could have any idea of the life it was necessary
+for a man to lead who "had any hope of getting on in the world." He must
+have acquaintances and connections, and see something of life, and make an
+appearance. She was silenced, but not satisfied. Nor was she at ease with
+regard to his health. He looked ill, and worn; and, when he was not
+rattling and laughing, his face fell into a shape of anxiety and
+uneasiness, which was new to her in it. He reminded her painfully of an
+old German engraving she had seen in Mrs. Buxton's portfolio, called,
+"Pleasure digging a Grave;" Pleasure being represented by a ghastly figure
+of a young man, eagerly industrious over his dismal work.
+
+A few days after he went away, Nancy came to her in her bed-room.
+
+"Miss Maggie," said she, "may I just speak a word?" But when the permission
+was given, she hesitated.
+
+"It's none of my business, to be sure," said she at last: "only, you see,
+I've lived with your mother ever since she was married; and I care a deal
+for both you and Master Edward. And I think he drains Missus of her money;
+and it makes me not easy in my mind. You did not know of it, but he had his
+father's old watch when he was over last time but one; I thought he was of
+an age to have a watch, and that it was all natural. But, I reckon he's
+sold it, and got that gimcrack one instead. That's perhaps natural too.
+Young folks like young fashions. But, this time, I think he has taken away
+your mother's watch; at least, I've never seen it since he went. And this
+morning she spoke to me about my wages. I'm sure I've never asked for them,
+nor troubled her; but I'll own it's now near on to twelve months since she
+paid me; and she was as regular as clock-work till then. Now, Miss Maggie
+don't look so sorry, or I shall wish I had never spoken. Poor Missus seemed
+sadly put about, and said something as I did not try to hear; for I was so
+vexed she should think I needed apologies, and them sort of things. I'd
+rather live with you without wages than have her look so shame-faced as she
+did this morning. I don't want a bit for money, my dear; I've a deal in the
+Bank. But I'm afeard Master Edward is spending too much, and pinching
+Missus."
+
+Maggie was very sorry indeed. Her mother had never told her anything of all
+this, so it was evidently a painful subject to her; and Maggie determined
+(after lying awake half the night) that she would write to Edward, and
+remonstrate with him; and that in every personal and household expense, she
+would be, more than ever, rigidly economical.
+
+The full, free, natural intercourse between her lover and herself, could
+not fail to be checked by Mr. Buxton's aversion to the engagement. Frank
+came over for some time in the early autumn. He had left Cambridge, and
+intended to enter himself at the Temple as soon as the vacation was ended.
+He had not been very long at home before Maggie was made aware, partly
+through Erminia, who had no notion of discreet silence on any point, and
+partly by her own observation, of the increasing estrangement between
+father and son. Mr. Buxton was reserved with Frank for the first time in
+his life; and Frank was depressed and annoyed at his father's obstinate
+repetition of the same sentence, in answer to all his arguments in favor of
+his engagement--arguments which were overwhelming to himself and which it
+required an effort of patience on his part to go over and recapitulate, so
+obvious was the conclusion; and then to have the same answer forever, the
+same words even:
+
+"Frank! it's no use talking. I don't approve of the engagement; and never
+shall."
+
+He would snatch up his hat, and hurry off to Maggie to be soothed. His
+father knew where he was gone without being told; and was jealous of her
+influence over the son who had long been his first and paramount object in
+life.
+
+He needed not have been jealous. However angry and indignant Frank was when
+he went up to the moorland cottage, Maggie almost persuaded him, before
+half an hour had elapsed, that his father was but unreasonable from his
+extreme affection. Still she saw that such frequent differences would
+weaken the bond between father and son; and, accordingly, she urged Frank
+to accept an invitation into Scotland.
+
+"You told me," said she, "that Mr. Buxton will have it, it is but a boy's
+attachment; and that when you have seen other people, you will change your
+mind; now do try how far you can stand the effects of absence." She said it
+playfully, but he was in a humor to be vexed.
+
+"What nonsense, Maggie! You don't care for all this delay yourself; and you
+take up my father's bad reasons as if you believed them."
+
+"I don't believe them; but still they may be true."
+
+"How should you like it, Maggie, if I urged you to go about and see
+something of society, and try if you could not find some one you liked
+better? It is more probable in your case than in mine; for you have never
+been from home, and I have been half over Europe."
+
+"You are very much afraid, are not you, Frank?" said she, her face bright
+with blushes, and her gray eyes smiling up at him. "I have a great idea
+that if I could see that Harry Bish that Edward is always talking about, I
+should be charmed. He must wear such beautiful waistcoats! Don't you think
+I had better see him before our engagement is quite, quite final?"
+
+But Frank would not smile. In fact, like all angry persons, he found fresh
+matter for offence in every sentence. She did not consider the engagement
+as quite final: thus he chose to understand her playful speech. He would
+not answer. She spoke again:
+
+"Dear Frank, you are not angry with me, are you? It is nonsense to think
+that we are to go about the world, picking and choosing men and women as
+if they were fruit and we were to gather the best; as if there was not
+something in our own hearts which, if we listen to it conscientiously, will
+tell us at once when we have met the one of all others. There now, am I
+sensible? I suppose I am, for your grim features are relaxing into a smile.
+That's right. But now listen to this. I think your father would come round
+sooner, if he were not irritated every day by the knowledge of your visits
+to me. If you went away, he would know that we should write to each other
+yet he would forget the exact time when; but now he knows as well as I do
+where you are when you are up here; and I fancy, from what Erminia says, it
+makes him angry the whole time you are away."
+
+Frank was silent. At last he said: "It is rather provoking to be obliged to
+acknowledge that there is some truth in what you say. But even if I would,
+I am not sure that I could go. My father does not speak to me about his
+affairs, as he used to do; so I was rather surprised yesterday to hear him
+say to Erminia (though I'm sure he meant the information for me), that he
+had engaged an agent."
+
+"Then there will be the less occasion for you to be at home. He won't want
+your help in his accounts."
+
+"I've given him little enough of that. I have long wanted him to have
+somebody to look after his affairs. They are very complicated and he is
+very careless. But I believe my signature will be wanted for some new
+leases; at least he told me so."
+
+"That need not take you long," said Maggie.
+
+"Not the mere signing. But I want to know something more about the
+property, and the proposed tenants. I believe this Mr. Henry that my father
+has engaged, is a very hard sort of man. He is what is called scrupulously
+honest and honorable; but I fear a little too much inclined to drive hard
+bargains for his client. Now I want to be convinced to the contrary, if I
+can, before I leave my father in his hands. So you cruel judge, you won't
+transport me yet, will you?"
+
+"No" said Maggie, overjoyed at her own decision, and blushing her delight
+that her reason was convinced it was right for Frank to stay a little
+longer.
+
+The next day's post brought her a letter from Edward. There was not a word
+in it about her inquiry or remonstrance; it might never have been written,
+or never received; but a few hurried anxious lines, asking her to write by
+return of post, and say if it was really true that Mr. Buxton had engaged
+an agent. "It's a confounded shabby trick if he has, after what he said to
+me long ago. I cannot tell you how much I depend on your complying with my
+request. Once more, _write directly_. If Nancy cannot take the letter to
+the post, run down to Combehurst with it yourself. I must have an answer
+to-morrow, and every particular as to who--when to be appointed, &c. But I
+can't believe the report to be true."
+
+Maggie asked Frank if she might name what he had told her the day before to
+her brother. He said:
+
+"Oh, yes, certainly, if he cares to know. Of course, you will not say
+anything about my own opinion of Mr. Henry. He is coming to-morrow, and I
+shall be able to judge how far I am right."
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII.
+
+The next day Mr. Henry came. He was a quiet, stern-looking man, of
+considerable intelligence and refinement, and so much taste for music as to
+charm Erminia, who had rather dreaded his visit. But all the amenities of
+life were put aside when he entered Mr. Buxton's sanctum--his "office," as
+he called the room where he received his tenants and business people. Frank
+thought Mr. Henry was scarce commonly civil in the open evidence of his
+surprise and contempt for the habits, of which the disorderly books and
+ledgers were but too visible signs. Mr. Buxton himself felt more like a
+school-boy, bringing up an imperfect lesson, than he had ever done since he
+was thirteen.
+
+"The only wonder, my good sir, is that you have any property left; that you
+have not been cheated out of every farthing."
+
+"I'll answer for it," said Mr. Buxton, in reply, "that you'll not find any
+cheating has been going on. They dared not, sir; they know I should make an
+example of the first rogue I found out."
+
+Mr. Henry lifted up his eyebrows, but did not speak.
+
+"Besides, sir, most of these men have lived for generations under the
+Buxtons. I'd give you my life, they would not cheat me."
+
+Mr. Henry coldly said:
+
+"I imagine a close examination of these books by some accountant will be
+the best proof of the honesty of these said tenants. If you will allow me,
+I will write to a clever fellow I know, and desire him to come down and try
+and regulate this mass of papers."
+
+"Anything--anything you like," said Mr. Buxton, only too glad to escape
+from the lawyer's cold, contemptuous way of treating the subject.
+
+The accountant came; and he and Mr. Henry were deeply engaged in the office
+for several days. Mr. Buxton was bewildered by the questions they asked
+him. Mr. Henry examined him in the worrying way in which an unwilling
+witness is made to give evidence. Many a time and oft did he heartily wish
+he had gone on in the old course to the end of his life, instead of putting
+himself into an agent's hands; but he comforted himself by thinking that,
+at any rate, they would be convinced he had never allowed himself to be
+cheated or imposed upon, although he did not make any parade of exactitude.
+
+What was his dismay when, one morning, Mr. Henry sent to request his
+presence, and, with a cold, clear voice, read aloud an admirably drawn up
+statement, informing the poor landlord of the defalcations, nay more, the
+impositions of those whom he had trusted. If he had been alone, he would
+have burst into tears, to find how his confidence had been abused. But as
+it was, he became passionately angry.
+
+"I'll prosecute them, sir. Not a man shall escape. I'll make them pay back
+every farthing, I will. And damages, too. Crayston, did you say, sir? Was
+that one of the names? Why, that is the very Crayston who was bailiff under
+my father for years. The scoundrel! And I set him up in my best farm when
+he married. And he's been swindling me, has he?"
+
+Mr. Henry ran over the items of the account--"421_l_, 13_s_.
+4-3/4_d_. Part of this I fear we cannot recover"----
+
+He was going on, but Mr. Buxton broke in: "But I will recover it. I'll
+have every farthing of it. I'll go to law with the viper. I don't care for
+money, but I hate ingratitude."
+
+"If you like, I will take counsel's opinion on the case," said Mr. Henry,
+coolly.
+
+"Take anything you please, sir. Why this Crayston was the first man that
+set me on a horse--and to think of his cheating me!"
+
+A few days after this conversation, Frank came on his usual visit to
+Maggie.
+
+"Can you come up to the thorn-tree, dearest?" said he. "It is a lovely day,
+and I want the solace of a quiet hour's talk with you."
+
+So they went, and sat in silence some time, looking at the calm and still
+blue air about the summits of the hills, where never tumult of the world
+came to disturb the peace, and the quiet of whose heights was never broken
+by the loud passionate cries of men.
+
+"I am glad you like my thorn-tree," said Maggie.
+
+"I like the view from it. The thought of the solitude which must be among
+the hollows of those hills pleases me particularly to-day. Oh, Maggie! it
+is one of the times when I get depressed about men and the world. We have
+had such sorrow, and such revelations, and remorse, and passion at home
+to-day. Crayston (my father's old tenant) has come over. It seems--I am
+afraid there is no doubt of it--he has been peculating to a large amount.
+My father has been too careless, and has placed his dependents in great
+temptation; and Crayston--he is an old man, with a large extravagant
+family--has yielded. He has been served with notice of my father's
+intention to prosecute him; and came over to confess all, and ask for
+forgiveness, and time to pay back what he could. A month ago, my father
+would have listened to him, I think; but now, he is stung by Mr. Henry's
+sayings, and gave way to a furious passion. It has been a most distressing
+morning. The worst side of everybody seems to have come out. Even Crayston,
+with all his penitence and appearance of candor, had to be questioned
+closely by Mr. Henry before he would tell the whole truth. Good God! that
+money should have such power to corrupt men. It was all for money, and
+money's worth, that this degradation has taken place. As for Mr. Henry, to
+save his client money, and to protect money, he does not care--he does
+not even perceive--how he induces deterioration of character. He has
+been encouraging my father in measures which I cannot call anything but
+vindictive. Crayston is to be made an example of, they say. As if my father
+had not half the sin on his own head! As if he had rightly discharged his
+duties as a rich man! Money was as dross to him; but he ought to have
+remembered how it might be as life itself to many, and be craved after, and
+coveted, till the black longing got the better of principle, as it has done
+with this poor Crayston. They say the man was once so truthful, and now his
+self-respect is gone; and he has evidently lost the very nature of truth. I
+dread riches. I dread the responsibility of them. At any rate, I wish I had
+begun life as a poor boy, and worked my way up to competence. Then I could
+understand and remember the temptations of poverty. I am afraid of my
+own heart becoming hardened as my father's is. You have no notion of his
+passionate severity to-day, Maggie! It was quite a new thing even to me!"
+
+"It will only be for a short time," said she. "He must be much grieved
+about this man."
+
+"If I thought I could ever grow as hard and different to the abject
+entreaties of a criminal as my father has been this morning--one whom he
+has helped to make, too--I would go off to Australia at once. Indeed,
+Maggie, I think it would be the best thing we could do. My heart aches
+about the mysterious corruptions and evils of an old state of society such
+as we have in England.--What do you say Maggie? Would you go?"
+
+She was silent--thinking.
+
+"I would go with you directly, if it were right," said she, at last. "But
+would it be? I think it would be rather cowardly. I feel what you say; but
+don't you think it would be braver to stay, and endure much depression and
+anxiety of mind, for the sake of the good those always can do who see evils
+clearly. I am speaking all this time as if neither you nor I had any home
+duties, but were free to do as we liked."
+
+"What can you or I do? We are less than drops in the ocean, as far as our
+influence can go to model a nation?"
+
+"As for that," said Maggie, laughing, "I can't remodel Nancy's
+old-fashioned ways; so I've never yet planned how to remodel a nation."
+
+"Then what did you mean by the good those always can do who see evils
+clearly? The evils I see are those of a nation whose god is money."
+
+"That is just because you have come away from a distressing scene.
+To-morrow you will hear or read of some heroic action meeting with a
+nation's sympathy, and you will rejoice and be proud of your country."
+
+"Still I shall see the evils of her complex state of society keenly; and
+where is the good I can do?"
+
+"Oh! I can't tell in a minute. But cannot you bravely face these evils,
+and learn their nature and causes; and then has God given you no powers to
+apply to the discovery of their remedy? Dear Frank, think! It may be very
+little you can do--and you may never see the effect of it, any more than
+the widow saw the world-wide effect of her mite. Then if all the good and
+thoughtful men run away from us to some new country, what are we to do with
+our poor dear Old England?"
+
+"Oh, you must run away with the good, thoughtful men--(I mean to consider
+that as a compliment to myself, Maggie!) Will you let me wish I had been
+born poor, if I am to stay in England? I should not then be liable to this
+fault into which I see the rich men fall, of forgetting the trials of the
+poor."
+
+"I am not sure whether, if you had been poor, you might not have fallen
+into an exactly parallel fault, and forgotten the trials of the rich. It is
+so difficult to understand the errors into which their position makes all
+men liable to fall. Do you remember a story in 'Evenings at Home,' called
+the Transmigrations of Indra? Well! when I was a child, I used to wish I
+might be transmigrated (is that the right word?) into an American
+slave-owner for a little while, just that I might understand how he must
+suffer, and be sorely puzzled, and pray and long to be freed from his
+odious wealth, till at last he grew hardened to its nature;--and since
+then, I have wished to be the Emperor of Russia, for the same reason. Ah!
+you may laugh; but that is only because I have not explained myself
+properly."
+
+"I was only smiling to think how ambitious any one might suppose you were
+who did not know you."
+
+"I don't see any ambition in it--I don't think of the station--I only want
+sorely to see the 'What's resisted' of Burns, in order that I may have more
+charity for those who seem to me to have been the cause of such infinite
+woe and misery."
+
+  "'What's done we partly may compute;
+  But know not what's resisted,'"
+
+repeated Frank musingly. After some time he began again:
+
+"But, Maggie, I don't give up this wish of mine to go to Australia--Canada,
+if you like it better--anywhere where there is a newer and purer state of
+society."
+
+"The great objection seems to be your duty, as an only child, to your
+father. It is different to the case of one out of a large family."
+
+"I wish I were one in twenty, then I might marry where I liked to-morrow."
+
+"It would take two people's consent to such a rapid measure," said Maggie,
+laughing. "But now I am going to wish a wish, which it won't require a
+fairy godmother to gratify. Look, Frank, do you see in the middle of that
+dark brown purple streak of moor a yellow gleam of light? It is a pond, I
+think, that at this time of the year catches a slanting beam of the sun. It
+cannot be very far off. I have wished to go to it every autumn. Will you go
+with me now? We shall have time before tea."
+
+Frank's dissatisfaction with the stern measures that, urged on by Mr.
+Henry, his father took against all who had imposed upon his carelessness as
+a landlord, increased rather than diminished. He spoke warmly to him on the
+subject, but without avail. He remonstrated with Mr. Henry, and told him
+how he felt that, had his father controlled his careless nature, and been
+an exact, vigilant landlord, these tenantry would never have had the great
+temptation to do him wrong; and that therefore he considered some allowance
+should be made for them, and some opportunity given them to redeem their
+characters, which would be blasted and hardened for ever by the publicity
+of a law-suit. But Mr. Henry only raised his eyebrows and made answer:
+
+"I like to see these notions in a young man, sir. I had them myself at your
+age. I believe I had great ideas then, on the subject of temptation and
+the force of circumstances; and was as Quixotic as any one about reforming
+rogues. But my experience has convinced me that roguery is innate. Nothing
+but outward force can control it, and keep it within bounds. The terrors of
+the law must be that outward force. I admire your kindness of heart; and in
+three-and-twenty we do not look for the wisdom and experience of forty or
+fifty."
+
+Frank was indignant at being set aside as an unripe youth. He disapproved
+so strongly of all these measures, and of so much that was now going on
+at home under Mr. Henry's influence that he determined to pay his long
+promised visit to Scotland; and Maggie, sad at heart to see how he was
+suffering, encouraged him in his determination.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII.
+
+After he was gone, there came a November of the most dreary and
+characteristic kind. There was incessant rain, and closing-in mists,
+without a gleam of sunshine to light up the drops of water, and make the
+wet stems and branches of the trees glisten. Every color seemed dimmed
+and darkened; and the crisp autumnal glory of leaves fell soddened to the
+ground. The latest flowers rotted away without ever coming to their bloom;
+and it looked as if the heavy monotonous sky had drawn closer and closer,
+and shut in the little moorland cottage as with a shroud. In doors, things
+were no more cheerful. Maggie saw that her mother was depressed, and she
+thought that Edward's extravagance must be the occasion. Oftentimes she
+wondered how far she might speak on the subject; and once or twice she drew
+near it in conversation; but her mother winced away, and Maggie could not
+as yet see any decided good to be gained from encountering such pain. To
+herself it would have been a relief to have known the truth--the worst,
+as far as her mother knew it; but she was not in the habit of thinking of
+herself. She only tried, by long tender attention, to cheer and comfort
+her mother; and she and Nancy strove in every way to reduce the household
+expenditure, for there was little ready money to meet it. Maggie wrote
+regularly to Edward; but since the note inquiring about the agency, she had
+never heard from him. Whether her mother received letters she did not know;
+but at any rate she did not express anxiety, though her looks and manner
+betrayed that she was ill at ease. It was almost a relief to Maggie when
+some change was given to her thoughts by Nancy's becoming ill. The damp
+gloomy weather brought on some kind of rheumatic attack, which obliged the
+old servant to keep her bed. Formerly, in such an emergency, they would
+have engaged some cottager's wife to come and do the house-work; but now it
+seemed tacitly understood that they could not afford it. Even when Nancy
+grew worse, and required attendance in the night, Maggie still persisted in
+her daily occupations. She was wise enough to rest when and how she could;
+and, with a little forethought, she hoped to be able to go through this
+weary time without any bad effect. One morning (it was on the second of
+December; and even the change of name in the month, although it brought no
+change of circumstances or weather, was a relief--December brought glad
+tidings even in its very name), one morning, dim and dreary, Maggie had
+looked at the clock on leaving Nancy's room, and finding it was not yet
+half-past five, and knowing that her mother and Nancy were both asleep, she
+determined to lie down and rest for an hour before getting up to light the
+fires. She did not mean to go to sleep; but she was tired out and fell into
+a sound slumber. When she awoke it was with a start. It was still dark; but
+she had a clear idea of being wakened by some distinct, rattling noise.
+There it was once more--against the window, like a shower of shot. She
+went to the lattice, and opened it to look out. She had that strange
+consciousness, not to be described, of the near neighborhood of some human
+creature, although she neither saw nor heard any one for the first instant.
+Then Edward spoke in a hoarse whisper, right below the window, standing on
+the flower-beds.
+
+"Maggie! Maggie! Come down and let me in. For your life, don't make any
+noise. No one must know."
+
+Maggie turned sick. Something was wrong, evidently; and she was weak and
+weary. However, she stole down the old creaking stairs, and undid the heavy
+bolt, and let her brother in. She felt that his dress was quite wet, and
+she led him, with cautious steps, into the kitchen, and shut the door, and
+stirred the fire, before she spoke. He sank into a chair, as if worn out
+with fatigue. She stood, expecting some explanation. But when she saw he
+could not speak, she hastened to make him a cup of tea; and, stooping down,
+took off his wet boots, and helped him off with his coat, and brought her
+own plaid to wrap round him. All this time her heart sunk lower and lower.
+He allowed her to do what she liked, as if he were an automaton; his head
+and his arms hung loosely down, and his eyes were fixed, in a glaring way,
+on the fire. When she brought him some tea, he spoke for the first time;
+she could not hear what he said till he repeated it, so husky was his
+voice.
+
+"Have you no brandy?"
+
+She had the key of the little wine-cellar, and fetched up some. But as she
+took a tea-spoon to measure it out, he tremblingly clutched at the bottle,
+and shook down a quantity into the empty tea-cup, and drank it off at one
+gulp. He fell back again in his chair; but in a few minutes he roused
+himself, and seemed stronger.
+
+"Edward, dear Edward, what is the matter?" said Maggie, at last; for he got
+up, and was staggering toward the outer door, as if he were going once more
+into the rain, and dismal morning-twilight.
+
+He looked at her fiercely as she laid her hand on his arm.
+
+"Confound you! Don't touch me. I'll not be kept here, to be caught and
+hung!"
+
+For an instant she thought he was mad.
+
+"Caught and hung!" she echoed. "My poor Edward! what do you mean?"
+
+He sat down suddenly on a chair, close by him, and covered his face with
+his hands. When he spoke, his voice was feeble and imploring.
+
+"The police are after me, Maggie! What must I do? Oh! can you hide me? Can
+you save me?"
+
+He looked wild, like a hunted creature. Maggie stood aghast. He went on:
+
+"My mother!--Nancy! Where are they? I was wet through and starving, and I
+came here. Don't let them take me, Maggie, till I'm stronger, and can give
+battle."
+
+"Oh! Edward! Edward! What are you saying?" said Maggie, sitting down on the
+dresser, in absolute, bewildered despair. "What have you done?"
+
+"I hardly know. I'm in a horrid dream. I see you think I'm mad. I wish I
+were. Won't Nancy come down soon? You must hide me."
+
+"Poor Nancy is ill in bed!" said Maggie.
+
+"Thank God," said he. "There's one less. But my mother will be up soon,
+will she not?"
+
+"Not yet," replied Maggie. "Edward, dear, do try and tell me what you have
+done. Why should the police be after you?"
+
+"Why, Maggie," said he with a kind of forced, unnatural laugh, "they say
+I've forged."
+
+"And have you?" asked Maggie, in a still, low tone of quiet agony.
+
+He did not answer for some time, but sat, looking on the floor with
+unwinking eyes. At last he said, as if speaking to himself:
+
+"If I have, it's no more than others have done before, and never been found
+out. I was but borrowing money. I meant to repay it. If I had asked Mr.
+Buxton, he would have lent it me."
+
+"Mr. Buxton!" said Maggie.
+
+"Yes!" answered he, looking sharply and suddenly up at her. "Your future
+father-in-law. My father's old friend. It is he that is hunting me to
+death! No need to look so white and horror-struck, Maggie! It's the way of
+the world, as I might have known, if I had not been a blind fool."
+
+"Mr. Buxton!" she whispered, faintly.
+
+"Oh, Maggie!" said he, suddenly throwing himself at her feet, "save me! You
+can do it. Write to Frank, and make him induce his father to let me off. I
+came to see you, my sweet, merciful sister! I knew you would save me. Good
+God! What noise is that? There are steps in the yard!"
+
+And before she could speak, he had rushed into the little china closet,
+which opened out of the parlor, and crouched down in the darkness. It was
+only the man who brought their morning's supply of milk from a neighboring
+farm. But when Maggie opened the kitchen door, she saw how the cold, pale
+light of a winter's day had filled the air.
+
+"You're late with your shutters to-day, miss," said the man. "I hope Nancy
+has not been giving you all a bad night. Says I to Thomas, who came with me
+to the gate, 'It's many a year since I saw them parlor shutters barred up
+at half-past eight.'"
+
+Maggie went, as soon as he was gone, and opened all the low windows, in
+order that they might look as usual. She wondered at her own outward
+composure, while she felt so dead and sick at heart. Her mother would
+soon get up; must she be told? Edward spoke to her now and then from his
+hiding-place. He dared not go back into the kitchen, into which the few
+neighbors they had were apt to come, on their morning's way to Combehurst,
+to ask if they could do any errands there for Mrs. Browne or Nancy. Perhaps
+a quarter of an hour or so had elapsed since the first alarm, when, as
+Maggie was trying to light the parlor fire, in order that the doctor, when
+he came, might find all as usual, she heard the click of the garden gate,
+and a man's step coming along the walk. She ran up stairs to wash away the
+traces of the tears which had been streaming down her face as she went
+about her work, before she opened the door. There, against the watery light
+of the rainy day without, stood Mr. Buxton. He hardly spoke to her, but
+pushed past her, and entered the parlor. He sat down, looking as if he did
+not know what he was doing. Maggie tried to keep down her shivering alarm.
+It was long since she had seen him; and the old idea of his kind, genial
+disposition, had been sadly disturbed by what she had heard from Frank, of
+his severe proceedings against his unworthy tenantry; and now, if he was
+setting the police in search of Edward, he was indeed to be dreaded; and
+with Edward so close at hand, within earshot! If the china fell! He would
+suspect nothing from that; it would only be her own terror. If her mother
+came down! But, with all these thoughts, she was very still, outwardly, as
+she sat waiting for him to speak.
+
+"Have you heard from your brother lately?" asked he, looking up in an angry
+and disturbed manner. "But I'll answer for it he has not been writing home
+for some time. He could not, with the guilt he has had on his mind. I'll
+not believe in gratitude again. There perhaps was such a thing once; but
+now-a-days the more you do for a person, the surer they are to turn against
+you, and cheat you. Now, don't go white and pale. I know you're a good girl
+in the main; and I've been lying awake all night, and I've a deal to say to
+you. That scoundrel of a brother of yours!"
+
+Maggie could not ask (as would have been natural, if she had been ignorant)
+what Edward had done. She knew too well. But Mr. Buxton was too full of his
+own thoughts and feelings to notice her much.
+
+"Do you know he has been like the rest? Do you know he has been cheating
+me--forging my name? I don't know what besides. It's well for him that
+they've altered the laws, and he can't be hung for it" (a dead heavy weight
+was removed from Maggie's mind), "but Mr. Henry is going to transport him.
+It's worse than Crayston. Crayston only ploughed up the turf, and did not
+pay rent, and sold the timber, thinking I should never miss it. But your
+brother has gone and forged my name. He had received all the purchase-money,
+while he only gave me half, and said the rest was to come afterward. And
+the ungrateful scoundrel has gone and given a forged receipt! You might
+have knocked me down with a straw when Mr. Henry told me about it all last
+night. 'Never talk to me of virtue and such humbug again,' I said, 'I'll
+never believe in them. Every one is for what he can get.' However, Mr.
+Henry wrote to the superintendent of police at Woodchester; and has gone
+over himself this morning to see after it. But to think of your father
+having such a son!"
+
+"Oh my poor father!" sobbed out Maggie. "How glad I am you are dead before
+this disgrace came upon us!"
+
+"You may well say disgrace. You're a good girl yourself, Maggie. I have
+always said that. How Edward has turned out as he has done, I cannot
+conceive. But now, Maggie, I've something to say to you." He moved uneasily
+about, as if he did not know how to begin. Maggie was standing leaning her
+head against the chimney-piece, longing for her visitor to go, dreading the
+next minute, and wishing to shrink into some dark corner of oblivion where
+she might forget all for a time, till she regained a small portion of the
+bodily strength that had been sorely tried of late. Mr. Buxton saw her
+white look of anguish, and read it in part, but not wholly. He was too
+intent on what he was going to say.
+
+"I've been lying awake all night, thinking. You see the disgrace it is to
+you, though you are innocent; and I'm sure you can't think of involving
+Frank in it."
+
+Maggie went to the little sofa, and, kneeling down by it, hid her face in
+the cushions. He did not go on, for he thought she was not listening to
+him. At last he said:
+
+"Come now, be a sensible girl, and face it out. I've a plan to propose."
+
+"I hear," said she, in a dull veiled voice.
+
+"Why, you know how against this engagement I have always been. Frank is but
+three-and-twenty, and does not know his own mind, as I tell him. Besides,
+he might marry any one he chose."
+
+"He has chosen me," murmured Maggie.
+
+"Of course, of course. But you'll not think of keeping him to it, after
+what has passed. You would not have such a fine fellow as Frank pointed at
+as the brother-in-law of a forger, would you? It was far from what I wished
+for him before; but now! Why you're glad your father is dead, rather than
+he should have lived to see this day; and rightly too, I think. And you'll
+not go and disgrace Frank. From what Mr. Henry hears, Edward has been a
+discredit to you in many ways. Mr. Henry was at Woodchester yesterday, and
+he says if Edward has been fairly entered as an attorney, his name may be
+struck off the Rolls for many a thing he has done. Think of my Frank having
+his bright name tarnished by any connection with such a man! Mr. Henry
+says, even in a court of law what has come out about Edward would be excuse
+enough for a breach of promise of marriage."
+
+Maggie lifted up her wan face; the pupils of her eyes were dilated, her
+lips were dead white. She looked straight at Mr. Buxton with indignant
+impatience:
+
+"Mr. Henry! Mr. Henry! What has Mr. Henry to do with me?"
+
+Mr. Buxton was staggered by the wild, imperious look, so new upon her mild,
+sweet face. But he was resolute for Frank's sake, and returned to the
+charge after a moment's pause.
+
+"Mr. Henry is a good friend of mine, who has my interest at heart. He has
+known what a subject of regret your engagement has been to me; though
+really my repugnance to it was without cause formerly, compared to what it
+is now. Now be reasonable, my dear. I'm willing to do something for you if
+you will do something for me. You must see what a stop this sad affair has
+put to any thoughts between you and Frank. And you must see what cause I
+have to wish to punish Edward for his ungrateful behavior, to say nothing
+of the forgery. Well now! I don't know what Mr. Henry will say to me, but
+I have thought of this. If you'll write a letter to Frank, just saying
+distinctly that, for reasons which must for ever remain a secret..."
+
+"Remain a secret from Frank?" said Maggie, again lifting up her head.
+"Why?"
+
+"Why? my dear! You startle me with that manner of yours--just let me finish
+out my sentence. If you'll say that, for reasons which must forever remain
+a secret, you decidedly and unchangeably give up all connection, all
+engagement with him (which, in fact, Edward's conduct has as good as put an
+end to), I'll go over to Woodchester and tell Mr. Henry and the police that
+they need not make further search after Edward, for that I won't appear
+against him. You can save your brother; and you'll do yourself no harm by
+writing this letter, for of course you see your engagement is broken off.
+For you never would wish to disgrace Frank."
+
+He paused, anxiously awaiting her reply. She did not speak.
+
+"I'm sure, if I appear against him, he is as good as transported," he put
+in, after a while.
+
+Just at this time there was a little sound of displaced china in the
+closet. Mr. Buxton did not attend to it, but Maggie heard it. She got up,
+and stood quite calm before Mr. Buxton.
+
+"You must go," said she. "I know you; and I know you are not aware of the
+cruel way in which you have spoken to me, while asking me to give up the
+very hope and marrow of my life"--she could not go on for a moment; she was
+choked up with anguish.
+
+"It was the truth, Maggie," said he, somewhat abashed.
+
+"It was the truth that made the cruelty of it. But you did not mean to
+speak cruelly to me, I know. Only it is hard all at once to be called upon
+to face the shame and blasted character of one who was once an innocent
+child at the same father's knee."
+
+"I may have spoken too plainly," said Mr. Buxton, "but it was necessary
+to set the plain truth before you, for my son's sake. You will write the
+letter I ask?"
+
+Her look was wandering and uncertain. Her attention was distracted by
+sounds which to him had no meaning; and her judgment she felt was wavering
+and disturbed.
+
+"I cannot tell. Give me time to think; you will do that, I'm sure. Go now,
+and leave me alone. If it is right, God will give me strength to do it, and
+perhaps He will comfort me in my desolation. But I do not know--I cannot
+tell. I must have time to think. Go now, if you please, sir," said she,
+imploringly.
+
+"I am sure you will see it is a right thing I ask of you," he persisted.
+
+"Go now," she repeated.
+
+"Very well. In two hours, I will come back again; for your sake, time is
+precious. Even while we speak he may be arrested. At eleven, I will come
+back."
+
+He went away, leaving her sick and dizzy with the effort to be calm and
+collected enough to think. She had forgotten for the moment how near Edward
+was; and started when she saw the closet-door open, and his face put out.
+
+"Is he gone? I thought he never would go. What a time you kept him, Maggie!
+I was so afraid, once, you might sit down to write the letter in this room;
+and then I knew he would stop and worry you with interruptions and advice,
+so that it would never be ended; and my back was almost broken. But you
+sent him off famously. Why, Maggie! Maggie!--you're not going to faint,
+surely!"
+
+His sudden burst out of a whisper into a loud exclamation of surprise,
+made her rally; but she could not stand. She tried to smile, for he really
+looked frightened.
+
+"I have been sitting up for many nights--and now this sorrow!" Her smile
+died away into a wailing, feeble cry.
+
+"Well, well! it's over now, you see. I was frightened enough myself this
+morning, I own; and then you were brave and kind. But I knew you could save
+me, all along."
+
+At this moment the door opened, and Mrs. Browne came in.
+
+"Why, Edward, dear! who would have thought of seeing you! This is good of
+you; what a pleasant surprise! I often said, you might come over for a day
+from Woodchester. What's the matter, Maggie, you look so fagged? She's
+losing all her beauty, is not she, Edward? Where's breakfast? I thought I
+should find all ready. What's the matter? Why don't you speak?" said she,
+growing anxious at their silence. Maggie left the explanation to Edward.
+
+"Mother," said he, "I've been rather a naughty boy, and got into some
+trouble; but Maggie is going to help me out of it, like a good sister."
+
+"What is it?" said Mrs. Browne, looking bewildered and uneasy.
+
+"Oh--I took a little liberty with our friend Mr. Buxton's name; and wrote
+it down to a receipt--that was all."
+
+Mrs. Browne's face showed that the light came but slowly into her mind.
+
+"But that's forgery--is not it?" asked she at length, in terror.
+
+"People call it so," said Edward; "I call it borrowing from an old friend,
+who was always willing to lend."
+
+"Does he know?--is he angry?" asked Mrs. Browne.
+
+"Yes, he knows; and he blusters a deal. He was working himself up grandly
+at first. Maggie! I was getting rarely frightened, I can tell you."
+
+"Has he been here?" said Mrs. Browne, in bewildered fright.
+
+"Oh, yes! he and Maggie have been having a long talk, while I was hid in
+the china-closet. I would not go over that half-hour again for any money.
+However, he and Maggie came to terms, at last."
+
+"No, Edward, we did not!" said Maggie, in a low quivering voice.
+
+"Very nearly. She's to give up her engagement, and then he will let me
+off."
+
+"Do you mean that Maggie is to give up her engagement to Mr. Frank Buxton?"
+asked his mother.
+
+"Yes. It would never have come to anything, one might see that. Old Buxton
+would have held out against it till doomsday. And, sooner or later, Frank
+would have grown weary. If Maggie had had any spirit, she might have worked
+him up to marry her before now; and then I should have been spared even
+this fright, for they would never have set the police after Mrs. Frank
+Buxton's brother."
+
+"Why, dearest, Edward, the police are not after you, are they?" said Mrs.
+Browne, for the first time alive to the urgency of the case.
+
+"I believe they are though," said Edward. "But after what Mr. Buxton
+promised this morning, it does not signify."
+
+"He did not promise anything," said Maggie.
+
+Edward turned sharply to her, and looked at her. Then he went and took hold
+of her wrists with no gentle grasp, and spoke to her through his set teeth.
+
+"What do you mean, Maggie?--what do you mean?" (giving her a little shake.)
+"Do you mean that you'll stick to your lover through thick and thin, and
+leave your brother to be transported? Speak, can't you?"
+
+She looked up at him, and tried to speak, but no words came out of her dry
+throat. At last she made a strong effort.
+
+"You must give me time to think. I will do what is right, by God's help."
+
+"As if it was not right--and such can't--to save your brother," said he,
+throwing her hands away in a passionate manner.
+
+"I must be alone," said Maggie, rising, and trying to stand steadily in the
+reeling room. She heard her mother and Edward speaking, but their words
+gave her no meaning, and she went out. She was leaving the house by the
+kitchen-door, when she remembered Nancy, left alone and helpless all
+through this long morning; and, ill as she could endure detention from the
+solitude she longed to seek, she patiently fulfilled her small duties, and
+sought out some breakfast for the poor old woman.
+
+When she carried it up stairs, Nancy said:
+
+"There's something up. You've trouble in your sweet face, my darling. Never
+mind telling me--only don't sob so. I'll pray for you, bairn: and God will
+help you."
+
+"Thank you, Nancy. Do!" and she left the room.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX.
+
+When she opened the kitchen-door there was the same small, mizzling rain
+that had obscured the light for weeks, and now it seemed to obscure hope.
+
+She clambered slowly (for indeed she was very feeble) up the Fell-Lane,
+and threw herself under the leafless thorn, every small branch and twig
+of which was loaded with rain-drops. She did not see the well-beloved
+and familiar landscape for her tears, and did not miss the hills in the
+distance that were hidden behind the rain-clouds, and sweeping showers.
+
+Mrs. Browne and Edward sat over the fire. He told her his own story; making
+the temptation strong; the crime a mere trifling, venial error, which he
+had been led into, through his idea that he was to become Mr. Buxton's
+agent.
+
+"But if it is only that," said Mrs. Browne, "surely Mr. Buxton will not
+think of going to law with you?"
+
+"It's not merely going to law that he will think of, but trying and
+transporting me. That Henry he has got for his agent is as sharp as a
+needle, and as hard as a nether mill-stone. And the fellow has obtained
+such a hold over Mr. Buxton, that he dare but do what he tells him. I can't
+imagine how he had so much free-will left as to come with his proposal to
+Maggie; unless, indeed, Henry knows of it--or, what is most likely of all,
+has put him up to it. Between them they have given that poor fool Crayston
+a pretty dose of it; and I should have come yet worse off if it had not
+been for Maggie. Let me get clear this time, and I will keep to windward of
+the law for the future."
+
+"If we sold the cottage we could repay it," said Mrs. Browne, meditating.
+"Maggie and I could live on very little. But you see this property is held
+in trust for you two."
+
+"Nay, mother; you must not talk of repaying it. Depend upon it he will be
+so glad to have Frank free from his engagement, that he won't think of
+asking for the money. And if Mr. Henry says anything about it, we can tell
+him it's not half the damages they would have had to have given Maggie, if
+Frank had been extricated in any other way. I wish she would come back; I
+would prime her a little as to what to say. Keep a look out, mother, lest
+Mr. Buxton returns and find me here."
+
+"I wish Maggie would come in too," said Mrs. Browne. "I'm afraid she'll
+catch cold this damp day, and then I shall have two to nurse. You think
+she'll give it up, don't you, Edward? If she does not I'm afraid of harm
+coming to you. Had you not better keep out of the way?"
+
+"It's fine talking. Where am I to go out of sight of the police this wet
+day: without a shilling in the world too? If you'll give me some money I'll
+be off fast enough, and make assurance doubly sure. I'm not much afraid of
+Maggie. She's a little yea-nay thing, and I can always bend her round to
+what we want. She had better take care, too," said he, with a desperate
+look on his face, "for by G---- I'll make her give up all thoughts of
+Frank, rather than be taken and tried. Why! it's my chance for all my life;
+and do you think I'll have it frustrated for a girl's whim?"
+
+"I think it's rather hard upon her too," pleaded his mother. "She's very
+fond of him; and it would have been such a good match for her."
+
+"Pooh! she's not nineteen yet, and has plenty of time before her to pick
+up somebody else; while, don't you see, if I'm caught and transported, I'm
+done for life. Besides I've a notion Frank had already begun to be tired of
+the affair; it would have been broken off in a month or two, without her
+gaining anything by it."
+
+"Well, if you think so," replied Mrs. Browne. "But I'm sorry for her. I
+always told her she was foolish to think so much about him: but I know
+she'll fret a deal if it's given up."
+
+"Oh! she'll soon comfort herself with thinking that she has saved me. I
+wish she'd come. It must be near eleven. I do wish she would come. Hark! is
+not that the kitchen-door?" said he, turning white, and betaking himself
+once more to the china-closet. He held it ajar till he heard Maggie
+stepping softly and slowly across the floor. She opened the parlor-door;
+and stood looking in, with the strange imperceptive gaze of a sleep-walker.
+Then she roused herself and saw that he was not there; so she came in a
+step or two, and sat down in her dripping cloak on a chair near the door.
+
+Edward returned, bold now there was no danger.
+
+"Maggie!" said he, "what have you fixed to say to Mr. Burton?"
+
+She sighed deeply; and then lifted up her large innocent eyes to his face.
+
+"I cannot give up Frank," said she, in a low, quiet voice.
+
+Mrs. Browne threw up her hands and exclaimed in terror:
+
+"Oh Edward, Edward! go away--I will give you all the plate I have; you can
+sell it--my darling, go!"
+
+"Not till I have brought Maggie to reason," said he, in a manner as quiet
+as her own, but with a subdued ferocity in it, which she saw, but which did
+not intimidate her.
+
+He went up to her, and spoke below his breath.
+
+"Maggie, we were children together--we two--brother and sister of one
+blood! Do you give me up to be put in prison--in the hulks--among the
+basest of criminals--I don't know where--all for the sake of your own
+selfish happiness?"
+
+She trembled very much; but did not speak or cry, or make any noise.
+
+"You were always selfish. You always thought of yourself. But this time
+I did think you would have shown how different you could be. But it's
+self--self--paramount above all."
+
+"Oh Maggie! how can you be so hard-hearted and selfish?" echoed Mrs.
+Browne, crying and sobbing.
+
+"Mother!" said Maggie, "I know that I think too often and too much of
+myself. But this time I thought only of Frank. He loves me; it would break
+his heart if I wrote as Mr. Buxton wishes, cutting our lives asunder, and
+giving no reason for it."
+
+"He loves you so!" said Edward, tauntingly. "A man's love break his
+heart! You've got some pretty notions! Who told you that he loved you so
+desperately? How do you know it?"
+
+"Because I love him so," said she, in a quiet, earnest voice. "I do not
+know of any other reason; but that is quite sufficient to me. I believe
+him when he says he loves me; and I have no right to cause him the
+infinite--the terrible pain, which my own heart tells me he would feel, if
+I did what Mr. Buxton wishes me."
+
+Her manner was so simple and utterly truthful, that it was as quiet and
+fearless as a child's; her brother's fierce looks of anger had no power
+over her; and his blustering died away before her into something of the
+frightened cowardliness he had shown in the morning. But Mrs. Browne came
+up to Maggie; and took her hand between both of hers, which were trembling.
+"Maggie, you can save Edward. I know I have not loved you as I should have
+done; but I will love and comfort you forever, if you will but write as Mr.
+Buxton says. Think! Perhaps Mr. Frank may not take you at your word, but
+may come over and see you, and all may be right, and yet Edward may be
+saved. It is only writing this letter; you need not stick to it."
+
+"No!" said Edward. "A signature, if you can prove compulsion, is not valid.
+We will all prove that you write this letter under compulsion; and if Frank
+loves you so desperately, he won't give you up without a trial to make you
+change your mind."
+
+"No!" said Maggie, firmly. "If I write the letter I abide by it. I will not
+quibble with my conscience. Edward! I will not marry--I will go and live
+near you, and come to you whenever I may--and give up my life to you if you
+are sent to prison; my mother and I will go, if need be--I do not know yet
+what I can do, or cannot do, for you, but all I can I will; but this one
+thing I cannot."
+
+"Then I'm off!" said Edward. "On your deathbed may you remember this hour,
+and how you denied your only brother's request. May you ask my forgiveness
+with your dying breath, and may I be there to deny it you."
+
+"Wait a minute!" said Maggie, springing up, rapidly. "Edward, don't curse
+me with such terrible words till all is done. Mother, I implore you to keep
+him here. Hide him--do what you can to conceal him. I will have one more
+trial." She snatched up her bonnet, and was gone, before they had time to
+think or speak to arrest her.
+
+On she flew along the Combehurst road. As she went, the tears fell like
+rain down her face, and she talked to herself.
+
+"He should not have said so. No! he should not have said so. We were the
+only two." But still she pressed on, over the thick, wet, brown heather.
+She saw Mr. Buxton coming; and she went still quicker. The rain had cleared
+off, and a yellow watery gleam of sunshine was struggling out. She stopped
+or he would have passed her unheeded; little expecting to meet her there.
+
+"I wanted to see you," said she, all at once resuming her composure, and
+almost assuming a dignified manner. "You must not go down to our house; we
+have sorrow enough there. Come under these fir-trees, and let me speak to
+you."
+
+"I hope you have thought of what I said, and are willing to do what I asked
+you."
+
+"No!" said she. "I have thought and thought. I did not think in a selfish
+spirit, though they say I did. I prayed first. I could not do that
+earnestly, and be selfish, I think. I cannot give up Frank. I know the
+disgrace; and if he, knowing all, thinks fit to give me up, I shall never
+say a word, but bow my head, and try and live out my appointed days quietly
+and cheerfully. But he is the judge, not you; nor have I any right to do
+what you ask me." She stopped, because the agitation took away her breath.
+
+He began in a cold manner:--"I am very sorry. The law must take its course.
+I would have saved my son from the pain of all this knowledge, and that
+which he will of course feel in the necessity of giving up his engagement.
+I would have refused to appear against your brother, shamefully ungrateful
+as he has been. Now you cannot wonder that I act according to my agent's
+advice, and prosecute your brother as if he were a stranger."
+
+He turned to go away. He was so cold and determined that for a moment
+Maggie was timid. But she then laid her hand on his arm.
+
+"Mr. Buxton," said she, "you will not do what you threaten. I know you
+better. Think! My father was your old friend. That claim is, perhaps, done
+away with by Edward's conduct. But I do not believe you can forget it
+always. If you did fulfill the menace you uttered just now, there would
+come times as you grew older, and life grew fainter and fainter before
+you--quiet times of thought, when you remembered the days of your youth,
+and the friends you then had and knew;--you would recollect that one of
+them had left an only son, who had done wrong--who had sinned--sinned
+against you in his weakness--and you would think then--you could not help
+it--how you had forgotten mercy in justice--and, as justice required he
+should be treated as a felon, you threw him among felons--where every
+glimmering of goodness was darkened for ever. Edward is, after all, more
+weak than wicked;--but he will become wicked if you put him in prison,
+and have him transported. God is merciful--we cannot tell or think
+how merciful. Oh, sir, I am so sure you will be merciful, and give my
+brother--my poor sinning brother--a chance, that I will tell you all. I
+will throw myself upon your pity. Edward is even now at home--miserable
+and desperate;--my mother is too much stunned to understand all our
+wretchedness--for very wretched we are in our shame."
+
+As she spoke the wind arose and shivered in the wiry leaves of the
+fir-trees, and there was a moaning sound as of some Ariel imprisoned in the
+thick branches that, tangled overhead, made a shelter for them. Either the
+noise or Mr. Buxton's fancy called up an echo to Maggie's voice--a pleading
+with her pleading--a sad tone of regret, distinct yet blending with her
+speech, and a falling, dying sound, as her voice died away in miserable
+suspense.
+
+It might be that, formed as she was by Mrs. Buxton's care and love, her
+accents and words were such as that lady, now at rest from all sorrow,
+would have used;--somehow, at any rate, the thought flashed into Mr.
+Buxton's mind, that as Maggie spoke, his dead wife's voice was heard,
+imploring mercy in a clear, distinct tone, though faint, as if separated
+from him by an infinite distance of space. At least, this is the account
+Mr. Buxton would have given of the manner in which the idea of his wife
+became present to him, and what she would have wished him to do a powerful
+motive in his conduct. Words of hers, long ago spoken, and merciful,
+forgiving expressions made use of in former days to soften him in some
+angry mood, were clearly remembered while Maggie spoke; and their influence
+was perceptible in the change of his tone, and the wavering of his manner
+henceforward.
+
+"And yet you will not save Frank from being involved in your disgrace,"
+said he; but more as if weighing and deliberating on the case than he had
+ever spoken before.
+
+"If Frank wishes it, I will quietly withdraw myself out of his sight
+forever;--I give you my promise, before God, to do so. I shall not utter
+one word of entreaty or complaint. I will try not to wonder or feel
+surprise;--I will bless him in every action of his future life--but think
+how different would be the disgrace he would voluntarily incur to my poor
+mother's shame, when she wakens up to know what her child has done! Her
+very torper about it now is more painful than words can tell."
+
+"What could Edward do?" asked Mr. Buxton. "Mr. Henry won't hear of my
+passing over any frauds."
+
+"Oh, you relent!" said Maggie, taking his hand, and pressing it. "What
+could he do? He could do the same, whatever it was, as you thought of his
+doing, if I had written that terrible letter."
+
+"And you'll be willing to give it up, if Frank wishes, when he knows all?"
+asked Mr. Buxton.
+
+She crossed her hands and drooped her head, but answered steadily.
+
+"Whatever Frank wishes, when he knows all, I will gladly do. I will speak
+the truth. I do not believe that any shame surrounding me, and not in me,
+will alter Frank's love one title."
+
+"We shall see," said Mr. Buxton. "But what I thought of Edward's doing, in
+case--Well never mind! (seeing how she shrunk back from all mention of the
+letter he had asked her to write,)--was to go to America, out of the way.
+Then Mr. Henry would think he had escaped, and need never be told of my
+coenivance. I think he would throw up the agency, if he were; and he's a
+very clever man. If Ned is in England, Mr. Henry will ferret him out. And,
+besides, this affair is so blown, I don't think he could return to his
+profession. What do you say to this, Maggie?"
+
+"I will tell my mother. I must ask her. To me it seems most desirable.
+Only, I fear he is very ill; and it seems lonely; but never mind! We ought
+to be thankful to you forever. I cannot tell you how I hope and trust he
+will live to show you what your goodness has made him."
+
+"But you must lose no time. If Mr. Henry traces him; I can't answer for
+myself. I shall have no good reason to give, as I should have had, if I
+could have told him that Frank and you were to be as strangers to each
+other. And even then I should have been afraid, he is such a determined
+fellow; but uncommonly clever. Stay!" said he, yielding to a sudden and
+inexplicable desire to see Edward, and discover if his criminality had in
+any way changed his outward appearance. "I'll go with you. I can hasten
+things. If Edward goes, he must be off, as soon as possible, to Liverpool,
+and leave no trace. The next packet sails the day after to-morrow. I noted
+it down from the _Times_."
+
+Maggie and he sped along the road. He spoke his thoughts aloud:
+
+"I wonder if he will be grateful to me for this. Not that I ever mean to
+look for gratitude again. I mean to try, not to care for anybody but Frank.
+'Govern men by outward force,' says Mr. Henry. He is an uncommonly clever
+man, and he says, the longer he lives, the more he is convinced of the
+badness of men. He always looks for it now, even in those who are the best,
+apparently."
+
+Maggie was too anxious to answer, or even to attend to him. At the top of
+the slope she asked him to wait while she ran down and told the result of
+her conversation with him. Her mother was alone, looking white and sick.
+She told her that Edward had gone into the hay-loft, above the old, disused
+shippon.
+
+Maggie related the substance of her interview with Mr. Buxton, and his wish
+that Edward should go to America.
+
+"To America!" said Mrs. Browne. "Why that's as far as Botany Bay. It's just
+like transporting him. I thought you'd done something for us, you looked so
+glad."
+
+"Dearest mother, it _is_ something. He is not to be subjected to
+imprisonment or trial. I must go and tell him, only I must beckon to Mr.
+Buxton first. But when he comes, do show him how thankful we are for his
+mercy to Edward."
+
+Mrs. Browne's murmurings, whatever was their meaning, were lost upon
+Maggie. She ran through the court, and up the slope, with the lightness of
+a lawn; for though she was tired in body to an excess she had never been
+before in her life, the opening beam of hope in the dark sky made her
+spirit conquer her flesh for the time.
+
+She did not stop to speak, but turned again as soon as she had signed to
+Mr. Buxton to follow her. She left the house-door open for his entrance,
+and passed out again through the kitchen into the space behind, which was
+partly an uninclosed yard, and partly rocky common. She ran across the
+little green to the shippon, and mounted the ladder into the dimly-lighted
+loft. Up in a dark corner Edward stood, with an old rake in his hand.
+
+"I thought it was you, Maggie!" said he, heaving a deep breath of relief.
+"What have you done? Have you agreed to write the letter? You've done
+something for me, I see by your looks."
+
+"Yes! I have told Mr. Buxton all. He is waiting for you in the parlor. Oh!
+I knew he could not be so hard!" She was out of breath.
+
+"I don't understand you!" said he. "You've never been such a fool as to go
+and tell him where I am?"
+
+"Yes, I have. I felt I might trust him. He has promised not to prosecute
+you. The worst is, he says you must go to America. But come down, Ned, and
+speak to him. You owe him thanks, and he wants to see you."
+
+"I can't go through a scene. I'm not up to it. Besides, are you sure he is
+not entrapping me to the police? If I had a farthing of money I would not
+trust him, but be off to the moors."
+
+"Oh, Edward! How do you think he would do anything so treacherous and mean?
+I beg you not to lose time in distrust. He says himself, if Mr. Henry comes
+before you are off, he does not know what will be the consequence. The
+packet sails for America in two days. It is sad for you to have to go.
+Perhaps even yet he may think of something better, though I don't know how
+we can ask or expect it."
+
+"I don't want anything better," replied he, "than that I should have money
+enough to carry me to America. I'm in more scrapes than this (though none
+so bad) in England; and in America there's many an opening to fortune." He
+followed her down the steps while he spoke. Once in the yellow light of the
+watery day, she was struck by his ghastly look. Sharp lines of suspicion
+and cunning seemed to have been stamped upon his face, making it look
+older by many years than his age warranted. His jaunty evening dress,
+all weather-stained and dirty, added to his forlorn and disreputable
+appearance; but most of all--deepest of all--was the impression she
+received that he was not long for this world; and oh! how unfit for the
+next! Still, if time was given--if he were placed far away from temptation,
+she thought that her father's son might yet repent, and be saved. She took
+his hand, for he was hanging back as they came near the parlor-door, and
+led him in. She looked like some guardian angel, with her face that beamed
+out trust, and hope, and thankfulness. He, on the contrary, hung his head
+in angry, awkward shame; and half wished he had trusted to his own wits,
+and tried to evade the police, rather than have been forced into this
+interview.
+
+His mother came to him; for she loved him all the more fondly, now he
+seemed degraded and friendless. She could not, or would not, comprehend the
+extent of his guilt; and had upbraided Mr. Buxton to the top of her bent
+for thinking of sending him away to America. There was a silence when he
+came in which was insupportable to him. He looked up with clouded eyes,
+that dared not meet Mr. Buxton's.
+
+"I am here, sir, to learn what you wish me to do. Maggie says I am to go to
+America; if that is where you want to send me, I'm ready."
+
+Mr. Buxton wished himself away as heartily as Edward. Mrs. Browne's
+upbraidings, just when he felt that he had done a kind action, and yielded,
+against his judgment, to Maggie's entreaties, had made him think himself
+very ill used. And now here was Edward speaking in a sullen, savage kind
+of way, instead of showing any gratitude. The idea of Mr. Henry's stern
+displeasure loomed in the background.
+
+"Yes!" said he, "I'm glad to find you come into the idea of going to
+America. It's the only place for you. The sooner you can go, and the
+better."
+
+"I can't go without money," said Edward, doggedly. "If I had had money, I
+need not have come here."
+
+"Oh, Ned! would you have gone without seeing me?" said Mrs. Browne,
+bursting into tears. "Mr. Buxton, I cannot let him go to America. Look how
+ill he is. He'll die if you send him there."
+
+"Mother, don't give way so," said Edward, kindly, taking her hand. "I'm
+not ill, at least not to signify. Mr. Buxton is right: America is the only
+place for me. To tell the truth, even if Mr. Buxton is good enough" (he
+said this as if unwilling to express any word of thankfulness) "not to
+prosecute me, there are others who may--and will. I'm safer out of the
+country. Give me money enough to get to Liverpool and pay my passage, and
+I'll be off this minute."
+
+"You shall not," said Mrs. Browne, holding him tightly. "You told me this
+morning you were led into temptation, and went wrong because you had no
+comfortable home, nor any one to care for you, and make you happy. It will
+be worse in America. You'll get wrong again, and be away from all who can
+help you. Or you'll die all by yourself, in some backwood or other. Maggie!
+you might speak and help me--how can you stand so still, and let him go to
+America without a word!"
+
+Maggie looked up bright and steadfast, as if she saw something beyond the
+material present. Here was the opportunity for self-sacrifice of which Mrs.
+Buxton had spoken to her in her childish days--the time which comes to
+all, but comes unheeded and unseen to those whose eyes are not trained to
+watching.
+
+"Mother! could you do without me for a time? If you could, and it would
+make you easier, and help Edward to"--The word on her lips died away; for
+it seemed to imply a reproach on one who stood in his shame among them all.
+
+"You would go!" said Mrs. Browne, catching at the unfinished sentence. "Oh!
+Maggie, that's the best thing you've ever said or done since you were born.
+Edward, would not you like to have Maggie with you?"
+
+"Yes," said he, "well enough. It would be far better for me than going all
+alone; though I dare say I could make my way pretty well after a time. If
+she went, she might stay till I felt settled, and had made some friends,
+and then she could come back."
+
+Mr. Buxton was astonished at first by this proposal of Maggie's. He could
+not all at once understand the difference between what she now offered to
+do, and what he had urged upon her only this very morning. But as he
+thought about it, he perceived that what was her own she was willing to
+sacrifice; but that Frank's heart, once given into her faithful keeping,
+she was answerable for it to him and to God. This light came down upon him
+slowly; but when he understood, he admired with almost a wondering
+admiration. That little timid girl brave enough to cross the ocean and go
+to a foreign land, if she could only help to save her brother!
+
+"I'm sure Maggie," said he, turning towards her, "you are a good,
+thoughtful little creature. It may be the saving of Edward--I believe it
+will. I think God will bless you for being so devoted."
+
+"The expense will be doubled," said Edward.
+
+"My dear boy! never mind the money. I can get it advanced upon this
+cottage."
+
+"As for that, I'll advance it," said Mr. Buxton.
+
+"Could we not," said Maggie, hesitating from her want of knowledge, "make
+over the furniture--papa's books, and what little plate we have, to Mr.
+Buxton--something like pawning them--if he would advance the requisite
+money? He, strange as it may seem, is the only person you can ask in this
+great strait."
+
+And so it was arranged, after some demur on Mr. Buxton's part. But Maggie
+kept steadily to her point as soon as she found that it was attainable; and
+Mrs. Browne was equally inflexible, though from a different feeling. She
+regarded Mr. Buxton as the cause of her son's banishment, and refused to
+accept of any favor from him. If there had been time, indeed, she would
+have preferred obtaining the money in the same manner from any one else.
+Edward brightened up a little when he heard the sum could be procured; he
+was almost indifferent how; and, strangely callous, as Maggie thought,
+he even proposed to draw up a legal form of assignment. Mr. Buxton only
+thought of hurrying on the departure; but he could not refrain from
+expressing his approval and admiration of Maggie whenever he came near her.
+Before he went, he called her aside.
+
+"My dear, I'm not sure if Frank can do better than marry you, after all.
+Mind! I've not given it as much thought as I should like. But if you come
+back as we plan, next autumn, and he is steady to you till then--and Edward
+is going on well--(if he can but keep good, he'll do, for he is very
+sharp--yon is a knowing paper he drew up)--why, I'll think about it. Only
+let Frank see a bit of the world first. I'd rather you did not tell him
+I've any thoughts of coming round, that he may have a fair trial; and I'll
+keep it from Erminia if I can, or she will let it all out to him. I shall
+see you to-morrow at the coach. God bless you, my girl, and keep you on the
+great wide sea." He was absolutely in tears when he went away--tears of
+admiring regret over Maggie.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X.
+
+The more Maggie thought, the more she felt sure that the impulse on which
+she had acted in proposing to go with her brother was right. She feared
+there was little hope for his character, whatever there might be for his
+worldly fortune, if he were thrown, in the condition of mind in which he
+was now, among the set of adventurous men who are continually going over to
+America in search of an El Dorado to be discovered by their wits. She knew
+she had but little influence over him at present; but she would not doubt
+or waver in her hope that patience and love might work him right at last.
+She meant to get some employment--in teaching--in needlework--in a shop--no
+matter how humble--and be no burden to him, and make him a happy home, from
+which he should feel no wish to wander. Her chief anxiety was about her
+mother. She did not dwell more than she could help on her long absence from
+Frank; it was too sad, and yet too necessary. She meant to write and tell
+him all about herself and Edward. The only thing which she would keep for
+some happy future should be the possible revelation of the proposal which
+Mr. Buxton had made, that she should give up her engagement as a condition
+of his not prosecuting Edward.
+
+There was much sorrowful bustle in the moorland cottage that day. Erminia
+brought up a portion of the money Mr. Buxton was to advance, with an
+entreaty that Edward would not show himself out of his home; and an account
+of a letter from Mr. Henry, stating that the Woodchester police believed
+him to be in London, and that search was being made for him there.
+
+Erminia looked very grave and pale. She gave her message to Mrs. Browne,
+speaking little beyond what was absolutely necessary. Then she took Maggie
+aside, and suddenly burst into tears.
+
+"Maggie, darling--what is this going to America? You've always and always
+been sacrificing yourself to your family, and now you're setting off,
+nobody knows where, in some vain hope of reforming Edward. I wish he was
+not your brother, that I might speak of him as I should like."
+
+"He has been doing what is very wrong," said Maggie. "But you--none of
+you--know his good points--nor how he has been exposed to all sorts of bad
+influences, I am sure; and never had the advantage of a father's training
+and friendship, which are so inestimable to a son. O, Minnie! when I
+remember how we two used to kneel down in the evenings at my father's knee,
+and say our prayers; and then listen in awe-struck silence to his earnest
+blessing, which grew more like a prayer for us as his life waned away,
+I would do anything for Edward rather than that wrestling agony of
+supplication should have been in vain. I think of him as the little
+innocent boy, whose arm was round me as if to support me in the Awful
+Presence, whose true name of Love we had not learned. Minnie! he has had
+no proper training--no training, I mean, to enable him to resist
+temptation--and he has been thrown into it without warning or advice. Now
+he knows what it is; and I must try, though I am but an unknowing girl, to
+warn and to strengthen him. Don't weaken my faith. Who can do right if we
+lose faith in them?"
+
+"And Frank!" said Erminia, after a pause. "Poor Frank!"
+
+"Dear Frank!" replied Maggie, looking up, and trying to smile; but, in
+spite of herself, her eyes filled with tears. "If I could have asked him,
+I know he would approve of what I am going to do. He would feel it to be
+right that I should make every effort--I don't mean," said she, as the
+tears would fall down her cheeks in spite of her quivering effort at a
+smile, "that I should not have liked to have seen him. But it is no use
+talking of what one would have liked. I am writing a long letter to him at
+every pause of leisure."
+
+"And I'm keeping you all this time," said Erminia, getting up, yet loth to
+go. "When do you intend to come back? Let us feel there is a fixed time.
+America! Why, it's thousands of miles away. Oh, Maggie! Maggie!"
+
+"I shall come back the next autumn, I trust," said Maggie, comforting her
+friend with many a soft caress. "Edward will be settled then, I hope. You
+were longer in France, Minnie. Frank was longer away that time he wintered
+in Italy with Mr. Monro."
+
+Erminia went slowly to the door. Then she turned, right facing Maggie.
+
+"Maggie! tell the truth. Has my uncle been urging you to go? Because if he
+has, don't trust him; it is only to break off your engagement."
+
+"No, he has not, indeed. It was my own thought at first. Then in a moment I
+saw the relief it was to my mother--my poor mother! Erminia, the thought
+of her grief at Edward's absence is the trial; for my sake, you will come
+often and often, and comfort her in every way you can."
+
+"Yes! that I will; tell me everything I can do for you." Kissing each
+other, with long lingering delay they parted.
+
+Nancy would be informed of the cause of the commotion in the house; and
+when she had in some degree ascertained its nature, she wasted no time
+in asking further questions, but quietly got up and dressed herself;
+and appeared among them, weak and trembling, indeed, but so calm and
+thoughtful, that her presence was an infinite help to Maggie.
+
+When day closed in, Edward stole down to the house once more. He was
+haggard enough to have been in anxiety and concealment for a month. But
+when his body was refreshed, his spirits rose in a way inconceivable to
+Maggie. The Spaniards who went out with Pizarro were not lured on by more
+fantastic notions of the wealth to be acquired in the New World than he
+was. He dwelt on these visions in so brisk and vivid a manner, that he even
+made his mother cease her weary weeping (which had lasted the livelong day,
+despite all Maggie's efforts) to look up and listen to him.
+
+"I'll answer for it," said he: "before long I'll be an American judge with
+miles of cotton plantations."
+
+"But in America," sighed out his mother.
+
+"Never mind, mother!" said he, with a tenderness which made Maggie's heart
+glad. "If you won't come over to America to me, why, I'll sell them all,
+and come back to live in England. People will forget the scrapes that the
+rich American got into in his youth."
+
+"You can pay back Mr. Buxton then," said his mother.
+
+"Oh, yes--of course," replied he, as if falling into a new and trivial
+idea.
+
+Thus the evening whiled away. The mother and son sat, hand in hand, before
+the little glinting blazing parlor fire, with the unlighted candles on the
+table behind. Maggie, busy in preparations, passed softly in and out. And
+when all was done that could be done before going to Liverpool, where she
+hoped to have two days to prepare their outfit more completely, she stole
+back to her mother's side. But her thoughts would wander off to Frank,
+"working his way south through all the hunting-counties," as he had written
+her word. If she had not urged his absence, he would have been here for her
+to see his noble face once more; but then, perhaps, she might never have
+had the strength to go.
+
+Late, late in the night they separated. Maggie could not rest, and stole
+into her mother's room. Mrs. Browne had cried herself to sleep, like a
+child. Maggie stood and looked at her face, and then knelt down by the bed
+and prayed. When she arose, she saw that her mother was awake, and had been
+looking at her.
+
+"Maggie dear! you're a good girl, and I think God will hear your prayer
+whatever it was for. I cannot tell you what a relief it is to me to
+think you're going with him. It would have broken my heart else. If I've
+sometimes not been as kind as I might have been, I ask your forgiveness,
+now, my dear; and I bless you and thank you for going out with him; for I'm
+sure he's not well and strong, and will need somebody to take care of him.
+And you shan't lose with Mr. Frank, for as sure as I see him I'll tell him
+what a good daughter and sister you've been; and I shall say, for all he is
+so rich, I think he may look long before he finds a wife for him like our
+Maggie. I do wish Ned had got that new greatcoat, he says he left behind
+him at Woodchester." Her mind reverted to her darling son; but Maggie took
+her short slumber by her mother's side, with her mother's arms around her;
+and awoke and felt that her sleep had been blessed. At the coach-office
+the next morning they met Mr. Buxton all ready as if for a journey, but
+glancing about him as if in fear of some coming enemy.
+
+"I'm going with you to Liverpool," said he. "Don't make any ado about it,
+please. I shall like to see you off; and I may be of some use to you, and
+Erminia begged it of me; and, besides, it will keep me out of Mr. Henry's
+way for a little time, and I'm afraid he will find it all out, and think me
+very weak; but you see he made me too hard upon Crayston, so I may take it
+out in a little soft-heartedness toward the son of an old friend."
+
+Just at this moment Erminia came running through the white morning mist all
+glowing with haste.
+
+"Maggie," said she, "I'm come to take care of your mother. My uncle says
+she and Nancy must come to us for a long, long visit. Or if she would
+rather go home, I'll go with her till she feels able to come to us, and do
+anything I can think of for her. I will try to be a daughter till you come
+back, Maggie; only don't be long, or Frank and I shall break our hearts."
+
+Maggie waited till her mother had ended her long clasping embrace of
+Edward, who was subdued enough this morning; and then, with something like
+Esau's craving for a blessing, she came to bid her mother good-bye, and
+received the warm caress she had longed for for years. In another moment
+the coach was away; and before half an hour had elapsed, Combehurst
+church-spire had been lost in a turn of the road.
+
+Edward and Mr. Buxton did not speak to each other, and Maggie was nearly
+silent. They reached Liverpool in the afternoon; and Mr. Buxton, who had
+been there once or twice before, took them directly to some quiet hotel. He
+was far more anxious that Edward should not expose himself to any chance of
+recognition than Edward himself. He went down to the Docks to secure berths
+in the vessel about to sail the next day, and on his return he took Maggie
+out to make the requisite purchases.
+
+"Did you pay for us, sir?" said Maggie, anxious to ascertain the amount of
+money she had left, after defraying the passage.
+
+"Yes," replied he, rather confused. "Erminia begged me not to tell you
+about it, but I can't manage a secret well. You see she did not like the
+idea of your going as steerage-passengers as you meant to do; and she
+desired me to take you cabin places for her. It is no doing of mine, my
+dear. I did not think of it; but now I have seen how crowded the steerage
+is, I am very glad Erminia had so much thought. Edward might have roughed
+it well enough there, but it would never have done for you."
+
+"It was very kind of Erminia," said Maggie, touched at this consideration
+of her friend; "but..."
+
+"Now don't 'but' about it," interrupted he. "Erminia is very rich, and has
+more money than she knows what to do with. I'm only vexed I did not think
+of it myself. For Maggie, though I may have my own ways of thinking on some
+points, I can't be blind to your goodness."
+
+All evening Mr. Buxton was busy, and busy on their behalf. Even Edward,
+when he saw the attention that was being paid to his physical comfort,
+felt a kind of penitence; and after choking once or twice in the attempt,
+conquered his pride (such I call it for want of a better word) so far as
+to express some regret for his past conduct, and some gratitude for Mr.
+Buxton's present kindness. He did it awkwardly enough, but it pleased Mr.
+Buxton.
+
+"Well--well--that's all very right," said he, reddening from his own
+uncomfortableness of feeling. "Now don't say any more about it, but do your
+best in America; don't let me feel I've been a fool in letting you off. I
+know Mr. Henry will think me so. And, above all, take care of Maggie. Mind
+what she says, and you're sure to go right."
+
+He asked them to go on board early the next day, as he had promised Erminia
+to see them there, and yet wished to return as soon as he could. It was
+evident that he hoped, by making his absence as short as possible, to
+prevent Mr. Henry's ever knowing that he had left home, or in any way
+connived at Edward's escape.
+
+So, although the vessel was not to sail till the afternoon's tide, they
+left the hotel soon after breakfast, and went to the "Anna-Maria." They
+were among the first passengers on board. Mr. Buxton took Maggie down to
+her cabin. She then saw the reason of his business the evening before.
+Every store that could be provided was there. A number of books lay on
+the little table--books just suited to Maggie's taste. "There!" said he,
+rubbing his hands. "Don't thank me. It's all Erminia's doing. She gave me
+the list of books. I've not got all; but I think they'll be enough. Just
+write me one line, Maggie, to say I've done my best."
+
+Maggie wrote with tears in her eyes--tears of love toward the generous
+Erminia. A few minutes more and Mr. Buxton was gone. Maggie watched him as
+long as she could see him; and as his portly figure disappeared among the
+crowd on the pier, her heart sank within her.
+
+Edward's, on the contrary, rose at his absence. The only one, cognisant of
+his shame and ill-doing, was gone. A new life lay before him, the opening
+of which was made agreeable to him, by the position in which he found
+himself placed, as a cabin-passenger; with many comforts provided for him;
+for although Maggie's wants had been the principal object of Mr. Buxton's
+attention, Edward was not forgotten.
+
+He was soon among the sailors, talking away in a rather consequential
+manner. He grew acquainted with the remainder of the cabin-passengers, at
+least those who arrived before the final bustle began; and kept bringing
+his sister such little pieces of news as he could collect.
+
+"Maggie, they say we are likely to have a good start, and a fine moonlight
+night." Away again he went.
+
+"I say, Maggie, that's an uncommonly pretty girl come on board, with those
+old people in black. Gone down into the cabin, now; I wish you would scrape
+up an acquaintance with her, and give me a chance."
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI.
+
+Maggie sat on deck, wrapped in her duffel-cloak; the old familiar cloak,
+which had been her wrap in many a happy walk in the haunts near her
+moorland home. The weather was not cold for the time of year, but still it
+was chilly to any one that was stationary. But she wanted to look her last
+on the shoals of English people, who crowded backward and forward, like
+ants, on the pier. Happy people! who might stay among their loved ones. The
+mocking demons gathered round her, as they gather round all who sacrifice
+self, tempting. A crowd of suggestive doubts pressed upon her. "Was it
+really necessary that she should go with Edward? Could she do him any real
+good? Would he be in any way influenced by her?" Then the demon tried
+another description of doubt. "Had it ever been her duty to go? She was
+leaving her mother alone. She was giving Frank much present sorrow. It was
+not even yet too late!" She could not endure longer; and replied to her own
+tempting heart.
+
+"I was right to hope for Edward; I am right to give him the chance of
+steadiness which my presence will give. I am doing what my mother earnestly
+wished me to do; and what to the last she felt relieved by my doing. I know
+Frank will feel sorrow, because I myself have such an aching heart; but if
+I had asked him whether I was not right in going, he would have been too
+truthful not to have said yes. I have tried to do right, and though I may
+fail, and evil may seem to arise rather than good out of my endeavor, yet
+still I will submit to my failure, and try and say 'God's will be done!' If
+only I might have seen Frank once more, and told him all face to face!"
+
+To do away with such thoughts, she determined no longer to sit gazing, and
+tempted by the shore; and, giving one look to the land which contained her
+lover, she went down below, and busied herself, even through her blinding
+tears, in trying to arrange her own cabin, and Edward's. She heard boat
+after boat arrive loaded with passengers. She learnt from Edward, who came
+down to tell her the fact, that there were upwards of two hundred steerage
+passengers. She felt the tremulous shake which announced that the ship was
+loosed from her moorings, and being tugged down the river. She wrapped
+herself up once more, and came on deck, and sat down among the many who
+were looking their last look at England. The early winter evening was
+darkening in, and shutting out the Welsh coast, the hills of which were
+like the hills of home. She was thankful when she became too ill to think
+and remember.
+
+Exhausted and still, she did not know whether she was sleeping or waking;
+or whether she had slept since she had thrown herself down on her cot, when
+suddenly, there was a great rush, and then Edward stood like lightning by
+her, pulling her up by the arm.
+
+"The ship is on fire--to the deck, Maggie! Fire! Fire!" he shouted, like
+a maniac, while he dragged her up the stairs--as if the cry of Fire could
+summon human aid on the great deep. And the cry was echoed up to heaven by
+all that crowd in an accent of despair.
+
+They stood huddled together, dressed and undressed; now in red lurid light,
+showing ghastly faces of terror--now in white wreaths of smoke--as far away
+from the steerage as they could press; for there, up from the hold,
+rose columns of smoke, and now and then a fierce blaze leaped out,
+exulting--higher and higher every time; while from each crevice on that
+part of the deck issued harbingers of the terrible destruction that awaited
+them.
+
+The sailors were lowering the boats; and above them stood the captain, as
+calm as if he were on his own hearth at home--his home where he never more
+should be. His voice was low--was lower; but as clear as a bell in its
+distinctness; as wise in its directions as collected thought could make
+it. Some of the steerage passengers were helping; but more were dumb and
+motionless with affright. In that dead silence was heard a low wail of
+sorrow, as of numbers whose power was crushed out of them by that awful
+terror. Edward still held his clutch of Margaret's arm.
+
+"Be ready!" said he, in a fierce whisper.
+
+The fire sprung up along the main-mast, and did not sink or disappear
+again. They knew then that all the mad efforts made by some few below to
+extinguish it were in vain; and then went up the prayers of hundreds, in
+mortal agony of fear:
+
+"Lord! have mercy upon us!"
+
+Not in quiet calm of village church did ever such a pitiful cry go up to
+heaven; it was like one voice--like the day of judgment in the presence of
+the Lord.
+
+And after that there was no more silence; but a confusion of terrible
+farewells, and wild cries of affright, and purposeless rushes hither and
+thither.
+
+The boats were down, rocking on the sea. The captain spoke:
+
+"Put the children in first; they are the most helpless."
+
+One or two stout sailors stood in the boats to receive them. Edward drew
+nearer and nearer to the gangway, pulling Maggie with him. She was almost
+pressed to death, and stifled. Close in her ear, she heard a woman praying
+to herself. She, poor creature, knew of no presence but God's in that awful
+hour, and spoke in a low voice to Him.
+
+"My heart's darlings are taken away from me. Faith! faith! Oh, my great
+God! I will die in peace, if Thou wilt but grant me faith in this terrible
+hour, to feel that Thou wilt take care of my poor orphans. Hush! dearest
+Billy," she cried out shrill to a little fellow in the boat waiting for his
+mother; and the change in her voice from despair to a kind of cheerfulness,
+showed what a mother's love can do. "Mother will come soon. Hide his face,
+Anne, and wrap your shawl tight round him." And then her voice sank down
+again in the same low, wild prayer for faith. Maggie could not turn to see
+her face, but took the hand which hung near her. The woman clutched at it
+with the grasp of a vice; but went on praying, as if unconscious. Just then
+the crowd gave way a little. The captain had said, that the women were to
+go next; but they were too frenzied to obey his directions, and now pressed
+backward and forward. The sailors, with mute, stern obedience, strove to
+follow out the captain's directions. Edward pulled Maggie, and she kept her
+hold on the mother. The mate, at the head of the gangway, pushed him back.
+
+"Only women are to go!"
+
+"There are men there."
+
+"Three, to manage the boat."
+
+"Come on, Maggie! while there's room for us," said he, unheeding. But
+Maggie drew back, and put the mother's hand into the mate's. "Save her
+first!" said she. The woman did not know of anything, but that her children
+were there; it was only in after days, and quiet hours, that she remembered
+the young creature who pushed her forward to join her fatherless children,
+and, by losing her place in the crowd, was jostled--where, she did not
+know--but dreamed until her dying day. Edward pressed on, unaware that
+Maggie was not close behind him. He was deaf to reproaches; and, heedless
+of the hand stretched out to hold him back, sprang toward the boat. The men
+there pushed her off--full and more than full as she was; and overboard he
+fell into the sullen heaving waters.
+
+His last shout had been on Maggie's name--a name she never thought to hear
+again on earth, as she was pressed back, sick and suffocating. But suddenly
+a voice rang out above all confused voices and moaning hungry waves, and
+above the roaring fire.
+
+"Maggie, Maggie! My Maggie!"
+
+Out of the steerage side of the crowd a tall figure issued forth, begrimed
+with smoke. She could not see, but she knew. As a tame bird flutters to the
+human breast of its protector when affrighted by some mortal foe, so Maggie
+fluttered and cowered into his arms. And, for a moment, there was no more
+terror or thought of danger in the hearts of those twain, but only infinite
+and absolute peace. She had no wonder how he came there: it was enough that
+he was there. He first thought of the destruction that was present with
+them. He was as calm and composed as if they sat beneath the thorn-tree
+on the still moorlands, far away. He took her, without a word, to the end
+of the quarter-deck. He lashed her to a piece of spar. She never spoke:
+
+"Maggie," he said, "my only chance is to throw you overboard. This spar
+will keep you floating. At first, you will go down--deep, deep down. Keep
+your mouth and eyes shut. I shall be there when you come up. By God's help,
+I will struggle bravely for you."
+
+She looked up; and by the flashing light he could see a trusting, loving
+smile upon her face. And he smiled back at her; a grave, beautiful look,
+fit to wear on his face in heaven. He helped her to the side of the vessel,
+away from the falling burning pieces of mast. Then for a moment he paused.
+
+"If--Maggie, I may be throwing you in to death." He put his hand before his
+eyes. The strong man lost courage. Then she spoke:
+
+"I am not afraid; God is with us, whether we live or die!" She looked as
+quiet and happy as a child on its mother's breast! and so before he lost
+heart again, he heaved her up, and threw her as far as he could over into
+the glaring, dizzying water; and straight leaped after her. She came up
+with an involuntary look of terror on her face; but when she saw him by the
+red glare of the burning ship, close by her side, she shut her eyes, and
+looked as if peacefully going to sleep. He swam, guiding the spar.
+
+"I think we are near Llandudno. I know we have passed the little Ormes'
+head." That was all he said; but she did not speak.
+
+He swam out of the heat and fierce blaze of light into the quiet, dark
+waters; and then into the moon's path. It might be half an hour before he
+got into that silver stream. When the beams fell down upon them he looked
+at Maggie. Her head rested on the spar, quite still. He could not bear it.
+"Maggie--dear heart! speak!"
+
+With a great effort she was called back from the borders of death by that
+voice, and opened her filmy eyes, which looked abroad as if she could see
+nothing nearer than the gleaming lights of Heaven. She let the lids fall
+softly again. He was as if alone in the wide world with God.
+
+"A quarter of an hour more and all is over," thought he. "The people at
+Llandudno must see our burning ship, and will come out in their boats."
+He kept in the line of light, although it did not lead him direct to the
+shore, in order that they might be seen. He swam with desperation. One
+moment he thought he had heard her last gasp rattle through the rush of
+the waters; and all strength was gone, and he lay on the waves as if he
+himself must die, and go with her spirit straight through that purple lift
+to heaven; the next he heard the splash of oars, and raised himself
+and cried aloud. The boatmen took them in--and examined her by the
+lantern--and spoke in Welsh--and shook their heads. Frank threw himself on
+his knees, and prayed them to take her to land. They did not know his
+words, but they understood his prayer. He kissed her lips--he chafed her
+hands--he wrung the water out of her hair--he held her feet against his
+warm breast.
+
+"She is not dead," he kept saying to the men, as he saw their sorrowful,
+pitying looks.
+
+The kind people at Llandudno had made ready their own humble beds, with
+every appliance of comfort they could think of, as soon as they understood
+the nature of the calamity which had befallen the ship on their coasts.
+Frank walked, dripping, bareheaded, by the body of his Margaret, which was
+borne by some men along the rocky sloping shore.
+
+"She is not dead!" he said. He stopped at the first house they came to. It
+belonged to a kind-hearted woman. They laid Maggie in her bed, and got the
+village doctor to come and see her.
+
+"There is life still," said he, gravely.
+
+"I knew it," said Frank. But it felled him to the ground. He sank first
+in prayer, and then in insensibility. The doctor did everything. All that
+night long he passed to and fro from house to house; for several had swum
+to Llandudno. Others, it was thought, had gone to Abergele.
+
+In the morning Frank was recovered enough to write to his father,
+by Maggie's bedside. He sent the letter off to Conway by a little
+bright-looking Welsh boy. Late in the afternoon she awoke.
+
+In a moment or two she looked eagerly round her, as if gathering in her
+breath; and then she covered her head and sobbed.
+
+"Where is Edward?" asked she.
+
+"We do not know," said Frank, gravely. "I have been round the village, and
+seen every survivor here; he is not among them, but he may be at some other
+place along the coast."
+
+She was silent, reading in his eyes his fears--his belief.
+
+At last she asked again.
+
+"I cannot understand it. My head is not clear. There are such rushing
+noises in it. How came you there?" She shuddered involuntarily as she
+recalled the terrible where.
+
+For an instant he dreaded, for her sake, to recall the circumstances of the
+night before; but then he understood how her mind would dwell upon them
+until she was satisfied.
+
+"You remember writing to me, love, telling me all. I got your letter--I
+don't know how long ago--yesterday, I think. Yes! in the evening. You could
+not think, Maggie, I would let you go alone to America. I won't speak
+against Edward, poor fellow! but we must both allow that he was not the
+person to watch over you as such a treasure should be watched over. I
+thought I would go with you. I hardly know if I meant to make myself known
+to you all at once, for I had no wish to have much to do with your brother.
+I see now that it was selfish in me. Well! there was nothing to be done,
+after receiving your letter, but to set off for Liverpool straight, and
+join you. And after that decision was made, my spirits rose, for the old
+talks about Canada and Australia came to my mind, and this seemed like a
+realization of them. Besides, Maggie, I suspected--I even suspect now--that
+my father had something to do with your going with Edward?"
+
+"Indeed, Frank!" said she, earnestly, "you are mistaken; I cannot tell you
+all now; but he was so good and kind at last. He never urged me to go;
+though, I believe, he did tell me it would be the saving of Edward."
+
+"Don't agitate yourself, love. I trust there will be time enough, some
+happy day at home, to tell me all. And till then, I will believe that my
+father did not in any way suggest this voyage. But you'll allow that,
+after all that has passed, it was not unnatural in me to suppose so. I
+only told Middleton I was obliged to leave him by the next train. It was
+not till I was fairly off, that I began to reckon up what money I had with
+me. I doubt even if I was sorry to find it was so little. I should have to
+put forth my energies and fight my way, as I had often wanted to do. I
+remember, I thought how happy you and I would be, striving together as poor
+people 'in that new world which is the old.' Then you had told me you were
+going in the steerage; and that was all suitable to my desires for myself."
