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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +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 +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8944a06 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #53645 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/53645) diff --git a/old/53645-0.txt b/old/53645-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index c34c635..0000000 --- a/old/53645-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,4963 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Heart and Cross, by Margaret Oliphant - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Heart and Cross - -Author: Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: December 1, 2016 [EBook #53645] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HEART AND CROSS *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - - - HEART AND CROSS. - - - - - HEART AND CROSS. - - BY - - MRS. OLIPHANT. - - AUTHOR OF “MARGARET MAITLAND,” “ADAM GRAEME,” “THE LAST OF THE - MORTIMERS,” “THE LAIRD OF MORLAW,” ETC., ETC. - - IN ONE VOLUME. - - NEW YORK: - JAMES G. GREGORY. - 1863. - - - - - HEART AND CROSS. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - - -I know no reason why I should begin my story of the fortunes of the -Harleys by a description of my own son. Perhaps it is just because there -is no reason whatever that I feel so much disposed to do it--also -because the appearance of that son is the only difference that has come -to my own life since last my unknown friends heard of me, and because -there is quite an exhilaration in thinking that here is a new audience -to whom I am at liberty to introduce the second Derwent Crofton. This -story is not in the least about my boy, and, in consequence, it is quite -an unusual delight to be able to drag him in head and shoulders. Women -are not logical, as everybody knows. - -My son, then, is, at the present writing, exactly seven years old. He -is a little athlete--straight and strong. We have often explained to -ourselves that it is in consequence of his having got over the baby -period of existence sooner than most children do, that he is not quite -so plump, as, for example, that red and white heir of the Sedgwicks, who -has a succession of rosy cushions on all the points where there should -be angles of his small frame. Derwent, I confess, has corners about -him--but then what limbs! what color! what hard, consistent stuff the -little rogue is made of! And I am not quite sure that I entirely approve -of these fat children--not when they are past the baby-age. I will not -delude myself, nor anybody else, into the idea that the boy is very -clever. Truth to speak, he has not taken very kindly as yet to -book-learning; but then does not everybody remember that it is the -dunces who grow into great men? Neither is he in the slightest degree -meditative or thoughtful, nor what you would call an interesting child. -He has as many scars upon him as a warrior, and has been bumped and -bruised in all directions. At first the child’s misfortunes somewhat -alarmed me, but by this time I am hardened to their daily occurrence, -and no longer grow pale when I am informed that Master Derwent has -broken his head or got a bad fall. This peculiarity is one in which his -father rather rejoices. I hear Mr. Crofton sometimes privately -communicating to his especial friends the particulars of little -Derwent’s accidents: “He was certainly born to knock about the world, -that boy of mine. Such a fellow was never intended to take peaceable -possession of Hilfont, and settle down a calm country gentleman,” says -Derwent, with a chuckle. And even when once or twice in the child’s life -my husband’s fears have been really excited about some misadventure -greater than usual, there has always been visible to me a certain gleam -of complacence and pride in his fear. For already he sees in the boy, -whom I am half disposed to keep a baby as long as possible, a man--the -heir of his own personal qualities as well as his land. - -Little Derwent, however, has none of the sentimental qualities, which -might be expected from an only child. He has indemnified himself in the -oddest fashion for the want of those nursery friendships which sweeten -the beginning of life. In the oddest fashion! I am almost ashamed to -confess--I admit it with natural blushes and hesitation--that this -little boy of ours is the most inveterate gossip that ever was born! -Yes, there is no use disguising the fact, gossiping, plain, naked, and -unsophisticated, is the special faculty of Derwent. He has all the -natural childish thirst for a story, but he prefers to have his stories -warm from the lips of the heroes and heroines of the same; and somehow -everybody to whom he has access confides in the child. He goes through -every corner