+
+"It was Erminia's kindness that prevented our going there. She asked your
+father to take us cabin places unknown to me."
+
+"Did she? dear Erminia! it is just like her. I could almost laugh to
+remember the eagerness with which I doffed my signs of wealth, and put on
+those of poverty. I sold my watch when I got into Liverpool--yesterday,
+I believe--but it seems like months ago. And I rigged myself out at a
+slop-shop with suitable clothes for a steerage passenger. Maggie! you never
+told me the name of the vessel you were going to sail in!"
+
+"I did not know it till I got to Liverpool. All Mr. Buxton said was, that
+some ship sailed on the 15th."
+
+"I concluded it must be the Anna-Maria, (poor Anna-Maria!) and I had no
+time to lose. She had just heaved her anchor when I came on board. Don't
+you recollect a boat hailing her at the last moment? There were three of us
+in her."
+
+"No! I was below in my cabin--trying not to think," said she, coloring a
+little.
+
+"Well! as soon as I got on board it began to grow dark, or, perhaps, it was
+the fog on the river; at any rate, instead of being able to single out your
+figure at once, Maggie--it is one among a thousand--I had to go peering
+into every woman's face; and many were below. I went between decks, and
+by-and-by I was afraid I had mistaken the vessel; I sat down--I had no
+spirit to stand; and every time the door opened I roused up and looked--but
+you never came. I was thinking what to do; whether to be put on shore in
+Ireland, or to go on to New York, and wait for you there;--it was the worst
+time of all, for I had nothing to do; and the suspense was horrible. I
+might have known," said he, smiling, "my little Emperor of Russia was not
+one to be a steerage passenger."
+
+But Maggie was too much shaken to smile; and the thought of Edward lay
+heavy upon her mind.
+
+"Then the fire broke out; how, or why, I suppose will never be ascertained.
+It was at our end of the vessel. I thanked God, then, that you were not
+there. The second mate wanted some one to go down with him to bring up the
+gunpowder, and throw it overboard. I had nothing to do, and I went. We
+wrapped it up in wet sails, but it was a ticklish piece of work, and took
+time. When we had got it overboard, the flames were gathering far and wide.
+I don't remember what I did until I heard Edward's voice speaking your
+name."
+
+It was decided that the next morning they should set off homeward, striving
+on their way to obtain tidings of Edward. Frank would have given his only
+valuable, (his mother's diamond-guard, which he wore constantly,) as a
+pledge for some advance of money; but the kind Welsh people would not have
+it. They had not much spare cash, but what they had they readily lent to
+the survivors of the Anna-Maria. Dressed in the homely country garb of
+the people, Frank and Maggie set off in their car. If was a clear, frosty
+morning; the first that winter. The road soon lay high up on the cliffs
+along the coast. They looked down on the sea rocking below. At every
+village they stopped, and Frank inquired, and made the driver inquire in
+Welsh; but no tidings gained they of Edward; though here and there Maggie
+watched Frank into some cottage or other, going to see a dead body, beloved
+by some one: and when he came out, solemn and grave, their sad eyes met,
+and she knew it was not he they sought, without needing words.
+
+At Abergele they stopped to rest; and because, being a larger place, it
+would need a longer search, Maggie lay down on the sofa, for she was very
+weak, and shut her eyes, and tried not to see forever and ever that mad
+struggling crowd lighted by the red flames.
+
+Frank came back in an hour or so; and soft behind him--laboriously treading
+on tiptoe--Mr. Buxton followed. He was evidently choking down his sobs; but
+when he saw the white wan figure of Maggie, he held out his arms.
+
+"My dear! my daughter!" he said, "God bless you!" He could not speak
+more--he was fairly crying; but he put her hand in Frank's and kept holding
+them both.
+
+"My father," said Frank, speaking in a husky voice, while his eyes filled
+with tears, "had heard of it before he received my letter. I might have
+known that the lighthouse signals would take it fast to Liverpool. I had
+written a few lines to him saying I was going to you; happily they never
+reached--that was spared to my dear father."
+
+Maggie saw the look of restored confidence that passed between father and
+son.
+
+"My mother?" said she at last.
+
+"She is here," said they both at once, with sad solemnity.
+
+"Oh, where? Why did not you tell me?" exclaimed she, starting up. But their
+faces told her why.
+
+"Edward is drowned--is dead," said she, reading their looks.
+
+There was no answer.
+
+"Let me go to my mother."
+
+"Maggie, she is with him. His body was washed ashore last night. My father
+and she heard of it as they came along. Can you bear to see her? She will
+not leave him."
+
+"Take me to her," Maggie answered.
+
+They led her into a bed-room. Stretched on the bed lay Edward, but now so
+full of hope and worldly plans.
+
+Mrs. Browne looked round, and saw Maggie. She did not get up from her place
+by his head; nor did she long avert her gaze from his poor face. But she
+held Maggie's hand, as the girl knelt by her, and spoke to her in a hushed
+voice, undisturbed by tears. Her miserable heart could not find that
+relief.
+
+"He is dead!--he is gone!--he will never come back again! If he had gone to
+America--it might have been years first--but he would have come back to me.
+But now he will never come back again;--never--never!"
+
+Her voice died away, as the wailings of the night-wind die in the distance;
+and there was silence--silence more sad and hopeless than any passionate
+words of grief.
+
+And to this day it is the same. She prizes her dead son more than a
+thousand living daughters, happy and prosperous as is Maggie now--rich in
+the love of many. If Maggie did not show such reverence to her mother's
+faithful sorrows, others might wonder at her refusal to be comforted by
+that sweet daughter. But Maggie treats her with such tender sympathy, never
+thinking of herself or her own claims, that Frank, Erminia, Mr. Buxton,
+Nancy, and all, are reverent and sympathizing too.
+
+Over both old and young the memory of one who is dead broods like a
+dove--of one who could do but little during her lifetime--who was doomed
+only to "stand and wait"--who was meekly content to _be_ gentle, holy,
+patient, and undefiled--the memory of the invalid Mrs. Buxton.
+
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+       *       *       *       *       *
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+
+       *       *       *       *       *
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+
+       *       *       *       *       *
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+%Maria Antoinette.%
+
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+every where teem.--_Evening Mirror._
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 11371 ***
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+<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 11371 ***</div>
+
+<h1>THE MOORLAND COTTAGE.</h1>
+
+<h2 class="no-break">By the author of MARY BARTON.</h2>
+
+<h3>NEW YORK: 1851.</h3>
+
+<hr />
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2>CHAPTER I.</h2>
+
+<p>
+If you take the turn to the left, after you pass the lyke-gate at Combehurst
+Church, you will come to the wooden bridge over the brook; keep along the
+field-path which mounts higher and higher, and, in half a mile or so, you will
+be in a breezy upland field, almost large enough to be called a down, where
+sheep pasture on the short, fine, elastic turf. You look down on Combehurst and
+its beautiful church-spire. After the field is crossed, you come to a common,
+richly colored with the golden gorse and the purple heather, which in
+summer-time send out their warm scents into the quiet air. The swelling waves
+of the upland make a near horizon against the sky; the line is only broken in
+one place by a small grove of Scotch firs, which always look black and shadowed
+even at mid-day, when all the rest of the landscape seems bathed in sunlight.
+The lark quivers and sings high up in the air; too high—in too dazzling a
+region for you to see her. Look! she drops into sight; but, as if loth to leave
+the heavenly radiance, she balances herself and floats in the ether. Now she
+falls suddenly right into her nest, hidden among the ling, unseen except by the
+eyes of Heaven, and the small bright insects that run hither and thither on the
+elastic flower-stalks. With something like the sudden drop of the lark, the
+path goes down a green abrupt descent; and in a basin, surrounded by the grassy
+hills, there stands a dwelling, which is neither cottage nor house, but
+something between the two in size. Nor yet is it a farm, though surrounded by
+living things. It is, or rather it was, at the time of which I speak, the
+dwelling of Mrs. Browne, the widow of the late curate of Combehurst. There she
+lived with her faithful old servant and her only children, a boy and girl. They
+were as secluded in their green hollow as the households in the German
+forest-tales. Once a week they emerged and crossed the common, catching on its
+summit the first sounds of the sweet-toned bells, calling them to church. Mrs.
+Browne walked first, holding Edward’s hand. Old Nancy followed with Maggie; but
+they were all one party, and all talked together in a subdued and quiet tone,
+as beseemed the day. They had not much to say, their lives were too unbroken;
+for, excepting on Sundays, the widow and her children never went to Combehurst.
+Most people would have thought the little town a quiet, dreamy place; but to
+those two children if seemed the world; and after they had crossed the bridge,
+they each clasped more tightly the hands which they held, and looked shyly up
+from beneath their drooped eyelids when spoken to by any of their mother’s
+friends. Mrs. Browne was regularly asked by some one to stay to dinner after
+morning church, and as regularly declined, rather to the timid children’s
+relief; although in the week-days they sometimes spoke together in a low voice
+of the pleasure it would be to them if mamma would go and dine at Mr. Buxton’s,
+where the little girl in white and that great tall boy lived. Instead of
+staying there, or anywhere else, on Sundays, Mrs. Browne thought it her duty to
+go and cry over her husband’s grave. The custom had arisen out of true sorrow
+for his loss, for a kinder husband, and more worthy man, had never lived; but
+the simplicity of her sorrow had been destroyed by the observation of others on
+the mode of its manifestation. They made way for her to cross the grass toward
+his grave; and she, fancying that it was expected of her, fell into the habit I
+have mentioned. Her children, holding each a hand, felt awed and uncomfortable,
+and were sensitively conscious how often they were pointed out, as a mourning
+group, to observation.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I wish it would always rain on Sundays,” said Edward one day to Maggie, in a
+garden conference.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why?” asked she.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Because then we bustle out of church, and get home as fast as we can, to save
+mamma’s crape; and we have not to go and cry over papa.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t cry,” said Maggie. “Do you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Edward looked round before he answered, to see if they were quite alone, and
+then said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No; I was sorry a long time about papa, but one can’t go on being sorry
+forever. Perhaps grown-up people can.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Mamma can,” said little Maggie. “Sometimes I am very sorry too; when I am by
+myself or playing with you, or when I am wakened up by the moonlight in our
+room. Do you ever waken and fancy you heard papa calling you? I do sometimes;
+and then I am very sorry to think we shall never hear him calling us again.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ah, it’s different with me, you know. He used to call me to lessons.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Sometimes he called me when he was displeased with me. But I always dream that
+he was calling us in his own kind voice, as he used to do when he wanted us to
+walk with him, or to show us something pretty.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Edward was silent, playing with something on the ground. At last he looked
+round again, and, having convinced himself that they could not be overheard, he
+whispered:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Maggie—sometimes I don’t think I’m sorry that papa is dead—when I’m naughty,
+you know; he would have been so angry with me if he had been here; and I
+think—only sometimes, you know, I’m rather glad he is not.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, Edward! you don’t mean to say so, I know. Don’t let us talk about him. We
+can’t talk rightly, we’re such little children. Don’t, Edward, please.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Poor little Maggie’s eyes filled with tears; and she never spoke again to
+Edward, or indeed to any one, about her dead father. As she grew older, her
+life became more actively busy. The cottage and small outbuildings, and the
+garden and field, were their own; and on the produce they depended for much of
+their support. The cow, the pig, and the poultry took up much of Nancy’s time.
+Mrs. Browne and Maggie had to do a great deal of the house-work; and when the
+beds were made, and the rooms swept and dusted, and the preparations for dinner
+ready, then, if there was any time, Maggie sat down to her lessons. Ned, who
+prided himself considerably on his sex, had been sitting all the morning, in
+his father’s arm-chair, in the little book-room, “studying,” as he chose to
+call it. Sometimes Maggie would pop her head in, with a request that he would
+help her to carry the great pitcher of water up-stairs, or do some other little
+household service; with which request he occasionally complied, but with so
+many complaints about the interruption, that at last she told him she would
+never ask him again. Gently as this was said, he yet felt it as a reproach, and
+tried to excuse himself.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You see, Maggie, a man must be educated to be a gentleman. Now, if a woman
+knows how to keep a house, that’s all that is wanted from her. So my time is of
+more consequence than yours. Mamma says I’m to go to college, and be a
+clergyman; so I must get on with my Latin.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie submitted in silence; and almost felt it as an act of gracious
+condescension when, a morning or two afterwards, he came to meet her as she was
+toiling in from the well, carrying the great brown jug full of spring-water
+ready for dinner. “Here,” said he, “let us put it in the shade behind the
+horse-mount. Oh, Maggie! look what you’ve done! Spilt it all, with not turning
+quickly enough when I told you. Now you may fetch it again for yourself, for
+I’ll have nothing to do with it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I did not understand you in time,” said she, softly. But he had turned away,
+and gone back in offended dignity to the house. Maggie had nothing to do but
+return to the well, and fill it again. The spring was some distance off, in a
+little rocky dell. It was so cool after her hot walk, that she sat down in the
+shadow of the gray limestone rock, and looked at the ferns, wet with the
+dripping water. She felt sad, she knew not why. “I think Ned is sometimes very
+cross,” thought she. “I did not understand he was carrying it there. Perhaps I
+am clumsy. Mamma says I am; and Ned says I am. Nancy never says so and papa
+never said so. I wish I could help being clumsy and stupid. Ned says all women
+are so. I wish I was not a woman. It must be a fine thing to be a man. Oh dear!
+I must go up the field again with this heavy pitcher, and my arms do so ache!”
+She rose and climbed the steep brae. As she went she heard her mother’s voice.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Maggie! Maggie! there’s no water for dinner, and the potatoes are quite
+boiled. Where _is_ that child?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They had begun dinner, before she came down from brushing her hair and washing
+her hands. She was hurried and tired.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Mother,” said Ned, “mayn’t I have some butter to these potatoes, as there is
+cold meat? They are so dry.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Certainly, my dear. Maggie, go and fetch a pat of butter out of the dairy.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie went from her untouched dinner without speaking.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Here, stop, you child!” said Nancy, turning her back in the passage. “You go
+to your dinner, I’ll fetch the butter. You’ve been running about enough
+to-day.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie durst not go back without it, but she stood in the passage till Nancy
+returned; and then she put up her mouth to be kissed by the kind rough old
+servant.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Thou’rt a sweet one,” said Nancy to herself, as she turned into the kitchen;
+and Maggie went back to her dinner with a soothed and lightened heart.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When the meal was ended, she helped her mother to wash up the old-fashioned
+glasses and spoons, which were treated with tender care and exquisite
+cleanliness in that house of decent frugality; and then, exchanging her
+pinafore for a black silk apron, the little maiden was wont to sit down to some
+useful piece of needlework, in doing which her mother enforced the most dainty
+neatness of stitches. Thus every hour in its circle brought a duty to be
+fulfilled; but duties fulfilled are as pleasures to the memory, and little
+Maggie always thought those early childish days most happy, and remembered them
+only as filled with careless contentment.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Yet, at the time they had their cares.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In fine summer days Maggie sat out of doors at her work. Just beyond the court
+lay the rocky moorland, almost as gay as that with its profusion of flowers. If
+the court had its clustering noisettes, and fraxinellas, and sweetbriar, and
+great tall white lilies, the moorland had its little creeping scented rose, its
+straggling honeysuckle, and an abundance of yellow cistus; and here and there a
+gray rock cropped out of the ground, and over it the yellow stone-crop and
+scarlet-leaved crane’s-bill grew luxuriantly. Such a rock was Maggie’s seat. I
+believe she considered it her own, and loved it accordingly; although its real
+owner was a great lord, who lived far away, and had never seen the moor, much
+less the piece of gray rock, in his life.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The afternoon of the day which I have begun to tell you about, she was sitting
+there, and singing to herself as she worked: she was within call of home, and
+could hear all home sounds, with their shrillness softened down. Between her
+and it, Edward was amusing himself; he often called upon her for sympathy,
+which she as readily gave.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I wonder how men make their boats steady; I have taken mine to the pond, and
+she has toppled over every time I sent her in.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Has it?—that’s very tiresome! Would it do to put a little weight in it, to
+keep it down?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“How often must I tell you to call a ship ‘her;’ and there you will go on
+saying—it—it!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After this correction of his sister, Master Edward did not like the
+condescension of acknowledging her suggestion to be a good one; so he went
+silently to the house in search of the requisite ballast; but not being able to
+find anything suitable, he came back to his turfy hillock, littered round with
+chips of wood, and tried to insert some pebbles into his vessel; but they stuck
+fast, and he was obliged to ask again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Supposing it was a good thing to weight her, what could I put in?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie thought a moment.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Would shot do?” asked she.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It would be the very thing; but where can I get any?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“There is some that was left of papa’s. It is in the right-hand corner of the
+second drawer of the bureau, wrapped up in a newspaper.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What a plague! I can’t remember your ‘seconds,’ and ‘right-hands,’ and
+fiddle-faddles.” He worked on at his pebbles. They would not do.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I think if you were good-natured, Maggie, you might go for me.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, Ned! I’ve all this long seam to do. Mamma said I must finish it before
+tea; and that I might play a little if I had done it first,” said Maggie,
+rather plaintively; for it was a real pain to her to refuse a request.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It would not take you five minutes.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie thought a little. The time would only be taken out of her playing,
+which, after all, did not signify; while Edward was really busy about his ship.
+She rose, and clambered up the steep grassy slope, slippery with the heat.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Before she had found the paper of shot, she heard her mother’s voice calling,
+in a sort of hushed hurried loudness, as if anxious to be heard by one person
+yet not by another—“Edward, Edward, come home quickly. Here’s Mr. Buxton coming
+along the Fell-Lane;—he’s coming here, as sure as sixpence; come, Edward,
+come.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie saw Edward put down his ship and come. At his mother’s bidding it
+certainly was; but he strove to make this as little apparent as he could, by
+sauntering up the slope, with his hands in his pockets, in a very independent
+and _négligé_ style. Maggie had no time to watch longer; for now she was called
+too, and down stairs she ran.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Here, Maggie,” said her mother, in a nervous hurry;—“help Nancy to get a tray
+ready all in a minute. I do believe here’s Mr. Buxton coming to call. Oh,
+Edward! go and brush your hair, and put on your Sunday jacket; here’s Mr.
+Buxton just coming round. I’ll only run up and change my cap; and you say
+you’ll come up and tell me, Nancy; all proper, you know.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“To be sure, ma’am. I’ve lived in families afore now,” said Nancy, gruffly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, yes, I know you have. Be sure you bring in the cowslip wine. I wish I
+could have stayed to decant some port.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Nancy and Maggie bustled about, in and out of the kitchen and dairy; and were
+so deep in their preparations for Mr. Buxton’s reception that they were not
+aware of the very presence of that gentleman himself on the scene. He had found
+the front door open, as is the wont in country places, and had walked in; first
+stopping at the empty parlor, and then finding his way to the place where
+voices and sounds proclaimed that there were inhabitants. So he stood there,
+stooping a little under the low-browed lintels of the kitchen door, and looking
+large, and red, and warm, but with a pleased and almost amused expression of
+face.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Lord bless me, sir! what a start you gave me!” said Nancy, as she suddenly
+caught sight of him. “I’ll go and tell my missus in a minute that you’re come.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Off she went, leaving Maggie alone with the great, tall, broad gentleman,
+smiling at her from his frame in the door-way, but never speaking. She went on
+dusting a wine-glass most assiduously.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well done, little girl,” came out a fine strong voice at last. “Now I think
+that will do. Come and show me the parlor where I may sit down, for I’ve had a
+long walk, and am very tired.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie took him into the parlor, which was always cool and fresh in the hottest
+weather. It was scented by a great beau-pot filled with roses; and, besides,
+the casement was open to the fragrant court. Mr. Buxton was so large, and the
+parlor so small, that when he was once in, Maggie thought when he went away, he
+could carry the room on his back, as a snail does its house.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And so, you are a notable little woman, are you?” said he, after he had
+stretched himself (a very unnecessary proceeding), and unbuttoned his
+waistcoat, Maggie stood near the door, uncertain whether to go or to stay. “How
+bright and clean you were making that glass! Do you think you could get me some
+water to fill it? Mind, it must be that very glass I saw you polishing. I shall
+know it again.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie was thankful to escape out of the room; and in the passage she met her
+mother, who had made time to change her gown as well as her cap. Before Nancy
+would allow the little girl to return with the glass of water she smoothed her
+short-cut glossy hair; it was all that was needed to make her look delicately
+neat. Maggie was conscientious in trying to find out the identical glass; but I
+am afraid Nancy was not quite so truthful in avouching that one of the six,
+exactly similar, which were now placed on the tray, was the same she had found
+on the dresser, when she came back from telling her mistress of Mr. Buxton’s
+arrival.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie carried in the water, with a shy pride in the clearness of the glass.
+Her mother was sitting on the edge of her chair, speaking in unusually fine
+language, and with a higher pitched voice than common. Edward, in all his
+Sunday glory, was standing by Mr. Buxton, looking happy and conscious. But when
+Maggie came in, Mr. Buxton made room for her between Edward and himself, and,
+while she went on talking, lifted her on to his knee. She sat there as on a
+pinnacle of honor; but as she durst not nestle up to him, a chair would have
+been the more comfortable seat.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“As founder’s line, I have a right of presentation; and for my dear old
+friend’s sake” (here Mrs. Browne wiped her eyes), “I am truly glad of it; my
+young friend will have a little form of examination to go through; and then we
+shall see him carrying every prize before him, I have no doubt. Thank you, just
+a little of your sparkling cowslip wine. Ah! this gingerbread is like the
+gingerbread I had when I was a boy. My little lady here must learn the receipt,
+and make me some. Will she?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Speak to Mr. Buxton, child, who is kind to your brother. You will make him
+some gingerbread, I am sure.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If I may,” said Maggie, hanging down her head.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Or, I’ll tell you what. Suppose you come to my house, and teach us how to make
+it there; and then, you know, we could always be making gingerbread when we
+were not eating it. That would be best, I think. Must I ask mamma to bring you
+down to Combehurst, and let us all get acquainted together? I have a great boy
+and a little girl at home, who will like to see you, I’m sure. And we have got
+a pony for you to ride on, and a peacock and guinea fowls, and I don’t know
+what all. Come, madam, let me persuade you. School begins in three weeks. Let
+us fix a day before then.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do mamma,” said Edward.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I am not in spirits for visiting,” Mrs. Browne answered. But the quick
+children detected a hesitation in her manner of saying the oft spoken words,
+and had hopes, if only Mr. Buxton would persevere in his invitation.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Your not visiting is the very reason why you are not in spirits. A little
+change, and a few neighborly faces, would do you good, I’ll be bound. Besides,
+for the children’s sake you should not live too secluded a life. Young people
+should see a little of the world.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. Browne was much obliged to Mr. Buxton for giving her so decent an excuse
+for following her inclination, which, it must be owned, tended to the
+acceptance of the invitation. So, “for the children’s sake,” she consented. But
+she sighed, as if making a sacrifice.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“That’s right,” said Mr. Buxton. “Now for the day.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was fixed that they should go on that day week; and after some further
+conversation about the school at which Edward was to be placed, and some more
+jokes about Maggie’s notability, and an inquiry if she would come and live with
+him the next time he wanted a housemaid, Mr. Buxton took his leave.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+His visit had been an event; and they made no great attempt at settling again
+that day to any of their usual employments. In the first place, Nancy came in
+to hear and discuss all the proposed plans. Ned, who was uncertain whether to
+like or dislike the prospect of school, was very much offended by the old
+servant’s remark, on first hearing of the project.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s time for him. He’ll learn his place there, which, it strikes me, he and
+others too are apt to forget at home.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Then followed discussions and arrangements respecting his clothes. And then
+they came to the plan of spending a day at Mr. Buxton’s, which Mrs. Browne was
+rather shy of mentioning, having a sort of an idea of inconstancy and guilt
+connected with the thought of mingling with the world again. However, Nancy
+approved: “It was quite right,” and “just as it should be,” and “good for the
+children.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes; it was on their account I did it, Nancy,” said Mrs. Browne.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“How many children has Mr. Buxton?” asked Edward.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Only one. Frank, I think, they call him. But you must say Master Buxton; be
+sure.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Who is the little girl, then,” asked Maggie, “who sits with them in church?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh! that’s little Miss Harvey, his niece, and a great fortune.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“They do say he never forgave her mother till the day of her death,” remarked
+Nancy.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Then they tell stories, Nancy!” replied Mrs. Browne (it was she herself who
+had said it; but that was before Mr. Buxton’s call). For d’ye think his sister
+would have left him guardian to her child, if they were not on good terms?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well! I only know what folks say. And, for sure, he took a spite at Mr. Harvey
+for no reason on earth; and every one knows he never spoke to him.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He speaks very kindly and pleasantly,” put in Maggie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ay; and I’m not saying but what he is a very good, kind man in the main. But
+he has his whims, and keeps hold on ’em when he’s got ’em. There’s them pies
+burning, and I’m talking here!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When Nancy had returned to her kitchen, Mrs. Browne called Maggie up stairs, to
+examine what clothes would be needed for Edward. And when they were up, she
+tried on the black satin gown, which had been her visiting dress ever since she
+was married, and which she intended should replace the old, worn-out bombazine
+on the day of the visit to Combehurst.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“For Mrs. Buxton is a real born lady,” said she; “and I should like to be well
+dressed, to do her honor.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I did not know there was a Mrs. Buxton,” said Maggie. “She is never at
+church.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No; she is but delicate and weakly, and never leaves the house. I think her
+maid told me she never left her room now.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Buxton family, root and branch, formed the _pièce de résistance_ in the
+conversation between Mrs. Browne and her children for the next week. As the day
+drew near, Maggie almost wished to stay at home, so impressed was she with the
+awfulness of the visit. Edward felt bold in the idea of a new suit of clothes,
+which had been ordered for the occasion, and for school afterwards. Mrs. Browne
+remembered having heard the rector say, “A woman never looked so lady-like as
+when she wore black satin,” and kept her spirits up with that observation; but
+when she saw how worn it was at the elbows, she felt rather depressed, and
+unequal to visiting. Still, for her children’s sake, she would do much.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After her long day’s work was ended, Nancy sat up at her sewing. She had found
+out that among all the preparations, none were going on for Margaret; and she
+had used her influence over her mistress (who half-liked and half-feared, and
+entirely depended upon her) to obtain from her an old gown, which she had taken
+to pieces, and washed and scoured, and was now making up, in a way a little
+old-fashioned to be sure; but, on the whole, it looked so nice when completed
+and put on, that Mrs. Browne gave Maggie a strict lecture about taking great
+care of such a handsome frock and forgot that she had considered the gown from
+which it had been made as worn out and done for.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2>CHAPTER II.</h2>
+
+<p>
+At length they were dressed, and Nancy stood on the court-steps, shading her
+eyes, and looking after them, as they climbed the heathery slope leading to
+Combehurst.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I wish she’d take her hand sometimes, just to let her know the feel of her
+mother’s hand. Perhaps she will, at least after Master Edward goes to school.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As they went along, Mrs. Browne gave the children a few rules respecting
+manners and etiquette.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Maggie! you must sit as upright as ever you can; make your back flat, child,
+and don’t poke. If I cough, you must draw up. I shall cough whenever I see you
+do anything wrong, and I shall be looking at you all day; so remember. You hold
+yourself very well, Edward. If Mr. Buxton asks you, you may have a glass of
+wine, because you’re a boy. But mind and say, ‘Your good health, sir,’ before
+you drink it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’d rather not have the wine if I’m to say that,” said Edward, bluntly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, nonsense! my dear. You’d wish to be like a gentleman, I’m sure.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Edward muttered something which was inaudible. His mother went on:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Of course you’ll never think of being helped more than twice. Twice of meat,
+twice of pudding, is the genteel thing. You may take less, but never more.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, mamma! how beautiful Combehurst spire is, with that dark cloud behind it!”
+exclaimed Maggie, as they came in sight of the town.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You’ve no business with Combehurst spire when I’m speaking to you. I’m talking
+myself out of breath to teach you how to behave, and there you go looking after
+clouds, and such like rubbish. I’m ashamed of you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Although Maggie walked quietly by her mother’s side all the rest of the way,
+Mrs. Browne was too much offended to resume her instructions on good-breeding.
+Maggie might be helped three times if she liked: she had done with her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They were very early. When they drew near the bridge, they were met by a tall,
+fine-looking boy, leading a beautiful little Shetland pony, with a side-saddle
+on it. He came up to Mrs. Browne, and addressed her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“My father thought your little girl would be tired, and he told me to bring my
+cousin Erminia’s pony for her. It’s as quiet as can be.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Now this was rather provoking to Mrs. Browne, as she chose to consider Maggie
+in disgrace. However, there was no help for it: all she could do was to spoil
+the enjoyment as far as possible, by looking and speaking in a cold manner,
+which often chilled Maggie’s little heart, and took all the zest out of the
+pleasure now. It was in vain that Frank Buxton made the pony trot and canter;
+she still looked sad and grave.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Little dull thing!” he thought; but he was as kind and considerate as a
+gentlemanly boy could be.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At last they reached Mr. Buxton’s house. It was in the main street, and the
+front door opened upon it by a flight of steps. Wide on each side extended the
+stone-coped windows. It was in reality a mansion, and needed not the
+neighboring contrast of the cottages on either side to make it look imposing.
+When they went in, they entered a large hall, cool even on that burning July
+day, with a black and white flag floor, and old settees round the walls, and
+great jars of curious china, which were filled with pot-pourrie. The dusky
+gloom was pleasant, after the glare of the street outside; and the requisite
+light and cheerfulness were given by the peep into the garden, framed, as it
+were, by the large door-way that opened into it. There were roses, and
+sweet-peas, and poppies—a rich mass of color, which looked well, set in the
+somewhat sombre coolness of the hall. All the house told of wealth—wealth which
+had accumulated for generations, and which was shown in a sort of comfortable,
+grand, unostentatious way. Mr. Buxton’s ancestors had been yeomen; but, two or
+three generations back, they might, if ambitious, have taken their place as
+country gentry, so much had the value of their property increased, and so great
+had been the amount of their savings. They, however, continued to live in the
+old farm till Mr. Buxton’s grandfather built the house in Combehurst of which I
+am speaking, and then he felt rather ashamed of what he had done; it seemed
+like stepping out of his position. He and his wife always sat in the best
+kitchen; and it was only after his son’s marriage that the entertaining rooms
+were furnished. Even then they were kept with closed shutters and bagged-up
+furniture during the lifetime of the old couple, who, nevertheless, took a
+pride in adding to the rich-fashioned ornaments and grand old china of the
+apartments. But they died, and were gathered to their fathers, and young Mr.
+and Mrs. Buxton (aged respectively fifty-one and forty-five) reigned in their
+stead. They had the good taste to make no sudden change; but gradually the
+rooms assumed an inhabited appearance, and their son and daughter grew up in
+the enjoyment of great wealth, and no small degree of refinement. But as yet
+they held back modestly from putting themselves in any way on a level with the
+county people. Lawrence Buxton was sent to the same school as his father had
+been before him; and the notion of his going to college to complete his
+education was, after some deliberation, negatived. In process of time he
+succeeded his father, and married a sweet, gentle lady, of a decayed and very
+poor county family, by whom he had one boy before she fell into delicate
+health. His sister had married a man whose character was worse than his
+fortune, and had been left a widow. Everybody thought her husband’s death a
+blessing; but she loved him, in spite of negligence and many grosser faults;
+and so, not many years after, she died, leaving her little daughter to her
+brother’s care, with many a broken-voiced entreaty that he would never speak a
+word against the dead father of her child. So the little Erminia was taken home
+by her self-reproaching uncle, who felt now how hardly he had acted towards his
+sister in breaking off all communication with her on her ill-starred marriage.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Where is Erminia, Frank?” asked his father, speaking over Maggie’s shoulder,
+while he still held her hand. “I want to take Mrs. Browne to your mother. I
+told Erminia to be here to welcome this little girl.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’ll take her to Minnie; I think she’s in the garden. I’ll come back to you,”
+nodding to Edward, “directly, and then we will go to the rabbits.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+So Frank and Maggie left the great lofty room, full of strange rare things, and
+rich with books, and went into the sunny scented garden, which stretched far
+and wide behind the house. Down one of the walks, with a hedge of roses on
+either side, came a little tripping fairy, with long golden ringlets, and a
+complexion like a china rose. With the deep blue of the summer sky behind her,
+Maggie thought she looked like an angel. She neither hastened nor slackened her
+pace when she saw them, but came on with the same dainty light prancing step.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Make haste, Minnie,” cried Frank.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But Minnie stopped to gather a rose.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t stay with me,” said Maggie, softly, although she had held his hand like
+that of a friend, and did not feel that the little fairy’s manner was
+particularly cordial or gracious. Frank took her at her word, and ran off to
+Edward.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Erminia came a little quicker when she saw that Maggie was left alone; but for
+some time after they were together, they had nothing to say to each other.
+Erminia was easily impressed by the pomps and vanities of the world; and
+Maggie’s new handsome frock seemed to her made of old ironed brown silk. And
+though Maggie’s voice was soft, with a silver ringing sound in it, she
+pronounced her words in Nancy’s broad country way. Her hair was cut short all
+round; her shoes were thick, and clumped as she walked. Erminia patronized her,
+and thought herself very kind and condescending; but they were not particularly
+friendly. The visit promised to be more honorable than agreeable, and Maggie
+almost wished herself at home again. Dinner-time came. Mrs. Buxton dined in her
+own room. Mr. Buxton was hearty, and jovial, and pressing; he almost scolded
+Maggie because she would not take more than twice of his favorite pudding: but
+she remembered what her mother had said, and that she would be watched all day;
+and this gave her a little prim, quaint manner, very different from her usual
+soft charming unconsciousness. She fancied that Edward and Master Buxton were
+just as little at their ease with each other as she and Miss Harvey. Perhaps
+this feeling on the part of the boys made all four children unite after dinner.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Let us go to the swing in the shrubbery,” said Frank, after a little
+consideration; and off they ran. Frank proposed that he and Edward should swing
+the two little girls; and for a time all went on very well. But by-and-by
+Edward thought, that Maggie had had enough, and that he should like a turn; and
+Maggie, at his first word, got out.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t you like swinging?” asked Erminia.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes! but Edward would like it now.” And Edward accordingly took her place.
+Frank turned away, and would not swing him. Maggie strove hard to do it, but he
+was heavy, and the swing bent unevenly. He scolded her for what she could not
+help, and at last jumped out so roughly, that the seat hit Maggie’s face, and
+knocked her down. When she got up, her lips quivered with pain, but she did not
+cry; she only looked anxiously at her frock. There was a great rent across the
+front breadth. Then she did shed tears—tears of fright. What would her mother
+say?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Erminia saw her crying.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Are you hurt?” said she, kindly. “Oh, how your cheek is swelled! What a rude,
+cross boy your brother is!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I did not know he was going to jump out. I am not crying because I am hurt,
+but because of this great rent in my nice new frock. Mamma will be so
+displeased.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Is it a new frock?” asked Erminia.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It is a new one for me. Nancy has sat up several nights to make it. Oh! what
+shall I do?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Erminia’s little heart was softened by such excessive poverty. A best frock
+made of shabby old silk! She put her arms round Maggie’s neck, and said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come with me; we will go to my aunt’s dressing-room, and Dawson will give me
+some silk, and I’ll help you to mend it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“That’s a kind little Minnie,” said Frank. Ned had turned sulkily away. I do
+not think the boys were ever cordial again that day; for, as Frank said to his
+mother, “Ned might have said he was sorry; but he is a regular tyrant to that
+little brown mouse of a sister of his.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Erminia and Maggie went, with their arms round each other’s necks, to Mrs.
+Buxton’s dressing-room. The misfortune had made them friends. Mrs. Buxton lay
+on the sofa; so fair and white and colorless, in her muslin dressing-gown, that
+when Maggie first saw the lady lying with her eyes shut, her heart gave a
+start, for she thought she was dead. But she opened her large languid eyes, and
+called them to her, and listened to their story with interest.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Dawson is at tea. Look, Minnie, in my work-box; there is some silk there. Take
+off your frock, my dear, and bring it here, and let me see how it can be
+mended.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Aunt Buxton,” whispered Erminia, “do let me give her one of my frocks. This is
+such an old thing.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No, love. I’ll tell you why afterwards,” answered Mrs. Buxton.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She looked at the rent, and arranged it nicely for the little girls to mend.
+Erminia helped Maggie with right good will. As they sat on the floor, Mrs.
+Buxton thought what a pretty contrast they made; Erminia, dazzlingly fair, with
+her golden ringlets, and her pale-blue frock; Maggie’s little round white
+shoulders peeping out of her petticoat; her brown hair as glossy and smooth as
+the nuts that it resembled in color; her long black eye-lashes drooping over
+her clear smooth cheek, which would have given the idea of delicacy, but for
+the coral lips that spoke of perfect health: and when she glanced up, she
+showed long, liquid, dark-gray eyes. The deep red of the curtain behind, threw
+out these two little figures well.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Dawson came up. She was a grave elderly person, of whom Erminia was far more
+afraid than she was of her aunt; but at Mrs. Buxton’s desire she finished
+mending the frock for Maggie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Mr. Buxton has asked some of your mamma’s old friends to tea, as I am not able
+to go down. But I think, Dawson, I must have these two little girls to tea with
+me. Can you be very quiet, my dears; or shall you think it dull?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They gladly accepted the invitation; and Erminia promised all sorts of fanciful
+promises as to quietness; and went about on her tiptoes in such a labored
+manner, that Mrs. Buxton begged her at last not to try and be quiet, as she
+made much less noise when she did not. It was the happiest part of the day to
+Maggie. Something in herself was so much in harmony with Mrs. Buxton’s sweet,
+resigned gentleness, that it answered like an echo, and the two understood each
+other strangely well. They seemed like old friends, Maggie, who was reserved at
+home because no one cared to hear what she had to say, opened out, and told
+Erminia and Mrs. Buxton all about her way of spending her day, and described
+her home.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“How odd!” said Erminia. “I have ridden that way on Abdel-Kadr, and never seen
+your house.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It is like the place the Sleeping Beauty lived in; people sometimes seem to go
+round it and round it, and never find it. But unless you follow a little
+sheep-track, which seems to end at a gray piece of rock, you may come within a
+stone’s throw of the chimneys and never see them. I think you would think it so
+pretty. Do you ever come that way, ma’am?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No, love,” answered Mrs. Buxton.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But will you some time?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I am afraid I shall never be able to go out again,” said Mrs. Buxton, in a
+voice which, though low, was very cheerful. Maggie thought how sad a lot was
+here before her; and by-and-by she took a little stool, and sat by Mrs.
+Buxton’s sofa, and stole her hand into hers.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. Browne was in full tide of pride and happiness down stairs. Mr. Buxton had
+a number of jokes; which would have become dull from repetition (for he worked
+a merry idea threadbare before he would let it go), had it not been for his
+jovial blandness and good-nature. He liked to make people happy, and, as far as
+bodily wants went, he had a quick perception of what was required. He sat like
+a king (for, excepting the rector, there was not another gentleman of his
+standing at Combehurst), among six or seven ladies, who laughed merrily at all
+his sayings, and evidently thought Mrs. Browne had been highly honored in
+having been asked to dinner as well as to tea. In the evening, the carriage was
+ordered to take her as far as a carriage could go; and there was a little
+mysterious handshaking between her host and herself on taking leave, which made
+her very curious for the lights of home by which to examine a bit of rustling
+paper that had been put in her hand with some stammered-out words about Edward.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When every one had gone, there was a little gathering in Mrs. Buxton’s
+dressing-room. Husband, son and niece, all came to give her their opinions on
+the day and the visitors.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Good Mrs. Browne is a little tiresome,” said Mr. Buxton, yawning. “Living in
+that moorland hole, I suppose. However, I think she has enjoyed her day; and
+we’ll ask her down now and then, for Browne’s sake. Poor Browne! What a good
+man he was!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t like that boy at all,” said Frank. “I beg you’ll not ask him again
+while I’m at home: he is so selfish and self-important; and yet he’s a bit
+snobbish now and then. Mother! I know what you mean by that look. Well! if I am
+self-important sometimes, I’m not a snob.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Little Maggie is very nice,” said Erminia. “What a pity she has not a new
+frock! Was not she good about it, Frank, when she tore it?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes, she’s a nice little thing enough, if she does not get all spirit cowed
+out of her by that brother. I’m thankful that he is going to school.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When Mrs. Browne heard where Maggie had drank tea, she was offended. She had
+only sat with Mrs. Buxton for an hour before dinner. If Mrs. Buxton could bear
+the noise of children, she could not think why she shut herself up in that
+room, and gave herself such airs. She supposed it was because she was the
+granddaughter of Sir Henry Biddulph that she took upon herself to have such
+whims, and not sit at the head of her table, or make tea for her company in a
+civil decent way. Poor Mr. Buxton! What a sad life for a merry, light-hearted
+man to have such a wife! It was a good thing for him to have agreeable society
+sometimes. She thought he looked a deal better for seeing his friends. He must
+be sadly moped with that sickly wife.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+(If she had been clairvoyante at that moment, she might have seen Mr. Buxton
+tenderly chafing his wife’s hands, and feeling in his innermost soul a wonder
+how one so saint-like could ever have learnt to love such a boor as he was; it
+was the wonderful mysterious blessing of his life. So little do we know of the
+inner truths of the households, where we come and go like intimate guests!)
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie could not bear to hear Mrs. Buxton spoken of as a fine lady assuming
+illness. Her heart beat hard as she spoke. “Mamma! I am sure she is really ill.
+Her lips kept going so white; and her hand was so burning hot all the time that
+I held it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Have you been holding Mrs. Buxton’s hand? Where were your manners? You are a
+little forward creature, and ever were. But don’t pretend to know better than
+your elders. It is no use telling me Mrs. Buxton is ill, and she able to bear
+the noise of children.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I think they are all a pack of set-up people, and that Frank Buxton is the
+worst of all,” said Edward.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie’s heart sank within her to hear this cold, unkind way of talking over
+the friends who had done so much to make their day happy. She had never before
+ventured into the world, and did not know how common and universal is the
+custom of picking to pieces those with whom we have just been associating; and
+so it pained her. She was a little depressed, too, with the idea that she
+should never see Mrs. Buxton and the lovely Erminia again. Because no future
+visit or intercourse had been spoken about, she fancied it would never take
+place; and she felt like the man in the Arabian Nights, who caught a glimpse of
+the precious stones and dazzling glories of the cavern, which was immediately
+after closed, and shut up into the semblance of hard, barren rock. She tried to
+recall the house. Deep blue, crimson red, warm brown draperies, were so
+striking after the light chintzes of her own house; and the effect of a suite
+of rooms opening out of each other was something quite new to the little girl;
+the apartments seemed to melt away into vague distance, like the dim endings of
+the arched aisles in church. But most of all she tried to recall Mrs. Buxton’s
+face; and Nancy had at last to put away her work, and come to bed, in order to
+soothe the poor child, who was crying at the thought that Mrs. Buxton would
+soon die, and that she should never see her again. Nancy loved Maggie dearly,
+and felt no jealousy of this warm admiration of the unknown lady. She listened
+to her story and her fears till the sobs were hushed; and the moon fell through
+the casement on the white closed eyelids of one, who still sighed in her sleep.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2>CHAPTER III.</h2>
+
+<p>
+In three weeks, the day came for Edward’s departure. A great cake and a parcel
+of gingerbread soothed his sorrows on leaving home.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t cry, Maggie!” said he to her on the last morning; “you see I don’t.
+Christmas will soon be here, and I dare say I shall find time to write to you
+now and then. Did Nancy put any citron in the cake?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie wished she might accompany her mother to Combehurst to see Edward off by
+the coach; but it was not to be. She went with them, without her bonnet, as far
+as her mother would allow her; and then she sat down, and watched their
+progress for a long, long way. She was startled by the sound of a horse’s feet,
+softly trampling through the long heather. It was Frank Buxton’s.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“My father thought Mrs. Browne would like to see the Woodchester Herald. Is
+Edward gone?” said he, noticing her sad face.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes! he is just gone down the hill to the coach. I dare say you can see him
+crossing the bridge, soon. I did so want to have gone with him,” answered she,
+looking wistfully toward the town.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Frank felt sorry for her, left alone to gaze after her brother, whom, strange
+as it was, she evidently regretted. After a minute’s silence, he said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You liked riding the other day. Would you like a ride now? Rhoda is very
+gentle, if you can sit on my saddle. Look! I’ll shorten the stirrup. There now;
+there’s a brave little girl! I’ll lead her very carefully. Why, Erminia durst
+not ride without a side-saddle! I’ll tell you what; I’ll bring the newspaper
+every Wednesday till I go to school, and you shall have a ride. Only I wish we
+had a side-saddle for Rhoda. Or, if Erminia will let me, I’ll bring Abdel-Kadr,
+the little Shetland you rode the other day.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But will Mr. Buxton let you?” asked Maggie, half delighted—half afraid.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, my father! to be sure he will. I have him in very good order.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie was rather puzzled by this way of speaking.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“When do you go to school?” asked she.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Toward the end of August; I don’t know the day.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Does Erminia go to school?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No. I believe she will soon though, if mamma does not get better.” Maggie
+liked the change of voice, as he spoke of his mother.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“There, little lady! now jump down. Famous! you’ve a deal of spirit, you little
+brown mouse.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Nancy came out, with a wondering look, to receive Maggie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It is Mr. Frank Buxton,” said she, by way of an introduction. “He has brought
+mamma the newspaper.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Will you walk in, sir, and rest? I can tie up your horse.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No, thank you,” said he, “I must be off. Don’t forget, little mousey, that you
+are to ready for another ride next Wednesday.” And away he went.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It needed a good deal of Nancy’s diplomacy to procure Maggie this pleasure;
+although I don’t know why Mrs. Browne should have denied it, for the circle
+they went was always within sight of the knoll in front of the house, if any
+one cared enough about the matter to mount it, and look after them. Frank and
+Maggie got great friends in these rides. Her fearlessness delighted and
+surprised him, she had seemed so cowed and timid at first. But she was only so
+with people, as he found out before holidays ended. He saw her shrink from
+particular looks and inflexions of voice of her mother’s; and learnt to read
+them, and dislike Mrs. Browne accordingly, notwithstanding all her sugary
+manner toward himself. The result of his observations he communicated to his
+mother, and in consequence, he was the bearer of a most civil and ceremonious
+message from Mrs. Buxton to Mrs. Browne, to the effect that the former would be
+much obliged to the latter if she would allow Maggie to ride down occasionally
+with the groom, who would bring the newspapers on the Wednesdays (now Frank was
+going to school), and to spend the afternoon with Erminia. Mrs. Browne
+consented, proud of the honor, and yet a little annoyed that no mention was
+made of herself. When Frank had bid good-bye, and fairly disappeared, she
+turned to Maggie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You must not set yourself up if you go among these fine folks. It is their way
+of showing attention to your father and myself. And you must mind and work
+doubly hard on Thursdays to make up for playing on Wednesdays.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie was in a flush of sudden color, and a happy palpitation of her
+fluttering little heart. She could hardly feel any sorrow that the kind Frank
+was going away, so brimful was she of the thoughts of seeing his mother; who
+had grown strangely associated in her dreams, both sleeping and waking, with
+the still calm marble effigies that lay for ever clasping their hands in prayer
+on the altar-tombs in Combehurst church. All the week was one happy season of
+anticipation. She was afraid her mother was secretly irritated at her natural
+rejoicing; and so she did not speak to her about it, but she kept awake till
+Nancy came to bed, and poured into her sympathizing ears every detail, real or
+imaginary, of her past or future intercourse with Mrs. Buxton, and the old
+servant listened with interest, and fell into the custom of picturing the
+future with the ease and simplicity of a child.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Suppose, Nancy! only suppose, you know, that she did die. I don’t mean really
+die, but go into a trance like death; she looked as if she was in one when I
+first saw her; I would not leave her, but I would sit by her, and watch her,
+and watch her.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Her lips would be always fresh and red,” interrupted Nancy.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes, I know you’ve told me before how they keep red—I should look at them
+quite steadily; I would try never to go to sleep.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“The great thing would be to have air-holes left in the coffin.” But Nancy felt
+the little girl creep close to her at the grim suggestion, and, with the tact
+of love, she changed the subject.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Or supposing we could hear of a doctor who could charm away illness. There
+were such in my young days; but I don’t think people are so knowledgeable now.
+Peggy Jackson, that lived near us when I was a girl, was cured of a waste by a
+charm.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What is a waste, Nancy?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It is just a pining away. Food does not nourish nor drink strengthen them, but
+they just fade off, and grow thinner and thinner, till their shadow looks gray
+instead of black at noonday; but he cured her in no time by a charm.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, if we could find him.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Lass, he’s dead, and she’s dead, too, long ago!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+While Maggie was in imagination going over moor and fell, into the hollows of
+the distant mysterious hills, where she imagined all strange beasts and weird
+people to haunt, she fell asleep.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Such were the fanciful thoughts which were engendered in the little girl’s mind
+by her secluded and solitary life. It was more solitary than ever, now that
+Edward was gone to school. The house missed his loud cheerful voice, and
+bursting presence. There seemed much less to be done, now that his numerous
+wants no longer called for ministration and attendance. Maggie did her task of
+work on her own gray rock; but as it was sooner finished, now that he was not
+there to interrupt and call her off, she used to stray up the Fell Lane at the
+back of the house; a little steep stony lane, more like stairs cut in the rock
+than what we, in the level land, call a lane: it reached on to the wide and
+open moor, and near its termination there was a knotted thorn-tree; the only
+tree for apparent miles. Here the sheep crouched under the storms, or stood and
+shaded themselves in the noontide heat. The ground was brown with their cleft
+round foot-marks; and tufts of wool were hung on the lower part of the stem,
+like votive offerings on some shrine. Here Maggie used to come and sit and
+dream in any scarce half-hour of leisure. Here she came to cry, when her little
+heart was overfull at her mother’s sharp fault-finding, or when bidden to keep
+out of the way, and not be troublesome. She used to look over the swelling
+expanse of moor, and the tears were dried up by the soft low-blowing wind which
+came sighing along it. She forgot her little home griefs to wonder why a
+brown-purple shadow always streaked one particular part in the fullest
+sunlight; why the cloud-shadows always seemed to be wafted with a sidelong
+motion; or she would imagine what lay beyond those old gray holy hills, which
+seemed to bear up the white clouds of Heaven on which the angels flew abroad.
+Or she would look straight up through the quivering air, as long as she could
+bear its white dazzling, to try and see God’s throne in that unfathomable and
+infinite depth of blue. She thought she should see it blaze forth sudden and
+glorious, if she were but full of faith. She always came down from the thorn,
+comforted, and meekly gentle.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But there was danger of the child becoming dreamy, and finding her pleasure in
+life in reverie, not in action, or endurance, or the holy rest which comes
+after both, and prepares for further striving or bearing. Mrs. Buxton’s
+kindness prevented this danger just in time. It was partly out of interest in
+Maggie, but also partly to give Erminia a companion, that she wished the former
+to come down to Combehurst.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When she was on these visits, she received no regular instruction; and yet all
+the knowledge, and most of the strength of her character, was derived from
+these occasional hours. It is true her mother had given her daily lessons in
+reading, writing, and arithmetic; but both teacher and taught felt these more
+as painful duties to be gone through, than understood them as means to an end.
+The “There! child; now that’s done with,” of relief, from Mrs. Browne, was
+heartily echoed in Maggie’s breast, as the dull routine was concluded.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. Buxton did not make a set labor of teaching; I suppose she felt that much
+was learned from her superintendence, but she never thought of doing or saying
+anything with a latent idea of its indirect effect upon the little girls, her
+companions. She was simply herself; she even confessed (where the confession
+was called for) to short-comings, to faults, and never denied the force of
+temptations, either of those which beset little children, or of those which
+occasionally assailed herself. Pure, simple, and truthful to the heart’s core,
+her life, in its uneventful hours and days, spoke many homilies. Maggie, who
+was grave, imaginative, and somewhat quaint, took pains in finding words to
+express the thoughts to which her solitary life had given rise, secure of Mrs.
+Buxton’s ready understanding and sympathy.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You are so like a cloud,” said she to Mrs. Buxton. “Up at the Thorn-tree, it
+was quite curious how the clouds used to shape themselves, just according as I
+was glad or sorry. I have seen the same clouds, that, when I came up first,
+looked like a heap of little snow-hillocks over babies’ graves, turn, as soon
+as I grew happier, to a sort of long bright row of angels. And you seem always
+to have had some sorrow when I am sad, and turn bright and hopeful as soon as I
+grow glad. Dear Mrs. Buxton! I wish Nancy knew you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The gay, volatile, willful, warm-hearted Erminia was less earnest in all
+things. Her childhood had been passed amid the distractions of wealth; and
+passionately bent upon the attainment of some object at one moment, the next
+found her angry at being reminded of the vanished anxiety she had shown but a
+moment before. Her life was a shattered mirror; every part dazzling and
+brilliant, but wanting the coherency and perfection of a whole. Mrs. Buxton
+strove to bring her to a sense of the beauty of completeness, and the relation
+which qualities and objects bear to each other; but in all her striving she
+retained hold of the golden clue of sympathy. She would enter into Erminia’s
+eagerness, if the object of it varied twenty times a day; but by-and-by, in her
+own mild, sweet, suggestive way, she would place all these objects in their
+right and fitting places, as they were worthy of desire. I do not know how it
+was, but all discords, and disordered fragments, seemed to fall into harmony
+and order before her presence.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She had no wish to make the two little girls into the same kind of pattern
+character. They were diverse as the lily and the rose. But she tried to give
+stability and earnestness to Erminia; while she aimed to direct Maggie’s
+imagination, so as to make it a great minister to high ends, instead of simply
+contributing to the vividness and duration of a reverie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She told her tales of saints and martyrs, and all holy heroines, who forgot
+themselves, and strove only to be “ministers of Him, to do His pleasure.” The
+tears glistened in the eyes of hearer and speaker, while she spoke in her low,
+faint voice, which was almost choked at times when she came to the noblest part
+of all.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But when she found that Maggie was in danger of becoming too little a dweller
+in the present, from the habit of anticipating the occasion for some great
+heroic action, she spoke of other heroines. She told her how, though the lives
+of these women of old were only known to us through some striking glorious
+deed, they yet must have built up the temple of their perfection by many
+noiseless stories; how, by small daily offerings laid on the altar, they must
+have obtained their beautiful strength for the crowning sacrifice. And then she
+would turn and speak of those whose names will never be blazoned on earth—some
+poor maid-servant, or hard-worked artisan, or weary governess—who have gone on
+through life quietly, with holy purposes in their hearts, to which they gave up
+pleasure and ease, in a soft, still, succession of resolute days. She quoted
+those lines of George Herbert’s:
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+“All may have,<br/>
+If they dare choose, a glorious life, or grave.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And Maggie’s mother was disappointed because Mrs. Buxton had never offered to
+teach her “to play on the piano,” which was to her the very head and front of a
+genteel education. Maggie, in all her time of yearning to become Joan of Arc,
+or some great heroine, was unconscious that she herself showed no little
+heroism, in bearing meekly what she did every day from her mother. It was hard
+to be questioned about Mrs. Buxton, and then to have her answers turned into
+subjects for contempt, and fault-finding with that sweet lady’s ways.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When Ned came home for the holidays, he had much to tell. His mother listened
+for hours to his tales; and proudly marked all that she could note of his
+progress in learning. His copy-books and writing-flourishes were a sight to
+behold; and his account-books contained towers and pyramids of figures.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ay, ay!” said Mr. Buxton, when they were shown to him; “this is grand! when I
+was a boy I could make a flying eagle with one stroke of my pen, but I never
+could do all this. And yet I thought myself a fine fellow, I warrant you. And
+these sums! why man! I must make you my agent. I need one, I’m sure; for though
+I get an accountant every two or three years to do up my books, they somehow
+have the knack of getting wrong again. Those quarries, Mrs. Browne, which every
+one says are so valuable, and for the stone out of which receive orders
+amounting to hundreds of pounds, what d’ye think was the profit I made last
+year, according to my books?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’m sure I don’t know, sir; something very great, I’ve no doubt.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Just seven-pence three farthings,” said he, bursting into a fit of merry
+laughter, such as another man would have kept for the announcement of enormous
+profits. “But I must manage things differently soon. Frank will want money when
+he goes to Oxford, and he shall have it. I’m but a rough sort of fellow, but
+Frank shall take his place as a gentleman. Aha, Miss Maggie! and where’s my
+gingerbread? There you go, creeping up to Mrs. Buxton on a Wednesday, and have
+never taught Cook how to make gingerbread yet. Well, Ned! and how are the
+classics going on? Fine fellow, that Virgil! Let me see, how does it begin?
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+‘Arma, virumque cano, Trojae qui primus ab oris.’
+</p>
+
+<p>
+That’s pretty well, I think, considering I’ve never opened him since I left
+school thirty years ago. To be sure, I spent six hours a day at it when I was
+there. Come now, I’ll puzzle you. Can you construe this?
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+“Infir dealis, inoak noneis; inmud eelis, inclay noneis.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“To be sure I can,” said Edward, with a little contempt in his tone. “Can you
+do this, sir?
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+“Apud in is almi des ire,<br/>
+Mimis tres i neve require,<br/>
+Alo veri findit a gestis,<br/>
+His miseri ne ver at restis.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But though Edward had made much progress, and gained three prizes, his moral
+training had been little attended to. He was more tyrannical than ever, both to
+his mother and Maggie. It was a drawn battle between him and Nancy, and they
+kept aloof from each other as much as possible. Maggie fell into her old humble
+way of submitting to his will, as long as it did not go against her conscience;
+but that, being daily enlightened by her habits of pious aspiring thought,
+would not allow her to be so utterly obedient as formerly. In addition to his
+imperiousness, he had learned to affix the idea of cleverness to various
+artifices and subterfuges which utterly revolted her by their meanness.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You are so set up, by being intimate with Erminia, that you won’t do a thing I
+tell you; you are as selfish and self-willed as”—he made a pause. Maggie was
+ready to cry.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I will do anything, Ned, that is right.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well! and I tell you this is right.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“How can it be?” said she, sadly, almost wishing to be convinced.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“How—why it is, and that’s enough for you. You must always have a reason for
+everything now. You are not half so nice as you were. Unless one chops logic
+with you, and convinces you by a long argument, you’ll do nothing. Be obedient,
+I tell you. That is what a woman has to be.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I could be obedient to some people, without knowing their reasons, even though
+they told me to do silly things,” said Maggie, half to herself.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I should like to know to whom,” said Edward, scornfully.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“To Don Quixote,” answered she, seriously; for, indeed, he was present in her
+mind just then, and his noble, tender, melancholy character had made a strong
+impression there.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Edward stared at her for a moment, and then burst into a loud fit of laughter.
+It had the good effect of restoring him to a better frame of mind. He had such
+an excellent joke against his sister, that he could not be angry with her. He
+called her Sancho Panza all the rest of the holidays, though she protested
+against it, saying she could not bear the Squire, and disliked being called by
+his name.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Frank and Edward seemed to have a mutual antipathy to each other, and the
+coldness between them was rather increased than diminished by all Mr. Buxton’s
+efforts to bring them together. “Come, Frank, my lad!” said he, “don’t be so
+stiff with Ned. His father was a dear friend of mine, and I’ve set my heart on
+seeing you friends. You’ll have it in your power to help him on in the world.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But Frank answered, “He is not quite honorable, sir. I can’t bear a boy who is
+not quite honorable. Boys brought up at those private schools are so full of
+tricks!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Nay, my lad, there thou’rt wrong. I was brought up at a private school, and no
+one can say I ever dirtied my hands with a trick in my life. Good old Mr.
+Thompson would have flogged the life out of a boy who did anything mean or
+underhand.”
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2>CHAPTER IV.</h2>
+
+<p>
+Summers and winters came and went, with little to mark them, except the growth
+of the trees, and the quiet progress of young creatures. Erminia was sent to
+school somewhere in France, to receive more regular instruction than she could
+have in the house with her invalid aunt. But she came home once a year, more
+lovely and elegant and dainty than ever; and Maggie thought, with truth, that
+ripening years were softening down her volatility, and that her aunt’s dewlike
+sayings had quietly sunk deep, and fertilized the soil. That aunt was fading
+away. Maggie’s devotion added materially to her happiness; and both she and
+Maggie never forgot that this devotion was to be in all things subservient to
+the duty which she owed to her mother.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“My love,” Mrs. Buxton had more than once said, “you must always recollect that
+your first duty is toward your mother. You know how glad I am to see you; but I
+shall always understand how it is, if you do not come. She may often want you
+when neither you nor I can anticipate it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. Browne had no great wish to keep Maggie at home, though she liked to
+grumble at her going. Still she felt that it was best, in every way, to keep on
+good terms with such valuable friends; and she appreciated, in some small
+degree, the advantage which her intimacy at the house was to Maggie. But yet
+she could not restrain a few complaints, nor withhold from her, on her return,
+a recapitulation of all the things which might have been done if she had only
+been at home, and the number of times that she had been wanted; but when she
+found that Maggie quietly gave up her next Wednesday’s visit as soon as she was
+made aware of any necessity for her presence at home, her mother left off
+grumbling, and took little or no notice of her absence.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When the time came for Edward to leave school, he announced that he had no
+intention of taking orders, but meant to become an attorney.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s such slow work,” said he to his mother. “One toils away for four or five
+years, and then one gets a curacy of seventy pounds a-year, and no end of work
+to do for the money. Now the work is not much harder in a lawyer’s office, and
+if one has one’s wits about one, there are hundreds and thousands a-year to be
+picked up with mighty little trouble.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. Browne was very sorry for this determination. She had a great desire to
+see her son a clergyman, like his father. She did not consider whether his
+character was fitted for so sacred an office; she rather thought that the
+profession itself, when once assumed, would purify the character; but, in fact,
+his fitness or unfitness for holy orders entered little into her mind. She had
+a respect for the profession, and his father had belonged to it.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I had rather see you a curate at seventy pounds a-year, than an attorney with
+seven hundred,” replied she. “And you know your father was always asked to dine
+everywhere—to places where I know they would not have asked Mr. Bish, of
+Woodchester, and he makes his thousand a-year. Besides, Mr. Buxton has the next
+presentation to Combehurst, and you would stand a good chance for your father’s
+sake. And in the mean time you should live here, if your curacy was any way
+near.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I dare say! Catch me burying myself here again. My dear mother, it’s a very
+respectable place for you and Maggie to live in, and I dare say you don’t find
+it dull; but the idea of my quietly sitting down here is something too absurd!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Papa did, and was very happy,” said Maggie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes! after he had been at Oxford,” replied Edward, a little nonplussed by this
+reference to one whose memory even the most selfish and thoughtless must have
+held in respect.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well! and you know you would have to go to Oxford first.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Maggie! I wish you would not interfere between my mother and me. I want to
+have it settled and done with, and that it will never be if you keep meddling.
+Now, mother, don’t you see how much better it will be for me to go into Mr.
+Bish’s office? Harry Bish has spoken to his father about it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. Browne sighed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What will Mr. Buxton say?” asked she, dolefully.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Say! Why don’t you see it was he who first put it into my head, by telling me
+that first Christmas holidays, that I should be his agent. That would be
+something, would it not? Harry Bish says he thinks a thousand a-year might be
+made of it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+His loud, decided, rapid talking overpowered Mrs. Browne; but she resigned
+herself to his wishes with more regrets than she had ever done before. It was
+not the first case in which fluent declamation has taken the place of argument.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Edward was articled to Mr. Bish, and thus gained his point. There was no one
+with power to resist his wishes, except his mother and Mr. Buxton. The former
+had long acknowledged her son’s will as her law; and the latter, though
+surprised and almost disappointed at a change of purpose which he had never
+anticipated in his plans for Edward’s benefit, gave his consent, and even
+advanced some of the money requisite for the premium.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie looked upon this change with mingled feelings. She had always from a
+child pictured Edward to herself as taking her father’s place. When she had
+thought of him as a man, it was as contemplative, grave, and gentle, as she
+remembered her father. With all a child’s deficiency of reasoning power, she
+had never considered how impossible it was that a selfish, vain, and impatient
+boy could become a meek, humble, and pious man, merely by adopting a profession
+in which such qualities are required. But now, at sixteen, she was beginning to
+understand all this. Not by any process of thought, but by something more like
+a correct feeling, she perceived that Edward would never be the true minister
+of Christ. So, more glad and thankful than sorry, though sorrow mingled with
+her sentiments, she learned the decision that he was to be an attorney.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Frank Buxton all this time was growing up into a young man. The hopes both of
+father and mother were bound up in him; and, according to the difference in
+their characters was the difference in their hopes. It seemed, indeed, probable
+that Mr. Buxton, who was singularly void of worldliness or ambition for
+himself, would become worldly and ambitious for his son. His hopes for Frank
+were all for honor and distinction here. Mrs. Buxton’s hopes were prayers. She
+was fading away, as light fades into darkness on a summer evening. No one
+seemed to remark the gradual progress; but she was fully conscious of it
+herself. The last time that Frank was at home from college before her death,
+she knew that she should never see him again; and when he gaily left the house,
+with a cheerfulness, which was partly assumed, she dragged herself with languid
+steps into a room at the front of the house, from which she could watch him
+down the long, straggling little street, that led to the inn from which the
+coach started. As he went along, he turned to look back at his home; and there
+he saw his mother’s white figure gazing after him. He could not see her wistful
+eyes, but he made her poor heart give a leap of joy by turning round and
+running back for one more kiss and one more blessing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When he next came home, it was at the sudden summons of her death.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+His father was as one distracted. He could not speak of the lost angel without
+sudden bursts of tears, and oftentimes of self-upbraiding, which disturbed the
+calm, still, holy ideas, which Frank liked to associate with her. He ceased
+speaking to him, therefore, about their mutual loss; and it was a certain kind
+of relief to both when he did so; but he longed for some one to whom he might
+talk of his mother, with the quiet reverence of intense and trustful affection.
+He thought of Maggie, of whom he had seen but little of late; for when he had
+been at Combehurst, she had felt that Mrs. Buxton required her presence less,
+and had remained more at home. Possibly Mrs. Buxton regretted this; but she
+never said anything. She, far-looking, as one who was near death, foresaw that,
+probably, if Maggie and her son met often in her sick-room, feelings might
+arise which would militate against her husband’s hopes and plans, and which,
+therefore, she ought not to allow to spring up. But she had been unable to
+refrain from expressing her gratitude to Maggie for many hours of tranquil
+happiness, and had unconsciously dropped many sentences which made Frank feel,
+that, in the little brown mouse of former years, he was likely to meet with one
+who could tell him much of the inner history of his mother in her last days,
+and to whom he could speak of her without calling out the passionate sorrow
+which was so little in unison with her memory.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Accordingly, one afternoon, late in the autumn, he rode up to Mrs. Browne’s.
+The air on the heights was so still that nothing seemed to stir. Now and then a
+yellow leaf came floating down from the trees, detached from no outward
+violence, but only because its life had reached its full limit and then ceased.
+Looking down on the distant sheltered woods, they were gorgeous in orange and
+crimson, but their splendor was felt to be the sign of the decaying and dying
+year. Even without an inward sorrow, there was a grand solemnity in the season
+which impressed the mind, and hushed it into tranquil thought. Frank rode
+slowly along, and quietly dismounted at the old horse-mount, beside which there
+was an iron bridle-ring fixed in the gray stone wall. He saw the casement of
+the parlor-window open, and Maggie’s head bent down over her work. She looked
+up as he entered the court, and his footsteps sounded on the flag-walk. She
+came round and opened the door. As she stood in the door-way, speaking, he was
+struck by her resemblance to some old painting. He had seen her young, calm
+face, shining out with great peacefulness, and the large, grave, thoughtful
+eyes, giving the character to the features which otherwise they might, from
+their very regularity, have wanted. Her brown dress had the exact tint which a
+painter would have admired. The slanting mellow sunlight fell upon her as she
+stood; and the vine-leaves, already frost-tinted, made a rich, warm border, as
+they hung over the old house-door.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Mamma is not well; she is gone to lie down. How are you? How is Mr. Buxton?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“We are both pretty well; quite well, in fact, as far as regards health. May I
+come in? I want to talk to you, Maggie!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She opened the little parlor-door, and they went in; but for a time they were
+both silent. They could not speak of her who was with them, present in their
+thoughts. Maggie shut the casement, and put a log of wood on the fire. She sat
+down with her back to the window; but as the flame sprang up, and blazed at the
+touch of the dry wood, Frank saw that her face was wet with quiet tears. Still
+her voice was even and gentle, as she answered his questions. She seemed to
+understand what were the very things he would care most to hear. She spoke of
+his mother’s last days; and without any word of praise (which, indeed, would
+have been impertinence), she showed such a just and true appreciation of her
+who was dead and gone, that he felt as if he could listen forever to the
+sweet-dropping words. They were balm to his sore heart. He had thought it
+possible that the suddenness of her death might have made her life incomplete,
+in that she might have departed without being able to express wishes and
+projects, which would now have the sacred force of commands. But he found that
+Maggie, though she had never intruded herself as such, had been the depository
+of many little thoughts and plans; or, if they were not expressed to her, she
+knew that Mr. Buxton or Dawson was aware of what they were, though, in their
+violence of early grief, they had forgotten to name them. The flickering
+brightness of the flame had died away; the gloom of evening had gathered into
+the room, through the open door of which the kitchen fire sent a ruddy glow,
+distinctly marked against carpet and wall. Frank still sat, with his head
+buried in his hands against the table, listening.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Tell me more,” he said, at every pause.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I think I have told you all now,” said Maggie, at last. “At least, it is all I
+recollect at present; but if I think of anything more, I will be sure and tell
+you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Thank you; do.” He was silent for some time.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Erminia is coming home at Christmas. She is not to go back to Paris again. She
+will live with us. I hope you and she will be great friends, Maggie.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh yes,” replied she. “I think we are already. At least we were last
+Christmas. You know it is a year since I have seen her.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes; she went to Switzerland with Mademoiselle Michel, instead of coming home
+the last time. Maggie, I must go, now. My father will be waiting dinner for
+me.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Dinner! I was going to ask if you would not stay to tea. I hear mamma stirring
+about in her room. And Nancy is getting things ready, I see. Let me go and tell
+mamma. She will not be pleased unless she sees you. She has been very sorry for
+you all,” added she, dropping her voice.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Before he could answer, she ran up stairs.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. Browne came down.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, Mr. Frank! Have you been sitting in the dark? Maggie, you ought to have
+rung for candles! Ah! Mr. Frank, you’ve had a sad loss since I saw you here—let
+me see—in the last week of September. But she was always a sad invalid; and no
+doubt your loss is her gain. Poor Mr. Buxton, too! How is he? When one thinks
+of him, and of her years of illness, it seems like a happy release.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She could have gone on for any length of time, but Frank could not bear this
+ruffling up of his soothed grief, and told her that his father was expecting
+him home to dinner.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ah! I am sure you must not disappoint him. He’ll want a little cheerful
+company more than ever now. You must not let him dwell on it, Mr. Frank, but
+turn his thoughts another way by always talking of other things. I am sure if I
+had some one to speak to me in a cheerful, pleasant way, when poor dear Mr.
+Browne died, I should never have fretted after him as I did; but the children
+were too young, and there was no one to come and divert me with any news. If
+I’d been living in Combehurst, I am sure I should not have let my grief get the
+better of me as I did. Could you get up a quiet rubber in the evenings, do you
+think?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But Frank had shaken hands and was gone. As he rode home he thought much of
+sorrow, and the different ways of bearing it. He decided that it was sent by
+God for some holy purpose, and to call out into existence some higher good; and
+he thought that if it were faithfully taken as His decree there would be no
+passionate, despairing resistance to it; nor yet, if it were trustfully
+acknowledged to have some wise end, should we dare to baulk it, and defraud it
+by putting it on one side, and, by seeking the distractions of worldly things,
+not let it do its full work. And then he returned to his conversation with
+Maggie. That had been real comfort to him. What an advantage it would be to
+Erminia to have such a girl for a friend and companion!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was rather strange that, having this thought, and having been struck, as I
+said, with Maggie’s appearance while she stood in the door-way (and I may add
+that this impression of her unobtrusive beauty had been deepened by several
+succeeding interviews), he should reply as he did to Erminia’s remark, on first
+seeing Maggie after her return from France.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“How lovely Maggie is growing! Why, I had no idea she would ever turn out
+pretty. Sweet-looking she always was; but now her style of beauty makes her
+positively distinguished. Frank! speak! is not she beautiful?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do you think so?” answered he, with a kind of lazy indifference, exceedingly
+gratifying to his father, who was listening with some eagerness to his answer.
+That day, after dinner, Mr. Buxton began to ask his opinion of Erminia’s
+appearance.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Frank answered at once:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“She is a dazzling little creature. Her complexion looks as if it were made of
+cherries and milk; and, it must be owned, the little lady has studied the art
+of dress to some purpose in Paris.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Buxton was nearer happiness at this reply than he had ever been since his
+wife’s death; for the only way he could devise to satisfy his reproachful
+conscience towards his neglected and unhappy sister, was to plan a marriage
+between his son and her child. He rubbed his hands and drank two extra glasses
+of wine.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“We’ll have the Brownes to dinner, as usual, next Thursday,” said he, “I am
+sure your mother would have been hurt if we had omitted it; it is now nine
+years since they began to come, and they have never missed one Christmas since.
+Do you see any objection, Frank?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“None at all, sir,” answered he. “I intend to go up to town soon after
+Christmas, for a week or ten days, on my way to Cambridge. Can I do anything
+for you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well, I don’t know. I think I shall go up myself some day soon. I can’t
+understand all these lawyer’s letters, about the purchase of the Newbridge
+estate; and I fancy I could make more sense out of it all, if I saw Mr.
+Hodgson.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I wish you would adopt my plan, of having an agent, sir. Your affairs are
+really so complicated now, that they would take up the time of an expert man of
+business. I am sure all those tenants at Dumford ought to be seen after.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I do see after them. There’s never a one that dares cheat me, or that would
+cheat me if they could. Most of them have lived under the Buxtons for
+generations. They know that if they dared to take advantage of me, I should
+come down upon them pretty smartly.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do you rely upon their attachment to your family—or on their idea of your
+severity?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“On both. They stand me instead of much trouble in account-keeping, and those
+eternal lawyers’ letters some people are always dispatching to their tenants.
+When I’m cheated, Frank, I give you leave to make me have an agent, but not
+till then. There’s my little Erminia singing away, and nobody to hear her.”
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2>CHAPTER V.</h2>
+
+<p>
+Christmas-Day was strange and sad. Mrs. Buxton had always contrived to be in
+the drawing-room, ready to receive them all after dinner. Mr. Buxton tried to
+do away with his thoughts of her by much talking; but every now and then he
+looked wistfully toward the door. Erminia exerted herself to be as lively as
+she could, in order, if possible, to fill up the vacuum. Edward, who had come
+over from Woodchester for a walk, had a good deal to say; and was,
+unconsciously, a great assistance with his never-ending flow of rather clever
+small-talk. His mother felt proud of her son, and his new waistcoat, which was
+far more conspicuously of the latest fashion than Frank’s could be said to be.
+After dinner, when Mr. Buxton and the two young men were left alone, Edward
+launched out still more. He thought he was impressing Frank with his knowledge
+of the world, and the world’s ways. But he was doing all in his power to repel
+one who had never been much attracted toward him. Worldly success was his
+standard of merit. The end seemed with him to justify the means; if a man
+prospered, it was not necessary to scrutinize his conduct too closely. The law
+was viewed in its lowest aspect; and yet with a certain cleverness, which
+preserved Edward from being intellectually contemptible. Frank had entertained
+some idea of studying for a barrister himself: not so much as a means of
+livelihood as to gain some idea of the code which makes and shows a nation’s
+conscience: but Edward’s details of the ways in which the letter so often
+baffles the spirit, made him recoil. With some anger against himself, for
+viewing the profession with disgust, because it was degraded by those who
+embraced it, instead of looking upon it as what might be ennobled and purified
+into a vast intelligence by high and pure-minded men, he got up abruptly and
+left the room.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The girls were sitting over the drawing-room fire, with unlighted candles on
+the table, talking, he felt, about his mother; but when he came in they rose,
+and changed their tone. Erminia went to the piano, and sang her newest and
+choicest French airs. Frank was gloomy and silent; but when she changed into
+more solemn music his mood was softened, Maggie’s simple and hearty admiration,
+untinged by the slightest shade of envy for Erminia’s accomplishments, charmed
+him. The one appeared to him the perfection of elegant art, the other of
+graceful nature. When he looked at Maggie, and thought of the moorland home
+from which she had never wandered, the mysteriously beautiful lines of
+Wordsworth seemed to become sun-clear to him.
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+“And she shall lean her ear<br/>
+In many a secret place<br/>
+Where rivulets dance their wayward round,<br/>
+And beauty born of murmuring sound<br/>
+Shall pass into her face.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Buxton, in the dining-room, was really getting to take an interest in
+Edward’s puzzling cases. They were like tricks at cards. A quick motion, and
+out of the unpromising heap, all confused together, presto! the right card
+turned up. Edward stated his case, so that there did not seem loophole for the
+desired verdict; but through some conjuration, it always came uppermost at
+last. He had a graphic way of relating things; and, as he did not spare
+epithets in his designation of the opposing party, Mr. Buxton took it upon
+trust that the defendant or the prosecutor (as it might happen) was a
+“pettifogging knave,” or a “miserly curmudgeon,” and rejoiced accordingly in
+the triumph over him gained by the ready wit of “our governor,” Mr. Bish. At
+last he became so deeply impressed with Edward’s knowledge of law, as to
+consult him about some cottage property he had in Woodchester.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I rather think there are twenty-one cottages, and they don’t bring me in four
+pounds a-year; and out of that I have to pay for collecting. Would there be any
+chance of selling them? They are in Doughty-street; a bad neighborhood, I
+fear.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Very bad,” was Edward’s prompt reply. “But if you are really anxious to effect
+a sale, I have no doubt I could find a purchaser in a short time.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I should be very much obliged to you,” said Mr. Buxton. “You would be doing me
+a kindness. If you meet with a purchaser, and can manage the affair, I would
+rather that you drew out the deeds for the transfer of the property. It would
+be the beginning of business for you; and I only hope I should bring you good
+luck.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Of course Edward could do this; and when they left the table, it was with a
+feeling on his side that he was a step nearer to the agency which he coveted;
+and with a happy consciousness on Mr. Buxton’s of having put a few pounds in
+the way of a deserving and remarkably clever young man.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Since Edward had left home, Maggie had gradually, but surely, been gaining in
+importance. Her judgment and her untiring unselfishness could not fail to make
+way. Her mother had some respect for, and great dependence on her; but still it
+was hardly affection that she felt for her; or if it was it was a dull and
+torpid kind of feeling, compared with the fond love and exulting pride which
+she took in Edward. When he came back for occasional holidays, his mother’s
+face was radiant with happiness, and her manner toward him was even more
+caressing than he approved of. When Maggie saw him repel the hand that fain
+would have stroked his hair as in childish days, a longing came into her heart
+for some of these uncared-for tokens of her mother’s love. Otherwise she meekly
+sank back into her old secondary place, content to have her judgment slighted
+and her wishes unasked as long as he stayed. At times she was now beginning to
+disapprove and regret some things in him; his flashiness of manner jarred
+against her taste; and a deeper, graver feeling was called out by his evident
+want of quick moral perception. “Smart and clever,” or “slow and dull,” took
+with him the place of “right and wrong.” Little as he thought it, he was
+himself narrow-minded and dull; slow and blind to perceive the beauty and
+eternal wisdom of simple goodness.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Erminia and Maggie became great friends. Erminia used to beg for Maggie, until
+she herself put a stop to the practice; as she saw her mother yielded more
+frequently than was convenient, for the honor of having her daughter a visitor
+at Mr. Buxton’s, about which she could talk to her few acquaintances who
+persevered in calling at the cottage. Then Erminia volunteered a visit of some
+days to Maggie, and Mrs. Browne’s pride was redoubled; but she made so many
+preparations, and so much fuss, and gave herself so much trouble, that she was
+positively ill during Erminia’s stay; and Maggie felt that she must
+henceforward deny herself the pleasure of having her friend for a guest, as her
+mother could not be persuaded from attempting to provide things in the same
+abundance and style as that to which Erminia was accustomed at home; whereas,
+as Nancy shrewdly observed, the young lady did not know if she was eating
+jelly, or porridge, or whether the plates were common delf or the best China,
+so long as she was with her dear Miss Maggie. Spring went, and summer came.
+Frank had gone to and fro between Cambridge and Combehurst, drawn by motives of
+which he felt the force, but into which he did not care to examine. Edward had
+sold the property of Mr. Buxton; and he, pleased with the possession of half
+the purchase money (the remainder of which was to be paid by installments), and
+happy in the idea that his son came over so frequently to see Erminia, had
+amply rewarded the young attorney for his services.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One summer’s day, as hot as day could be, Maggie had been busy all morning; for
+the weather was so sultry that she would not allow either Nancy or her mother
+to exert themselves much. She had gone down with the old brown pitcher, coeval
+with herself, to the spring for water; and while it was trickling, and making a
+tinkling music, she sat down on the ground. The air was so still that she heard
+the distant wood-pigeons cooing; and round about her the bees were murmuring
+busily among the clustering heath. From some little touch of sympathy with
+these low sounds of pleasant harmony, she began to try and hum some of
+Erminia’s airs. She never sang out loud, or put words to her songs; but her
+voice was very sweet, and it was a great pleasure to herself to let it go into
+music. Just as her jug was filled, she was startled by Frank’s sudden
+appearance. She thought he was at Cambridge, and, from some cause or other, her
+face, usually so faint in color, became the most vivid scarlet. They were both
+too conscious to speak. Maggie stooped (murmuring some words of surprise) to
+take up her pitcher.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t go yet, Maggie,” said he, putting his hand on hers to stop her; but,
+somehow, when that purpose was effected, he forgot to take it off again. “I
+have come all the way from Cambridge to see you. I could not bear suspense any
+longer. I grew so impatient for certainty of some kind, that I went up to town
+last night, in order to feel myself on my way to you, even though I knew I
+could not be here a bit earlier to-day for doing so. Maggie—dear Maggie! how
+you are trembling! Have I frightened you? Nancy told me you were here; but it
+was very thoughtless to come so suddenly upon you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was not the suddenness of his coming; it was the suddenness of her own
+heart, which leaped up with the feelings called out by his words. She went very
+white, and sat down on the ground as before. But she rose again immediately,
+and stood, with drooping, averted head. He had dropped her hand, but now sought
+to take it again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Maggie, darling, may I speak?” Her lips moved, he saw, but he could not hear.
+A pang of affright ran through him that, perhaps, she did not wish to listen.
+“May I speak to you?” he asked again, quite timidly. She tried to make her
+voice sound, but it would not; so she looked round. Her soft gray eyes were
+eloquent in that one glance. And, happier than his words, passionate and tender
+as they were, could tell, he spoke till her trembling was changed into bright
+flashing blushes, and even a shy smile hovered about her lips, and dimpled her
+cheeks.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The water bubbled over the pitcher unheeded. At last she remembered all the
+work-a-day world. She lifted up the jug, and would have hurried home, but Frank
+decidedly took it from her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Henceforward,” said he, “I have a right to carry your burdens.” So with one
+arm round her waist and with the other carrying the water, they climbed the
+steep turfy slope. Near the top she wanted to take it again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Mamma will not like it. Mamma will think it so strange.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why, dearest, if I saw Nancy carrying it up this slope I would take it from
+her. It would be strange if a man did not carry it for any woman. But you must
+let me tell your mother of my right to help you. It is your dinner-time is it
+not? I may come in to dinner as one of the family may not I Maggie?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No” she said softly. For she longed to be alone; and she dreaded being
+overwhelmed by the expression of her mother’s feelings, weak and agitated as
+she felt herself. “Not to-day.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Not to-day!” said he reproachfully. “You are very hard upon me. Let me come to
+tea. If you will, I will leave you now. Let me come to early tea. I must speak
+to my father. He does not know I am here. I may come to tea. At what time is
+it? Three o’clock. Oh, I know you drink tea at some strange early hour; perhaps
+it is at two. I will take care to be in time.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t come till five, please. I must tell mamma; and I want some time to
+think. It does seem so like a dream. Do go, please.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well! if I must, I must. But I don’t feel as if I were in a dream, but in some
+real blessed heaven so long as I see you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At last he went. Nancy was awaiting Maggie, the side-gate.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Bless us and save us, bairn! what a time it has taken thee to get the water.
+Is the spring dry with the hot weather?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie ran past her. All dinner-time she heard her mother’s voice in
+long-continued lamentation about something. She answered at random, and
+startled her mother by asserting that she thought “it” was very good; the said
+“it” being milk turned sour by thunder. Mrs. Browne spoke quite sharply, “No
+one is so particular as you, Maggie. I have known you drink water, day after
+day, for breakfast, when you were a little girl, because your cup of milk had a
+drowned fly in it; and now you tell me you don’t care for this, and don’t mind
+that, just as if you could eat up all the things which are spoiled by the heat.
+I declare my head aches so, I shall go and lie down as soon as ever dinner is
+over.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+If this was her plan, Maggie thought she had no time to lose in making her
+confession. Frank would be here before her mother got up again to tea. But she
+dreaded speaking about her happiness; it seemed as yet so cobweb-like, as if a
+touch would spoil its beauty.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Mamma, just wait a minute. Just sit down in your chair while I tell you
+something. Please, dear mamma.” She took a stool, and sat at her mother’s feet;
+and then she began to turn the wedding-ring on Mrs. Browne’s hand, looking down
+and never speaking, till the latter became impatient.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What is it you have got to say, child? Do make haste, for I want to go
+up-stairs.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+With a great jerk of resolution, Maggie said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Mamma, Frank Buxton has asked me to marry him.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She hid her face in her mother’s lap for an instant; and then she lifted it up,
+as brimful of the light of happiness as is the cup of a water-lily of the sun’s
+radiance.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Maggie—you don’t say so,” said her mother, half incredulously. “It can’t be,
+for he’s at Cambridge, and it’s not post-day. What do you mean?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He came this morning, mother, when I was down at the well; and we fixed that I
+was to speak to you; and he asked if he might come again for tea.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Dear! dear! and the milk all gone sour? We should have had milk of our own, if
+Edward had not persuaded me against buying another cow.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t think Mr. Buxton will mind it much,” said Maggie, dimpling up, as she
+remembered, half unconsciously, how little he had seemed to care for anything
+but herself.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why, what a thing it is for you!” said Mrs. Browne, quite roused up from her
+languor and her head-ache. “Everybody said he was engaged to Miss Erminia. Are
+you quite sure you made no mistake, child? What did he say? Young men are so
+fond of making fine speeches; and young women are so silly in fancying they
+mean something. I once knew a girl who thought that a gentleman who sent her
+mother a present of a sucking-pig, did it as a delicate way of making her an
+offer. Tell me his exact words.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But Maggie blushed, and either would not or could not. So Mrs. Browne began
+again:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well, if you’re sure, you’re sure. I wonder how he brought his father round.
+So long as he and Erminia have been planned for each other! That very first day
+we ever dined there after your father’s death, Mr. Buxton as good as told me
+all about it. I fancied they were only waiting till they were out of mourning.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+All this was news to Maggie. She had never thought that either Erminia or Frank
+was particularly fond of the other; still less had she had any idea of Mr.
+Buxton’s plans for them. Her mother’s surprise at her engagement jarred a
+little upon her too: it had become so natural, even in these last two hours, to
+feel that she belonged to _him_. But there were more discords to come. Mrs.
+Browne began again, half in soliloquy:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I should think he would have four thousand a-year. He did not tell you, love,
+did he, if they had still that bad property in the canal, that his father
+complained about? But he will have four thousand. Why, you’ll have your
+carriage, Maggie. Well! I hope Mr. Buxton has taken it kindly, because he’ll
+have a deal to do with the settlements. I’m sure I thought he was engaged to
+Erminia.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Ringing changes on these subjects all the afternoon, Mrs. Browne sat with
+Maggie. She occasionally wandered off to speak about Edward, and how favorably
+his future prospects would be advanced by the engagement.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Let me see—there’s the house in Combehurst: the rent of that would be a
+hundred and fifty a-year, but we’ll not reckon that. But there’s the quarries”
+(she was reckoning upon her fingers in default of a slate, for which she had
+vainly searched), “we’ll call them two hundred a-year, for I don’t believe Mr.
+Buxton’s stories about their only bringing him in seven-pence; and there’s
+Newbridge, that’s certainly thirteen hundred—where had I got to, Maggie?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Dear mamma, do go and lie down for a little; you look quite flushed,” said
+Maggie, softly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Was this the manner to view her betrothal with such a man as Frank? Her
+mother’s remarks depressed her more than she could have thought it possible;
+the excitement of the morning was having its reaction, and she longed to go up
+to the solitude under the thorn-tree, where she had hoped to spend a quiet,
+thoughtful afternoon.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Nancy came in to replace glasses and spoons in the cupboard. By some accident,
+the careful old servant broke one of the former. She looked up quickly at her
+mistress, who usually visited all such offences with no small portion of
+rebuke.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Never mind, Nancy,” said Mrs. Browne. “It’s only an old tumbler; and Maggie’s
+going to be married, and we must buy a new set for the wedding-dinner.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Nancy looked at both, bewildered; at last a light dawned into her mind, and her
+face looked shrewdly and knowingly back at Mrs. Browne. Then she said, very
+quietly:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I think I’ll take the next pitcher to the well myself, and try my luck. To
+think how sorry I was for Miss Maggie this morning! ‘Poor thing,’ says I to
+myself, ‘to be kept all this time at that confounded well’ (for I’ll not deny
+that I swear a bit to myself at times—it sweetens the blood), ‘and she so
+tired.’ I e’en thought I’d go help her; but I reckon she’d some other help. May
+I take a guess at the young man?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Four thousand a-year! Nancy;” said Mrs. Browne, exultingly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And a blithe look, and a warm, kind heart—and a free step—and a noble way with
+him to rich and poor—aye, aye, I know the name. No need to alter all my neat
+M.B.’s, done in turkey-red cotton. Well, well! every one’s turn comes sometime,
+but mine’s rather long a-coming.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The faithful old servant came up to Maggie, and put her hand caressingly on her
+shoulder. Maggie threw her arms round her neck, and kissed the brown, withered
+face.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“God bless thee, bairn,” said Nancy, solemnly. It brought the low music of
+peace back into the still recesses of Maggie’s heart. She began to look out for
+her lover; half-hidden behind the muslin window curtain, which waved gently to
+and fro in the afternoon breezes. She heard a firm, buoyant step, and had only
+time to catch one glimpse of his face, before moving away. But that one glance
+made her think that the hours which had elapsed since she saw him had not been
+serene to him any more than to her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When he entered the parlor, his face was glad and bright. He went up in a
+frank, rejoicing way to Mrs. Browne; who was evidently rather puzzled how to
+receive him—whether as Maggie’s betrothed, or as the son of the greatest man of
+her acquaintance.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I am sure, sir,” said she, “we are all very much obliged to you for the honor
+you have done our family!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He looked rather perplexed as to the nature of the honor which he had conferred
+without knowing it; but as the light dawned upon him, he made answer in a
+frank, merry way, which was yet full of respect for his future mother-in-law:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And I am sure I am truly grateful for the honor one of your family has done
+me.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When Nancy brought in tea she was dressed in her fine-weather Sunday gown; the
+first time it had ever been worn out of church, and the walk to and fro.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After tea, Frank asked Maggie if she would walk out with him; and accordingly
+they climbed the Fell-Lane and went out upon the moors, which seemed vast and
+boundless as their love.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Have you told your father?” asked Maggie; a dim anxiety lurking in her heart.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes,” said Frank. He did not go on; and she feared to ask, although she longed
+to know, how Mr. Buxton had received the intelligence.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What did he say?” at length she inquired.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh! it was evidently a new idea to him that I was attached to you; and he does
+not take up a new idea speedily. He has had some notion, it seems, that Erminia
+and I were to make a match of it; but she and I agreed, when we talked it over,
+that we should never have fallen in love with each other if there had not been
+another human being in the world. Erminia is a little sensible creature, and
+says she does not wonder at any man falling in love with you. Nay, Maggie,
+don’t hang your head so down; let me have a glimpse of your face.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I am sorry your father does not like it,” said Maggie, sorrowfully.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“So am I. But we must give him time to get reconciled. Never fear but he will
+like it in the long run; he has too much good taste and good feeling. He must
+like you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Frank did not choose to tell even Maggie how violently his father had set
+himself against their engagement. He was surprised and annoyed at first to find
+how decidedly his father was possessed with the idea that he was to marry his
+cousin, and that she, at any rate, was attached to him, whatever his feelings
+might be toward her; but after he had gone frankly to Erminia and told her all,
+he found that she was as ignorant of her uncle’s plans for her as he had been;
+and almost as glad at any event which should frustrate them.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Indeed she came to the moorland cottage on the following day, after Frank had
+returned to Cambridge. She had left her horse in charge of the groom, near the
+fir-trees on the heights, and came running down the slope in her habit. Maggie
+went out to meet her, with just a little wonder at her heart if what Frank had
+said could possibly be true; and that Erminia, living in the house with him,
+could have remained indifferent to him. Erminia threw her arms round her neck,
+and they sat down together on the court-steps.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I durst not ride down that hill; and Jem is holding my horse, so I may not
+stay very long; now begin, Maggie, at once, and go into a rhapsody about Frank.
+Is not he a charming fellow? Oh! I am so glad. Now don’t sit smiling and
+blushing there to yourself; but tell me a great deal about it. I have so wanted
+to know somebody that was in love, that I might hear what it was like; and the
+minute I could, I came off here. Frank is only just gone. He has had another
+long talk with my uncle, since he came back from you this morning; but I am
+afraid he has not made much way yet.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie sighed. “I don’t wonder at his not thinking me good enough for Frank.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No! the difficulty would be to find any one he did think fit for his paragon
+of a son.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He thought you were, dearest Erminia.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“So Frank has told you that, has he? I suppose we shall have no more family
+secrets now,” said Erminia, laughing. “But I can assure you I had a strong
+rival in lady Adela Castlemayne, the Duke of Wight’s daughter; she was the most
+beautiful lady my uncle had ever seen (he only saw her in the Grand Stand at
+Woodchester races, and never spoke a word to her in his life). And if she would
+have had Frank, my uncle would still have been dissatisfied as long as the
+Princess Victoria was unmarried; none would have been good enough while a
+better remained. But Maggie,” said she, smiling up into her friend’s face, “I
+think it would have made you laugh, for all you look as if a kiss would shake
+the tears out of your eyes, if you could have seen my uncle’s manner to me all
+day. He will have it that I am suffering from an unrequited attachment; so he
+watched me and watched me over breakfast; and at last, when I had eaten a whole
+nest-full of eggs, and I don’t know how many pieces of toast, he rang the bell
+and asked for some potted charr. I was quite unconscious that it was for me,
+and I did not want it when it came; so he sighed in a most melancholy manner,
+and said, ‘My poor Erminia!’ If Frank had not been there, and looking
+dreadfully miserable, I am sure I should have laughed out.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Did Frank look miserable?” said Maggie, anxiously.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“There now! you don’t care for anything but the mention of his name.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But did he look unhappy?” persisted Maggie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I can’t say he looked happy, dear Mousey; but it was quite different when he
+came back from seeing you. You know you always had the art of stilling any
+person’s trouble. You and my aunt Buxton are the only two I ever knew with that
+gift.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I am so sorry he has any trouble to be stilled,” said Maggie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And I think it will do him a world of good. Think how successful his life has
+been! the honors he got at Eton! his picture taken, and I don’t know what! and
+at Cambridge just the same way of going on. He would be insufferably imperious
+in a few years, if he did not meet with a few crosses.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Imperious!—oh Erminia, how can you say so?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Because it’s the truth. He happens to have very good dispositions; and
+therefore his strong will is not either disagreeable, or offensive; but once
+let him become possessed by a wrong wish, and you would then see how vehement
+and imperious he would be. Depend upon it, my uncle’s resistance is a capital
+thing for him. As dear sweet Aunt Buxton would have said, ‘There is a holy
+purpose in it;’ and as Aunt Buxton would not have said, but as I, a ‘fool, rush
+in where angels fear to tread,’ I decide that the purpose is to teach Master
+Frank patience and submission.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Erminia—how could you help”—and there Maggie stopped.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I know what you mean; how could I help falling in love with him? I think he
+has not mystery and reserve enough for me. I should like a man with some deep,
+impenetrable darkness around him; something one could always keep wondering
+about. Besides, think what clashing of wills there would have been! My uncle
+was very short-sighted in his plan; but I don’t think he thought so much about
+the fitness of our characters and ways, as the fitness of our fortunes!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“For shame, Erminia! No one cares less for money than Mr. Buxton!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“There’s a good little daughter-in-law elect! But seriously, I do think he is
+beginning to care for money; not in the least for himself, but as a means of
+aggrandizement for Frank. I have observed, since I came home at Christmas, a
+growing anxiety to make the most of his property; a thing he never cared about
+before. I don’t think he is aware of it himself, but from one or two little
+things I have noticed, I should not wonder if he ends in being avaricious in
+his old age.” Erminia sighed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie had almost a sympathy with the father, who sought what he imagined to be
+for the good of his son, and that son, Frank. Although she was as convinced as
+Erminia, that money could not really help any one to happiness, she could not
+at the instant resist saying:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh! how I wish I had a fortune! I should so like to give it all to him.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Now Maggie! don’t be silly! I never heard you wish for anything different from
+what _was_ before, so I shall take this opportunity of lecturing you on your
+folly. No! I won’t either, for you look sadly tired with all your agitation;
+and besides I must go, or Jem will be wondering what has become of me. Dearest
+cousin-in-law, I shall come very often to see you; and perhaps I shall give you
+my lecture yet.”
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2>CHAPTER VI.</h2>
+
+<p>
+It was true of Mr. Buxton, as well as of his son, that he had the seeds of
+imperiousness in him. His life had not been such as to call them out into view.
+With more wealth than he required; with a gentle wife, who if she ruled him
+never showed it, or was conscious of the fact herself; looked up to by his
+neighbors, a simple affectionate set of people, whose fathers had lived near
+his father and grandfather in the same kindly relation, receiving benefits
+cordially given, and requiting them with good will and respectful attention:
+such had been the circumstances surrounding him; and until his son grew out of
+childhood, there had not seemed a wish which he had it not in his power to
+gratify as soon as formed. Again, when Frank was at school and at college, all
+went on prosperously; he gained honors enough to satisfy a far more ambitious
+father. Indeed, it was the honors he gained that stimulated his father’s
+ambition. He received letters from tutors, and headmasters, prophesying that,
+if Frank chose, he might rise to the “highest honors in church or state;” and
+the idea thus suggested, vague as it was, remained, and filled Mr. Buxton’s
+mind; and, for the first time in his life, made him wish that his own career
+had been such as would have led him to form connections among the great and
+powerful. But, as it was, his shyness and _gêne_, from being unaccustomed to
+society, had made him averse to Frank’s occasional requests that he might bring
+such and such a school-fellow, or college-chum, home on a visit. Now he
+regretted this, on account of the want of those connections which might thus
+have been formed; and, in his visions, he turned to marriage as the best way of
+remedying this. Erminia was right in saying that her uncle had thought of Lady
+Adela Castlemayne for an instant; though how the little witch had found it out
+I cannot say, as the idea had been dismissed immediately from his mind.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He was wise enough to see its utter vanity, as long as his son remained
+undistinguished. But his hope was this. If Frank married Erminia, their united
+property (she being her father’s heiress) would justify him in standing for the
+shire; or if he could marry the daughter of some leading personage in the
+county, it might lead to the same step; and thus at once he would obtain a
+position in parliament, where his great talents would have scope and verge
+enough. Of these two visions, the favorite one (for his sister’s sake) was that
+of marriage with Erminia.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And, in the midst of all this, fell, like a bombshell, the intelligence of his
+engagement with Maggie Browne; a good sweet little girl enough, but without
+fortune or connection—without, as far as Mr. Buxton knew, the least power, or
+capability, or spirit, with which to help Frank on in his career to eminence in
+the land! He resolved to consider it as a boyish fancy, easily to be
+suppressed; and pooh-poohed it down, to Frank, accordingly. He remarked his
+son’s set lips, and quiet determined brow, although he never spoke in a more
+respectful tone, than while thus steadily opposing his father. If he had shown
+more violence of manner, he would have irritated him less; but, as it was, it
+was the most miserable interview that had ever taken place between the father
+and son.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Buxton tried to calm himself down with believing that Frank would change
+his mind, if he saw more of the world; but, somehow, he had a prophesying
+distrust of this idea internally. The worst was, there was no fault to be found
+with Maggie herself, although she might want the accomplishments he desired to
+see in his son’s wife. Her connections, too, were so perfectly respectable
+(though humble enough in comparison with Mr. Buxton’s soaring wishes), that
+there was nothing to be objected to on that score; her position was the great
+offence. In proportion to his want of any reason but this one, for disapproving
+of the engagement, was his annoyance under it. He assumed a reserve toward
+Frank; which was so unusual a restraint upon his open, genial disposition, that
+it seemed to make him irritable toward all others in contact with him,
+excepting Erminia. He found it difficult to behave rightly to Maggie. Like all
+habitually cordial persons, he went into the opposite extreme, when he wanted
+to show a little coolness. However angry he might be with the events of which
+she was the cause, she was too innocent and meek to justify him in being more
+than cool; but his awkwardness was so great, that many a man of the world has
+met his greatest enemy, each knowing the other’s hatred, with less freezing
+distance of manner than Mr. Buxton’s to Maggie. While she went simply on in her
+own path, loving him the more through all, for old kindness’ sake, and because
+he was Frank’s father, he shunned meeting her with such evident and painful
+anxiety, that at last she tried to spare him the encounter, and hurried out of
+church, or lingered behind all, in order to avoid the only chance they now had
+of being forced to speak; for she no longer went to the dear house in
+Combehurst, though Erminia came to see her more than ever.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. Browne was perplexed and annoyed beyond measure. She upbraided Mr. Buxton
+to every one but Maggie. To her she said—“Any one in their senses might have
+foreseen what had happened, and would have thought well about it, before they
+went and fell in love with a young man of such expectations as Mr. Frank
+Buxton.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In the middle of all this dismay, Edward came over from Woodchester for a day
+or two. He had been told of the engagement, in a letter from Maggie herself;
+but it was too sacred a subject for her to enlarge upon to him; and Mrs. Browne
+was no letter writer. So this was his first greeting to Maggie; after kissing
+her:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well, Sancho, you’ve done famously for yourself. As soon as I got your letter
+I said to Harry Bish—‘Still waters run deep; here’s my little sister Maggie, as
+quiet a creature as ever lived, has managed to catch young Buxton, who has five
+thousand a-year if he’s a penny.’ Don’t go so red, Maggie. Harry was sure to
+hear of it soon from some one, and I see no use in keeping it secret, for it
+gives consequence to us all.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Mr. Buxton is quite put out about it,” said Mrs. Brown, querulously; “and I’m
+sure he need not be, for he’s enough of money, if that’s what he wants; and
+Maggie’s father was a clergyman, and I’ve seen ‘yeoman,’ with my own eyes, on
+old Mr. Buxton’s (Mr. Lawrence’s father’s) carts; and a clergyman is above a
+yeoman any day. But if Maggie had had any thought for other people, she’d never
+have gone and engaged herself, when she might have been sure it would give
+offence. We are never asked down to dinner now. I’ve never broken bread there
+since last Christmas.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Whew!” said Edward to this. It was a disappointed whistle; but he soon cheered
+up. “I thought I could have lent a hand in screwing old Buxton up about the
+settlements; but I see it’s not come to that yet. Still I’ll go and see the old
+gentleman. I’m a bit of a favorite of his, and I doubt I can turn him round.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Pray, Edward, don’t go,” said Maggie. “Frank and I are content to wait; and
+I’m sure we would rather not have any one speak to Mr. Buxton, upon a subject
+which evidently gives him so much pain; please, Edward, don’t!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well, well. Only I must go about this property of his. Besides, I don’t mean
+to get into disgrace; so I shan’t seem to know anything about it, if it would
+make him angry. I want to keep on good terms, because of the agency. So,
+perhaps, I shall shake my head, and think it great presumption in you, Maggie,
+to have thought of becoming his daughter-in-law. If I can do you no good, I may
+as well do myself some.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I hope you won’t mention me at all,” she replied.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One comfort (and almost the only one arising from Edward’s visit) was, that she
+could now often be spared to go up to the thorn-tree, and calm down her
+anxiety, and bring all discords into peace, under the sweet influences of
+nature. Mrs. Buxton had tried to teach her the force of the lovely truth, that
+the “melodies of the everlasting chime” may abide in the hearts of those who
+ply their daily task in towns, and crowded populous places; and that solitude
+is not needed by the faithful for them to feel the immediate presence of God;
+nor utter stillness of human sound necessary, before they can hear the music of
+His angels’ footsteps; but, as yet, her soul was a young disciple; and she felt
+it easier to speak to Him, and come to Him for help, sitting lonely, with wild
+moors swelling and darkening around her, and not a creature in sight but the
+white specks of distant sheep, and the birds that shun the haunts of men,
+floating in the still mid-air.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She sometimes longed to go to Mr. Buxton and tell him how much she could
+sympathize with him, if his dislike to her engagement arose from thinking her
+unworthy of his son. Frank’s character seemed to her grand in its promise. With
+vehement impulses and natural gifts, craving worthy employment, his will sat
+supreme over all, like a young emperor calmly seated on his throne, whose fiery
+generals and wise counsellors stand alike ready to obey him. But if marriage
+were to be made by due measurement and balance of character, and if others,
+with their scales, were to be the judges, what would become of all the
+beautiful services rendered by the loyalty of true love? Where would be the
+raising up of the weak by the strong? or the patient endurance? or the gracious
+trust of her:
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+“Whose faith is fixt and cannot move;<br/>
+She darkly feels him great and wise,<br/>
+She dwells on him with faithful eyes,<br/>
+‘I cannot understand: I love.’”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Edward’s manners and conduct caused her more real anxiety than anything else.
+Indeed, no other thoughtfulness could be called anxiety compared to this. His
+faults, she could not but perceive, were strengthening with his strength, and
+growing with his growth. She could not help wondering whence he obtained the
+money to pay for his dress, which she thought was of a very expensive kind. She
+heard him also incidentally allude to “runs up to town,” of which, at the time,
+neither she nor her mother had been made aware. He seemed confused when she
+questioned him about these, although he tried to laugh it off; and asked her
+how she, a country girl, cooped up among one set of people, could have any idea
+of the life it was necessary for a man to lead who “had any hope of getting on
+in the world.” He must have acquaintances and connections, and see something of
+life, and make an appearance. She was silenced, but not satisfied. Nor was she
+at ease with regard to his health. He looked ill, and worn; and, when he was
+not rattling and laughing, his face fell into a shape of anxiety and
+uneasiness, which was new to her in it. He reminded her painfully of an old
+German engraving she had seen in Mrs. Buxton’s portfolio, called, “Pleasure
+digging a Grave;” Pleasure being represented by a ghastly figure of a young
+man, eagerly industrious over his dismal work.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A few days after he went away, Nancy came to her in her bed-room.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Miss Maggie,” said she, “may I just speak a word?” But when the permission was
+given, she hesitated.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s none of my business, to be sure,” said she at last: “only, you see, I’ve
+lived with your mother ever since she was married; and I care a deal for both
+you and Master Edward. And I think he drains Missus of her money; and it makes
+me not easy in my mind. You did not know of it, but he had his father’s old
+watch when he was over last time but one; I thought he was of an age to have a
+watch, and that it was all natural. But, I reckon he’s sold it, and got that
+gimcrack one instead. That’s perhaps natural too. Young folks like young
+fashions. But, this time, I think he has taken away your mother’s watch; at
+least, I’ve never seen it since he went. And this morning she spoke to me about
+my wages. I’m sure I’ve never asked for them, nor troubled her; but I’ll own
+it’s now near on to twelve months since she paid me; and she was as regular as
+clock-work till then. Now, Miss Maggie don’t look so sorry, or I shall wish I
+had never spoken. Poor Missus seemed sadly put about, and said something as I
+did not try to hear; for I was so vexed she should think I needed apologies,
+and them sort of things. I’d rather live with you without wages than have her
+look so shame-faced as she did this morning. I don’t want a bit for money, my
+dear; I’ve a deal in the Bank. But I’m afeard Master Edward is spending too
+much, and pinching Missus.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie was very sorry indeed. Her mother had never told her anything of all
+this, so it was evidently a painful subject to her; and Maggie determined
+(after lying awake half the night) that she would write to Edward, and
+remonstrate with him; and that in every personal and household expense, she
+would be, more than ever, rigidly economical.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The full, free, natural intercourse between her lover and herself, could not
+fail to be checked by Mr. Buxton’s aversion to the engagement. Frank came over
+for some time in the early autumn. He had left Cambridge, and intended to enter
+himself at the Temple as soon as the vacation was ended. He had not been very
+long at home before Maggie was made aware, partly through Erminia, who had no
+notion of discreet silence on any point, and partly by her own observation, of
+the increasing estrangement between father and son. Mr. Buxton was reserved
+with Frank for the first time in his life; and Frank was depressed and annoyed
+at his father’s obstinate repetition of the same sentence, in answer to all his
+arguments in favor of his engagement—arguments which were overwhelming to
+himself and which it required an effort of patience on his part to go over and
+recapitulate, so obvious was the conclusion; and then to have the same answer
+forever, the same words even:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Frank! it’s no use talking. I don’t approve of the engagement; and never
+shall.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He would snatch up his hat, and hurry off to Maggie to be soothed. His father
+knew where he was gone without being told; and was jealous of her influence
+over the son who had long been his first and paramount object in life.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He needed not have been jealous. However angry and indignant Frank was when he
+went up to the moorland cottage, Maggie almost persuaded him, before half an
+hour had elapsed, that his father was but unreasonable from his extreme
+affection. Still she saw that such frequent differences would weaken the bond
+between father and son; and, accordingly, she urged Frank to accept an
+invitation into Scotland.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You told me,” said she, “that Mr. Buxton will have it, it is but a boy’s
+attachment; and that when you have seen other people, you will change your
+mind; now do try how far you can stand the effects of absence.” She said it
+playfully, but he was in a humor to be vexed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What nonsense, Maggie! You don’t care for all this delay yourself; and you
+take up my father’s bad reasons as if you believed them.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t believe them; but still they may be true.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“How should you like it, Maggie, if I urged you to go about and see something
+of society, and try if you could not find some one you liked better? It is more
+probable in your case than in mine; for you have never been from home, and I
+have been half over Europe.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You are very much afraid, are not you, Frank?” said she, her face bright with
+blushes, and her gray eyes smiling up at him. “I have a great idea that if I
+could see that Harry Bish that Edward is always talking about, I should be
+charmed. He must wear such beautiful waistcoats! Don’t you think I had better
+see him before our engagement is quite, quite final?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But Frank would not smile. In fact, like all angry persons, he found fresh
+matter for offence in every sentence. She did not consider the engagement as
+quite final: thus he chose to understand her playful speech. He would not
+answer. She spoke again:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Dear Frank, you are not angry with me, are you? It is nonsense to think that
+we are to go about the world, picking and choosing men and women as if they
+were fruit and we were to gather the best; as if there was not something in our
+own hearts which, if we listen to it conscientiously, will tell us at once when
+we have met the one of all others. There now, am I sensible? I suppose I am,
+for your grim features are relaxing into a smile. That’s right. But now listen
+to this. I think your father would come round sooner, if he were not irritated
+every day by the knowledge of your visits to me. If you went away, he would
+know that we should write to each other yet he would forget the exact time
+when; but now he knows as well as I do where you are when you are up here; and
+I fancy, from what Erminia says, it makes him angry the whole time you are
+away.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Frank was silent. At last he said: “It is rather provoking to be obliged to
+acknowledge that there is some truth in what you say. But even if I would, I am
+not sure that I could go. My father does not speak to me about his affairs, as
+he used to do; so I was rather surprised yesterday to hear him say to Erminia
+(though I’m sure he meant the information for me), that he had engaged an
+agent.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Then there will be the less occasion for you to be at home. He won’t want your
+help in his accounts.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’ve given him little enough of that. I have long wanted him to have somebody
+to look after his affairs. They are very complicated and he is very careless.
+But I believe my signature will be wanted for some new leases; at least he told
+me so.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“That need not take you long,” said Maggie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Not the mere signing. But I want to know something more about the property,
+and the proposed tenants. I believe this Mr. Henry that my father has engaged,
+is a very hard sort of man. He is what is called scrupulously honest and
+honorable; but I fear a little too much inclined to drive hard bargains for his
+client. Now I want to be convinced to the contrary, if I can, before I leave my
+father in his hands. So you cruel judge, you won’t transport me yet, will you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No” said Maggie, overjoyed at her own decision, and blushing her delight that
+her reason was convinced it was right for Frank to stay a little longer.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The next day’s post brought her a letter from Edward. There was not a word in
+it about her inquiry or remonstrance; it might never have been written, or
+never received; but a few hurried anxious lines, asking her to write by return
+of post, and say if it was really true that Mr. Buxton had engaged an agent.
+“It’s a confounded shabby trick if he has, after what he said to me long ago. I
+cannot tell you how much I depend on your complying with my request. Once more,
+_write directly_. If Nancy cannot take the letter to the post, run down to
+Combehurst with it yourself. I must have an answer to-morrow, and every
+particular as to who—when to be appointed, &amp;c. But I can’t believe the
+report to be true.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie asked Frank if she might name what he had told her the day before to her
+brother. He said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, yes, certainly, if he cares to know. Of course, you will not say anything
+about my own opinion of Mr. Henry. He is coming to-morrow, and I shall be able
+to judge how far I am right.”
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2>CHAPTER VII.</h2>
+
+<p>
+The next day Mr. Henry came. He was a quiet, stern-looking man, of considerable
+intelligence and refinement, and so much taste for music as to charm Erminia,
+who had rather dreaded his visit. But all the amenities of life were put aside
+when he entered Mr. Buxton’s sanctum—his “office,” as he called the room where
+he received his tenants and business people. Frank thought Mr. Henry was scarce
+commonly civil in the open evidence of his surprise and contempt for the
+habits, of which the disorderly books and ledgers were but too visible signs.
+Mr. Buxton himself felt more like a school-boy, bringing up an imperfect
+lesson, than he had ever done since he was thirteen.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“The only wonder, my good sir, is that you have any property left; that you
+have not been cheated out of every farthing.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’ll answer for it,” said Mr. Buxton, in reply, “that you’ll not find any
+cheating has been going on. They dared not, sir; they know I should make an
+example of the first rogue I found out.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Henry lifted up his eyebrows, but did not speak.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Besides, sir, most of these men have lived for generations under the Buxtons.
+I’d give you my life, they would not cheat me.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Henry coldly said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I imagine a close examination of these books by some accountant will be the
+best proof of the honesty of these said tenants. If you will allow me, I will
+write to a clever fellow I know, and desire him to come down and try and
+regulate this mass of papers.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Anything—anything you like,” said Mr. Buxton, only too glad to escape from the
+lawyer’s cold, contemptuous way of treating the subject.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The accountant came; and he and Mr. Henry were deeply engaged in the office for
+several days. Mr. Buxton was bewildered by the questions they asked him. Mr.
+Henry examined him in the worrying way in which an unwilling witness is made to
+give evidence. Many a time and oft did he heartily wish he had gone on in the
+old course to the end of his life, instead of putting himself into an agent’s
+hands; but he comforted himself by thinking that, at any rate, they would be
+convinced he had never allowed himself to be cheated or imposed upon, although
+he did not make any parade of exactitude.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+What was his dismay when, one morning, Mr. Henry sent to request his presence,
+and, with a cold, clear voice, read aloud an admirably drawn up statement,
+informing the poor landlord of the defalcations, nay more, the impositions of
+those whom he had trusted. If he had been alone, he would have burst into
+tears, to find how his confidence had been abused. But as it was, he became
+passionately angry.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’ll prosecute them, sir. Not a man shall escape. I’ll make them pay back
+every farthing, I will. And damages, too. Crayston, did you say, sir? Was that
+one of the names? Why, that is the very Crayston who was bailiff under my
+father for years. The scoundrel! And I set him up in my best farm when he
+married. And he’s been swindling me, has he?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Henry ran over the items of the account—“421_l_, 13_s_. 4-3/4_d_. Part of
+this I fear we cannot recover”——
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He was going on, but Mr. Buxton broke in: “But I will recover it. I’ll have
+every farthing of it. I’ll go to law with the viper. I don’t care for money,
+but I hate ingratitude.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If you like, I will take counsel’s opinion on the case,” said Mr. Henry,
+coolly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Take anything you please, sir. Why this Crayston was the first man that set me
+on a horse—and to think of his cheating me!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A few days after this conversation, Frank came on his usual visit to Maggie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Can you come up to the thorn-tree, dearest?” said he. “It is a lovely day, and
+I want the solace of a quiet hour’s talk with you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+So they went, and sat in silence some time, looking at the calm and still blue
+air about the summits of the hills, where never tumult of the world came to
+disturb the peace, and the quiet of whose heights was never broken by the loud
+passionate cries of men.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I am glad you like my thorn-tree,” said Maggie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I like the view from it. The thought of the solitude which must be among the
+hollows of those hills pleases me particularly to-day. Oh, Maggie! it is one of
+the times when I get depressed about men and the world. We have had such
+sorrow, and such revelations, and remorse, and passion at home to-day. Crayston
+(my father’s old tenant) has come over. It seems—I am afraid there is no doubt
+of it—he has been peculating to a large amount. My father has been too
+careless, and has placed his dependents in great temptation; and Crayston—he is
+an old man, with a large extravagant family—has yielded. He has been served
+with notice of my father’s intention to prosecute him; and came over to confess
+all, and ask for forgiveness, and time to pay back what he could. A month ago,
+my father would have listened to him, I think; but now, he is stung by Mr.
+Henry’s sayings, and gave way to a furious passion. It has been a most
+distressing morning. The worst side of everybody seems to have come out. Even
+Crayston, with all his penitence and appearance of candor, had to be questioned
+closely by Mr. Henry before he would tell the whole truth. Good God! that money
+should have such power to corrupt men. It was all for money, and money’s worth,
+that this degradation has taken place. As for Mr. Henry, to save his client
+money, and to protect money, he does not care—he does not even perceive—how he
+induces deterioration of character. He has been encouraging my father in
+measures which I cannot call anything but vindictive. Crayston is to be made an
+example of, they say. As if my father had not half the sin on his own head! As
+if he had rightly discharged his duties as a rich man! Money was as dross to
+him; but he ought to have remembered how it might be as life itself to many,
+and be craved after, and coveted, till the black longing got the better of
+principle, as it has done with this poor Crayston. They say the man was once so
+truthful, and now his self-respect is gone; and he has evidently lost the very
+nature of truth. I dread riches. I dread the responsibility of them. At any
+rate, I wish I had begun life as a poor boy, and worked my way up to
+competence. Then I could understand and remember the temptations of poverty. I
+am afraid of my own heart becoming hardened as my father’s is. You have no
+notion of his passionate severity to-day, Maggie! It was quite a new thing even
+to me!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It will only be for a short time,” said she. “He must be much grieved about
+this man.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If I thought I could ever grow as hard and different to the abject entreaties
+of a criminal as my father has been this morning—one whom he has helped to
+make, too—I would go off to Australia at once. Indeed, Maggie, I think it would
+be the best thing we could do. My heart aches about the mysterious corruptions
+and evils of an old state of society such as we have in England.—What do you
+say Maggie? Would you go?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She was silent—thinking.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I would go with you directly, if it were right,” said she, at last. “But would
+it be? I think it would be rather cowardly. I feel what you say; but don’t you
+think it would be braver to stay, and endure much depression and anxiety of
+mind, for the sake of the good those always can do who see evils clearly. I am
+speaking all this time as if neither you nor I had any home duties, but were
+free to do as we liked.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What can you or I do? We are less than drops in the ocean, as far as our
+influence can go to model a nation?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“As for that,” said Maggie, laughing, “I can’t remodel Nancy’s old-fashioned
+ways; so I’ve never yet planned how to remodel a nation.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Then what did you mean by the good those always can do who see evils clearly?
+The evils I see are those of a nation whose god is money.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“That is just because you have come away from a distressing scene. To-morrow
+you will hear or read of some heroic action meeting with a nation’s sympathy,
+and you will rejoice and be proud of your country.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Still I shall see the evils of her complex state of society keenly; and where
+is the good I can do?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh! I can’t tell in a minute. But cannot you bravely face these evils, and
+learn their nature and causes; and then has God given you no powers to apply to
+the discovery of their remedy? Dear Frank, think! It may be very little you can
+do—and you may never see the effect of it, any more than the widow saw the
+world-wide effect of her mite. Then if all the good and thoughtful men run away
+from us to some new country, what are we to do with our poor dear Old England?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, you must run away with the good, thoughtful men—(I mean to consider that
+as a compliment to myself, Maggie!) Will you let me wish I had been born poor,
+if I am to stay in England? I should not then be liable to this fault into
+which I see the rich men fall, of forgetting the trials of the poor.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I am not sure whether, if you had been poor, you might not have fallen into an
+exactly parallel fault, and forgotten the trials of the rich. It is so
+difficult to understand the errors into which their position makes all men
+liable to fall. Do you remember a story in ‘Evenings at Home,’ called the
+Transmigrations of Indra? Well! when I was a child, I used to wish I might be
+transmigrated (is that the right word?) into an American slave-owner for a
+little while, just that I might understand how he must suffer, and be sorely
+puzzled, and pray and long to be freed from his odious wealth, till at last he
+grew hardened to its nature;—and since then, I have wished to be the Emperor of
+Russia, for the same reason. Ah! you may laugh; but that is only because I have
+not explained myself properly.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I was only smiling to think how ambitious any one might suppose you were who
+did not know you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t see any ambition in it—I don’t think of the station—I only want sorely
+to see the ‘What’s resisted’ of Burns, in order that I may have more charity
+for those who seem to me to have been the cause of such infinite woe and
+misery.”
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+“‘What’s done we partly may compute;<br/>
+But know not what’s resisted,’”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+repeated Frank musingly. After some time he began again:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But, Maggie, I don’t give up this wish of mine to go to Australia—Canada, if
+you like it better—anywhere where there is a newer and purer state of society.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“The great objection seems to be your duty, as an only child, to your father.
+It is different to the case of one out of a large family.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I wish I were one in twenty, then I might marry where I liked to-morrow.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It would take two people’s consent to such a rapid measure,” said Maggie,
+laughing. “But now I am going to wish a wish, which it won’t require a fairy
+godmother to gratify. Look, Frank, do you see in the middle of that dark brown
+purple streak of moor a yellow gleam of light? It is a pond, I think, that at
+this time of the year catches a slanting beam of the sun. It cannot be very far
+off. I have wished to go to it every autumn. Will you go with me now? We shall
+have time before tea.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Frank’s dissatisfaction with the stern measures that, urged on by Mr. Henry,
+his father took against all who had imposed upon his carelessness as a
+landlord, increased rather than diminished. He spoke warmly to him on the
+subject, but without avail. He remonstrated with Mr. Henry, and told him how he
+felt that, had his father controlled his careless nature, and been an exact,
+vigilant landlord, these tenantry would never have had the great temptation to
+do him wrong; and that therefore he considered some allowance should be made
+for them, and some opportunity given them to redeem their characters, which
+would be blasted and hardened for ever by the publicity of a law-suit. But Mr.
+Henry only raised his eyebrows and made answer:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I like to see these notions in a young man, sir. I had them myself at your
+age. I believe I had great ideas then, on the subject of temptation and the
+force of circumstances; and was as Quixotic as any one about reforming rogues.
+But my experience has convinced me that roguery is innate. Nothing but outward
+force can control it, and keep it within bounds. The terrors of the law must be
+that outward force. I admire your kindness of heart; and in three-and-twenty we
+do not look for the wisdom and experience of forty or fifty.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Frank was indignant at being set aside as an unripe youth. He disapproved so
+strongly of all these measures, and of so much that was now going on at home
+under Mr. Henry’s influence that he determined to pay his long promised visit
+to Scotland; and Maggie, sad at heart to see how he was suffering, encouraged
+him in his determination.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2>CHAPTER VIII.</h2>
+
+<p>
+After he was gone, there came a November of the most dreary and characteristic
+kind. There was incessant rain, and closing-in mists, without a gleam of
+sunshine to light up the drops of water, and make the wet stems and branches of
+the trees glisten. Every color seemed dimmed and darkened; and the crisp
+autumnal glory of leaves fell soddened to the ground. The latest flowers rotted
+away without ever coming to their bloom; and it looked as if the heavy
+monotonous sky had drawn closer and closer, and shut in the little moorland
+cottage as with a shroud. In doors, things were no more cheerful. Maggie saw
+that her mother was depressed, and she thought that Edward’s extravagance must
+be the occasion. Oftentimes she wondered how far she might speak on the
+subject; and once or twice she drew near it in conversation; but her mother
+winced away, and Maggie could not as yet see any decided good to be gained from
+encountering such pain. To herself it would have been a relief to have known
+the truth—the worst, as far as her mother knew it; but she was not in the habit
+of thinking of herself. She only tried, by long tender attention, to cheer and
+comfort her mother; and she and Nancy strove in every way to reduce the
+household expenditure, for there was little ready money to meet it. Maggie
+wrote regularly to Edward; but since the note inquiring about the agency, she
+had never heard from him. Whether her mother received letters she did not know;
+but at any rate she did not express anxiety, though her looks and manner
+betrayed that she was ill at ease. It was almost a relief to Maggie when some
+change was given to her thoughts by Nancy’s becoming ill. The damp gloomy
+weather brought on some kind of rheumatic attack, which obliged the old servant
+to keep her bed. Formerly, in such an emergency, they would have engaged some
+cottager’s wife to come and do the house-work; but now it seemed tacitly
+understood that they could not afford it. Even when Nancy grew worse, and
+required attendance in the night, Maggie still persisted in her daily
+occupations. She was wise enough to rest when and how she could; and, with a
+little forethought, she hoped to be able to go through this weary time without
+any bad effect. One morning (it was on the second of December; and even the
+change of name in the month, although it brought no change of circumstances or
+weather, was a relief—December brought glad tidings even in its very name), one
+morning, dim and dreary, Maggie had looked at the clock on leaving Nancy’s
+room, and finding it was not yet half-past five, and knowing that her mother
+and Nancy were both asleep, she determined to lie down and rest for an hour
+before getting up to light the fires. She did not mean to go to sleep; but she
+was tired out and fell into a sound slumber. When she awoke it was with a
+start. It was still dark; but she had a clear idea of being wakened by some
+distinct, rattling noise. There it was once more—against the window, like a
+shower of shot. She went to the lattice, and opened it to look out. She had
+that strange consciousness, not to be described, of the near neighborhood of
+some human creature, although she neither saw nor heard any one for the first
+instant. Then Edward spoke in a hoarse whisper, right below the window,
+standing on the flower-beds.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Maggie! Maggie! Come down and let me in. For your life, don’t make any noise.
+No one must know.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie turned sick. Something was wrong, evidently; and she was weak and weary.
+However, she stole down the old creaking stairs, and undid the heavy bolt, and
+let her brother in. She felt that his dress was quite wet, and she led him,
+with cautious steps, into the kitchen, and shut the door, and stirred the fire,
+before she spoke. He sank into a chair, as if worn out with fatigue. She stood,
+expecting some explanation. But when she saw he could not speak, she hastened
+to make him a cup of tea; and, stooping down, took off his wet boots, and
+helped him off with his coat, and brought her own plaid to wrap round him. All
+this time her heart sunk lower and lower. He allowed her to do what she liked,
+as if he were an automaton; his head and his arms hung loosely down, and his
+eyes were fixed, in a glaring way, on the fire. When she brought him some tea,
+he spoke for the first time; she could not hear what he said till he repeated
+it, so husky was his voice.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Have you no brandy?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She had the key of the little wine-cellar, and fetched up some. But as she took
+a tea-spoon to measure it out, he tremblingly clutched at the bottle, and shook
+down a quantity into the empty tea-cup, and drank it off at one gulp. He fell
+back again in his chair; but in a few minutes he roused himself, and seemed
+stronger.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Edward, dear Edward, what is the matter?” said Maggie, at last; for he got up,
+and was staggering toward the outer door, as if he were going once more into
+the rain, and dismal morning-twilight.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He looked at her fiercely as she laid her hand on his arm.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Confound you! Don’t touch me. I’ll not be kept here, to be caught and hung!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+For an instant she thought he was mad.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Caught and hung!” she echoed. “My poor Edward! what do you mean?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He sat down suddenly on a chair, close by him, and covered his face with his
+hands. When he spoke, his voice was feeble and imploring.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“The police are after me, Maggie! What must I do? Oh! can you hide me? Can you
+save me?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He looked wild, like a hunted creature. Maggie stood aghast. He went on:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“My mother!—Nancy! Where are they? I was wet through and starving, and I came
+here. Don’t let them take me, Maggie, till I’m stronger, and can give battle.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh! Edward! Edward! What are you saying?” said Maggie, sitting down on the
+dresser, in absolute, bewildered despair. “What have you done?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I hardly know. I’m in a horrid dream. I see you think I’m mad. I wish I were.
+Won’t Nancy come down soon? You must hide me.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Poor Nancy is ill in bed!” said Maggie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Thank God,” said he. “There’s one less. But my mother will be up soon, will
+she not?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Not yet,” replied Maggie. “Edward, dear, do try and tell me what you have
+done. Why should the police be after you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why, Maggie,” said he with a kind of forced, unnatural laugh, “they say I’ve
+forged.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And have you?” asked Maggie, in a still, low tone of quiet agony.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He did not answer for some time, but sat, looking on the floor with unwinking
+eyes. At last he said, as if speaking to himself:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If I have, it’s no more than others have done before, and never been found
+out. I was but borrowing money. I meant to repay it. If I had asked Mr. Buxton,
+he would have lent it me.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Mr. Buxton!” said Maggie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes!” answered he, looking sharply and suddenly up at her. “Your future
+father-in-law. My father’s old friend. It is he that is hunting me to death! No
+need to look so white and horror-struck, Maggie! It’s the way of the world, as
+I might have known, if I had not been a blind fool.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Mr. Buxton!” she whispered, faintly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, Maggie!” said he, suddenly throwing himself at her feet, “save me! You can
+do it. Write to Frank, and make him induce his father to let me off. I came to
+see you, my sweet, merciful sister! I knew you would save me. Good God! What
+noise is that? There are steps in the yard!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And before she could speak, he had rushed into the little china closet, which
+opened out of the parlor, and crouched down in the darkness. It was only the
+man who brought their morning’s supply of milk from a neighboring farm. But
+when Maggie opened the kitchen door, she saw how the cold, pale light of a
+winter’s day had filled the air.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You’re late with your shutters to-day, miss,” said the man. “I hope Nancy has
+not been giving you all a bad night. Says I to Thomas, who came with me to the
+gate, ‘It’s many a year since I saw them parlor shutters barred up at half-past
+eight.’”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie went, as soon as he was gone, and opened all the low windows, in order
+that they might look as usual. She wondered at her own outward composure, while
+she felt so dead and sick at heart. Her mother would soon get up; must she be
+told? Edward spoke to her now and then from his hiding-place. He dared not go
+back into the kitchen, into which the few neighbors they had were apt to come,
+on their morning’s way to Combehurst, to ask if they could do any errands there
+for Mrs. Browne or Nancy. Perhaps a quarter of an hour or so had elapsed since
+the first alarm, when, as Maggie was trying to light the parlor fire, in order
+that the doctor, when he came, might find all as usual, she heard the click of
+the garden gate, and a man’s step coming along the walk. She ran up stairs to
+wash away the traces of the tears which had been streaming down her face as she
+went about her work, before she opened the door. There, against the watery
+light of the rainy day without, stood Mr. Buxton. He hardly spoke to her, but
+pushed past her, and entered the parlor. He sat down, looking as if he did not
+know what he was doing. Maggie tried to keep down her shivering alarm. It was
+long since she had seen him; and the old idea of his kind, genial disposition,
+had been sadly disturbed by what she had heard from Frank, of his severe
+proceedings against his unworthy tenantry; and now, if he was setting the
+police in search of Edward, he was indeed to be dreaded; and with Edward so
+close at hand, within earshot! If the china fell! He would suspect nothing from
+that; it would only be her own terror. If her mother came down! But, with all
+these thoughts, she was very still, outwardly, as she sat waiting for him to
+speak.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Have you heard from your brother lately?” asked he, looking up in an angry and
+disturbed manner. “But I’ll answer for it he has not been writing home for some
+time. He could not, with the guilt he has had on his mind. I’ll not believe in
+gratitude again. There perhaps was such a thing once; but now-a-days the more
+you do for a person, the surer they are to turn against you, and cheat you.
+Now, don’t go white and pale. I know you’re a good girl in the main; and I’ve
+been lying awake all night, and I’ve a deal to say to you. That scoundrel of a
+brother of yours!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie could not ask (as would have been natural, if she had been ignorant)
+what Edward had done. She knew too well. But Mr. Buxton was too full of his own
+thoughts and feelings to notice her much.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do you know he has been like the rest? Do you know he has been cheating
+me—forging my name? I don’t know what besides. It’s well for him that they’ve
+altered the laws, and he can’t be hung for it” (a dead heavy weight was removed
+from Maggie’s mind), “but Mr. Henry is going to transport him. It’s worse than
+Crayston. Crayston only ploughed up the turf, and did not pay rent, and sold
+the timber, thinking I should never miss it. But your brother has gone and
+forged my name. He had received all the purchase-money, while he only gave me
+half, and said the rest was to come afterward. And the ungrateful scoundrel has
+gone and given a forged receipt! You might have knocked me down with a straw
+when Mr. Henry told me about it all last night. ‘Never talk to me of virtue and
+such humbug again,’ I said, ‘I’ll never believe in them. Every one is for what
+he can get.’ However, Mr. Henry wrote to the superintendent of police at
+Woodchester; and has gone over himself this morning to see after it. But to
+think of your father having such a son!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh my poor father!” sobbed out Maggie. “How glad I am you are dead before this
+disgrace came upon us!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You may well say disgrace. You’re a good girl yourself, Maggie. I have always
+said that. How Edward has turned out as he has done, I cannot conceive. But
+now, Maggie, I’ve something to say to you.” He moved uneasily about, as if he
+did not know how to begin. Maggie was standing leaning her head against the
+chimney-piece, longing for her visitor to go, dreading the next minute, and
+wishing to shrink into some dark corner of oblivion where she might forget all
+for a time, till she regained a small portion of the bodily strength that had
+been sorely tried of late. Mr. Buxton saw her white look of anguish, and read
+it in part, but not wholly. He was too intent on what he was going to say.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’ve been lying awake all night, thinking. You see the disgrace it is to you,
+though you are innocent; and I’m sure you can’t think of involving Frank in
+it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie went to the little sofa, and, kneeling down by it, hid her face in the
+cushions. He did not go on, for he thought she was not listening to him. At
+last he said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come now, be a sensible girl, and face it out. I’ve a plan to propose.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I hear,” said she, in a dull veiled voice.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why, you know how against this engagement I have always been. Frank is but
+three-and-twenty, and does not know his own mind, as I tell him. Besides, he
+might marry any one he chose.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He has chosen me,” murmured Maggie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Of course, of course. But you’ll not think of keeping him to it, after what
+has passed. You would not have such a fine fellow as Frank pointed at as the
+brother-in-law of a forger, would you? It was far from what I wished for him
+before; but now! Why you’re glad your father is dead, rather than he should
+have lived to see this day; and rightly too, I think. And you’ll not go and
+disgrace Frank. From what Mr. Henry hears, Edward has been a discredit to you
+in many ways. Mr. Henry was at Woodchester yesterday, and he says if Edward has
+been fairly entered as an attorney, his name may be struck off the Rolls for
+many a thing he has done. Think of my Frank having his bright name tarnished by
+any connection with such a man! Mr. Henry says, even in a court of law what has
+come out about Edward would be excuse enough for a breach of promise of
+marriage.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie lifted up her wan face; the pupils of her eyes were dilated, her lips
+were dead white. She looked straight at Mr. Buxton with indignant impatience:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Mr. Henry! Mr. Henry! What has Mr. Henry to do with me?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Buxton was staggered by the wild, imperious look, so new upon her mild,
+sweet face. But he was resolute for Frank’s sake, and returned to the charge
+after a moment’s pause.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Mr. Henry is a good friend of mine, who has my interest at heart. He has known
+what a subject of regret your engagement has been to me; though really my
+repugnance to it was without cause formerly, compared to what it is now. Now be
+reasonable, my dear. I’m willing to do something for you if you will do
+something for me. You must see what a stop this sad affair has put to any
+thoughts between you and Frank. And you must see what cause I have to wish to
+punish Edward for his ungrateful behavior, to say nothing of the forgery. Well
+now! I don’t know what Mr. Henry will say to me, but I have thought of this. If
+you’ll write a letter to Frank, just saying distinctly that, for reasons which
+must for ever remain a secret...”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Remain a secret from Frank?” said Maggie, again lifting up her head. “Why?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why? my dear! You startle me with that manner of yours—just let me finish out
+my sentence. If you’ll say that, for reasons which must forever remain a
+secret, you decidedly and unchangeably give up all connection, all engagement
+with him (which, in fact, Edward’s conduct has as good as put an end to), I’ll
+go over to Woodchester and tell Mr. Henry and the police that they need not
+make further search after Edward, for that I won’t appear against him. You can
+save your brother; and you’ll do yourself no harm by writing this letter, for
+of course you see your engagement is broken off. For you never would wish to
+disgrace Frank.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He paused, anxiously awaiting her reply. She did not speak.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’m sure, if I appear against him, he is as good as transported,” he put in,
+after a while.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Just at this time there was a little sound of displaced china in the closet.
+Mr. Buxton did not attend to it, but Maggie heard it. She got up, and stood
+quite calm before Mr. Buxton.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You must go,” said she. “I know you; and I know you are not aware of the cruel
+way in which you have spoken to me, while asking me to give up the very hope
+and marrow of my life”—she could not go on for a moment; she was choked up with
+anguish.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It was the truth, Maggie,” said he, somewhat abashed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It was the truth that made the cruelty of it. But you did not mean to speak
+cruelly to me, I know. Only it is hard all at once to be called upon to face
+the shame and blasted character of one who was once an innocent child at the
+same father’s knee.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I may have spoken too plainly,” said Mr. Buxton, “but it was necessary to set
+the plain truth before you, for my son’s sake. You will write the letter I
+ask?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Her look was wandering and uncertain. Her attention was distracted by sounds
+which to him had no meaning; and her judgment she felt was wavering and
+disturbed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I cannot tell. Give me time to think; you will do that, I’m sure. Go now, and
+leave me alone. If it is right, God will give me strength to do it, and perhaps
+He will comfort me in my desolation. But I do not know—I cannot tell. I must
+have time to think. Go now, if you please, sir,” said she, imploringly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I am sure you will see it is a right thing I ask of you,” he persisted.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Go now,” she repeated.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Very well. In two hours, I will come back again; for your sake, time is
+precious. Even while we speak he may be arrested. At eleven, I will come back.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He went away, leaving her sick and dizzy with the effort to be calm and
+collected enough to think. She had forgotten for the moment how near Edward
+was; and started when she saw the closet-door open, and his face put out.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Is he gone? I thought he never would go. What a time you kept him, Maggie! I
+was so afraid, once, you might sit down to write the letter in this room; and
+then I knew he would stop and worry you with interruptions and advice, so that
+it would never be ended; and my back was almost broken. But you sent him off
+famously. Why, Maggie! Maggie!—you’re not going to faint, surely!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+His sudden burst out of a whisper into a loud exclamation of surprise, made her
+rally; but she could not stand. She tried to smile, for he really looked
+frightened.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I have been sitting up for many nights—and now this sorrow!” Her smile died
+away into a wailing, feeble cry.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well, well! it’s over now, you see. I was frightened enough myself this
+morning, I own; and then you were brave and kind. But I knew you could save me,
+all along.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At this moment the door opened, and Mrs. Browne came in.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why, Edward, dear! who would have thought of seeing you! This is good of you;
+what a pleasant surprise! I often said, you might come over for a day from
+Woodchester. What’s the matter, Maggie, you look so fagged? She’s losing all
+her beauty, is not she, Edward? Where’s breakfast? I thought I should find all
+ready. What’s the matter? Why don’t you speak?” said she, growing anxious at
+their silence. Maggie left the explanation to Edward.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Mother,” said he, “I’ve been rather a naughty boy, and got into some trouble;
+but Maggie is going to help me out of it, like a good sister.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What is it?” said Mrs. Browne, looking bewildered and uneasy.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh—I took a little liberty with our friend Mr. Buxton’s name; and wrote it
+down to a receipt—that was all.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. Browne’s face showed that the light came but slowly into her mind.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But that’s forgery—is not it?” asked she at length, in terror.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“People call it so,” said Edward; “I call it borrowing from an old friend, who
+was always willing to lend.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Does he know?—is he angry?” asked Mrs. Browne.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes, he knows; and he blusters a deal. He was working himself up grandly at
+first. Maggie! I was getting rarely frightened, I can tell you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Has he been here?” said Mrs. Browne, in bewildered fright.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, yes! he and Maggie have been having a long talk, while I was hid in the
+china-closet. I would not go over that half-hour again for any money. However,
+he and Maggie came to terms, at last.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No, Edward, we did not!” said Maggie, in a low quivering voice.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Very nearly. She’s to give up her engagement, and then he will let me off.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do you mean that Maggie is to give up her engagement to Mr. Frank Buxton?”
+asked his mother.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes. It would never have come to anything, one might see that. Old Buxton
+would have held out against it till doomsday. And, sooner or later, Frank would
+have grown weary. If Maggie had had any spirit, she might have worked him up to
+marry her before now; and then I should have been spared even this fright, for
+they would never have set the police after Mrs. Frank Buxton’s brother.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why, dearest, Edward, the police are not after you, are they?” said Mrs.
+Browne, for the first time alive to the urgency of the case.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I believe they are though,” said Edward. “But after what Mr. Buxton promised
+this morning, it does not signify.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He did not promise anything,” said Maggie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Edward turned sharply to her, and looked at her. Then he went and took hold of
+her wrists with no gentle grasp, and spoke to her through his set teeth.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What do you mean, Maggie?—what do you mean?” (giving her a little shake.) “Do
+you mean that you’ll stick to your lover through thick and thin, and leave your
+brother to be transported? Speak, can’t you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She looked up at him, and tried to speak, but no words came out of her dry
+throat. At last she made a strong effort.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You must give me time to think. I will do what is right, by God’s help.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“As if it was not right—and such can’t—to save your brother,” said he, throwing
+her hands away in a passionate manner.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I must be alone,” said Maggie, rising, and trying to stand steadily in the
+reeling room. She heard her mother and Edward speaking, but their words gave
+her no meaning, and she went out. She was leaving the house by the
+kitchen-door, when she remembered Nancy, left alone and helpless all through
+this long morning; and, ill as she could endure detention from the solitude she
+longed to seek, she patiently fulfilled her small duties, and sought out some
+breakfast for the poor old woman.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When she carried it up stairs, Nancy said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“There’s something up. You’ve trouble in your sweet face, my darling. Never
+mind telling me—only don’t sob so. I’ll pray for you, bairn: and God will help
+you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Thank you, Nancy. Do!” and she left the room.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2>CHAPTER IX.</h2>
+
+<p>
+When she opened the kitchen-door there was the same small, mizzling rain that
+had obscured the light for weeks, and now it seemed to obscure hope.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She clambered slowly (for indeed she was very feeble) up the Fell-Lane, and
+threw herself under the leafless thorn, every small branch and twig of which
+was loaded with rain-drops. She did not see the well-beloved and familiar
+landscape for her tears, and did not miss the hills in the distance that were
+hidden behind the rain-clouds, and sweeping showers.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. Browne and Edward sat over the fire. He told her his own story; making the
+temptation strong; the crime a mere trifling, venial error, which he had been
+led into, through his idea that he was to become Mr. Buxton’s agent.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But if it is only that,” said Mrs. Browne, “surely Mr. Buxton will not think
+of going to law with you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s not merely going to law that he will think of, but trying and
+transporting me. That Henry he has got for his agent is as sharp as a needle,
+and as hard as a nether mill-stone. And the fellow has obtained such a hold
+over Mr. Buxton, that he dare but do what he tells him. I can’t imagine how he
+had so much free-will left as to come with his proposal to Maggie; unless,
+indeed, Henry knows of it—or, what is most likely of all, has put him up to it.
+Between them they have given that poor fool Crayston a pretty dose of it; and I
+should have come yet worse off if it had not been for Maggie. Let me get clear
+this time, and I will keep to windward of the law for the future.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If we sold the cottage we could repay it,” said Mrs. Browne, meditating.
+“Maggie and I could live on very little. But you see this property is held in
+trust for you two.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Nay, mother; you must not talk of repaying it. Depend upon it he will be so
+glad to have Frank free from his engagement, that he won’t think of asking for
+the money. And if Mr. Henry says anything about it, we can tell him it’s not
+half the damages they would have had to have given Maggie, if Frank had been
+extricated in any other way. I wish she would come back; I would prime her a
+little as to what to say. Keep a look out, mother, lest Mr. Buxton returns and
+find me here.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I wish Maggie would come in too,” said Mrs. Browne. “I’m afraid she’ll catch
+cold this damp day, and then I shall have two to nurse. You think she’ll give
+it up, don’t you, Edward? If she does not I’m afraid of harm coming to you. Had
+you not better keep out of the way?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s fine talking. Where am I to go out of sight of the police this wet day:
+without a shilling in the world too? If you’ll give me some money I’ll be off
+fast enough, and make assurance doubly sure. I’m not much afraid of Maggie.
+She’s a little yea-nay thing, and I can always bend her round to what we want.
+She had better take care, too,” said he, with a desperate look on his face,
+“for by G—— I’ll make her give up all thoughts of Frank, rather than be taken
+and tried. Why! it’s my chance for all my life; and do you think I’ll have it
+frustrated for a girl’s whim?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I think it’s rather hard upon her too,” pleaded his mother. “She’s very fond
+of him; and it would have been such a good match for her.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Pooh! she’s not nineteen yet, and has plenty of time before her to pick up
+somebody else; while, don’t you see, if I’m caught and transported, I’m done
+for life. Besides I’ve a notion Frank had already begun to be tired of the
+affair; it would have been broken off in a month or two, without her gaining
+anything by it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well, if you think so,” replied Mrs. Browne. “But I’m sorry for her. I always
+told her she was foolish to think so much about him: but I know she’ll fret a
+deal if it’s given up.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh! she’ll soon comfort herself with thinking that she has saved me. I wish
+she’d come. It must be near eleven. I do wish she would come. Hark! is not that
+the kitchen-door?” said he, turning white, and betaking himself once more to
+the china-closet. He held it ajar till he heard Maggie stepping softly and
+slowly across the floor. She opened the parlor-door; and stood looking in, with
+the strange imperceptive gaze of a sleep-walker. Then she roused herself and
+saw that he was not there; so she came in a step or two, and sat down in her
+dripping cloak on a chair near the door.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Edward returned, bold now there was no danger.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Maggie!” said he, “what have you fixed to say to Mr. Burton?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She sighed deeply; and then lifted up her large innocent eyes to his face.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I cannot give up Frank,” said she, in a low, quiet voice.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. Browne threw up her hands and exclaimed in terror:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh Edward, Edward! go away—I will give you all the plate I have; you can sell
+it—my darling, go!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Not till I have brought Maggie to reason,” said he, in a manner as quiet as
+her own, but with a subdued ferocity in it, which she saw, but which did not
+intimidate her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He went up to her, and spoke below his breath.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Maggie, we were children together—we two—brother and sister of one blood! Do
+you give me up to be put in prison—in the hulks—among the basest of criminals—I
+don’t know where—all for the sake of your own selfish happiness?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She trembled very much; but did not speak or cry, or make any noise.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You were always selfish. You always thought of yourself. But this time I did
+think you would have shown how different you could be. But it’s
+self—self—paramount above all.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh Maggie! how can you be so hard-hearted and selfish?” echoed Mrs. Browne,
+crying and sobbing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Mother!” said Maggie, “I know that I think too often and too much of myself.
+But this time I thought only of Frank. He loves me; it would break his heart if
+I wrote as Mr. Buxton wishes, cutting our lives asunder, and giving no reason
+for it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He loves you so!” said Edward, tauntingly. “A man’s love break his heart!
+You’ve got some pretty notions! Who told you that he loved you so desperately?
+How do you know it?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Because I love him so,” said she, in a quiet, earnest voice. “I do not know of
+any other reason; but that is quite sufficient to me. I believe him when he
+says he loves me; and I have no right to cause him the infinite—the terrible
+pain, which my own heart tells me he would feel, if I did what Mr. Buxton
+wishes me.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Her manner was so simple and utterly truthful, that it was as quiet and
+fearless as a child’s; her brother’s fierce looks of anger had no power over
+her; and his blustering died away before her into something of the frightened
+cowardliness he had shown in the morning. But Mrs. Browne came up to Maggie;
+and took her hand between both of hers, which were trembling. “Maggie, you can
+save Edward. I know I have not loved you as I should have done; but I will love
+and comfort you forever, if you will but write as Mr. Buxton says. Think!
+Perhaps Mr. Frank may not take you at your word, but may come over and see you,
+and all may be right, and yet Edward may be saved. It is only writing this
+letter; you need not stick to it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No!” said Edward. “A signature, if you can prove compulsion, is not valid. We
+will all prove that you write this letter under compulsion; and if Frank loves
+you so desperately, he won’t give you up without a trial to make you change
+your mind.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No!” said Maggie, firmly. “If I write the letter I abide by it. I will not
+quibble with my conscience. Edward! I will not marry—I will go and live near
+you, and come to you whenever I may—and give up my life to you if you are sent
+to prison; my mother and I will go, if need be—I do not know yet what I can do,
+or cannot do, for you, but all I can I will; but this one thing I cannot.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Then I’m off!” said Edward. “On your deathbed may you remember this hour, and
+how you denied your only brother’s request. May you ask my forgiveness with
+your dying breath, and may I be there to deny it you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Wait a minute!” said Maggie, springing up, rapidly. “Edward, don’t curse me
+with such terrible words till all is done. Mother, I implore you to keep him
+here. Hide him—do what you can to conceal him. I will have one more trial.” She
+snatched up her bonnet, and was gone, before they had time to think or speak to
+arrest her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+On she flew along the Combehurst road. As she went, the tears fell like rain
+down her face, and she talked to herself.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He should not have said so. No! he should not have said so. We were the only
+two.” But still she pressed on, over the thick, wet, brown heather. She saw Mr.
+Buxton coming; and she went still quicker. The rain had cleared off, and a
+yellow watery gleam of sunshine was struggling out. She stopped or he would
+have passed her unheeded; little expecting to meet her there.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I wanted to see you,” said she, all at once resuming her composure, and almost
+assuming a dignified manner. “You must not go down to our house; we have sorrow
+enough there. Come under these fir-trees, and let me speak to you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I hope you have thought of what I said, and are willing to do what I asked
+you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No!” said she. “I have thought and thought. I did not think in a selfish
+spirit, though they say I did. I prayed first. I could not do that earnestly,
+and be selfish, I think. I cannot give up Frank. I know the disgrace; and if
+he, knowing all, thinks fit to give me up, I shall never say a word, but bow my
+head, and try and live out my appointed days quietly and cheerfully. But he is
+the judge, not you; nor have I any right to do what you ask me.” She stopped,
+because the agitation took away her breath.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He began in a cold manner:—“I am very sorry. The law must take its course. I
+would have saved my son from the pain of all this knowledge, and that which he
+will of course feel in the necessity of giving up his engagement. I would have
+refused to appear against your brother, shamefully ungrateful as he has been.
+Now you cannot wonder that I act according to my agent’s advice, and prosecute
+your brother as if he were a stranger.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He turned to go away. He was so cold and determined that for a moment Maggie
+was timid. But she then laid her hand on his arm.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Mr. Buxton,” said she, “you will not do what you threaten. I know you better.
+Think! My father was your old friend. That claim is, perhaps, done away with by
+Edward’s conduct. But I do not believe you can forget it always. If you did
+fulfill the menace you uttered just now, there would come times as you grew
+older, and life grew fainter and fainter before you—quiet times of thought,
+when you remembered the days of your youth, and the friends you then had and
+knew;—you would recollect that one of them had left an only son, who had done
+wrong—who had sinned—sinned against you in his weakness—and you would think
+then—you could not help it—how you had forgotten mercy in justice—and, as
+justice required he should be treated as a felon, you threw him among
+felons—where every glimmering of goodness was darkened for ever. Edward is,
+after all, more weak than wicked;—but he will become wicked if you put him in
+prison, and have him transported. God is merciful—we cannot tell or think how
+merciful. Oh, sir, I am so sure you will be merciful, and give my brother—my
+poor sinning brother—a chance, that I will tell you all. I will throw myself
+upon your pity. Edward is even now at home—miserable and desperate;—my mother
+is too much stunned to understand all our wretchedness—for very wretched we are
+in our shame.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As she spoke the wind arose and shivered in the wiry leaves of the fir-trees,
+and there was a moaning sound as of some Ariel imprisoned in the thick branches
+that, tangled overhead, made a shelter for them. Either the noise or Mr.
+Buxton’s fancy called up an echo to Maggie’s voice—a pleading with her
+pleading—a sad tone of regret, distinct yet blending with her speech, and a
+falling, dying sound, as her voice died away in miserable suspense.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It might be that, formed as she was by Mrs. Buxton’s care and love, her accents
+and words were such as that lady, now at rest from all sorrow, would have
+used;—somehow, at any rate, the thought flashed into Mr. Buxton’s mind, that as
+Maggie spoke, his dead wife’s voice was heard, imploring mercy in a clear,
+distinct tone, though faint, as if separated from him by an infinite distance
+of space. At least, this is the account Mr. Buxton would have given of the
+manner in which the idea of his wife became present to him, and what she would
+have wished him to do a powerful motive in his conduct. Words of hers, long ago
+spoken, and merciful, forgiving expressions made use of in former days to
+soften him in some angry mood, were clearly remembered while Maggie spoke; and
+their influence was perceptible in the change of his tone, and the wavering of
+his manner henceforward.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And yet you will not save Frank from being involved in your disgrace,” said
+he; but more as if weighing and deliberating on the case than he had ever
+spoken before.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If Frank wishes it, I will quietly withdraw myself out of his sight forever;—I
+give you my promise, before God, to do so. I shall not utter one word of
+entreaty or complaint. I will try not to wonder or feel surprise;—I will bless
+him in every action of his future life—but think how different would be the
+disgrace he would voluntarily incur to my poor mother’s shame, when she wakens
+up to know what her child has done! Her very torper about it now is more
+painful than words can tell.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What could Edward do?” asked Mr. Buxton. “Mr. Henry won’t hear of my passing
+over any frauds.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, you relent!” said Maggie, taking his hand, and pressing it. “What could he
+do? He could do the same, whatever it was, as you thought of his doing, if I
+had written that terrible letter.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And you’ll be willing to give it up, if Frank wishes, when he knows all?”
+asked Mr. Buxton.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She crossed her hands and drooped her head, but answered steadily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Whatever Frank wishes, when he knows all, I will gladly do. I will speak the
+truth. I do not believe that any shame surrounding me, and not in me, will
+alter Frank’s love one title.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“We shall see,” said Mr. Buxton. “But what I thought of Edward’s doing, in
+case—Well never mind! (seeing how she shrunk back from all mention of the
+letter he had asked her to write,)—was to go to America, out of the way. Then
+Mr. Henry would think he had escaped, and need never be told of my coenivance.
+I think he would throw up the agency, if he were; and he’s a very clever man.
+If Ned is in England, Mr. Henry will ferret him out. And, besides, this affair
+is so blown, I don’t think he could return to his profession. What do you say
+to this, Maggie?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I will tell my mother. I must ask her. To me it seems most desirable. Only, I
+fear he is very ill; and it seems lonely; but never mind! We ought to be
+thankful to you forever. I cannot tell you how I hope and trust he will live to
+show you what your goodness has made him.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But you must lose no time. If Mr. Henry traces him; I can’t answer for myself.
+I shall have no good reason to give, as I should have had, if I could have told
+him that Frank and you were to be as strangers to each other. And even then I
+should have been afraid, he is such a determined fellow; but uncommonly clever.
+Stay!” said he, yielding to a sudden and inexplicable desire to see Edward, and
+discover if his criminality had in any way changed his outward appearance.
+“I’ll go with you. I can hasten things. If Edward goes, he must be off, as soon
+as possible, to Liverpool, and leave no trace. The next packet sails the day
+after to-morrow. I noted it down from the _Times_.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie and he sped along the road. He spoke his thoughts aloud:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I wonder if he will be grateful to me for this. Not that I ever mean to look
+for gratitude again. I mean to try, not to care for anybody but Frank. ‘Govern
+men by outward force,’ says Mr. Henry. He is an uncommonly clever man, and he
+says, the longer he lives, the more he is convinced of the badness of men. He
+always looks for it now, even in those who are the best, apparently.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie was too anxious to answer, or even to attend to him. At the top of the
+slope she asked him to wait while she ran down and told the result of her
+conversation with him. Her mother was alone, looking white and sick. She told
+her that Edward had gone into the hay-loft, above the old, disused shippon.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie related the substance of her interview with Mr. Buxton, and his wish
+that Edward should go to America.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“To America!” said Mrs. Browne. “Why that’s as far as Botany Bay. It’s just
+like transporting him. I thought you’d done something for us, you looked so
+glad.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Dearest mother, it _is_ something. He is not to be subjected to imprisonment
+or trial. I must go and tell him, only I must beckon to Mr. Buxton first. But
+when he comes, do show him how thankful we are for his mercy to Edward.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. Browne’s murmurings, whatever was their meaning, were lost upon Maggie.
+She ran through the court, and up the slope, with the lightness of a lawn; for
+though she was tired in body to an excess she had never been before in her
+life, the opening beam of hope in the dark sky made her spirit conquer her
+flesh for the time.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She did not stop to speak, but turned again as soon as she had signed to Mr.
+Buxton to follow her. She left the house-door open for his entrance, and passed
+out again through the kitchen into the space behind, which was partly an
+uninclosed yard, and partly rocky common. She ran across the little green to
+the shippon, and mounted the ladder into the dimly-lighted loft. Up in a dark
+corner Edward stood, with an old rake in his hand.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I thought it was you, Maggie!” said he, heaving a deep breath of relief. “What
+have you done? Have you agreed to write the letter? You’ve done something for
+me, I see by your looks.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes! I have told Mr. Buxton all. He is waiting for you in the parlor. Oh! I
+knew he could not be so hard!” She was out of breath.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t understand you!” said he. “You’ve never been such a fool as to go and
+tell him where I am?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes, I have. I felt I might trust him. He has promised not to prosecute you.
+The worst is, he says you must go to America. But come down, Ned, and speak to
+him. You owe him thanks, and he wants to see you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I can’t go through a scene. I’m not up to it. Besides, are you sure he is not
+entrapping me to the police? If I had a farthing of money I would not trust
+him, but be off to the moors.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, Edward! How do you think he would do anything so treacherous and mean? I
+beg you not to lose time in distrust. He says himself, if Mr. Henry comes
+before you are off, he does not know what will be the consequence. The packet
+sails for America in two days. It is sad for you to have to go. Perhaps even
+yet he may think of something better, though I don’t know how we can ask or
+expect it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t want anything better,” replied he, “than that I should have money
+enough to carry me to America. I’m in more scrapes than this (though none so
+bad) in England; and in America there’s many an opening to fortune.” He
+followed her down the steps while he spoke. Once in the yellow light of the
+watery day, she was struck by his ghastly look. Sharp lines of suspicion and
+cunning seemed to have been stamped upon his face, making it look older by many
+years than his age warranted. His jaunty evening dress, all weather-stained and
+dirty, added to his forlorn and disreputable appearance; but most of
+all—deepest of all—was the impression she received that he was not long for
+this world; and oh! how unfit for the next! Still, if time was given—if he were
+placed far away from temptation, she thought that her father’s son might yet
+repent, and be saved. She took his hand, for he was hanging back as they came
+near the parlor-door, and led him in. She looked like some guardian angel, with
+her face that beamed out trust, and hope, and thankfulness. He, on the
+contrary, hung his head in angry, awkward shame; and half wished he had trusted
+to his own wits, and tried to evade the police, rather than have been forced
+into this interview.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+His mother came to him; for she loved him all the more fondly, now he seemed
+degraded and friendless. She could not, or would not, comprehend the extent of
+his guilt; and had upbraided Mr. Buxton to the top of her bent for thinking of
+sending him away to America. There was a silence when he came in which was
+insupportable to him. He looked up with clouded eyes, that dared not meet Mr.
+Buxton’s.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I am here, sir, to learn what you wish me to do. Maggie says I am to go to
+America; if that is where you want to send me, I’m ready.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Buxton wished himself away as heartily as Edward. Mrs. Browne’s
+upbraidings, just when he felt that he had done a kind action, and yielded,
+against his judgment, to Maggie’s entreaties, had made him think himself very
+ill used. And now here was Edward speaking in a sullen, savage kind of way,
+instead of showing any gratitude. The idea of Mr. Henry’s stern displeasure
+loomed in the background.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes!” said he, “I’m glad to find you come into the idea of going to America.
+It’s the only place for you. The sooner you can go, and the better.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I can’t go without money,” said Edward, doggedly. “If I had had money, I need
+not have come here.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, Ned! would you have gone without seeing me?” said Mrs. Browne, bursting
+into tears. “Mr. Buxton, I cannot let him go to America. Look how ill he is.
+He’ll die if you send him there.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Mother, don’t give way so,” said Edward, kindly, taking her hand. “I’m not
+ill, at least not to signify. Mr. Buxton is right: America is the only place
+for me. To tell the truth, even if Mr. Buxton is good enough” (he said this as
+if unwilling to express any word of thankfulness) “not to prosecute me, there
+are others who may—and will. I’m safer out of the country. Give me money enough
+to get to Liverpool and pay my passage, and I’ll be off this minute.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You shall not,” said Mrs. Browne, holding him tightly. “You told me this
+morning you were led into temptation, and went wrong because you had no
+comfortable home, nor any one to care for you, and make you happy. It will be
+worse in America. You’ll get wrong again, and be away from all who can help
+you. Or you’ll die all by yourself, in some backwood or other. Maggie! you
+might speak and help me—how can you stand so still, and let him go to America
+without a word!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie looked up bright and steadfast, as if she saw something beyond the
+material present. Here was the opportunity for self-sacrifice of which Mrs.
+Buxton had spoken to her in her childish days—the time which comes to all, but
+comes unheeded and unseen to those whose eyes are not trained to watching.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Mother! could you do without me for a time? If you could, and it would make
+you easier, and help Edward to”—The word on her lips died away; for it seemed
+to imply a reproach on one who stood in his shame among them all.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You would go!” said Mrs. Browne, catching at the unfinished sentence. “Oh!
+Maggie, that’s the best thing you’ve ever said or done since you were born.
+Edward, would not you like to have Maggie with you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes,” said he, “well enough. It would be far better for me than going all
+alone; though I dare say I could make my way pretty well after a time. If she
+went, she might stay till I felt settled, and had made some friends, and then
+she could come back.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Buxton was astonished at first by this proposal of Maggie’s. He could not
+all at once understand the difference between what she now offered to do, and
+what he had urged upon her only this very morning. But as he thought about it,
+he perceived that what was her own she was willing to sacrifice; but that
+Frank’s heart, once given into her faithful keeping, she was answerable for it
+to him and to God. This light came down upon him slowly; but when he
+understood, he admired with almost a wondering admiration. That little timid
+girl brave enough to cross the ocean and go to a foreign land, if she could
+only help to save her brother!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’m sure Maggie,” said he, turning towards her, “you are a good, thoughtful
+little creature. It may be the saving of Edward—I believe it will. I think God
+will bless you for being so devoted.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“The expense will be doubled,” said Edward.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“My dear boy! never mind the money. I can get it advanced upon this cottage.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“As for that, I’ll advance it,” said Mr. Buxton.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Could we not,” said Maggie, hesitating from her want of knowledge, “make over
+the furniture—papa’s books, and what little plate we have, to Mr.
+Buxton—something like pawning them—if he would advance the requisite money? He,
+strange as it may seem, is the only person you can ask in this great strait.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And so it was arranged, after some demur on Mr. Buxton’s part. But Maggie kept
+steadily to her point as soon as she found that it was attainable; and Mrs.
+Browne was equally inflexible, though from a different feeling. She regarded
+Mr. Buxton as the cause of her son’s banishment, and refused to accept of any
+favor from him. If there had been time, indeed, she would have preferred
+obtaining the money in the same manner from any one else. Edward brightened up
+a little when he heard the sum could be procured; he was almost indifferent
+how; and, strangely callous, as Maggie thought, he even proposed to draw up a
+legal form of assignment. Mr. Buxton only thought of hurrying on the departure;
+but he could not refrain from expressing his approval and admiration of Maggie
+whenever he came near her. Before he went, he called her aside.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“My dear, I’m not sure if Frank can do better than marry you, after all. Mind!
+I’ve not given it as much thought as I should like. But if you come back as we
+plan, next autumn, and he is steady to you till then—and Edward is going on
+well—(if he can but keep good, he’ll do, for he is very sharp—yon is a knowing
+paper he drew up)—why, I’ll think about it. Only let Frank see a bit of the
+world first. I’d rather you did not tell him I’ve any thoughts of coming round,
+that he may have a fair trial; and I’ll keep it from Erminia if I can, or she
+will let it all out to him. I shall see you to-morrow at the coach. God bless
+you, my girl, and keep you on the great wide sea.” He was absolutely in tears
+when he went away—tears of admiring regret over Maggie.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2>CHAPTER X.</h2>
+
+<p>
+The more Maggie thought, the more she felt sure that the impulse on which she
+had acted in proposing to go with her brother was right. She feared there was
+little hope for his character, whatever there might be for his worldly fortune,
+if he were thrown, in the condition of mind in which he was now, among the set
+of adventurous men who are continually going over to America in search of an El
+Dorado to be discovered by their wits. She knew she had but little influence
+over him at present; but she would not doubt or waver in her hope that patience
+and love might work him right at last. She meant to get some employment—in
+teaching—in needlework—in a shop—no matter how humble—and be no burden to him,
+and make him a happy home, from which he should feel no wish to wander. Her
+chief anxiety was about her mother. She did not dwell more than she could help
+on her long absence from Frank; it was too sad, and yet too necessary. She
+meant to write and tell him all about herself and Edward. The only thing which
+she would keep for some happy future should be the possible revelation of the
+proposal which Mr. Buxton had made, that she should give up her engagement as a
+condition of his not prosecuting Edward.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There was much sorrowful bustle in the moorland cottage that day. Erminia
+brought up a portion of the money Mr. Buxton was to advance, with an entreaty
+that Edward would not show himself out of his home; and an account of a letter
+from Mr. Henry, stating that the Woodchester police believed him to be in
+London, and that search was being made for him there.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Erminia looked very grave and pale. She gave her message to Mrs. Browne,
+speaking little beyond what was absolutely necessary. Then she took Maggie
+aside, and suddenly burst into tears.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Maggie, darling—what is this going to America? You’ve always and always been
+sacrificing yourself to your family, and now you’re setting off, nobody knows
+where, in some vain hope of reforming Edward. I wish he was not your brother,
+that I might speak of him as I should like.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He has been doing what is very wrong,” said Maggie. “But you—none of you—know
+his good points—nor how he has been exposed to all sorts of bad influences, I
+am sure; and never had the advantage of a father’s training and friendship,
+which are so inestimable to a son. O, Minnie! when I remember how we two used
+to kneel down in the evenings at my father’s knee, and say our prayers; and
+then listen in awe-struck silence to his earnest blessing, which grew more like
+a prayer for us as his life waned away, I would do anything for Edward rather
+than that wrestling agony of supplication should have been in vain. I think of
+him as the little innocent boy, whose arm was round me as if to support me in
+the Awful Presence, whose true name of Love we had not learned. Minnie! he has
+had no proper training—no training, I mean, to enable him to resist
+temptation—and he has been thrown into it without warning or advice. Now he
+knows what it is; and I must try, though I am but an unknowing girl, to warn
+and to strengthen him. Don’t weaken my faith. Who can do right if we lose faith
+in them?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And Frank!” said Erminia, after a pause. “Poor Frank!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Dear Frank!” replied Maggie, looking up, and trying to smile; but, in spite of
+herself, her eyes filled with tears. “If I could have asked him, I know he
+would approve of what I am going to do. He would feel it to be right that I
+should make every effort—I don’t mean,” said she, as the tears would fall down
+her cheeks in spite of her quivering effort at a smile, “that I should not have
+liked to have seen him. But it is no use talking of what one would have liked.
+I am writing a long letter to him at every pause of leisure.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And I’m keeping you all this time,” said Erminia, getting up, yet loth to go.
+“When do you intend to come back? Let us feel there is a fixed time. America!