of Hilfont, from cellar to attic, with his bold, quick -step, and his bright, curious eyes, interested about every individual -under the roof. Too young to feel any of those sentiments which detract -from the value of a sympathizer--without either the condescension of a -superior or the self-comparison of an equal--I find nobody who is not -pleased and comforted by the child’s warm interest in their concerns; -pleased and half amused as well--till, by habit, housekeeper and nurse, -kitchenmaid and groom--for any efforts I might once have made to keep -Derwent a proper little boy, circulating only in an orthodox round -between the drawing-room and the nursery, have proved so totally -fruitless, that I have given up the endeavor--repose a flattered but -perfectly sincere confidence in their master’s little son. Nor is the -village at all stoical to his attractions. He drops in at all the -cottages as if he were the curate or the parish doctor--asks questions -about everything--never forgets any special circumstances which may -happen to have been told him--knows all about the old women’s marriages -and the number of their children, and which one’s son has been wild and -’listed, and which one’s daughter is at service in Simonborough. He is -ready for as many fairy tales as anybody will tell him; but nothing is -so thoroughly interesting to Derwent as the people round about him and -their homely lives. I began by being a little shocked at this propensity -of his--then gradually grew amused at it--then tried my utmost to -restrain that deep inquisitiveness which seemed inherent in him--and at -last have come to accept it quietly as the child’s peculiarity, a part -of himself. If the best object for the study of mankind is man, Derwent -will, perhaps, some day turn out a great philosopher. At present he is -the most sincere and simple-minded of little gossips, pursuing his -favorite branch of knowledge boldly, without any compunctions; such is -the most distinct and remarkable characteristic of my son. - -And only to imagine the difference which that pair of blue eyes has -wrought in our great house and our calm life! My husband and I were, to -be sure, “very happy,” as people say, before; as happy as two people can -make each other, by a hearty and sincere love and cordial union; the -climax of happiness we would have thought it, each in our separate -thoughts, when we lived lonely lives apart. But love, which makes labor -sweet and life pleasant, does not answer for daily bread--never does, -let the romancers say what they will; no--not even to women. The heart -within me was dissatisfied even with Derwent--I could not content myself -with that life we lived--that calm, happy, tranquil life, which knew no -burdens, and if it overflowed in courtesies and charities, which cost us -nothing, was thought a model existence by our hard-working neighbors. - -By dint of perpetual pin-pricks and unceasing agitation, I had managed -to drive Derwent into Parliament, where he somewhat solaced me by his -intense affliction and sufferings during the season of Parliamentary -martyrdom, and was himself happier during the rest of the year in the -relief of escaping that treadmill; but the content that had fluttered -off from my heart, when I had only my husband and myself to think of, -came with a flash of magic in the train of the little heir. All life -glowed and brightened up with a different interest--there were no longer -only ourselves who had attained all that was attainable in our own -mature and settled existence; but this new living, loving creature, with -all the possibilities of life burning upon his fresh horizon. The -picture changed as if by enchantment; the master and mistress of that -tranquil great house--lone, happy people set apart, none of the changes -of life coming near them, living for themselves, changed into a father -and mother, linked by sweet ties of succession to the other generations -of the world; belonging not to ourselves, but to the past and the -future--to the coming age, which _he_ should influence--to the former -age, which had hailed _our_ entrance as we hailed _his_. One cannot be -content with the foot-breadth of human soil that supports one’s own -weight--one must thrust out one’s hands before and behind. I felt that -we fell into our due place in the world’s generations, and laid hold -upon the lineal chain of humanity when little Derwent went forth before -us, trusted to our guidance--the next generation--the Future to us, as -to the world. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - -“I suppose, Clare,” said Mr. Crofton to me one morning at breakfast, -“that Alice Harley has made up her mind, like somebody I once knew, to -live for other people, and on no account to permit herself to be -married--is it so?” - -“I really cannot undertake to say whether she is like that person you -once knew,” said I, somewhat demurely. I had some hopes that she was--I -was much inclined to imagine that it was a youthful prepossession, of -which, perhaps, she herself was unaware, that kept Alice Harley an -unmarried woman; but of course I was not going to say so even to -Derwent, who, with all his good qualities, was after all only a man. An -unmarried woman!--that I should call my pretty Alice by that harsh, -mature, common-place name! But I am sorry to say the appellation was -quite a just one. She was nearer eight and twenty than eighteen, -now-a-days; she had no love, no engagement, no sentimental gossip at all -to be made about her. I will not undertake to say that she had not some -ideas of another kind, with which I had but a very limited sympathy--but -an unmarried woman Alice Harley was, and called herself--with (I -thought) a little quiet secret interest, which she deeply resented any -suspicion of, in Indian military affairs. - -“Because,” said Derwent, with the old affectionate laugh, and glance of -old love-triumph over his old wife, which he never outgrew or exhausted, -“there is that very good fellow, our new Rector, would give his ears for -such a wife--and from all I can see, would suit her famously; which, by -the way, Clare, now that her mother is so dependent on her, is not what -every man would. You should say a good word for Reredos--it is your duty -to look after your protégée’s establishment in life.” - -I confess when Derwent said these words a great temptation came to me. -It suddenly flashed upon my mind that Alice in the Rectory would be my -nearest neighbor, and the most pleasant of possible companions. At the -same moment, and in the light of that momentary selfish illumination, it -also became suddenly visible to me that my dear girl had a great many -notions which I rather disapproved of, and was rapidly confirming -herself in that _rôle_ of unmarried woman, which, having once rather -taken to it myself, I knew the temptations of. Mr. Reredos was only -about five years older than herself, good-looking, well-connected, with -a tolerably good living, and a little fortune of his own. And how could -I tell whether my private designs would ever come to anything? Derwent, -simple-minded man, had not fallen on so potent an argument for many a -day before. - -“Mamma,” said little Derwent, who heard everything without listening, -“the housekeeper at the Rectory has a son in the Guards--like the men in -the steel-coats that you showed me when we went to London; the other -sons are all comfortable, she says; but this one, when she speaks of -_him_, she puts up her apron to her eyes. Mamma, I want to know if it is -wicked to go for a soldier--Sally Yeoman’s son ’listed last year, and -_she_ puts up her apron to her eyes. Now, my cousin Bertie is in -India--was it wicked in him to go for a soldier?--or what’s the good of -people being sad when people ’list?--eh, mamma?” - -“Did you ever see anybody sad about your cousin Bertie?” said I, with a -sudden revulsion of feeling and the profoundest interest. - -“N--no,” said little Derwent. He applied himself after that devoutly to -his bread and jam--there was something not altogether assured in the -sound of that “N--no.” Derwent could not help having quick eyes--but the -child knew sometimes that it was best to hold his tongue. - -“I should like to know,” said Derwent the elder, laughing, “why Mr. -Reredos’s housekeeper’s son in the Guards has been dragged headlong into -this consultation. Suppose you go for a soldier yourself, Derwie. -There’s your drum in the corner. I have something to say to mamma.” - -Little Derwent marched off, obedient, if not very willing. His -inquisitive tendencies did not carry him beyond that rule of obedience -which was the only restraint I put upon the boy. Derwent, elder, -followed him with happy looks. He only came back to his subject after an -interval of pleased and silent observation when there suddenly fell into -the stillness of our cheerful breakfast-room the first thunder of -Derwie’s drum. - -“What an inquisitive little imp it is!” said Derwent; “but in spite of -the housekeeper’s son in the Guards, I don’t think you could do a more -charitable action, Clare, than to support Reredos’s suit to Alice -Harley. Such a famous thing for both--and such an excellent neighbor for -yourself.” - -“That is very true,” said I; “but still I cannot help building something -upon that son in the Guards.” - -Mr. Crofton looked up somewhat puzzled, with a smile upon his lips. I -daresay he asked, “What on earth do you mean?” somewhat exasperated at -the repetition; but Derwie’s drum filled all the apartment at the -moment, and of course I could not hear, much less answer him. We had -some further talk on the subject later, when Derwent called me into the -library to read over that speech of his, which he made a few evenings -before at Simonborough, and which the Editor of the Simonborough -Chronicle had sent over in proof to ask if my husband would kindly -glance over it and see if it was correct. Mr. Reredos was coming to -dinner to meet the Harleys, among other people--and Mr. Crofton, always -good-humored, and disposed to aid and abet all honest love affairs, -could not sufficiently point out the advantages of such a connection to -me. - -And I said no more to perplex him, of the son in the Guards; but for -myself remembered that mythical personage, whatever was said to me on -the subject; and appreciated with the highest admiration that singularly -delicate line of association which suggested the reference to little -Derwie’s mind and thoughts. Yes, to be sure! the old women will put up -their aprons to their eyes when they talk about the son who has -’listed; the young women will keep a shadowy corner in their hearts for -that unfortunate--and yet it is not wicked to go for a soldier. I felt -Mr. Reredos’s handsome figure quite blotted out by the suggestion -conveyed in that of his housekeeper’s son. When I had finished my -housekeeping affairs, and given orders about the visitors we expected -for Easter--this I should have said was the Easter recess, the glimpse -of spring at Hilfont, which was all we could catch now that Derwent, to -his great affliction, was a Parliament man--I took my seat in the great -cheerful window of that room where we had breakfasted, and which -overlooked half the country. Far away in the distance the sun caught the -spires and roofs of Simonborough, with its cathedral faintly shining out -from among the lower level of the housetops, and nearer at hand struck -bright upon the slow and timid river which wound through the fields down -below us, at the bottom of this great broad slope of country, which had -no pretensions to be a hill, though its advantage of altitude in our -level district was greater than that of many an elevation twice or three -times as high. Spring was stealing into the long drooping branches of -those willows which marked the irregular line of the stream. Spring -brightened with doubtful, wavering dewy smiles over all the surface of -the country. I remember when I should have been glad to turn my eyes -indoors, away from the sweet suggestions of Nature conveyed by that -sweetest and most suggestive season; but I took the fullest and freest -enjoyment of it now; rather, I sat at the window calmly pleased and -unconscious, as we are when we are happy, feeling no contrast to wound -me between the world without and the world within--and considered fully -the circumstances of Alice Harley, and how I ought to forward, as -Derwent said, my dear girl’s establishment in life. - -Now I have to confess that many years before this I had formed my own -plans for Alice--had quite made up my mind, indeed, to a secret scheme -of match-making in which at the moment I had been grievously -disappointed. At that time, when little Derwie was undreampt of, and I -had prematurely made up my mind to a childless life, I had settled my -inheritance of Estcourt upon my young cousin Bertie Nugent, with a -strong hope that the boy, who had known her for so many years, would -naturally prefer my pretty Alice to all strangers, when his good fortune -and affectionate heart put marriage into his head. This did not turn out -the case, however. Bertie made his choice otherwise, was disappointed, -and went off to India, where for eight long years he had remained. -Sometimes, when he wrote to me, I found a message of good wishes to his -old playmates at the very end of the page; once or twice it had occurred -to him to ask, “Is not Alice Harley married?” but the question seemed to -proceed rather from surprise and curiosity than any tender interest. It -is impossible to imagine a greater separation than there was between -these two. Bertie, now Captain Herbert Nugent, at a remote station in -the Bengal Presidency, where, scattered over that vast, arid country, he -had friends, brothers, and cousins by the dozen; and Alice, with her -new-fangled notions, and staid single-woman dignity, hid away in the -depths of a quiet English home, where she addressed herself to her duty -and the education of her little sisters and eschewed society. Whether -any secret thoughts of each other lingered in their minds nobody of -course could tell; but they certainly had not, except in my persistent -thoughts, a single bond of external connection. So long as they were -both unmarried, I could not help putting them together with an -imagination which longed for the power of giving efficacy to its dreams; -but nobody else had ever done so--there were thousands of miles of land -and water dividing them--many long years, and most likely a world of -dissimilar dispositions, experiences and thoughts. - -While on