+Why, it’s thousands of miles away. Oh, Maggie! Maggie!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I shall come back the next autumn, I trust,” said Maggie, comforting her
+friend with many a soft caress. “Edward will be settled then, I hope. You were
+longer in France, Minnie. Frank was longer away that time he wintered in Italy
+with Mr. Monro.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Erminia went slowly to the door. Then she turned, right facing Maggie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Maggie! tell the truth. Has my uncle been urging you to go? Because if he has,
+don’t trust him; it is only to break off your engagement.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No, he has not, indeed. It was my own thought at first. Then in a moment I saw
+the relief it was to my mother—my poor mother! Erminia, the thought of her
+grief at Edward’s absence is the trial; for my sake, you will come often and
+often, and comfort her in every way you can.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes! that I will; tell me everything I can do for you.” Kissing each other,
+with long lingering delay they parted.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Nancy would be informed of the cause of the commotion in the house; and when
+she had in some degree ascertained its nature, she wasted no time in asking
+further questions, but quietly got up and dressed herself; and appeared among
+them, weak and trembling, indeed, but so calm and thoughtful, that her presence
+was an infinite help to Maggie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When day closed in, Edward stole down to the house once more. He was haggard
+enough to have been in anxiety and concealment for a month. But when his body
+was refreshed, his spirits rose in a way inconceivable to Maggie. The Spaniards
+who went out with Pizarro were not lured on by more fantastic notions of the
+wealth to be acquired in the New World than he was. He dwelt on these visions
+in so brisk and vivid a manner, that he even made his mother cease her weary
+weeping (which had lasted the livelong day, despite all Maggie’s efforts) to
+look up and listen to him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’ll answer for it,” said he: “before long I’ll be an American judge with
+miles of cotton plantations.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But in America,” sighed out his mother.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Never mind, mother!” said he, with a tenderness which made Maggie’s heart
+glad. “If you won’t come over to America to me, why, I’ll sell them all, and
+come back to live in England. People will forget the scrapes that the rich
+American got into in his youth.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You can pay back Mr. Buxton then,” said his mother.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, yes—of course,” replied he, as if falling into a new and trivial idea.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Thus the evening whiled away. The mother and son sat, hand in hand, before the
+little glinting blazing parlor fire, with the unlighted candles on the table
+behind. Maggie, busy in preparations, passed softly in and out. And when all
+was done that could be done before going to Liverpool, where she hoped to have
+two days to prepare their outfit more completely, she stole back to her
+mother’s side. But her thoughts would wander off to Frank, “working his way
+south through all the hunting-counties,” as he had written her word. If she had
+not urged his absence, he would have been here for her to see his noble face
+once more; but then, perhaps, she might never have had the strength to go.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Late, late in the night they separated. Maggie could not rest, and stole into
+her mother’s room. Mrs. Browne had cried herself to sleep, like a child. Maggie
+stood and looked at her face, and then knelt down by the bed and prayed. When
+she arose, she saw that her mother was awake, and had been looking at her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Maggie dear! you’re a good girl, and I think God will hear your prayer
+whatever it was for. I cannot tell you what a relief it is to me to think
+you’re going with him. It would have broken my heart else. If I’ve sometimes
+not been as kind as I might have been, I ask your forgiveness, now, my dear;
+and I bless you and thank you for going out with him; for I’m sure he’s not
+well and strong, and will need somebody to take care of him. And you shan’t
+lose with Mr. Frank, for as sure as I see him I’ll tell him what a good
+daughter and sister you’ve been; and I shall say, for all he is so rich, I
+think he may look long before he finds a wife for him like our Maggie. I do
+wish Ned had got that new greatcoat, he says he left behind him at
+Woodchester.” Her mind reverted to her darling son; but Maggie took her short
+slumber by her mother’s side, with her mother’s arms around her; and awoke and
+felt that her sleep had been blessed. At the coach-office the next morning they
+met Mr. Buxton all ready as if for a journey, but glancing about him as if in
+fear of some coming enemy.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’m going with you to Liverpool,” said he. “Don’t make any ado about it,
+please. I shall like to see you off; and I may be of some use to you, and
+Erminia begged it of me; and, besides, it will keep me out of Mr. Henry’s way
+for a little time, and I’m afraid he will find it all out, and think me very
+weak; but you see he made me too hard upon Crayston, so I may take it out in a
+little soft-heartedness toward the son of an old friend.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Just at this moment Erminia came running through the white morning mist all
+glowing with haste.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Maggie,” said she, “I’m come to take care of your mother. My uncle says she
+and Nancy must come to us for a long, long visit. Or if she would rather go
+home, I’ll go with her till she feels able to come to us, and do anything I can
+think of for her. I will try to be a daughter till you come back, Maggie; only
+don’t be long, or Frank and I shall break our hearts.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie waited till her mother had ended her long clasping embrace of Edward,
+who was subdued enough this morning; and then, with something like Esau’s
+craving for a blessing, she came to bid her mother good-bye, and received the
+warm caress she had longed for for years. In another moment the coach was away;
+and before half an hour had elapsed, Combehurst church-spire had been lost in a
+turn of the road.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Edward and Mr. Buxton did not speak to each other, and Maggie was nearly
+silent. They reached Liverpool in the afternoon; and Mr. Buxton, who had been
+there once or twice before, took them directly to some quiet hotel. He was far
+more anxious that Edward should not expose himself to any chance of recognition
+than Edward himself. He went down to the Docks to secure berths in the vessel
+about to sail the next day, and on his return he took Maggie out to make the
+requisite purchases.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Did you pay for us, sir?” said Maggie, anxious to ascertain the amount of
+money she had left, after defraying the passage.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes,” replied he, rather confused. “Erminia begged me not to tell you about
+it, but I can’t manage a secret well. You see she did not like the idea of your
+going as steerage-passengers as you meant to do; and she desired me to take you
+cabin places for her. It is no doing of mine, my dear. I did not think of it;
+but now I have seen how crowded the steerage is, I am very glad Erminia had so
+much thought. Edward might have roughed it well enough there, but it would
+never have done for you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It was very kind of Erminia,” said Maggie, touched at this consideration of
+her friend; “but...”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Now don’t ‘but’ about it,” interrupted he. “Erminia is very rich, and has more
+money than she knows what to do with. I’m only vexed I did not think of it
+myself. For Maggie, though I may have my own ways of thinking on some points, I
+can’t be blind to your goodness.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+All evening Mr. Buxton was busy, and busy on their behalf. Even Edward, when he
+saw the attention that was being paid to his physical comfort, felt a kind of
+penitence; and after choking once or twice in the attempt, conquered his pride
+(such I call it for want of a better word) so far as to express some regret for
+his past conduct, and some gratitude for Mr. Buxton’s present kindness. He did
+it awkwardly enough, but it pleased Mr. Buxton.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well—well—that’s all very right,” said he, reddening from his own
+uncomfortableness of feeling. “Now don’t say any more about it, but do your
+best in America; don’t let me feel I’ve been a fool in letting you off. I know
+Mr. Henry will think me so. And, above all, take care of Maggie. Mind what she
+says, and you’re sure to go right.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He asked them to go on board early the next day, as he had promised Erminia to
+see them there, and yet wished to return as soon as he could. It was evident
+that he hoped, by making his absence as short as possible, to prevent Mr.
+Henry’s ever knowing that he had left home, or in any way connived at Edward’s
+escape.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+So, although the vessel was not to sail till the afternoon’s tide, they left
+the hotel soon after breakfast, and went to the “Anna-Maria.” They were among
+the first passengers on board. Mr. Buxton took Maggie down to her cabin. She
+then saw the reason of his business the evening before. Every store that could
+be provided was there. A number of books lay on the little table—books just
+suited to Maggie’s taste. “There!” said he, rubbing his hands. “Don’t thank me.
+It’s all Erminia’s doing. She gave me the list of books. I’ve not got all; but
+I think they’ll be enough. Just write me one line, Maggie, to say I’ve done my
+best.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie wrote with tears in her eyes—tears of love toward the generous Erminia.
+A few minutes more and Mr. Buxton was gone. Maggie watched him as long as she
+could see him; and as his portly figure disappeared among the crowd on the
+pier, her heart sank within her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Edward’s, on the contrary, rose at his absence. The only one, cognisant of his
+shame and ill-doing, was gone. A new life lay before him, the opening of which
+was made agreeable to him, by the position in which he found himself placed, as
+a cabin-passenger; with many comforts provided for him; for although Maggie’s
+wants had been the principal object of Mr. Buxton’s attention, Edward was not
+forgotten.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He was soon among the sailors, talking away in a rather consequential manner.
+He grew acquainted with the remainder of the cabin-passengers, at least those
+who arrived before the final bustle began; and kept bringing his sister such
+little pieces of news as he could collect.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Maggie, they say we are likely to have a good start, and a fine moonlight
+night.” Away again he went.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I say, Maggie, that’s an uncommonly pretty girl come on board, with those old
+people in black. Gone down into the cabin, now; I wish you would scrape up an
+acquaintance with her, and give me a chance.”
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2>CHAPTER XI.</h2>
+
+<p>
+Maggie sat on deck, wrapped in her duffel-cloak; the old familiar cloak, which
+had been her wrap in many a happy walk in the haunts near her moorland home.
+The weather was not cold for the time of year, but still it was chilly to any
+one that was stationary. But she wanted to look her last on the shoals of
+English people, who crowded backward and forward, like ants, on the pier. Happy
+people! who might stay among their loved ones. The mocking demons gathered
+round her, as they gather round all who sacrifice self, tempting. A crowd of
+suggestive doubts pressed upon her. “Was it really necessary that she should go
+with Edward? Could she do him any real good? Would he be in any way influenced
+by her?” Then the demon tried another description of doubt. “Had it ever been
+her duty to go? She was leaving her mother alone. She was giving Frank much
+present sorrow. It was not even yet too late!” She could not endure longer; and
+replied to her own tempting heart.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I was right to hope for Edward; I am right to give him the chance of
+steadiness which my presence will give. I am doing what my mother earnestly
+wished me to do; and what to the last she felt relieved by my doing. I know
+Frank will feel sorrow, because I myself have such an aching heart; but if I
+had asked him whether I was not right in going, he would have been too truthful
+not to have said yes. I have tried to do right, and though I may fail, and evil
+may seem to arise rather than good out of my endeavor, yet still I will submit
+to my failure, and try and say ‘God’s will be done!’ If only I might have seen
+Frank once more, and told him all face to face!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+To do away with such thoughts, she determined no longer to sit gazing, and
+tempted by the shore; and, giving one look to the land which contained her
+lover, she went down below, and busied herself, even through her blinding
+tears, in trying to arrange her own cabin, and Edward’s. She heard boat after
+boat arrive loaded with passengers. She learnt from Edward, who came down to
+tell her the fact, that there were upwards of two hundred steerage passengers.
+She felt the tremulous shake which announced that the ship was loosed from her
+moorings, and being tugged down the river. She wrapped herself up once more,
+and came on deck, and sat down among the many who were looking their last look
+at England. The early winter evening was darkening in, and shutting out the
+Welsh coast, the hills of which were like the hills of home. She was thankful
+when she became too ill to think and remember.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Exhausted and still, she did not know whether she was sleeping or waking; or
+whether she had slept since she had thrown herself down on her cot, when
+suddenly, there was a great rush, and then Edward stood like lightning by her,
+pulling her up by the arm.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“The ship is on fire—to the deck, Maggie! Fire! Fire!” he shouted, like a
+maniac, while he dragged her up the stairs—as if the cry of Fire could summon
+human aid on the great deep. And the cry was echoed up to heaven by all that
+crowd in an accent of despair.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They stood huddled together, dressed and undressed; now in red lurid light,
+showing ghastly faces of terror—now in white wreaths of smoke—as far away from
+the steerage as they could press; for there, up from the hold, rose columns of
+smoke, and now and then a fierce blaze leaped out, exulting—higher and higher
+every time; while from each crevice on that part of the deck issued harbingers
+of the terrible destruction that awaited them.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The sailors were lowering the boats; and above them stood the captain, as calm
+as if he were on his own hearth at home—his home where he never more should be.
+His voice was low—was lower; but as clear as a bell in its distinctness; as
+wise in its directions as collected thought could make it. Some of the steerage
+passengers were helping; but more were dumb and motionless with affright. In
+that dead silence was heard a low wail of sorrow, as of numbers whose power was
+crushed out of them by that awful terror. Edward still held his clutch of
+Margaret’s arm.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Be ready!” said he, in a fierce whisper.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The fire sprung up along the main-mast, and did not sink or disappear again.
+They knew then that all the mad efforts made by some few below to extinguish it
+were in vain; and then went up the prayers of hundreds, in mortal agony of
+fear:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Lord! have mercy upon us!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Not in quiet calm of village church did ever such a pitiful cry go up to
+heaven; it was like one voice—like the day of judgment in the presence of the
+Lord.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And after that there was no more silence; but a confusion of terrible
+farewells, and wild cries of affright, and purposeless rushes hither and
+thither.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The boats were down, rocking on the sea. The captain spoke:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Put the children in first; they are the most helpless.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One or two stout sailors stood in the boats to receive them. Edward drew nearer
+and nearer to the gangway, pulling Maggie with him. She was almost pressed to
+death, and stifled. Close in her ear, she heard a woman praying to herself.
+She, poor creature, knew of no presence but God’s in that awful hour, and spoke
+in a low voice to Him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“My heart’s darlings are taken away from me. Faith! faith! Oh, my great God! I
+will die in peace, if Thou wilt but grant me faith in this terrible hour, to
+feel that Thou wilt take care of my poor orphans. Hush! dearest Billy,” she
+cried out shrill to a little fellow in the boat waiting for his mother; and the
+change in her voice from despair to a kind of cheerfulness, showed what a
+mother’s love can do. “Mother will come soon. Hide his face, Anne, and wrap
+your shawl tight round him.” And then her voice sank down again in the same
+low, wild prayer for faith. Maggie could not turn to see her face, but took the
+hand which hung near her. The woman clutched at it with the grasp of a vice;
+but went on praying, as if unconscious. Just then the crowd gave way a little.
+The captain had said, that the women were to go next; but they were too
+frenzied to obey his directions, and now pressed backward and forward. The
+sailors, with mute, stern obedience, strove to follow out the captain’s
+directions. Edward pulled Maggie, and she kept her hold on the mother. The
+mate, at the head of the gangway, pushed him back.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Only women are to go!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“There are men there.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Three, to manage the boat.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come on, Maggie! while there’s room for us,” said he, unheeding. But Maggie
+drew back, and put the mother’s hand into the mate’s. “Save her first!” said
+she. The woman did not know of anything, but that her children were there; it
+was only in after days, and quiet hours, that she remembered the young creature
+who pushed her forward to join her fatherless children, and, by losing her
+place in the crowd, was jostled—where, she did not know—but dreamed until her
+dying day. Edward pressed on, unaware that Maggie was not close behind him. He
+was deaf to reproaches; and, heedless of the hand stretched out to hold him
+back, sprang toward the boat. The men there pushed her off—full and more than
+full as she was; and overboard he fell into the sullen heaving waters.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+His last shout had been on Maggie’s name—a name she never thought to hear again
+on earth, as she was pressed back, sick and suffocating. But suddenly a voice
+rang out above all confused voices and moaning hungry waves, and above the
+roaring fire.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Maggie, Maggie! My Maggie!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Out of the steerage side of the crowd a tall figure issued forth, begrimed with
+smoke. She could not see, but she knew. As a tame bird flutters to the human
+breast of its protector when affrighted by some mortal foe, so Maggie fluttered
+and cowered into his arms. And, for a moment, there was no more terror or
+thought of danger in the hearts of those twain, but only infinite and absolute
+peace. She had no wonder how he came there: it was enough that he was there. He
+first thought of the destruction that was present with them. He was as calm and
+composed as if they sat beneath the thorn-tree on the still moorlands, far
+away. He took her, without a word, to the end of the quarter-deck. He lashed
+her to a piece of spar. She never spoke:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Maggie,” he said, “my only chance is to throw you overboard. This spar will
+keep you floating. At first, you will go down—deep, deep down. Keep your mouth
+and eyes shut. I shall be there when you come up. By God’s help, I will
+struggle bravely for you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She looked up; and by the flashing light he could see a trusting, loving smile
+upon her face. And he smiled back at her; a grave, beautiful look, fit to wear
+on his face in heaven. He helped her to the side of the vessel, away from the
+falling burning pieces of mast. Then for a moment he paused.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If—Maggie, I may be throwing you in to death.” He put his hand before his
+eyes. The strong man lost courage. Then she spoke:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I am not afraid; God is with us, whether we live or die!” She looked as quiet
+and happy as a child on its mother’s breast! and so before he lost heart again,
+he heaved her up, and threw her as far as he could over into the glaring,
+dizzying water; and straight leaped after her. She came up with an involuntary
+look of terror on her face; but when she saw him by the red glare of the
+burning ship, close by her side, she shut her eyes, and looked as if peacefully
+going to sleep. He swam, guiding the spar.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I think we are near Llandudno. I know we have passed the little Ormes’ head.”
+That was all he said; but she did not speak.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He swam out of the heat and fierce blaze of light into the quiet, dark waters;
+and then into the moon’s path. It might be half an hour before he got into that
+silver stream. When the beams fell down upon them he looked at Maggie. Her head
+rested on the spar, quite still. He could not bear it. “Maggie—dear heart!
+speak!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+With a great effort she was called back from the borders of death by that
+voice, and opened her filmy eyes, which looked abroad as if she could see
+nothing nearer than the gleaming lights of Heaven. She let the lids fall softly
+again. He was as if alone in the wide world with God.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“A quarter of an hour more and all is over,” thought he. “The people at
+Llandudno must see our burning ship, and will come out in their boats.” He kept
+in the line of light, although it did not lead him direct to the shore, in
+order that they might be seen. He swam with desperation. One moment he thought
+he had heard her last gasp rattle through the rush of the waters; and all
+strength was gone, and he lay on the waves as if he himself must die, and go
+with her spirit straight through that purple lift to heaven; the next he heard
+the splash of oars, and raised himself and cried aloud. The boatmen took them
+in—and examined her by the lantern—and spoke in Welsh—and shook their heads.
+Frank threw himself on his knees, and prayed them to take her to land. They did
+not know his words, but they understood his prayer. He kissed her lips—he
+chafed her hands—he wrung the water out of her hair—he held her feet against
+his warm breast.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“She is not dead,” he kept saying to the men, as he saw their sorrowful,
+pitying looks.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The kind people at Llandudno had made ready their own humble beds, with every
+appliance of comfort they could think of, as soon as they understood the nature
+of the calamity which had befallen the ship on their coasts. Frank walked,
+dripping, bareheaded, by the body of his Margaret, which was borne by some men
+along the rocky sloping shore.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“She is not dead!” he said. He stopped at the first house they came to. It
+belonged to a kind-hearted woman. They laid Maggie in her bed, and got the
+village doctor to come and see her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“There is life still,” said he, gravely.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I knew it,” said Frank. But it felled him to the ground. He sank first in
+prayer, and then in insensibility. The doctor did everything. All that night
+long he passed to and fro from house to house; for several had swum to
+Llandudno. Others, it was thought, had gone to Abergele.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In the morning Frank was recovered enough to write to his father, by Maggie’s
+bedside. He sent the letter off to Conway by a little bright-looking Welsh boy.
+Late in the afternoon she awoke.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In a moment or two she looked eagerly round her, as if gathering in her breath;
+and then she covered her head and sobbed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Where is Edward?” asked she.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“We do not know,” said Frank, gravely. “I have been round the village, and seen
+every survivor here; he is not among them, but he may be at some other place
+along the coast.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She was silent, reading in his eyes his fears—his belief.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At last she asked again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I cannot understand it. My head is not clear. There are such rushing noises in
+it. How came you there?” She shuddered involuntarily as she recalled the
+terrible where.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+For an instant he dreaded, for her sake, to recall the circumstances of the
+night before; but then he understood how her mind would dwell upon them until
+she was satisfied.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You remember writing to me, love, telling me all. I got your letter—I don’t
+know how long ago—yesterday, I think. Yes! in the evening. You could not think,
+Maggie, I would let you go alone to America. I won’t speak against Edward, poor
+fellow! but we must both allow that he was not the person to watch over you as
+such a treasure should be watched over. I thought I would go with you. I hardly
+know if I meant to make myself known to you all at once, for I had no wish to
+have much to do with your brother. I see now that it was selfish in me. Well!
+there was nothing to be done, after receiving your letter, but to set off for
+Liverpool straight, and join you. And after that decision was made, my spirits
+rose, for the old talks about Canada and Australia came to my mind, and this
+seemed like a realization of them. Besides, Maggie, I suspected—I even suspect
+now—that my father had something to do with your going with Edward?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Indeed, Frank!” said she, earnestly, “you are mistaken; I cannot tell you all
+now; but he was so good and kind at last. He never urged me to go; though, I
+believe, he did tell me it would be the saving of Edward.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t agitate yourself, love. I trust there will be time enough, some happy
+day at home, to tell me all. And till then, I will believe that my father did
+not in any way suggest this voyage. But you’ll allow that, after all that has
+passed, it was not unnatural in me to suppose so. I only told Middleton I was
+obliged to leave him by the next train. It was not till I was fairly off, that
+I began to reckon up what money I had with me. I doubt even if I was sorry to
+find it was so little. I should have to put forth my energies and fight my way,
+as I had often wanted to do. I remember, I thought how happy you and I would
+be, striving together as poor people ‘in that new world which is the old.’ Then
+you had told me you were going in the steerage; and that was all suitable to my
+desires for myself.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It was Erminia’s kindness that prevented our going there. She asked your
+father to take us cabin places unknown to me.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Did she? dear Erminia! it is just like her. I could almost laugh to remember
+the eagerness with which I doffed my signs of wealth, and put on those of
+poverty. I sold my watch when I got into Liverpool—yesterday, I believe—but it
+seems like months ago. And I rigged myself out at a slop-shop with suitable
+clothes for a steerage passenger. Maggie! you never told me the name of the
+vessel you were going to sail in!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I did not know it till I got to Liverpool. All Mr. Buxton said was, that some
+ship sailed on the 15th.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I concluded it must be the Anna-Maria, (poor Anna-Maria!) and I had no time to
+lose. She had just heaved her anchor when I came on board. Don’t you recollect
+a boat hailing her at the last moment? There were three of us in her.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No! I was below in my cabin—trying not to think,” said she, coloring a little.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well! as soon as I got on board it began to grow dark, or, perhaps, it was the
+fog on the river; at any rate, instead of being able to single out your figure
+at once, Maggie—it is one among a thousand—I had to go peering into every
+woman’s face; and many were below. I went between decks, and by-and-by I was
+afraid I had mistaken the vessel; I sat down—I had no spirit to stand; and
+every time the door opened I roused up and looked—but you never came. I was
+thinking what to do; whether to be put on shore in Ireland, or to go on to New
+York, and wait for you there;—it was the worst time of all, for I had nothing
+to do; and the suspense was horrible. I might have known,” said he, smiling,
+“my little Emperor of Russia was not one to be a steerage passenger.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But Maggie was too much shaken to smile; and the thought of Edward lay heavy
+upon her mind.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Then the fire broke out; how, or why, I suppose will never be ascertained. It
+was at our end of the vessel. I thanked God, then, that you were not there. The
+second mate wanted some one to go down with him to bring up the gunpowder, and
+throw it overboard. I had nothing to do, and I went. We wrapped it up in wet
+sails, but it was a ticklish piece of work, and took time. When we had got it
+overboard, the flames were gathering far and wide. I don’t remember what I did
+until I heard Edward’s voice speaking your name.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was decided that the next morning they should set off homeward, striving on
+their way to obtain tidings of Edward. Frank would have given his only
+valuable, (his mother’s diamond-guard, which he wore constantly,) as a pledge
+for some advance of money; but the kind Welsh people would not have it. They
+had not much spare cash, but what they had they readily lent to the survivors
+of the Anna-Maria. Dressed in the homely country garb of the people, Frank and
+Maggie set off in their car. If was a clear, frosty morning; the first that
+winter. The road soon lay high up on the cliffs along the coast. They looked
+down on the sea rocking below. At every village they stopped, and Frank
+inquired, and made the driver inquire in Welsh; but no tidings gained they of
+Edward; though here and there Maggie watched Frank into some cottage or other,
+going to see a dead body, beloved by some one: and when he came out, solemn and
+grave, their sad eyes met, and she knew it was not he they sought, without
+needing words.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At Abergele they stopped to rest; and because, being a larger place, it would
+need a longer search, Maggie lay down on the sofa, for she was very weak, and
+shut her eyes, and tried not to see forever and ever that mad struggling crowd
+lighted by the red flames.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Frank came back in an hour or so; and soft behind him—laboriously treading on
+tiptoe—Mr. Buxton followed. He was evidently choking down his sobs; but when he
+saw the white wan figure of Maggie, he held out his arms.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“My dear! my daughter!” he said, “God bless you!” He could not speak more—he
+was fairly crying; but he put her hand in Frank’s and kept holding them both.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“My father,” said Frank, speaking in a husky voice, while his eyes filled with
+tears, “had heard of it before he received my letter. I might have known that
+the lighthouse signals would take it fast to Liverpool. I had written a few
+lines to him saying I was going to you; happily they never reached—that was
+spared to my dear father.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie saw the look of restored confidence that passed between father and son.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“My mother?” said she at last.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“She is here,” said they both at once, with sad solemnity.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, where? Why did not you tell me?” exclaimed she, starting up. But their
+faces told her why.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Edward is drowned—is dead,” said she, reading their looks.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There was no answer.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Let me go to my mother.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Maggie, she is with him. His body was washed ashore last night. My father and
+she heard of it as they came along. Can you bear to see her? She will not leave
+him.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Take me to her,” Maggie answered.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They led her into a bed-room. Stretched on the bed lay Edward, but now so full
+of hope and worldly plans.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. Browne looked round, and saw Maggie. She did not get up from her place by
+his head; nor did she long avert her gaze from his poor face. But she held
+Maggie’s hand, as the girl knelt by her, and spoke to her in a hushed voice,
+undisturbed by tears. Her miserable heart could not find that relief.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He is dead!—he is gone!—he will never come back again! If he had gone to
+America—it might have been years first—but he would have come back to me. But
+now he will never come back again;—never—never!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Her voice died away, as the wailings of the night-wind die in the distance; and
+there was silence—silence more sad and hopeless than any passionate words of
+grief.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And to this day it is the same. She prizes her dead son more than a thousand
+living daughters, happy and prosperous as is Maggie now—rich in the love of
+many. If Maggie did not show such reverence to her mother’s faithful sorrows,
+others might wonder at her refusal to be comforted by that sweet daughter. But
+Maggie treats her with such tender sympathy, never thinking of herself or her
+own claims, that Frank, Erminia, Mr. Buxton, Nancy, and all, are reverent and
+sympathizing too.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Over both old and young the memory of one who is dead broods like a dove—of one
+who could do but little during her lifetime—who was doomed only to “stand and
+wait”—who was meekly content to _be_ gentle, holy, patient, and undefiled—the
+memory of the invalid Mrs. Buxton.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“THERE’S ROSEMARY FOR REMEMBRANCE.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>Valuable Works,</b>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+IN THE DEPARTMENTS OF
+</p>
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+William the Conqueror, Queen Elizabeth, Mary Queen of Scots, Charles the First,
+Charles the Second, Queen Anne, King John, Richard the First, William and Mary,
+Maria Antoinette, Madame Roland, Josephine. Illuminated Title-pages and
+numerous Engravings. 16mo, Muslin, 60 cents each; Muslin, gilt edges, 75 cents
+each.
+</p>
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+<p>
+<b>Lives of the Queens of Scotland,</b> And English Princesses connected with
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+Muslin, $1 00 per Volume.
+</p>
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+from the Creation to the present Era; with rare Gems of Thought selected from
+the most celebrated Female Writers. By MRS. SARAH J. HALE. With over 200
+Portraits. 8vo, Muslin.
+</p>
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+<b>History of the United States,</b> From the first Settlement of the Country
+to the Organization of Government under the Federal Constitution. By RICHARD
+HILDRETH, Esq. 3 vols. 8vo, half Calf, $7 50; Sheep, $6 75; Muslin, $6 00.
+</p>
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+Federal Constitution to the End of the Sixteenth Congress. By RICHARD HILDRETH,
+Esq. 3 vols. 8vo, Muslin, $6 00; Sheep, $6 75; half Calf, $7 50.
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+<p>
+<b>The Pictorial Field-Book of the Revolution;</b> or, Illustrations by Pen and
+Pencil, of the History, Scenery, Biography, Relics, and Traditions of the War
+for Independence. By BENSON J. LOSSING, Esq. Embellished with 500 Engravings on
+Wood, chiefly from Original Sketches by the Author. In about 20 Numbers, 8vo,
+Paper, 25 cents each.
+</p>
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+00 per Volume.
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+Muslin, $2 00.
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+one of his Executors. With an Introductory Letter by WASHINGTON IRVING, Esq.
+Portrait. 2 vols. 12mo, Muslin, $2 50.
+</p>
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+<b>Benjamin Franklin’s Autobiography.</b> With a Sketch of his Public Services,
+by REV. H. HASTINGS WELD. With numerous exquisite Designs, by JOHN G. CHAPMAN.
+8vo, Muslin, $2 50; Sheep, $2 75; half Calf, $3 00.
+</p>
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+Sheep, $3 00.
+</p>
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+Notes by Rev. H.H. MILMAN. To which is added a complete index of the whole Work
+and a Portrait of the Author. 6 vols. 12mo (uniform with Hume), Cloth, $2 40;
+Sheep, $3 00.
+</p>
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+and Shipmaster from the Port of New York. By Rev. H.T. CHEEVER. 16mo, Muslin.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>History of Spanish Literature.</b> With Criticisms on the particular Works
+and Biographical Notices of prominent Writers. By GEORGE TICKNOR, Esq. 3 vols.
+8vo, half Calf extra, $7 50; Sheep extra, $6 75; Muslin, $6 00.
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+CORKRAN, Esq. 12mo, Muslin, 90 cents; Paper, 75 cents.
+</p>
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+</p>
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+</p>
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+</p>
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+&amp;c. 2 vols. 8vo, half Calf, $5 00; Sheep extra, $4 50; Muslin, $4 00.
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+</p>
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+</p>
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+&amp;c. 10 vols. 12mo, Muslin, $7 50. Each volume sold separately, if desired,
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+</p>
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+<p>
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+amended. Translated from the German, by SAMUEL DAVIDSON, LL.D. Vols. I. and
+II., 8vo, Muslin $3 00.
+</p>
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+<p>
+<b>History of the American Bible Society.</b> From its Organization in 1816 to
+the Present Time. By Rev. W.P. STRICKLAND. With an Introduction, by Rev. N.L.
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+Society. 8vo, Sheep, $1 75; Cloth, $1 50.
+</p>
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+With Portraits and Fac-simile Autographs. 8vo, Muslin, $3 00 per Volume.
+</p>
+
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+A.D. 192. With Questions, by JOHN ROBSON, B.A. 18mo, Muslin, 75 cents.
+</p>
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+<p>
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+</p>
+
+<p>
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+$2 10.
+</p>
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+<p>
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+Illustrated by numerous Engravings. Publishing in Monthly Numbers, 8vo, Paper,
+25 cents each.
+</p>
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+</p>
+
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+Narrative. By T. CARLYLE. 2 vols. 12mo, Muslin, $2 00.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>Life of Madame Guyon.</b> Life and Religious Opinions of Madame Guyon:
+together with some Account of the Personal History and Religious Opinions of
+Archbishop Fenelon. By T.C. UPHAM. 2 vols. 12mo, Muslin, $2 00.
+</p>
+
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+illustrate the Doctrine of Holiness. 12mo, Muslin, gilt edges, 60 cents;
+Muslin, 50 cents.
+</p>
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+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>History of Wonderful Inventions.</b> Illustrated by numerous Engravings.
+12mo, Muslin, 75 cents; Paper, 50 cents.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>The Valley of the Mississippi.</b> History of the Discovery and Settlement
+of the Valley of the Mississippi, by the three great European Powers, Spain,
+France, and Great Britain; and the subsequent Occupation, Settlement, and
+Extension of Civil Government by the United States, until the year 1846. By
+JOHN W. MONETTE, Esq. Maps. 2 vols. 8vo, Muslin, $5 00; Sheep, $5 50.
+</p>
+
+<p>
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+Edited, with a Preface and Memoir, by HORACE GREELEY. With Portrait. 8vo,
+Muslin, $1 50.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>ABBOTT’S HISTORIES</b> in course of publication <b>By Harper and Brothers,
+New York.</b>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Each Volume of this Series is printed and bound uniform with the other Volumes,
+and is adorned with a richly-illuminated title-page and numerous Engravings.
+12mo, Muslin, plain edges, 60 cents per volume; Muslin, gilt edges, 75 cents
+per volume.
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>
+<b>Mary Queen of Scots.</b>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+This history is given here minute in every point of real interest, and without
+the encumbrance of useless opinions. There is no sentence thrown away—no time
+lost in mere ornament. Perhaps no book extant containing so few pages, can said
+to convey so many genuine historical facts. There is here no attempt to glaze
+over recorded truth, or win the reader by sophistry to opinions merely those of
+the author. The pure, simple history of Queen Mary is placed before the reader,
+and each one is left to form an unbiased opinion from events impartially
+recorded there. One great and most valuable feature in this little work is a
+map of Scotland, with many engravings of the royal castles and wild scenes
+connected with Mary’s history. There is also a beautiful portrait of the Queen,
+and a richly illuminated title-page such as only the Harpers can get
+up—_National Magazine._
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>
+<b>Queen Elizabeth.</b>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Full of instructive and heart-stirring incident, displayed by the hand of a
+master. We doubt whether old Queen Bess ever before had so much justice done to
+her within the same compass. Such a pen as Jacob Abbott wields, especially in
+this department of literature, has no right to lie still—_Albany Express_.
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>
+<b>Charles the First.</b>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We incline to think that there never was before so much said about this
+unfortunate monarch in so short a space; so much to the purpose; with so much
+impartiality; and in such a style as just suits those for whom it is
+designed—the “two millions” of young persons in the United States, who ought to
+be supplied with such works as these. The engravings represent the prominent
+persons and places of the history, and are well executed. The portrait of John
+Hampden is charming. The antique title-page is rich.—_Southern Christian
+Advocate._
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>
+<b>Hannibal the Carthaginian.</b>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A new volume of the series projected by the skillful book-manufacturer, Mr.
+Abbott, who displays no little tact in engaging the attention of that
+marvellous body “the reading public” in old scholastic topics hitherto almost
+exclusively the property of the learned. The latter, with their ingenious
+implements of lexicons and scholia, will be in no danger of being superseded,
+however, while the least-furnished reader may gain something from the
+attractively-printed and easily-perused volumes of Mr. Abbott. The story of
+Hannibal is well adapted for popular treatment, and loses nothing for this
+purpose in the present explanatory and pictorial version.—_Literary World._
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>
+<b>Maria Antoinette.</b>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In a style copious and yet forcible, with an expression singularly clear and
+happy, and in language exceedingly chaste and at times very beautiful, he has
+given us a plain, unvarnished narrative of facts, as he himself says, unclogged
+by individual reflections which would “only encumber rather than enforce.” The
+present work wants none of the interest inseparably connecting itself with the
+preceding numbers of the same series, but is characterized throughout by the
+same peculiar beauties, riveting the attention and deeply engraving on the mind
+the information with which they every where teem.—_Evening Mirror._
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 11371 ***</div>
+</body>
+
+</html>
+
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+This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements,
+metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be
+in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES.
+
+Procedures for determining public domain status are described in
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+
+No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in
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+status under the laws that apply to them.
diff --git a/README.md b/README.md
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+++ b/README.md
@@ -0,0 +1,2 @@
+Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for
+eBook #11371 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/11371)
diff --git a/old/11371-0.txt b/old/11371-0.txt
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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 11371 ***
+THE MOORLAND COTTAGE.
+
+
+
+By the author of MARY BARTON.
+
+
+
+
+NEW YORK: 1851.
+
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+
+CHAPTER I.
+
+If you take the turn to the left, after you pass the lyke-gate at
+Combehurst Church, you will come to the wooden bridge over the brook; keep
+along the field-path which mounts higher and higher, and, in half a mile or
+so, you will be in a breezy upland field, almost large enough to be called
+a down, where sheep pasture on the short, fine, elastic turf. You look down
+on Combehurst and its beautiful church-spire. After the field is crossed,
+you come to a common, richly colored with the golden gorse and the purple
+heather, which in summer-time send out their warm scents into the quiet
+air. The swelling waves of the upland make a near horizon against the sky;
+the line is only broken in one place by a small grove of Scotch firs, which
+always look black and shadowed even at mid-day, when all the rest of the
+landscape seems bathed in sunlight. The lark quivers and sings high up in
+the air; too high--in too dazzling a region for you to see her. Look! she
+drops into sight; but, as if loth to leave the heavenly radiance, she
+balances herself and floats in the ether. Now she falls suddenly right into
+her nest, hidden among the ling, unseen except by the eyes of Heaven,
+and the small bright insects that run hither and thither on the elastic
+flower-stalks. With something like the sudden drop of the lark, the path
+goes down a green abrupt descent; and in a basin, surrounded by the grassy
+hills, there stands a dwelling, which is neither cottage nor house, but
+something between the two in size. Nor yet is it a farm, though surrounded
+by living things. It is, or rather it was, at the time of which I speak,
+the dwelling of Mrs. Browne, the widow of the late curate of Combehurst.
+There she lived with her faithful old servant and her only children, a boy
+and girl. They were as secluded in their green hollow as the households in
+the German forest-tales. Once a week they emerged and crossed the common,
+catching on its summit the first sounds of the sweet-toned bells, calling
+them to church. Mrs. Browne walked first, holding Edward's hand. Old Nancy
+followed with Maggie; but they were all one party, and all talked together
+in a subdued and quiet tone, as beseemed the day. They had not much to say,
+their lives were too unbroken; for, excepting on Sundays, the widow and
+her children never went to Combehurst. Most people would have thought the
+little town a quiet, dreamy place; but to those two children if seemed
+the world; and after they had crossed the bridge, they each clasped more
+tightly the hands which they held, and looked shyly up from beneath their
+drooped eyelids when spoken to by any of their mother's friends. Mrs.
+Browne was regularly asked by some one to stay to dinner after morning
+church, and as regularly declined, rather to the timid children's relief;
+although in the week-days they sometimes spoke together in a low voice
+of the pleasure it would be to them if mamma would go and dine at Mr.
+Buxton's, where the little girl in white and that great tall boy lived.
+Instead of staying there, or anywhere else, on Sundays, Mrs. Browne thought
+it her duty to go and cry over her husband's grave. The custom had arisen
+out of true sorrow for his loss, for a kinder husband, and more worthy man,
+had never lived; but the simplicity of her sorrow had been destroyed by the
+observation of others on the mode of its manifestation. They made way for
+her to cross the grass toward his grave; and she, fancying that it was
+expected of her, fell into the habit I have mentioned. Her children,
+holding each a hand, felt awed and uncomfortable, and were sensitively
+conscious how often they were pointed out, as a mourning group, to
+observation.
+
+"I wish it would always rain on Sundays," said Edward one day to Maggie, in
+a garden conference.
+
+"Why?" asked she.
+
+"Because then we bustle out of church, and get home as fast as we can, to
+save mamma's crape; and we have not to go and cry over papa."
+
+"I don't cry," said Maggie. "Do you?"
+
+Edward looked round before he answered, to see if they were quite alone,
+and then said:
+
+"No; I was sorry a long time about papa, but one can't go on being sorry
+forever. Perhaps grown-up people can."
+
+"Mamma can," said little Maggie. "Sometimes I am very sorry too; when I am
+by myself or playing with you, or when I am wakened up by the moonlight
+in our room. Do you ever waken and fancy you heard papa calling you? I
+do sometimes; and then I am very sorry to think we shall never hear him
+calling us again."
+
+"Ah, it's different with me, you know. He used to call me to lessons."
+
+"Sometimes he called me when he was displeased with me. But I always dream
+that he was calling us in his own kind voice, as he used to do when he
+wanted us to walk with him, or to show us something pretty."
+
+Edward was silent, playing with something on the ground. At last he
+looked round again, and, having convinced himself that they could not be
+overheard, he whispered:
+
+"Maggie--sometimes I don't think I'm sorry that papa is dead--when I'm
+naughty, you know; he would have been so angry with me if he had been here;
+and I think--only sometimes, you know, I'm rather glad he is not."
+
+"Oh, Edward! you don't mean to say so, I know. Don't let us talk about him.
+We can't talk rightly, we're such little children. Don't, Edward, please."
+
+Poor little Maggie's eyes filled with tears; and she never spoke again to
+Edward, or indeed to any one, about her dead father. As she grew older, her
+life became more actively busy. The cottage and small outbuildings, and the
+garden and field, were their own; and on the produce they depended for much
+of their support. The cow, the pig, and the poultry took up much of Nancy's
+time. Mrs. Browne and Maggie had to do a great deal of the house-work; and
+when the beds were made, and the rooms swept and dusted, and the
+preparations for dinner ready, then, if there was any time, Maggie sat down
+to her lessons. Ned, who prided himself considerably on his sex, had been
+sitting all the morning, in his father's arm-chair, in the little
+book-room, "studying," as he chose to call it. Sometimes Maggie would pop
+her head in, with a request that he would help her to carry the great
+pitcher of water up-stairs, or do some other little household service;
+with which request he occasionally complied, but with so many complaints
+about the interruption, that at last she told him she would never ask
+him again. Gently as this was said, he yet felt it as a reproach, and
+tried to excuse himself.
+
+"You see, Maggie, a man must be educated to be a gentleman. Now, if a woman
+knows how to keep a house, that's all that is wanted from her. So my time
+is of more consequence than yours. Mamma says I'm to go to college, and be
+a clergyman; so I must get on with my Latin."
+
+Maggie submitted in silence; and almost felt it as an act of gracious
+condescension when, a morning or two afterwards, he came to meet her as
+she was toiling in from the well, carrying the great brown jug full of
+spring-water ready for dinner. "Here," said he, "let us put it in the shade
+behind the horse-mount. Oh, Maggie! look what you've done! Spilt it all,
+with not turning quickly enough when I told you. Now you may fetch it again
+for yourself, for I'll have nothing to do with it."
+
+"I did not understand you in time," said she, softly. But he had turned
+away, and gone back in offended dignity to the house. Maggie had nothing to
+do but return to the well, and fill it again. The spring was some distance
+off, in a little rocky dell. It was so cool after her hot walk, that she
+sat down in the shadow of the gray limestone rock, and looked at the ferns,
+wet with the dripping water. She felt sad, she knew not why. "I think
+Ned is sometimes very cross," thought she. "I did not understand he was
+carrying it there. Perhaps I am clumsy. Mamma says I am; and Ned says I
+am. Nancy never says so and papa never said so. I wish I could help being
+clumsy and stupid. Ned says all women are so. I wish I was not a woman. It
+must be a fine thing to be a man. Oh dear! I must go up the field again
+with this heavy pitcher, and my arms do so ache!" She rose and climbed the
+steep brae. As she went she heard her mother's voice.
+
+"Maggie! Maggie! there's no water for dinner, and the potatoes are quite
+boiled. Where _is_ that child?"
+
+They had begun dinner, before she came down from brushing her hair and
+washing her hands. She was hurried and tired.
+
+"Mother," said Ned, "mayn't I have some butter to these potatoes, as there
+is cold meat? They are so dry."
+
+"Certainly, my dear. Maggie, go and fetch a pat of butter out of the
+dairy."
+
+Maggie went from her untouched dinner without speaking.
+
+"Here, stop, you child!" said Nancy, turning her back in the passage. "You
+go to your dinner, I'll fetch the butter. You've been running about enough
+to-day."
+
+Maggie durst not go back without it, but she stood in the passage till
+Nancy returned; and then she put up her mouth to be kissed by the kind
+rough old servant.
+
+"Thou'rt a sweet one," said Nancy to herself, as she turned into the
+kitchen; and Maggie went back to her dinner with a soothed and lightened
+heart.
+
+When the meal was ended, she helped her mother to wash up the old-fashioned
+glasses and spoons, which were treated with tender care and exquisite
+cleanliness in that house of decent frugality; and then, exchanging her
+pinafore for a black silk apron, the little maiden was wont to sit down to
+some useful piece of needlework, in doing which her mother enforced the
+most dainty neatness of stitches. Thus every hour in its circle brought a
+duty to be fulfilled; but duties fulfilled are as pleasures to the memory,
+and little Maggie always thought those early childish days most happy, and
+remembered them only as filled with careless contentment.
+
+Yet, at the time they had their cares.
+
+In fine summer days Maggie sat out of doors at her work. Just beyond the
+court lay the rocky moorland, almost as gay as that with its profusion of
+flowers. If the court had its clustering noisettes, and fraxinellas, and
+sweetbriar, and great tall white lilies, the moorland had its little
+creeping scented rose, its straggling honeysuckle, and an abundance of
+yellow cistus; and here and there a gray rock cropped out of the ground,
+and over it the yellow stone-crop and scarlet-leaved crane's-bill grew
+luxuriantly. Such a rock was Maggie's seat. I believe she considered it her
+own, and loved it accordingly; although its real owner was a great lord,
+who lived far away, and had never seen the moor, much less the piece of
+gray rock, in his life.
+
+The afternoon of the day which I have begun to tell you about, she was
+sitting there, and singing to herself as she worked: she was within call of
+home, and could hear all home sounds, with their shrillness softened down.
+Between her and it, Edward was amusing himself; he often called upon her
+for sympathy, which she as readily gave.
+
+"I wonder how men make their boats steady; I have taken mine to the pond,
+and she has toppled over every time I sent her in."
+
+"Has it?--that's very tiresome! Would it do to put a little weight in it,
+to keep it down?"
+
+"How often must I tell you to call a ship 'her;' and there you will go on
+saying--it--it!"
+
+After this correction of his sister, Master Edward did not like the
+condescension of acknowledging her suggestion to be a good one; so he went
+silently to the house in search of the requisite ballast; but not being
+able to find anything suitable, he came back to his turfy hillock, littered
+round with chips of wood, and tried to insert some pebbles into his vessel;
+but they stuck fast, and he was obliged to ask again.
+
+"Supposing it was a good thing to weight her, what could I put in?"
+
+Maggie thought a moment.
+
+"Would shot do?" asked she.
+
+"It would be the very thing; but where can I get any?"
+
+"There is some that was left of papa's. It is in the right-hand corner of
+the second drawer of the bureau, wrapped up in a newspaper."
+
+"What a plague! I can't remember your 'seconds,' and 'right-hands,' and
+fiddle-faddles." He worked on at his pebbles. They would not do.
+
+"I think if you were good-natured, Maggie, you might go for me."
+
+"Oh, Ned! I've all this long seam to do. Mamma said I must finish it before
+tea; and that I might play a little if I had done it first," said Maggie,
+rather plaintively; for it was a real pain to her to refuse a request.
+
+"It would not take you five minutes."
+
+Maggie thought a little. The time would only be taken out of her playing,
+which, after all, did not signify; while Edward was really busy about his
+ship. She rose, and clambered up the steep grassy slope, slippery with the
+heat.
+
+Before she had found the paper of shot, she heard her mother's voice
+calling, in a sort of hushed hurried loudness, as if anxious to be heard by
+one person yet not by another--"Edward, Edward, come home quickly. Here's
+Mr. Buxton coming along the Fell-Lane;--he's coming here, as sure as
+sixpence; come, Edward, come."
+
+Maggie saw Edward put down his ship and come. At his mother's bidding it
+certainly was; but he strove to make this as little apparent as he could,
+by sauntering up the slope, with his hands in his pockets, in a very
+independent and _négligé_ style. Maggie had no time to watch longer; for
+now she was called too, and down stairs she ran.
+
+"Here, Maggie," said her mother, in a nervous hurry;--"help Nancy to get a
+tray ready all in a minute. I do believe here's Mr. Buxton coming to call.
+Oh, Edward! go and brush your hair, and put on your Sunday jacket; here's
+Mr. Buxton just coming round. I'll only run up and change my cap; and you
+say you'll come up and tell me, Nancy; all proper, you know."
+
+"To be sure, ma'am. I've lived in families afore now," said Nancy, gruffly.
+
+"Oh, yes, I know you have. Be sure you bring in the cowslip wine. I wish I
+could have stayed to decant some port."
+
+Nancy and Maggie bustled about, in and out of the kitchen and dairy; and
+were so deep in their preparations for Mr. Buxton's reception that they
+were not aware of the very presence of that gentleman himself on the scene.
+He had found the front door open, as is the wont in country places, and had
+walked in; first stopping at the empty parlor, and then finding his way to
+the place where voices and sounds proclaimed that there were inhabitants.
+So he stood there, stooping a little under the low-browed lintels of the
+kitchen door, and looking large, and red, and warm, but with a pleased and
+almost amused expression of face.
+
+"Lord bless me, sir! what a start you gave me!" said Nancy, as she suddenly
+caught sight of him. "I'll go and tell my missus in a minute that you're
+come."
+
+Off she went, leaving Maggie alone with the great, tall, broad gentleman,
+smiling at her from his frame in the door-way, but never speaking. She went
+on dusting a wine-glass most assiduously.
+
+"Well done, little girl," came out a fine strong voice at last. "Now I
+think that will do. Come and show me the parlor where I may sit down, for
+I've had a long walk, and am very tired."
+
+Maggie took him into the parlor, which was always cool and fresh in the
+hottest weather. It was scented by a great beau-pot filled with roses; and,
+besides, the casement was open to the fragrant court. Mr. Buxton was so
+large, and the parlor so small, that when he was once in, Maggie thought
+when he went away, he could carry the room on his back, as a snail does its
+house.
+
+"And so, you are a notable little woman, are you?" said he, after he had
+stretched himself (a very unnecessary proceeding), and unbuttoned his
+waistcoat, Maggie stood near the door, uncertain whether to go or to stay.
+"How bright and clean you were making that glass! Do you think you could
+get me some water to fill it? Mind, it must be that very glass I saw you
+polishing. I shall know it again."
+
+Maggie was thankful to escape out of the room; and in the passage she met
+her mother, who had made time to change her gown as well as her cap. Before
+Nancy would allow the little girl to return with the glass of water she
+smoothed her short-cut glossy hair; it was all that was needed to make her
+look delicately neat. Maggie was conscientious in trying to find out
+the identical glass; but I am afraid Nancy was not quite so truthful in
+avouching that one of the six, exactly similar, which were now placed on
+the tray, was the same she had found on the dresser, when she came back
+from telling her mistress of Mr. Buxton's arrival.
+
+Maggie carried in the water, with a shy pride in the clearness of the
+glass. Her mother was sitting on the edge of her chair, speaking in
+unusually fine language, and with a higher pitched voice than common.
+Edward, in all his Sunday glory, was standing by Mr. Buxton, looking happy
+and conscious. But when Maggie came in, Mr. Buxton made room for her
+between Edward and himself, and, while she went on talking, lifted her on
+to his knee. She sat there as on a pinnacle of honor; but as she durst not
+nestle up to him, a chair would have been the more comfortable seat.
+
+"As founder's line, I have a right of presentation; and for my dear old
+friend's sake" (here Mrs. Browne wiped her eyes), "I am truly glad of it;
+my young friend will have a little form of examination to go through; and
+then we shall see him carrying every prize before him, I have no doubt.
+Thank you, just a little of your sparkling cowslip wine. Ah! this
+gingerbread is like the gingerbread I had when I was a boy. My little lady
+here must learn the receipt, and make me some. Will she?"
+
+"Speak to Mr. Buxton, child, who is kind to your brother. You will make him
+some gingerbread, I am sure."
+
+"If I may," said Maggie, hanging down her head.
+
+"Or, I'll tell you what. Suppose you come to my house, and teach us how to
+make it there; and then, you know, we could always be making gingerbread
+when we were not eating it. That would be best, I think. Must I ask mamma
+to bring you down to Combehurst, and let us all get acquainted together? I
+have a great boy and a little girl at home, who will like to see you, I'm
+sure. And we have got a pony for you to ride on, and a peacock and guinea
+fowls, and I don't know what all. Come, madam, let me persuade you. School
+begins in three weeks. Let us fix a day before then."
+
+"Do mamma," said Edward.
+
+"I am not in spirits for visiting," Mrs. Browne answered. But the quick
+children detected a hesitation in her manner of saying the oft spoken
+words, and had hopes, if only Mr. Buxton would persevere in his invitation.
+
+"Your not visiting is the very reason why you are not in spirits. A little
+change, and a few neighborly faces, would do you good, I'll be bound.
+Besides, for the children's sake you should not live too secluded a life.
+Young people should see a little of the world."
+
+Mrs. Browne was much obliged to Mr. Buxton for giving her so decent an
+excuse for following her inclination, which, it must be owned, tended
+to the acceptance of the invitation. So, "for the children's sake," she
+consented. But she sighed, as if making a sacrifice.
+
+"That's right," said Mr. Buxton. "Now for the day."
+
+It was fixed that they should go on that day week; and after some further
+conversation about the school at which Edward was to be placed, and some
+more jokes about Maggie's notability, and an inquiry if she would come and
+live with him the next time he wanted a housemaid, Mr. Buxton took his
+leave.
+
+His visit had been an event; and they made no great attempt at settling
+again that day to any of their usual employments. In the first place, Nancy
+came in to hear and discuss all the proposed plans. Ned, who was uncertain
+whether to like or dislike the prospect of school, was very much offended
+by the old servant's remark, on first hearing of the project.
+
+"It's time for him. He'll learn his place there, which, it strikes me, he
+and others too are apt to forget at home."
+
+Then followed discussions and arrangements respecting his clothes. And then
+they came to the plan of spending a day at Mr. Buxton's, which Mrs. Browne
+was rather shy of mentioning, having a sort of an idea of inconstancy and
+guilt connected with the thought of mingling with the world again. However,
+Nancy approved: "It was quite right," and "just as it should be," and "good
+for the children."
+
+"Yes; it was on their account I did it, Nancy," said Mrs. Browne.
+
+"How many children has Mr. Buxton?" asked Edward.
+
+"Only one. Frank, I think, they call him. But you must say Master Buxton;
+be sure."
+
+"Who is the little girl, then," asked Maggie, "who sits with them in
+church?"
+
+"Oh! that's little Miss Harvey, his niece, and a great fortune."
+
+"They do say he never forgave her mother till the day of her death,"
+remarked Nancy.
+
+"Then they tell stories, Nancy!" replied Mrs. Browne (it was she herself
+who had said it; but that was before Mr. Buxton's call). For d'ye think his
+sister would have left him guardian to her child, if they were not on good
+terms?"
+
+"Well! I only know what folks say. And, for sure, he took a spite at Mr.
+Harvey for no reason on earth; and every one knows he never spoke to him."
+
+"He speaks very kindly and pleasantly," put in Maggie.
+
+"Ay; and I'm not saying but what he is a very good, kind man in the main.
+But he has his whims, and keeps hold on 'em when he's got 'em. There's them
+pies burning, and I'm talking here!"
+
+When Nancy had returned to her kitchen, Mrs. Browne called Maggie up
+stairs, to examine what clothes would be needed for Edward. And when they
+were up, she tried on the black satin gown, which had been her visiting
+dress ever since she was married, and which she intended should replace
+the old, worn-out bombazine on the day of the visit to Combehurst.
+
+"For Mrs. Buxton is a real born lady," said she; "and I should like to be
+well dressed, to do her honor."
+
+"I did not know there was a Mrs. Buxton," said Maggie. "She is never at
+church."
+
+"No; she is but delicate and weakly, and never leaves the house. I think
+her maid told me she never left her room now."
+
+The Buxton family, root and branch, formed the _pièce de résistance_ in the
+conversation between Mrs. Browne and her children for the next week. As the
+day drew near, Maggie almost wished to stay at home, so impressed was she
+with the awfulness of the visit. Edward felt bold in the idea of a new
+suit of clothes, which had been ordered for the occasion, and for school
+afterwards. Mrs. Browne remembered having heard the rector say, "A woman
+never looked so lady-like as when she wore black satin," and kept her
+spirits up with that observation; but when she saw how worn it was at the
+elbows, she felt rather depressed, and unequal to visiting. Still, for her
+children's sake, she would do much.
+
+After her long day's work was ended, Nancy sat up at her sewing. She had
+found out that among all the preparations, none were going on for Margaret;
+and she had used her influence over her mistress (who half-liked and
+half-feared, and entirely depended upon her) to obtain from her an old
+gown, which she had taken to pieces, and washed and scoured, and was now
+making up, in a way a little old-fashioned to be sure; but, on the whole,
+it looked so nice when completed and put on, that Mrs. Browne gave Maggie
+a strict lecture about taking great care of such a handsome frock and
+forgot that she had considered the gown from which it had been made as
+worn out and done for.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II.
+
+At length they were dressed, and Nancy stood on the court-steps, shading
+her eyes, and looking after them, as they climbed the heathery slope
+leading to Combehurst.
+
+"I wish she'd take her hand sometimes, just to let her know the feel of
+her mother's hand. Perhaps she will, at least after Master Edward goes to
+school."
+
+As they went along, Mrs. Browne gave the children a few rules respecting
+manners and etiquette.
+
+"Maggie! you must sit as upright as ever you can; make your back flat,
+child, and don't poke. If I cough, you must draw up. I shall cough whenever
+I see you do anything wrong, and I shall be looking at you all day; so
+remember. You hold yourself very well, Edward. If Mr. Buxton asks you, you
+may have a glass of wine, because you're a boy. But mind and say, 'Your
+good health, sir,' before you drink it."
+
+"I'd rather not have the wine if I'm to say that," said Edward, bluntly.
+
+"Oh, nonsense! my dear. You'd wish to be like a gentleman, I'm sure."
+
+Edward muttered something which was inaudible. His mother went on:
+
+Of course you'll never think of being helped more than twice. Twice of
+meat, twice of pudding, is the genteel thing. You may take less, but never
+more."
+
+"Oh, mamma! how beautiful Combehurst spire is, with that dark cloud behind
+it!" exclaimed Maggie, as they came in sight of the town.
+
+"You've no business with Combehurst spire when I'm speaking to you. I'm
+talking myself out of breath to teach you how to behave, and there you go
+looking after clouds, and such like rubbish. I'm ashamed of you."
+
+Although Maggie walked quietly by her mother's side all the rest of the
+way, Mrs. Browne was too much offended to resume her instructions on
+good-breeding. Maggie might be helped three times if she liked: she had
+done with her.
+
+They were very early. When they drew near the bridge, they were met by a
+tall, fine-looking boy, leading a beautiful little Shetland pony, with a
+side-saddle on it. He came up to Mrs. Browne, and addressed her.
+
+"My father thought your little girl would be tired, and he told me to bring
+my cousin Erminia's pony for her. It's as quiet as can be."
+
+Now this was rather provoking to Mrs. Browne, as she chose to consider
+Maggie in disgrace. However, there was no help for it: all she could do was
+to spoil the enjoyment as far as possible, by looking and speaking in a
+cold manner, which often chilled Maggie's little heart, and took all the
+zest out of the pleasure now. It was in vain that Frank Buxton made the
+pony trot and canter; she still looked sad and grave.
+
+"Little dull thing!" he thought; but he was as kind and considerate as a
+gentlemanly boy could be.
+
+At last they reached Mr. Buxton's house. It was in the main street, and the
+front door opened upon it by a flight of steps. Wide on each side extended
+the stone-coped windows. It was in reality a mansion, and needed not
+the neighboring contrast of the cottages on either side to make it look
+imposing. When they went in, they entered a large hall, cool even on that
+burning July day, with a black and white flag floor, and old settees
+round the walls, and great jars of curious china, which were filled with
+pot-pourrie. The dusky gloom was pleasant, after the glare of the street
+outside; and the requisite light and cheerfulness were given by the peep
+into the garden, framed, as it were, by the large door-way that opened into
+it. There were roses, and sweet-peas, and poppies--a rich mass of color,
+which looked well, set in the somewhat sombre coolness of the hall. All the
+house told of wealth--wealth which had accumulated for generations, and
+which was shown in a sort of comfortable, grand, unostentatious way. Mr.
+Buxton's ancestors had been yeomen; but, two or three generations back,
+they might, if ambitious, have taken their place as country gentry, so much
+had the value of their property increased, and so great had been the amount
+of their savings. They, however, continued to live in the old farm till Mr.
+Buxton's grandfather built the house in Combehurst of which I am speaking,
+and then he felt rather ashamed of what he had done; it seemed like
+stepping out of his position. He and his wife always sat in the best
+kitchen; and it was only after his son's marriage that the entertaining
+rooms were furnished. Even then they were kept with closed shutters
+and bagged-up furniture during the lifetime of the old couple, who,
+nevertheless, took a pride in adding to the rich-fashioned ornaments and
+grand old china of the apartments. But they died, and were gathered to
+their fathers, and young Mr. and Mrs. Buxton (aged respectively fifty-one
+and forty-five) reigned in their stead. They had the good taste to make no
+sudden change; but gradually the rooms assumed an inhabited appearance, and
+their son and daughter grew up in the enjoyment of great wealth, and no
+small degree of refinement. But as yet they held back modestly from putting
+themselves in any way on a level with the county people. Lawrence Buxton
+was sent to the same school as his father had been before him; and the
+notion of his going to college to complete his education was, after some
+deliberation, negatived. In process of time he succeeded his father, and
+married a sweet, gentle lady, of a decayed and very poor county family, by
+whom he had one boy before she fell into delicate health. His sister had
+married a man whose character was worse than his fortune, and had been left
+a widow. Everybody thought her husband's death a blessing; but she loved
+him, in spite of negligence and many grosser faults; and so, not many years
+after, she died, leaving her little daughter to her brother's care, with
+many a broken-voiced entreaty that he would never speak a word against
+the dead father of her child. So the little Erminia was taken home by her
+self-reproaching uncle, who felt now how hardly he had acted towards his
+sister in breaking off all communication with her on her ill-starred
+marriage.
+
+"Where is Erminia, Frank?" asked his father, speaking over Maggie's
+shoulder, while he still held her hand. "I want to take Mrs. Browne to your
+mother. I told Erminia to be here to welcome this little girl."
+
+"I'll take her to Minnie; I think she's in the garden. I'll come back to
+you," nodding to Edward, "directly, and then we will go to the rabbits."
+
+So Frank and Maggie left the great lofty room, full of strange rare
+things, and rich with books, and went into the sunny scented garden, which
+stretched far and wide behind the house. Down one of the walks, with a
+hedge of roses on either side, came a little tripping fairy, with long
+golden ringlets, and a complexion like a china rose. With the deep blue of
+the summer sky behind her, Maggie thought she looked like an angel. She
+neither hastened nor slackened her pace when she saw them, but came on with
+the same dainty light prancing step.
+
+"Make haste, Minnie," cried Frank.
+
+But Minnie stopped to gather a rose.
+
+"Don't stay with me," said Maggie, softly, although she had held his hand
+like that of a friend, and did not feel that the little fairy's manner was
+particularly cordial or gracious. Frank took her at her word, and ran off
+to Edward.
+
+Erminia came a little quicker when she saw that Maggie was left alone; but
+for some time after they were together, they had nothing to say to each
+other. Erminia was easily impressed by the pomps and vanities of the world;
+and Maggie's new handsome frock seemed to her made of old ironed brown
+silk. And though Maggie's voice was soft, with a silver ringing sound in
+it, she pronounced her words in Nancy's broad country way. Her hair was cut
+short all round; her shoes were thick, and clumped as she walked. Erminia
+patronized her, and thought herself very kind and condescending; but they
+were not particularly friendly. The visit promised to be more honorable
+than agreeable, and Maggie almost wished herself at home again. Dinner-time
+came. Mrs. Buxton dined in her own room. Mr. Buxton was hearty, and jovial,
+and pressing; he almost scolded Maggie because she would not take more than
+twice of his favorite pudding: but she remembered what her mother had said,
+and that she would be watched all day; and this gave her a little prim,
+quaint manner, very different from her usual soft charming unconsciousness.
+She fancied that Edward and Master Buxton were just as little at their ease
+with each other as she and Miss Harvey. Perhaps this feeling on the part of
+the boys made all four children unite after dinner.
+
+"Let us go to the swing in the shrubbery," said Frank, after a little
+consideration; and off they ran. Frank proposed that he and Edward should
+swing the two little girls; and for a time all went on very well. But
+by-and-by Edward thought, that Maggie had had enough, and that he should
+like a turn; and Maggie, at his first word, got out.
+
+"Don't you like swinging?" asked Erminia.
+
+"Yes! but Edward would like it now." And Edward accordingly took her place.
+Frank turned away, and would not swing him. Maggie strove hard to do it,
+but he was heavy, and the swing bent unevenly. He scolded her for what
+she could not help, and at last jumped out so roughly, that the seat hit
+Maggie's face, and knocked her down. When she got up, her lips quivered
+with pain, but she did not cry; she only looked anxiously at her frock.
+There was a great rent across the front breadth. Then she did shed
+tears--tears of fright. What would her mother say?
+
+Erminia saw her crying.
+
+"Are you hurt?" said she, kindly. "Oh, how your cheek is swelled! What a
+rude, cross boy your brother is!"
+
+"I did not know he was going to jump out. I am not crying because I am
+hurt, but because of this great rent in my nice new frock. Mamma will be so
+displeased."
+
+"Is it a new frock?" asked Erminia.
+
+"It is a new one for me. Nancy has sat up several nights to make it. Oh!
+what shall I do?"
+
+Erminia's little heart was softened by such excessive poverty. A best frock
+made of shabby old silk! She put her arms round Maggie's neck, and said:
+
+"Come with me; we will go to my aunt's dressing-room, and Dawson will give
+me some silk, and I'll help you to mend it."
+
+"That's a kind little Minnie," said Frank. Ned had turned sulkily away. I
+do not think the boys were ever cordial again that day; for, as Frank said
+to his mother, "Ned might have said he was sorry; but he is a regular
+tyrant to that little brown mouse of a sister of his."
+
+Erminia and Maggie went, with their arms round each other's necks, to Mrs.
+Buxton's dressing-room. The misfortune had made them friends. Mrs.
+Buxton lay on the sofa; so fair and white and colorless, in her muslin
+dressing-gown, that when Maggie first saw the lady lying with her eyes
+shut, her heart gave a start, for she thought she was dead. But she opened
+her large languid eyes, and called them to her, and listened to their story
+with interest.
+
+"Dawson is at tea. Look, Minnie, in my work-box; there is some silk there.
+Take off your frock, my dear, and bring it here, and let me see how it can
+be mended."
+
+"Aunt Buxton," whispered Erminia, "do let me give her one of my frocks.
+This is such an old thing."
+
+"No, love. I'll tell you why afterwards," answered Mrs. Buxton.
+
+She looked at the rent, and arranged it nicely for the little girls to
+mend. Erminia helped Maggie with right good will. As they sat on the floor,
+Mrs. Buxton thought what a pretty contrast they made; Erminia, dazzlingly
+fair, with her golden ringlets, and her pale-blue frock; Maggie's little
+round white shoulders peeping out of her petticoat; her brown hair as
+glossy and smooth as the nuts that it resembled in color; her long black
+eye-lashes drooping over her clear smooth cheek, which would have given the
+idea of delicacy, but for the coral lips that spoke of perfect health: and
+when she glanced up, she showed long, liquid, dark-gray eyes. The deep red
+of the curtain behind, threw out these two little figures well.
+
+Dawson came up. She was a grave elderly person, of whom Erminia was far
+more afraid than she was of her aunt; but at Mrs. Buxton's desire she
+finished mending the frock for Maggie.
+
+"Mr. Buxton has asked some of your mamma's old friends to tea, as I am not
+able to go down. But I think, Dawson, I must have these two little girls to
+tea with me. Can you be very quiet, my dears; or shall you think it dull?"
+
+They gladly accepted the invitation; and Erminia promised all sorts of
+fanciful promises as to quietness; and went about on her tiptoes in such
+a labored manner, that Mrs. Buxton begged her at last not to try and be
+quiet, as she made much less noise when she did not. It was the happiest
+part of the day to Maggie. Something in herself was so much in harmony with
+Mrs. Buxton's sweet, resigned gentleness, that it answered like an echo,
+and the two understood each other strangely well. They seemed like old
+friends, Maggie, who was reserved at home because no one cared to hear what
+she had to say, opened out, and told Erminia and Mrs. Buxton all about her
+way of spending her day, and described her home.
+
+"How odd!" said Erminia. "I have ridden that way on Abdel-Kadr, and never
+seen your house."
+
+"It is like the place the Sleeping Beauty lived in; people sometimes seem
+to go round it and round it, and never find it. But unless you follow a
+little sheep-track, which seems to end at a gray piece of rock, you may
+come within a stone's throw of the chimneys and never see them. I think you
+would think it so pretty. Do you ever come that way, ma'am?"
+
+"No, love," answered Mrs. Buxton.
+
+"But will you some time?"
+
+"I am afraid I shall never be able to go out again," said Mrs. Buxton, in
+a voice which, though low, was very cheerful. Maggie thought how sad a lot
+was here before her; and by-and-by she took a little stool, and sat by Mrs.
+Buxton's sofa, and stole her hand into hers.
+
+Mrs. Browne was in full tide of pride and happiness down stairs. Mr. Buxton
+had a number of jokes; which would have become dull from repetition (for he
+worked a merry idea threadbare before he would let it go), had it not been
+for his jovial blandness and good-nature. He liked to make people happy,
+and, as far as bodily wants went, he had a quick perception of what was
+required. He sat like a king (for, excepting the rector, there was not
+another gentleman of his standing at Combehurst), among six or seven
+ladies, who laughed merrily at all his sayings, and evidently thought Mrs.
+Browne had been highly honored in having been asked to dinner as well as
+to tea. In the evening, the carriage was ordered to take her as far as a
+carriage could go; and there was a little mysterious handshaking between
+her host and herself on taking leave, which made her very curious for the
+lights of home by which to examine a bit of rustling paper that had been
+put in her hand with some stammered-out words about Edward.
+
+When every one had gone, there was a little gathering in Mrs. Buxton's
+dressing-room. Husband, son and niece, all came to give her their opinions
+on the day and the visitors.
+
+"Good Mrs. Browne is a little tiresome," said Mr. Buxton, yawning. "Living
+in that moorland hole, I suppose. However, I think she has enjoyed her day;
+and we'll ask her down now and then, for Browne's sake. Poor Browne! What a
+good man he was!"
+
+"I don't like that boy at all," said Frank. "I beg you'll not ask him again
+while I'm at home: he is so selfish and self-important; and yet he's a bit
+snobbish now and then. Mother! I know what you mean by that look. Well! if
+I am self-important sometimes, I'm not a snob."
+
+"Little Maggie is very nice," said Erminia. "What a pity she has not a new
+frock! Was not she good about it, Frank, when she tore it?"
+
+"Yes, she's a nice little thing enough, if she does not get all spirit
+cowed out of her by that brother. I'm thankful that he is going to school."
+
+When Mrs. Browne heard where Maggie had drank tea, she was offended. She
+had only sat with Mrs. Buxton for an hour before dinner. If Mrs. Buxton
+could bear the noise of children, she could not think why she shut herself
+up in that room, and gave herself such airs. She supposed it was because
+she was the granddaughter of Sir Henry Biddulph that she took upon herself
+to have such whims, and not sit at the head of her table, or make tea for
+her company in a civil decent way. Poor Mr. Buxton! What a sad life for a
+merry, light-hearted man to have such a wife! It was a good thing for him
+to have agreeable society sometimes. She thought he looked a deal better
+for seeing his friends. He must be sadly moped with that sickly wife.
+
+(If she had been clairvoyante at that moment, she might have seen Mr.
+Buxton tenderly chafing his wife's hands, and feeling in his innermost soul
+a wonder how one so saint-like could ever have learnt to love such a boor
+as he was; it was the wonderful mysterious blessing of his life. So little
+do we know of the inner truths of the households, where we come and go like
+intimate guests!)
+
+Maggie could not bear to hear Mrs. Buxton spoken of as a fine lady assuming
+illness. Her heart beat hard as she spoke. "Mamma! I am sure she is really
+ill. Her lips kept going so white; and her hand was so burning hot all the
+time that I held it."
+
+"Have you been holding Mrs. Buxton's hand? Where were your manners? You are
+a little forward creature, and ever were. But don't pretend to know better
+than your elders. It is no use telling me Mrs. Buxton is ill, and she able
+to bear the noise of children."
+
+"I think they are all a pack of set-up people, and that Frank Buxton is the
+worst of all," said Edward.
+
+Maggie's heart sank within her to hear this cold, unkind way of talking
+over the friends who had done so much to make their day happy. She had
+never before ventured into the world, and did not know how common and
+universal is the custom of picking to pieces those with whom we have just
+been associating; and so it pained her. She was a little depressed, too,
+with the idea that she should never see Mrs. Buxton and the lovely Erminia
+again. Because no future visit or intercourse had been spoken about, she
+fancied it would never take place; and she felt like the man in the Arabian
+Nights, who caught a glimpse of the precious stones and dazzling glories
+of the cavern, which was immediately after closed, and shut up into the
+semblance of hard, barren rock. She tried to recall the house. Deep blue,
+crimson red, warm brown draperies, were so striking after the light
+chintzes of her own house; and the effect of a suite of rooms opening out
+of each other was something quite new to the little girl; the apartments
+seemed to melt away into vague distance, like the dim endings of the arched
+aisles in church. But most of all she tried to recall Mrs. Buxton's face;
+and Nancy had at last to put away her work, and come to bed, in order to
+soothe the poor child, who was crying at the thought that Mrs. Buxton would
+soon die, and that she should never see her again. Nancy loved Maggie
+dearly, and felt no jealousy of this warm admiration of the unknown lady.
+She listened to her story and her fears till the sobs were hushed; and the
+moon fell through the casement on the white closed eyelids of one, who
+still sighed in her sleep.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III.
+
+In three weeks, the day came for Edward's departure. A great cake and a
+parcel of gingerbread soothed his sorrows on leaving home.
+
+"Don't cry, Maggie!" said he to her on the last morning; "you see I don't.
+Christmas will soon be here, and I dare say I shall find time to write to
+you now and then. Did Nancy put any citron in the cake?"
+
+Maggie wished she might accompany her mother to Combehurst to see Edward
+off by the coach; but it was not to be. She went with them, without her
+bonnet, as far as her mother would allow her; and then she sat down, and
+watched their progress for a long, long way. She was startled by the sound
+of a horse's feet, softly trampling through the long heather. It was Frank
+Buxton's.
+
+"My father thought Mrs. Browne would like to see the Woodchester Herald. Is
+Edward gone?" said he, noticing her sad face.
+
+"Yes! he is just gone down the hill to the coach. I dare say you can see
+him crossing the bridge, soon. I did so want to have gone with him,"
+answered she, looking wistfully toward the town.
+
+Frank felt sorry for her, left alone to gaze after her brother, whom,
+strange as it was, she evidently regretted. After a minute's silence, he
+said:
+
+"You liked riding the other day. Would you like a ride now? Rhoda is very
+gentle, if you can sit on my saddle. Look! I'll shorten the stirrup. There
+now; there's a brave little girl! I'll lead her very carefully. Why,
+Erminia durst not ride without a side-saddle! I'll tell you what; I'll
+bring the newspaper every Wednesday till I go to school, and you shall have
+a ride. Only I wish we had a side-saddle for Rhoda. Or, if Erminia will let
+me, I'll bring Abdel-Kadr, the little Shetland you rode the other day."
+
+"But will Mr. Buxton let you?" asked Maggie, half delighted--half afraid.
+
+"Oh, my father! to be sure he will. I have him in very good order."
+
+Maggie was rather puzzled by this way of speaking.
+
+"When do you go to school?" asked she.
+
+"Toward the end of August; I don't know the day."
+
+"Does Erminia go to school?"
+
+"No. I believe she will soon though, if mamma does not get better." Maggie
+liked the change of voice, as he spoke of his mother.
+
+"There, little lady! now jump down. Famous! you've a deal of spirit, you
+little brown mouse."
+
+Nancy came out, with a wondering look, to receive Maggie.
+
+"It is Mr. Frank Buxton," said she, by way of an introduction. "He has
+brought mamma the newspaper."
+
+"Will you walk in, sir, and rest? I can tie up your horse."
+
+"No, thank you," said he, "I must be off. Don't forget, little mousey, that
+you are to ready for another ride next Wednesday." And away he went.
+
+It needed a good deal of Nancy's diplomacy to procure Maggie this pleasure;
+although I don't know why Mrs. Browne should have denied it, for the circle
+they went was always within sight of the knoll in front of the house, if
+any one cared enough about the matter to mount it, and look after them.
+Frank and Maggie got great friends in these rides. Her fearlessness
+delighted and surprised him, she had seemed so cowed and timid at first.
+But she was only so with people, as he found out before holidays ended.
+He saw her shrink from particular looks and inflexions of voice of her
+mother's; and learnt to read them, and dislike Mrs. Browne accordingly,
+notwithstanding all her sugary manner toward himself. The result of his
+observations he communicated to his mother, and in consequence, he was the
+bearer of a most civil and ceremonious message from Mrs. Buxton to Mrs.
+Browne, to the effect that the former would be much obliged to the latter
+if she would allow Maggie to ride down occasionally with the groom, who
+would bring the newspapers on the Wednesdays (now Frank was going to
+school), and to spend the afternoon with Erminia. Mrs. Browne consented,
+proud of the honor, and yet a little annoyed that no mention was made of
+herself. When Frank had bid good-bye, and fairly disappeared, she turned to
+Maggie.
+
+"You must not set yourself up if you go among these fine folks. It is their
+way of showing attention to your father and myself. And you must mind and
+work doubly hard on Thursdays to make up for playing on Wednesdays."
+
+Maggie was in a flush of sudden color, and a happy palpitation of her
+fluttering little heart. She could hardly feel any sorrow that the kind
+Frank was going away, so brimful was she of the thoughts of seeing his
+mother; who had grown strangely associated in her dreams, both sleeping
+and waking, with the still calm marble effigies that lay for ever clasping
+their hands in prayer on the altar-tombs in Combehurst church. All the
+week was one happy season of anticipation. She was afraid her mother was
+secretly irritated at her natural rejoicing; and so she did not speak to
+her about it, but she kept awake till Nancy came to bed, and poured into
+her sympathizing ears every detail, real or imaginary, of her past or
+future intercourse with Mrs. Buxton, and the old servant listened with
+interest, and fell into the custom of picturing the future with the ease
+and simplicity of a child.
+
+"Suppose, Nancy! only suppose, you know, that she did die. I don't mean
+really die, but go into a trance like death; she looked as if she was in
+one when I first saw her; I would not leave her, but I would sit by her,
+and watch her, and watch her."
+
+"Her lips would be always fresh and red," interrupted Nancy.
+
+"Yes, I know you've told me before how they keep red--I should look at them
+quite steadily; I would try never to go to sleep."
+
+"The great thing would be to have air-holes left in the coffin." But Nancy
+felt the little girl creep close to her at the grim suggestion, and, with
+the tact of love, she changed the subject.
+
+"Or supposing we could hear of a doctor who could charm away illness. There
+were such in my young days; but I don't think people are so knowledgeable
+now. Peggy Jackson, that lived near us when I was a girl, was cured of a
+waste by a charm."
+
+"What is a waste, Nancy?"
+
+"It is just a pining away. Food does not nourish nor drink strengthen them,
+but they just fade off, and grow thinner and thinner, till their shadow
+looks gray instead of black at noonday; but he cured her in no time by a
+charm."
+
+"Oh, if we could find him."
+
+"Lass, he's dead, and she's dead, too, long ago!"
+
+While Maggie was in imagination going over moor and fell, into the hollows
+of the distant mysterious hills, where she imagined all strange beasts and
+weird people to haunt, she fell asleep.
+
+Such were the fanciful thoughts which were engendered in the little girl's
+mind by her secluded and solitary life. It was more solitary than ever, now
+that Edward was gone to school. The house missed his loud cheerful voice,
+and bursting presence. There seemed much less to be done, now that his
+numerous wants no longer called for ministration and attendance. Maggie did
+her task of work on her own gray rock; but as it was sooner finished, now
+that he was not there to interrupt and call her off, she used to stray up
+the Fell Lane at the back of the house; a little steep stony lane, more
+like stairs cut in the rock than what we, in the level land, call a lane:
+it reached on to the wide and open moor, and near its termination there
+was a knotted thorn-tree; the only tree for apparent miles. Here the sheep
+crouched under the storms, or stood and shaded themselves in the noontide
+heat. The ground was brown with their cleft round foot-marks; and tufts of
+wool were hung on the lower part of the stem, like votive offerings on some
+shrine. Here Maggie used to come and sit and dream in any scarce half-hour
+of leisure. Here she came to cry, when her little heart was overfull at her
+mother's sharp fault-finding, or when bidden to keep out of the way, and
+not be troublesome. She used to look over the swelling expanse of moor, and
+the tears were dried up by the soft low-blowing wind which came sighing
+along it. She forgot her little home griefs to wonder why a brown-purple
+shadow always streaked one particular part in the fullest sunlight; why the
+cloud-shadows always seemed to be wafted with a sidelong motion; or she
+would imagine what lay beyond those old gray holy hills, which seemed to
+bear up the white clouds of Heaven on which the angels flew abroad. Or she
+would look straight up through the quivering air, as long as she could bear
+its white dazzling, to try and see God's throne in that unfathomable and
+infinite depth of blue. She thought she should see it blaze forth sudden
+and glorious, if she were but full of faith. She always came down from the
+thorn, comforted, and meekly gentle.
+
+But there was danger of the child becoming dreamy, and finding her pleasure
+in life in reverie, not in action, or endurance, or the holy rest which
+comes after both, and prepares for further striving or bearing. Mrs.
+Buxton's kindness prevented this danger just in time. It was partly out of
+interest in Maggie, but also partly to give Erminia a companion, that she
+wished the former to come down to Combehurst.
+
+When she was on these visits, she received no regular instruction; and yet
+all the knowledge, and most of the strength of her character, was derived
+from these occasional hours. It is true her mother had given her daily
+lessons in reading, writing, and arithmetic; but both teacher and taught
+felt these more as painful duties to be gone through, than understood them
+as means to an end. The "There! child; now that's done with," of relief,
+from Mrs. Browne, was heartily echoed in Maggie's breast, as the dull
+routine was concluded.
+
+Mrs. Buxton did not make a set labor of teaching; I suppose she felt that
+much was learned from her superintendence, but she never thought of doing
+or saying anything with a latent idea of its indirect effect upon the
+little girls, her companions. She was simply herself; she even confessed
+(where the confession was called for) to short-comings, to faults, and
+never denied the force of temptations, either of those which beset little
+children, or of those which occasionally assailed herself. Pure, simple,
+and truthful to the heart's core, her life, in its uneventful hours and
+days, spoke many homilies. Maggie, who was grave, imaginative, and
+somewhat quaint, took pains in finding words to express the thoughts to
+which her solitary life had given rise, secure of Mrs. Buxton's ready
+understanding and sympathy.
+
+"You are so like a cloud," said she to Mrs. Buxton. "Up at the Thorn-tree,
+it was quite curious how the clouds used to shape themselves, just
+according as I was glad or sorry. I have seen the same clouds, that, when
+I came up first, looked like a heap of little snow-hillocks over babies'
+graves, turn, as soon as I grew happier, to a sort of long bright row of
+angels. And you seem always to have had some sorrow when I am sad, and turn
+bright and hopeful as soon as I grow glad. Dear Mrs. Buxton! I wish Nancy
+knew you."
+
+The gay, volatile, willful, warm-hearted Erminia was less earnest in all
+things. Her childhood had been passed amid the distractions of wealth; and
+passionately bent upon the attainment of some object at one moment, the
+next found her angry at being reminded of the vanished anxiety she had
+shown but a moment before. Her life was a shattered mirror; every part
+dazzling and brilliant, but wanting the coherency and perfection of
+a whole. Mrs. Buxton strove to bring her to a sense of the beauty of
+completeness, and the relation which qualities and objects bear to each
+other; but in all her striving she retained hold of the golden clue of
+sympathy. She would enter into Erminia's eagerness, if the object of
+it varied twenty times a day; but by-and-by, in her own mild, sweet,
+suggestive way, she would place all these objects in their right and
+fitting places, as they were worthy of desire. I do not know how it was,
+but all discords, and disordered fragments, seemed to fall into harmony and
+order before her presence.
+
+She had no wish to make the two little girls into the same kind of pattern
+character. They were diverse as the lily and the rose. But she tried to
+give stability and earnestness to Erminia; while she aimed to direct
+Maggie's imagination, so as to make it a great minister to high ends,
+instead of simply contributing to the vividness and duration of a reverie.
+
+She told her tales of saints and martyrs, and all holy heroines, who forgot
+themselves, and strove only to be "ministers of Him, to do His pleasure."
+The tears glistened in the eyes of hearer and speaker, while she spoke in
+her low, faint voice, which was almost choked at times when she came to the
+noblest part of all.
+
+But when she found that Maggie was in danger of becoming too little a
+dweller in the present, from the habit of anticipating the occasion for
+some great heroic action, she spoke of other heroines. She told her how,
+though the lives of these women of old were only known to us through some
+striking glorious deed, they yet must have built up the temple of their
+perfection by many noiseless stories; how, by small daily offerings laid
+on the altar, they must have obtained their beautiful strength for the
+crowning sacrifice. And then she would turn and speak of those whose names
+will never be blazoned on earth--some poor maid-servant, or hard-worked
+artisan, or weary governess--who have gone on through life quietly, with
+holy purposes in their hearts, to which they gave up pleasure and ease,
+in a soft, still, succession of resolute days. She quoted those lines of
+George Herbert's:
+
+  "All may have,
+  If they dare choose, a glorious life, or grave."
+
+And Maggie's mother was disappointed because Mrs. Buxton had never offered
+to teach her "to play on the piano," which was to her the very head and
+front of a genteel education. Maggie, in all her time of yearning to become
+Joan of Arc, or some great heroine, was unconscious that she herself showed
+no little heroism, in bearing meekly what she did every day from her
+mother. It was hard to be questioned about Mrs. Buxton, and then to have
+her answers turned into subjects for contempt, and fault-finding with that
+sweet lady's ways.
+
+When Ned came home for the holidays, he had much to tell. His mother
+listened for hours to his tales; and proudly marked all that she could note
+of his progress in learning. His copy-books and writing-flourishes were a
+sight to behold; and his account-books contained towers and pyramids of
+figures.
+
+"Ay, ay!" said Mr. Buxton, when they were shown to him; "this is grand!
+when I was a boy I could make a flying eagle with one stroke of my pen,
+but I never could do all this. And yet I thought myself a fine fellow, I
+warrant you. And these sums! why man! I must make you my agent. I need one,
+I'm sure; for though I get an accountant every two or three years to do
+up my books, they somehow have the knack of getting wrong again. Those
+quarries, Mrs. Browne, which every one says are so valuable, and for the
+stone out of which receive orders amounting to hundreds of pounds, what
+d'ye think was the profit I made last year, according to my books?"
+
+"I'm sure I don't know, sir; something very great, I've no doubt."
+
+"Just seven-pence three farthings," said he, bursting into a fit of merry
+laughter, such as another man would have kept for the announcement of
+enormous profits. "But I must manage things differently soon. Frank will
+want money when he goes to Oxford, and he shall have it. I'm but a rough
+sort of fellow, but Frank shall take his place as a gentleman. Aha, Miss
+Maggie! and where's my gingerbread? There you go, creeping up to Mrs.
+Buxton on a Wednesday, and have never taught Cook how to make gingerbread
+yet. Well, Ned! and how are the classics going on? Fine fellow, that
+Virgil! Let me see, how does it begin?
+
+  'Arma, virumque cano, Trojae qui primus ab oris.'
+
+That's pretty well, I think, considering I've never opened him since I left
+school thirty years ago. To be sure, I spent six hours a day at it when I
+was there. Come now, I'll puzzle you. Can you construe this?
+
+  "Infir dealis, inoak noneis; inmud eelis, inclay noneis."
+
+"To be sure I can," said Edward, with a little contempt in his tone. "Can
+you do this, sir?
+
+  "Apud in is almi des ire,
+  Mimis tres i neve require,
+  Alo veri findit a gestis,
+  His miseri ne ver at restis."
+
+But though Edward had made much progress, and gained three prizes, his
+moral training had been little attended to. He was more tyrannical than
+ever, both to his mother and Maggie. It was a drawn battle between him and
+Nancy, and they kept aloof from each other as much as possible. Maggie fell
+into her old humble way of submitting to his will, as long as it did not go
+against her conscience; but that, being daily enlightened by her habits of
+pious aspiring thought, would not allow her to be so utterly obedient as
+formerly. In addition to his imperiousness, he had learned to affix the
+idea of cleverness to various artifices and subterfuges which utterly
+revolted her by their meanness.
+
+"You are so set up, by being intimate with Erminia, that you won't do a
+thing I tell you; you are as selfish and self-willed as"--he made a pause.
+Maggie was ready to cry.
+
+"I will do anything, Ned, that is right."
+
+"Well! and I tell you this is right."
+
+"How can it be?" said she, sadly, almost wishing to be convinced.