the other hand Mr. Reredos was actually present on the scene, -in a pretty Rectory just half a mile from my own house, and not a dozen -miles from Mrs. Harley’s cottage. The young clergyman lost no -opportunity of doing his duty towards that lady, though her dwelling was -certainly in another parish--and showed himself so far disposed towards -Alice’s new-fangled notions as to preach a sermon upon the changed -position and new duties of Woman, on the occasion of her last visit to -Hilfont. I trust it edified Alice, for it had rather a contrary effect -upon myself, and filled the parishioners generally with the wildest -amazement. Most people are flattered by such an adoption of their own -opinions--and a young woman aged twenty-seven, thinking herself very -old, and trying hard to make every one else believe the same, is -especially open to such a compliment. Besides, I could not say anything -even to myself against Mr. Reredos. He was well-bred, well-looking, and -well-dispositioned--the match would be particularly suitable in every -way. Dr. Harley’s daughter, had her father and his fortune survived till -the present day, would still have made quite a sensible marriage in -accepting the Rector of Hilfont. And then the advantage of having her -so near! - -I sat in the great window of the breakfast-room, looking over half the -county. If I had been a woman of elevated mind or enlightened views, I -should have been thinking of all the human wishes and disappointments -that lay beneath my eyes, each one under its own roof and its own -retirement. But, on the contrary, I observed nothing but a small figure -on a small pony ascending the road from the village. In the same way I -ought to have been benevolently glad that our excellent young Rector had -inclined his eyes and heart towards my own favorite and friend--the -friend and favorite now of so many years--and that a home so suitable, -at once to her origin and her tastes, awaited the acceptance of Alice. -But I was not glad--I sent my thoughts ever so far away to Bertie’s -bungalow, and felt aggrieved and disappointed for the boy who, alas! was -a boy no longer, and most likely, instead of feeling aggrieved on his -own account, would have nothing but his warmest congratulations to send -when he heard of his old playmate’s marriage. Things are very perverse -and unmanageable in this world. The right people will not draw together, -let one wish it ever so strongly, whereas the wrong people are always -approaching each other in eccentric circles, eluding every obstacle -which one can place in their way. I could not be very melancholy on the -subject, because the pony and its little rider came every moment nearer, -and brightened the face of the earth to my eyes--but still it was in the -highest degree provoking. If it ever came to anything! There was still -that escape from this perplexing matter; for whether I felt disposed to -support his suit or not, it was still by no means certain, even when Mr. -Reredos had finally declared himself, what Alice Harley might say. - - - - -Chapter III. - - -“Who are we to have, Clare?--let us hear. You don’t suppose that my -mind, weighed down with the responsibilities of law-making, can remember -everything, eh?--even my wife’s guests?” said Derwent, rubbing his -hands, as we sat after dinner near the fire in the warm crimson -dining-room. When we were alone I gave Mr. Crofton’s claret my benign -countenance till he was ready to go with me to the drawing-room. There -were not enough of us to separate at that genial hour, especially as -little Derwent sat between us peeling his orange, and quite ready to -give his opinion on any knotty point that might occur. - -“Papa, please give Willie Sedgwick the little grey pony,” said Derwie, -“to ride when he’s here; he says his papa will never let him take his -horse anywhere with him--there’s such a lot of children,” added my boy, -parenthetically, with some pity and contempt. “I like little Clary -best--I like her because her name’s the same as mamma’s, and because she -has blue eyes, and because she likes me, and she’s good to that poor -old nurse, too, who has her daughter in a fever, and daren’t go to see -her.” - -“How do you know about the nurse’s daughter’s fever, Derwie?” asked I. - -“Mamma, they sent _me_ to the nursery, when you were calling there,” -said Derwie, with some emphasis, “and she told me she has the scarlet -fever, and Mrs. Sedgwick won’t let her mamma go to see her, for fear of -the children taking it--isn’t it a shame? Clary told me she said her -prayers for her every night, to get her well; and so,” said Derwent, -coloring, and looking up with some apparent idea that this was not -perfectly right, and the most manful intention to stand out the -consequences, “and so do I.” - -His father and I looked at each other, and neither of us said anything -just for that moment, which silence emboldened Derwie to believe that no -harm was coming of his confession, and to go on with his story. - -“And Mr. Sedgwick’s man--he’s such a funny fellow. I wish you’d ask him -to tell you one of his stories, mamma,” said Derwie, “for I know he’s -coming here with them. He has a brother like Johnny Harley--just as -lame--and he got cured in Wales, at St. Winifred’s Well. Why don’t you -ask Mrs. Harley to send Johnny to St. Winifred’s Well, mamma?