+
+"How--why it is, and that's enough for you. You must always have a reason
+for everything now. You are not half so nice as you were. Unless one chops
+logic with you, and convinces you by a long argument, you'll do nothing. Be
+obedient, I tell you. That is what a woman has to be."
+
+"I could be obedient to some people, without knowing their reasons, even
+though they told me to do silly things," said Maggie, half to herself.
+
+"I should like to know to whom," said Edward, scornfully.
+
+"To Don Quixote," answered she, seriously; for, indeed, he was present in
+her mind just then, and his noble, tender, melancholy character had made a
+strong impression there.
+
+Edward stared at her for a moment, and then burst into a loud fit of
+laughter. It had the good effect of restoring him to a better frame of
+mind. He had such an excellent joke against his sister, that he could not
+be angry with her. He called her Sancho Panza all the rest of the holidays,
+though she protested against it, saying she could not bear the Squire, and
+disliked being called by his name.
+
+Frank and Edward seemed to have a mutual antipathy to each other, and the
+coldness between them was rather increased than diminished by all Mr.
+Buxton's efforts to bring them together. "Come, Frank, my lad!" said he,
+"don't be so stiff with Ned. His father was a dear friend of mine, and I've
+set my heart on seeing you friends. You'll have it in your power to help
+him on in the world."
+
+But Frank answered, "He is not quite honorable, sir. I can't bear a boy who
+is not quite honorable. Boys brought up at those private schools are so
+full of tricks!"
+
+"Nay, my lad, there thou'rt wrong. I was brought up at a private school,
+and no one can say I ever dirtied my hands with a trick in my life. Good
+old Mr. Thompson would have flogged the life out of a boy who did anything
+mean or underhand."
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV.
+
+Summers and winters came and went, with little to mark them, except the
+growth of the trees, and the quiet progress of young creatures. Erminia was
+sent to school somewhere in France, to receive more regular instruction
+than she could have in the house with her invalid aunt. But she came home
+once a year, more lovely and elegant and dainty than ever; and Maggie
+thought, with truth, that ripening years were softening down her
+volatility, and that her aunt's dewlike sayings had quietly sunk deep, and
+fertilized the soil. That aunt was fading away. Maggie's devotion added
+materially to her happiness; and both she and Maggie never forgot that this
+devotion was to be in all things subservient to the duty which she owed to
+her mother.
+
+"My love," Mrs. Buxton had more than once said, "you must always recollect
+that your first duty is toward your mother. You know how glad I am to see
+you; but I shall always understand how it is, if you do not come. She may
+often want you when neither you nor I can anticipate it."
+
+Mrs. Browne had no great wish to keep Maggie at home, though she liked to
+grumble at her going. Still she felt that it was best, in every way, to
+keep on good terms with such valuable friends; and she appreciated, in some
+small degree, the advantage which her intimacy at the house was to Maggie.
+But yet she could not restrain a few complaints, nor withhold from her, on
+her return, a recapitulation of all the things which might have been done
+if she had only been at home, and the number of times that she had been
+wanted; but when she found that Maggie quietly gave up her next Wednesday's
+visit as soon as she was made aware of any necessity for her presence at
+home, her mother left off grumbling, and took little or no notice of her
+absence.
+
+When the time came for Edward to leave school, he announced that he had no
+intention of taking orders, but meant to become an attorney.
+
+"It's such slow work," said he to his mother. "One toils away for four or
+five years, and then one gets a curacy of seventy pounds a-year, and no end
+of work to do for the money. Now the work is not much harder in a lawyer's
+office, and if one has one's wits about one, there are hundreds and
+thousands a-year to be picked up with mighty little trouble."
+
+Mrs. Browne was very sorry for this determination. She had a great desire
+to see her son a clergyman, like his father. She did not consider whether
+his character was fitted for so sacred an office; she rather thought that
+the profession itself, when once assumed, would purify the character; but,
+in fact, his fitness or unfitness for holy orders entered little into her
+mind. She had a respect for the profession, and his father had belonged to
+it.
+
+"I had rather see you a curate at seventy pounds a-year, than an attorney
+with seven hundred," replied she. "And you know your father was always
+asked to dine everywhere--to places where I know they would not have asked
+Mr. Bish, of Woodchester, and he makes his thousand a-year. Besides, Mr.
+Buxton has the next presentation to Combehurst, and you would stand a good
+chance for your father's sake. And in the mean time you should live here,
+if your curacy was any way near."
+
+"I dare say! Catch me burying myself here again. My dear mother, it's a
+very respectable place for you and Maggie to live in, and I dare say
+you don't find it dull; but the idea of my quietly sitting down here is
+something too absurd!"
+
+"Papa did, and was very happy," said Maggie.
+
+"Yes! after he had been at Oxford," replied Edward, a little nonplussed by
+this reference to one whose memory even the most selfish and thoughtless
+must have held in respect.
+
+"Well! and you know you would have to go to Oxford first."
+
+"Maggie! I wish you would not interfere between my mother and me. I want
+to have it settled and done with, and that it will never be if you keep
+meddling. Now, mother, don't you see how much better it will be for me to
+go into Mr. Bish's office? Harry Bish has spoken to his father about it."
+
+Mrs. Browne sighed.
+
+"What will Mr. Buxton say?" asked she, dolefully.
+
+"Say! Why don't you see it was he who first put it into my head, by telling
+me that first Christmas holidays, that I should be his agent. That would be
+something, would it not? Harry Bish says he thinks a thousand a-year might
+be made of it."
+
+His loud, decided, rapid talking overpowered Mrs. Browne; but she resigned
+herself to his wishes with more regrets than she had ever done before. It
+was not the first case in which fluent declamation has taken the place of
+argument.
+
+Edward was articled to Mr. Bish, and thus gained his point. There was no
+one with power to resist his wishes, except his mother and Mr. Buxton. The
+former had long acknowledged her son's will as her law; and the latter,
+though surprised and almost disappointed at a change of purpose which he
+had never anticipated in his plans for Edward's benefit, gave his consent,
+and even advanced some of the money requisite for the premium.
+
+Maggie looked upon this change with mingled feelings. She had always from a
+child pictured Edward to herself as taking her father's place. When she had
+thought of him as a man, it was as contemplative, grave, and gentle, as she
+remembered her father. With all a child's deficiency of reasoning power,
+she had never considered how impossible it was that a selfish, vain,
+and impatient boy could become a meek, humble, and pious man, merely by
+adopting a profession in which such qualities are required. But now, at
+sixteen, she was beginning to understand all this. Not by any process of
+thought, but by something more like a correct feeling, she perceived that
+Edward would never be the true minister of Christ. So, more glad and
+thankful than sorry, though sorrow mingled with her sentiments, she learned
+the decision that he was to be an attorney.
+
+Frank Buxton all this time was growing up into a young man. The hopes both
+of father and mother were bound up in him; and, according to the difference
+in their characters was the difference in their hopes. It seemed, indeed,
+probable that Mr. Buxton, who was singularly void of worldliness or
+ambition for himself, would become worldly and ambitious for his son. His
+hopes for Frank were all for honor and distinction here. Mrs. Buxton's
+hopes were prayers. She was fading away, as light fades into darkness on a
+summer evening. No one seemed to remark the gradual progress; but she was
+fully conscious of it herself. The last time that Frank was at home from
+college before her death, she knew that she should never see him again;
+and when he gaily left the house, with a cheerfulness, which was partly
+assumed, she dragged herself with languid steps into a room at the front
+of the house, from which she could watch him down the long, straggling
+little street, that led to the inn from which the coach started. As he
+went along, he turned to look back at his home; and there he saw his
+mother's white figure gazing after him. He could not see her wistful eyes,
+but he made her poor heart give a leap of joy by turning round and running
+back for one more kiss and one more blessing.
+
+When he next came home, it was at the sudden summons of her death.
+
+His father was as one distracted. He could not speak of the lost angel
+without sudden bursts of tears, and oftentimes of self-upbraiding, which
+disturbed the calm, still, holy ideas, which Frank liked to associate with
+her. He ceased speaking to him, therefore, about their mutual loss; and it
+was a certain kind of relief to both when he did so; but he longed for
+some one to whom he might talk of his mother, with the quiet reverence of
+intense and trustful affection. He thought of Maggie, of whom he had
+seen but little of late; for when he had been at Combehurst, she had
+felt that Mrs. Buxton required her presence less, and had remained more at
+home. Possibly Mrs. Buxton regretted this; but she never said anything.
+She, far-looking, as one who was near death, foresaw that, probably, if
+Maggie and her son met often in her sick-room, feelings might arise which
+would militate against her husband's hopes and plans, and which, therefore,
+she ought not to allow to spring up. But she had been unable to refrain
+from expressing her gratitude to Maggie for many hours of tranquil
+happiness, and had unconsciously dropped many sentences which made Frank
+feel, that, in the little brown mouse of former years, he was likely to
+meet with one who could tell him much of the inner history of his mother in
+her last days, and to whom he could speak of her without calling out the
+passionate sorrow which was so little in unison with her memory.
+
+Accordingly, one afternoon, late in the autumn, he rode up to Mrs.
+Browne's. The air on the heights was so still that nothing seemed to stir.
+Now and then a yellow leaf came floating down from the trees, detached from
+no outward violence, but only because its life had reached its full limit
+and then ceased. Looking down on the distant sheltered woods, they were
+gorgeous in orange and crimson, but their splendor was felt to be the sign
+of the decaying and dying year. Even without an inward sorrow, there was a
+grand solemnity in the season which impressed the mind, and hushed it into
+tranquil thought. Frank rode slowly along, and quietly dismounted at the
+old horse-mount, beside which there was an iron bridle-ring fixed in
+the gray stone wall. He saw the casement of the parlor-window open, and
+Maggie's head bent down over her work. She looked up as he entered the
+court, and his footsteps sounded on the flag-walk. She came round and
+opened the door. As she stood in the door-way, speaking, he was struck by
+her resemblance to some old painting. He had seen her young, calm face,
+shining out with great peacefulness, and the large, grave, thoughtful eyes,
+giving the character to the features which otherwise they might, from their
+very regularity, have wanted. Her brown dress had the exact tint which a
+painter would have admired. The slanting mellow sunlight fell upon her as
+she stood; and the vine-leaves, already frost-tinted, made a rich, warm
+border, as they hung over the old house-door.
+
+"Mamma is not well; she is gone to lie down. How are you? How is Mr.
+Buxton?"
+
+"We are both pretty well; quite well, in fact, as far as regards health.
+May I come in? I want to talk to you, Maggie!"
+
+She opened the little parlor-door, and they went in; but for a time they
+were both silent. They could not speak of her who was with them, present
+in their thoughts. Maggie shut the casement, and put a log of wood on the
+fire. She sat down with her back to the window; but as the flame sprang up,
+and blazed at the touch of the dry wood, Frank saw that her face was wet
+with quiet tears. Still her voice was even and gentle, as she answered his
+questions. She seemed to understand what were the very things he would care
+most to hear. She spoke of his mother's last days; and without any word of
+praise (which, indeed, would have been impertinence), she showed such a
+just and true appreciation of her who was dead and gone, that he felt as if
+he could listen forever to the sweet-dropping words. They were balm to his
+sore heart. He had thought it possible that the suddenness of her death
+might have made her life incomplete, in that she might have departed
+without being able to express wishes and projects, which would now have the
+sacred force of commands. But he found that Maggie, though she had never
+intruded herself as such, had been the depository of many little thoughts
+and plans; or, if they were not expressed to her, she knew that Mr. Buxton
+or Dawson was aware of what they were, though, in their violence of early
+grief, they had forgotten to name them. The flickering brightness of the
+flame had died away; the gloom of evening had gathered into the room,
+through the open door of which the kitchen fire sent a ruddy glow,
+distinctly marked against carpet and wall. Frank still sat, with his head
+buried in his hands against the table, listening.
+
+"Tell me more," he said, at every pause.
+
+"I think I have told you all now," said Maggie, at last. "At least, it is
+all I recollect at present; but if I think of anything more, I will be sure
+and tell you."
+
+"Thank you; do." He was silent for some time.
+
+"Erminia is coming home at Christmas. She is not to go back to Paris again.
+She will live with us. I hope you and she will be great friends, Maggie."
+
+"Oh yes," replied she. "I think we are already. At least we were last
+Christmas. You know it is a year since I have seen her."
+
+"Yes; she went to Switzerland with Mademoiselle Michel, instead of coming
+home the last time. Maggie, I must go, now. My father will be waiting
+dinner for me."
+
+"Dinner! I was going to ask if you would not stay to tea. I hear mamma
+stirring about in her room. And Nancy is getting things ready, I see. Let
+me go and tell mamma. She will not be pleased unless she sees you. She has
+been very sorry for you all," added she, dropping her voice.
+
+Before he could answer, she ran up stairs.
+
+Mrs. Browne came down.
+
+"Oh, Mr. Frank! Have you been sitting in the dark? Maggie, you ought to
+have rung for candles! Ah! Mr. Frank, you've had a sad loss since I saw you
+here--let me see--in the last week of September. But she was always a sad
+invalid; and no doubt your loss is her gain. Poor Mr. Buxton, too! How is
+he? When one thinks of him, and of her years of illness, it seems like a
+happy release."
+
+She could have gone on for any length of time, but Frank could not bear
+this ruffling up of his soothed grief, and told her that his father was
+expecting him home to dinner.
+
+"Ah! I am sure you must not disappoint him. He'll want a little cheerful
+company more than ever now. You must not let him dwell on it, Mr. Frank,
+but turn his thoughts another way by always talking of other things. I am
+sure if I had some one to speak to me in a cheerful, pleasant way, when
+poor dear Mr. Browne died, I should never have fretted after him as I did;
+but the children were too young, and there was no one to come and divert
+me with any news. If I'd been living in Combehurst, I am sure I should not
+have let my grief get the better of me as I did. Could you get up a quiet
+rubber in the evenings, do you think?"
+
+But Frank had shaken hands and was gone. As he rode home he thought much of
+sorrow, and the different ways of bearing it. He decided that it was sent
+by God for some holy purpose, and to call out into existence some higher
+good; and he thought that if it were faithfully taken as His decree there
+would be no passionate, despairing resistance to it; nor yet, if it were
+trustfully acknowledged to have some wise end, should we dare to baulk it,
+and defraud it by putting it on one side, and, by seeking the distractions
+of worldly things, not let it do its full work. And then he returned to
+his conversation with Maggie. That had been real comfort to him. What an
+advantage it would be to Erminia to have such a girl for a friend and
+companion!
+
+It was rather strange that, having this thought, and having been struck, as
+I said, with Maggie's appearance while she stood in the door-way (and I may
+add that this impression of her unobtrusive beauty had been deepened by
+several succeeding interviews), he should reply as he did to Erminia's
+remark, on first seeing Maggie after her return from France.
+
+"How lovely Maggie is growing! Why, I had no idea she would ever turn out
+pretty. Sweet-looking she always was; but now her style of beauty makes her
+positively distinguished. Frank! speak! is not she beautiful?"
+
+"Do you think so?" answered he, with a kind of lazy indifference,
+exceedingly gratifying to his father, who was listening with some eagerness
+to his answer. That day, after dinner, Mr. Buxton began to ask his opinion
+of Erminia's appearance.
+
+Frank answered at once:
+
+"She is a dazzling little creature. Her complexion looks as if it were made
+of cherries and milk; and, it must be owned, the little lady has studied
+the art of dress to some purpose in Paris."
+
+Mr. Buxton was nearer happiness at this reply than he had ever been
+since his wife's death; for the only way he could devise to satisfy his
+reproachful conscience towards his neglected and unhappy sister, was to
+plan a marriage between his son and her child. He rubbed his hands and
+drank two extra glasses of wine.
+
+"We'll have the Brownes to dinner, as usual, next Thursday," said he, "I am
+sure your mother would have been hurt if we had omitted it; it is now nine
+years since they began to come, and they have never missed one Christmas
+since. Do you see any objection, Frank?"
+
+"None at all, sir," answered he. "I intend to go up to town soon after
+Christmas, for a week or ten days, on my way to Cambridge. Can I do
+anything for you?"
+
+"Well, I don't know. I think I shall go up myself some day soon. I can't
+understand all these lawyer's letters, about the purchase of the Newbridge
+estate; and I fancy I could make more sense out of it all, if I saw Mr.
+Hodgson."
+
+"I wish you would adopt my plan, of having an agent, sir. Your affairs are
+really so complicated now, that they would take up the time of an expert
+man of business. I am sure all those tenants at Dumford ought to be seen
+after."
+
+"I do see after them. There's never a one that dares cheat me, or that
+would cheat me if they could. Most of them have lived under the Buxtons for
+generations. They know that if they dared to take advantage of me, I should
+come down upon them pretty smartly."
+
+"Do you rely upon their attachment to your family--or on their idea of your
+severity?"
+
+"On both. They stand me instead of much trouble in account-keeping, and
+those eternal lawyers' letters some people are always dispatching to their
+tenants. When I'm cheated, Frank, I give you leave to make me have an
+agent, but not till then. There's my little Erminia singing away, and
+nobody to hear her."
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V.
+
+Christmas-Day was strange and sad. Mrs. Buxton had always contrived to be
+in the drawing-room, ready to receive them all after dinner. Mr. Buxton
+tried to do away with his thoughts of her by much talking; but every now
+and then he looked wistfully toward the door. Erminia exerted herself to
+be as lively as she could, in order, if possible, to fill up the vacuum.
+Edward, who had come over from Woodchester for a walk, had a good deal to
+say; and was, unconsciously, a great assistance with his never-ending flow
+of rather clever small-talk. His mother felt proud of her son, and his new
+waistcoat, which was far more conspicuously of the latest fashion than
+Frank's could be said to be. After dinner, when Mr. Buxton and the two
+young men were left alone, Edward launched out still more. He thought he
+was impressing Frank with his knowledge of the world, and the world's ways.
+But he was doing all in his power to repel one who had never been much
+attracted toward him. Worldly success was his standard of merit. The end
+seemed with him to justify the means; if a man prospered, it was not
+necessary to scrutinize his conduct too closely. The law was viewed in its
+lowest aspect; and yet with a certain cleverness, which preserved Edward
+from being intellectually contemptible. Frank had entertained some idea of
+studying for a barrister himself: not so much as a means of livelihood as
+to gain some idea of the code which makes and shows a nation's conscience:
+but Edward's details of the ways in which the letter so often baffles the
+spirit, made him recoil. With some anger against himself, for viewing the
+profession with disgust, because it was degraded by those who embraced it,
+instead of looking upon it as what might be ennobled and purified into a
+vast intelligence by high and pure-minded men, he got up abruptly and left
+the room.
+
+The girls were sitting over the drawing-room fire, with unlighted candles
+on the table, talking, he felt, about his mother; but when he came in they
+rose, and changed their tone. Erminia went to the piano, and sang her
+newest and choicest French airs. Frank was gloomy and silent; but when she
+changed into more solemn music his mood was softened, Maggie's simple and
+hearty admiration, untinged by the slightest shade of envy for Erminia's
+accomplishments, charmed him. The one appeared to him the perfection of
+elegant art, the other of graceful nature. When he looked at Maggie,
+and thought of the moorland home from which she had never wandered, the
+mysteriously beautiful lines of Wordsworth seemed to become sun-clear to
+him.
+
+  "And she shall lean her ear
+  In many a secret place
+  Where rivulets dance their wayward round,
+  And beauty born of murmuring sound
+  Shall pass into her face."
+
+Mr. Buxton, in the dining-room, was really getting to take an interest in
+Edward's puzzling cases. They were like tricks at cards. A quick motion,
+and out of the unpromising heap, all confused together, presto! the right
+card turned up. Edward stated his case, so that there did not seem loophole
+for the desired verdict; but through some conjuration, it always came
+uppermost at last. He had a graphic way of relating things; and, as he did
+not spare epithets in his designation of the opposing party, Mr. Buxton
+took it upon trust that the defendant or the prosecutor (as it might
+happen) was a "pettifogging knave," or a "miserly curmudgeon," and rejoiced
+accordingly in the triumph over him gained by the ready wit of "our
+governor," Mr. Bish. At last he became so deeply impressed with Edward's
+knowledge of law, as to consult him about some cottage property he had in
+Woodchester.
+
+"I rather think there are twenty-one cottages, and they don't bring me in
+four pounds a-year; and out of that I have to pay for collecting. Would
+there be any chance of selling them? They are in Doughty-street; a bad
+neighborhood, I fear."
+
+"Very bad," was Edward's prompt reply. "But if you are really anxious to
+effect a sale, I have no doubt I could find a purchaser in a short time."
+
+"I should be very much obliged to you," said Mr. Buxton. "You would be
+doing me a kindness. If you meet with a purchaser, and can manage the
+affair, I would rather that you drew out the deeds for the transfer of the
+property. It would be the beginning of business for you; and I only hope I
+should bring you good luck."
+
+Of course Edward could do this; and when they left the table, it was with
+a feeling on his side that he was a step nearer to the agency which he
+coveted; and with a happy consciousness on Mr. Buxton's of having put a few
+pounds in the way of a deserving and remarkably clever young man.
+
+Since Edward had left home, Maggie had gradually, but surely, been gaining
+in importance. Her judgment and her untiring unselfishness could not fail
+to make way. Her mother had some respect for, and great dependence on her;
+but still it was hardly affection that she felt for her; or if it was it
+was a dull and torpid kind of feeling, compared with the fond love and
+exulting pride which she took in Edward. When he came back for occasional
+holidays, his mother's face was radiant with happiness, and her manner
+toward him was even more caressing than he approved of. When Maggie saw him
+repel the hand that fain would have stroked his hair as in childish days,
+a longing came into her heart for some of these uncared-for tokens of her
+mother's love. Otherwise she meekly sank back into her old secondary place,
+content to have her judgment slighted and her wishes unasked as long as he
+stayed. At times she was now beginning to disapprove and regret some things
+in him; his flashiness of manner jarred against her taste; and a deeper,
+graver feeling was called out by his evident want of quick moral
+perception. "Smart and clever," or "slow and dull," took with him the place
+of "right and wrong." Little as he thought it, he was himself narrow-minded
+and dull; slow and blind to perceive the beauty and eternal wisdom of
+simple goodness.
+
+Erminia and Maggie became great friends. Erminia used to beg for Maggie,
+until she herself put a stop to the practice; as she saw her mother yielded
+more frequently than was convenient, for the honor of having her daughter
+a visitor at Mr. Buxton's, about which she could talk to her few
+acquaintances who persevered in calling at the cottage. Then Erminia
+volunteered a visit of some days to Maggie, and Mrs. Browne's pride was
+redoubled; but she made so many preparations, and so much fuss, and gave
+herself so much trouble, that she was positively ill during Erminia's stay;
+and Maggie felt that she must henceforward deny herself the pleasure of
+having her friend for a guest, as her mother could not be persuaded from
+attempting to provide things in the same abundance and style as that to
+which Erminia was accustomed at home; whereas, as Nancy shrewdly observed,
+the young lady did not know if she was eating jelly, or porridge, or
+whether the plates were common delf or the best China, so long as she was
+with her dear Miss Maggie. Spring went, and summer came. Frank had gone to
+and fro between Cambridge and Combehurst, drawn by motives of which he felt
+the force, but into which he did not care to examine. Edward had sold the
+property of Mr. Buxton; and he, pleased with the possession of half the
+purchase money (the remainder of which was to be paid by installments), and
+happy in the idea that his son came over so frequently to see Erminia, had
+amply rewarded the young attorney for his services.
+
+One summer's day, as hot as day could be, Maggie had been busy all morning;
+for the weather was so sultry that she would not allow either Nancy or
+her mother to exert themselves much. She had gone down with the old brown
+pitcher, coeval with herself, to the spring for water; and while it was
+trickling, and making a tinkling music, she sat down on the ground. The
+air was so still that she heard the distant wood-pigeons cooing; and round
+about her the bees were murmuring busily among the clustering heath. From
+some little touch of sympathy with these low sounds of pleasant harmony,
+she began to try and hum some of Erminia's airs. She never sang out loud,
+or put words to her songs; but her voice was very sweet, and it was a great
+pleasure to herself to let it go into music. Just as her jug was filled,
+she was startled by Frank's sudden appearance. She thought he was at
+Cambridge, and, from some cause or other, her face, usually so faint in
+color, became the most vivid scarlet. They were both too conscious to
+speak. Maggie stooped (murmuring some words of surprise) to take up her
+pitcher.
+
+"Don't go yet, Maggie," said he, putting his hand on hers to stop her; but,
+somehow, when that purpose was effected, he forgot to take it off again. "I
+have come all the way from Cambridge to see you. I could not bear suspense
+any longer. I grew so impatient for certainty of some kind, that I went up
+to town last night, in order to feel myself on my way to you, even though
+I knew I could not be here a bit earlier to-day for doing so. Maggie--dear
+Maggie! how you are trembling! Have I frightened you? Nancy told me you
+were here; but it was very thoughtless to come so suddenly upon you."
+
+It was not the suddenness of his coming; it was the suddenness of her own
+heart, which leaped up with the feelings called out by his words. She
+went very white, and sat down on the ground as before. But she rose again
+immediately, and stood, with drooping, averted head. He had dropped her
+hand, but now sought to take it again.
+
+"Maggie, darling, may I speak?" Her lips moved, he saw, but he could not
+hear. A pang of affright ran through him that, perhaps, she did not wish to
+listen. "May I speak to you?" he asked again, quite timidly. She tried to
+make her voice sound, but it would not; so she looked round. Her soft
+gray eyes were eloquent in that one glance. And, happier than his words,
+passionate and tender as they were, could tell, he spoke till her trembling
+was changed into bright flashing blushes, and even a shy smile hovered
+about her lips, and dimpled her cheeks.
+
+The water bubbled over the pitcher unheeded. At last she remembered all the
+work-a-day world. She lifted up the jug, and would have hurried home, but
+Frank decidedly took it from her.
+
+"Henceforward," said he, "I have a right to carry your burdens." So with
+one arm round her waist and with the other carrying the water, they climbed
+the steep turfy slope. Near the top she wanted to take it again.
+
+"Mamma will not like it. Mamma will think it so strange."
+
+"Why, dearest, if I saw Nancy carrying it up this slope I would take it
+from her. It would be strange if a man did not carry it for any woman.
+But you must let me tell your mother of my right to help you. It is your
+dinner-time is it not? I may come in to dinner as one of the family may not
+I Maggie?"
+
+"No" she said softly. For she longed to be alone; and she dreaded being
+overwhelmed by the expression of her mother's feelings, weak and agitated
+as she felt herself. "Not to-day."
+
+"Not to-day!" said he reproachfully. "You are very hard upon me. Let me
+come to tea. If you will, I will leave you now. Let me come to early tea. I
+must speak to my father. He does not know I am here. I may come to tea. At
+what time is it? Three o'clock. Oh, I know you drink tea at some strange
+early hour; perhaps it is at two. I will take care to be in time."
+
+"Don't come till five, please. I must tell mamma; and I want some time to
+think. It does seem so like a dream. Do go, please."
+
+"Well! if I must, I must. But I don't feel as if I were in a dream, but in
+some real blessed heaven so long as I see you."
+
+At last he went. Nancy was awaiting Maggie, the side-gate.
+
+"Bless us and save us, bairn! what a time it has taken thee to get the
+water. Is the spring dry with the hot weather?"
+
+Maggie ran past her. All dinner-time she heard her mother's voice in
+long-continued lamentation about something. She answered at random, and
+startled her mother by asserting that she thought "it" was very good;
+the said "it" being milk turned sour by thunder. Mrs. Browne spoke quite
+sharply, "No one is so particular as you, Maggie. I have known you drink
+water, day after day, for breakfast, when you were a little girl, because
+your cup of milk had a drowned fly in it; and now you tell me you don't
+care for this, and don't mind that, just as if you could eat up all the
+things which are spoiled by the heat. I declare my head aches so, I shall
+go and lie down as soon as ever dinner is over."
+
+If this was her plan, Maggie thought she had no time to lose in making her
+confession. Frank would be here before her mother got up again to tea. But
+she dreaded speaking about her happiness; it seemed as yet so cobweb-like,
+as if a touch would spoil its beauty.
+
+"Mamma, just wait a minute. Just sit down in your chair while I tell you
+something. Please, dear mamma." She took a stool, and sat at her mother's
+feet; and then she began to turn the wedding-ring on Mrs. Browne's hand,
+looking down and never speaking, till the latter became impatient.
+
+"What is it you have got to say, child? Do make haste, for I want to go
+up-stairs."
+
+With a great jerk of resolution, Maggie said:
+
+"Mamma, Frank Buxton has asked me to marry him."
+
+She hid her face in her mother's lap for an instant; and then she lifted it
+up, as brimful of the light of happiness as is the cup of a water-lily of
+the sun's radiance.
+
+"Maggie--you don't say so," said her mother, half incredulously. "It can't
+be, for he's at Cambridge, and it's not post-day. What do you mean?"
+
+"He came this morning, mother, when I was down at the well; and we fixed
+that I was to speak to you; and he asked if he might come again for tea."
+
+"Dear! dear! and the milk all gone sour? We should have had milk of our
+own, if Edward had not persuaded me against buying another cow."
+
+"I don't think Mr. Buxton will mind it much," said Maggie, dimpling up, as
+she remembered, half unconsciously, how little he had seemed to care for
+anything but herself.
+
+"Why, what a thing it is for you!" said Mrs. Browne, quite roused up from
+her languor and her head-ache. "Everybody said he was engaged to Miss
+Erminia. Are you quite sure you made no mistake, child? What did he say?
+Young men are so fond of making fine speeches; and young women are so silly
+in fancying they mean something. I once knew a girl who thought that a
+gentleman who sent her mother a present of a sucking-pig, did it as a
+delicate way of making her an offer. Tell me his exact words."
+
+But Maggie blushed, and either would not or could not. So Mrs. Browne began
+again:
+
+"Well, if you're sure, you're sure. I wonder how he brought his father
+round. So long as he and Erminia have been planned for each other! That
+very first day we ever dined there after your father's death, Mr. Buxton as
+good as told me all about it. I fancied they were only waiting till they
+were out of mourning."
+
+All this was news to Maggie. She had never thought that either Erminia or
+Frank was particularly fond of the other; still less had she had any idea
+of Mr. Buxton's plans for them. Her mother's surprise at her engagement
+jarred a little upon her too: it had become so natural, even in these last
+two hours, to feel that she belonged to _him_. But there were more discords
+to come. Mrs. Browne began again, half in soliloquy:
+
+"I should think he would have four thousand a-year. He did not tell you,
+love, did he, if they had still that bad property in the canal, that his
+father complained about? But he will have four thousand. Why, you'll have
+your carriage, Maggie. Well! I hope Mr. Buxton has taken it kindly, because
+he'll have a deal to do with the settlements. I'm sure I thought he was
+engaged to Erminia."
+
+Ringing changes on these subjects all the afternoon, Mrs. Browne sat with
+Maggie. She occasionally wandered off to speak about Edward, and how
+favorably his future prospects would be advanced by the engagement.
+
+"Let me see--there's the house in Combehurst: the rent of that would be
+a hundred and fifty a-year, but we'll not reckon that. But there's the
+quarries" (she was reckoning upon her fingers in default of a slate, for
+which she had vainly searched), "we'll call them two hundred a-year, for
+I don't believe Mr. Buxton's stories about their only bringing him
+in seven-pence; and there's Newbridge, that's certainly thirteen
+hundred--where had I got to, Maggie?"
+
+"Dear mamma, do go and lie down for a little; you look quite flushed," said
+Maggie, softly.
+
+Was this the manner to view her betrothal with such a man as Frank?
+Her mother's remarks depressed her more than she could have thought it
+possible; the excitement of the morning was having its reaction, and she
+longed to go up to the solitude under the thorn-tree, where she had hoped
+to spend a quiet, thoughtful afternoon.
+
+Nancy came in to replace glasses and spoons in the cupboard. By some
+accident, the careful old servant broke one of the former. She looked up
+quickly at her mistress, who usually visited all such offences with no
+small portion of rebuke.
+
+"Never mind, Nancy," said Mrs. Browne. "It's only an old tumbler;
+and Maggie's going to be married, and we must buy a new set for the
+wedding-dinner."
+
+Nancy looked at both, bewildered; at last a light dawned into her mind, and
+her face looked shrewdly and knowingly back at Mrs. Browne. Then she said,
+very quietly:
+
+"I think I'll take the next pitcher to the well myself, and try my luck. To
+think how sorry I was for Miss Maggie this morning! 'Poor thing,' says I to
+myself, 'to be kept all this time at that confounded well' (for I'll not
+deny that I swear a bit to myself at times--it sweetens the blood), 'and
+she so tired.' I e'en thought I'd go help her; but I reckon she'd some
+other help. May I take a guess at the young man?"
+
+"Four thousand a-year! Nancy;" said Mrs. Browne, exultingly.
+
+"And a blithe look, and a warm, kind heart--and a free step--and a noble
+way with him to rich and poor--aye, aye, I know the name. No need to alter
+all my neat M.B.'s, done in turkey-red cotton. Well, well! every one's turn
+comes sometime, but mine's rather long a-coming."
+
+The faithful old servant came up to Maggie, and put her hand caressingly on
+her shoulder. Maggie threw her arms round her neck, and kissed the brown,
+withered face.
+
+"God bless thee, bairn," said Nancy, solemnly. It brought the low music of
+peace back into the still recesses of Maggie's heart. She began to look out
+for her lover; half-hidden behind the muslin window curtain, which waved
+gently to and fro in the afternoon breezes. She heard a firm, buoyant step,
+and had only time to catch one glimpse of his face, before moving away. But
+that one glance made her think that the hours which had elapsed since she
+saw him had not been serene to him any more than to her.
+
+When he entered the parlor, his face was glad and bright. He went up in a
+frank, rejoicing way to Mrs. Browne; who was evidently rather puzzled
+how to receive him--whether as Maggie's betrothed, or as the son of the
+greatest man of her acquaintance.
+
+"I am sure, sir," said she, "we are all very much obliged to you for the
+honor you have done our family!"
+
+He looked rather perplexed as to the nature of the honor which he had
+conferred without knowing it; but as the light dawned upon him, he made
+answer in a frank, merry way, which was yet full of respect for his future
+mother-in-law:
+
+"And I am sure I am truly grateful for the honor one of your family has
+done me."
+
+When Nancy brought in tea she was dressed in her fine-weather Sunday gown;
+the first time it had ever been worn out of church, and the walk to and
+fro.
+
+After tea, Frank asked Maggie if she would walk out with him; and
+accordingly they climbed the Fell-Lane and went out upon the moors, which
+seemed vast and boundless as their love.
+
+"Have you told your father?" asked Maggie; a dim anxiety lurking in her
+heart.
+
+"Yes," said Frank. He did not go on; and she feared to ask, although she
+longed to know, how Mr. Buxton had received the intelligence.
+
+"What did he say?" at length she inquired.
+
+"Oh! it was evidently a new idea to him that I was attached to you; and he
+does not take up a new idea speedily. He has had some notion, it seems,
+that Erminia and I were to make a match of it; but she and I agreed, when
+we talked it over, that we should never have fallen in love with each other
+if there had not been another human being in the world. Erminia is a little
+sensible creature, and says she does not wonder at any man falling in love
+with you. Nay, Maggie, don't hang your head so down; let me have a glimpse
+of your face."
+
+"I am sorry your father does not like it," said Maggie, sorrowfully.
+
+"So am I. But we must give him time to get reconciled. Never fear but he
+will like it in the long run; he has too much good taste and good feeling.
+He must like you."
+
+Frank did not choose to tell even Maggie how violently his father had set
+himself against their engagement. He was surprised and annoyed at first to
+find how decidedly his father was possessed with the idea that he was to
+marry his cousin, and that she, at any rate, was attached to him, whatever
+his feelings might be toward her; but after he had gone frankly to Erminia
+and told her all, he found that she was as ignorant of her uncle's plans
+for her as he had been; and almost as glad at any event which should
+frustrate them.
+
+Indeed she came to the moorland cottage on the following day, after Frank
+had returned to Cambridge. She had left her horse in charge of the groom,
+near the fir-trees on the heights, and came running down the slope in her
+habit. Maggie went out to meet her, with just a little wonder at her heart
+if what Frank had said could possibly be true; and that Erminia, living in
+the house with him, could have remained indifferent to him. Erminia threw
+her arms round her neck, and they sat down together on the court-steps.
+
+"I durst not ride down that hill; and Jem is holding my horse, so I may not
+stay very long; now begin, Maggie, at once, and go into a rhapsody about
+Frank. Is not he a charming fellow? Oh! I am so glad. Now don't sit smiling
+and blushing there to yourself; but tell me a great deal about it. I have
+so wanted to know somebody that was in love, that I might hear what it was
+like; and the minute I could, I came off here. Frank is only just gone. He
+has had another long talk with my uncle, since he came back from you this
+morning; but I am afraid he has not made much way yet."
+
+Maggie sighed. "I don't wonder at his not thinking me good enough for
+Frank.
+
+"No! the difficulty would be to find any one he did think fit for his
+paragon of a son."
+
+"He thought you were, dearest Erminia."
+
+"So Frank has told you that, has he? I suppose we shall have no more family
+secrets now," said Erminia, laughing. "But I can assure you I had a strong
+rival in lady Adela Castlemayne, the Duke of Wight's daughter; she was the
+most beautiful lady my uncle had ever seen (he only saw her in the Grand
+Stand at Woodchester races, and never spoke a word to her in his life). And
+if she would have had Frank, my uncle would still have been dissatisfied
+as long as the Princess Victoria was unmarried; none would have been good
+enough while a better remained. But Maggie," said she, smiling up into her
+friend's face, "I think it would have made you laugh, for all you look as
+if a kiss would shake the tears out of your eyes, if you could have seen my
+uncle's manner to me all day. He will have it that I am suffering from an
+unrequited attachment; so he watched me and watched me over breakfast; and
+at last, when I had eaten a whole nest-full of eggs, and I don't know how
+many pieces of toast, he rang the bell and asked for some potted charr. I
+was quite unconscious that it was for me, and I did not want it when
+it came; so he sighed in a most melancholy manner, and said, 'My poor
+Erminia!' If Frank had not been there, and looking dreadfully miserable, I
+am sure I should have laughed out."
+
+"Did Frank look miserable?" said Maggie, anxiously.
+
+"There now! you don't care for anything but the mention of his name."
+
+"But did he look unhappy?" persisted Maggie.
+
+"I can't say he looked happy, dear Mousey; but it was quite different when
+he came back from seeing you. You know you always had the art of stilling
+any person's trouble. You and my aunt Buxton are the only two I ever knew
+with that gift."
+
+"I am so sorry he has any trouble to be stilled," said Maggie.
+
+"And I think it will do him a world of good. Think how successful his life
+has been! the honors he got at Eton! his picture taken, and I don't
+know what! and at Cambridge just the same way of going on. He would be
+insufferably imperious in a few years, if he did not meet with a few
+crosses."
+
+"Imperious!--oh Erminia, how can you say so?"
+
+"Because it's the truth. He happens to have very good dispositions; and
+therefore his strong will is not either disagreeable, or offensive; but
+once let him become possessed by a wrong wish, and you would then see how
+vehement and imperious he would be. Depend upon it, my uncle's resistance
+is a capital thing for him. As dear sweet Aunt Buxton would have said,
+'There is a holy purpose in it;' and as Aunt Buxton would not have said,
+but as I, a 'fool, rush in where angels fear to tread,' I decide that the
+purpose is to teach Master Frank patience and submission."
+
+
+"Erminia--how could you help"--and there Maggie stopped.
+
+"I know what you mean; how could I help falling in love with him? I think
+he has not mystery and reserve enough for me. I should like a man with some
+deep, impenetrable darkness around him; something one could always keep
+wondering about. Besides, think what clashing of wills there would have
+been! My uncle was very short-sighted in his plan; but I don't think he
+thought so much about the fitness of our characters and ways, as the
+fitness of our fortunes!"
+
+"For shame, Erminia! No one cares less for money than Mr. Buxton!"
+
+"There's a good little daughter-in-law elect! But seriously, I do think
+he is beginning to care for money; not in the least for himself, but as a
+means of aggrandizement for Frank. I have observed, since I came home at
+Christmas, a growing anxiety to make the most of his property; a thing he
+never cared about before. I don't think he is aware of it himself, but from
+one or two little things I have noticed, I should not wonder if he ends in
+being avaricious in his old age." Erminia sighed.
+
+Maggie had almost a sympathy with the father, who sought what he imagined
+to be for the good of his son, and that son, Frank. Although she was
+as convinced as Erminia, that money could not really help any one to
+happiness, she could not at the instant resist saying:
+
+"Oh! how I wish I had a fortune! I should so like to give it all to him."
+
+"Now Maggie! don't be silly! I never heard you wish for anything different
+from what _was_ before, so I shall take this opportunity of lecturing you
+on your folly. No! I won't either, for you look sadly tired with all your
+agitation; and besides I must go, or Jem will be wondering what has become
+of me. Dearest cousin-in-law, I shall come very often to see you; and
+perhaps I shall give you my lecture yet."
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI.
+
+It was true of Mr. Buxton, as well as of his son, that he had the seeds of
+imperiousness in him. His life had not been such as to call them out into
+view. With more wealth than he required; with a gentle wife, who if she
+ruled him never showed it, or was conscious of the fact herself; looked up
+to by his neighbors, a simple affectionate set of people, whose fathers
+had lived near his father and grandfather in the same kindly relation,
+receiving benefits cordially given, and requiting them with good will and
+respectful attention: such had been the circumstances surrounding him; and
+until his son grew out of childhood, there had not seemed a wish which he
+had it not in his power to gratify as soon as formed. Again, when Frank was
+at school and at college, all went on prosperously; he gained honors enough
+to satisfy a far more ambitious father. Indeed, it was the honors he gained
+that stimulated his father's ambition. He received letters from tutors,
+and headmasters, prophesying that, if Frank chose, he might rise to the
+"highest honors in church or state;" and the idea thus suggested, vague as
+it was, remained, and filled Mr. Buxton's mind; and, for the first time in
+his life, made him wish that his own career had been such as would have led
+him to form connections among the great and powerful. But, as it was, his
+shyness and _gêne_, from being unaccustomed to society, had made him
+averse to Frank's occasional requests that he might bring such and such a
+school-fellow, or college-chum, home on a visit. Now he regretted this, on
+account of the want of those connections which might thus have been formed;
+and, in his visions, he turned to marriage as the best way of remedying
+this. Erminia was right in saying that her uncle had thought of Lady Adela
+Castlemayne for an instant; though how the little witch had found it out I
+cannot say, as the idea had been dismissed immediately from his mind.
+
+He was wise enough to see its utter vanity, as long as his son remained
+undistinguished. But his hope was this. If Frank married Erminia, their
+united property (she being her father's heiress) would justify him in
+standing for the shire; or if he could marry the daughter of some leading
+personage in the county, it might lead to the same step; and thus at once
+he would obtain a position in parliament, where his great talents would
+have scope and verge enough. Of these two visions, the favorite one (for
+his sister's sake) was that of marriage with Erminia.
+
+And, in the midst of all this, fell, like a bombshell, the intelligence of
+his engagement with Maggie Browne; a good sweet little girl enough, but
+without fortune or connection--without, as far as Mr. Buxton knew, the
+least power, or capability, or spirit, with which to help Frank on in his
+career to eminence in the land! He resolved to consider it as a boyish
+fancy, easily to be suppressed; and pooh-poohed it down, to Frank,
+accordingly. He remarked his son's set lips, and quiet determined brow,
+although he never spoke in a more respectful tone, than while thus steadily
+opposing his father. If he had shown more violence of manner, he would have
+irritated him less; but, as it was, it was the most miserable interview
+that had ever taken place between the father and son.
+
+Mr. Buxton tried to calm himself down with believing that Frank would
+change his mind, if he saw more of the world; but, somehow, he had a
+prophesying distrust of this idea internally. The worst was, there was
+no fault to be found with Maggie herself, although she might want the
+accomplishments he desired to see in his son's wife. Her connections, too,
+were so perfectly respectable (though humble enough in comparison with Mr.
+Buxton's soaring wishes), that there was nothing to be objected to on that
+score; her position was the great offence. In proportion to his want of any
+reason but this one, for disapproving of the engagement, was his annoyance
+under it. He assumed a reserve toward Frank; which was so unusual a
+restraint upon his open, genial disposition, that it seemed to make him
+irritable toward all others in contact with him, excepting Erminia. He
+found it difficult to behave rightly to Maggie. Like all habitually cordial
+persons, he went into the opposite extreme, when he wanted to show a little
+coolness. However angry he might be with the events of which she was the
+cause, she was too innocent and meek to justify him in being more than
+cool; but his awkwardness was so great, that many a man of the world has
+met his greatest enemy, each knowing the other's hatred, with less freezing
+distance of manner than Mr. Buxton's to Maggie. While she went simply on in
+her own path, loving him the more through all, for old kindness' sake, and
+because he was Frank's father, he shunned meeting her with such evident and
+painful anxiety, that at last she tried to spare him the encounter, and
+hurried out of church, or lingered behind all, in order to avoid the only
+chance they now had of being forced to speak; for she no longer went to the
+dear house in Combehurst, though Erminia came to see her more than ever.
+
+Mrs. Browne was perplexed and annoyed beyond measure. She upbraided Mr.
+Buxton to every one but Maggie. To her she said--"Any one in their senses
+might have foreseen what had happened, and would have thought well about
+it, before they went and fell in love with a young man of such expectations
+as Mr. Frank Buxton."
+
+In the middle of all this dismay, Edward came over from Woodchester for a
+day or two. He had been told of the engagement, in a letter from Maggie
+herself; but it was too sacred a subject for her to enlarge upon to him;
+and Mrs. Browne was no letter writer. So this was his first greeting to
+Maggie; after kissing her:
+
+"Well, Sancho, you've done famously for yourself. As soon as I got your
+letter I said to Harry Bish--'Still waters run deep; here's my little
+sister Maggie, as quiet a creature as ever lived, has managed to catch
+young Buxton, who has five thousand a-year if he's a penny.' Don't go so
+red, Maggie. Harry was sure to hear of it soon from some one, and I see no
+use in keeping it secret, for it gives consequence to us all."
+
+"Mr. Buxton is quite put out about it," said Mrs. Brown, querulously; "and
+I'm sure he need not be, for he's enough of money, if that's what he wants;
+and Maggie's father was a clergyman, and I've seen 'yeoman,' with my own
+eyes, on old Mr. Buxton's (Mr. Lawrence's father's) carts; and a clergyman
+is above a yeoman any day. But if Maggie had had any thought for other
+people, she'd never have gone and engaged herself, when she might have been
+sure it would give offence. We are never asked down to dinner now. I've
+never broken bread there since last Christmas."
+
+"Whew!" said Edward to this. It was a disappointed whistle; but he soon
+cheered up. "I thought I could have lent a hand in screwing old Buxton up
+about the settlements; but I see it's not come to that yet. Still I'll go
+and see the old gentleman. I'm a bit of a favorite of his, and I doubt I
+can turn him round."
+
+"Pray, Edward, don't go," said Maggie. "Frank and I are content to wait;
+and I'm sure we would rather not have any one speak to Mr. Buxton, upon a
+subject which evidently gives him so much pain; please, Edward, don't!"
+
+"Well, well. Only I must go about this property of his. Besides, I don't
+mean to get into disgrace; so I shan't seem to know anything about it,
+if it would make him angry. I want to keep on good terms, because of the
+agency. So, perhaps, I shall shake my head, and think it great presumption
+in you, Maggie, to have thought of becoming his daughter-in-law. If I can
+do you no good, I may as well do myself some."
+
+"I hope you won't mention me at all," she replied.
+
+One comfort (and almost the only one arising from Edward's visit) was, that
+she could now often be spared to go up to the thorn-tree, and calm down her
+anxiety, and bring all discords into peace, under the sweet influences of
+nature. Mrs. Buxton had tried to teach her the force of the lovely truth,
+that the "melodies of the everlasting chime" may abide in the hearts of
+those who ply their daily task in towns, and crowded populous places; and
+that solitude is not needed by the faithful for them to feel the immediate
+presence of God; nor utter stillness of human sound necessary, before they
+can hear the music of His angels' footsteps; but, as yet, her soul was a
+young disciple; and she felt it easier to speak to Him, and come to Him for
+help, sitting lonely, with wild moors swelling and darkening around her,
+and not a creature in sight but the white specks of distant sheep, and the
+birds that shun the haunts of men, floating in the still mid-air.
+
+She sometimes longed to go to Mr. Buxton and tell him how much she could
+sympathize with him, if his dislike to her engagement arose from thinking
+her unworthy of his son. Frank's character seemed to her grand in its
+promise. With vehement impulses and natural gifts, craving worthy
+employment, his will sat supreme over all, like a young emperor calmly
+seated on his throne, whose fiery generals and wise counsellors stand alike
+ready to obey him. But if marriage were to be made by due measurement and
+balance of character, and if others, with their scales, were to be the
+judges, what would become of all the beautiful services rendered by the
+loyalty of true love? Where would be the raising up of the weak by the
+strong? or the patient endurance? or the gracious trust of her:
+
+  "Whose faith is fixt and cannot move;
+  She darkly feels him great and wise,
+  She dwells on him with faithful eyes,
+  'I cannot understand: I love.'"
+
+Edward's manners and conduct caused her more real anxiety than anything
+else. Indeed, no other thoughtfulness could be called anxiety compared to
+this. His faults, she could not but perceive, were strengthening with his
+strength, and growing with his growth. She could not help wondering whence
+he obtained the money to pay for his dress, which she thought was of a
+very expensive kind. She heard him also incidentally allude to "runs up
+to town," of which, at the time, neither she nor her mother had been made
+aware. He seemed confused when she questioned him about these, although he
+tried to laugh it off; and asked her how she, a country girl, cooped up
+among one set of people, could have any idea of the life it was necessary
+for a man to lead who "had any hope of getting on in the world." He must
+have acquaintances and connections, and see something of life, and make an
+appearance. She was silenced, but not satisfied. Nor was she at ease with
+regard to his health. He looked ill, and worn; and, when he was not
+rattling and laughing, his face fell into a shape of anxiety and
+uneasiness, which was new to her in it. He reminded her painfully of an
+old German engraving she had seen in Mrs. Buxton's portfolio, called,
+"Pleasure digging a Grave;" Pleasure being represented by a ghastly figure
+of a young man, eagerly industrious over his dismal work.
+
+A few days after he went away, Nancy came to her in her bed-room.
+
+"Miss Maggie," said she, "may I just speak a word?" But when the permission
+was given, she hesitated.
+
+"It's none of my business, to be sure," said she at last: "only, you see,
+I've lived with your mother ever since she was married; and I care a deal
+for both you and Master Edward. And I think he drains Missus of her money;
+and it makes me not easy in my mind. You did not know of it, but he had his
+father's old watch when he was over last time but one; I thought he was of
+an age to have a watch, and that it was all natural. But, I reckon he's
+sold it, and got that gimcrack one instead. That's perhaps natural too.
+Young folks like young fashions. But, this time, I think he has taken away
+your mother's watch; at least, I've never seen it since he went. And this
+morning she spoke to me about my wages. I'm sure I've never asked for them,
+nor troubled her; but I'll own it's now near on to twelve months since she
+paid me; and she was as regular as clock-work till then. Now, Miss Maggie
+don't look so sorry, or I shall wish I had never spoken. Poor Missus seemed
+sadly put about, and said something as I did not try to hear; for I was so
+vexed she should think I needed apologies, and them sort of things. I'd
+rather live with you without wages than have her look so shame-faced as she
+did this morning. I don't want a bit for money, my dear; I've a deal in the
+Bank. But I'm afeard Master Edward is spending too much, and pinching
+Missus."
+
+Maggie was very sorry indeed. Her mother had never told her anything of all
+this, so it was evidently a painful subject to her; and Maggie determined
+(after lying awake half the night) that she would write to Edward, and
+remonstrate with him; and that in every personal and household expense, she
+would be, more than ever, rigidly economical.
+
+The full, free, natural intercourse between her lover and herself, could
+not fail to be checked by Mr. Buxton's aversion to the engagement. Frank
+came over for some time in the early autumn. He had left Cambridge, and
+intended to enter himself at the Temple as soon as the vacation was ended.
+He had not been very long at home before Maggie was made aware, partly
+through Erminia, who had no notion of discreet silence on any point, and
+partly by her own observation, of the increasing estrangement between
+father and son. Mr. Buxton was reserved with Frank for the first time in
+his life; and Frank was depressed and annoyed at his father's obstinate
+repetition of the same sentence, in answer to all his arguments in favor of
+his engagement--arguments which were overwhelming to himself and which it
+required an effort of patience on his part to go over and recapitulate, so
+obvious was the conclusion; and then to have the same answer forever, the
+same words even:
+
+"Frank! it's no use talking. I don't approve of the engagement; and never
+shall."
+
+He would snatch up his hat, and hurry off to Maggie to be soothed. His
+father knew where he was gone without being told; and was jealous of her
+influence over the son who had long been his first and paramount object in
+life.
+
+He needed not have been jealous. However angry and indignant Frank was when
+he went up to the moorland cottage, Maggie almost persuaded him, before
+half an hour had elapsed, that his father was but unreasonable from his
+extreme affection. Still she saw that such frequent differences would
+weaken the bond between father and son; and, accordingly, she urged Frank
+to accept an invitation into Scotland.
+
+"You told me," said she, "that Mr. Buxton will have it, it is but a boy's
+attachment; and that when you have seen other people, you will change your
+mind; now do try how far you can stand the effects of absence." She said it
+playfully, but he was in a humor to be vexed.
+
+"What nonsense, Maggie! You don't care for all this delay yourself; and you
+take up my father's bad reasons as if you believed them."
+
+"I don't believe them; but still they may be true."
+
+"How should you like it, Maggie, if I urged you to go about and see
+something of society, and try if you could not find some one you liked
+better? It is more probable in your case than in mine; for you have never
+been from home, and I have been half over Europe."
+
+"You are very much afraid, are not you, Frank?" said she, her face bright
+with blushes, and her gray eyes smiling up at him. "I have a great idea
+that if I could see that Harry Bish that Edward is always talking about, I
+should be charmed. He must wear such beautiful waistcoats! Don't you think
+I had better see him before our engagement is quite, quite final?"
+
+But Frank would not smile. In fact, like all angry persons, he found fresh
+matter for offence in every sentence. She did not consider the engagement
+as quite final: thus he chose to understand her playful speech. He would
+not answer. She spoke again:
+
+"Dear Frank, you are not angry with me, are you? It is nonsense to think
+that we are to go about the world, picking and choosing men and women as
+if they were fruit and we were to gather the best; as if there was not
+something in our own hearts which, if we listen to it conscientiously, will
+tell us at once when we have met the one of all others. There now, am I
+sensible? I suppose I am, for your grim features are relaxing into a smile.
+That's right. But now listen to this. I think your father would come round
+sooner, if he were not irritated every day by the knowledge of your visits
+to me. If you went away, he would know that we should write to each other
+yet he would forget the exact time when; but now he knows as well as I do
+where you are when you are up here; and I fancy, from what Erminia says, it
+makes him angry the whole time you are away."
+
+Frank was silent. At last he said: "It is rather provoking to be obliged to
+acknowledge that there is some truth in what you say. But even if I would,
+I am not sure that I could go. My father does not speak to me about his
+affairs, as he used to do; so I was rather surprised yesterday to hear him
+say to Erminia (though I'm sure he meant the information for me), that he
+had engaged an agent."
+
+"Then there will be the less occasion for you to be at home. He won't want
+your help in his accounts."
+
+"I've given him little enough of that. I have long wanted him to have
+somebody to look after his affairs. They are very complicated and he is
+very careless. But I believe my signature will be wanted for some new
+leases; at least he told me so."
+
+"That need not take you long," said Maggie.
+
+"Not the mere signing. But I want to know something more about the
+property, and the proposed tenants. I believe this Mr. Henry that my father
+has engaged, is a very hard sort of man. He is what is called scrupulously
+honest and honorable; but I fear a little too much inclined to drive hard
+bargains for his client. Now I want to be convinced to the contrary, if I
+can, before I leave my father in his hands. So you cruel judge, you won't
+transport me yet, will you?"
+
+"No" said Maggie, overjoyed at her own decision, and blushing her delight
+that her reason was convinced it was right for Frank to stay a little
+longer.
+
+The next day's post brought her a letter from Edward. There was not a word
+in it about her inquiry or remonstrance; it might never have been written,
+or never received; but a few hurried anxious lines, asking her to write by
+return of post, and say if it was really true that Mr. Buxton had engaged
+an agent. "It's a confounded shabby trick if he has, after what he said to
+me long ago. I cannot tell you how much I depend on your complying with my
+request. Once more, _write directly_. If Nancy cannot take the letter to
+the post, run down to Combehurst with it yourself. I must have an answer
+to-morrow, and every particular as to who--when to be appointed, &c. But I
+can't believe the report to be true."
+
+Maggie asked Frank if she might name what he had told her the day before to
+her brother. He said:
+
+"Oh, yes, certainly, if he cares to know. Of course, you will not say
+anything about my own opinion of Mr. Henry. He is coming to-morrow, and I
+shall be able to judge how far I am right."
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII.
+
+The next day Mr. Henry came. He was a quiet, stern-looking man, of
+considerable intelligence and refinement, and so much taste for music as to
+charm Erminia, who had rather dreaded his visit. But all the amenities of
+life were put aside when he entered Mr. Buxton's sanctum--his "office," as
+he called the room where he received his tenants and business people. Frank
+thought Mr. Henry was scarce commonly civil in the open evidence of his
+surprise and contempt for the habits, of which the disorderly books and
+ledgers were but too visible signs. Mr. Buxton himself felt more like a
+school-boy, bringing up an imperfect lesson, than he had ever done since he
+was thirteen.
+
+"The only wonder, my good sir, is that you have any property left; that you
+have not been cheated out of every farthing."
+
+"I'll answer for it," said Mr. Buxton, in reply, "that you'll not find any
+cheating has been going on. They dared not, sir; they know I should make an
+example of the first rogue I found out."
+
+Mr. Henry lifted up his eyebrows, but did not speak.
+
+"Besides, sir, most of these men have lived for generations under the
+Buxtons. I'd give you my life, they would not cheat me."
+
+Mr. Henry coldly said:
+
+"I imagine a close examination of these books by some accountant will be
+the best proof of the honesty of these said tenants. If you will allow me,
+I will write to a clever fellow I know, and desire him to come down and try
+and regulate this mass of papers."
+
+"Anything--anything you like," said Mr. Buxton, only too glad to escape
+from the lawyer's cold, contemptuous way of treating the subject.
+
+The accountant came; and he and Mr. Henry were deeply engaged in the office
+for several days. Mr. Buxton was bewildered by the questions they asked
+him. Mr. Henry examined him in the worrying way in which an unwilling
+witness is made to give evidence. Many a time and oft did he heartily wish
+he had gone on in the old course to the end of his life, instead of putting
+himself into an agent's hands; but he comforted himself by thinking that,
+at any rate, they would be convinced he had never allowed himself to be
+cheated or imposed upon, although he did not make any parade of exactitude.
+
+What was his dismay when, one morning, Mr. Henry sent to request his
+presence, and, with a cold, clear voice, read aloud an admirably drawn up
+statement, informing the poor landlord of the defalcations, nay more, the
+impositions of those whom he had trusted. If he had been alone, he would
+have burst into tears, to find how his confidence had been abused. But as
+it was, he became passionately angry.
+
+"I'll prosecute them, sir. Not a man shall escape. I'll make them pay back
+every farthing, I will. And damages, too. Crayston, did you say, sir? Was
+that one of the names? Why, that is the very Crayston who was bailiff under
+my father for years. The scoundrel! And I set him up in my best farm when
+he married. And he's been swindling me, has he?"
+
+Mr. Henry ran over the items of the account--"421_l_, 13_s_.
+4-3/4_d_. Part of this I fear we cannot recover"----
+
+He was going on, but Mr. Buxton broke in: "But I will recover it. I'll
+have every farthing of it. I'll go to law with the viper. I don't care for
+money, but I hate ingratitude."
+
+"If you like, I will take counsel's opinion on the case," said Mr. Henry,
+coolly.
+
+"Take anything you please, sir. Why this Crayston was the first man that
+set me on a horse--and to think of his cheating me!"
+
+A few days after this conversation, Frank came on his usual visit to
+Maggie.
+
+"Can you come up to the thorn-tree, dearest?" said he. "It is a lovely day,
+and I want the solace of a quiet hour's talk with you."
+
+So they went, and sat in silence some time, looking at the calm and still
+blue air about the summits of the hills, where never tumult of the world
+came to disturb the peace, and the quiet of whose heights was never broken
+by the loud passionate cries of men.
+
+"I am glad you like my thorn-tree," said Maggie.
+
+"I like the view from it. The thought of the solitude which must be among
+the hollows of those hills pleases me particularly to-day. Oh, Maggie! it
+is one of the times when I get depressed about men and the world. We have
+had such sorrow, and such revelations, and remorse, and passion at home
+to-day. Crayston (my father's old tenant) has come over. It seems--I am
+afraid there is no doubt of it--he has been peculating to a large amount.
+My father has been too careless, and has placed his dependents in great
+temptation; and Crayston--he is an old man, with a large extravagant
+family--has yielded. He has been served with notice of my father's
+intention to prosecute him; and came over to confess all, and ask for
+forgiveness, and time to pay back what he could. A month ago, my father
+would have listened to him, I think; but now, he is stung by Mr. Henry's
+sayings, and gave way to a furious passion. It has been a most distressing
+morning. The worst side of everybody seems to have come out. Even Crayston,
+with all his penitence and appearance of candor, had to be questioned
+closely by Mr. Henry before he would tell the whole truth. Good God! that
+money should have such power to corrupt men. It was all for money, and
+money's worth, that this degradation has taken place. As for Mr. Henry, to
+save his client money, and to protect money, he does not care--he does
+not even perceive--how he induces deterioration of character. He has
+been encouraging my father in measures which I cannot call anything but
+vindictive. Crayston is to be made an example of, they say. As if my father
+had not half the sin on his own head! As if he had rightly discharged his
+duties as a rich man! Money was as dross to him; but he ought to have
+remembered how it might be as life itself to many, and be craved after, and
+coveted, till the black longing got the better of principle, as it has done
+with this poor Crayston. They say the man was once so truthful, and now his
+self-respect is gone; and he has evidently lost the very nature of truth. I
+dread riches. I dread the responsibility of them. At any rate, I wish I had
+begun life as a poor boy, and worked my way up to competence. Then I could
+understand and remember the temptations of poverty. I am afraid of my
+own heart becoming hardened as my father's is. You have no notion of his
+passionate severity to-day, Maggie! It was quite a new thing even to me!"
+
+"It will only be for a short time," said she. "He must be much grieved
+about this man."
+
+"If I thought I could ever grow as hard and different to the abject
+entreaties of a criminal as my father has been this morning--one whom he
+has helped to make, too--I would go off to Australia at once. Indeed,
+Maggie, I think it would be the best thing we could do. My heart aches
+about the mysterious corruptions and evils of an old state of society such
+as we have in England.--What do you say Maggie? Would you go?"
+
+She was silent--thinking.
+
+"I would go with you directly, if it were right," said she, at last. "But
+would it be? I think it would be rather cowardly. I feel what you say; but
+don't you think it would be braver to stay, and endure much depression and
+anxiety of mind, for the sake of the good those always can do who see evils
+clearly. I am speaking all this time as if neither you nor I had any home
+duties, but were free to do as we liked."
+
+"What can you or I do? We are less than drops in the ocean, as far as our
+influence can go to model a nation?"
+
+"As for that," said Maggie, laughing, "I can't remodel Nancy's
+old-fashioned ways; so I've never yet planned how to remodel a nation."
+
+"Then what did you mean by the good those always can do who see evils
+clearly? The evils I see are those of a nation whose god is money."
+
+"That is just because you have come away from a distressing scene.
+To-morrow you will hear or read of some heroic action meeting with a
+nation's sympathy, and you will rejoice and be proud of your country."
+
+"Still I shall see the evils of her complex state of society keenly; and
+where is the good I can do?"
+
+"Oh! I can't tell in a minute. But cannot you bravely face these evils,
+and learn their nature and causes; and then has God given you no powers to
+apply to the discovery of their remedy? Dear Frank, think! It may be very
+little you can do--and you may never see the effect of it, any more than
+the widow saw the world-wide effect of her mite. Then if all the good and
+thoughtful men run away from us to some new country, what are we to do with
+our poor dear Old England?"
+
+"Oh, you must run away with the good, thoughtful men--(I mean to consider
+that as a compliment to myself, Maggie!) Will you let me wish I had been
+born poor, if I am to stay in England? I should not then be liable to this
+fault into which I see the rich men fall, of forgetting the trials of the
+poor."
+
+"I am not sure whether, if you had been poor, you might not have fallen
+into an exactly parallel fault, and forgotten the trials of the rich. It is
+so difficult to understand the errors into which their position makes all
+men liable to fall. Do you remember a story in 'Evenings at Home,' called
+the Transmigrations of Indra? Well! when I was a child, I used to wish I
+might be transmigrated (is that the right word?) into an American
+slave-owner for a little while, just that I might understand how he must
+suffer, and be sorely puzzled, and pray and long to be freed from his
+odious wealth, till at last he grew hardened to its nature;--and since
+then, I have wished to be the Emperor of Russia, for the same reason. Ah!
+you may laugh; but that is only because I have not explained myself
+properly."
+
+"I was only smiling to think how ambitious any one might suppose you were
+who did not know you."
+
+"I don't see any ambition in it--I don't think of the station--I only want
+sorely to see the 'What's resisted' of Burns, in order that I may have more
+charity for those who seem to me to have been the cause of such infinite
+woe and misery."
+
+  "'What's done we partly may compute;
+  But know not what's resisted,'"
+
+repeated Frank musingly. After some time he began again:
+
+"But, Maggie, I don't give up this wish of mine to go to Australia--Canada,
+if you like it better--anywhere where there is a newer and purer state of
+society."
+
+"The great objection seems to be your duty, as an only child, to your
+father. It is different to the case of one out of a large family."
+
+"I wish I were one in twenty, then I might marry where I liked to-morrow."
+
+"It would take two people's consent to such a rapid measure," said Maggie,
+laughing. "But now I am going to wish a wish, which it won't require a
+fairy godmother to gratify. Look, Frank, do you see in the middle of that
+dark brown purple streak of moor a yellow gleam of light? It is a pond, I
+think, that at this time of the year catches a slanting beam of the sun. It
+cannot be very far off. I have wished to go to it every autumn. Will you go
+with me now? We shall have time before tea."
+
+Frank's dissatisfaction with the stern measures that, urged on by Mr.
+Henry, his father took against all who had imposed upon his carelessness as
+a landlord, increased rather than diminished. He spoke warmly to him on the
+subject, but without avail. He remonstrated with Mr. Henry, and told him
+how he felt that, had his father controlled his careless nature, and been
+an exact, vigilant landlord, these tenantry would never have had the great
+temptation to do him wrong; and that therefore he considered some allowance
+should be made for them, and some opportunity given them to redeem their
+characters, which would be blasted and hardened for ever by the publicity
+of a law-suit. But Mr. Henry only raised his eyebrows and made answer:
+
+"I like to see these notions in a young man, sir. I had them myself at your
+age. I believe I had great ideas then, on the subject of temptation and
+the force of circumstances; and was as Quixotic as any one about reforming
+rogues. But my experience has convinced me that roguery is innate. Nothing
+but outward force can control it, and keep it within bounds. The terrors of
+the law must be that outward force. I admire your kindness of heart; and in
+three-and-twenty we do not look for the wisdom and experience of forty or
+fifty."
+
+Frank was indignant at being set aside as an unripe youth. He disapproved
+so strongly of all these measures, and of so much that was now going on
+at home under Mr. Henry's influence that he determined to pay his long
+promised visit to Scotland; and Maggie, sad at heart to see how he was
+suffering, encouraged him in his determination.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII.
+
+After he was gone, there came a November of the most dreary and
+characteristic kind. There was incessant rain, and closing-in mists,
+without a gleam of sunshine to light up the drops of water, and make the
+wet stems and branches of the trees glisten. Every color seemed dimmed
+and darkened; and the crisp autumnal glory of leaves fell soddened to the
+ground. The latest flowers rotted away without ever coming to their bloom;
+and it looked as if the heavy monotonous sky had drawn closer and closer,
+and shut in the little moorland cottage as with a shroud. In doors, things
+were no more cheerful. Maggie saw that her mother was depressed, and she
+thought that Edward's extravagance must be the occasion. Oftentimes she
+wondered how far she might speak on the subject; and once or twice she drew
+near it in conversation; but her mother winced away, and Maggie could not
+as yet see any decided good to be gained from encountering such pain. To
+herself it would have been a relief to have known the truth--the worst,
+as far as her mother knew it; but she was not in the habit of thinking of
+herself. She only tried, by long tender attention, to cheer and comfort
+her mother; and she and Nancy strove in every way to reduce the household
+expenditure, for there was little ready money to meet it. Maggie wrote
+regularly to Edward; but since the note inquiring about the agency, she had
+never heard from him. Whether her mother received letters she did not know;
+but at any rate she did not express anxiety, though her looks and manner
+betrayed that she was ill at ease. It was almost a relief to Maggie when
+some change was given to her thoughts by Nancy's becoming ill. The damp
+gloomy weather brought on some kind of rheumatic attack, which obliged the
+old servant to keep her bed. Formerly, in such an emergency, they would
+have engaged some cottager's wife to come and do the house-work; but now it
+seemed tacitly understood that they could not afford it. Even when Nancy
+grew worse, and required attendance in the night, Maggie still persisted in
+her daily occupations. She was wise enough to rest when and how she could;
+and, with a little forethought, she hoped to be able to go through this
+weary time without any bad effect. One morning (it was on the second of
+December; and even the change of name in the month, although it brought no
+change of circumstances or weather, was a relief--December brought glad
+tidings even in its very name), one morning, dim and dreary, Maggie had
+looked at the clock on leaving Nancy's room, and finding it was not yet
+half-past five, and knowing that her mother and Nancy were both asleep, she
+determined to lie down and rest for an hour before getting up to light the
+fires. She did not mean to go to sleep; but she was tired out and fell into
+a sound slumber. When she awoke it was with a start. It was still dark; but
+she had a clear idea of being wakened by some distinct, rattling noise.
+There it was once more--against the window, like a shower of shot. She
+went to the lattice, and opened it to look out. She had that strange
+consciousness, not to be described, of the near neighborhood of some human
+creature, although she neither saw nor heard any one for the first instant.
+Then Edward spoke in a hoarse whisper, right below the window, standing on
+the flower-beds.
+
+"Maggie! Maggie! Come down and let me in. For your life, don't make any
+noise. No one must know."
+
+Maggie turned sick. Something was wrong, evidently; and she was weak and
+weary. However, she stole down the old creaking stairs, and undid the heavy
+bolt, and let her brother in. She felt that his dress was quite wet, and
+she led him, with cautious steps, into the kitchen, and shut the door, and
+stirred the fire, before she spoke. He sank into a chair, as if worn out
+with fatigue. She stood, expecting some explanation. But when she saw he
+could not speak, she hastened to make him a cup of tea; and, stooping down,
+took off his wet boots, and helped him off with his coat, and brought her
+own plaid to wrap round him. All this time her heart sunk lower and lower.
+He allowed her to do what she liked, as if he were an automaton; his head
+and his arms hung loosely down, and his eyes were fixed, in a glaring way,
+on the fire. When she brought him some tea, he spoke for the first time;
+she could not hear what he said till he repeated it, so husky was his
+voice.
+
+"Have you no brandy?"
+
+She had the key of the little wine-cellar, and fetched up some. But as she
+took a tea-spoon to measure it out, he tremblingly clutched at the bottle,
+and shook down a quantity into the empty tea-cup, and drank it off at one
+gulp. He fell back again in his chair; but in a few minutes he roused
+himself, and seemed stronger.
+
+"Edward, dear Edward, what is the matter?" said Maggie, at last; for he got
+up, and was staggering toward the outer door, as if he were going once more
+into the rain, and dismal morning-twilight.
+
+He looked at her fiercely as she laid her hand on his arm.
+
+"Confound you! Don't touch me. I'll not be kept here, to be caught and
+hung!"
+
+For an instant she thought he was mad.
+
+"Caught and hung!" she echoed. "My poor Edward! what do you mean?"
+
+He sat down suddenly on a chair, close by him, and covered his face with
+his hands. When he spoke, his voice was feeble and imploring.
+
+"The police are after me, Maggie! What must I do? Oh! can you hide me? Can
+you save me?"
+
+He looked wild, like a hunted creature. Maggie stood aghast. He went on:
+
+"My mother!--Nancy! Where are they? I was wet through and starving, and I
+came here. Don't let them take me, Maggie, till I'm stronger, and can give
+battle."
+
+"Oh! Edward! Edward! What are you saying?" said Maggie, sitting down on the
+dresser, in absolute, bewildered despair. "What have you done?"
+
+"I hardly know. I'm in a horrid dream. I see you think I'm mad. I wish I
+were. Won't Nancy come down soon? You must hide me."
+
+"Poor Nancy is ill in bed!" said Maggie.
+
+"Thank God," said he. "There's one less. But my mother will be up soon,
+will she not?"
+
+"Not yet," replied Maggie. "Edward, dear, do try and tell me what you have
+done. Why should the police be after you?"
+
+"Why, Maggie," said he with a kind of forced, unnatural laugh, "they say
+I've forged."
+
+"And have you?" asked Maggie, in a still, low tone of quiet agony.
+
+He did not answer for some time, but sat, looking on the floor with
+unwinking eyes. At last he said, as if speaking to himself:
+
+"If I have, it's no more than others have done before, and never been found
+out. I was but borrowing money. I meant to repay it. If I had asked Mr.
+Buxton, he would have lent it me."
+
+"Mr. Buxton!" said Maggie.
+
+"Yes!" answered he, looking sharply and suddenly up at her. "Your future
+father-in-law. My father's old friend. It is he that is hunting me to
+death! No need to look so white and horror-struck, Maggie! It's the way of
+the world, as I might have known, if I had not been a blind fool."
+
+"Mr. Buxton!" she whispered, faintly.
+
+"Oh, Maggie!" said he, suddenly throwing himself at her feet, "save me! You
+can do it. Write to Frank, and make him induce his father to let me off. I
+came to see you, my sweet, merciful sister! I knew you would save me. Good
+God! What noise is that? There are steps in the yard!"
+
+And before she could speak, he had rushed into the little china closet,
+which opened out of the parlor, and crouched down in the darkness. It was
+only the man who brought their morning's supply of milk from a neighboring
+farm. But when Maggie opened the kitchen door, she saw how the cold, pale
+light of a winter's day had filled the air.
+
+"You're late with your shutters to-day, miss," said the man. "I hope Nancy
+has not been giving you all a bad night. Says I to Thomas, who came with me
+to the gate, 'It's many a year since I saw them parlor shutters barred up
+at half-past eight.'"
+
+Maggie went, as soon as he was gone, and opened all the low windows, in
+order that they might look as usual. She wondered at her own outward
+composure, while she felt so dead and sick at heart. Her mother would
+soon get up; must she be told? Edward spoke to her now and then from his
+hiding-place. He dared not go back into the kitchen, into which the few
+neighbors they had were apt to come, on their morning's way to Combehurst,
+to ask if they could do any errands there for Mrs. Browne or Nancy. Perhaps
+a quarter of an hour or so had elapsed since the first alarm, when, as
+Maggie was trying to light the parlor fire, in order that the doctor, when
+he came, might find all as usual, she heard the click of the garden gate,
+and a man's step coming along the walk. She ran up stairs to wash away the
+traces of the tears which had been streaming down her face as she went
+about her work, before she opened the door. There, against the watery light
+of the rainy day without, stood Mr. Buxton. He hardly spoke to her, but
+pushed past her, and entered the parlor. He sat down, looking as if he did
+not know what he was doing. Maggie tried to keep down her shivering alarm.
+It was long since she had seen him; and the old idea of his kind, genial
+disposition, had been sadly disturbed by what she had heard from Frank, of
+his severe proceedings against his unworthy tenantry; and now, if he was
+setting the police in search of Edward, he was indeed to be dreaded; and
+with Edward so close at hand, within earshot! If the china fell! He would
+suspect nothing from that; it would only be her own terror. If her mother
+came down! But, with all these thoughts, she was very still, outwardly, as
+she sat waiting for him to speak.
+
+"Have you heard from your brother lately?" asked he, looking up in an angry
+and disturbed manner. "But I'll answer for it he has not been writing home
+for some time. He could not, with the guilt he has had on his mind. I'll
+not believe in gratitude again. There perhaps was such a thing once; but
+now-a-days the more you do for a person, the surer they are to turn against
+you, and cheat you. Now, don't go white and pale. I know you're a good girl
+in the main; and I've been lying awake all night, and I've a deal to say to
+you. That scoundrel of a brother of yours!"
+
+Maggie could not ask (as would have been natural, if she had been ignorant)
+what Edward had done. She knew too well. But Mr. Buxton was too full of his
+own thoughts and feelings to notice her much.
+
+"Do you know he has been like the rest? Do you know he has been cheating
+me--forging my name? I don't know what besides. It's well for him that
+they've altered the laws, and he can't be hung for it" (a dead heavy weight
+was removed from Maggie's mind), "but Mr. Henry is going to transport him.
+It's worse than Crayston. Crayston only ploughed up the turf, and did not
+pay rent, and sold the timber, thinking I should never miss it. But your
+brother has gone and forged my name. He had received all the purchase-money,
+while he only gave me half, and said the rest was to come afterward. And
+the ungrateful scoundrel has gone and given a forged receipt! You might
+have knocked me down with a straw when Mr. Henry told me about it all last
+night. 'Never talk to me of virtue and such humbug again,' I said, 'I'll
+never believe in them. Every one is for what he can get.' However, Mr.
+Henry wrote to the superintendent of police at Woodchester; and has gone
+over himself this morning to see after it. But to think of your father
+having such a son!"
+
+"Oh my poor father!" sobbed out Maggie. "How glad I am you are dead before
+this disgrace came upon us!"
+
+"You may well say disgrace. You're a good girl yourself, Maggie. I have
+always said that. How Edward has turned out as he has done, I cannot
+conceive. But now, Maggie, I've something to say to you." He moved uneasily
+about, as if he did not know how to begin. Maggie was standing leaning her
+head against the chimney-piece, longing for her visitor to go, dreading the
+next minute, and wishing to shrink into some dark corner of oblivion where
+she might forget all for a time, till she regained a small portion of the
+bodily strength that had been sorely tried of late. Mr. Buxton saw her
+white look of anguish, and read it in part, but not wholly. He was too
+intent on what he was going to say.
+
+"I've been lying awake all night, thinking. You see the disgrace it is to
+you, though you are innocent; and I'm sure you can't think of involving
+Frank in it."
+
+Maggie went to the little sofa, and, kneeling down by it, hid her face in
+the cushions. He did not go on, for he thought she was not listening to
+him. At last he said:
+
+"Come now, be a sensible girl, and face it out. I've a plan to propose."
+
+"I hear," said she, in a dull veiled voice.
+
+"Why, you know how against this engagement I have always been. Frank is but
+three-and-twenty, and does not know his own mind, as I tell him. Besides,
+he might marry any one he chose."
+
+"He has chosen me," murmured Maggie.
+
+"Of course, of course. But you'll not think of keeping him to it, after
+what has passed. You would not have such a fine fellow as Frank pointed at
+as the brother-in-law of a forger, would you? It was far from what I wished
+for him before; but now! Why you're glad your father is dead, rather than
+he should have lived to see this day; and rightly too, I think. And you'll
+not go and disgrace Frank. From what Mr. Henry hears, Edward has been a
+discredit to you in many ways. Mr. Henry was at Woodchester yesterday, and
+he says if Edward has been fairly entered as an attorney, his name may be
+struck off the Rolls for many a thing he has done. Think of my Frank having
+his bright name tarnished by any connection with such a man! Mr. Henry
+says, even in a court of law what has come out about Edward would be excuse
+enough for a breach of promise of marriage."
+
+Maggie lifted up her wan face; the pupils of her eyes were dilated, her
+lips were dead white. She looked straight at Mr. Buxton with indignant
+impatience:
+
+"Mr. Henry! Mr. Henry! What has Mr. Henry to do with me?"
+
+Mr. Buxton was staggered by the wild, imperious look, so new upon her mild,
+sweet face. But he was resolute for Frank's sake, and returned to the
+charge after a moment's pause.
+
+"Mr. Henry is a good friend of mine, who has my interest at heart. He has
+known what a subject of regret your engagement has been to me; though
+really my repugnance to it was without cause formerly, compared to what it
+is now. Now be reasonable, my dear. I'm willing to do something for you if
+you will do something for me. You must see what a stop this sad affair has
+put to any thoughts between you and Frank. And you must see what cause I
+have to wish to punish Edward for his ungrateful behavior, to say nothing
+of the forgery. Well now! I don't know what Mr. Henry will say to me, but
+I have thought of this. If you'll write a letter to Frank, just saying
+distinctly that, for reasons which must for ever remain a secret..."
+
+"Remain a secret from Frank?" said Maggie, again lifting up her head.
+"Why?"
+
+"Why? my dear! You startle me with that manner of yours--just let me finish
+out my sentence. If you'll say that, for reasons which must forever remain
+a secret, you decidedly and unchangeably give up all connection, all
+engagement with him (which, in fact, Edward's conduct has as good as put an
+end to), I'll go over to Woodchester and tell Mr. Henry and the police that
+they need not make further search after Edward, for that I won't appear
+against him. You can save your brother; and you'll do yourself no harm by
+writing this letter, for of course you see your engagement is broken off.
+For you never would wish to disgrace Frank."
+
+He paused, anxiously awaiting her reply. She did not speak.
+
+"I'm sure, if I appear against him, he is as good as transported," he put
+in, after a while.
+
+Just at this time there was a little sound of displaced china in the
+closet. Mr. Buxton did not attend to it, but Maggie heard it. She got up,
+and stood quite calm before Mr. Buxton.
+
+"You must go," said she. "I know you; and I know you are not aware of the
+cruel way in which you have spoken to me, while asking me to give up the
+very hope and marrow of my life"--she could not go on for a moment; she was
+choked up with anguish.
+
+"It was the truth, Maggie," said he, somewhat abashed.
+
+"It was the truth that made the cruelty of it. But you did not mean to
+speak cruelly to me, I know. Only it is hard all at once to be called upon
+to face the shame and blasted character of one who was once an innocent
+child at the same father's knee."
+
+"I may have spoken too plainly," said Mr. Buxton, "but it was necessary
+to set the plain truth before you, for my son's sake. You will write the
+letter I ask?"
+
+Her look was wandering and uncertain. Her attention was distracted by
+sounds which to him had no meaning; and her judgment she felt was wavering
+and disturbed.
+
+"I cannot tell. Give me time to think; you will do that, I'm sure. Go now,
+and leave me alone. If it is right, God will give me strength to do it, and
+perhaps He will comfort me in my desolation. But I do not know--I cannot
+tell. I must have time to think. Go now, if you please, sir," said she,
+imploringly.
+
+"I am sure you will see it is a right thing I ask of you," he persisted.
+
+"Go now," she repeated.
+
+"Very well. In two hours, I will come back again; for your sake, time is
+precious. Even while we speak he may be arrested. At eleven, I will come
+back."
+
+He went away, leaving her sick and dizzy with the effort to be calm and
+collected enough to think. She had forgotten for the moment how near Edward
+was; and started when she saw the closet-door open, and his face put out.
+
+"Is he gone? I thought he never would go. What a time you kept him, Maggie!
+I was so afraid, once, you might sit down to write the letter in this room;
+and then I knew he would stop and worry you with interruptions and advice,
+so that it would never be ended; and my back was almost broken. But you
+sent him off famously. Why, Maggie! Maggie!--you're not going to faint,
+surely!"
+
+His sudden burst out of a whisper into a loud exclamation of surprise,
+made her rally; but she could not stand. She tried to smile, for he really
+looked frightened.
+
+"I have been sitting up for many nights--and now this sorrow!" Her smile
+died away into a wailing, feeble cry.
+
+"Well, well! it's over now, you see. I was frightened enough myself this
+morning, I own; and then you were brave and kind. But I knew you could save
+me, all along."
+
+At this moment the door opened, and Mrs. Browne came in.
+
+"Why, Edward, dear! who would have thought of seeing you! This is good of
+you; what a pleasant surprise! I often said, you might come over for a day
+from Woodchester. What's the matter, Maggie, you look so fagged? She's
+losing all her beauty, is not she, Edward? Where's breakfast? I thought I
+should find all ready. What's the matter? Why don't you speak?" said she,
+growing anxious at their silence. Maggie left the explanation to Edward.
+
+"Mother," said he, "I've been rather a naughty boy, and got into some
+trouble; but Maggie is going to help me out of it, like a good sister."
+
+"What is it?" said Mrs. Browne, looking bewildered and uneasy.
+
+"Oh--I took a little liberty with our friend Mr. Buxton's name; and wrote
+it down to a receipt--that was all."
+
+Mrs. Browne's face showed that the light came but slowly into her mind.
+
+"But that's forgery--is not it?" asked she at length, in terror.
+
+"People call it so," said Edward; "I call it borrowing from an old friend,
+who was always willing to lend."
+
+"Does he know?--is he angry?" asked Mrs. Browne.
+
+"Yes, he knows; and he blusters a deal. He was working himself up grandly
+at first. Maggie! I was getting rarely frightened, I can tell you."
+
+"Has he been here?" said Mrs. Browne, in bewildered fright.
+
+"Oh, yes! he and Maggie have been having a long talk, while I was hid in
+the china-closet. I would not go over that half-hour again for any money.
+However, he and Maggie came to terms, at last."
+
+"No, Edward, we did not!" said Maggie, in a low quivering voice.
+
+"Very nearly. She's to give up her engagement, and then he will let me
+off."
+
+"Do you mean that Maggie is to give up her engagement to Mr. Frank Buxton?"
+asked his mother.
+
+"Yes. It would never have come to anything, one might see that. Old Buxton
+would have held out against it till doomsday. And, sooner or later, Frank
+would have grown weary. If Maggie had had any spirit, she might have worked
+him up to marry her before now; and then I should have been spared even
+this fright, for they would never have set the police after Mrs. Frank
+Buxton's brother."