--she only -laughed at me when I said so. I say, mamma,” continued Derwie, with his -mouth full of his orange, “I’ll tell Russell he’s to tell you one of his -stories--I never knew a fellow that could tell such famous stories--I -wish you had a man like Russell, papa. He’s been all over the world, and -he’s got two children at home, and the name of one of them is John--John -Russell--like the little gentleman in _Punch_.” - -“Don’t be personal, Derwie,” said Mr. Crofton, laughing; “we are to have -Mr. Sedgwick’s Russell, and Mrs. Sedgwick’s nurse--who else?” - -“The Harleys,” said I, “for we’ll postpone for a little, if you please, -Derwie, your friends below-stairs; and Mr. Reredos and his sister, and -Miss Polly Greenfield, and her little nieces. I fear the womankind will -rather predominate in our Easter party--though Maurice Harley, to be -sure”---- - -“Yes--Maurice Harley, to be sure,” said Derwent, still with a smile, -“is--what should you call him now, Clare--a host in himself?” - -“Fellow of Exeter College, Cambridge,” said I, demurely; “he has it on -his card.” - -“Mamma, is Maurice Harley a clergyman?--shouldn’t a clergyman care about -people?” said little Derwent; “I don’t think _he_ does. He likes -books.” - -“And what do you mean by people?--and don’t you like books?” I asked. - -“Oh! yes, sometimes,” said my son; “when there’s pictures in them. But -_you_ know what people mean, mamma--quite well! You talk to them, _you_ -do--but Maurice Harley puts up his shoulders like this, and looks more -tired than Bob Dawkes does after his ploughing--so tired--just as if he -could drop down with tiredness. Oh!” cried Derwent, with a sudden burst -of enthusiasm, “I would not give our Johnnie for a hundred of _him_.” - -“A hundred of _him_!” I confess the thought filled me with alarm. In my -heart I doubted, with a little shudder of apprehension, whether the -country, not to speak of Hilfont, could have survived the invasion of a -hundred such accomplished men. “But, Derwie,” said I, recovering from -that shock, “if you do not like books except when they have pictures in -them, how do you think you are ever to learn all the things that Maurice -Harley knows?” - -“Mr. Sedgwick says he’s a prig,” says little Derwent, with great -seriousness, “and I know more things now than he does--I know how to -make rabbits’ houses. If you were to get some little white rabbits, -mamma, I could make a beautiful house for them. Will Morris taught me -how. Oh! papa, don’t you know Will Morris wants to marry little Susan at -the shop?--he has her picture, and it’s not the least like her, and I -heard Maurice Harley say the photographs _must_ be like, because the sun -took them. Does the sun see better than other people? That one’s like -you with the paper in your hand; but Will Morris’s picture, instead of -being Susan, is anybody in a checked dress.” - -“I begin to think you will turn out a great critic, Derwie,” said his -admiring father, who desired no better than to spend his after-dinner -hour listening to the wisdom of his son. - -“What’s a critic? is it anything like a prig?” asked Derwent, who was -trying hard to set up the crooked stem of a bunch of raisins--now, alas, -denuded of every vestige of its fruit--like a tree upon his plate; the -endeavor was not very successful, although when propped up on each side -by little mounds of orange-peel, the mimic tree managed to hold a very -slippery and precarious footing, and for a few minutes kept itself -upright. We two sat looking at this process in a hush of pleased and -interested observation. Maurice Harley, with all his powers and -pretensions, could neither have done nor said anything which could thus -have absorbed us, and I doubt whether we would have looked at the -highest triumphs of art or genius with admiration as complete as that -with which we regarded little Derwie setting up the stalk of the bunch -of raisins between these little mounds of orange-peel. - -“Clare, how old is he now?” said Mr. Crofton to me. - -As if he did not know! but I answered with calm pride, “Seven on Monday, -Derwent--and you remember it was Easter Monday too that year--and tall -for his age, certainly--but he is not so stout as Willie Sedgwick.” - -“Ah, Monday’s your birthday, is it, old fellow?” said Derwent; “what -should you like on your birthday, Derwie--let us hear?” - -“May I have anything I like, papa?” asked