+
+"Why, dearest, Edward, the police are not after you, are they?" said Mrs.
+Browne, for the first time alive to the urgency of the case.
+
+"I believe they are though," said Edward. "But after what Mr. Buxton
+promised this morning, it does not signify."
+
+"He did not promise anything," said Maggie.
+
+Edward turned sharply to her, and looked at her. Then he went and took hold
+of her wrists with no gentle grasp, and spoke to her through his set teeth.
+
+"What do you mean, Maggie?--what do you mean?" (giving her a little shake.)
+"Do you mean that you'll stick to your lover through thick and thin, and
+leave your brother to be transported? Speak, can't you?"
+
+She looked up at him, and tried to speak, but no words came out of her dry
+throat. At last she made a strong effort.
+
+"You must give me time to think. I will do what is right, by God's help."
+
+"As if it was not right--and such can't--to save your brother," said he,
+throwing her hands away in a passionate manner.
+
+"I must be alone," said Maggie, rising, and trying to stand steadily in the
+reeling room. She heard her mother and Edward speaking, but their words
+gave her no meaning, and she went out. She was leaving the house by the
+kitchen-door, when she remembered Nancy, left alone and helpless all
+through this long morning; and, ill as she could endure detention from the
+solitude she longed to seek, she patiently fulfilled her small duties, and
+sought out some breakfast for the poor old woman.
+
+When she carried it up stairs, Nancy said:
+
+"There's something up. You've trouble in your sweet face, my darling. Never
+mind telling me--only don't sob so. I'll pray for you, bairn: and God will
+help you."
+
+"Thank you, Nancy. Do!" and she left the room.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX.
+
+When she opened the kitchen-door there was the same small, mizzling rain
+that had obscured the light for weeks, and now it seemed to obscure hope.
+
+She clambered slowly (for indeed she was very feeble) up the Fell-Lane,
+and threw herself under the leafless thorn, every small branch and twig
+of which was loaded with rain-drops. She did not see the well-beloved
+and familiar landscape for her tears, and did not miss the hills in the
+distance that were hidden behind the rain-clouds, and sweeping showers.
+
+Mrs. Browne and Edward sat over the fire. He told her his own story; making
+the temptation strong; the crime a mere trifling, venial error, which he
+had been led into, through his idea that he was to become Mr. Buxton's
+agent.
+
+"But if it is only that," said Mrs. Browne, "surely Mr. Buxton will not
+think of going to law with you?"
+
+"It's not merely going to law that he will think of, but trying and
+transporting me. That Henry he has got for his agent is as sharp as a
+needle, and as hard as a nether mill-stone. And the fellow has obtained
+such a hold over Mr. Buxton, that he dare but do what he tells him. I can't
+imagine how he had so much free-will left as to come with his proposal to
+Maggie; unless, indeed, Henry knows of it--or, what is most likely of all,
+has put him up to it. Between them they have given that poor fool Crayston
+a pretty dose of it; and I should have come yet worse off if it had not
+been for Maggie. Let me get clear this time, and I will keep to windward of
+the law for the future."
+
+"If we sold the cottage we could repay it," said Mrs. Browne, meditating.
+"Maggie and I could live on very little. But you see this property is held
+in trust for you two."
+
+"Nay, mother; you must not talk of repaying it. Depend upon it he will be
+so glad to have Frank free from his engagement, that he won't think of
+asking for the money. And if Mr. Henry says anything about it, we can tell
+him it's not half the damages they would have had to have given Maggie, if
+Frank had been extricated in any other way. I wish she would come back; I
+would prime her a little as to what to say. Keep a look out, mother, lest
+Mr. Buxton returns and find me here."
+
+"I wish Maggie would come in too," said Mrs. Browne. "I'm afraid she'll
+catch cold this damp day, and then I shall have two to nurse. You think
+she'll give it up, don't you, Edward? If she does not I'm afraid of harm
+coming to you. Had you not better keep out of the way?"
+
+"It's fine talking. Where am I to go out of sight of the police this wet
+day: without a shilling in the world too? If you'll give me some money I'll
+be off fast enough, and make assurance doubly sure. I'm not much afraid of
+Maggie. She's a little yea-nay thing, and I can always bend her round to
+what we want. She had better take care, too," said he, with a desperate
+look on his face, "for by G---- I'll make her give up all thoughts of
+Frank, rather than be taken and tried. Why! it's my chance for all my life;
+and do you think I'll have it frustrated for a girl's whim?"
+
+"I think it's rather hard upon her too," pleaded his mother. "She's very
+fond of him; and it would have been such a good match for her."
+
+"Pooh! she's not nineteen yet, and has plenty of time before her to pick
+up somebody else; while, don't you see, if I'm caught and transported, I'm
+done for life. Besides I've a notion Frank had already begun to be tired of
+the affair; it would have been broken off in a month or two, without her
+gaining anything by it."
+
+"Well, if you think so," replied Mrs. Browne. "But I'm sorry for her. I
+always told her she was foolish to think so much about him: but I know
+she'll fret a deal if it's given up."
+
+"Oh! she'll soon comfort herself with thinking that she has saved me. I
+wish she'd come. It must be near eleven. I do wish she would come. Hark! is
+not that the kitchen-door?" said he, turning white, and betaking himself
+once more to the china-closet. He held it ajar till he heard Maggie
+stepping softly and slowly across the floor. She opened the parlor-door;
+and stood looking in, with the strange imperceptive gaze of a sleep-walker.
+Then she roused herself and saw that he was not there; so she came in a
+step or two, and sat down in her dripping cloak on a chair near the door.
+
+Edward returned, bold now there was no danger.
+
+"Maggie!" said he, "what have you fixed to say to Mr. Burton?"
+
+She sighed deeply; and then lifted up her large innocent eyes to his face.
+
+"I cannot give up Frank," said she, in a low, quiet voice.
+
+Mrs. Browne threw up her hands and exclaimed in terror:
+
+"Oh Edward, Edward! go away--I will give you all the plate I have; you can
+sell it--my darling, go!"
+
+"Not till I have brought Maggie to reason," said he, in a manner as quiet
+as her own, but with a subdued ferocity in it, which she saw, but which did
+not intimidate her.
+
+He went up to her, and spoke below his breath.
+
+"Maggie, we were children together--we two--brother and sister of one
+blood! Do you give me up to be put in prison--in the hulks--among the
+basest of criminals--I don't know where--all for the sake of your own
+selfish happiness?"
+
+She trembled very much; but did not speak or cry, or make any noise.
+
+"You were always selfish. You always thought of yourself. But this time
+I did think you would have shown how different you could be. But it's
+self--self--paramount above all."
+
+"Oh Maggie! how can you be so hard-hearted and selfish?" echoed Mrs.
+Browne, crying and sobbing.
+
+"Mother!" said Maggie, "I know that I think too often and too much of
+myself. But this time I thought only of Frank. He loves me; it would break
+his heart if I wrote as Mr. Buxton wishes, cutting our lives asunder, and
+giving no reason for it."
+
+"He loves you so!" said Edward, tauntingly. "A man's love break his
+heart! You've got some pretty notions! Who told you that he loved you so
+desperately? How do you know it?"
+
+"Because I love him so," said she, in a quiet, earnest voice. "I do not
+know of any other reason; but that is quite sufficient to me. I believe
+him when he says he loves me; and I have no right to cause him the
+infinite--the terrible pain, which my own heart tells me he would feel, if
+I did what Mr. Buxton wishes me."
+
+Her manner was so simple and utterly truthful, that it was as quiet and
+fearless as a child's; her brother's fierce looks of anger had no power
+over her; and his blustering died away before her into something of the
+frightened cowardliness he had shown in the morning. But Mrs. Browne came
+up to Maggie; and took her hand between both of hers, which were trembling.
+"Maggie, you can save Edward. I know I have not loved you as I should have
+done; but I will love and comfort you forever, if you will but write as Mr.
+Buxton says. Think! Perhaps Mr. Frank may not take you at your word, but
+may come over and see you, and all may be right, and yet Edward may be
+saved. It is only writing this letter; you need not stick to it."
+
+"No!" said Edward. "A signature, if you can prove compulsion, is not valid.
+We will all prove that you write this letter under compulsion; and if Frank
+loves you so desperately, he won't give you up without a trial to make you
+change your mind."
+
+"No!" said Maggie, firmly. "If I write the letter I abide by it. I will not
+quibble with my conscience. Edward! I will not marry--I will go and live
+near you, and come to you whenever I may--and give up my life to you if you
+are sent to prison; my mother and I will go, if need be--I do not know yet
+what I can do, or cannot do, for you, but all I can I will; but this one
+thing I cannot."
+
+"Then I'm off!" said Edward. "On your deathbed may you remember this hour,
+and how you denied your only brother's request. May you ask my forgiveness
+with your dying breath, and may I be there to deny it you."
+
+"Wait a minute!" said Maggie, springing up, rapidly. "Edward, don't curse
+me with such terrible words till all is done. Mother, I implore you to keep
+him here. Hide him--do what you can to conceal him. I will have one more
+trial." She snatched up her bonnet, and was gone, before they had time to
+think or speak to arrest her.
+
+On she flew along the Combehurst road. As she went, the tears fell like
+rain down her face, and she talked to herself.
+
+"He should not have said so. No! he should not have said so. We were the
+only two." But still she pressed on, over the thick, wet, brown heather.
+She saw Mr. Buxton coming; and she went still quicker. The rain had cleared
+off, and a yellow watery gleam of sunshine was struggling out. She stopped
+or he would have passed her unheeded; little expecting to meet her there.
+
+"I wanted to see you," said she, all at once resuming her composure, and
+almost assuming a dignified manner. "You must not go down to our house; we
+have sorrow enough there. Come under these fir-trees, and let me speak to
+you."
+
+"I hope you have thought of what I said, and are willing to do what I asked
+you."
+
+"No!" said she. "I have thought and thought. I did not think in a selfish
+spirit, though they say I did. I prayed first. I could not do that
+earnestly, and be selfish, I think. I cannot give up Frank. I know the
+disgrace; and if he, knowing all, thinks fit to give me up, I shall never
+say a word, but bow my head, and try and live out my appointed days quietly
+and cheerfully. But he is the judge, not you; nor have I any right to do
+what you ask me." She stopped, because the agitation took away her breath.
+
+He began in a cold manner:--"I am very sorry. The law must take its course.
+I would have saved my son from the pain of all this knowledge, and that
+which he will of course feel in the necessity of giving up his engagement.
+I would have refused to appear against your brother, shamefully ungrateful
+as he has been. Now you cannot wonder that I act according to my agent's
+advice, and prosecute your brother as if he were a stranger."
+
+He turned to go away. He was so cold and determined that for a moment
+Maggie was timid. But she then laid her hand on his arm.
+
+"Mr. Buxton," said she, "you will not do what you threaten. I know you
+better. Think! My father was your old friend. That claim is, perhaps, done
+away with by Edward's conduct. But I do not believe you can forget it
+always. If you did fulfill the menace you uttered just now, there would
+come times as you grew older, and life grew fainter and fainter before
+you--quiet times of thought, when you remembered the days of your youth,
+and the friends you then had and knew;--you would recollect that one of
+them had left an only son, who had done wrong--who had sinned--sinned
+against you in his weakness--and you would think then--you could not help
+it--how you had forgotten mercy in justice--and, as justice required he
+should be treated as a felon, you threw him among felons--where every
+glimmering of goodness was darkened for ever. Edward is, after all, more
+weak than wicked;--but he will become wicked if you put him in prison,
+and have him transported. God is merciful--we cannot tell or think
+how merciful. Oh, sir, I am so sure you will be merciful, and give my
+brother--my poor sinning brother--a chance, that I will tell you all. I
+will throw myself upon your pity. Edward is even now at home--miserable
+and desperate;--my mother is too much stunned to understand all our
+wretchedness--for very wretched we are in our shame."
+
+As she spoke the wind arose and shivered in the wiry leaves of the
+fir-trees, and there was a moaning sound as of some Ariel imprisoned in the
+thick branches that, tangled overhead, made a shelter for them. Either the
+noise or Mr. Buxton's fancy called up an echo to Maggie's voice--a pleading
+with her pleading--a sad tone of regret, distinct yet blending with her
+speech, and a falling, dying sound, as her voice died away in miserable
+suspense.
+
+It might be that, formed as she was by Mrs. Buxton's care and love, her
+accents and words were such as that lady, now at rest from all sorrow,
+would have used;--somehow, at any rate, the thought flashed into Mr.
+Buxton's mind, that as Maggie spoke, his dead wife's voice was heard,
+imploring mercy in a clear, distinct tone, though faint, as if separated
+from him by an infinite distance of space. At least, this is the account
+Mr. Buxton would have given of the manner in which the idea of his wife
+became present to him, and what she would have wished him to do a powerful
+motive in his conduct. Words of hers, long ago spoken, and merciful,
+forgiving expressions made use of in former days to soften him in some
+angry mood, were clearly remembered while Maggie spoke; and their influence
+was perceptible in the change of his tone, and the wavering of his manner
+henceforward.
+
+"And yet you will not save Frank from being involved in your disgrace,"
+said he; but more as if weighing and deliberating on the case than he had
+ever spoken before.
+
+"If Frank wishes it, I will quietly withdraw myself out of his sight
+forever;--I give you my promise, before God, to do so. I shall not utter
+one word of entreaty or complaint. I will try not to wonder or feel
+surprise;--I will bless him in every action of his future life--but think
+how different would be the disgrace he would voluntarily incur to my poor
+mother's shame, when she wakens up to know what her child has done! Her
+very torper about it now is more painful than words can tell."
+
+"What could Edward do?" asked Mr. Buxton. "Mr. Henry won't hear of my
+passing over any frauds."
+
+"Oh, you relent!" said Maggie, taking his hand, and pressing it. "What
+could he do? He could do the same, whatever it was, as you thought of his
+doing, if I had written that terrible letter."
+
+"And you'll be willing to give it up, if Frank wishes, when he knows all?"
+asked Mr. Buxton.
+
+She crossed her hands and drooped her head, but answered steadily.
+
+"Whatever Frank wishes, when he knows all, I will gladly do. I will speak
+the truth. I do not believe that any shame surrounding me, and not in me,
+will alter Frank's love one title."
+
+"We shall see," said Mr. Buxton. "But what I thought of Edward's doing, in
+case--Well never mind! (seeing how she shrunk back from all mention of the
+letter he had asked her to write,)--was to go to America, out of the way.
+Then Mr. Henry would think he had escaped, and need never be told of my
+coenivance. I think he would throw up the agency, if he were; and he's a
+very clever man. If Ned is in England, Mr. Henry will ferret him out. And,
+besides, this affair is so blown, I don't think he could return to his
+profession. What do you say to this, Maggie?"
+
+"I will tell my mother. I must ask her. To me it seems most desirable.
+Only, I fear he is very ill; and it seems lonely; but never mind! We ought
+to be thankful to you forever. I cannot tell you how I hope and trust he
+will live to show you what your goodness has made him."
+
+"But you must lose no time. If Mr. Henry traces him; I can't answer for
+myself. I shall have no good reason to give, as I should have had, if I
+could have told him that Frank and you were to be as strangers to each
+other. And even then I should have been afraid, he is such a determined
+fellow; but uncommonly clever. Stay!" said he, yielding to a sudden and
+inexplicable desire to see Edward, and discover if his criminality had in
+any way changed his outward appearance. "I'll go with you. I can hasten
+things. If Edward goes, he must be off, as soon as possible, to Liverpool,
+and leave no trace. The next packet sails the day after to-morrow. I noted
+it down from the _Times_."
+
+Maggie and he sped along the road. He spoke his thoughts aloud:
+
+"I wonder if he will be grateful to me for this. Not that I ever mean to
+look for gratitude again. I mean to try, not to care for anybody but Frank.
+'Govern men by outward force,' says Mr. Henry. He is an uncommonly clever
+man, and he says, the longer he lives, the more he is convinced of the
+badness of men. He always looks for it now, even in those who are the best,
+apparently."
+
+Maggie was too anxious to answer, or even to attend to him. At the top of
+the slope she asked him to wait while she ran down and told the result of
+her conversation with him. Her mother was alone, looking white and sick.
+She told her that Edward had gone into the hay-loft, above the old, disused
+shippon.
+
+Maggie related the substance of her interview with Mr. Buxton, and his wish
+that Edward should go to America.
+
+"To America!" said Mrs. Browne. "Why that's as far as Botany Bay. It's just
+like transporting him. I thought you'd done something for us, you looked so
+glad."
+
+"Dearest mother, it _is_ something. He is not to be subjected to
+imprisonment or trial. I must go and tell him, only I must beckon to Mr.
+Buxton first. But when he comes, do show him how thankful we are for his
+mercy to Edward."
+
+Mrs. Browne's murmurings, whatever was their meaning, were lost upon
+Maggie. She ran through the court, and up the slope, with the lightness of
+a lawn; for though she was tired in body to an excess she had never been
+before in her life, the opening beam of hope in the dark sky made her
+spirit conquer her flesh for the time.
+
+She did not stop to speak, but turned again as soon as she had signed to
+Mr. Buxton to follow her. She left the house-door open for his entrance,
+and passed out again through the kitchen into the space behind, which was
+partly an uninclosed yard, and partly rocky common. She ran across the
+little green to the shippon, and mounted the ladder into the dimly-lighted
+loft. Up in a dark corner Edward stood, with an old rake in his hand.
+
+"I thought it was you, Maggie!" said he, heaving a deep breath of relief.
+"What have you done? Have you agreed to write the letter? You've done
+something for me, I see by your looks."
+
+"Yes! I have told Mr. Buxton all. He is waiting for you in the parlor. Oh!
+I knew he could not be so hard!" She was out of breath.
+
+"I don't understand you!" said he. "You've never been such a fool as to go
+and tell him where I am?"
+
+"Yes, I have. I felt I might trust him. He has promised not to prosecute
+you. The worst is, he says you must go to America. But come down, Ned, and
+speak to him. You owe him thanks, and he wants to see you."
+
+"I can't go through a scene. I'm not up to it. Besides, are you sure he is
+not entrapping me to the police? If I had a farthing of money I would not
+trust him, but be off to the moors."
+
+"Oh, Edward! How do you think he would do anything so treacherous and mean?
+I beg you not to lose time in distrust. He says himself, if Mr. Henry comes
+before you are off, he does not know what will be the consequence. The
+packet sails for America in two days. It is sad for you to have to go.
+Perhaps even yet he may think of something better, though I don't know how
+we can ask or expect it."
+
+"I don't want anything better," replied he, "than that I should have money
+enough to carry me to America. I'm in more scrapes than this (though none
+so bad) in England; and in America there's many an opening to fortune." He
+followed her down the steps while he spoke. Once in the yellow light of the
+watery day, she was struck by his ghastly look. Sharp lines of suspicion
+and cunning seemed to have been stamped upon his face, making it look
+older by many years than his age warranted. His jaunty evening dress,
+all weather-stained and dirty, added to his forlorn and disreputable
+appearance; but most of all--deepest of all--was the impression she
+received that he was not long for this world; and oh! how unfit for the
+next! Still, if time was given--if he were placed far away from temptation,
+she thought that her father's son might yet repent, and be saved. She took
+his hand, for he was hanging back as they came near the parlor-door, and
+led him in. She looked like some guardian angel, with her face that beamed
+out trust, and hope, and thankfulness. He, on the contrary, hung his head
+in angry, awkward shame; and half wished he had trusted to his own wits,
+and tried to evade the police, rather than have been forced into this
+interview.
+
+His mother came to him; for she loved him all the more fondly, now he
+seemed degraded and friendless. She could not, or would not, comprehend the
+extent of his guilt; and had upbraided Mr. Buxton to the top of her bent
+for thinking of sending him away to America. There was a silence when he
+came in which was insupportable to him. He looked up with clouded eyes,
+that dared not meet Mr. Buxton's.
+
+"I am here, sir, to learn what you wish me to do. Maggie says I am to go to
+America; if that is where you want to send me, I'm ready."
+
+Mr. Buxton wished himself away as heartily as Edward. Mrs. Browne's
+upbraidings, just when he felt that he had done a kind action, and yielded,
+against his judgment, to Maggie's entreaties, had made him think himself
+very ill used. And now here was Edward speaking in a sullen, savage kind
+of way, instead of showing any gratitude. The idea of Mr. Henry's stern
+displeasure loomed in the background.
+
+"Yes!" said he, "I'm glad to find you come into the idea of going to
+America. It's the only place for you. The sooner you can go, and the
+better."
+
+"I can't go without money," said Edward, doggedly. "If I had had money, I
+need not have come here."
+
+"Oh, Ned! would you have gone without seeing me?" said Mrs. Browne,
+bursting into tears. "Mr. Buxton, I cannot let him go to America. Look how
+ill he is. He'll die if you send him there."
+
+"Mother, don't give way so," said Edward, kindly, taking her hand. "I'm
+not ill, at least not to signify. Mr. Buxton is right: America is the only
+place for me. To tell the truth, even if Mr. Buxton is good enough" (he
+said this as if unwilling to express any word of thankfulness) "not to
+prosecute me, there are others who may--and will. I'm safer out of the
+country. Give me money enough to get to Liverpool and pay my passage, and
+I'll be off this minute."
+
+"You shall not," said Mrs. Browne, holding him tightly. "You told me this
+morning you were led into temptation, and went wrong because you had no
+comfortable home, nor any one to care for you, and make you happy. It will
+be worse in America. You'll get wrong again, and be away from all who can
+help you. Or you'll die all by yourself, in some backwood or other. Maggie!
+you might speak and help me--how can you stand so still, and let him go to
+America without a word!"
+
+Maggie looked up bright and steadfast, as if she saw something beyond the
+material present. Here was the opportunity for self-sacrifice of which Mrs.
+Buxton had spoken to her in her childish days--the time which comes to
+all, but comes unheeded and unseen to those whose eyes are not trained to
+watching.
+
+"Mother! could you do without me for a time? If you could, and it would
+make you easier, and help Edward to"--The word on her lips died away; for
+it seemed to imply a reproach on one who stood in his shame among them all.
+
+"You would go!" said Mrs. Browne, catching at the unfinished sentence. "Oh!
+Maggie, that's the best thing you've ever said or done since you were born.
+Edward, would not you like to have Maggie with you?"
+
+"Yes," said he, "well enough. It would be far better for me than going all
+alone; though I dare say I could make my way pretty well after a time. If
+she went, she might stay till I felt settled, and had made some friends,
+and then she could come back."
+
+Mr. Buxton was astonished at first by this proposal of Maggie's. He could
+not all at once understand the difference between what she now offered to
+do, and what he had urged upon her only this very morning. But as he
+thought about it, he perceived that what was her own she was willing to
+sacrifice; but that Frank's heart, once given into her faithful keeping,
+she was answerable for it to him and to God. This light came down upon him
+slowly; but when he understood, he admired with almost a wondering
+admiration. That little timid girl brave enough to cross the ocean and go
+to a foreign land, if she could only help to save her brother!
+
+"I'm sure Maggie," said he, turning towards her, "you are a good,
+thoughtful little creature. It may be the saving of Edward--I believe it
+will. I think God will bless you for being so devoted."
+
+"The expense will be doubled," said Edward.
+
+"My dear boy! never mind the money. I can get it advanced upon this
+cottage."
+
+"As for that, I'll advance it," said Mr. Buxton.
+
+"Could we not," said Maggie, hesitating from her want of knowledge, "make
+over the furniture--papa's books, and what little plate we have, to Mr.
+Buxton--something like pawning them--if he would advance the requisite
+money? He, strange as it may seem, is the only person you can ask in this
+great strait."
+
+And so it was arranged, after some demur on Mr. Buxton's part. But Maggie
+kept steadily to her point as soon as she found that it was attainable; and
+Mrs. Browne was equally inflexible, though from a different feeling. She
+regarded Mr. Buxton as the cause of her son's banishment, and refused to
+accept of any favor from him. If there had been time, indeed, she would
+have preferred obtaining the money in the same manner from any one else.
+Edward brightened up a little when he heard the sum could be procured; he
+was almost indifferent how; and, strangely callous, as Maggie thought,
+he even proposed to draw up a legal form of assignment. Mr. Buxton only
+thought of hurrying on the departure; but he could not refrain from
+expressing his approval and admiration of Maggie whenever he came near her.
+Before he went, he called her aside.
+
+"My dear, I'm not sure if Frank can do better than marry you, after all.
+Mind! I've not given it as much thought as I should like. But if you come
+back as we plan, next autumn, and he is steady to you till then--and Edward
+is going on well--(if he can but keep good, he'll do, for he is very
+sharp--yon is a knowing paper he drew up)--why, I'll think about it. Only
+let Frank see a bit of the world first. I'd rather you did not tell him
+I've any thoughts of coming round, that he may have a fair trial; and I'll
+keep it from Erminia if I can, or she will let it all out to him. I shall
+see you to-morrow at the coach. God bless you, my girl, and keep you on the
+great wide sea." He was absolutely in tears when he went away--tears of
+admiring regret over Maggie.
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X.
+
+The more Maggie thought, the more she felt sure that the impulse on which
+she had acted in proposing to go with her brother was right. She feared
+there was little hope for his character, whatever there might be for his
+worldly fortune, if he were thrown, in the condition of mind in which he
+was now, among the set of adventurous men who are continually going over to
+America in search of an El Dorado to be discovered by their wits. She knew
+she had but little influence over him at present; but she would not doubt
+or waver in her hope that patience and love might work him right at last.
+She meant to get some employment--in teaching--in needlework--in a shop--no
+matter how humble--and be no burden to him, and make him a happy home, from
+which he should feel no wish to wander. Her chief anxiety was about her
+mother. She did not dwell more than she could help on her long absence from
+Frank; it was too sad, and yet too necessary. She meant to write and tell
+him all about herself and Edward. The only thing which she would keep for
+some happy future should be the possible revelation of the proposal which
+Mr. Buxton had made, that she should give up her engagement as a condition
+of his not prosecuting Edward.
+
+There was much sorrowful bustle in the moorland cottage that day. Erminia
+brought up a portion of the money Mr. Buxton was to advance, with an
+entreaty that Edward would not show himself out of his home; and an account
+of a letter from Mr. Henry, stating that the Woodchester police believed
+him to be in London, and that search was being made for him there.
+
+Erminia looked very grave and pale. She gave her message to Mrs. Browne,
+speaking little beyond what was absolutely necessary. Then she took Maggie
+aside, and suddenly burst into tears.
+
+"Maggie, darling--what is this going to America? You've always and always
+been sacrificing yourself to your family, and now you're setting off,
+nobody knows where, in some vain hope of reforming Edward. I wish he was
+not your brother, that I might speak of him as I should like."
+
+"He has been doing what is very wrong," said Maggie. "But you--none of
+you--know his good points--nor how he has been exposed to all sorts of bad
+influences, I am sure; and never had the advantage of a father's training
+and friendship, which are so inestimable to a son. O, Minnie! when I
+remember how we two used to kneel down in the evenings at my father's knee,
+and say our prayers; and then listen in awe-struck silence to his earnest
+blessing, which grew more like a prayer for us as his life waned away,
+I would do anything for Edward rather than that wrestling agony of
+supplication should have been in vain. I think of him as the little
+innocent boy, whose arm was round me as if to support me in the Awful
+Presence, whose true name of Love we had not learned. Minnie! he has had
+no proper training--no training, I mean, to enable him to resist
+temptation--and he has been thrown into it without warning or advice. Now
+he knows what it is; and I must try, though I am but an unknowing girl, to
+warn and to strengthen him. Don't weaken my faith. Who can do right if we
+lose faith in them?"
+
+"And Frank!" said Erminia, after a pause. "Poor Frank!"
+
+"Dear Frank!" replied Maggie, looking up, and trying to smile; but, in
+spite of herself, her eyes filled with tears. "If I could have asked him,
+I know he would approve of what I am going to do. He would feel it to be
+right that I should make every effort--I don't mean," said she, as the
+tears would fall down her cheeks in spite of her quivering effort at a
+smile, "that I should not have liked to have seen him. But it is no use
+talking of what one would have liked. I am writing a long letter to him at
+every pause of leisure."
+
+"And I'm keeping you all this time," said Erminia, getting up, yet loth to
+go. "When do you intend to come back? Let us feel there is a fixed time.
+America! Why, it's thousands of miles away. Oh, Maggie! Maggie!"
+
+"I shall come back the next autumn, I trust," said Maggie, comforting her
+friend with many a soft caress. "Edward will be settled then, I hope. You
+were longer in France, Minnie. Frank was longer away that time he wintered
+in Italy with Mr. Monro."
+
+Erminia went slowly to the door. Then she turned, right facing Maggie.
+
+"Maggie! tell the truth. Has my uncle been urging you to go? Because if he
+has, don't trust him; it is only to break off your engagement."
+
+"No, he has not, indeed. It was my own thought at first. Then in a moment I
+saw the relief it was to my mother--my poor mother! Erminia, the thought
+of her grief at Edward's absence is the trial; for my sake, you will come
+often and often, and comfort her in every way you can."
+
+"Yes! that I will; tell me everything I can do for you." Kissing each
+other, with long lingering delay they parted.
+
+Nancy would be informed of the cause of the commotion in the house; and
+when she had in some degree ascertained its nature, she wasted no time
+in asking further questions, but quietly got up and dressed herself;
+and appeared among them, weak and trembling, indeed, but so calm and
+thoughtful, that her presence was an infinite help to Maggie.
+
+When day closed in, Edward stole down to the house once more. He was
+haggard enough to have been in anxiety and concealment for a month. But
+when his body was refreshed, his spirits rose in a way inconceivable to
+Maggie. The Spaniards who went out with Pizarro were not lured on by more
+fantastic notions of the wealth to be acquired in the New World than he
+was. He dwelt on these visions in so brisk and vivid a manner, that he even
+made his mother cease her weary weeping (which had lasted the livelong day,
+despite all Maggie's efforts) to look up and listen to him.
+
+"I'll answer for it," said he: "before long I'll be an American judge with
+miles of cotton plantations."
+
+"But in America," sighed out his mother.
+
+"Never mind, mother!" said he, with a tenderness which made Maggie's heart
+glad. "If you won't come over to America to me, why, I'll sell them all,
+and come back to live in England. People will forget the scrapes that the
+rich American got into in his youth."
+
+"You can pay back Mr. Buxton then," said his mother.
+
+"Oh, yes--of course," replied he, as if falling into a new and trivial
+idea.
+
+Thus the evening whiled away. The mother and son sat, hand in hand, before
+the little glinting blazing parlor fire, with the unlighted candles on the
+table behind. Maggie, busy in preparations, passed softly in and out. And
+when all was done that could be done before going to Liverpool, where she
+hoped to have two days to prepare their outfit more completely, she stole
+back to her mother's side. But her thoughts would wander off to Frank,
+"working his way south through all the hunting-counties," as he had written
+her word. If she had not urged his absence, he would have been here for her
+to see his noble face once more; but then, perhaps, she might never have
+had the strength to go.
+
+Late, late in the night they separated. Maggie could not rest, and stole
+into her mother's room. Mrs. Browne had cried herself to sleep, like a
+child. Maggie stood and looked at her face, and then knelt down by the bed
+and prayed. When she arose, she saw that her mother was awake, and had been
+looking at her.
+
+"Maggie dear! you're a good girl, and I think God will hear your prayer
+whatever it was for. I cannot tell you what a relief it is to me to
+think you're going with him. It would have broken my heart else. If I've
+sometimes not been as kind as I might have been, I ask your forgiveness,
+now, my dear; and I bless you and thank you for going out with him; for I'm
+sure he's not well and strong, and will need somebody to take care of him.
+And you shan't lose with Mr. Frank, for as sure as I see him I'll tell him
+what a good daughter and sister you've been; and I shall say, for all he is
+so rich, I think he may look long before he finds a wife for him like our
+Maggie. I do wish Ned had got that new greatcoat, he says he left behind
+him at Woodchester." Her mind reverted to her darling son; but Maggie took
+her short slumber by her mother's side, with her mother's arms around her;
+and awoke and felt that her sleep had been blessed. At the coach-office
+the next morning they met Mr. Buxton all ready as if for a journey, but
+glancing about him as if in fear of some coming enemy.
+
+"I'm going with you to Liverpool," said he. "Don't make any ado about it,
+please. I shall like to see you off; and I may be of some use to you, and
+Erminia begged it of me; and, besides, it will keep me out of Mr. Henry's
+way for a little time, and I'm afraid he will find it all out, and think me
+very weak; but you see he made me too hard upon Crayston, so I may take it
+out in a little soft-heartedness toward the son of an old friend."
+
+Just at this moment Erminia came running through the white morning mist all
+glowing with haste.
+
+"Maggie," said she, "I'm come to take care of your mother. My uncle says
+she and Nancy must come to us for a long, long visit. Or if she would
+rather go home, I'll go with her till she feels able to come to us, and do
+anything I can think of for her. I will try to be a daughter till you come
+back, Maggie; only don't be long, or Frank and I shall break our hearts."
+
+Maggie waited till her mother had ended her long clasping embrace of
+Edward, who was subdued enough this morning; and then, with something like
+Esau's craving for a blessing, she came to bid her mother good-bye, and
+received the warm caress she had longed for for years. In another moment
+the coach was away; and before half an hour had elapsed, Combehurst
+church-spire had been lost in a turn of the road.
+
+Edward and Mr. Buxton did not speak to each other, and Maggie was nearly
+silent. They reached Liverpool in the afternoon; and Mr. Buxton, who had
+been there once or twice before, took them directly to some quiet hotel. He
+was far more anxious that Edward should not expose himself to any chance of
+recognition than Edward himself. He went down to the Docks to secure berths
+in the vessel about to sail the next day, and on his return he took Maggie
+out to make the requisite purchases.
+
+"Did you pay for us, sir?" said Maggie, anxious to ascertain the amount of
+money she had left, after defraying the passage.
+
+"Yes," replied he, rather confused. "Erminia begged me not to tell you
+about it, but I can't manage a secret well. You see she did not like the
+idea of your going as steerage-passengers as you meant to do; and she
+desired me to take you cabin places for her. It is no doing of mine, my
+dear. I did not think of it; but now I have seen how crowded the steerage
+is, I am very glad Erminia had so much thought. Edward might have roughed
+it well enough there, but it would never have done for you."
+
+"It was very kind of Erminia," said Maggie, touched at this consideration
+of her friend; "but..."
+
+"Now don't 'but' about it," interrupted he. "Erminia is very rich, and has
+more money than she knows what to do with. I'm only vexed I did not think
+of it myself. For Maggie, though I may have my own ways of thinking on some
+points, I can't be blind to your goodness."
+
+All evening Mr. Buxton was busy, and busy on their behalf. Even Edward,
+when he saw the attention that was being paid to his physical comfort,
+felt a kind of penitence; and after choking once or twice in the attempt,
+conquered his pride (such I call it for want of a better word) so far as
+to express some regret for his past conduct, and some gratitude for Mr.
+Buxton's present kindness. He did it awkwardly enough, but it pleased Mr.
+Buxton.
+
+"Well--well--that's all very right," said he, reddening from his own
+uncomfortableness of feeling. "Now don't say any more about it, but do your
+best in America; don't let me feel I've been a fool in letting you off. I
+know Mr. Henry will think me so. And, above all, take care of Maggie. Mind
+what she says, and you're sure to go right."
+
+He asked them to go on board early the next day, as he had promised Erminia
+to see them there, and yet wished to return as soon as he could. It was
+evident that he hoped, by making his absence as short as possible, to
+prevent Mr. Henry's ever knowing that he had left home, or in any way
+connived at Edward's escape.
+
+So, although the vessel was not to sail till the afternoon's tide, they
+left the hotel soon after breakfast, and went to the "Anna-Maria." They
+were among the first passengers on board. Mr. Buxton took Maggie down to
+her cabin. She then saw the reason of his business the evening before.
+Every store that could be provided was there. A number of books lay on
+the little table--books just suited to Maggie's taste. "There!" said he,
+rubbing his hands. "Don't thank me. It's all Erminia's doing. She gave me
+the list of books. I've not got all; but I think they'll be enough. Just
+write me one line, Maggie, to say I've done my best."
+
+Maggie wrote with tears in her eyes--tears of love toward the generous
+Erminia. A few minutes more and Mr. Buxton was gone. Maggie watched him as
+long as she could see him; and as his portly figure disappeared among the
+crowd on the pier, her heart sank within her.
+
+Edward's, on the contrary, rose at his absence. The only one, cognisant of
+his shame and ill-doing, was gone. A new life lay before him, the opening
+of which was made agreeable to him, by the position in which he found
+himself placed, as a cabin-passenger; with many comforts provided for him;
+for although Maggie's wants had been the principal object of Mr. Buxton's
+attention, Edward was not forgotten.
+
+He was soon among the sailors, talking away in a rather consequential
+manner. He grew acquainted with the remainder of the cabin-passengers, at
+least those who arrived before the final bustle began; and kept bringing
+his sister such little pieces of news as he could collect.
+
+"Maggie, they say we are likely to have a good start, and a fine moonlight
+night." Away again he went.
+
+"I say, Maggie, that's an uncommonly pretty girl come on board, with those
+old people in black. Gone down into the cabin, now; I wish you would scrape
+up an acquaintance with her, and give me a chance."
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI.
+
+Maggie sat on deck, wrapped in her duffel-cloak; the old familiar cloak,
+which had been her wrap in many a happy walk in the haunts near her
+moorland home. The weather was not cold for the time of year, but still it
+was chilly to any one that was stationary. But she wanted to look her last
+on the shoals of English people, who crowded backward and forward, like
+ants, on the pier. Happy people! who might stay among their loved ones. The
+mocking demons gathered round her, as they gather round all who sacrifice
+self, tempting. A crowd of suggestive doubts pressed upon her. "Was it
+really necessary that she should go with Edward? Could she do him any real
+good? Would he be in any way influenced by her?" Then the demon tried
+another description of doubt. "Had it ever been her duty to go? She was
+leaving her mother alone. She was giving Frank much present sorrow. It was
+not even yet too late!" She could not endure longer; and replied to her own
+tempting heart.
+
+"I was right to hope for Edward; I am right to give him the chance of
+steadiness which my presence will give. I am doing what my mother earnestly
+wished me to do; and what to the last she felt relieved by my doing. I know
+Frank will feel sorrow, because I myself have such an aching heart; but if
+I had asked him whether I was not right in going, he would have been too
+truthful not to have said yes. I have tried to do right, and though I may
+fail, and evil may seem to arise rather than good out of my endeavor, yet
+still I will submit to my failure, and try and say 'God's will be done!' If
+only I might have seen Frank once more, and told him all face to face!"
+
+To do away with such thoughts, she determined no longer to sit gazing, and
+tempted by the shore; and, giving one look to the land which contained her
+lover, she went down below, and busied herself, even through her blinding
+tears, in trying to arrange her own cabin, and Edward's. She heard boat
+after boat arrive loaded with passengers. She learnt from Edward, who came
+down to tell her the fact, that there were upwards of two hundred steerage
+passengers. She felt the tremulous shake which announced that the ship was
+loosed from her moorings, and being tugged down the river. She wrapped
+herself up once more, and came on deck, and sat down among the many who
+were looking their last look at England. The early winter evening was
+darkening in, and shutting out the Welsh coast, the hills of which were
+like the hills of home. She was thankful when she became too ill to think
+and remember.
+
+Exhausted and still, she did not know whether she was sleeping or waking;
+or whether she had slept since she had thrown herself down on her cot, when
+suddenly, there was a great rush, and then Edward stood like lightning by
+her, pulling her up by the arm.
+
+"The ship is on fire--to the deck, Maggie! Fire! Fire!" he shouted, like
+a maniac, while he dragged her up the stairs--as if the cry of Fire could
+summon human aid on the great deep. And the cry was echoed up to heaven by
+all that crowd in an accent of despair.
+
+They stood huddled together, dressed and undressed; now in red lurid light,
+showing ghastly faces of terror--now in white wreaths of smoke--as far away
+from the steerage as they could press; for there, up from the hold,
+rose columns of smoke, and now and then a fierce blaze leaped out,
+exulting--higher and higher every time; while from each crevice on that
+part of the deck issued harbingers of the terrible destruction that awaited
+them.
+
+The sailors were lowering the boats; and above them stood the captain, as
+calm as if he were on his own hearth at home--his home where he never more
+should be. His voice was low--was lower; but as clear as a bell in its
+distinctness; as wise in its directions as collected thought could make
+it. Some of the steerage passengers were helping; but more were dumb and
+motionless with affright. In that dead silence was heard a low wail of
+sorrow, as of numbers whose power was crushed out of them by that awful
+terror. Edward still held his clutch of Margaret's arm.
+
+"Be ready!" said he, in a fierce whisper.
+
+The fire sprung up along the main-mast, and did not sink or disappear
+again. They knew then that all the mad efforts made by some few below to
+extinguish it were in vain; and then went up the prayers of hundreds, in
+mortal agony of fear:
+
+"Lord! have mercy upon us!"
+
+Not in quiet calm of village church did ever such a pitiful cry go up to
+heaven; it was like one voice--like the day of judgment in the presence of
+the Lord.
+
+And after that there was no more silence; but a confusion of terrible
+farewells, and wild cries of affright, and purposeless rushes hither and
+thither.
+
+The boats were down, rocking on the sea. The captain spoke:
+
+"Put the children in first; they are the most helpless."
+
+One or two stout sailors stood in the boats to receive them. Edward drew
+nearer and nearer to the gangway, pulling Maggie with him. She was almost
+pressed to death, and stifled. Close in her ear, she heard a woman praying
+to herself. She, poor creature, knew of no presence but God's in that awful
+hour, and spoke in a low voice to Him.
+
+"My heart's darlings are taken away from me. Faith! faith! Oh, my great
+God! I will die in peace, if Thou wilt but grant me faith in this terrible
+hour, to feel that Thou wilt take care of my poor orphans. Hush! dearest
+Billy," she cried out shrill to a little fellow in the boat waiting for his
+mother; and the change in her voice from despair to a kind of cheerfulness,
+showed what a mother's love can do. "Mother will come soon. Hide his face,
+Anne, and wrap your shawl tight round him." And then her voice sank down
+again in the same low, wild prayer for faith. Maggie could not turn to see
+her face, but took the hand which hung near her. The woman clutched at it
+with the grasp of a vice; but went on praying, as if unconscious. Just then
+the crowd gave way a little. The captain had said, that the women were to
+go next; but they were too frenzied to obey his directions, and now pressed
+backward and forward. The sailors, with mute, stern obedience, strove to
+follow out the captain's directions. Edward pulled Maggie, and she kept her
+hold on the mother. The mate, at the head of the gangway, pushed him back.
+
+"Only women are to go!"
+
+"There are men there."
+
+"Three, to manage the boat."
+
+"Come on, Maggie! while there's room for us," said he, unheeding. But
+Maggie drew back, and put the mother's hand into the mate's. "Save her
+first!" said she. The woman did not know of anything, but that her children
+were there; it was only in after days, and quiet hours, that she remembered
+the young creature who pushed her forward to join her fatherless children,
+and, by losing her place in the crowd, was jostled--where, she did not
+know--but dreamed until her dying day. Edward pressed on, unaware that
+Maggie was not close behind him. He was deaf to reproaches; and, heedless
+of the hand stretched out to hold him back, sprang toward the boat. The men
+there pushed her off--full and more than full as she was; and overboard he
+fell into the sullen heaving waters.
+
+His last shout had been on Maggie's name--a name she never thought to hear
+again on earth, as she was pressed back, sick and suffocating. But suddenly
+a voice rang out above all confused voices and moaning hungry waves, and
+above the roaring fire.
+
+"Maggie, Maggie! My Maggie!"
+
+Out of the steerage side of the crowd a tall figure issued forth, begrimed
+with smoke. She could not see, but she knew. As a tame bird flutters to the
+human breast of its protector when affrighted by some mortal foe, so Maggie
+fluttered and cowered into his arms. And, for a moment, there was no more
+terror or thought of danger in the hearts of those twain, but only infinite
+and absolute peace. She had no wonder how he came there: it was enough that
+he was there. He first thought of the destruction that was present with
+them. He was as calm and composed as if they sat beneath the thorn-tree
+on the still moorlands, far away. He took her, without a word, to the end
+of the quarter-deck. He lashed her to a piece of spar. She never spoke:
+
+"Maggie," he said, "my only chance is to throw you overboard. This spar
+will keep you floating. At first, you will go down--deep, deep down. Keep
+your mouth and eyes shut. I shall be there when you come up. By God's help,
+I will struggle bravely for you."
+
+She looked up; and by the flashing light he could see a trusting, loving
+smile upon her face. And he smiled back at her; a grave, beautiful look,
+fit to wear on his face in heaven. He helped her to the side of the vessel,
+away from the falling burning pieces of mast. Then for a moment he paused.
+
+"If--Maggie, I may be throwing you in to death." He put his hand before his
+eyes. The strong man lost courage. Then she spoke:
+
+"I am not afraid; God is with us, whether we live or die!" She looked as
+quiet and happy as a child on its mother's breast! and so before he lost
+heart again, he heaved her up, and threw her as far as he could over into
+the glaring, dizzying water; and straight leaped after her. She came up
+with an involuntary look of terror on her face; but when she saw him by the
+red glare of the burning ship, close by her side, she shut her eyes, and
+looked as if peacefully going to sleep. He swam, guiding the spar.
+
+"I think we are near Llandudno. I know we have passed the little Ormes'
+head." That was all he said; but she did not speak.
+
+He swam out of the heat and fierce blaze of light into the quiet, dark
+waters; and then into the moon's path. It might be half an hour before he
+got into that silver stream. When the beams fell down upon them he looked
+at Maggie. Her head rested on the spar, quite still. He could not bear it.
+"Maggie--dear heart! speak!"
+
+With a great effort she was called back from the borders of death by that
+voice, and opened her filmy eyes, which looked abroad as if she could see
+nothing nearer than the gleaming lights of Heaven. She let the lids fall
+softly again. He was as if alone in the wide world with God.
+
+"A quarter of an hour more and all is over," thought he. "The people at
+Llandudno must see our burning ship, and will come out in their boats."
+He kept in the line of light, although it did not lead him direct to the
+shore, in order that they might be seen. He swam with desperation. One
+moment he thought he had heard her last gasp rattle through the rush of
+the waters; and all strength was gone, and he lay on the waves as if he
+himself must die, and go with her spirit straight through that purple lift
+to heaven; the next he heard the splash of oars, and raised himself
+and cried aloud. The boatmen took them in--and examined her by the
+lantern--and spoke in Welsh--and shook their heads. Frank threw himself on
+his knees, and prayed them to take her to land. They did not know his
+words, but they understood his prayer. He kissed her lips--he chafed her
+hands--he wrung the water out of her hair--he held her feet against his
+warm breast.
+
+"She is not dead," he kept saying to the men, as he saw their sorrowful,
+pitying looks.
+
+The kind people at Llandudno had made ready their own humble beds, with
+every appliance of comfort they could think of, as soon as they understood
+the nature of the calamity which had befallen the ship on their coasts.
+Frank walked, dripping, bareheaded, by the body of his Margaret, which was
+borne by some men along the rocky sloping shore.
+
+"She is not dead!" he said. He stopped at the first house they came to. It
+belonged to a kind-hearted woman. They laid Maggie in her bed, and got the
+village doctor to come and see her.
+
+"There is life still," said he, gravely.
+
+"I knew it," said Frank. But it felled him to the ground. He sank first
+in prayer, and then in insensibility. The doctor did everything. All that
+night long he passed to and fro from house to house; for several had swum
+to Llandudno. Others, it was thought, had gone to Abergele.
+
+In the morning Frank was recovered enough to write to his father,
+by Maggie's bedside. He sent the letter off to Conway by a little
+bright-looking Welsh boy. Late in the afternoon she awoke.
+
+In a moment or two she looked eagerly round her, as if gathering in her
+breath; and then she covered her head and sobbed.
+
+"Where is Edward?" asked she.
+
+"We do not know," said Frank, gravely. "I have been round the village, and
+seen every survivor here; he is not among them, but he may be at some other
+place along the coast."
+
+She was silent, reading in his eyes his fears--his belief.
+
+At last she asked again.
+
+"I cannot understand it. My head is not clear. There are such rushing
+noises in it. How came you there?" She shuddered involuntarily as she
+recalled the terrible where.
+
+For an instant he dreaded, for her sake, to recall the circumstances of the
+night before; but then he understood how her mind would dwell upon them
+until she was satisfied.
+
+"You remember writing to me, love, telling me all. I got your letter--I
+don't know how long ago--yesterday, I think. Yes! in the evening. You could
+not think, Maggie, I would let you go alone to America. I won't speak
+against Edward, poor fellow! but we must both allow that he was not the
+person to watch over you as such a treasure should be watched over. I
+thought I would go with you. I hardly know if I meant to make myself known
+to you all at once, for I had no wish to have much to do with your brother.
+I see now that it was selfish in me. Well! there was nothing to be done,
+after receiving your letter, but to set off for Liverpool straight, and
+join you. And after that decision was made, my spirits rose, for the old
+talks about Canada and Australia came to my mind, and this seemed like a
+realization of them. Besides, Maggie, I suspected--I even suspect now--that
+my father had something to do with your going with Edward?"
+
+"Indeed, Frank!" said she, earnestly, "you are mistaken; I cannot tell you
+all now; but he was so good and kind at last. He never urged me to go;
+though, I believe, he did tell me it would be the saving of Edward."
+
+"Don't agitate yourself, love. I trust there will be time enough, some
+happy day at home, to tell me all. And till then, I will believe that my
+father did not in any way suggest this voyage. But you'll allow that,
+after all that has passed, it was not unnatural in me to suppose so. I
+only told Middleton I was obliged to leave him by the next train. It was
+not till I was fairly off, that I began to reckon up what money I had with
+me. I doubt even if I was sorry to find it was so little. I should have to
+put forth my energies and fight my way, as I had often wanted to do. I
+remember, I thought how happy you and I would be, striving together as poor
+people 'in that new world which is the old.' Then you had told me you were
+going in the steerage; and that was all suitable to my desires for myself."
+
+"It was Erminia's kindness that prevented our going there. She asked your
+father to take us cabin places unknown to me."
+
+"Did she? dear Erminia! it is just like her. I could almost laugh to
+remember the eagerness with which I doffed my signs of wealth, and put on
+those of poverty. I sold my watch when I got into Liverpool--yesterday,
+I believe--but it seems like months ago. And I rigged myself out at a
+slop-shop with suitable clothes for a steerage passenger. Maggie! you never
+told me the name of the vessel you were going to sail in!"
+
+"I did not know it till I got to Liverpool. All Mr. Buxton said was, that
+some ship sailed on the 15th."
+
+"I concluded it must be the Anna-Maria, (poor Anna-Maria!) and I had no
+time to lose. She had just heaved her anchor when I came on board. Don't
+you recollect a boat hailing her at the last moment? There were three of us
+in her."
+
+"No! I was below in my cabin--trying not to think," said she, coloring a
+little.
+
+"Well! as soon as I got on board it began to grow dark, or, perhaps, it was
+the fog on the river; at any rate, instead of being able to single out your
+figure at once, Maggie--it is one among a thousand--I had to go peering
+into every woman's face; and many were below. I went between decks, and
+by-and-by I was afraid I had mistaken the vessel; I sat down--I had no
+spirit to stand; and every time the door opened I roused up and looked--but
+you never came. I was thinking what to do; whether to be put on shore in
+Ireland, or to go on to New York, and wait for you there;--it was the worst
+time of all, for I had nothing to do; and the suspense was horrible. I
+might have known," said he, smiling, "my little Emperor of Russia was not
+one to be a steerage passenger."
+
+But Maggie was too much shaken to smile; and the thought of Edward lay
+heavy upon her mind.
+
+"Then the fire broke out; how, or why, I suppose will never be ascertained.
+It was at our end of the vessel. I thanked God, then, that you were not
+there. The second mate wanted some one to go down with him to bring up the
+gunpowder, and throw it overboard. I had nothing to do, and I went. We
+wrapped it up in wet sails, but it was a ticklish piece of work, and took
+time. When we had got it overboard, the flames were gathering far and wide.
+I don't remember what I did until I heard Edward's voice speaking your
+name."
+
+It was decided that the next morning they should set off homeward, striving
+on their way to obtain tidings of Edward. Frank would have given his only
+valuable, (his mother's diamond-guard, which he wore constantly,) as a
+pledge for some advance of money; but the kind Welsh people would not have
+it. They had not much spare cash, but what they had they readily lent to
+the survivors of the Anna-Maria. Dressed in the homely country garb of
+the people, Frank and Maggie set off in their car. If was a clear, frosty
+morning; the first that winter. The road soon lay high up on the cliffs
+along the coast. They looked down on the sea rocking below. At every
+village they stopped, and Frank inquired, and made the driver inquire in
+Welsh; but no tidings gained they of Edward; though here and there Maggie
+watched Frank into some cottage or other, going to see a dead body, beloved
+by some one: and when he came out, solemn and grave, their sad eyes met,
+and she knew it was not he they sought, without needing words.
+
+At Abergele they stopped to rest; and because, being a larger place, it
+would need a longer search, Maggie lay down on the sofa, for she was very
+weak, and shut her eyes, and tried not to see forever and ever that mad
+struggling crowd lighted by the red flames.
+
+Frank came back in an hour or so; and soft behind him--laboriously treading
+on tiptoe--Mr. Buxton followed. He was evidently choking down his sobs; but
+when he saw the white wan figure of Maggie, he held out his arms.
+
+"My dear! my daughter!" he said, "God bless you!" He could not speak
+more--he was fairly crying; but he put her hand in Frank's and kept holding
+them both.
+
+"My father," said Frank, speaking in a husky voice, while his eyes filled
+with tears, "had heard of it before he received my letter. I might have
+known that the lighthouse signals would take it fast to Liverpool. I had
+written a few lines to him saying I was going to you; happily they never
+reached--that was spared to my dear father."
+
+Maggie saw the look of restored confidence that passed between father and
+son.
+
+"My mother?" said she at last.
+
+"She is here," said they both at once, with sad solemnity.
+
+"Oh, where? Why did not you tell me?" exclaimed she, starting up. But their
+faces told her why.
+
+"Edward is drowned--is dead," said she, reading their looks.
+
+There was no answer.
+
+"Let me go to my mother."
+
+"Maggie, she is with him. His body was washed ashore last night. My father
+and she heard of it as they came along. Can you bear to see her? She will
+not leave him."
+
+"Take me to her," Maggie answered.
+
+They led her into a bed-room. Stretched on the bed lay Edward, but now so
+full of hope and worldly plans.
+
+Mrs. Browne looked round, and saw Maggie. She did not get up from her place
+by his head; nor did she long avert her gaze from his poor face. But she
+held Maggie's hand, as the girl knelt by her, and spoke to her in a hushed
+voice, undisturbed by tears. Her miserable heart could not find that
+relief.
+
+"He is dead!--he is gone!--he will never come back again! If he had gone to
+America--it might have been years first--but he would have come back to me.
+But now he will never come back again;--never--never!"
+
+Her voice died away, as the wailings of the night-wind die in the distance;
+and there was silence--silence more sad and hopeless than any passionate
+words of grief.
+
+And to this day it is the same. She prizes her dead son more than a
+thousand living daughters, happy and prosperous as is Maggie now--rich in
+the love of many. If Maggie did not show such reverence to her mother's
+faithful sorrows, others might wonder at her refusal to be comforted by
+that sweet daughter. But Maggie treats her with such tender sympathy, never
+thinking of herself or her own claims, that Frank, Erminia, Mr. Buxton,
+Nancy, and all, are reverent and sympathizing too.
+
+Over both old and young the memory of one who is dead broods like a
+dove--of one who could do but little during her lifetime--who was doomed
+only to "stand and wait"--who was meekly content to _be_ gentle, holy,
+patient, and undefiled--the memory of the invalid Mrs. Buxton.
+
+"THERE'S ROSEMARY FOR REMEMBRANCE."
+
+
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+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 11371 ***
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+<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 11371 ***</div>
+
+<h1>THE MOORLAND COTTAGE.</h1>
+
+<h2 class="no-break">By the author of MARY BARTON.</h2>
+
+<h3>NEW YORK: 1851.</h3>
+
+<hr />
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2>CHAPTER I.</h2>
+
+<p>
+If you take the turn to the left, after you pass the lyke-gate at Combehurst
+Church, you will come to the wooden bridge over the brook; keep along the
+field-path which mounts higher and higher, and, in half a mile or so, you will
+be in a breezy upland field, almost large enough to be called a down, where
+sheep pasture on the short, fine, elastic turf. You look down on Combehurst and
+its beautiful church-spire. After the field is crossed, you come to a common,
+richly colored with the golden gorse and the purple heather, which in
+summer-time send out their warm scents into the quiet air. The swelling waves
+of the upland make a near horizon against the sky; the line is only broken in
+one place by a small grove of Scotch firs, which always look black and shadowed
+even at mid-day, when all the rest of the landscape seems bathed in sunlight.
+The lark quivers and sings high up in the air; too high—in too dazzling a
+region for you to see her. Look! she drops into sight; but, as if loth to leave
+the heavenly radiance, she balances herself and floats in the ether. Now she
+falls suddenly right into her nest, hidden among the ling, unseen except by the
+eyes of Heaven, and the small bright insects that run hither and thither on the
+elastic flower-stalks. With something like the sudden drop of the lark, the
+path goes down a green abrupt descent; and in a basin, surrounded by the grassy
+hills, there stands a dwelling, which is neither cottage nor house, but
+something between the two in size. Nor yet is it a farm, though surrounded by
+living things. It is, or rather it was, at the time of which I speak, the
+dwelling of Mrs. Browne, the widow of the late curate of Combehurst. There she
+lived with her faithful old servant and her only children, a boy and girl. They
+were as secluded in their green hollow as the households in the German
+forest-tales. Once a week they emerged and crossed the common, catching on its
+summit the first sounds of the sweet-toned bells, calling them to church. Mrs.
+Browne walked first, holding Edward’s hand. Old Nancy followed with Maggie; but
+they were all one party, and all talked together in a subdued and quiet tone,
+as beseemed the day. They had not much to say, their lives were too unbroken;
+for, excepting on Sundays, the widow and her children never went to Combehurst.
+Most people would have thought the little town a quiet, dreamy place; but to
+those two children if seemed the world; and after they had crossed the bridge,
+they each clasped more tightly the hands which they held, and looked shyly up
+from beneath their drooped eyelids when spoken to by any of their mother’s
+friends. Mrs. Browne was regularly asked by some one to stay to dinner after
+morning church, and as regularly declined, rather to the timid children’s
+relief; although in the week-days they sometimes spoke together in a low voice
+of the pleasure it would be to them if mamma would go and dine at Mr. Buxton’s,
+where the little girl in white and that great tall boy lived. Instead of
+staying there, or anywhere else, on Sundays, Mrs. Browne thought it her duty to
+go and cry over her husband’s grave. The custom had arisen out of true sorrow
+for his loss, for a kinder husband, and more worthy man, had never lived; but
+the simplicity of her sorrow had been destroyed by the observation of others on
+the mode of its manifestation. They made way for her to cross the grass toward
+his grave; and she, fancying that it was expected of her, fell into the habit I
+have mentioned. Her children, holding each a hand, felt awed and uncomfortable,
+and were sensitively conscious how often they were pointed out, as a mourning
+group, to observation.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I wish it would always rain on Sundays,” said Edward one day to Maggie, in a
+garden conference.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why?” asked she.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Because then we bustle out of church, and get home as fast as we can, to save
+mamma’s crape; and we have not to go and cry over papa.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t cry,” said Maggie. “Do you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Edward looked round before he answered, to see if they were quite alone, and
+then said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No; I was sorry a long time about papa, but one can’t go on being sorry
+forever. Perhaps grown-up people can.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Mamma can,” said little Maggie. “Sometimes I am very sorry too; when I am by
+myself or playing with you, or when I am wakened up by the moonlight in our
+room. Do you ever waken and fancy you heard papa calling you? I do sometimes;
+and then I am very sorry to think we shall never hear him calling us again.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ah, it’s different with me, you know. He used to call me to lessons.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Sometimes he called me when he was displeased with me. But I always dream that
+he was calling us in his own kind voice, as he used to do when he wanted us to
+walk with him, or to show us something pretty.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Edward was silent, playing with something on the ground. At last he looked
+round again, and, having convinced himself that they could not be overheard, he
+whispered:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Maggie—sometimes I don’t think I’m sorry that papa is dead—when I’m naughty,
+you know; he would have been so angry with me if he had been here; and I
+think—only sometimes, you know, I’m rather glad he is not.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, Edward! you don’t mean to say so, I know. Don’t let us talk about him. We
+can’t talk rightly, we’re such little children. Don’t, Edward, please.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Poor little Maggie’s eyes filled with tears; and she never spoke again to
+Edward, or indeed to any one, about her dead father. As she grew older, her
+life became more actively busy. The cottage and small outbuildings, and the
+garden and field, were their own; and on the produce they depended for much of
+their support. The cow, the pig, and the poultry took up much of Nancy’s time.
+Mrs. Browne and Maggie had to do a great deal of the house-work; and when the
+beds were made, and the rooms swept and dusted, and the preparations for dinner
+ready, then, if there was any time, Maggie sat down to her lessons. Ned, who
+prided himself considerably on his sex, had been sitting all the morning, in
+his father’s arm-chair, in the little book-room, “studying,” as he chose to
+call it. Sometimes Maggie would pop her head in, with a request that he would
+help her to carry the great pitcher of water up-stairs, or do some other little
+household service; with which request he occasionally complied, but with so
+many complaints about the interruption, that at last she told him she would
+never ask him again. Gently as this was said, he yet felt it as a reproach, and
+tried to excuse himself.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You see, Maggie, a man must be educated to be a gentleman. Now, if a woman
+knows how to keep a house, that’s all that is wanted from her. So my time is of
+more consequence than yours. Mamma says I’m to go to college, and be a
+clergyman; so I must get on with my Latin.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie submitted in silence; and almost felt it as an act of gracious
+condescension when, a morning or two afterwards, he came to meet her as she was
+toiling in from the well, carrying the great brown jug full of spring-water
+ready for dinner. “Here,” said he, “let us put it in the shade behind the
+horse-mount. Oh, Maggie! look what you’ve done! Spilt it all, with not turning
+quickly enough when I told you. Now you may fetch it again for yourself, for
+I’ll have nothing to do with it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I did not understand you in time,” said she, softly. But he had turned away,
+and gone back in offended dignity to the house. Maggie had nothing to do but
+return to the well, and fill it again. The spring was some distance off, in a
+little rocky dell. It was so cool after her hot walk, that she sat down in the
+shadow of the gray limestone rock, and looked at the ferns, wet with the
+dripping water. She felt sad, she knew not why. “I think Ned is sometimes very
+cross,” thought she. “I did not understand he was carrying it there. Perhaps I
+am clumsy. Mamma says I am; and Ned says I am. Nancy never says so and papa
+never said so. I wish I could help being clumsy and stupid. Ned says all women
+are so. I wish I was not a woman. It must be a fine thing to be a man. Oh dear!
+I must go up the field again with this heavy pitcher, and my arms do so ache!”
+She rose and climbed the steep brae. As she went she heard her mother’s voice.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Maggie! Maggie! there’s no water for dinner, and the potatoes are quite
+boiled. Where _is_ that child?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They had begun dinner, before she came down from brushing her hair and washing
+her hands. She was hurried and tired.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Mother,” said Ned, “mayn’t I have some butter to these potatoes, as there is
+cold meat? They are so dry.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Certainly, my dear. Maggie, go and fetch a pat of butter out of the dairy.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie went from her untouched dinner without speaking.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Here, stop, you child!” said Nancy, turning her back in the passage. “You go
+to your dinner, I’ll fetch the butter. You’ve been running about enough
+to-day.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie durst not go back without it, but she stood in the passage till Nancy
+returned; and then she put up her mouth to be kissed by the kind rough old
+servant.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Thou’rt a sweet one,” said Nancy to herself, as she turned into the kitchen;
+and Maggie went back to her dinner with a soothed and lightened heart.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When the meal was ended, she helped her mother to wash up the old-fashioned
+glasses and spoons, which were treated with tender care and exquisite
+cleanliness in that house of decent frugality; and then, exchanging her
+pinafore for a black silk apron, the little maiden was wont to sit down to some
+useful piece of needlework, in doing which her mother enforced the most dainty
+neatness of stitches. Thus every hour in its circle brought a duty to be
+fulfilled; but duties fulfilled are as pleasures to the memory, and little
+Maggie always thought those early childish days most happy, and remembered them
+only as filled with careless contentment.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Yet, at the time they had their cares.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In fine summer days Maggie sat out of doors at her work. Just beyond the court
+lay the rocky moorland, almost as gay as that with its profusion of flowers. If
+the court had its clustering noisettes, and fraxinellas, and sweetbriar, and
+great tall white lilies, the moorland had its little creeping scented rose, its
+straggling honeysuckle, and an abundance of yellow cistus; and here and there a
+gray rock cropped out of the ground, and over it the yellow stone-crop and
+scarlet-leaved crane’s-bill grew luxuriantly. Such a rock was Maggie’s seat. I
+believe she considered it her own, and loved it accordingly; although its real
+owner was a great lord, who lived far away, and had never seen the moor, much
+less the piece of gray rock, in his life.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The afternoon of the day which I have begun to tell you about, she was sitting
+there, and singing to herself as she worked: she was within call of home, and
+could hear all home sounds, with their shrillness softened down. Between her
+and it, Edward was amusing himself; he often called upon her for sympathy,
+which she as readily gave.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I wonder how men make their boats steady; I have taken mine to the pond, and
+she has toppled over every time I sent her in.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Has it?—that’s very tiresome! Would it do to put a little weight in it, to
+keep it down?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“How often must I tell you to call a ship ‘her;’ and there you will go on
+saying—it—it!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After this correction of his sister, Master Edward did not like the
+condescension of acknowledging her suggestion to be a good one; so he went
+silently to the house in search of the requisite ballast; but not being able to
+find anything suitable, he came back to his turfy hillock, littered round with
+chips of wood, and tried to insert some pebbles into his vessel; but they stuck
+fast, and he was obliged to ask again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Supposing it was a good thing to weight her, what could I put in?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie thought a moment.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Would shot do?” asked she.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It would be the very thing; but where can I get any?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“There is some that was left of papa’s. It is in the right-hand corner of the
+second drawer of the bureau, wrapped up in a newspaper.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What a plague! I can’t remember your ‘seconds,’ and ‘right-hands,’ and
+fiddle-faddles.” He worked on at his pebbles. They would not do.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I think if you were good-natured, Maggie, you might go for me.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, Ned! I’ve all this long seam to do. Mamma said I must finish it before
+tea; and that I might play a little if I had done it first,” said Maggie,
+rather plaintively; for it was a real pain to her to refuse a request.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It would not take you five minutes.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie thought a little. The time would only be taken out of her playing,
+which, after all, did not signify; while Edward was really busy about his ship.
+She rose, and clambered up the steep grassy slope, slippery with the heat.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Before she had found the paper of shot, she heard her mother’s voice calling,
+in a sort of hushed hurried loudness, as if anxious to be heard by one person
+yet not by another—“Edward, Edward, come home quickly. Here’s Mr. Buxton coming
+along the Fell-Lane;—he’s coming here, as sure as sixpence; come, Edward,
+come.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie saw Edward put down his ship and come. At his mother’s bidding it
+certainly was; but he strove to make this as little apparent as he could, by
+sauntering up the slope, with his hands in his pockets, in a very independent
+and _négligé_ style. Maggie had no time to watch longer; for now she was called
+too, and down stairs she ran.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Here, Maggie,” said her mother, in a nervous hurry;—“help Nancy to get a tray
+ready all in a minute. I do believe here’s Mr. Buxton coming to call. Oh,
+Edward! go and brush your hair, and put on your Sunday jacket; here’s Mr.
+Buxton just coming round. I’ll only run up and change my cap; and you say
+you’ll come up and tell me, Nancy; all proper, you know.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“To be sure, ma’am. I’ve lived in families afore now,” said Nancy, gruffly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, yes, I know you have. Be sure you bring in the cowslip wine. I wish I
+could have stayed to decant some port.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Nancy and Maggie bustled about, in and out of the kitchen and dairy; and were
+so deep in their preparations for Mr. Buxton’s reception that they were not
+aware of the very presence of that gentleman himself on the scene. He had found
+the front door open, as is the wont in country places, and had walked in; first
+stopping at the empty parlor, and then finding his way to the place where
+voices and sounds proclaimed that there were inhabitants. So he stood there,
+stooping a little under the low-browed lintels of the kitchen door, and looking
+large, and red, and warm, but with a pleased and almost amused expression of
+face.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Lord bless me, sir! what a start you gave me!” said Nancy, as she suddenly
+caught sight of him. “I’ll go and tell my missus in a minute that you’re come.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Off she went, leaving Maggie alone with the great, tall, broad gentleman,
+smiling at her from his frame in the door-way, but never speaking. She went on
+dusting a wine-glass most assiduously.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well done, little girl,” came out a fine strong voice at last. “Now I think
+that will do. Come and show me the parlor where I may sit down, for I’ve had a
+long walk, and am very tired.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie took him into the parlor, which was always cool and fresh in the hottest
+weather. It was scented by a great beau-pot filled with roses; and, besides,
+the casement was open to the fragrant court. Mr. Buxton was so large, and the
+parlor so small, that when he was once in, Maggie thought when he went away, he
+could carry the room on his back, as a snail does its house.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And so, you are a notable little woman, are you?” said he, after he had
+stretched himself (a very unnecessary proceeding), and unbuttoned his
+waistcoat, Maggie stood near the door, uncertain whether to go or to stay. “How
+bright and clean you were making that glass! Do you think you could get me some
+water to fill it? Mind, it must be that very glass I saw you polishing. I shall
+know it again.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie was thankful to escape out of the room; and in the passage she met her
+mother, who had made time to change her gown as well as her cap. Before Nancy
+would allow the little girl to return with the glass of water she smoothed her
+short-cut glossy hair; it was all that was needed to make her look delicately
+neat. Maggie was conscientious in trying to find out the identical glass; but I
+am afraid Nancy was not quite so truthful in avouching that one of the six,
+exactly similar, which were now placed on the tray, was the same she had found
+on the dresser, when she came back from telling her mistress of Mr. Buxton’s
+arrival.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie carried in the water, with a shy pride in the clearness of the glass.
+Her mother was sitting on the edge of her chair, speaking in unusually fine
+language, and with a higher pitched voice than common. Edward, in all his
+Sunday glory, was standing by Mr. Buxton, looking happy and conscious. But when
+Maggie came in, Mr. Buxton made room for her between Edward and himself, and,
+while she went on talking, lifted her on to his knee. She sat there as on a
+pinnacle of honor; but as she durst not nestle up to him, a chair would have
+been the more comfortable seat.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“As founder’s line, I have a right of presentation; and for my dear old
+friend’s sake” (here Mrs. Browne wiped her eyes), “I am truly glad of it; my
+young friend will have a little form of examination to go through; and then we
+shall see him carrying every prize before him, I have no doubt. Thank you, just
+a little of your sparkling cowslip wine. Ah! this gingerbread is like the
+gingerbread I had when I was a boy. My little lady here must learn the receipt,
+and make me some. Will she?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Speak to Mr. Buxton, child, who is kind to your brother. You will make him
+some gingerbread, I am sure.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If I may,” said Maggie, hanging down her head.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Or, I’ll tell you what. Suppose you come to my house, and teach us how to make
+it there; and then, you know, we could always be making gingerbread when we
+were not eating it. That would be best, I think. Must I ask mamma to bring you
+down to Combehurst, and let us all get acquainted together? I have a great boy
+and a little girl at home, who will like to see you, I’m sure. And we have got
+a pony for you to ride on, and a peacock and guinea fowls, and I don’t know
+what all. Come, madam, let me persuade you. School begins in three weeks. Let
+us fix a day before then.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do mamma,” said Edward.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I am not in spirits for visiting,” Mrs. Browne answered. But the quick
+children detected a hesitation in her manner of saying the oft spoken words,
+and had hopes, if only Mr. Buxton would persevere in his invitation.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Your not visiting is the very reason why you are not in spirits. A little
+change, and a few neighborly faces, would do you good, I’ll be bound. Besides,
+for the children’s sake you should not live too secluded a life. Young people
+should see a little of the world.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. Browne was much obliged to Mr. Buxton for giving her so decent an excuse
+for following her inclination, which, it must be owned, tended to the
+acceptance of the invitation. So, “for the children’s sake,” she consented. But
+she sighed, as if making a sacrifice.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“That’s right,” said Mr. Buxton. “Now for the day.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was fixed that they should go on that day week; and after some further
+conversation about the school at which Edward was to be placed, and some more
+jokes about Maggie’s notability, and an inquiry if she would come and live with
+him the next time he wanted a housemaid, Mr. Buxton took his leave.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+His visit had been an event; and they made no great attempt at settling again
+that day to any of their usual employments. In the first place, Nancy came in
+to hear and discuss all the proposed plans. Ned, who was uncertain whether to
+like or dislike the prospect of school, was very much offended by the old
+servant’s remark, on first hearing of the project.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s time for him. He’ll learn his place there, which, it strikes me, he and
+others too are apt to forget at home.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Then followed discussions and arrangements respecting his clothes. And then
+they came to the plan of spending a day at Mr. Buxton’s, which Mrs. Browne was
+rather shy of mentioning, having a sort of an idea of inconstancy and guilt
+connected with the thought of mingling with the world again. However, Nancy
+approved: “It was quite right,” and “just as it should be,” and “good for the
+children.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes; it was on their account I did it, Nancy,” said Mrs. Browne.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“How many children has Mr. Buxton?” asked Edward.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Only one. Frank, I think, they call him. But you must say Master Buxton; be
+sure.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Who is the little girl, then,” asked Maggie, “who sits with them in church?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh! that’s little Miss Harvey, his niece, and a great fortune.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“They do say he never forgave her mother till the day of her death,” remarked
+Nancy.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Then they tell stories, Nancy!” replied Mrs. Browne (it was she herself who
+had said it; but that was before Mr. Buxton’s call). For d’ye think his sister
+would have left him guardian to her child, if they were not on good terms?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well! I only know what folks say. And, for sure, he took a spite at Mr. Harvey
+for no reason on earth; and every one knows he never spoke to him.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He speaks very kindly and pleasantly,” put in Maggie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ay; and I’m not saying but what he is a very good, kind man in the main. But
+he has his whims, and keeps hold on ’em when he’s got ’em. There’s them pies
+burning, and I’m talking here!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When Nancy had returned to her kitchen, Mrs. Browne called Maggie up stairs, to
+examine what clothes would be needed for Edward. And when they were up, she
+tried on the black satin gown, which had been her visiting dress ever since she
+was married, and which she intended should replace the old, worn-out bombazine
+on the day of the visit to Combehurst.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“For Mrs. Buxton is a real born lady,” said she; “and I should like to be well
+dressed, to do her honor.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I did not know there was a Mrs. Buxton,” said Maggie. “She is never at
+church.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No; she is but delicate and weakly, and never leaves the house. I think her
+maid told me she never left her room now.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The Buxton family, root and branch, formed the _pièce de résistance_ in the
+conversation between Mrs. Browne and her children for the next week. As the day
+drew near, Maggie almost wished to stay at home, so impressed was she with the
+awfulness of the visit. Edward felt bold in the idea of a new suit of clothes,
+which had been ordered for the occasion, and for school afterwards. Mrs. Browne
+remembered having heard the rector say, “A woman never looked so lady-like as
+when she wore black satin,” and kept her spirits up with that observation; but
+when she saw how worn it was at the elbows, she felt rather depressed, and
+unequal to visiting. Still, for her children’s sake, she would do much.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After her long day’s work was ended, Nancy sat up at her sewing. She had found
+out that among all the preparations, none were going on for Margaret; and she
+had used her influence over her mistress (who half-liked and half-feared, and
+entirely depended upon her) to obtain from her an old gown, which she had taken
+to pieces, and washed and scoured, and was now making up, in a way a little
+old-fashioned to be sure; but, on the whole, it looked so nice when completed
+and put on, that Mrs. Browne gave Maggie a strict lecture about taking great
+care of such a handsome frock and forgot that she had considered the gown from
+which it had been made as worn out and done for.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2>CHAPTER II.</h2>
+
+<p>
+At length they were dressed, and Nancy stood on the court-steps, shading her
+eyes, and looking after them, as they climbed the heathery slope leading to
+Combehurst.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I wish she’d take her hand sometimes, just to let her know the feel of her
+mother’s hand. Perhaps she will, at least after Master Edward goes to school.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As they went along, Mrs. Browne gave the children a few rules respecting
+manners and etiquette.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Maggie! you must sit as upright as ever you can; make your back flat, child,
+and don’t poke. If I cough, you must draw up. I shall cough whenever I see you
+do anything wrong, and I shall be looking at you all day; so remember. You hold
+yourself very well, Edward. If Mr. Buxton asks you, you may have a glass of
+wine, because you’re a boy. But mind and say, ‘Your good health, sir,’ before
+you drink it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’d rather not have the wine if I’m to say that,” said Edward, bluntly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, nonsense! my dear. You’d wish to be like a gentleman, I’m sure.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Edward muttered something which was inaudible. His mother went on:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Of course you’ll never think of being helped more than twice. Twice of meat,
+twice of pudding, is the genteel thing. You may take less, but never more.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, mamma! how beautiful Combehurst spire is, with that dark cloud behind it!”
+exclaimed Maggie, as they came in sight of the town.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You’ve no business with Combehurst spire when I’m speaking to you. I’m talking
+myself out of breath to teach you how to behave, and there you go looking after
+clouds, and such like rubbish. I’m ashamed of you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Although Maggie walked quietly by her mother’s side all the rest of the way,
+Mrs. Browne was too much offended to resume her instructions on good-breeding.
+Maggie might be helped three times if she liked: she had done with her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They were very early. When they drew near the bridge, they were met by a tall,
+fine-looking boy, leading a beautiful little Shetland pony, with a side-saddle
+on it. He came up to Mrs. Browne, and addressed her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“My father thought your little girl would be tired, and he told me to bring my
+cousin Erminia’s pony for her. It’s as quiet as can be.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Now this was rather provoking to Mrs. Browne, as she chose to consider Maggie
+in disgrace. However, there was no help for it: all she could do was to spoil
+the enjoyment as far as possible, by looking and speaking in a cold manner,
+which often chilled Maggie’s little heart, and took all the zest out of the
+pleasure now. It was in vain that Frank Buxton made the pony trot and canter;
+she still looked sad and grave.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Little dull thing!” he thought; but he was as kind and considerate as a
+gentlemanly boy could be.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At last they reached Mr. Buxton’s house. It was in the main street, and the
+front door opened upon it by a flight of steps. Wide on each side extended the
+stone-coped windows. It was in reality a mansion, and needed not the
+neighboring contrast of the cottages on either side to make it look imposing.
+When they went in, they entered a large hall, cool even on that burning July
+day, with a black and white flag floor, and old settees round the walls, and
+great jars of curious china, which were filled with pot-pourrie. The dusky
+gloom was pleasant, after the glare of the street outside; and the requisite
+light and cheerfulness were given by the peep into the garden, framed, as it
+were, by the large door-way that opened into it. There were roses, and
+sweet-peas, and poppies—a rich mass of color, which looked well, set in the
+somewhat sombre coolness of the hall. All the house told of wealth—wealth which
+had accumulated for generations, and which was shown in a sort of comfortable,
+grand, unostentatious way. Mr. Buxton’s ancestors had been yeomen; but, two or
+three generations back, they might, if ambitious, have taken their place as
+country gentry, so much had the value of their property increased, and so great
+had been the amount of their savings. They, however, continued to live in the
+old farm till Mr. Buxton’s grandfather built the house in Combehurst of which I
+am speaking, and then he felt rather ashamed of what he had done; it seemed
+like stepping out of his position. He and his wife always sat in the best
+kitchen; and it was only after his son’s marriage that the entertaining rooms
+were furnished. Even then they were kept with closed shutters and bagged-up
+furniture during the lifetime of the old couple, who, nevertheless, took a
+pride in adding to the rich-fashioned ornaments and grand old china of the
+apartments. But they died, and were gathered to their fathers, and young Mr.
+and Mrs. Buxton (aged respectively fifty-one and forty-five) reigned in their
+stead. They had the good taste to make no sudden change; but gradually the
+rooms assumed an inhabited appearance, and their son and daughter grew up in
+the enjoyment of great wealth, and no small degree of refinement. But as yet
+they held back modestly from putting themselves in any way on a level with the
+county people. Lawrence Buxton was sent to the same school as his father had
+been before him; and the notion of his going to college to complete his
+education was, after some deliberation, negatived. In process of time he
+succeeded his father, and married a sweet, gentle lady, of a decayed and very
+poor county family, by whom he had one boy before she fell into delicate
+health. His sister had married a man whose character was worse than his
+fortune, and had been left a widow. Everybody thought her husband’s death a
+blessing; but she loved him, in spite of negligence and many grosser faults;
+and so, not many years after, she died, leaving her little daughter to her
+brother’s care, with many a broken-voiced entreaty that he would never speak a
+word against the dead father of her child. So the little Erminia was taken home
+by her self-reproaching uncle, who felt now how hardly he had acted towards his
+sister in breaking off all communication with her on her ill-starred marriage.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Where is Erminia, Frank?” asked his father, speaking over Maggie’s shoulder,
+while he still held her hand. “I want to take Mrs. Browne to your mother. I
+told Erminia to be here to welcome this little girl.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’ll take her to Minnie; I think she’s in the garden. I’ll come back to you,”
+nodding to Edward, “directly, and then we will go to the rabbits.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+So Frank and Maggie left the great lofty room, full of strange rare things, and
+rich with books, and went into the sunny scented garden, which stretched far
+and wide behind the house. Down one of the walks, with a hedge of roses on
+either side, came a little tripping fairy, with long golden ringlets, and a
+complexion like a china rose. With the deep blue of the summer sky behind her,
+Maggie thought she looked like an angel. She neither hastened nor slackened her
+pace when she saw them, but came on with the same dainty light prancing step.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Make haste, Minnie,” cried Frank.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But Minnie stopped to gather a rose.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t stay with me,” said Maggie, softly, although she had held his hand like
+that of a friend, and did not feel that the little fairy’s manner was
+particularly cordial or gracious. Frank took her at her word, and ran off to
+Edward.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Erminia came a little quicker when she saw that Maggie was left alone; but for
+some time after they were together, they had nothing to say to each other.
+Erminia was easily impressed by the pomps and vanities of the world; and
+Maggie’s new handsome frock seemed to her made of old ironed brown silk. And
+though Maggie’s voice was soft, with a silver ringing sound in it, she
+pronounced her words in Nancy’s broad country way. Her hair was cut short all
+round; her shoes were thick, and clumped as she walked. Erminia patronized her,
+and thought herself very kind and condescending; but they were not particularly
+friendly. The visit promised to be more honorable than agreeable, and Maggie
+almost wished herself at home again. Dinner-time came. Mrs. Buxton dined in her
+own room. Mr. Buxton was hearty, and jovial, and pressing; he almost scolded
+Maggie because she would not take more than twice of his favorite pudding: but
+she remembered what her mother had said, and that she would be watched all day;
+and this gave her a little prim, quaint manner, very different from her usual
+soft charming unconsciousness. She fancied that Edward and Master Buxton were
+just as little at their ease with each other as she and Miss Harvey. Perhaps
+this feeling on the part of the boys made all four children unite after dinner.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Let us go to the swing in the shrubbery,” said Frank, after a little
+consideration; and off they ran. Frank proposed that he and Edward should swing
+the two little girls; and for a time all went on very well. But by-and-by
+Edward thought, that Maggie had had enough, and that he should like a turn; and
+Maggie, at his first word, got out.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t you like swinging?” asked Erminia.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes! but Edward would like it now.” And Edward accordingly took her place.
+Frank turned away, and would not swing him. Maggie strove hard to do it, but he
+was heavy, and the swing bent unevenly. He scolded her for what she could not
+help, and at last jumped out so roughly, that the seat hit Maggie’s face, and
+knocked her down. When she got up, her lips quivered with pain, but she did not
+cry; she only looked anxiously at her frock. There was a great rent across the
+front breadth. Then she did shed tears—tears of fright. What would her mother
+say?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Erminia saw her crying.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Are you hurt?” said she, kindly. “Oh, how your cheek is swelled! What a rude,
+cross boy your brother is!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I did not know he was going to jump out. I am not crying because I am hurt,
+but because of this great rent in my nice new frock. Mamma will be so
+displeased.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Is it a new frock?” asked Erminia.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It is a new one for me. Nancy has sat up several nights to make it. Oh! what
+shall I do?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Erminia’s little heart was softened by such excessive poverty. A best frock
+made of shabby old silk! She put her arms round Maggie’s neck, and said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come with me; we will go to my aunt’s dressing-room, and Dawson will give me
+some silk, and I’ll help you to mend it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“That’s a kind little Minnie,” said Frank. Ned had turned sulkily away. I do
+not think the boys were ever cordial again that day; for, as Frank said to his
+mother, “Ned might have said he was sorry; but he is a regular tyrant to that
+little brown mouse of a sister of his.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Erminia and Maggie went, with their arms round each other’s necks, to Mrs.
+Buxton’s dressing-room. The misfortune had made them friends. Mrs. Buxton lay
+on the sofa; so fair and white and colorless, in her muslin dressing-gown, that
+when Maggie first saw the lady lying with her eyes shut, her heart gave a
+start, for she thought she was dead. But she opened her large languid eyes, and
+called them to her, and listened to their story with interest.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Dawson is at tea. Look, Minnie, in my work-box; there is some silk there. Take
+off your frock, my dear, and bring it here, and let me see how it can be
+mended.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Aunt Buxton,” whispered Erminia, “do let me give her one of my frocks. This is
+such an old thing.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No, love. I’ll tell you why afterwards,” answered Mrs. Buxton.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She looked at the rent, and arranged it nicely for the little girls to mend.
+Erminia helped Maggie with right good will. As they sat on the floor, Mrs.
+Buxton thought what a pretty contrast they made; Erminia, dazzlingly fair, with
+her golden ringlets, and her pale-blue frock; Maggie’s little round white
+shoulders peeping out of her petticoat; her brown hair as glossy and smooth as
+the nuts that it resembled in color; her long black eye-lashes drooping over
+her clear smooth cheek, which would have given the idea of delicacy, but for
+the coral lips that spoke of perfect health: and when she glanced up, she
+showed long, liquid, dark-gray eyes. The deep red of the curtain behind, threw
+out these two little figures well.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Dawson came up. She was a grave elderly person, of whom Erminia was far more
+afraid than she was of her aunt; but at Mrs. Buxton’s desire she finished
+mending the frock for Maggie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Mr. Buxton has asked some of your mamma’s old friends to tea, as I am not able
+to go down. But I think, Dawson, I must have these two little girls to tea with
+me. Can you be very quiet, my dears; or shall you think it dull?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They gladly accepted the invitation; and Erminia promised all sorts of fanciful
+promises as to quietness; and went about on her tiptoes in such a labored
+manner, that Mrs. Buxton begged her at last not to try and be quiet, as she
+made much less noise when she did not. It was the happiest part of the day to
+Maggie. Something in herself was so much in harmony with Mrs. Buxton’s sweet,
+resigned gentleness, that it answered like an echo, and the two understood each
+other strangely well. They seemed like old friends, Maggie, who was reserved at
+home because no one cared to hear what she had to say, opened out, and told
+Erminia and Mrs. Buxton all about her way of spending her day, and described
+her home.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“How odd!” said Erminia. “I have ridden that way on Abdel-Kadr, and never seen
+your house.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It is like the place the Sleeping Beauty lived in; people sometimes seem to go
+round it and round it, and never find it. But unless you follow a little
+sheep-track, which seems to end at a gray piece of rock, you may come within a
+stone’s throw of the chimneys and never see them. I think you would think it so
+pretty. Do you ever come that way, ma’am?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No, love,” answered Mrs. Buxton.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But will you some time?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I am afraid I shall never be able to go out again,” said Mrs. Buxton, in a
+voice which, though low, was very cheerful. Maggie thought how sad a lot was
+here before her; and by-and-by she took a little stool, and sat by Mrs.
+Buxton’s sofa, and stole her hand into hers.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. Browne was in full tide of pride and happiness down stairs. Mr. Buxton had
+a number of jokes; which would have become dull from repetition (for he worked
+a merry idea threadbare before he would let it go), had it not been for his
+jovial blandness and good-nature. He liked to make people happy, and, as far as
+bodily wants went, he had a quick perception of what was required. He sat like
+a king (for, excepting the rector, there was not another gentleman of his
+standing at Combehurst), among six or seven ladies, who laughed merrily at all
+his sayings, and evidently thought Mrs. Browne had been highly honored in
+having been asked to dinner as well as to tea. In the evening, the carriage was
+ordered to take her as far as a carriage could go; and there was a little
+mysterious handshaking between her host and herself on taking leave, which made
+her very curious for the lights of home by which to examine a bit of rustling
+paper that had been put in her hand with some stammered-out words about Edward.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When every one had gone, there was a little gathering in Mrs. Buxton’s
+dressing-room. Husband, son and niece, all came to give her their opinions on
+the day and the visitors.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Good Mrs. Browne is a little tiresome,” said Mr. Buxton, yawning. “Living in
+that moorland hole, I suppose. However, I think she has enjoyed her day; and
+we’ll ask her down now and then, for Browne’s sake. Poor Browne! What a good
+man he was!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t like that boy at all,” said Frank. “I beg you’ll not ask him again
+while I’m at home: he is so selfish and self-important; and yet he’s a bit
+snobbish now and then. Mother! I know what you mean by that look. Well! if I am
+self-important sometimes, I’m not a snob.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Little Maggie is very nice,” said Erminia. “What a pity she has not a new
+frock! Was not she good about it, Frank, when she tore it?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes, she’s a nice little thing enough, if she does not get all spirit cowed
+out of her by that brother. I’m thankful that he is going to school.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When Mrs. Browne heard where Maggie had drank tea, she was offended. She had
+only sat with Mrs. Buxton for an hour before dinner. If Mrs. Buxton could bear
+the noise of children, she could not think why she shut herself up in that
+room, and gave herself such airs. She supposed it was because she was the
+granddaughter of Sir Henry Biddulph that she took upon herself to have such
+whims, and not sit at the head of her table, or make tea for her company in a
+civil decent way. Poor Mr. Buxton! What a sad life for a merry, light-hearted
+man to have such a wife! It was a good thing for him to have agreeable society
+sometimes. She thought he looked a deal better for seeing his friends. He must
+be sadly moped with that sickly wife.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+(If she had been clairvoyante at that moment, she might have seen Mr. Buxton
+tenderly chafing his wife’s hands, and feeling in his innermost soul a wonder
+how one so saint-like could ever have learnt to love such a boor as he was; it
+was the wonderful mysterious blessing of his life. So little do we know of the
+inner truths of the households, where we come and go like intimate guests!)
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie could not bear to hear Mrs. Buxton spoken of as a fine lady assuming
+illness. Her heart beat hard as she spoke. “Mamma! I am sure she is really ill.
+Her lips kept going so white; and her hand was so burning hot all the time that
+I held it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Have you been holding Mrs. Buxton’s hand? Where were your manners? You are a
+little forward creature, and ever were. But don’t pretend to know better than
+your elders. It is no use telling me Mrs. Buxton is ill, and she able to bear
+the noise of children.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I think they are all a pack of set-up people, and that Frank Buxton is the
+worst of all,” said Edward.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie’s heart sank within her to hear this cold, unkind way of talking over
+the friends who had done so much to make their day happy. She had never before
+ventured into the world, and did not know how common and universal is the
+custom of picking to pieces those with whom we have just been associating; and
+so it pained her. She was a little depressed, too, with the idea that she
+should never see Mrs. Buxton and the lovely Erminia again. Because no future
+visit or intercourse had been spoken about, she fancied it would never take
+place; and she felt like the man in the Arabian Nights, who caught a glimpse of
+the precious stones and dazzling glories of the cavern, which was immediately
+after closed, and shut up into the semblance of hard, barren rock. She tried to
+recall the house. Deep blue, crimson red, warm brown draperies, were so
+striking after the light chintzes of her own house; and the effect of a suite
+of rooms opening out of each other was something quite new to the little girl;
+the apartments seemed to melt away into vague distance, like the dim endings of
+the arched aisles in church. But most of all she tried to recall Mrs. Buxton’s
+face; and Nancy had at last to put away her work, and come to bed, in order to
+soothe the poor child, who was crying at the thought that Mrs. Buxton would
+soon die, and that she should never see her again. Nancy loved Maggie dearly,
+and felt no jealousy of this warm admiration of the unknown lady. She listened
+to her story and her fears till the sobs were hushed; and the moon fell through
+the casement on the white closed eyelids of one, who still sighed in her sleep.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2>CHAPTER III.</h2>
+
+<p>
+In three weeks, the day came for Edward’s departure. A great cake and a parcel
+of gingerbread soothed his sorrows on leaving home.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t cry, Maggie!” said he to her on the last morning; “you see I don’t.
+Christmas will soon be here, and I dare say I shall find time to write to you
+now and then. Did Nancy put any citron in the cake?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie wished she might accompany her mother to Combehurst to see Edward off by
+the coach; but it was not to be. She went with them, without her bonnet, as far
+as her mother would allow her; and then she sat down, and watched their
+progress for a long, long way. She was startled by the sound of a horse’s feet,
+softly trampling through the long heather. It was Frank Buxton’s.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“My father thought Mrs. Browne would like to see the Woodchester Herald. Is
+Edward gone?” said he, noticing her sad face.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes! he is just gone down the hill to the coach. I dare say you can see him
+crossing the bridge, soon. I did so want to have gone with him,” answered she,
+looking wistfully toward the town.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Frank felt sorry for her, left alone to gaze after her brother, whom, strange
+as it was, she evidently regretted. After a minute’s silence, he said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You liked riding the other day. Would you like a ride now? Rhoda is very
+gentle, if you can sit on my saddle. Look! I’ll shorten the stirrup. There now;
+there’s a brave little girl! I’ll lead her very carefully. Why, Erminia durst
+not ride without a side-saddle! I’ll tell you what; I’ll bring the newspaper
+every Wednesday till I go to school, and you shall have a ride. Only I wish we
+had a side-saddle for Rhoda. Or, if Erminia will let me, I’ll bring Abdel-Kadr,
+the little Shetland you rode the other day.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But will Mr. Buxton let you?” asked Maggie, half delighted—half afraid.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, my father! to be sure he will. I have him in very good order.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie was rather puzzled by this way of speaking.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“When do you go to school?” asked she.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Toward the end of August; I don’t know the day.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Does Erminia go to school?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No. I believe she will soon though, if mamma does not get better.” Maggie
+liked the change of voice, as he spoke of his mother.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“There, little lady! now jump down. Famous! you’ve a deal of spirit, you little
+brown mouse.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Nancy came out, with a wondering look, to receive Maggie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It is Mr. Frank Buxton,” said she, by way of an introduction. “He has brought
+mamma the newspaper.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Will you walk in, sir, and rest? I can tie up your horse.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No, thank you,” said he, “I must be off. Don’t forget, little mousey, that you
+are to ready for another ride next Wednesday.” And away he went.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It needed a good deal of Nancy’s diplomacy to procure Maggie this pleasure;
+although I don’t know why Mrs. Browne should have denied it, for the circle
+they went was always within sight of the knoll in front of the house, if any
+one cared enough about the matter to mount it, and look after them. Frank and
+Maggie got great friends in these rides. Her fearlessness delighted and
+surprised him, she had seemed so cowed and timid at first. But she was only so
+with people, as he found out before holidays ended. He saw her shrink from
+particular looks and inflexions of voice of her mother’s; and learnt to read
+them, and dislike Mrs. Browne accordingly, notwithstanding all her sugary
+manner toward himself. The result of his observations he communicated to his
+mother, and in consequence, he was the bearer of a most civil and ceremonious
+message from Mrs. Buxton to Mrs. Browne, to the effect that the former would be
+much obliged to the latter if she would allow Maggie to ride down occasionally
+with the groom, who would bring the newspapers on the Wednesdays (now Frank was
+going to school), and to spend the afternoon with Erminia. Mrs. Browne
+consented, proud of the honor, and yet a little annoyed that no mention was
+made of herself. When Frank had bid good-bye, and fairly disappeared, she
+turned to Maggie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You must not set yourself up if you go among these fine folks. It is their way
+of showing attention to your father and myself. And you must mind and work
+doubly hard on Thursdays to make up for playing on Wednesdays.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie was in a flush of sudden color, and a happy palpitation of her
+fluttering little heart. She could hardly feel any sorrow that the kind Frank
+was going away, so brimful was she of the thoughts of seeing his mother; who
+had grown strangely associated in her dreams, both sleeping and waking, with
+the still calm marble effigies that lay for ever clasping their hands in prayer
+on the altar-tombs in Combehurst church. All the week was one happy season of
+anticipation. She was afraid her mother was secretly irritated at her natural
+rejoicing; and so she did not speak to her about it, but she kept awake till
+Nancy came to bed, and poured into her sympathizing ears every detail, real or
+imaginary, of her past or future intercourse with Mrs. Buxton, and the old
+servant listened with interest, and fell into the custom of picturing the
+future with the ease and simplicity of a child.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Suppose, Nancy! only suppose, you know, that she did die. I don’t mean really
+die, but go into a trance like death; she looked as if she was in one when I
+first saw her; I would not leave her, but I would sit by her, and watch her,
+and watch her.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Her lips would be always fresh and red,” interrupted Nancy.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes, I know you’ve told me before how they keep red—I should look at them
+quite steadily; I would try never to go to sleep.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“The great thing would be to have air-holes left in the coffin.” But Nancy felt
+the little girl creep close to her at the grim suggestion, and, with the tact
+of love, she changed the subject.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Or supposing we could hear of a doctor who could charm away illness. There
+were such in my young days; but I don’t think people are so knowledgeable now.
+Peggy Jackson, that lived near us when I was a girl, was cured of a waste by a
+charm.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What is a waste, Nancy?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It is just a pining away. Food does not nourish nor drink strengthen them, but
+they just fade off, and grow thinner and thinner, till their shadow looks gray
+instead of black at noonday; but he cured her in no time by a charm.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, if we could find him.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Lass, he’s dead, and she’s dead, too, long ago!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+While Maggie was in imagination going over moor and fell, into the hollows of
+the distant mysterious hills, where she imagined all strange beasts and weird
+people to haunt, she fell asleep.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Such were the fanciful thoughts which were engendered in the little girl’s mind
+by her secluded and solitary life. It was more solitary than ever, now that
+Edward was gone to school. The house missed his loud cheerful voice, and
+bursting presence. There seemed much less to be done, now that his numerous
+wants no longer called for ministration and attendance. Maggie did her task of
+work on her own gray rock; but as it was sooner finished, now that he was not
+there to interrupt and call her off, she used to stray up the Fell Lane at the
+back of the house; a little steep stony lane, more like stairs cut in the rock
+than what we, in the level land, call a lane: it reached on to the wide and
+open moor, and near its termination there was a knotted thorn-tree; the only
+tree for apparent miles. Here the sheep crouched under the storms, or stood and
+shaded themselves in the noontide heat. The ground was brown with their cleft
+round foot-marks; and tufts of wool were hung on the lower part of the stem,
+like votive offerings on some shrine. Here Maggie used to come and sit and
+dream in any scarce half-hour of leisure. Here she came to cry, when her little
+heart was overfull at her mother’s sharp fault-finding, or when bidden to keep
+out of the way, and not be troublesome. She used to look over the swelling
+expanse of moor, and the tears were dried up by the soft low-blowing wind which
+came sighing along it. She forgot her little home griefs to wonder why a
+brown-purple shadow always streaked one particular part in the fullest
+sunlight; why the cloud-shadows always seemed to be wafted with a sidelong
+motion; or she would imagine what lay beyond those old gray holy hills, which
+seemed to bear up the white clouds of Heaven on which the angels flew abroad.
+Or she would look straight up through the quivering air, as long as she could
+bear its white dazzling, to try and see God’s throne in that unfathomable and
+infinite depth of blue. She thought she should see it blaze forth sudden and
+glorious, if she were but full of faith. She always came down from the thorn,
+comforted, and meekly gentle.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But there was danger of the child becoming dreamy, and finding her pleasure in
+life in reverie, not in action, or endurance, or the holy rest which comes
+after both, and prepares for further striving or bearing. Mrs. Buxton’s
+kindness prevented this danger just in time. It was partly out of interest in
+Maggie, but also partly to give Erminia a companion, that she wished the former
+to come down to Combehurst.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When she was on these visits, she received no regular instruction; and yet all
+the knowledge, and most of the strength of her character, was derived from
+these occasional hours. It is true her mother had given her daily lessons in
+reading, writing, and arithmetic; but both teacher and taught felt these more
+as painful duties to be gone through, than understood them as means to an end.
+The “There! child; now that’s done with,” of relief, from Mrs. Browne, was
+heartily echoed in Maggie’s breast, as the dull routine was concluded.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. Buxton did not make a set labor of teaching; I suppose she felt that much
+was learned from her superintendence, but she never thought of doing or saying
+anything with a latent idea of its indirect effect upon the little girls, her
+companions. She was simply herself; she even confessed (where the confession
+was called for) to short-comings, to faults, and never denied the force of
+temptations, either of those which beset little children, or of those which
+occasionally assailed herself. Pure, simple, and truthful to the heart’s core,
+her life, in its uneventful hours and days, spoke many homilies. Maggie, who
+was grave, imaginative, and somewhat quaint, took pains in finding words to
+express the thoughts to which her solitary life had given rise, secure of Mrs.
+Buxton’s ready understanding and sympathy.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You are so like a cloud,” said she to Mrs. Buxton. “Up at the Thorn-tree, it
+was quite curious how the clouds used to shape themselves, just according as I
+was glad or sorry. I have seen the same clouds, that, when I came up first,
+looked like a heap of little snow-hillocks over babies’ graves, turn, as soon
+as I grew happier, to a sort of long bright row of angels. And you seem always
+to have had some sorrow when I am sad, and turn bright and hopeful as soon as I
+grow glad. Dear Mrs. Buxton! I wish Nancy knew you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The gay, volatile, willful, warm-hearted Erminia was less earnest in all
+things. Her childhood had been passed amid the distractions of wealth; and
+passionately bent upon the attainment of some object at one moment, the next
+found her angry at being reminded of the vanished anxiety she had shown but a
+moment before. Her life was a shattered mirror; every part dazzling and
+brilliant, but wanting the coherency and perfection of a whole. Mrs. Buxton
+strove to bring her to a sense of the beauty of completeness, and the relation
+which qualities and objects bear to each other; but in all her striving she
+retained hold of the golden clue of sympathy. She would enter into Erminia’s
+eagerness, if the object of it varied twenty times a day; but by-and-by, in her
+own mild, sweet, suggestive way, she would place all these objects in their
+right and fitting places, as they were worthy of desire. I do not know how it
+was, but all discords, and disordered fragments, seemed to fall into harmony
+and order before her presence.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She had no wish to make the two little girls into the same kind of pattern
+character. They were diverse as the lily and the rose. But she tried to give
+stability and earnestness to Erminia; while she aimed to direct Maggie’s
+imagination, so as to make it a great minister to high ends, instead of simply
+contributing to the vividness and duration of a reverie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She told her tales of saints and martyrs, and all holy heroines, who forgot
+themselves, and strove only to be “ministers of Him, to do His pleasure.” The
+tears glistened in the eyes of hearer and speaker, while she spoke in her low,
+faint voice, which was almost choked at times when she came to the noblest part
+of all.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But when she found that Maggie was in danger of becoming too little a dweller
+in the present, from the habit of anticipating the occasion for some great
+heroic action, she spoke of other heroines. She told her how, though the lives
+of these women of old were only known to us through some striking glorious
+deed, they yet must have built up the temple of their perfection by many
+noiseless stories; how, by small daily offerings laid on the altar, they must
+have obtained their beautiful strength for the crowning sacrifice. And then she
+would turn and speak of those whose names will never be blazoned on earth—some
+poor maid-servant, or hard-worked artisan, or weary governess—who have gone on
+through life quietly, with holy purposes in their hearts, to which they gave up
+pleasure and ease, in a soft, still, succession of resolute days. She quoted
+those lines of George Herbert’s:
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+“All may have,<br/>
+If they dare choose, a glorious life, or grave.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And Maggie’s mother was disappointed because Mrs. Buxton had never offered to
+teach her “to play on the piano,” which was to her the very head and front of a
+genteel education. Maggie, in all her time of yearning to become Joan of Arc,
+or some great heroine, was unconscious that she herself showed no little
+heroism, in bearing meekly what she did every day from her mother. It was hard
+to be questioned about Mrs. Buxton, and then to have her answers turned into
+subjects for contempt, and fault-finding with that sweet lady’s ways.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When Ned came home for the holidays, he had much to tell. His mother listened
+for hours to his tales; and proudly marked all that she could note of his
+progress in learning. His copy-books and writing-flourishes were a sight to
+behold; and his account-books contained towers and pyramids of figures.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ay, ay!” said Mr. Buxton, when they were shown to him; “this is grand! when I
+was a boy I could make a flying eagle with one stroke of my pen, but I never
+could do all this. And yet I thought myself a fine fellow, I warrant you. And
+these sums! why man! I must make you my agent. I need one, I’m sure; for though
+I get an accountant every two or three years to do up my books, they somehow
+have the knack of getting wrong again. Those quarries, Mrs. Browne, which every
+one says are so valuable, and for the stone out of which receive orders
+amounting to hundreds of pounds, what d’ye think was the profit I made last
+year, according to my books?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’m sure I don’t know, sir; something very great, I’ve no doubt.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Just seven-pence three farthings,” said he, bursting into a fit of merry
+laughter, such as another man would have kept for the announcement of enormous
+profits. “But I must manage things differently soon. Frank will want money when
+he goes to Oxford, and he shall have it. I’m but a rough sort of fellow, but
+Frank shall take his place as a gentleman. Aha, Miss Maggie! and where’s my
+gingerbread? There you go, creeping up to Mrs. Buxton on a Wednesday, and have
+never taught Cook how to make gingerbread yet. Well, Ned! and how are the
+classics going on? Fine fellow, that Virgil! Let me see, how does it begin?
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+‘Arma, virumque cano, Trojae qui primus ab oris.’
+</p>
+
+<p>
+That’s pretty well, I think, considering I’ve never opened him since I left
+school thirty years ago. To be sure, I spent six hours a day at it when I was
+there. Come now, I’ll puzzle you. Can you construe this?
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+“Infir dealis, inoak noneis; inmud eelis, inclay noneis.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“To be sure I can,” said Edward, with a little contempt in his tone. “Can you
+do this, sir?
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+“Apud in is almi des ire,<br/>
+Mimis tres i neve require,<br/>
+Alo veri findit a gestis,<br/>
+His miseri ne ver at restis.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But though Edward had made much progress, and gained three prizes, his moral
+training had been little attended to. He was more tyrannical than ever, both to
+his mother and Maggie. It was a drawn battle between him and Nancy, and they
+kept aloof from each other as much as possible. Maggie fell into her old humble
+way of submitting to his will, as long as it did not go against her conscience;
+but that, being daily enlightened by her habits of pious aspiring thought,
+would not allow her to be so utterly obedient as formerly. In addition to his
+imperiousness, he had learned to affix the idea of cleverness to various
+artifices and subterfuges which utterly revolted her by their meanness.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You are so set up, by being intimate with Erminia, that you won’t do a thing I
+tell you; you are as selfish and self-willed as”—he made a pause. Maggie was
+ready to cry.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I will do anything, Ned, that is right.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well! and I tell you this is right.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“How can it be?” said she, sadly, almost wishing to be convinced.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“How—why it is, and that’s enough for you. You must always have a reason for
+everything now. You are not half so nice as you were. Unless one chops logic
+with you, and convinces you by a long argument, you’ll do nothing. Be obedient,
+I tell you. That is what a woman has to be.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I could be obedient to some people, without knowing their reasons, even though
+they told me to do silly things,” said Maggie, half to herself.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I should like to know to whom,” said Edward, scornfully.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“To Don Quixote,” answered she, seriously; for, indeed, he was present in her
+mind just then, and his noble, tender, melancholy character had made a strong
+impression there.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Edward stared at her for a moment, and then burst into a loud fit of laughter.
+It had the good effect of restoring him to a better frame of mind. He had such
+an excellent joke against his sister, that he could not be angry with her. He
+called her Sancho Panza all the rest of the holidays, though she protested
+against it, saying she could not bear the Squire, and disliked being called by
+his name.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Frank and Edward seemed to have a mutual antipathy to each other, and the
+coldness between them was rather increased than diminished by all Mr. Buxton’s
+efforts to bring them together. “Come, Frank, my lad!” said he, “don’t be so
+stiff with Ned. His father was a dear friend of mine, and I’ve set my heart on
+seeing you friends. You’ll have it in your power to help him on in the world.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But Frank answered, “He is not quite honorable, sir. I can’t bear a boy who is
+not quite honorable. Boys brought up at those private schools are so full of
+tricks!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Nay, my lad, there thou’rt wrong. I was brought up at a private school, and no
+one can say I ever dirtied my hands with a trick in my life. Good old Mr.
+Thompson would have flogged the life out of a boy who did anything mean or
+underhand.”
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2>CHAPTER IV.</h2>
+
+<p>
+Summers and winters came and went, with little to mark them, except the growth
+of the trees, and the quiet progress of young creatures. Erminia was sent to
+school somewhere in France, to receive more regular instruction than she could
+have in the house with her invalid aunt. But she came home once a year, more
+lovely and elegant and dainty than ever; and Maggie thought, with truth, that
+ripening years were softening down her volatility, and that her aunt’s dewlike
+sayings had quietly sunk deep, and fertilized the soil. That aunt was fading
+away. Maggie’s devotion added materially to her happiness; and both she and
+Maggie never forgot that this devotion was to be in all things subservient to
+the duty which she owed to her mother.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“My love,” Mrs. Buxton had more than once said, “you must always recollect that
+your first duty is toward your mother. You know how glad I am to see you; but I
+shall always understand how it is, if you do not come. She may often want you
+when neither you nor I can anticipate it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. Browne had no great wish to keep Maggie at home, though she liked to
+grumble at her going. Still she felt that it was best, in every way, to keep on
+good terms with such valuable friends; and she appreciated, in some small
+degree, the advantage which her intimacy at the house was to Maggie. But yet
+she could not restrain a few complaints, nor withhold from her, on her return,
+a recapitulation of all the things which might have been done if she had only
+been at home, and the number of times that she had been wanted; but when she
+found that Maggie quietly gave up her next Wednesday’s visit as soon as she was
+made aware of any necessity for her presence at home, her mother left off
+grumbling, and took little or no notice of her absence.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When the time came for Edward to leave school, he announced that he had no
+intention of taking orders, but meant to become an attorney.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s such slow work,” said he to his mother. “One toils away for four or five
+years, and then one gets a curacy of seventy pounds a-year, and no end of work
+to do for the money. Now the work is not much harder in a lawyer’s office, and
+if one has one’s wits about one, there are hundreds and thousands a-year to be
+picked up with mighty little trouble.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. Browne was very sorry for this determination. She had a great desire to
+see her son a clergyman, like his father. She did not consider whether his
+character was fitted for so sacred an office; she rather thought that the
+profession itself, when once assumed, would purify the character; but, in fact,
+his fitness or unfitness for holy orders entered little into her mind. She had
+a respect for the profession, and his father had belonged to it.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I had rather see you a curate at seventy pounds a-year, than an attorney with
+seven hundred,” replied she. “And you know your father was always asked to dine
+everywhere—to places where I know they would not have asked Mr. Bish, of
+Woodchester, and he makes his thousand a-year. Besides, Mr. Buxton has the next
+presentation to Combehurst, and you would stand a good chance for your father’s
+sake. And in the mean time you should live here, if your curacy was any way
+near.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I dare say! Catch me burying myself here again. My dear mother, it’s a very
+respectable place for you and Maggie to live in, and I dare say you don’t find
+it dull; but the idea of my quietly sitting down here is something too absurd!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Papa did, and was very happy,” said Maggie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes! after he had been at Oxford,” replied Edward, a little nonplussed by this
+reference to one whose memory even the most selfish and thoughtless must have
+held in respect.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well! and you know you would have to go to Oxford first.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Maggie! I wish you would not interfere between my mother and me. I want to
+have it settled and done with, and that it will never be if you keep meddling.
+Now, mother, don’t you see how much better it will be for me to go into Mr.
+Bish’s office? Harry Bish has spoken to his father about it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. Browne sighed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What will Mr. Buxton say?” asked she, dolefully.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Say! Why don’t you see it was he who first put it into my head, by telling me
+that first Christmas holidays, that I should be his agent. That would be
+something, would it not? Harry Bish says he thinks a thousand a-year might be
+made of it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+His loud, decided, rapid talking overpowered Mrs. Browne; but she resigned
+herself to his wishes with more regrets than she had ever done before. It was
+not the first case in which fluent declamation has taken the place of argument.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Edward was articled to Mr. Bish, and thus gained his point. There was no one
+with power to resist his wishes, except his mother and Mr. Buxton. The former
+had long acknowledged her son’s will as her law; and the latter, though
+surprised and almost disappointed at a change of purpose which he had never
+anticipated in his plans for Edward’s benefit, gave his consent, and even
+advanced some of the money requisite for the premium.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie looked upon this change with mingled feelings. She had always from a
+child pictured Edward to herself as taking her father’s place. When she had
+thought of him as a man, it was as contemplative, grave, and gentle, as she
+remembered her father. With all a child’s deficiency of reasoning power, she
+had never considered how impossible it was that a selfish, vain, and impatient
+boy could become a meek, humble, and pious man, merely by adopting a profession
+in which such qualities are required. But now, at sixteen, she was beginning to
+understand all this. Not by any process of thought, but by something more like
+a correct feeling, she perceived that Edward would never be the true minister
+of Christ. So, more glad and thankful than sorry, though sorrow mingled with
+her sentiments, she learned the decision that he was to be an attorney.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Frank Buxton all this time was growing up into a young man. The hopes both of
+father and mother were bound up in him; and, according to the difference in
+their characters was the difference in their hopes. It seemed, indeed, probable
+that Mr. Buxton, who was singularly void of worldliness or ambition for
+himself, would become worldly and ambitious for his son. His hopes for Frank
+were all for honor and distinction here. Mrs. Buxton’s hopes were prayers. She
+was fading away, as light fades into darkness on a summer evening. No one
+seemed to remark the gradual progress; but she was fully conscious of it
+herself. The last time that Frank was at home from college before her death,
+she knew that she should never see him again; and when he gaily left the house,
+with a cheerfulness, which was partly assumed, she dragged herself with languid
+steps into a room at the front of the house, from which she could watch him
+down the long, straggling little street, that led to the inn from which the
+coach started. As he went along, he turned to look back at his home; and there
+he saw his mother’s white figure gazing after him. He could not see her wistful
+eyes, but he made her poor heart give a leap of joy by turning round and
+running back for one more kiss and one more blessing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When he next came home, it was at the sudden summons of her death.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+His father was as one distracted. He could not speak of the lost angel without
+sudden bursts of tears, and oftentimes of self-upbraiding, which disturbed the
+calm, still, holy ideas, which Frank liked to associate with her. He ceased
+speaking to him, therefore, about their mutual loss; and it was a certain kind
+of relief to both when he did so; but he longed for some one to whom he might
+talk of his mother, with the quiet reverence of intense and trustful affection.
+He thought of Maggie, of whom he had seen but little of late; for when he had
+been at Combehurst, she had felt that Mrs. Buxton required her presence less,
+and had remained more at home. Possibly Mrs. Buxton regretted this; but she
+never said anything. She, far-looking, as one who was near death, foresaw that,
+probably, if Maggie and her son met often in her sick-room, feelings might
+arise which would militate against her husband’s hopes and plans, and which,
+therefore, she ought not to allow to spring up. But she had been unable to
+refrain from expressing her gratitude to Maggie for many hours of tranquil
+happiness, and had unconsciously dropped many sentences which made Frank feel,
+that, in the little brown mouse of former years, he was likely to meet with one
+who could tell him much of the inner history of his mother in her last days,
+and to whom he could speak of her without calling out the passionate sorrow
+which was so little in unison with her memory.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Accordingly, one afternoon, late in the autumn, he rode up to Mrs. Browne’s.
+The air on the heights was so still that nothing seemed to stir. Now and then a
+yellow leaf came floating down from the trees, detached from no outward
+violence, but only because its life had reached its full limit and then ceased.
+Looking down on the distant sheltered woods, they were gorgeous in orange and
+crimson, but their splendor was felt to be the sign of the decaying and dying
+year. Even without an inward sorrow, there was a grand solemnity in the season
+which impressed the mind, and hushed it into tranquil thought. Frank rode
+slowly along, and quietly dismounted at the old horse-mount, beside which there
+was an iron bridle-ring fixed in the gray stone wall. He saw the casement of
+the parlor-window open, and Maggie’s head bent down over her work. She looked
+up as he entered the court, and his footsteps sounded on the flag-walk. She
+came round and opened the door. As she stood in the door-way, speaking, he was
+struck by her resemblance to some old painting. He had seen her young, calm
+face, shining out with great peacefulness, and the large, grave, thoughtful
+eyes, giving the character to the features which otherwise they might, from
+their very regularity, have wanted. Her brown dress had the exact tint which a
+painter would have admired. The slanting mellow sunlight fell upon her as she
+stood; and the vine-leaves, already frost-tinted, made a rich, warm border, as
+they hung over the old house-door.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Mamma is not well; she is gone to lie down. How are you? How is Mr. Buxton?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“We are both pretty well; quite well, in fact, as far as regards health. May I
+come in? I want to talk to you, Maggie!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She opened the little parlor-door, and they went in; but for a time they were
+both silent. They could not speak of her who was with them, present in their
+thoughts. Maggie shut the casement, and put a log of wood on the fire. She sat
+down with her back to the window; but as the flame sprang up, and blazed at the
+touch of the dry wood, Frank saw that her face was wet with quiet tears. Still
+her voice was even and gentle, as she answered his questions. She seemed to
+understand what were the very things he would care most to hear. She spoke of
+his mother’s last days; and without any word of praise (which, indeed, would
+have been impertinence), she showed such a just and true appreciation of her
+who was dead and gone, that he felt as if he could listen forever to the
+sweet-dropping words. They were balm to his sore heart. He had thought it
+possible that the suddenness of her death might have made her life incomplete,
+in that she might have departed without being able to express wishes and
+projects, which would now have the sacred force of commands. But he found that
+Maggie, though she had never intruded herself as such, had been the depository
+of many little thoughts and plans; or, if they were not expressed to her, she
+knew that Mr. Buxton or Dawson was aware of what they were, though, in their
+violence of early grief, they had forgotten to name them. The flickering
+brightness of the flame had died away; the gloom of evening had gathered into
+the room, through the open door of which the kitchen fire sent a ruddy glow,
+distinctly marked against carpet and wall. Frank still sat, with his head
+buried in his hands against the table, listening.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Tell me more,” he said, at every pause.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I think I have told you all now,” said Maggie, at last. “At least, it is all I
+recollect at present; but if I think of anything more, I will be sure and tell
+you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Thank you; do.” He was silent for some time.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Erminia is coming home at Christmas. She is not to go back to Paris again. She
+will live with us. I hope you and she will be great friends, Maggie.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh yes,” replied she. “I think we are already. At least we were last
+Christmas. You know it is a year since I have seen her.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes; she went to Switzerland with Mademoiselle Michel, instead of coming home
+the last time. Maggie, I must go, now. My father will be waiting dinner for
+me.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Dinner! I was going to ask if you would not stay to tea. I hear mamma stirring
+about in her room. And Nancy is getting things ready, I see. Let me go and tell
+mamma. She will not be pleased unless she sees you. She has been very sorry for
+you all,” added she, dropping her voice.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Before he could answer, she ran up stairs.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. Browne came down.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, Mr. Frank! Have you been sitting in the dark? Maggie, you ought to have
+rung for candles! Ah! Mr. Frank, you’ve had a sad loss since I saw you here—let
+me see—in the last week of September. But she was always a sad invalid; and no
+doubt your loss is her gain. Poor Mr. Buxton, too! How is he? When one thinks
+of him, and of her years of illness, it seems like a happy release.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She could have gone on for any length of time, but Frank could not bear this
+ruffling up of his soothed grief, and told her that his father was expecting
+him home to dinner.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Ah! I am sure you must not disappoint him. He’ll want a little cheerful
+company more than ever now. You must not let him dwell on it, Mr. Frank, but
+turn his thoughts another way by always talking of other things. I am sure if I
+had some one to speak to me in a cheerful, pleasant way, when poor dear Mr.
+Browne died, I should never have fretted after him as I did; but the children
+were too young, and there was no one to come and divert me with any news. If
+I’d been living in Combehurst, I am sure I should not have let my grief get the
+better of me as I did. Could you get up a quiet rubber in the evenings, do you
+think?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But Frank had shaken hands and was gone. As he rode home he thought much of
+sorrow, and the different ways of bearing it. He decided that it was sent by
+God for some holy purpose, and to call out into existence some higher good; and
+he thought that if it were faithfully taken as His decree there would be no
+passionate, despairing resistance to it; nor yet, if it were trustfully
+acknowledged to have some wise end, should we dare to baulk it, and defraud it
+by putting it on one side, and, by seeking the distractions of worldly things,
+not let it do its full work. And then he returned to his conversation with
+Maggie. That had been real comfort to him. What an advantage it would be to
+Erminia to have such a girl for a friend and companion!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was rather strange that, having this thought, and having been struck, as I
+said, with Maggie’s appearance while she stood in the door-way (and I may add
+that this impression of her unobtrusive beauty had been deepened by several
+succeeding interviews), he should reply as he did to Erminia’s remark, on first
+seeing Maggie after her return from France.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“How lovely Maggie is growing! Why, I had no idea she would ever turn out
+pretty. Sweet-looking she always was; but now her style of beauty makes her
+positively distinguished. Frank! speak! is not she beautiful?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do you think so?” answered he, with a kind of lazy indifference, exceedingly
+gratifying to his father, who was listening with some eagerness to his answer.
+That day, after dinner, Mr. Buxton began to ask his opinion of Erminia’s
+appearance.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Frank answered at once:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“She is a dazzling little creature. Her complexion looks as if it were made of
+cherries and milk; and, it must be owned, the little lady has studied the art
+of dress to some purpose in Paris.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Buxton was nearer happiness at this reply than he had ever been since his
+wife’s death; for the only way he could devise to satisfy his reproachful
+conscience towards his neglected and unhappy sister, was to plan a marriage
+between his son and her child. He rubbed his hands and drank two extra glasses
+of wine.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“We’ll have the Brownes to dinner, as usual, next Thursday,” said he, “I am
+sure your mother would have been hurt if we had omitted it; it is now nine
+years since they began to come, and they have never missed one Christmas since.
+Do you see any objection, Frank?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“None at all, sir,” answered he. “I intend to go up to town soon after
+Christmas, for a week or ten days, on my way to Cambridge. Can I do anything
+for you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well, I don’t know. I think I shall go up myself some day soon. I can’t
+understand all these lawyer’s letters, about the purchase of the Newbridge
+estate; and I fancy I could make more sense out of it all, if I saw Mr.
+Hodgson.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I wish you would adopt my plan, of having an agent, sir. Your affairs are
+really so complicated now, that they would take up the time of an expert man of
+business. I am sure all those tenants at Dumford ought to be seen after.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I do see after them. There’s never a one that dares cheat me, or that would
+cheat me if they could. Most of them have lived under the Buxtons for
+generations. They know that if they dared to take advantage of me, I should
+come down upon them pretty smartly.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do you rely upon their attachment to your family—or on their idea of your
+severity?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“On both. They stand me instead of much trouble in account-keeping, and those
+eternal lawyers’ letters some people are always dispatching to their tenants.
+When I’m cheated, Frank, I give you leave to make me have an agent, but not
+till then. There’s my little Erminia singing away, and nobody to hear her.”
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2>CHAPTER V.</h2>
+
+<p>
+Christmas-Day was strange and sad. Mrs. Buxton had always contrived to be in
+the drawing-room, ready to receive them all after dinner. Mr. Buxton tried to
+do away with his thoughts of her by much talking; but every now and then he
+looked wistfully toward the door. Erminia exerted herself to be as lively as
+she could, in order, if possible, to fill up the vacuum. Edward, who had come
+over from Woodchester for a walk, had a good deal to say; and was,
+unconsciously, a great assistance with his never-ending flow of rather clever
+small-talk. His mother felt proud of her son, and his new waistcoat, which was
+far more conspicuously of the latest fashion than Frank’s could be said to be.
+After dinner, when Mr. Buxton and the two young men were left alone, Edward
+launched out still more. He thought he was impressing Frank with his knowledge
+of the world, and the world’s ways. But he was doing all in his power to repel
+one who had never been much attracted toward him. Worldly success was his
+standard of merit. The end seemed with him to justify the means; if a man
+prospered, it was not necessary to scrutinize his conduct too closely. The law
+was viewed in its lowest aspect; and yet with a certain cleverness, which
+preserved Edward from being intellectually contemptible. Frank had entertained
+some idea of studying for a barrister himself: not so much as a means of
+livelihood as to gain some idea of the code which makes and shows a nation’s
+conscience: but Edward’s details of the ways in which the letter so often
+baffles the spirit, made him recoil. With some anger against himself, for
+viewing the profession with disgust, because it was degraded by those who
+embraced it, instead of looking upon it as what might be ennobled and purified
+into a vast intelligence by high and pure-minded men, he got up abruptly and
+left the room.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The girls were sitting over the drawing-room fire, with unlighted candles on
+the table, talking, he felt, about his mother; but when he came in they rose,
+and changed their tone. Erminia went to the piano, and sang her newest and
+choicest French airs. Frank was gloomy and silent; but when she changed into
+more solemn music his mood was softened, Maggie’s simple and hearty admiration,
+untinged by the slightest shade of envy for Erminia’s accomplishments, charmed
+him. The one appeared to him the perfection of elegant art, the other of
+graceful nature. When he looked at Maggie, and thought of the moorland home
+from which she had never wandered, the mysteriously beautiful lines of
+Wordsworth seemed to become sun-clear to him.
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+“And she shall lean her ear<br/>
+In many a secret place<br/>
+Where rivulets dance their wayward round,<br/>
+And beauty born of murmuring sound<br/>
+Shall pass into her face.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Buxton, in the dining-room, was really getting to take an interest in
+Edward’s puzzling cases. They were like tricks at cards. A quick motion, and
+out of the unpromising heap, all confused together, presto! the right card
+turned up. Edward stated his case, so that there did not seem loophole for the
+desired verdict; but through some conjuration, it always came uppermost at
+last. He had a graphic way of relating things; and, as he did not spare
+epithets in his designation of the opposing party, Mr. Buxton took it upon
+trust that the defendant or the prosecutor (as it might happen) was a
+“pettifogging knave,” or a “miserly curmudgeon,” and rejoiced accordingly in
+the triumph over him gained by the ready wit of “our governor,” Mr. Bish. At
+last he became so deeply impressed with Edward’s knowledge of law, as to
+consult him about some cottage property he had in Woodchester.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I rather think there are twenty-one cottages, and they don’t bring me in four
+pounds a-year; and out of that I have to pay for collecting. Would there be any
+chance of selling them? They are in Doughty-street; a bad neighborhood, I
+fear.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Very bad,” was Edward’s prompt reply. “But if you are really anxious to effect
+a sale, I have no doubt I could find a purchaser in a short time.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I should be very much obliged to you,” said Mr. Buxton. “You would be doing me
+a kindness. If you meet with a purchaser, and can manage the affair, I would
+rather that you drew out the deeds for the transfer of the property. It would
+be the beginning of business for you; and I only hope I should bring you good
+luck.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Of course Edward could do this; and when they left the table, it was with a
+feeling on his side that he was a step nearer to the agency which he coveted;
+and with a happy consciousness on Mr. Buxton’s of having put a few pounds in
+the way of a deserving and remarkably clever young man.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Since Edward had left home, Maggie had gradually, but surely, been gaining in
+importance. Her judgment and her untiring unselfishness could not fail to make
+way. Her mother had some respect for, and great dependence on her; but still it
+was hardly affection that she felt for her; or if it was it was a dull and
+torpid kind of feeling, compared with the fond love and exulting pride which
+she took in Edward. When he came back for occasional holidays, his mother’s
+face was radiant with happiness, and her manner toward him was even more
+caressing than he approved of. When Maggie saw him repel the hand that fain
+would have stroked his hair as in childish days, a longing came into her heart
+for some of these uncared-for tokens of her mother’s love. Otherwise she meekly
+sank back into her old secondary place, content to have her judgment slighted
+and her wishes unasked as long as he stayed. At times she was now beginning to
+disapprove and regret some things in him; his flashiness of manner jarred
+against her taste; and a deeper, graver feeling was called out by his evident
+want of quick moral perception. “Smart and clever,” or “slow and dull,” took
+with him the place of “right and wrong.” Little as he thought it, he was
+himself narrow-minded and dull; slow and blind to perceive the beauty and
+eternal wisdom of simple goodness.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Erminia and Maggie became great friends. Erminia used to beg for Maggie, until
+she herself put a stop to the practice; as she saw her mother yielded more
+frequently than was convenient, for the honor of having her daughter a visitor
+at Mr. Buxton’s, about which she could talk to her few acquaintances who
+persevered in calling at the cottage. Then Erminia volunteered a visit of some
+days to Maggie, and Mrs. Browne’s pride was redoubled; but she made so many
+preparations, and so much fuss, and gave herself so much trouble, that she was
+positively ill during Erminia’s stay; and Maggie felt that she must
+henceforward deny herself the pleasure of having her friend for a guest, as her
+mother could not be persuaded from attempting to provide things in the same
+abundance and style as that to which Erminia was accustomed at home; whereas,
+as Nancy shrewdly observed, the young lady did not know if she was eating
+jelly, or porridge, or whether the plates were common delf or the best China,
+so long as she was with her dear Miss Maggie. Spring went, and summer came.
+Frank had gone to and fro between Cambridge and Combehurst, drawn by motives of
+which he felt the force, but into which he did not care to examine. Edward had
+sold the property of Mr. Buxton; and he, pleased with the possession of half
+the purchase money (the remainder of which was to be paid by installments), and
+happy in the idea that his son came over so frequently to see Erminia, had
+amply rewarded the young attorney for his services.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One summer’s day, as hot as day could be, Maggie had been busy all morning; for
+the weather was so sultry that she would not allow either Nancy or her mother
+to exert themselves much. She had gone down with the old brown pitcher, coeval
+with herself, to the spring for water; and while it was trickling, and making a
+tinkling music, she sat down on the ground. The air was so still that she heard
+the distant wood-pigeons cooing; and round about her the bees were murmuring
+busily among the clustering heath. From some little touch of sympathy with
+these low sounds of pleasant harmony, she began to try and hum some of
+Erminia’s airs. She never sang out loud, or put words to her songs; but her
+voice was very sweet, and it was a great pleasure to herself to let it go into
+music. Just as her jug was filled, she was startled by Frank’s sudden
+appearance. She thought he was at Cambridge, and, from some cause or other, her
+face, usually so faint in color, became the most vivid scarlet. They were both
+too conscious to speak. Maggie stooped (murmuring some words of surprise) to
+take up her pitcher.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t go yet, Maggie,” said he, putting his hand on hers to stop her; but,
+somehow, when that purpose was effected, he forgot to take it off again. “I
+have come all the way from Cambridge to see you. I could not bear suspense any
+longer. I grew so impatient for certainty of some kind, that I went up to town
+last night, in order to feel myself on my way to you, even though I knew I
+could not be here a bit earlier to-day for doing so. Maggie—dear Maggie! how
+you are trembling! Have I frightened you? Nancy told me you were here; but it
+was very thoughtless to come so suddenly upon you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was not the suddenness of his coming; it was the suddenness of her own
+heart, which leaped up with the feelings called out by his words. She went very
+white, and sat down on the ground as before. But she rose again immediately,
+and stood, with drooping, averted head. He had dropped her hand, but now sought
+to take it again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Maggie, darling, may I speak?” Her lips moved, he saw, but he could not hear.
+A pang of affright ran through him that, perhaps, she did not wish to listen.
+“May I speak to you?” he asked again, quite timidly. She tried to make her
+voice sound, but it would not; so she looked round. Her soft gray eyes were
+eloquent in that one glance. And, happier than his words, passionate and tender
+as they were, could tell, he spoke till her trembling was changed into bright
+flashing blushes, and even a shy smile hovered about her lips, and dimpled her
+cheeks.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The water bubbled over the pitcher unheeded. At last she remembered all the
+work-a-day world. She lifted up the jug, and would have hurried home, but Frank
+decidedly took it from her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Henceforward,” said he, “I have a right to carry your burdens.” So with one
+arm round her waist and with the other carrying the water, they climbed the
+steep turfy slope. Near the top she wanted to take it again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Mamma will not like it. Mamma will think it so strange.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why, dearest, if I saw Nancy carrying it up this slope I would take it from
+her. It would be strange if a man did not carry it for any woman. But you must
+let me tell your mother of my right to help you. It is your dinner-time is it
+not? I may come in to dinner as one of the family may not I Maggie?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No” she said softly. For she longed to be alone; and she dreaded being
+overwhelmed by the expression of her mother’s feelings, weak and agitated as
+she felt herself. “Not to-day.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Not to-day!” said he reproachfully. “You are very hard upon me. Let me come to
+tea. If you will, I will leave you now. Let me come to early tea. I must speak
+to my father. He does not know I am here. I may come to tea. At what time is
+it? Three o’clock. Oh, I know you drink tea at some strange early hour; perhaps
+it is at two. I will take care to be in time.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t come till five, please. I must tell mamma; and I want some time to
+think. It does seem so like a dream. Do go, please.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well! if I must, I must. But I don’t feel as if I were in a dream, but in some
+real blessed heaven so long as I see you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At last he went. Nancy was awaiting Maggie, the side-gate.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Bless us and save us, bairn! what a time it has taken thee to get the water.
+Is the spring dry with the hot weather?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie ran past her. All dinner-time she heard her mother’s voice in
+long-continued lamentation about something. She answered at random, and
+startled her mother by asserting that she thought “it” was very good; the said
+“it” being milk turned sour by thunder. Mrs. Browne spoke quite sharply, “No
+one is so particular as you, Maggie. I have known you drink water, day after
+day, for breakfast, when you were a little girl, because your cup of milk had a
+drowned fly in it; and now you tell me you don’t care for this, and don’t mind
+that, just as if you could eat up all the things which are spoiled by the heat.
+I declare my head aches so, I shall go and lie down as soon as ever dinner is
+over.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+If this was her plan, Maggie thought she had no time to lose in making her
+confession. Frank would be here before her mother got up again to tea. But she
+dreaded speaking about her happiness; it seemed as yet so cobweb-like, as if a
+touch would spoil its beauty.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Mamma, just wait a minute. Just sit down in your chair while I tell you
+something. Please, dear mamma.” She took a stool, and sat at her mother’s feet;
+and then she began to turn the wedding-ring on Mrs. Browne’s hand, looking down
+and never speaking, till the latter became impatient.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What is it you have got to say, child? Do make haste, for I want to go
+up-stairs.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+With a great jerk of resolution, Maggie said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Mamma, Frank Buxton has asked me to marry him.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She hid her face in her mother’s lap for an instant; and then she lifted it up,
+as brimful of the light of happiness as is the cup of a water-lily of the sun’s
+radiance.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Maggie—you don’t say so,” said her mother, half incredulously. “It can’t be,
+for he’s at Cambridge, and it’s not post-day. What do you mean?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He came this morning, mother, when I was down at the well; and we fixed that I
+was to speak to you; and he asked if he might come again for tea.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Dear! dear! and the milk all gone sour? We should have had milk of our own, if
+Edward had not persuaded me against buying another cow.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t think Mr. Buxton will mind it much,” said Maggie, dimpling up, as she
+remembered, half unconsciously, how little he had seemed to care for anything
+but herself.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why, what a thing it is for you!” said Mrs. Browne, quite roused up from her
+languor and her head-ache. “Everybody said he was engaged to Miss Erminia. Are
+you quite sure you made no mistake, child? What did he say? Young men are so
+fond of making fine speeches; and young women are so silly in fancying they
+mean something. I once knew a girl who thought that a gentleman who sent her
+mother a present of a sucking-pig, did it as a delicate way of making her an
+offer. Tell me his exact words.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But Maggie blushed, and either would not or could not. So Mrs. Browne began
+again:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well, if you’re sure, you’re sure. I wonder how he brought his father round.
+So long as he and Erminia have been planned for each other! That very first day
+we ever dined there after your father’s death, Mr. Buxton as good as told me
+all about it. I fancied they were only waiting till they were out of mourning.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+All this was news to Maggie. She had never thought that either Erminia or Frank
+was particularly fond of the other; still less had she had any idea of Mr.
+Buxton’s plans for them. Her mother’s surprise at her engagement jarred a
+little upon her too: it had become so natural, even in these last two hours, to
+feel that she belonged to _him_. But there were more discords to come. Mrs.
+Browne began again, half in soliloquy:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I should think he would have four thousand a-year. He did not tell you, love,
+did he, if they had still that bad property in the canal, that his father
+complained about? But he will have four thousand. Why, you’ll have your
+carriage, Maggie. Well! I hope Mr. Buxton has taken it kindly, because he’ll
+have a deal to do with the settlements. I’m sure I thought he was engaged to
+Erminia.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Ringing changes on these subjects all the afternoon, Mrs. Browne sat with
+Maggie. She occasionally wandered off to speak about Edward, and how favorably
+his future prospects would be advanced by the engagement.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Let me see—there’s the house in Combehurst: the rent of that would be a
+hundred and fifty a-year, but we’ll not reckon that. But there’s the quarries”
+(she was reckoning upon her fingers in default of a slate, for which she had
+vainly searched), “we’ll call them two hundred a-year, for I don’t believe Mr.
+Buxton’s stories about their only bringing him in seven-pence; and there’s
+Newbridge, that’s certainly thirteen hundred—where had I got to, Maggie?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Dear mamma, do go and lie down for a little; you look quite flushed,” said
+Maggie, softly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Was this the manner to view her betrothal with such a man as Frank? Her
+mother’s remarks depressed her more than she could have thought it possible;
+the excitement of the morning was having its reaction, and she longed to go up
+to the solitude under the thorn-tree, where she had hoped to spend a quiet,
+thoughtful afternoon.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Nancy came in to replace glasses and spoons in the cupboard. By some accident,
+the careful old servant broke one of the former. She looked up quickly at her
+mistress, who usually visited all such offences with no small portion of
+rebuke.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Never mind, Nancy,” said Mrs. Browne. “It’s only an old tumbler; and Maggie’s
+going to be married, and we must buy a new set for the wedding-dinner.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Nancy looked at both, bewildered; at last a light dawned into her mind, and her
+face looked shrewdly and knowingly back at Mrs. Browne. Then she said, very
+quietly:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I think I’ll take the next pitcher to the well myself, and try my luck. To
+think how sorry I was for Miss Maggie this morning! ‘Poor thing,’ says I to
+myself, ‘to be kept all this time at that confounded well’ (for I’ll not deny
+that I swear a bit to myself at times—it sweetens the blood), ‘and she so
+tired.’ I e’en thought I’d go help her; but I reckon she’d some other help. May
+I take a guess at the young man?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Four thousand a-year! Nancy;” said Mrs. Browne, exultingly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And a blithe look, and a warm, kind heart—and a free step—and a noble way with
+him to rich and poor—aye, aye, I know the name. No need to alter all my neat
+M.B.’s, done in turkey-red cotton. Well, well! every one’s turn comes sometime,
+but mine’s rather long a-coming.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The faithful old servant came up to Maggie, and put her hand caressingly on her
+shoulder. Maggie threw her arms round her neck, and kissed the brown, withered
+face.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“God bless thee, bairn,” said Nancy, solemnly. It brought the low music of
+peace back into the still recesses of Maggie’s heart. She began to look out for
+her lover; half-hidden behind the muslin window curtain, which waved gently to
+and fro in the afternoon breezes. She heard a firm, buoyant step, and had only
+time to catch one glimpse of his face, before moving away. But that one glance
+made her think that the hours which had elapsed since she saw him had not been
+serene to him any more than to her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When he entered the parlor, his face was glad and bright. He went up in a
+frank, rejoicing way to Mrs. Browne; who was evidently rather puzzled how to
+receive him—whether as Maggie’s betrothed, or as the son of the greatest man of
+her acquaintance.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I am sure, sir,” said she, “we are all very much obliged to you for the honor
+you have done our family!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He looked rather perplexed as to the nature of the honor which he had conferred
+without knowing it; but as the light dawned upon him, he made answer in a
+frank, merry way, which was yet full of respect for his future mother-in-law:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And I am sure I am truly grateful for the honor one of your family has done
+me.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When Nancy brought in tea she was dressed in her fine-weather Sunday gown; the
+first time it had ever been worn out of church, and the walk to and fro.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+After tea, Frank asked Maggie if she would walk out with him; and accordingly
+they climbed the Fell-Lane and went out upon the moors, which seemed vast and
+boundless as their love.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Have you told your father?” asked Maggie; a dim anxiety lurking in her heart.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes,” said Frank. He did not go on; and she feared to ask, although she longed
+to know, how Mr. Buxton had received the intelligence.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What did he say?” at length she inquired.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh! it was evidently a new idea to him that I was attached to you; and he does
+not take up a new idea speedily. He has had some notion, it seems, that Erminia
+and I were to make a match of it; but she and I agreed, when we talked it over,
+that we should never have fallen in love with each other if there had not been
+another human being in the world. Erminia is a little sensible creature, and
+says she does not wonder at any man falling in love with you. Nay, Maggie,
+don’t hang your head so down; let me have a glimpse of your face.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I am sorry your father does not like it,” said Maggie, sorrowfully.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“So am I. But we must give him time to get reconciled. Never fear but he will
+like it in the long run; he has too much good taste and good feeling. He must
+like you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Frank did not choose to tell even Maggie how violently his father had set
+himself against their engagement. He was surprised and annoyed at first to find
+how decidedly his father was possessed with the idea that he was to marry his
+cousin, and that she, at any rate, was attached to him, whatever his feelings
+might be toward her; but after he had gone frankly to Erminia and told her all,
+he found that she was as ignorant of her uncle’s plans for her as he had been;
+and almost as glad at any event which should frustrate them.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Indeed she came to the moorland cottage on the following day, after Frank had
+returned to Cambridge. She had left her horse in charge of the groom, near the
+fir-trees on the heights, and came running down the slope in her habit. Maggie
+went out to meet her, with just a little wonder at her heart if what Frank had
+said could possibly be true; and that Erminia, living in the house with him,
+could have remained indifferent to him. Erminia threw her arms round her neck,
+and they sat down together on the court-steps.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I durst not ride down that hill; and Jem is holding my horse, so I may not
+stay very long; now begin, Maggie, at once, and go into a rhapsody about Frank.
+Is not he a charming fellow? Oh! I am so glad. Now don’t sit smiling and
+blushing there to yourself; but tell me a great deal about it. I have so wanted
+to know somebody that was in love, that I might hear what it was like; and the
+minute I could, I came off here. Frank is only just gone. He has had another
+long talk with my uncle, since he came back from you this morning; but I am
+afraid he has not made much way yet.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie sighed. “I don’t wonder at his not thinking me good enough for Frank.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No! the difficulty would be to find any one he did think fit for his paragon
+of a son.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He thought you were, dearest Erminia.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“So Frank has told you that, has he? I suppose we shall have no more family
+secrets now,” said Erminia, laughing. “But I can assure you I had a strong
+rival in lady Adela Castlemayne, the Duke of Wight’s daughter; she was the most
+beautiful lady my uncle had ever seen (he only saw her in the Grand Stand at
+Woodchester races, and never spoke a word to her in his life). And if she would
+have had Frank, my uncle would still have been dissatisfied as long as the
+Princess Victoria was unmarried; none would have been good enough while a
+better remained. But Maggie,” said she, smiling up into her friend’s face, “I
+think it would have made you laugh, for all you look as if a kiss would shake
+the tears out of your eyes, if you could have seen my uncle’s manner to me all
+day. He will have it that I am suffering from an unrequited attachment; so he
+watched me and watched me over breakfast; and at last, when I had eaten a whole
+nest-full of eggs, and I don’t know how many pieces of toast, he rang the bell
+and asked for some potted charr. I was quite unconscious that it was for me,
+and I did not want it when it came; so he sighed in a most melancholy manner,
+and said, ‘My poor Erminia!’ If Frank had not been there, and looking
+dreadfully miserable, I am sure I should have laughed out.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Did Frank look miserable?” said Maggie, anxiously.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“There now! you don’t care for anything but the mention of his name.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But did he look unhappy?” persisted Maggie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I can’t say he looked happy, dear Mousey; but it was quite different when he
+came back from seeing you. You know you always had the art of stilling any
+person’s trouble. You and my aunt Buxton are the only two I ever knew with that
+gift.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I am so sorry he has any trouble to be stilled,” said Maggie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And I think it will do him a world of good. Think how successful his life has
+been! the honors he got at Eton! his picture taken, and I don’t know what! and
+at Cambridge just the same way of going on. He would be insufferably imperious
+in a few years, if he did not meet with a few crosses.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Imperious!—oh Erminia, how can you say so?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Because it’s the truth. He happens to have very good dispositions; and
+therefore his strong will is not either disagreeable, or offensive; but once
+let him become possessed by a wrong wish, and you would then see how vehement
+and imperious he would be. Depend upon it, my uncle’s resistance is a capital
+thing for him. As dear sweet Aunt Buxton would have said, ‘There is a holy
+purpose in it;’ and as Aunt Buxton would not have said, but as I, a ‘fool, rush
+in where angels fear to tread,’ I decide that the purpose is to teach Master
+Frank patience and submission.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Erminia—how could you help”—and there Maggie stopped.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I know what you mean; how could I help falling in love with him? I think he
+has not mystery and reserve enough for me. I should like a man with some deep,
+impenetrable darkness around him; something one could always keep wondering
+about. Besides, think what clashing of wills there would have been! My uncle
+was very short-sighted in his plan; but I don’t think he thought so much about
+the fitness of our characters and ways, as the fitness of our fortunes!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“For shame, Erminia! No one cares less for money than Mr. Buxton!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“There’s a good little daughter-in-law elect! But seriously, I do think he is
+beginning to care for money; not in the least for himself, but as a means of
+aggrandizement for Frank. I have observed, since I came home at Christmas, a
+growing anxiety to make the most of his property; a thing he never cared about
+before. I don’t think he is aware of it himself, but from one or two little
+things I have noticed, I should not wonder if he ends in being avaricious in
+his old age.” Erminia sighed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie had almost a sympathy with the father, who sought what he imagined to be
+for the good of his son, and that son, Frank. Although she was as convinced as
+Erminia, that money could not really help any one to happiness, she could not
+at the instant resist saying:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh! how I wish I had a fortune! I should so like to give it all to him.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Now Maggie! don’t be silly! I never heard you wish for anything different from
+what _was_ before, so I shall take this opportunity of lecturing you on your
+folly. No! I won’t either, for you look sadly tired with all your agitation;
+and besides I must go, or Jem will be wondering what has become of me. Dearest
+cousin-in-law, I shall come very often to see you; and perhaps I shall give you
+my lecture yet.”
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2>CHAPTER VI.</h2>
+
+<p>
+It was true of Mr. Buxton, as well as of his son, that he had the seeds of
+imperiousness in him. His life had not been such as to call them out into view.
+With more wealth than he required; with a gentle wife, who if she ruled him
+never showed it, or was conscious of the fact herself; looked up to by his
+neighbors, a simple affectionate set of people, whose fathers had lived near
+his father and grandfather in the same kindly relation, receiving benefits
+cordially given, and requiting them with good will and respectful attention:
+such had been the circumstances surrounding him; and until his son grew out of
+childhood, there had not seemed a wish which he had it not in his power to
+gratify as soon as formed. Again, when Frank was at school and at college, all
+went on prosperously; he gained honors enough to satisfy a far more ambitious
+father. Indeed, it was the honors he gained that stimulated his father’s
+ambition. He received letters from tutors, and headmasters, prophesying that,
+if Frank chose, he might rise to the “highest honors in church or state;” and
+the idea thus suggested, vague as it was, remained, and filled Mr. Buxton’s
+mind; and, for the first time in his life, made him wish that his own career
+had been such as would have led him to form connections among the great and
+powerful. But, as it was, his shyness and _gêne_, from being unaccustomed to
+society, had made him averse to Frank’s occasional requests that he might bring
+such and such a school-fellow, or college-chum, home on a visit. Now he
+regretted this, on account of the want of those connections which might thus
+have been formed; and, in his visions, he turned to marriage as the best way of
+remedying this. Erminia was right in saying that her uncle had thought of Lady
+Adela Castlemayne for an instant; though how the little witch had found it out
+I cannot say, as the idea had been dismissed immediately from his mind.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He was wise enough to see its utter vanity, as long as his son remained
+undistinguished. But his hope was this. If Frank married Erminia, their united
+property (she being her father’s heiress) would justify him in standing for the
+shire; or if he could marry the daughter of some leading personage in the
+county, it might lead to the same step; and thus at once he would obtain a
+position in parliament, where his great talents would have scope and verge
+enough. Of these two visions, the favorite one (for his sister’s sake) was that
+of marriage with Erminia.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And, in the midst of all this, fell, like a bombshell, the intelligence of his
+engagement with Maggie Browne; a good sweet little girl enough, but without
+fortune or connection—without, as far as Mr. Buxton knew, the least power, or
+capability, or spirit, with which to help Frank on in his career to eminence in
+the land! He resolved to consider it as a boyish fancy, easily to be
+suppressed; and pooh-poohed it down, to Frank, accordingly. He remarked his
+son’s set lips, and quiet determined brow, although he never spoke in a more
+respectful tone, than while thus steadily opposing his father. If he had shown
+more violence of manner, he would have irritated him less; but, as it was, it
+was the most miserable interview that had ever taken place between the father
+and son.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Buxton tried to calm himself down with believing that Frank would change
+his mind, if he saw more of the world; but, somehow, he had a prophesying
+distrust of this idea internally. The worst was, there was no fault to be found
+with Maggie herself, although she might want the accomplishments he desired to
+see in his son’s wife. Her connections, too, were so perfectly respectable
+(though humble enough in comparison with Mr. Buxton’s soaring wishes), that
+there was nothing to be objected to on that score; her position was the great
+offence. In proportion to his want of any reason but this one, for disapproving
+of the engagement, was his annoyance under it. He assumed a reserve toward
+Frank; which was so unusual a restraint upon his open, genial disposition, that
+it seemed to make him irritable toward all others in contact with him,
+excepting Erminia. He found it difficult to behave rightly to Maggie. Like all
+habitually cordial persons, he went into the opposite extreme, when he wanted
+to show a little coolness. However angry he might be with the events of which
+she was the cause, she was too innocent and meek to justify him in being more
+than cool; but his awkwardness was so great, that many a man of the world has
+met his greatest enemy, each knowing the other’s hatred, with less freezing
+distance of manner than Mr. Buxton’s to Maggie. While she went simply on in her
+own path, loving him the more through all, for old kindness’ sake, and because
+he was Frank’s father, he shunned meeting her with such evident and painful
+anxiety, that at last she tried to spare him the encounter, and hurried out of
+church, or lingered behind all, in order to avoid the only chance they now had
+of being forced to speak; for she no longer went to the dear house in
+Combehurst, though Erminia came to see her more than ever.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. Browne was perplexed and annoyed beyond measure. She upbraided Mr. Buxton
+to every one but Maggie. To her she said—“Any one in their senses might have
+foreseen what had happened, and would have thought well about it, before they
+went and fell in love with a young man of such expectations as Mr. Frank
+Buxton.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In the middle of all this dismay, Edward came over from Woodchester for a day
+or two. He had been told of the engagement, in a letter from Maggie herself;
+but it was too sacred a subject for her to enlarge upon to him; and Mrs. Browne
+was no letter writer. So this was his first greeting to Maggie; after kissing
+her:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well, Sancho, you’ve done famously for yourself. As soon as I got your letter
+I said to Harry Bish—‘Still waters run deep; here’s my little sister Maggie, as
+quiet a creature as ever lived, has managed to catch young Buxton, who has five
+thousand a-year if he’s a penny.’ Don’t go so red, Maggie. Harry was sure to
+hear of it soon from some one, and I see no use in keeping it secret, for it
+gives consequence to us all.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Mr. Buxton is quite put out about it,” said Mrs. Brown, querulously; “and I’m
+sure he need not be, for he’s enough of money, if that’s what he wants; and
+Maggie’s father was a clergyman, and I’ve seen ‘yeoman,’ with my own eyes, on
+old Mr. Buxton’s (Mr. Lawrence’s father’s) carts; and a clergyman is above a
+yeoman any day. But if Maggie had had any thought for other people, she’d never
+have gone and engaged herself, when she might have been sure it would give
+offence. We are never asked down to dinner now. I’ve never broken bread there
+since last Christmas.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Whew!” said Edward to this. It was a disappointed whistle; but he soon cheered
+up. “I thought I could have lent a hand in screwing old Buxton up about the
+settlements; but I see it’s not come to that yet. Still I’ll go and see the old
+gentleman. I’m a bit of a favorite of his, and I doubt I can turn him round.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Pray, Edward, don’t go,” said Maggie. “Frank and I are content to wait; and
+I’m sure we would rather not have any one speak to Mr. Buxton, upon a subject
+which evidently gives him so much pain; please, Edward, don’t!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well, well. Only I must go about this property of his. Besides, I don’t mean
+to get into disgrace; so I shan’t seem to know anything about it, if it would
+make him angry. I want to keep on good terms, because of the agency. So,
+perhaps, I shall shake my head, and think it great presumption in you, Maggie,
+to have thought of becoming his daughter-in-law. If I can do you no good, I may
+as well do myself some.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I hope you won’t mention me at all,” she replied.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One comfort (and almost the only one arising from Edward’s visit) was, that she
+could now often be spared to go up to the thorn-tree, and calm down her
+anxiety, and bring all discords into peace, under the sweet influences of
+nature. Mrs. Buxton had tried to teach her the force of the lovely truth, that
+the “melodies of the everlasting chime” may abide in the hearts of those who
+ply their daily task in towns, and crowded populous places; and that solitude
+is not needed by the faithful for them to feel the immediate presence of God;
+nor utter stillness of human sound necessary, before they can hear the music of
+His angels’ footsteps; but, as yet, her soul was a young disciple; and she felt
+it easier to speak to Him, and come to Him for help, sitting lonely, with wild
+moors swelling and darkening around her, and not a creature in sight but the
+white specks of distant sheep, and the birds that shun the haunts of men,
+floating in the still mid-air.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She sometimes longed to go to Mr. Buxton and tell him how much she could
+sympathize with him, if his dislike to her engagement arose from thinking her
+unworthy of his son. Frank’s character seemed to her grand in its promise. With
+vehement impulses and natural gifts, craving worthy employment, his will sat
+supreme over all, like a young emperor calmly seated on his throne, whose fiery
+generals and wise counsellors stand alike ready to obey him. But if marriage
+were to be made by due measurement and balance of character, and if others,
+with their scales, were to be the judges, what would become of all the
+beautiful services rendered by the loyalty of true love? Where would be the
+raising up of the weak by the strong? or the patient endurance? or the gracious
+trust of her:
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+“Whose faith is fixt and cannot move;<br/>
+She darkly feels him great and wise,<br/>
+She dwells on him with faithful eyes,<br/>
+‘I cannot understand: I love.’”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Edward’s manners and conduct caused her more real anxiety than anything else.
+Indeed, no other thoughtfulness could be called anxiety compared to this. His
+faults, she could not but perceive, were strengthening with his strength, and
+growing with his growth. She could not help wondering whence he obtained the
+money to pay for his dress, which she thought was of a very expensive kind. She
+heard him also incidentally allude to “runs up to town,” of which, at the time,
+neither she nor her mother had been made aware. He seemed confused when she
+questioned him about these, although he tried to laugh it off; and asked her
+how she, a country girl, cooped up among one set of people, could have any idea
+of the life it was necessary for a man to lead who “had any hope of getting on
+in the world.” He must have acquaintances and connections, and see something of
+life, and make an appearance. She was silenced, but not satisfied. Nor was she
+at ease with regard to his health. He looked ill, and worn; and, when he was
+not rattling and laughing, his face fell into a shape of anxiety and
+uneasiness, which was new to her in it. He reminded her painfully of an old
+German engraving she had seen in Mrs. Buxton’s portfolio, called, “Pleasure
+digging a Grave;” Pleasure being represented by a ghastly figure of a young
+man, eagerly industrious over his dismal work.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A few days after he went away, Nancy came to her in her bed-room.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Miss Maggie,” said she, “may I just speak a word?” But when the permission was
+given, she hesitated.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s none of my business, to be sure,” said she at last: “only, you see, I’ve
+lived with your mother ever since she was married; and I care a deal for both
+you and Master Edward. And I think he drains Missus of her money; and it makes
+me not easy in my mind. You did not know of it, but he had his father’s old
+watch when he was over last time but one; I thought he was of an age to have a
+watch, and that it was all natural. But, I reckon he’s sold it, and got that
+gimcrack one instead. That’s perhaps natural too. Young folks like young
+fashions. But, this time, I think he has taken away your mother’s watch; at
+least, I’ve never seen it since he went. And this morning she spoke to me about
+my wages. I’m sure I’ve never asked for them, nor troubled her; but I’ll own
+it’s now near on to twelve months since she paid me; and she was as regular as
+clock-work till then. Now, Miss Maggie don’t look so sorry, or I shall wish I
+had never spoken. Poor Missus seemed sadly put about, and said something as I
+did not try to hear; for I was so vexed she should think I needed apologies,
+and them sort of things. I’d rather live with you without wages than have her
+look so shame-faced as she did this morning. I don’t want a bit for money, my
+dear; I’ve a deal in the Bank. But I’m afeard Master Edward is spending too
+much, and pinching Missus.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie was very sorry indeed. Her mother had never told her anything of all
+this, so it was evidently a painful subject to her; and Maggie determined
+(after lying awake half the night) that she would write to Edward, and
+remonstrate with him; and that in every personal and household expense, she
+would be, more than ever, rigidly economical.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The full, free, natural intercourse between her lover and herself, could not
+fail to be checked by Mr. Buxton’s aversion to the engagement. Frank came over
+for some time in the early autumn. He had left Cambridge, and intended to enter
+himself at the Temple as soon as the vacation was ended. He had not been very
+long at home before Maggie was made aware, partly through Erminia, who had no
+notion of discreet silence on any point, and partly by her own observation, of
+the increasing estrangement between father and son. Mr. Buxton was reserved
+with Frank for the first time in his life; and Frank was depressed and annoyed
+at his father’s obstinate repetition of the same sentence, in answer to all his
+arguments in favor of his engagement—arguments which were overwhelming to
+himself and which it required an effort of patience on his part to go over and
+recapitulate, so obvious was the conclusion; and then to have the same answer
+forever, the same words even:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Frank! it’s no use talking. I don’t approve of the engagement; and never
+shall.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He would snatch up his hat, and hurry off to Maggie to be soothed. His father
+knew where he was gone without being told; and was jealous of her influence
+over the son who had long been his first and paramount object in life.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He needed not have been jealous. However angry and indignant Frank was when he
+went up to the moorland cottage, Maggie almost persuaded him, before half an
+hour had elapsed, that his father was but unreasonable from his extreme
+affection. Still she saw that such frequent differences would weaken the bond
+between father and son; and, accordingly, she urged Frank to accept an
+invitation into Scotland.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You told me,” said she, “that Mr. Buxton will have it, it is but a boy’s
+attachment; and that when you have seen other people, you will change your
+mind; now do try how far you can stand the effects of absence.” She said it
+playfully, but he was in a humor to be vexed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What nonsense, Maggie! You don’t care for all this delay yourself; and you
+take up my father’s bad reasons as if you believed them.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t believe them; but still they may be true.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“How should you like it, Maggie, if I urged you to go about and see something
+of society, and try if you could not find some one you liked better? It is more
+probable in your case than in mine; for you have never been from home, and I
+have been half over Europe.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You are very much afraid, are not you, Frank?” said she, her face bright with
+blushes, and her gray eyes smiling up at him. “I have a great idea that if I
+could see that Harry Bish that Edward is always talking about, I should be
+charmed. He must wear such beautiful waistcoats! Don’t you think I had better
+see him before our engagement is quite, quite final?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But Frank would not smile. In fact, like all angry persons, he found fresh
+matter for offence in every sentence. She did not consider the engagement as
+quite final: thus he chose to understand her playful speech. He would not
+answer. She spoke again:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Dear Frank, you are not angry with me, are you? It is nonsense to think that
+we are to go about the world, picking and choosing men and women as if they
+were fruit and we were to gather the best; as if there was not something in our
+own hearts which, if we listen to it conscientiously, will tell us at once when
+we have met the one of all others. There now, am I sensible? I suppose I am,
+for your grim features are relaxing into a smile. That’s right. But now listen
+to this. I think your father would come round sooner, if he were not irritated
+every day by the knowledge of your visits to me. If you went away, he would
+know that we should write to each other yet he would forget the exact time
+when; but now he knows as well as I do where you are when you are up here; and
+I fancy, from what Erminia says, it makes him angry the whole time you are
+away.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Frank was silent. At last he said: “It is rather provoking to be obliged to
+acknowledge that there is some truth in what you say. But even if I would, I am
+not sure that I could go. My father does not speak to me about his affairs, as
+he used to do; so I was rather surprised yesterday to hear him say to Erminia
+(though I’m sure he meant the information for me), that he had engaged an
+agent.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Then there will be the less occasion for you to be at home. He won’t want your
+help in his accounts.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’ve given him little enough of that. I have long wanted him to have somebody
+to look after his affairs. They are very complicated and he is very careless.
+But I believe my signature will be wanted for some new leases; at least he told
+me so.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“That need not take you long,” said Maggie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Not the mere signing. But I want to know something more about the property,
+and the proposed tenants. I believe this Mr. Henry that my father has engaged,
+is a very hard sort of man. He is what is called scrupulously honest and
+honorable; but I fear a little too much inclined to drive hard bargains for his
+client. Now I want to be convinced to the contrary, if I can, before I leave my
+father in his hands. So you cruel judge, you won’t transport me yet, will you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No” said Maggie, overjoyed at her own decision, and blushing her delight that
+her reason was convinced it was right for Frank to stay a little longer.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The next day’s post brought her a letter from Edward. There was not a word in
+it about her inquiry or remonstrance; it might never have been written, or
+never received; but a few hurried anxious lines, asking her to write by return
+of post, and say if it was really true that Mr. Buxton had engaged an agent.
+“It’s a confounded shabby trick if he has, after what he said to me long ago. I
+cannot tell you how much I depend on your complying with my request. Once more,
+_write directly_. If Nancy cannot take the letter to the post, run down to
+Combehurst with it yourself. I must have an answer to-morrow, and every
+particular as to who—when to be appointed, &amp;c. But I can’t believe the
+report to be true.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie asked Frank if she might name what he had told her the day before to her
+brother. He said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, yes, certainly, if he cares to know. Of course, you will not say anything
+about my own opinion of Mr. Henry. He is coming to-morrow, and I shall be able
+to judge how far I am right.”
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2>CHAPTER VII.</h2>
+
+<p>
+The next day Mr. Henry came. He was a quiet, stern-looking man, of considerable
+intelligence and refinement, and so much taste for music as to charm Erminia,
+who had rather dreaded his visit. But all the amenities of life were put aside
+when he entered Mr. Buxton’s sanctum—his “office,” as he called the room where
+he received his tenants and business people. Frank thought Mr. Henry was scarce
+commonly civil in the open evidence of his surprise and contempt for the
+habits, of which the disorderly books and ledgers were but too visible signs.
+Mr. Buxton himself felt more like a school-boy, bringing up an imperfect
+lesson, than he had ever done since he was thirteen.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“The only wonder, my good sir, is that you have any property left; that you
+have not been cheated out of every farthing.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’ll answer for it,” said Mr. Buxton, in reply, “that you’ll not find any
+cheating has been going on. They dared not, sir; they know I should make an
+example of the first rogue I found out.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Henry lifted up his eyebrows, but did not speak.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Besides, sir, most of these men have lived for generations under the Buxtons.
+I’d give you my life, they would not cheat me.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Henry coldly said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I imagine a close examination of these books by some accountant will be the
+best proof of the honesty of these said tenants. If you will allow me, I will
+write to a clever fellow I know, and desire him to come down and try and
+regulate this mass of papers.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Anything—anything you like,” said Mr. Buxton, only too glad to escape from the
+lawyer’s cold, contemptuous way of treating the subject.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The accountant came; and he and Mr. Henry were deeply engaged in the office for
+several days. Mr. Buxton was bewildered by the questions they asked him. Mr.
+Henry examined him in the worrying way in which an unwilling witness is made to
+give evidence. Many a time and oft did he heartily wish he had gone on in the
+old course to the end of his life, instead of putting himself into an agent’s
+hands; but he comforted himself by thinking that, at any rate, they would be
+convinced he had never allowed himself to be cheated or imposed upon, although
+he did not make any parade of exactitude.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+What was his dismay when, one morning, Mr. Henry sent to request his presence,
+and, with a cold, clear voice, read aloud an admirably drawn up statement,
+informing the poor landlord of the defalcations, nay more, the impositions of
+those whom he had trusted. If he had been alone, he would have burst into
+tears, to find how his confidence had been abused. But as it was, he became
+passionately angry.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’ll prosecute them, sir. Not a man shall escape. I’ll make them pay back
+every farthing, I will. And damages, too. Crayston, did you say, sir? Was that
+one of the names? Why, that is the very Crayston who was bailiff under my
+father for years. The scoundrel! And I set him up in my best farm when he
+married. And he’s been swindling me, has he?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Henry ran over the items of the account—“421_l_, 13_s_. 4-3/4_d_. Part of
+this I fear we cannot recover”——
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He was going on, but Mr. Buxton broke in: “But I will recover it. I’ll have
+every farthing of it. I’ll go to law with the viper. I don’t care for money,
+but I hate ingratitude.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If you like, I will take counsel’s opinion on the case,” said Mr. Henry,
+coolly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Take anything you please, sir. Why this Crayston was the first man that set me
+on a horse—and to think of his cheating me!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A few days after this conversation, Frank came on his usual visit to Maggie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Can you come up to the thorn-tree, dearest?” said he. “It is a lovely day, and
+I want the solace of a quiet hour’s talk with you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+So they went, and sat in silence some time, looking at the calm and still blue
+air about the summits of the hills, where never tumult of the world came to
+disturb the peace, and the quiet of whose heights was never broken by the loud
+passionate cries of men.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I am glad you like my thorn-tree,” said Maggie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I like the view from it. The thought of the solitude which must be among the
+hollows of those hills pleases me particularly to-day. Oh, Maggie! it is one of
+the times when I get depressed about men and the world. We have had such
+sorrow, and such revelations, and remorse, and passion at home to-day. Crayston
+(my father’s old tenant) has come over. It seems—I am afraid there is no doubt
+of it—he has been peculating to a large amount. My father has been too
+careless, and has placed his dependents in great temptation; and Crayston—he is
+an old man, with a large extravagant family—has yielded. He has been served
+with notice of my father’s intention to prosecute him; and came over to confess
+all, and ask for forgiveness, and time to pay back what he could. A month ago,
+my father would have listened to him, I think; but now, he is stung by Mr.
+Henry’s sayings, and gave way to a furious passion. It has been a most
+distressing morning. The worst side of everybody seems to have come out. Even
+Crayston, with all his penitence and appearance of candor, had to be questioned
+closely by Mr. Henry before he would tell the whole truth. Good God! that money
+should have such power to corrupt men. It was all for money, and money’s worth,
+that this degradation has taken place. As for Mr. Henry, to save his client
+money, and to protect money, he does not care—he does not even perceive—how he
+induces deterioration of character. He has been encouraging my father in
+measures which I cannot call anything but vindictive. Crayston is to be made an
+example of, they say. As if my father had not half the sin on his own head! As
+if he had rightly discharged his duties as a rich man! Money was as dross to
+him; but he ought to have remembered how it might be as life itself to many,
+and be craved after, and coveted, till the black longing got the better of
+principle, as it has done with this poor Crayston. They say the man was once so
+truthful, and now his self-respect is gone; and he has evidently lost the very
+nature of truth. I dread riches. I dread the responsibility of them. At any
+rate, I wish I had begun life as a poor boy, and worked my way up to
+competence. Then I could understand and remember the temptations of poverty. I
+am afraid of my own heart becoming hardened as my father’s is. You have no
+notion of his passionate severity to-day, Maggie! It was quite a new thing even
+to me!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It will only be for a short time,” said she. “He must be much grieved about
+this man.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If I thought I could ever grow as hard and different to the abject entreaties
+of a criminal as my father has been this morning—one whom he has helped to
+make, too—I would go off to Australia at once. Indeed, Maggie, I think it would
+be the best thing we could do. My heart aches about the mysterious corruptions
+and evils of an old state of society such as we have in England.—What do you
+say Maggie? Would you go?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She was silent—thinking.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I would go with you directly, if it were right,” said she, at last. “But would
+it be? I think it would be rather cowardly. I feel what you say; but don’t you
+think it would be braver to stay, and endure much depression and anxiety of
+mind, for the sake of the good those always can do who see evils clearly. I am
+speaking all this time as if neither you nor I had any home duties, but were
+free to do as we liked.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What can you or I do? We are less than drops in the ocean, as far as our
+influence can go to model a nation?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“As for that,” said Maggie, laughing, “I can’t remodel Nancy’s old-fashioned
+ways; so I’ve never yet planned how to remodel a nation.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Then what did you mean by the good those always can do who see evils clearly?
+The evils I see are those of a nation whose god is money.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“That is just because you have come away from a distressing scene. To-morrow
+you will hear or read of some heroic action meeting with a nation’s sympathy,
+and you will rejoice and be proud of your country.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Still I shall see the evils of her complex state of society keenly; and where
+is the good I can do?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh! I can’t tell in a minute. But cannot you bravely face these evils, and
+learn their nature and causes; and then has God given you no powers to apply to
+the discovery of their remedy? Dear Frank, think! It may be very little you can
+do—and you may never see the effect of it, any more than the widow saw the
+world-wide effect of her mite. Then if all the good and thoughtful men run away
+from us to some new country, what are we to do with our poor dear Old England?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, you must run away with the good, thoughtful men—(I mean to consider that
+as a compliment to myself, Maggie!) Will you let me wish I had been born poor,
+if I am to stay in England? I should not then be liable to this fault into
+which I see the rich men fall, of forgetting the trials of the poor.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I am not sure whether, if you had been poor, you might not have fallen into an
+exactly parallel fault, and forgotten the trials of the rich. It is so
+difficult to understand the errors into which their position makes all men
+liable to fall. Do you remember a story in ‘Evenings at Home,’ called the
+Transmigrations of Indra? Well! when I was a child, I used to wish I might be
+transmigrated (is that the right word?) into an American slave-owner for a
+little while, just that I might understand how he must suffer, and be sorely
+puzzled, and pray and long to be freed from his odious wealth, till at last he
+grew hardened to its nature;—and since then, I have wished to be the Emperor of
+Russia, for the same reason. Ah! you may laugh; but that is only because I have
+not explained myself properly.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I was only smiling to think how ambitious any one might suppose you were who
+did not know you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t see any ambition in it—I don’t think of the station—I only want sorely
+to see the ‘What’s resisted’ of Burns, in order that I may have more charity
+for those who seem to me to have been the cause of such infinite woe and
+misery.”
+</p>
+
+<p class="poem">
+“‘What’s done we partly may compute;<br/>
+But know not what’s resisted,’”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+repeated Frank musingly. After some time he began again:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But, Maggie, I don’t give up this wish of mine to go to Australia—Canada, if
+you like it better—anywhere where there is a newer and purer state of society.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“The great objection seems to be your duty, as an only child, to your father.
+It is different to the case of one out of a large family.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I wish I were one in twenty, then I might marry where I liked to-morrow.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It would take two people’s consent to such a rapid measure,” said Maggie,
+laughing. “But now I am going to wish a wish, which it won’t require a fairy
+godmother to gratify. Look, Frank, do you see in the middle of that dark brown
+purple streak of moor a yellow gleam of light? It is a pond, I think, that at
+this time of the year catches a slanting beam of the sun. It cannot be very far
+off. I have wished to go to it every autumn. Will you go with me now? We shall
+have time before tea.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Frank’s dissatisfaction with the stern measures that, urged on by Mr. Henry,
+his father took against all who had imposed upon his carelessness as a
+landlord, increased rather than diminished. He spoke warmly to him on the
+subject, but without avail. He remonstrated with Mr. Henry, and told him how he
+felt that, had his father controlled his careless nature, and been an exact,
+vigilant landlord, these tenantry would never have had the great temptation to
+do him wrong; and that therefore he considered some allowance should be made
+for them, and some opportunity given them to redeem their characters, which
+would be blasted and hardened for ever by the publicity of a law-suit. But Mr.
+Henry only raised his eyebrows and made answer:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I like to see these notions in a young man, sir. I had them myself at your
+age. I believe I had great ideas then, on the subject of temptation and the
+force of circumstances; and was as Quixotic as any one about reforming rogues.
+But my experience has convinced me that roguery is innate. Nothing but outward
+force can control it, and keep it within bounds. The terrors of the law must be
+that outward force. I admire your kindness of heart; and in three-and-twenty we
+do not look for the wisdom and experience of forty or fifty.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Frank was indignant at being set aside as an unripe youth. He disapproved so
+strongly of all these measures, and of so much that was now going on at home
+under Mr. Henry’s influence that he determined to pay his long promised visit
+to Scotland; and Maggie, sad at heart to see how he was suffering, encouraged
+him in his determination.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2>CHAPTER VIII.</h2>
+
+<p>
+After he was gone, there came a November of the most dreary and characteristic
+kind. There was incessant rain, and closing-in mists, without a gleam of
+sunshine to light up the drops of water, and make the wet stems and branches of
+the trees glisten. Every color seemed dimmed and darkened; and the crisp
+autumnal glory of leaves fell soddened to the ground. The latest flowers rotted
+away without ever coming to their bloom; and it looked as if the heavy
+monotonous sky had drawn closer and closer, and shut in the little moorland
+cottage as with a shroud. In doors, things were no more cheerful. Maggie saw
+that her mother was depressed, and she thought that Edward’s extravagance must
+be the occasion. Oftentimes she wondered how far she might speak on the
+subject; and once or twice she drew near it in conversation; but her mother
+winced away, and Maggie could not as yet see any decided good to be gained from
+encountering such pain. To herself it would have been a relief to have known
+the truth—the worst, as far as her mother knew it; but she was not in the habit
+of thinking of herself. She only tried, by long tender attention, to cheer and
+comfort her mother; and she and Nancy strove in every way to reduce the
+household expenditure, for there was little ready money to meet it. Maggie
+wrote regularly to Edward; but since the note inquiring about the agency, she
+had never heard from him. Whether her mother received letters she did not know;
+but at any rate she did not express anxiety, though her looks and manner
+betrayed that she was ill at ease. It was almost a relief to Maggie when some
+change was given to her thoughts by Nancy’s becoming ill. The damp gloomy
+weather brought on some kind of rheumatic attack, which obliged the old servant
+to keep her bed. Formerly, in such an emergency, they would have engaged some
+cottager’s wife to come and do the house-work; but now it seemed tacitly
+understood that they could not afford it. Even when Nancy grew worse, and
+required attendance in the night, Maggie still persisted in her daily
+occupations. She was wise enough to rest when and how she could; and, with a
+little forethought, she hoped to be able to go through this weary time without
+any bad effect. One morning (it was on the second of December; and even the
+change of name in the month, although it brought no change of circumstances or
+weather, was a relief—December brought glad tidings even in its very name), one
+morning, dim and dreary, Maggie had looked at the clock on leaving Nancy’s
+room, and finding it was not yet half-past five, and knowing that her mother
+and Nancy were both asleep, she determined to lie down and rest for an hour
+before getting up to light the fires. She did not mean to go to sleep; but she
+was tired out and fell into a sound slumber. When she awoke it was with a
+start. It was still dark; but she had a clear idea of being wakened by some
+distinct, rattling noise. There it was once more—against the window, like a
+shower of shot. She went to the lattice, and opened it to look out. She had
+that strange consciousness, not to be described, of the near neighborhood of
+some human creature, although she neither saw nor heard any one for the first
+instant. Then Edward spoke in a hoarse whisper, right below the window,
+standing on the flower-beds.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Maggie! Maggie! Come down and let me in. For your life, don’t make any noise.
+No one must know.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie turned sick. Something was wrong, evidently; and she was weak and weary.
+However, she stole down the old creaking stairs, and undid the heavy bolt, and
+let her brother in. She felt that his dress was quite wet, and she led him,
+with cautious steps, into the kitchen, and shut the door, and stirred the fire,
+before she spoke. He sank into a chair, as if worn out with fatigue. She stood,
+expecting some explanation. But when she saw he could not speak, she hastened
+to make him a cup of tea; and, stooping down, took off his wet boots, and
+helped him off with his coat, and brought her own plaid to wrap round him. All
+this time her heart sunk lower and lower. He allowed her to do what she liked,
+as if he were an automaton; his head and his arms hung loosely down, and his
+eyes were fixed, in a glaring way, on the fire. When she brought him some tea,
+he spoke for the first time; she could not hear what he said till he repeated
+it, so husky was his voice.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Have you no brandy?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She had the key of the little wine-cellar, and fetched up some. But as she took
+a tea-spoon to measure it out, he tremblingly clutched at the bottle, and shook
+down a quantity into the empty tea-cup, and drank it off at one gulp. He fell
+back again in his chair; but in a few minutes he roused himself, and seemed
+stronger.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Edward, dear Edward, what is the matter?” said Maggie, at last; for he got up,
+and was staggering toward the outer door, as if he were going once more into
+the rain, and dismal morning-twilight.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He looked at her fiercely as she laid her hand on his arm.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Confound you! Don’t touch me. I’ll not be kept here, to be caught and hung!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+For an instant she thought he was mad.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Caught and hung!” she echoed. “My poor Edward! what do you mean?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He sat down suddenly on a chair, close by him, and covered his face with his
+hands. When he spoke, his voice was feeble and imploring.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“The police are after me, Maggie! What must I do? Oh! can you hide me? Can you
+save me?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He looked wild, like a hunted creature. Maggie stood aghast. He went on:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“My mother!—Nancy! Where are they? I was wet through and starving, and I came
+here. Don’t let them take me, Maggie, till I’m stronger, and can give battle.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh! Edward! Edward! What are you saying?” said Maggie, sitting down on the
+dresser, in absolute, bewildered despair. “What have you done?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I hardly know. I’m in a horrid dream. I see you think I’m mad. I wish I were.
+Won’t Nancy come down soon? You must hide me.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Poor Nancy is ill in bed!” said Maggie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Thank God,” said he. “There’s one less. But my mother will be up soon, will
+she not?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Not yet,” replied Maggie. “Edward, dear, do try and tell me what you have
+done. Why should the police be after you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why, Maggie,” said he with a kind of forced, unnatural laugh, “they say I’ve
+forged.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And have you?” asked Maggie, in a still, low tone of quiet agony.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He did not answer for some time, but sat, looking on the floor with unwinking
+eyes. At last he said, as if speaking to himself:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If I have, it’s no more than others have done before, and never been found
+out. I was but borrowing money. I meant to repay it. If I had asked Mr. Buxton,
+he would have lent it me.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Mr. Buxton!” said Maggie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes!” answered he, looking sharply and suddenly up at her. “Your future
+father-in-law. My father’s old friend. It is he that is hunting me to death! No
+need to look so white and horror-struck, Maggie! It’s the way of the world, as
+I might have known, if I had not been a blind fool.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Mr. Buxton!” she whispered, faintly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, Maggie!” said he, suddenly throwing himself at her feet, “save me! You can
+do it. Write to Frank, and make him induce his father to let me off. I came to
+see you, my sweet, merciful sister! I knew you would save me. Good God! What
+noise is that? There are steps in the yard!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And before she could speak, he had rushed into the little china closet, which
+opened out of the parlor, and crouched down in the darkness. It was only the
+man who brought their morning’s supply of milk from a neighboring farm. But
+when Maggie opened the kitchen door, she saw how the cold, pale light of a
+winter’s day had filled the air.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You’re late with your shutters to-day, miss,” said the man. “I hope Nancy has
+not been giving you all a bad night. Says I to Thomas, who came with me to the
+gate, ‘It’s many a year since I saw them parlor shutters barred up at half-past
+eight.’”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie went, as soon as he was gone, and opened all the low windows, in order
+that they might look as usual. She wondered at her own outward composure, while
+she felt so dead and sick at heart. Her mother would soon get up; must she be
+told? Edward spoke to her now and then from his hiding-place. He dared not go
+back into the kitchen, into which the few neighbors they had were apt to come,
+on their morning’s way to Combehurst, to ask if they could do any errands there
+for Mrs. Browne or Nancy. Perhaps a quarter of an hour or so had elapsed since
+the first alarm, when, as Maggie was trying to light the parlor fire, in order
+that the doctor, when he came, might find all as usual, she heard the click of
+the garden gate, and a man’s step coming along the walk. She ran up stairs to
+wash away the traces of the tears which had been streaming down her face as she
+went about her work, before she opened the door. There, against the watery
+light of the rainy day without, stood Mr. Buxton. He hardly spoke to her, but
+pushed past her, and entered the parlor. He sat down, looking as if he did not
+know what he was doing. Maggie tried to keep down her shivering alarm. It was
+long since she had seen him; and the old idea of his kind, genial disposition,
+had been sadly disturbed by what she had heard from Frank, of his severe
+proceedings against his unworthy tenantry; and now, if he was setting the
+police in search of Edward, he was indeed to be dreaded; and with Edward so
+close at hand, within earshot! If the china fell! He would suspect nothing from
+that; it would only be her own terror. If her mother came down! But, with all
+these thoughts, she was very still, outwardly, as she sat waiting for him to
+speak.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Have you heard from your brother lately?” asked he, looking up in an angry and
+disturbed manner. “But I’ll answer for it he has not been writing home for some
+time. He could not, with the guilt he has had on his mind. I’ll not believe in
+gratitude again. There perhaps was such a thing once; but now-a-days the more
+you do for a person, the surer they are to turn against you, and cheat you.
+Now, don’t go white and pale. I know you’re a good girl in the main; and I’ve
+been lying awake all night, and I’ve a deal to say to you. That scoundrel of a
+brother of yours!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie could not ask (as would have been natural, if she had been ignorant)
+what Edward had done. She knew too well. But Mr. Buxton was too full of his own
+thoughts and feelings to notice her much.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do you know he has been like the rest? Do you know he has been cheating
+me—forging my name? I don’t know what besides. It’s well for him that they’ve
+altered the laws, and he can’t be hung for it” (a dead heavy weight was removed
+from Maggie’s mind), “but Mr. Henry is going to transport him. It’s worse than
+Crayston. Crayston only ploughed up the turf, and did not pay rent, and sold
+the timber, thinking I should never miss it. But your brother has gone and
+forged my name. He had received all the purchase-money, while he only gave me
+half, and said the rest was to come afterward. And the ungrateful scoundrel has
+gone and given a forged receipt! You might have knocked me down with a straw
+when Mr. Henry told me about it all last night. ‘Never talk to me of virtue and
+such humbug again,’ I said, ‘I’ll never believe in them. Every one is for what
+he can get.’ However, Mr. Henry wrote to the superintendent of police at
+Woodchester; and has gone over himself this morning to see after it. But to
+think of your father having such a son!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh my poor father!” sobbed out Maggie. “How glad I am you are dead before this
+disgrace came upon us!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You may well say disgrace. You’re a good girl yourself, Maggie. I have always
+said that. How Edward has turned out as he has done, I cannot conceive. But
+now, Maggie, I’ve something to say to you.” He moved uneasily about, as if he
+did not know how to begin. Maggie was standing leaning her head against the
+chimney-piece, longing for her visitor to go, dreading the next minute, and
+wishing to shrink into some dark corner of oblivion where she might forget all
+for a time, till she regained a small portion of the bodily strength that had
+been sorely tried of late. Mr. Buxton saw her white look of anguish, and read
+it in part, but not wholly. He was too intent on what he was going to say.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’ve been lying awake all night, thinking. You see the disgrace it is to you,
+though you are innocent; and I’m sure you can’t think of involving Frank in
+it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie went to the little sofa, and, kneeling down by it, hid her face in the
+cushions. He did not go on, for he thought she was not listening to him. At
+last he said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come now, be a sensible girl, and face it out. I’ve a plan to propose.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I hear,” said she, in a dull veiled voice.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why, you know how against this engagement I have always been. Frank is but
+three-and-twenty, and does not know his own mind, as I tell him. Besides, he
+might marry any one he chose.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He has chosen me,” murmured Maggie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Of course, of course. But you’ll not think of keeping him to it, after what
+has passed. You would not have such a fine fellow as Frank pointed at as the
+brother-in-law of a forger, would you? It was far from what I wished for him
+before; but now! Why you’re glad your father is dead, rather than he should
+have lived to see this day; and rightly too, I think. And you’ll not go and
+disgrace Frank. From what Mr. Henry hears, Edward has been a discredit to you
+in many ways. Mr. Henry was at Woodchester yesterday, and he says if Edward has
+been fairly entered as an attorney, his name may be struck off the Rolls for
+many a thing he has done. Think of my Frank having his bright name tarnished by
+any connection with such a man! Mr. Henry says, even in a court of law what has
+come out about Edward would be excuse enough for a breach of promise of
+marriage.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie lifted up her wan face; the pupils of her eyes were dilated, her lips
+were dead white. She looked straight at Mr. Buxton with indignant impatience:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Mr. Henry! Mr. Henry! What has Mr. Henry to do with me?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Buxton was staggered by the wild, imperious look, so new upon her mild,
+sweet face. But he was resolute for Frank’s sake, and returned to the charge
+after a moment’s pause.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Mr. Henry is a good friend of mine, who has my interest at heart. He has known
+what a subject of regret your engagement has been to me; though really my
+repugnance to it was without cause formerly, compared to what it is now. Now be
+reasonable, my dear. I’m willing to do something for you if you will do
+something for me. You must see what a stop this sad affair has put to any
+thoughts between you and Frank. And you must see what cause I have to wish to
+punish Edward for his ungrateful behavior, to say nothing of the forgery. Well
+now! I don’t know what Mr. Henry will say to me, but I have thought of this. If
+you’ll write a letter to Frank, just saying distinctly that, for reasons which
+must for ever remain a secret...”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Remain a secret from Frank?” said Maggie, again lifting up her head. “Why?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why? my dear! You startle me with that manner of yours—just let me finish out
+my sentence. If you’ll say that, for reasons which must forever remain a
+secret, you decidedly and unchangeably give up all connection, all engagement
+with him (which, in fact, Edward’s conduct has as good as put an end to), I’ll
+go over to Woodchester and tell Mr. Henry and the police that they need not
+make further search after Edward, for that I won’t appear against him. You can
+save your brother; and you’ll do yourself no harm by writing this letter, for
+of course you see your engagement is broken off. For you never would wish to
+disgrace Frank.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He paused, anxiously awaiting her reply. She did not speak.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’m sure, if I appear against him, he is as good as transported,” he put in,
+after a while.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Just at this time there was a little sound of displaced china in the closet.
+Mr. Buxton did not attend to it, but Maggie heard it. She got up, and stood
+quite calm before Mr. Buxton.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You must go,” said she. “I know you; and I know you are not aware of the cruel
+way in which you have spoken to me, while asking me to give up the very hope
+and marrow of my life”—she could not go on for a moment; she was choked up with
+anguish.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It was the truth, Maggie,” said he, somewhat abashed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It was the truth that made the cruelty of it. But you did not mean to speak
+cruelly to me, I know. Only it is hard all at once to be called upon to face
+the shame and blasted character of one who was once an innocent child at the
+same father’s knee.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I may have spoken too plainly,” said Mr. Buxton, “but it was necessary to set
+the plain truth before you, for my son’s sake. You will write the letter I
+ask?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Her look was wandering and uncertain. Her attention was distracted by sounds
+which to him had no meaning; and her judgment she felt was wavering and
+disturbed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I cannot tell. Give me time to think; you will do that, I’m sure. Go now, and
+leave me alone. If it is right, God will give me strength to do it, and perhaps
+He will comfort me in my desolation. But I do not know—I cannot tell. I must
+have time to think. Go now, if you please, sir,” said she, imploringly.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I am sure you will see it is a right thing I ask of you,” he persisted.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Go now,” she repeated.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Very well. In two hours, I will come back again; for your sake, time is
+precious. Even while we speak he may be arrested. At eleven, I will come back.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He went away, leaving her sick and dizzy with the effort to be calm and
+collected enough to think. She had forgotten for the moment how near Edward
+was; and started when she saw the closet-door open, and his face put out.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Is he gone? I thought he never would go. What a time you kept him, Maggie! I
+was so afraid, once, you might sit down to write the letter in this room; and
+then I knew he would stop and worry you with interruptions and advice, so that
+it would never be ended; and my back was almost broken. But you sent him off
+famously. Why, Maggie! Maggie!—you’re not going to faint, surely!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+His sudden burst out of a whisper into a loud exclamation of surprise, made her
+rally; but she could not stand. She tried to smile, for he really looked
+frightened.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I have been sitting up for many nights—and now this sorrow!” Her smile died
+away into a wailing, feeble cry.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well, well! it’s over now, you see. I was frightened enough myself this
+morning, I own; and then you were brave and kind. But I knew you could save me,
+all along.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At this moment the door opened, and Mrs. Browne came in.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why, Edward, dear! who would have thought of seeing you! This is good of you;
+what a pleasant surprise! I often said, you might come over for a day from
+Woodchester. What’s the matter, Maggie, you look so fagged? She’s losing all
+her beauty, is not she, Edward? Where’s breakfast? I thought I should find all
+ready. What’s the matter? Why don’t you speak?” said she, growing anxious at
+their silence. Maggie left the explanation to Edward.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Mother,” said he, “I’ve been rather a naughty boy, and got into some trouble;
+but Maggie is going to help me out of it, like a good sister.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What is it?” said Mrs. Browne, looking bewildered and uneasy.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh—I took a little liberty with our friend Mr. Buxton’s name; and wrote it
+down to a receipt—that was all.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. Browne’s face showed that the light came but slowly into her mind.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But that’s forgery—is not it?” asked she at length, in terror.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“People call it so,” said Edward; “I call it borrowing from an old friend, who
+was always willing to lend.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Does he know?—is he angry?” asked Mrs. Browne.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes, he knows; and he blusters a deal. He was working himself up grandly at
+first. Maggie! I was getting rarely frightened, I can tell you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Has he been here?” said Mrs. Browne, in bewildered fright.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, yes! he and Maggie have been having a long talk, while I was hid in the
+china-closet. I would not go over that half-hour again for any money. However,
+he and Maggie came to terms, at last.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No, Edward, we did not!” said Maggie, in a low quivering voice.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Very nearly. She’s to give up her engagement, and then he will let me off.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Do you mean that Maggie is to give up her engagement to Mr. Frank Buxton?”
+asked his mother.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes. It would never have come to anything, one might see that. Old Buxton
+would have held out against it till doomsday. And, sooner or later, Frank would
+have grown weary. If Maggie had had any spirit, she might have worked him up to
+marry her before now; and then I should have been spared even this fright, for
+they would never have set the police after Mrs. Frank Buxton’s brother.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Why, dearest, Edward, the police are not after you, are they?” said Mrs.
+Browne, for the first time alive to the urgency of the case.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I believe they are though,” said Edward. “But after what Mr. Buxton promised
+this morning, it does not signify.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He did not promise anything,” said Maggie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Edward turned sharply to her, and looked at her. Then he went and took hold of
+her wrists with no gentle grasp, and spoke to her through his set teeth.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What do you mean, Maggie?—what do you mean?” (giving her a little shake.) “Do
+you mean that you’ll stick to your lover through thick and thin, and leave your
+brother to be transported? Speak, can’t you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She looked up at him, and tried to speak, but no words came out of her dry
+throat. At last she made a strong effort.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You must give me time to think. I will do what is right, by God’s help.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“As if it was not right—and such can’t—to save your brother,” said he, throwing
+her hands away in a passionate manner.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I must be alone,” said Maggie, rising, and trying to stand steadily in the
+reeling room. She heard her mother and Edward speaking, but their words gave
+her no meaning, and she went out. She was leaving the house by the
+kitchen-door, when she remembered Nancy, left alone and helpless all through
+this long morning; and, ill as she could endure detention from the solitude she
+longed to seek, she patiently fulfilled her small duties, and sought out some
+breakfast for the poor old woman.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When she carried it up stairs, Nancy said:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“There’s something up. You’ve trouble in your sweet face, my darling. Never
+mind telling me—only don’t sob so. I’ll pray for you, bairn: and God will help
+you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Thank you, Nancy. Do!” and she left the room.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2>CHAPTER IX.</h2>
+
+<p>
+When she opened the kitchen-door there was the same small, mizzling rain that
+had obscured the light for weeks, and now it seemed to obscure hope.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She clambered slowly (for indeed she was very feeble) up the Fell-Lane, and
+threw herself under the leafless thorn, every small branch and twig of which
+was loaded with rain-drops. She did not see the well-beloved and familiar
+landscape for her tears, and did not miss the hills in the distance that were
+hidden behind the rain-clouds, and sweeping showers.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. Browne and Edward sat over the fire. He told her his own story; making the
+temptation strong; the crime a mere trifling, venial error, which he had been
+led into, through his idea that he was to become Mr. Buxton’s agent.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But if it is only that,” said Mrs. Browne, “surely Mr. Buxton will not think
+of going to law with you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s not merely going to law that he will think of, but trying and
+transporting me. That Henry he has got for his agent is as sharp as a needle,
+and as hard as a nether mill-stone. And the fellow has obtained such a hold
+over Mr. Buxton, that he dare but do what he tells him. I can’t imagine how he
+had so much free-will left as to come with his proposal to Maggie; unless,
+indeed, Henry knows of it—or, what is most likely of all, has put him up to it.
+Between them they have given that poor fool Crayston a pretty dose of it; and I
+should have come yet worse off if it had not been for Maggie. Let me get clear
+this time, and I will keep to windward of the law for the future.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If we sold the cottage we could repay it,” said Mrs. Browne, meditating.
+“Maggie and I could live on very little. But you see this property is held in
+trust for you two.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Nay, mother; you must not talk of repaying it. Depend upon it he will be so
+glad to have Frank free from his engagement, that he won’t think of asking for
+the money. And if Mr. Henry says anything about it, we can tell him it’s not
+half the damages they would have had to have given Maggie, if Frank had been
+extricated in any other way. I wish she would come back; I would prime her a
+little as to what to say. Keep a look out, mother, lest Mr. Buxton returns and
+find me here.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I wish Maggie would come in too,” said Mrs. Browne. “I’m afraid she’ll catch
+cold this damp day, and then I shall have two to nurse. You think she’ll give
+it up, don’t you, Edward? If she does not I’m afraid of harm coming to you. Had
+you not better keep out of the way?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It’s fine talking. Where am I to go out of sight of the police this wet day:
+without a shilling in the world too? If you’ll give me some money I’ll be off
+fast enough, and make assurance doubly sure. I’m not much afraid of Maggie.
+She’s a little yea-nay thing, and I can always bend her round to what we want.
+She had better take care, too,” said he, with a desperate look on his face,
+“for by G—— I’ll make her give up all thoughts of Frank, rather than be taken
+and tried. Why! it’s my chance for all my life; and do you think I’ll have it
+frustrated for a girl’s whim?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I think it’s rather hard upon her too,” pleaded his mother. “She’s very fond
+of him; and it would have been such a good match for her.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Pooh! she’s not nineteen yet, and has plenty of time before her to pick up
+somebody else; while, don’t you see, if I’m caught and transported, I’m done
+for life. Besides I’ve a notion Frank had already begun to be tired of the
+affair; it would have been broken off in a month or two, without her gaining
+anything by it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well, if you think so,” replied Mrs. Browne. “But I’m sorry for her. I always
+told her she was foolish to think so much about him: but I know she’ll fret a
+deal if it’s given up.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh! she’ll soon comfort herself with thinking that she has saved me. I wish
+she’d come. It must be near eleven. I do wish she would come. Hark! is not that
+the kitchen-door?” said he, turning white, and betaking himself once more to
+the china-closet. He held it ajar till he heard Maggie stepping softly and
+slowly across the floor. She opened the parlor-door; and stood looking in, with
+the strange imperceptive gaze of a sleep-walker. Then she roused herself and
+saw that he was not there; so she came in a step or two, and sat down in her
+dripping cloak on a chair near the door.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Edward returned, bold now there was no danger.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Maggie!” said he, “what have you fixed to say to Mr. Burton?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She sighed deeply; and then lifted up her large innocent eyes to his face.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I cannot give up Frank,” said she, in a low, quiet voice.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. Browne threw up her hands and exclaimed in terror:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh Edward, Edward! go away—I will give you all the plate I have; you can sell
+it—my darling, go!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Not till I have brought Maggie to reason,” said he, in a manner as quiet as
+her own, but with a subdued ferocity in it, which she saw, but which did not
+intimidate her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He went up to her, and spoke below his breath.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Maggie, we were children together—we two—brother and sister of one blood! Do
+you give me up to be put in prison—in the hulks—among the basest of criminals—I
+don’t know where—all for the sake of your own selfish happiness?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She trembled very much; but did not speak or cry, or make any noise.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You were always selfish. You always thought of yourself. But this time I did
+think you would have shown how different you could be. But it’s
+self—self—paramount above all.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh Maggie! how can you be so hard-hearted and selfish?” echoed Mrs. Browne,
+crying and sobbing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Mother!” said Maggie, “I know that I think too often and too much of myself.
+But this time I thought only of Frank. He loves me; it would break his heart if
+I wrote as Mr. Buxton wishes, cutting our lives asunder, and giving no reason
+for it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He loves you so!” said Edward, tauntingly. “A man’s love break his heart!
+You’ve got some pretty notions! Who told you that he loved you so desperately?
+How do you know it?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Because I love him so,” said she, in a quiet, earnest voice. “I do not know of
+any other reason; but that is quite sufficient to me. I believe him when he
+says he loves me; and I have no right to cause him the infinite—the terrible
+pain, which my own heart tells me he would feel, if I did what Mr. Buxton
+wishes me.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Her manner was so simple and utterly truthful, that it was as quiet and
+fearless as a child’s; her brother’s fierce looks of anger had no power over
+her; and his blustering died away before her into something of the frightened
+cowardliness he had shown in the morning. But Mrs. Browne came up to Maggie;
+and took her hand between both of hers, which were trembling. “Maggie, you can
+save Edward. I know I have not loved you as I should have done; but I will love
+and comfort you forever, if you will but write as Mr. Buxton says. Think!
+Perhaps Mr. Frank may not take you at your word, but may come over and see you,
+and all may be right, and yet Edward may be saved. It is only writing this
+letter; you need not stick to it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No!” said Edward. “A signature, if you can prove compulsion, is not valid. We
+will all prove that you write this letter under compulsion; and if Frank loves
+you so desperately, he won’t give you up without a trial to make you change
+your mind.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No!” said Maggie, firmly. “If I write the letter I abide by it. I will not
+quibble with my conscience. Edward! I will not marry—I will go and live near
+you, and come to you whenever I may—and give up my life to you if you are sent
+to prison; my mother and I will go, if need be—I do not know yet what I can do,
+or cannot do, for you, but all I can I will; but this one thing I cannot.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Then I’m off!” said Edward. “On your deathbed may you remember this hour, and
+how you denied your only brother’s request. May you ask my forgiveness with
+your dying breath, and may I be there to deny it you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Wait a minute!” said Maggie, springing up, rapidly. “Edward, don’t curse me
+with such terrible words till all is done. Mother, I implore you to keep him
+here. Hide him—do what you can to conceal him. I will have one more trial.” She
+snatched up her bonnet, and was gone, before they had time to think or speak to
+arrest her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+On she flew along the Combehurst road. As she went, the tears fell like rain
+down her face, and she talked to herself.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He should not have said so. No! he should not have said so. We were the only
+two.” But still she pressed on, over the thick, wet, brown heather. She saw Mr.
+Buxton coming; and she went still quicker. The rain had cleared off, and a
+yellow watery gleam of sunshine was struggling out. She stopped or he would
+have passed her unheeded; little expecting to meet her there.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I wanted to see you,” said she, all at once resuming her composure, and almost
+assuming a dignified manner. “You must not go down to our house; we have sorrow
+enough there. Come under these fir-trees, and let me speak to you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I hope you have thought of what I said, and are willing to do what I asked
+you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No!” said she. “I have thought and thought. I did not think in a selfish
+spirit, though they say I did. I prayed first. I could not do that earnestly,
+and be selfish, I think. I cannot give up Frank. I know the disgrace; and if
+he, knowing all, thinks fit to give me up, I shall never say a word, but bow my
+head, and try and live out my appointed days quietly and cheerfully. But he is
+the judge, not you; nor have I any right to do what you ask me.” She stopped,
+because the agitation took away her breath.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He began in a cold manner:—“I am very sorry. The law must take its course. I
+would have saved my son from the pain of all this knowledge, and that which he
+will of course feel in the necessity of giving up his engagement. I would have
+refused to appear against your brother, shamefully ungrateful as he has been.
+Now you cannot wonder that I act according to my agent’s advice, and prosecute
+your brother as if he were a stranger.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He turned to go away. He was so cold and determined that for a moment Maggie
+was timid. But she then laid her hand on his arm.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Mr. Buxton,” said she, “you will not do what you threaten. I know you better.
+Think! My father was your old friend. That claim is, perhaps, done away with by
+Edward’s conduct. But I do not believe you can forget it always. If you did
+fulfill the menace you uttered just now, there would come times as you grew
+older, and life grew fainter and fainter before you—quiet times of thought,
+when you remembered the days of your youth, and the friends you then had and
+knew;—you would recollect that one of them had left an only son, who had done
+wrong—who had sinned—sinned against you in his weakness—and you would think
+then—you could not help it—how you had forgotten mercy in justice—and, as
+justice required he should be treated as a felon, you threw him among
+felons—where every glimmering of goodness was darkened for ever. Edward is,
+after all, more weak than wicked;—but he will become wicked if you put him in
+prison, and have him transported. God is merciful—we cannot tell or think how
+merciful. Oh, sir, I am so sure you will be merciful, and give my brother—my
+poor sinning brother—a chance, that I will tell you all. I will throw myself
+upon your pity. Edward is even now at home—miserable and desperate;—my mother
+is too much stunned to understand all our wretchedness—for very wretched we are
+in our shame.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+As she spoke the wind arose and shivered in the wiry leaves of the fir-trees,
+and there was a moaning sound as of some Ariel imprisoned in the thick branches
+that, tangled overhead, made a shelter for them. Either the noise or Mr.
+Buxton’s fancy called up an echo to Maggie’s voice—a pleading with her
+pleading—a sad tone of regret, distinct yet blending with her speech, and a
+falling, dying sound, as her voice died away in miserable suspense.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It might be that, formed as she was by Mrs. Buxton’s care and love, her accents
+and words were such as that lady, now at rest from all sorrow, would have
+used;—somehow, at any rate, the thought flashed into Mr. Buxton’s mind, that as
+Maggie spoke, his dead wife’s voice was heard, imploring mercy in a clear,
+distinct tone, though faint, as if separated from him by an infinite distance
+of space. At least, this is the account Mr. Buxton would have given of the
+manner in which the idea of his wife became present to him, and what she would
+have wished him to do a powerful motive in his conduct. Words of hers, long ago
+spoken, and merciful, forgiving expressions made use of in former days to
+soften him in some angry mood, were clearly remembered while Maggie spoke; and
+their influence was perceptible in the change of his tone, and the wavering of
+his manner henceforward.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And yet you will not save Frank from being involved in your disgrace,” said
+he; but more as if weighing and deliberating on the case than he had ever
+spoken before.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If Frank wishes it, I will quietly withdraw myself out of his sight forever;—I
+give you my promise, before God, to do so. I shall not utter one word of
+entreaty or complaint. I will try not to wonder or feel surprise;—I will bless
+him in every action of his future life—but think how different would be the
+disgrace he would voluntarily incur to my poor mother’s shame, when she wakens
+up to know what her child has done! Her very torper about it now is more
+painful than words can tell.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“What could Edward do?” asked Mr. Buxton. “Mr. Henry won’t hear of my passing
+over any frauds.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, you relent!” said Maggie, taking his hand, and pressing it. “What could he
+do? He could do the same, whatever it was, as you thought of his doing, if I
+had written that terrible letter.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And you’ll be willing to give it up, if Frank wishes, when he knows all?”
+asked Mr. Buxton.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She crossed her hands and drooped her head, but answered steadily.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Whatever Frank wishes, when he knows all, I will gladly do. I will speak the
+truth. I do not believe that any shame surrounding me, and not in me, will
+alter Frank’s love one title.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“We shall see,” said Mr. Buxton. “But what I thought of Edward’s doing, in
+case—Well never mind! (seeing how she shrunk back from all mention of the
+letter he had asked her to write,)—was to go to America, out of the way. Then
+Mr. Henry would think he had escaped, and need never be told of my coenivance.
+I think he would throw up the agency, if he were; and he’s a very clever man.
+If Ned is in England, Mr. Henry will ferret him out. And, besides, this affair
+is so blown, I don’t think he could return to his profession. What do you say
+to this, Maggie?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I will tell my mother. I must ask her. To me it seems most desirable. Only, I
+fear he is very ill; and it seems lonely; but never mind! We ought to be
+thankful to you forever. I cannot tell you how I hope and trust he will live to
+show you what your goodness has made him.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But you must lose no time. If Mr. Henry traces him; I can’t answer for myself.
+I shall have no good reason to give, as I should have had, if I could have told
+him that Frank and you were to be as strangers to each other. And even then I
+should have been afraid, he is such a determined fellow; but uncommonly clever.
+Stay!” said he, yielding to a sudden and inexplicable desire to see Edward, and
+discover if his criminality had in any way changed his outward appearance.
+“I’ll go with you. I can hasten things. If Edward goes, he must be off, as soon
+as possible, to Liverpool, and leave no trace. The next packet sails the day
+after to-morrow. I noted it down from the _Times_.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie and he sped along the road. He spoke his thoughts aloud:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I wonder if he will be grateful to me for this. Not that I ever mean to look
+for gratitude again. I mean to try, not to care for anybody but Frank. ‘Govern
+men by outward force,’ says Mr. Henry. He is an uncommonly clever man, and he
+says, the longer he lives, the more he is convinced of the badness of men. He
+always looks for it now, even in those who are the best, apparently.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie was too anxious to answer, or even to attend to him. At the top of the
+slope she asked him to wait while she ran down and told the result of her
+conversation with him. Her mother was alone, looking white and sick. She told
+her that Edward had gone into the hay-loft, above the old, disused shippon.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie related the substance of her interview with Mr. Buxton, and his wish
+that Edward should go to America.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“To America!” said Mrs. Browne. “Why that’s as far as Botany Bay. It’s just
+like transporting him. I thought you’d done something for us, you looked so
+glad.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Dearest mother, it _is_ something. He is not to be subjected to imprisonment
+or trial. I must go and tell him, only I must beckon to Mr. Buxton first. But
+when he comes, do show him how thankful we are for his mercy to Edward.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. Browne’s murmurings, whatever was their meaning, were lost upon Maggie.
+She ran through the court, and up the slope, with the lightness of a lawn; for
+though she was tired in body to an excess she had never been before in her
+life, the opening beam of hope in the dark sky made her spirit conquer her
+flesh for the time.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She did not stop to speak, but turned again as soon as she had signed to Mr.
+Buxton to follow her. She left the house-door open for his entrance, and passed
+out again through the kitchen into the space behind, which was partly an
+uninclosed yard, and partly rocky common. She ran across the little green to
+the shippon, and mounted the ladder into the dimly-lighted loft. Up in a dark
+corner Edward stood, with an old rake in his hand.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I thought it was you, Maggie!” said he, heaving a deep breath of relief. “What
+have you done? Have you agreed to write the letter? You’ve done something for
+me, I see by your looks.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes! I have told Mr. Buxton all. He is waiting for you in the parlor. Oh! I
+knew he could not be so hard!” She was out of breath.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t understand you!” said he. “You’ve never been such a fool as to go and
+tell him where I am?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes, I have. I felt I might trust him. He has promised not to prosecute you.
+The worst is, he says you must go to America. But come down, Ned, and speak to
+him. You owe him thanks, and he wants to see you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I can’t go through a scene. I’m not up to it. Besides, are you sure he is not
+entrapping me to the police? If I had a farthing of money I would not trust
+him, but be off to the moors.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, Edward! How do you think he would do anything so treacherous and mean? I
+beg you not to lose time in distrust. He says himself, if Mr. Henry comes
+before you are off, he does not know what will be the consequence. The packet
+sails for America in two days. It is sad for you to have to go. Perhaps even
+yet he may think of something better, though I don’t know how we can ask or
+expect it.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I don’t want anything better,” replied he, “than that I should have money
+enough to carry me to America. I’m in more scrapes than this (though none so
+bad) in England; and in America there’s many an opening to fortune.” He
+followed her down the steps while he spoke. Once in the yellow light of the
+watery day, she was struck by his ghastly look. Sharp lines of suspicion and
+cunning seemed to have been stamped upon his face, making it look older by many
+years than his age warranted. His jaunty evening dress, all weather-stained and
+dirty, added to his forlorn and disreputable appearance; but most of
+all—deepest of all—was the impression she received that he was not long for
+this world; and oh! how unfit for the next! Still, if time was given—if he were
+placed far away from temptation, she thought that her father’s son might yet
+repent, and be saved. She took his hand, for he was hanging back as they came
+near the parlor-door, and led him in. She looked like some guardian angel, with
+her face that beamed out trust, and hope, and thankfulness. He, on the
+contrary, hung his head in angry, awkward shame; and half wished he had trusted
+to his own wits, and tried to evade the police, rather than have been forced
+into this interview.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+His mother came to him; for she loved him all the more fondly, now he seemed
+degraded and friendless. She could not, or would not, comprehend the extent of
+his guilt; and had upbraided Mr. Buxton to the top of her bent for thinking of
+sending him away to America. There was a silence when he came in which was
+insupportable to him. He looked up with clouded eyes, that dared not meet Mr.
+Buxton’s.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I am here, sir, to learn what you wish me to do. Maggie says I am to go to
+America; if that is where you want to send me, I’m ready.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Buxton wished himself away as heartily as Edward. Mrs. Browne’s
+upbraidings, just when he felt that he had done a kind action, and yielded,
+against his judgment, to Maggie’s entreaties, had made him think himself very
+ill used. And now here was Edward speaking in a sullen, savage kind of way,
+instead of showing any gratitude. The idea of Mr. Henry’s stern displeasure
+loomed in the background.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes!” said he, “I’m glad to find you come into the idea of going to America.
+It’s the only place for you. The sooner you can go, and the better.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I can’t go without money,” said Edward, doggedly. “If I had had money, I need
+not have come here.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, Ned! would you have gone without seeing me?” said Mrs. Browne, bursting
+into tears. “Mr. Buxton, I cannot let him go to America. Look how ill he is.
+He’ll die if you send him there.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Mother, don’t give way so,” said Edward, kindly, taking her hand. “I’m not
+ill, at least not to signify. Mr. Buxton is right: America is the only place
+for me. To tell the truth, even if Mr. Buxton is good enough” (he said this as
+if unwilling to express any word of thankfulness) “not to prosecute me, there
+are others who may—and will. I’m safer out of the country. Give me money enough
+to get to Liverpool and pay my passage, and I’ll be off this minute.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You shall not,” said Mrs. Browne, holding him tightly. “You told me this
+morning you were led into temptation, and went wrong because you had no
+comfortable home, nor any one to care for you, and make you happy. It will be
+worse in America. You’ll get wrong again, and be away from all who can help
+you. Or you’ll die all by yourself, in some backwood or other. Maggie! you
+might speak and help me—how can you stand so still, and let him go to America
+without a word!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie looked up bright and steadfast, as if she saw something beyond the
+material present. Here was the opportunity for self-sacrifice of which Mrs.
+Buxton had spoken to her in her childish days—the time which comes to all, but
+comes unheeded and unseen to those whose eyes are not trained to watching.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Mother! could you do without me for a time? If you could, and it would make
+you easier, and help Edward to”—The word on her lips died away; for it seemed
+to imply a reproach on one who stood in his shame among them all.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You would go!” said Mrs. Browne, catching at the unfinished sentence. “Oh!
+Maggie, that’s the best thing you’ve ever said or done since you were born.
+Edward, would not you like to have Maggie with you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes,” said he, “well enough. It would be far better for me than going all
+alone; though I dare say I could make my way pretty well after a time. If she
+went, she might stay till I felt settled, and had made some friends, and then
+she could come back.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mr. Buxton was astonished at first by this proposal of Maggie’s. He could not
+all at once understand the difference between what she now offered to do, and
+what he had urged upon her only this very morning. But as he thought about it,
+he perceived that what was her own she was willing to sacrifice; but that
+Frank’s heart, once given into her faithful keeping, she was answerable for it
+to him and to God. This light came down upon him slowly; but when he
+understood, he admired with almost a wondering admiration. That little timid
+girl brave enough to cross the ocean and go to a foreign land, if she could
+only help to save her brother!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’m sure Maggie,” said he, turning towards her, “you are a good, thoughtful
+little creature. It may be the saving of Edward—I believe it will. I think God
+will bless you for being so devoted.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“The expense will be doubled,” said Edward.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“My dear boy! never mind the money. I can get it advanced upon this cottage.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“As for that, I’ll advance it,” said Mr. Buxton.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Could we not,” said Maggie, hesitating from her want of knowledge, “make over
+the furniture—papa’s books, and what little plate we have, to Mr.
+Buxton—something like pawning them—if he would advance the requisite money? He,
+strange as it may seem, is the only person you can ask in this great strait.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And so it was arranged, after some demur on Mr. Buxton’s part. But Maggie kept
+steadily to her point as soon as she found that it was attainable; and Mrs.
+Browne was equally inflexible, though from a different feeling. She regarded
+Mr. Buxton as the cause of her son’s banishment, and refused to accept of any
+favor from him. If there had been time, indeed, she would have preferred
+obtaining the money in the same manner from any one else. Edward brightened up
+a little when he heard the sum could be procured; he was almost indifferent
+how; and, strangely callous, as Maggie thought, he even proposed to draw up a
+legal form of assignment. Mr. Buxton only thought of hurrying on the departure;
+but he could not refrain from expressing his approval and admiration of Maggie
+whenever he came near her. Before he went, he called her aside.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“My dear, I’m not sure if Frank can do better than marry you, after all. Mind!
+I’ve not given it as much thought as I should like. But if you come back as we
+plan, next autumn, and he is steady to you till then—and Edward is going on
+well—(if he can but keep good, he’ll do, for he is very sharp—yon is a knowing
+paper he drew up)—why, I’ll think about it. Only let Frank see a bit of the
+world first. I’d rather you did not tell him I’ve any thoughts of coming round,
+that he may have a fair trial; and I’ll keep it from Erminia if I can, or she
+will let it all out to him. I shall see you to-morrow at the coach. God bless
+you, my girl, and keep you on the great wide sea.” He was absolutely in tears
+when he went away—tears of admiring regret over Maggie.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2>CHAPTER X.</h2>
+
+<p>
+The more Maggie thought, the more she felt sure that the impulse on which she
+had acted in proposing to go with her brother was right. She feared there was
+little hope for his character, whatever there might be for his worldly fortune,
+if he were thrown, in the condition of mind in which he was now, among the set
+of adventurous men who are continually going over to America in search of an El
+Dorado to be discovered by their wits. She knew she had but little influence
+over him at present; but she would not doubt or waver in her hope that patience
+and love might work him right at last. She meant to get some employment—in
+teaching—in needlework—in a shop—no matter how humble—and be no burden to him,
+and make him a happy home, from which he should feel no wish to wander. Her
+chief anxiety was about her mother. She did not dwell more than she could help
+on her long absence from Frank; it was too sad, and yet too necessary. She
+meant to write and tell him all about herself and Edward. The only thing which
+she would keep for some happy future should be the possible revelation of the
+proposal which Mr. Buxton had made, that she should give up her engagement as a
+condition of his not prosecuting Edward.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There was much sorrowful bustle in the moorland cottage that day. Erminia
+brought up a portion of the money Mr. Buxton was to advance, with an entreaty
+that Edward would not show himself out of his home; and an account of a letter
+from Mr. Henry, stating that the Woodchester police believed him to be in
+London, and that search was being made for him there.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Erminia looked very grave and pale. She gave her message to Mrs. Browne,
+speaking little beyond what was absolutely necessary. Then she took Maggie
+aside, and suddenly burst into tears.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Maggie, darling—what is this going to America? You’ve always and always been
+sacrificing yourself to your family, and now you’re setting off, nobody knows
+where, in some vain hope of reforming Edward. I wish he was not your brother,
+that I might speak of him as I should like.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He has been doing what is very wrong,” said Maggie. “But you—none of you—know
+his good points—nor how he has been exposed to all sorts of bad influences, I
+am sure; and never had the advantage of a father’s training and friendship,
+which are so inestimable to a son. O, Minnie! when I remember how we two used
+to kneel down in the evenings at my father’s knee, and say our prayers; and
+then listen in awe-struck silence to his earnest blessing, which grew more like
+a prayer for us as his life waned away, I would do anything for Edward rather
+than that wrestling agony of supplication should have been in vain. I think of
+him as the little innocent boy, whose arm was round me as if to support me in
+the Awful Presence, whose true name of Love we had not learned. Minnie! he has
+had no proper training—no training, I mean, to enable him to resist
+temptation—and he has been thrown into it without warning or advice. Now he
+knows what it is; and I must try, though I am but an unknowing girl, to warn
+and to strengthen him. Don’t weaken my faith. Who can do right if we lose faith
+in them?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And Frank!” said Erminia, after a pause. “Poor Frank!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Dear Frank!” replied Maggie, looking up, and trying to smile; but, in spite of
+herself, her eyes filled with tears. “If I could have asked him, I know he
+would approve of what I am going to do. He would feel it to be right that I
+should make every effort—I don’t mean,” said she, as the tears would fall down
+her cheeks in spite of her quivering effort at a smile, “that I should not have
+liked to have seen him. But it is no use talking of what one would have liked.
+I am writing a long letter to him at every pause of leisure.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“And I’m keeping you all this time,” said Erminia, getting up, yet loth to go.
+“When do you intend to come back? Let us feel there is a fixed time. America!
+Why, it’s thousands of miles away. Oh, Maggie! Maggie!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I shall come back the next autumn, I trust,” said Maggie, comforting her
+friend with many a soft caress. “Edward will be settled then, I hope. You were
+longer in France, Minnie. Frank was longer away that time he wintered in Italy
+with Mr. Monro.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Erminia went slowly to the door. Then she turned, right facing Maggie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Maggie! tell the truth. Has my uncle been urging you to go? Because if he has,
+don’t trust him; it is only to break off your engagement.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No, he has not, indeed. It was my own thought at first. Then in a moment I saw
+the relief it was to my mother—my poor mother! Erminia, the thought of her
+grief at Edward’s absence is the trial; for my sake, you will come often and
+often, and comfort her in every way you can.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes! that I will; tell me everything I can do for you.” Kissing each other,
+with long lingering delay they parted.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Nancy would be informed of the cause of the commotion in the house; and when
+she had in some degree ascertained its nature, she wasted no time in asking
+further questions, but quietly got up and dressed herself; and appeared among
+them, weak and trembling, indeed, but so calm and thoughtful, that her presence
+was an infinite help to Maggie.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When day closed in, Edward stole down to the house once more. He was haggard
+enough to have been in anxiety and concealment for a month. But when his body
+was refreshed, his spirits rose in a way inconceivable to Maggie. The Spaniards
+who went out with Pizarro were not lured on by more fantastic notions of the
+wealth to be acquired in the New World than he was. He dwelt on these visions
+in so brisk and vivid a manner, that he even made his mother cease her weary
+weeping (which had lasted the livelong day, despite all Maggie’s efforts) to
+look up and listen to him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’ll answer for it,” said he: “before long I’ll be an American judge with
+miles of cotton plantations.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“But in America,” sighed out his mother.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Never mind, mother!” said he, with a tenderness which made Maggie’s heart
+glad. “If you won’t come over to America to me, why, I’ll sell them all, and
+come back to live in England. People will forget the scrapes that the rich
+American got into in his youth.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You can pay back Mr. Buxton then,” said his mother.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, yes—of course,” replied he, as if falling into a new and trivial idea.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Thus the evening whiled away. The mother and son sat, hand in hand, before the
+little glinting blazing parlor fire, with the unlighted candles on the table
+behind. Maggie, busy in preparations, passed softly in and out. And when all
+was done that could be done before going to Liverpool, where she hoped to have
+two days to prepare their outfit more completely, she stole back to her
+mother’s side. But her thoughts would wander off to Frank, “working his way
+south through all the hunting-counties,” as he had written her word. If she had
+not urged his absence, he would have been here for her to see his noble face
+once more; but then, perhaps, she might never have had the strength to go.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Late, late in the night they separated. Maggie could not rest, and stole into
+her mother’s room. Mrs. Browne had cried herself to sleep, like a child. Maggie
+stood and looked at her face, and then knelt down by the bed and prayed. When
+she arose, she saw that her mother was awake, and had been looking at her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Maggie dear! you’re a good girl, and I think God will hear your prayer
+whatever it was for. I cannot tell you what a relief it is to me to think
+you’re going with him. It would have broken my heart else. If I’ve sometimes
+not been as kind as I might have been, I ask your forgiveness, now, my dear;
+and I bless you and thank you for going out with him; for I’m sure he’s not
+well and strong, and will need somebody to take care of him. And you shan’t
+lose with Mr. Frank, for as sure as I see him I’ll tell him what a good
+daughter and sister you’ve been; and I shall say, for all he is so rich, I
+think he may look long before he finds a wife for him like our Maggie. I do
+wish Ned had got that new greatcoat, he says he left behind him at
+Woodchester.” Her mind reverted to her darling son; but Maggie took her short
+slumber by her mother’s side, with her mother’s arms around her; and awoke and
+felt that her sleep had been blessed. At the coach-office the next morning they
+met Mr. Buxton all ready as if for a journey, but glancing about him as if in
+fear of some coming enemy.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I’m going with you to Liverpool,” said he. “Don’t make any ado about it,
+please. I shall like to see you off; and I may be of some use to you, and
+Erminia begged it of me; and, besides, it will keep me out of Mr. Henry’s way
+for a little time, and I’m afraid he will find it all out, and think me very
+weak; but you see he made me too hard upon Crayston, so I may take it out in a
+little soft-heartedness toward the son of an old friend.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Just at this moment Erminia came running through the white morning mist all
+glowing with haste.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Maggie,” said she, “I’m come to take care of your mother. My uncle says she
+and Nancy must come to us for a long, long visit. Or if she would rather go
+home, I’ll go with her till she feels able to come to us, and do anything I can
+think of for her. I will try to be a daughter till you come back, Maggie; only
+don’t be long, or Frank and I shall break our hearts.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie waited till her mother had ended her long clasping embrace of Edward,
+who was subdued enough this morning; and then, with something like Esau’s
+craving for a blessing, she came to bid her mother good-bye, and received the
+warm caress she had longed for for years. In another moment the coach was away;
+and before half an hour had elapsed, Combehurst church-spire had been lost in a
+turn of the road.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Edward and Mr. Buxton did not speak to each other, and Maggie was nearly
+silent. They reached Liverpool in the afternoon; and Mr. Buxton, who had been
+there once or twice before, took them directly to some quiet hotel. He was far
+more anxious that Edward should not expose himself to any chance of recognition
+than Edward himself. He went down to the Docks to secure berths in the vessel
+about to sail the next day, and on his return he took Maggie out to make the
+requisite purchases.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Did you pay for us, sir?” said Maggie, anxious to ascertain the amount of
+money she had left, after defraying the passage.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Yes,” replied he, rather confused. “Erminia begged me not to tell you about
+it, but I can’t manage a secret well. You see she did not like the idea of your
+going as steerage-passengers as you meant to do; and she desired me to take you
+cabin places for her. It is no doing of mine, my dear. I did not think of it;
+but now I have seen how crowded the steerage is, I am very glad Erminia had so
+much thought. Edward might have roughed it well enough there, but it would
+never have done for you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It was very kind of Erminia,” said Maggie, touched at this consideration of
+her friend; “but...”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Now don’t ‘but’ about it,” interrupted he. “Erminia is very rich, and has more
+money than she knows what to do with. I’m only vexed I did not think of it
+myself. For Maggie, though I may have my own ways of thinking on some points, I
+can’t be blind to your goodness.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+All evening Mr. Buxton was busy, and busy on their behalf. Even Edward, when he
+saw the attention that was being paid to his physical comfort, felt a kind of
+penitence; and after choking once or twice in the attempt, conquered his pride
+(such I call it for want of a better word) so far as to express some regret for
+his past conduct, and some gratitude for Mr. Buxton’s present kindness. He did
+it awkwardly enough, but it pleased Mr. Buxton.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well—well—that’s all very right,” said he, reddening from his own
+uncomfortableness of feeling. “Now don’t say any more about it, but do your
+best in America; don’t let me feel I’ve been a fool in letting you off. I know
+Mr. Henry will think me so. And, above all, take care of Maggie. Mind what she
+says, and you’re sure to go right.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He asked them to go on board early the next day, as he had promised Erminia to
+see them there, and yet wished to return as soon as he could. It was evident
+that he hoped, by making his absence as short as possible, to prevent Mr.
+Henry’s ever knowing that he had left home, or in any way connived at Edward’s
+escape.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+So, although the vessel was not to sail till the afternoon’s tide, they left
+the hotel soon after breakfast, and went to the “Anna-Maria.” They were among
+the first passengers on board. Mr. Buxton took Maggie down to her cabin. She
+then saw the reason of his business the evening before. Every store that could
+be provided was there. A number of books lay on the little table—books just
+suited to Maggie’s taste. “There!” said he, rubbing his hands. “Don’t thank me.
+It’s all Erminia’s doing. She gave me the list of books. I’ve not got all; but
+I think they’ll be enough. Just write me one line, Maggie, to say I’ve done my
+best.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie wrote with tears in her eyes—tears of love toward the generous Erminia.
+A few minutes more and Mr. Buxton was gone. Maggie watched him as long as she
+could see him; and as his portly figure disappeared among the crowd on the
+pier, her heart sank within her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Edward’s, on the contrary, rose at his absence. The only one, cognisant of his
+shame and ill-doing, was gone. A new life lay before him, the opening of which
+was made agreeable to him, by the position in which he found himself placed, as
+a cabin-passenger; with many comforts provided for him; for although Maggie’s
+wants had been the principal object of Mr. Buxton’s attention, Edward was not
+forgotten.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He was soon among the sailors, talking away in a rather consequential manner.
+He grew acquainted with the remainder of the cabin-passengers, at least those
+who arrived before the final bustle began; and kept bringing his sister such
+little pieces of news as he could collect.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Maggie, they say we are likely to have a good start, and a fine moonlight
+night.” Away again he went.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I say, Maggie, that’s an uncommonly pretty girl come on board, with those old
+people in black. Gone down into the cabin, now; I wish you would scrape up an
+acquaintance with her, and give me a chance.”
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2>CHAPTER XI.</h2>
+
+<p>
+Maggie sat on deck, wrapped in her duffel-cloak; the old familiar cloak, which
+had been her wrap in many a happy walk in the haunts near her moorland home.
+The weather was not cold for the time of year, but still it was chilly to any
+one that was stationary. But she wanted to look her last on the shoals of
+English people, who crowded backward and forward, like ants, on the pier. Happy
+people! who might stay among their loved ones. The mocking demons gathered
+round her, as they gather round all who sacrifice self, tempting. A crowd of
+suggestive doubts pressed upon her. “Was it really necessary that she should go
+with Edward? Could she do him any real good? Would he be in any way influenced
+by her?” Then the demon tried another description of doubt. “Had it ever been
+her duty to go? She was leaving her mother alone. She was giving Frank much
+present sorrow. It was not even yet too late!” She could not endure longer; and
+replied to her own tempting heart.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I was right to hope for Edward; I am right to give him the chance of
+steadiness which my presence will give. I am doing what my mother earnestly
+wished me to do; and what to the last she felt relieved by my doing. I know
+Frank will feel sorrow, because I myself have such an aching heart; but if I
+had asked him whether I was not right in going, he would have been too truthful
+not to have said yes. I have tried to do right, and though I may fail, and evil
+may seem to arise rather than good out of my endeavor, yet still I will submit
+to my failure, and try and say ‘God’s will be done!’ If only I might have seen
+Frank once more, and told him all face to face!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+To do away with such thoughts, she determined no longer to sit gazing, and
+tempted by the shore; and, giving one look to the land which contained her
+lover, she went down below, and busied herself, even through her blinding
+tears, in trying to arrange her own cabin, and Edward’s. She heard boat after
+boat arrive loaded with passengers. She learnt from Edward, who came down to
+tell her the fact, that there were upwards of two hundred steerage passengers.
+She felt the tremulous shake which announced that the ship was loosed from her
+moorings, and being tugged down the river. She wrapped herself up once more,
+and came on deck, and sat down among the many who were looking their last look
+at England. The early winter evening was darkening in, and shutting out the
+Welsh coast, the hills of which were like the hills of home. She was thankful
+when she became too ill to think and remember.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Exhausted and still, she did not know whether she was sleeping or waking; or
+whether she had slept since she had thrown herself down on her cot, when
+suddenly, there was a great rush, and then Edward stood like lightning by her,
+pulling her up by the arm.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“The ship is on fire—to the deck, Maggie! Fire! Fire!” he shouted, like a
+maniac, while he dragged her up the stairs—as if the cry of Fire could summon
+human aid on the great deep. And the cry was echoed up to heaven by all that
+crowd in an accent of despair.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They stood huddled together, dressed and undressed; now in red lurid light,
+showing ghastly faces of terror—now in white wreaths of smoke—as far away from
+the steerage as they could press; for there, up from the hold, rose columns of
+smoke, and now and then a fierce blaze leaped out, exulting—higher and higher
+every time; while from each crevice on that part of the deck issued harbingers
+of the terrible destruction that awaited them.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The sailors were lowering the boats; and above them stood the captain, as calm
+as if he were on his own hearth at home—his home where he never more should be.
+His voice was low—was lower; but as clear as a bell in its distinctness; as
+wise in its directions as collected thought could make it. Some of the steerage
+passengers were helping; but more were dumb and motionless with affright. In
+that dead silence was heard a low wail of sorrow, as of numbers whose power was
+crushed out of them by that awful terror. Edward still held his clutch of
+Margaret’s arm.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Be ready!” said he, in a fierce whisper.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The fire sprung up along the main-mast, and did not sink or disappear again.
+They knew then that all the mad efforts made by some few below to extinguish it
+were in vain; and then went up the prayers of hundreds, in mortal agony of
+fear:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Lord! have mercy upon us!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Not in quiet calm of village church did ever such a pitiful cry go up to
+heaven; it was like one voice—like the day of judgment in the presence of the
+Lord.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And after that there was no more silence; but a confusion of terrible
+farewells, and wild cries of affright, and purposeless rushes hither and
+thither.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The boats were down, rocking on the sea. The captain spoke:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Put the children in first; they are the most helpless.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+One or two stout sailors stood in the boats to receive them. Edward drew nearer
+and nearer to the gangway, pulling Maggie with him. She was almost pressed to
+death, and stifled. Close in her ear, she heard a woman praying to herself.
+She, poor creature, knew of no presence but God’s in that awful hour, and spoke
+in a low voice to Him.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“My heart’s darlings are taken away from me. Faith! faith! Oh, my great God! I
+will die in peace, if Thou wilt but grant me faith in this terrible hour, to
+feel that Thou wilt take care of my poor orphans. Hush! dearest Billy,” she
+cried out shrill to a little fellow in the boat waiting for his mother; and the
+change in her voice from despair to a kind of cheerfulness, showed what a
+mother’s love can do. “Mother will come soon. Hide his face, Anne, and wrap
+your shawl tight round him.” And then her voice sank down again in the same
+low, wild prayer for faith. Maggie could not turn to see her face, but took the
+hand which hung near her. The woman clutched at it with the grasp of a vice;
+but went on praying, as if unconscious. Just then the crowd gave way a little.
+The captain had said, that the women were to go next; but they were too
+frenzied to obey his directions, and now pressed backward and forward. The
+sailors, with mute, stern obedience, strove to follow out the captain’s
+directions. Edward pulled Maggie, and she kept her hold on the mother. The
+mate, at the head of the gangway, pushed him back.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Only women are to go!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“There are men there.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Three, to manage the boat.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Come on, Maggie! while there’s room for us,” said he, unheeding. But Maggie
+drew back, and put the mother’s hand into the mate’s. “Save her first!” said
+she. The woman did not know of anything, but that her children were there; it
+was only in after days, and quiet hours, that she remembered the young creature
+who pushed her forward to join her fatherless children, and, by losing her
+place in the crowd, was jostled—where, she did not know—but dreamed until her
+dying day. Edward pressed on, unaware that Maggie was not close behind him. He
+was deaf to reproaches; and, heedless of the hand stretched out to hold him
+back, sprang toward the boat. The men there pushed her off—full and more than
+full as she was; and overboard he fell into the sullen heaving waters.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+His last shout had been on Maggie’s name—a name she never thought to hear again
+on earth, as she was pressed back, sick and suffocating. But suddenly a voice
+rang out above all confused voices and moaning hungry waves, and above the
+roaring fire.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Maggie, Maggie! My Maggie!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Out of the steerage side of the crowd a tall figure issued forth, begrimed with
+smoke. She could not see, but she knew. As a tame bird flutters to the human
+breast of its protector when affrighted by some mortal foe, so Maggie fluttered
+and cowered into his arms. And, for a moment, there was no more terror or
+thought of danger in the hearts of those twain, but only infinite and absolute
+peace. She had no wonder how he came there: it was enough that he was there. He
+first thought of the destruction that was present with them. He was as calm and
+composed as if they sat beneath the thorn-tree on the still moorlands, far
+away. He took her, without a word, to the end of the quarter-deck. He lashed
+her to a piece of spar. She never spoke:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Maggie,” he said, “my only chance is to throw you overboard. This spar will
+keep you floating. At first, you will go down—deep, deep down. Keep your mouth
+and eyes shut. I shall be there when you come up. By God’s help, I will
+struggle bravely for you.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She looked up; and by the flashing light he could see a trusting, loving smile
+upon her face. And he smiled back at her; a grave, beautiful look, fit to wear
+on his face in heaven. He helped her to the side of the vessel, away from the
+falling burning pieces of mast. Then for a moment he paused.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“If—Maggie, I may be throwing you in to death.” He put his hand before his
+eyes. The strong man lost courage. Then she spoke:
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I am not afraid; God is with us, whether we live or die!” She looked as quiet
+and happy as a child on its mother’s breast! and so before he lost heart again,
+he heaved her up, and threw her as far as he could over into the glaring,
+dizzying water; and straight leaped after her. She came up with an involuntary
+look of terror on her face; but when she saw him by the red glare of the
+burning ship, close by her side, she shut her eyes, and looked as if peacefully
+going to sleep. He swam, guiding the spar.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I think we are near Llandudno. I know we have passed the little Ormes’ head.”
+That was all he said; but she did not speak.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He swam out of the heat and fierce blaze of light into the quiet, dark waters;
+and then into the moon’s path. It might be half an hour before he got into that
+silver stream. When the beams fell down upon them he looked at Maggie. Her head
+rested on the spar, quite still. He could not bear it. “Maggie—dear heart!
+speak!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+With a great effort she was called back from the borders of death by that
+voice, and opened her filmy eyes, which looked abroad as if she could see
+nothing nearer than the gleaming lights of Heaven. She let the lids fall softly
+again. He was as if alone in the wide world with God.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“A quarter of an hour more and all is over,” thought he. “The people at
+Llandudno must see our burning ship, and will come out in their boats.” He kept
+in the line of light, although it did not lead him direct to the shore, in
+order that they might be seen. He swam with desperation. One moment he thought
+he had heard her last gasp rattle through the rush of the waters; and all
+strength was gone, and he lay on the waves as if he himself must die, and go
+with her spirit straight through that purple lift to heaven; the next he heard
+the splash of oars, and raised himself and cried aloud. The boatmen took them
+in—and examined her by the lantern—and spoke in Welsh—and shook their heads.
+Frank threw himself on his knees, and prayed them to take her to land. They did
+not know his words, but they understood his prayer. He kissed her lips—he
+chafed her hands—he wrung the water out of her hair—he held her feet against
+his warm breast.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“She is not dead,” he kept saying to the men, as he saw their sorrowful,
+pitying looks.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The kind people at Llandudno had made ready their own humble beds, with every
+appliance of comfort they could think of, as soon as they understood the nature
+of the calamity which had befallen the ship on their coasts. Frank walked,
+dripping, bareheaded, by the body of his Margaret, which was borne by some men
+along the rocky sloping shore.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“She is not dead!” he said. He stopped at the first house they came to. It
+belonged to a kind-hearted woman. They laid Maggie in her bed, and got the
+village doctor to come and see her.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“There is life still,” said he, gravely.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I knew it,” said Frank. But it felled him to the ground. He sank first in
+prayer, and then in insensibility. The doctor did everything. All that night
+long he passed to and fro from house to house; for several had swum to
+Llandudno. Others, it was thought, had gone to Abergele.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In the morning Frank was recovered enough to write to his father, by Maggie’s
+bedside. He sent the letter off to Conway by a little bright-looking Welsh boy.
+Late in the afternoon she awoke.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In a moment or two she looked eagerly round her, as if gathering in her breath;
+and then she covered her head and sobbed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Where is Edward?” asked she.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“We do not know,” said Frank, gravely. “I have been round the village, and seen
+every survivor here; he is not among them, but he may be at some other place
+along the coast.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+She was silent, reading in his eyes his fears—his belief.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At last she asked again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I cannot understand it. My head is not clear. There are such rushing noises in
+it. How came you there?” She shuddered involuntarily as she recalled the
+terrible where.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+For an instant he dreaded, for her sake, to recall the circumstances of the
+night before; but then he understood how her mind would dwell upon them until
+she was satisfied.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“You remember writing to me, love, telling me all. I got your letter—I don’t
+know how long ago—yesterday, I think. Yes! in the evening. You could not think,
+Maggie, I would let you go alone to America. I won’t speak against Edward, poor
+fellow! but we must both allow that he was not the person to watch over you as
+such a treasure should be watched over. I thought I would go with you. I hardly
+know if I meant to make myself known to you all at once, for I had no wish to
+have much to do with your brother. I see now that it was selfish in me. Well!
+there was nothing to be done, after receiving your letter, but to set off for
+Liverpool straight, and join you. And after that decision was made, my spirits
+rose, for the old talks about Canada and Australia came to my mind, and this
+seemed like a realization of them. Besides, Maggie, I suspected—I even suspect
+now—that my father had something to do with your going with Edward?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Indeed, Frank!” said she, earnestly, “you are mistaken; I cannot tell you all
+now; but he was so good and kind at last. He never urged me to go; though, I
+believe, he did tell me it would be the saving of Edward.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Don’t agitate yourself, love. I trust there will be time enough, some happy
+day at home, to tell me all. And till then, I will believe that my father did
+not in any way suggest this voyage. But you’ll allow that, after all that has
+passed, it was not unnatural in me to suppose so. I only told Middleton I was
+obliged to leave him by the next train. It was not till I was fairly off, that
+I began to reckon up what money I had with me. I doubt even if I was sorry to
+find it was so little. I should have to put forth my energies and fight my way,
+as I had often wanted to do. I remember, I thought how happy you and I would
+be, striving together as poor people ‘in that new world which is the old.’ Then
+you had told me you were going in the steerage; and that was all suitable to my
+desires for myself.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“It was Erminia’s kindness that prevented our going there. She asked your
+father to take us cabin places unknown to me.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Did she? dear Erminia! it is just like her. I could almost laugh to remember
+the eagerness with which I doffed my signs of wealth, and put on those of
+poverty. I sold my watch when I got into Liverpool—yesterday, I believe—but it
+seems like months ago. And I rigged myself out at a slop-shop with suitable
+clothes for a steerage passenger. Maggie! you never told me the name of the
+vessel you were going to sail in!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I did not know it till I got to Liverpool. All Mr. Buxton said was, that some
+ship sailed on the 15th.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“I concluded it must be the Anna-Maria, (poor Anna-Maria!) and I had no time to
+lose. She had just heaved her anchor when I came on board. Don’t you recollect
+a boat hailing her at the last moment? There were three of us in her.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“No! I was below in my cabin—trying not to think,” said she, coloring a little.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Well! as soon as I got on board it began to grow dark, or, perhaps, it was the
+fog on the river; at any rate, instead of being able to single out your figure
+at once, Maggie—it is one among a thousand—I had to go peering into every
+woman’s face; and many were below. I went between decks, and by-and-by I was
+afraid I had mistaken the vessel; I sat down—I had no spirit to stand; and
+every time the door opened I roused up and looked—but you never came. I was
+thinking what to do; whether to be put on shore in Ireland, or to go on to New
+York, and wait for you there;—it was the worst time of all, for I had nothing
+to do; and the suspense was horrible. I might have known,” said he, smiling,
+“my little Emperor of Russia was not one to be a steerage passenger.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But Maggie was too much shaken to smile; and the thought of Edward lay heavy
+upon her mind.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Then the fire broke out; how, or why, I suppose will never be ascertained. It
+was at our end of the vessel. I thanked God, then, that you were not there. The
+second mate wanted some one to go down with him to bring up the gunpowder, and
+throw it overboard. I had nothing to do, and I went. We wrapped it up in wet
+sails, but it was a ticklish piece of work, and took time. When we had got it
+overboard, the flames were gathering far and wide. I don’t remember what I did
+until I heard Edward’s voice speaking your name.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was decided that the next morning they should set off homeward, striving on
+their way to obtain tidings of Edward. Frank would have given his only
+valuable, (his mother’s diamond-guard, which he wore constantly,) as a pledge
+for some advance of money; but the kind Welsh people would not have it. They
+had not much spare cash, but what they had they readily lent to the survivors
+of the Anna-Maria. Dressed in the homely country garb of the people, Frank and
+Maggie set off in their car. If was a clear, frosty morning; the first that
+winter. The road soon lay high up on the cliffs along the coast. They looked
+down on the sea rocking below. At every village they stopped, and Frank
+inquired, and made the driver inquire in Welsh; but no tidings gained they of
+Edward; though here and there Maggie watched Frank into some cottage or other,
+going to see a dead body, beloved by some one: and when he came out, solemn and
+grave, their sad eyes met, and she knew it was not he they sought, without
+needing words.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At Abergele they stopped to rest; and because, being a larger place, it would
+need a longer search, Maggie lay down on the sofa, for she was very weak, and
+shut her eyes, and tried not to see forever and ever that mad struggling crowd
+lighted by the red flames.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Frank came back in an hour or so; and soft behind him—laboriously treading on
+tiptoe—Mr. Buxton followed. He was evidently choking down his sobs; but when he
+saw the white wan figure of Maggie, he held out his arms.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“My dear! my daughter!” he said, “God bless you!” He could not speak more—he
+was fairly crying; but he put her hand in Frank’s and kept holding them both.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“My father,” said Frank, speaking in a husky voice, while his eyes filled with
+tears, “had heard of it before he received my letter. I might have known that
+the lighthouse signals would take it fast to Liverpool. I had written a few
+lines to him saying I was going to you; happily they never reached—that was
+spared to my dear father.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Maggie saw the look of restored confidence that passed between father and son.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“My mother?” said she at last.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“She is here,” said they both at once, with sad solemnity.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Oh, where? Why did not you tell me?” exclaimed she, starting up. But their
+faces told her why.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Edward is drowned—is dead,” said she, reading their looks.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There was no answer.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Let me go to my mother.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Maggie, she is with him. His body was washed ashore last night. My father and
+she heard of it as they came along. Can you bear to see her? She will not leave
+him.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Take me to her,” Maggie answered.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They led her into a bed-room. Stretched on the bed lay Edward, but now so full
+of hope and worldly plans.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Mrs. Browne looked round, and saw Maggie. She did not get up from her place by
+his head; nor did she long avert her gaze from his poor face. But she held
+Maggie’s hand, as the girl knelt by her, and spoke to her in a hushed voice,
+undisturbed by tears. Her miserable heart could not find that relief.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“He is dead!—he is gone!—he will never come back again! If he had gone to
+America—it might have been years first—but he would have come back to me. But
+now he will never come back again;—never—never!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Her voice died away, as the wailings of the night-wind die in the distance; and
+there was silence—silence more sad and hopeless than any passionate words of
+grief.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And to this day it is the same. She prizes her dead son more than a thousand
+living daughters, happy and prosperous as is Maggie now—rich in the love of
+many. If Maggie did not show such reverence to her mother’s faithful sorrows,
+others might wonder at her refusal to be comforted by that sweet daughter. But
+Maggie treats her with such tender sympathy, never thinking of herself or her
+own claims, that Frank, Erminia, Mr. Buxton, Nancy, and all, are reverent and
+sympathizing too.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Over both old and young the memory of one who is dead broods like a dove—of one
+who could do but little during her lifetime—who was doomed only to “stand and
+wait”—who was meekly content to _be_ gentle, holy, patient, and undefiled—the
+memory of the invalid Mrs. Buxton.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“THERE’S ROSEMARY FOR REMEMBRANCE.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>Valuable Works,</b>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+IN THE DEPARTMENTS OF
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>BIOGRAPHY AND HISTORY,</b>
+</p>
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+<p>
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+</p>
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+<b>Lives of the Queens of Scotland,</b> And English Princesses connected with
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+<b>Woman’s Record;</b> Or, Biographical Sketches of all Distinguished Women
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+</p>
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+<b>History of the United States,</b> From the first Settlement of the Country
+to the Organization of Government under the Federal Constitution. By RICHARD
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+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>History of the United States, continued:</b> From the Adoption of the
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+Paper, 25 cents each.
+</p>
+
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+</p>
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+one of his Executors. With an Introductory Letter by WASHINGTON IRVING, Esq.
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+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>Benjamin Franklin’s Autobiography.</b> With a Sketch of his Public Services,
+by REV. H. HASTINGS WELD. With numerous exquisite Designs, by JOHN G. CHAPMAN.
+8vo, Muslin, $2 50; Sheep, $2 75; half Calf, $3 00.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>Hume’s History of England,</b> From the Invasion of Julius Caesar to the
+Abdication of James II., 1688. A new Edition, with the Author’s last
+Corrections and Improvements. To which is prefixed a short Account of his Life,
+written by Himself. With a Portrait of the Author. 6 vols. 12mo, Cloth, $2 40;
+Sheep, $3 00.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>Macaulay’s History of England,</b> From the Accession of James II. With an
+original Portrait of the Author. Vols. I and II. Library Edition, 8vo, Muslin,
+75 cents per Volume; Sheep extra, 87-1/2 cents per Volume; Calf backs and
+corners, $1 00 per Volume.—Cheap Edition, 8vo, Paper, 25 cents per Volume.—12mo
+(uniform with Hume), Cloth 40 cents per Volume.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>Gibbon’s History of Rome,</b> With Notes, by Rev. H.H. MILMAN and M. GUIZOT.
+Maps and Engravings. 4 vols. 8vo, Sheep extra, $5 00.—A new Cheap Edition, with
+Notes by Rev. H.H. MILMAN. To which is added a complete index of the whole Work
+and a Portrait of the Author. 6 vols. 12mo (uniform with Hume), Cloth, $2 40;
+Sheep, $3 00.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>Journal and Memorials of Capt. Obadiah</b> Congar: for Fifty Years Mariner
+and Shipmaster from the Port of New York. By Rev. H.T. CHEEVER. 16mo, Muslin.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>History of Spanish Literature.</b> With Criticisms on the particular Works
+and Biographical Notices of prominent Writers. By GEORGE TICKNOR, Esq. 3 vols.
+8vo, half Calf extra, $7 50; Sheep extra, $6 75; Muslin, $6 00.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>History of the National Constituent</b> Assembly, from May, 1848. By J.F.
+CORKRAN, Esq. 12mo, Muslin, 90 cents; Paper, 75 cents.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>The Recent Progress of Astronomy,</b> especially in the United States. By
+ELIAS LOOMIS, M.A. 12mo, Muslin, $1 00.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>The English Language</b> In its Elements and Forms. With a History of its
+Origin and Development, and a full Grammar. By W.C. FOWLER, M.A. 8vo, Muslin,
+$1 50; Sheep, $1 75.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>History of Ferdinand and Isabella.</b> By WILLIAM H. PRESCOTT, Esq. 3 vols.
+8vo, half Calf, $7 50; Sheep extra, $6 75; Muslin, $6 00.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>History of the Conquest of Mexico.</b> With the Life of the Conqueror,
+Hernando Cortez, and a View of the Ancient Mexican Civilization. By WILLIAM H.
+PRESCOTT, Esq. Portrait and Maps. 3 vols. 8vo, half Calf, $7 50; Sheep extra,
+$6 75; Muslin, $6 00.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>History of the Conquest of Peru.</b> With a Preliminary view of the
+Civilisation of the Incas. By WILLIAM H. PRESCOTT, Esq. Portraits, Maps,
+&amp;c. 2 vols. 8vo, half Calf, $5 00; Sheep extra, $4 50; Muslin, $4 00.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>Biographical and Critical Miscellanies.</b> Containing Notices of Charles
+Brockden Brown, the American Novelist.—Asylum for the Blind.—Irving’s Conquest
+of Grenada. Cervantes.—Sir W. Scott.—Chauteaubriand’s English
+Literature.—Bancroft’s United States.—Madame Calderon’s Life in
+Mexico.—Moliere.—Italian Narrative Poetry.—Poetry and Romance of the
+Italians.—Scottish Song.—Da Ponte’s Observations. By WILLIAM H. PRESCOTT, Esq.
+Portrait. 8vo, Muslin, $2 00; Sheep extra, $2 25; half Calf, $2 50.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>The Conquest of Canada.</b> By the Author of “Hochelaga.” 2 vols. 12mo,
+Muslin, $1 70.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>Past, Present, and Future of the Republic.</b> By ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE.
+12mo, Muslin, 50 cents; Paper, 37-1/2 cents.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>The War with Mexico.</b> By R.S. RIPLEY, U.S.A. With Maps, Plans of Battles,
+&amp;c. 2 vols. 12mo, Muslin, $4 00; Sheep, $4 50; half Calf, $5 00.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>History of the Confessional.</b> By JOHN HENRY HOPKINS, D.D., Bishop of
+Vermont. 12mo, Muslin, $1 00.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>Dark Scenes of History.</b> By G.P.R. JAMES, Esq. 12mo, Muslin, $1 00;
+Paper, 75 cents.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>Life and Writings of Washington;</b> Being his Correspondence, Addresses,
+Messages, and other Papers, Official and Private, selected and published from
+the Original Manuscripts, with a Life of the Author, and Notes and
+Illustrations, &amp;c. By JARED SPARKS, LL.D. With numerous Engravings. 12
+vols. 8vo, Muslin, $18 00; Sheep extra, $21 00; half Calf, $24 00.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>Library of American Biography.</b> Edited by JARED SPARKS, LL.D. Portraits,
+&amp;c. 10 vols. 12mo, Muslin, $7 50. Each volume sold separately, if desired,
+price 75 cents.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>Gieseler’s Ecclesiastical History.</b> From the Fourth Edition, revised and
+amended. Translated from the German, by SAMUEL DAVIDSON, LL.D. Vols. I. and
+II., 8vo, Muslin $3 00.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>History of the American Bible Society.</b> From its Organization in 1816 to
+the Present Time. By Rev. W.P. STRICKLAND. With an Introduction, by Rev. N.L.
+RICE, and a Portrait of Hon. ELIAS BOUDINOT, LL.D., first President of the
+Society. 8vo, Sheep, $1 75; Cloth, $1 50.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>Biographical History of Congress:</b> Comprising Memoirs of Members of the
+Congress of the United States, together with a History of Internal Improvements
+from the Foundation of the Government to the Present Time. By HENRY G. WHEELER.
+With Portraits and Fac-simile Autographs. 8vo, Muslin, $3 00 per Volume.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Schmitz’s History of Rome, From the Earliest Times to the Death of Commodus,
+A.D. 192. With Questions, by JOHN ROBSON, B.A. 18mo, Muslin, 75 cents.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>Louis the Fourteenth,</b> and the Court of France in the Seventeenth
+Century. By MISS PARDOE. Illustrated with numerous Engraving, Portraits,
+&amp;c. 2 vols. 12mo, Muslin, $3 50.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+History of the Girondists; Or, Personal Memoirs of the Patriots of the French
+Revolution. By A. DE LAMARTINE. From unpublished Sources. 3 vols. 12mo, Muslin,
+$2 10.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>Josephus’s Complete Works.</b> A new Translation, by Rev. ROBERT TRAILL,
+D.D. With Notes, Explanatory Essays, &amp;c., by Rev. ISAAC TAYLOR, of Ongar.
+Illustrated by numerous Engravings. Publishing in Monthly Numbers, 8vo, Paper,
+25 cents each.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>History of the French Revolution.</b> By THOMAS CARLYLE. Newly Revised by
+the Author, with Index, &amp;c. 2 vols. 12mo, Muslin, $2 00.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>Letters and Speeches of Cromwell.</b> With Elucidations and connecting
+Narrative. By T. CARLYLE. 2 vols. 12mo, Muslin, $2 00.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>Life of Madame Guyon.</b> Life and Religious Opinions of Madame Guyon:
+together with some Account of the Personal History and Religious Opinions of
+Archbishop Fenelon. By T.C. UPHAM. 2 vols. 12mo, Muslin, $2 00.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>Life of Madame Catharine Adorna.</b> Including some leading Facts and Traits
+in her Religious Experience. Together with Explanations and Remarks, tending to
+illustrate the Doctrine of Holiness. 12mo, Muslin, gilt edges, 60 cents;
+Muslin, 50 cents.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>Homes and Haunts of the British Poets.</b> By WILLIAM HOWITT. With numerous
+Illustrations. 2 vols. 12mo, Muslin, $3 00.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>History of Wonderful Inventions.</b> Illustrated by numerous Engravings.
+12mo, Muslin, 75 cents; Paper, 50 cents.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>The Valley of the Mississippi.</b> History of the Discovery and Settlement
+of the Valley of the Mississippi, by the three great European Powers, Spain,
+France, and Great Britain; and the subsequent Occupation, Settlement, and
+Extension of Civil Government by the United States, until the year 1846. By
+JOHN W. MONETTE, Esq. Maps. 2 vols. 8vo, Muslin, $5 00; Sheep, $5 50.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>Life and Writings of Cassius M. Clay;</b> Including Speeches and Addresses.
+Edited, with a Preface and Memoir, by HORACE GREELEY. With Portrait. 8vo,
+Muslin, $1 50.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<b>ABBOTT’S HISTORIES</b> in course of publication <b>By Harper and Brothers,
+New York.</b>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Each Volume of this Series is printed and bound uniform with the other Volumes,
+and is adorned with a richly-illuminated title-page and numerous Engravings.
+12mo, Muslin, plain edges, 60 cents per volume; Muslin, gilt edges, 75 cents
+per volume.
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>
+<b>Mary Queen of Scots.</b>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+This history is given here minute in every point of real interest, and without
+the encumbrance of useless opinions. There is no sentence thrown away—no time
+lost in mere ornament. Perhaps no book extant containing so few pages, can said
+to convey so many genuine historical facts. There is here no attempt to glaze
+over recorded truth, or win the reader by sophistry to opinions merely those of
+the author. The pure, simple history of Queen Mary is placed before the reader,
+and each one is left to form an unbiased opinion from events impartially
+recorded there. One great and most valuable feature in this little work is a
+map of Scotland, with many engravings of the royal castles and wild scenes
+connected with Mary’s history. There is also a beautiful portrait of the Queen,
+and a richly illuminated title-page such as only the Harpers can get
+up—_National Magazine._
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>
+<b>Queen Elizabeth.</b>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Full of instructive and heart-stirring incident, displayed by the hand of a
+master. We doubt whether old Queen Bess ever before had so much justice done to
+her within the same compass. Such a pen as Jacob Abbott wields, especially in
+this department of literature, has no right to lie still—_Albany Express_.
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>
+<b>Charles the First.</b>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We incline to think that there never was before so much said about this
+unfortunate monarch in so short a space; so much to the purpose; with so much
+impartiality; and in such a style as just suits those for whom it is
+designed—the “two millions” of young persons in the United States, who ought to
+be supplied with such works as these. The engravings represent the prominent
+persons and places of the history, and are well executed. The portrait of John
+Hampden is charming. The antique title-page is rich.—_Southern Christian
+Advocate._
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>
+<b>Hannibal the Carthaginian.</b>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+A new volume of the series projected by the skillful book-manufacturer, Mr.
+Abbott, who displays no little tact in engaging the attention of that
+marvellous body “the reading public” in old scholastic topics hitherto almost
+exclusively the property of the learned. The latter, with their ingenious
+implements of lexicons and scholia, will be in no danger of being superseded,
+however, while the least-furnished reader may gain something from the
+attractively-printed and easily-perused volumes of Mr. Abbott. The story of
+Hannibal is well adapted for popular treatment, and loses nothing for this
+purpose in the present explanatory and pictorial version.—_Literary World._
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p>
+<b>Maria Antoinette.</b>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In a style copious and yet forcible, with an expression singularly clear and
+happy, and in language exceedingly chaste and at times very beautiful, he has
+given us a plain, unvarnished narrative of facts, as he himself says, unclogged
+by individual reflections which would “only encumber rather than enforce.” The
+present work wants none of the interest inseparably connecting itself with the
+preceding numbers of the same series, but is characterized throughout by the
+same peculiar beauties, riveting the attention and deeply engraving on the mind
+the information with which they every where teem.—_Evening Mirror._
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 11371 ***</div>
+</body>
+
+</html>
+