the child, throwing down -immediately both the raisin-stalk and the orange-skin. His father nodded -in assent. I, a little in terror of what “anything I like” at seven -years old might happen to be, hastened to interpose. - -“Anything in reason, Derwie, dear--not the moon, you know, nor the -crown, nor an impossible thing. You are a very sensible little boy when -you please; think of something in papa’s power.” - -“It is only little babies that cry for the moon,” said Derwie, -contemptuously, “and I’ve got it in the stereoscope--and what’s the good -of it if one had it? nobody lives there; but, papa, I’ll tell you what I -should like--give me the key of the door of the House of Commons, where -you go every day when we are in town. That’s what I should like for my -birthday; what makes you laugh?” continued my boy, coming to a sudden -pause and growing red, for he was deeply susceptible to ridicule, bold -as he was. - -“Why on earth do you want to go to the House of Commons?” cried his -father, when his laughter permitted him to speak. - -“It’s in the Bible that the people used to come to tell everything to -the king,” said Derwie, a little peevishly; “and isn’t the House of -Commons instead of the king in this country? and doesn’t everybody go to -the House of Commons when they want anything? I should like to see them -all coming and telling their stories--what fun it must be! That’s why -you go there, I suppose, every night? but I don’t know why you never -should take mamma or me.” - -“It would never do to let the ladies come in,” said Derwent, with mock -seriousness; “you know they would talk so much that we could never hear -what the people had to say.” - -“Mamma does not talk very much,” said Derwie, sharply; “nor Alice -either. Old Mrs. Sedgwick, to be sure--but then it’s some good when she -talks; it isn’t all about books or things I can’t understand, it’s about -people--that’s real talk, that is. Before I go to school--just till this -session is over--oh, papa, will you give me that key?” - -“My boy,” said Derwent, with the love and the laughter rivalling each -other in his eyes, “they don’t give me any key, or you should have -it--there’s a turnkey at the door, who opens it to let the poor people -out and in; but some day you and mamma shall go and be shut up in a cage -we have for the ladies, and hear all that’s said. I’m afraid, Derwie, -when you’ve once been there you won’t want to go again.” - -“Yes, I shall!” cried Derwie, all his face glowing with eagerness; when -there suddenly appeared a solemn and silent apparition at the door, -namely Nurse, under whose iron rule the young gentleman, much resisting, -was still held, so far at least as his toilette was concerned. That -excellent woman said not a word. She opened the door with noiseless -solemnity, came in, and stood smoothing down her spotless apron by the -wall. No need for words to announce the presence of that messenger of -fate; Derwie made some unavailing struggles with destiny, and at last -resigned himself and marched off defiantly, followed by the mighty -Nemesis. When the door closed upon the well-preserved skirts of that -brown silk gown, in which, ever since little Derwie emerged from -babyhood, nurse had presented herself in the dining-room to fetch him to -bed, Mr. Crofton and I once more looked at each other with those looks -of fondness and praise and mutual congratulation which our boy had -brought to our eyes. We had already exhausted all the phrases of -parental wonder and admiration; we only looked at each other with a -mutual tender delight and congratulation. Nobody else, surely, since the -beginning of the world, ever had such a boy! - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -The next day after, being the Saturday, our little Easter party -assembled; first our neighbors the Sedgwicks, who were a party in -themselves. Ten years before, Hugh Sedgwick had been the finest -gentleman in our neighborhood, which he filled with amazement and -consternation when he chose to fall in love with and marry little Clara -Harley, whom, in the most literal sense of the word, he married out of -the school-room, and who was just seventeen years old. But now that five -children had followed this marriage, nobody could have supposed or -believed in the existence of any such great original contrast between -the husband and wife. Either Mr. Sedgwick had grown younger, or Clara -older, than their years. He who now called Maurice Harley a prig, had -been himself the prince of prigs--according to the estimate of the -country gentlemen, his neighbors--in his day; but that day was long -departed. Hugh Sedgwick, fastidious, dilettante fine gentleman, as he -had been, was now the solicitous father of little children, and not -above giving very sound advice upon measles and hooping-cough--while -Clara, who had gradually blossomed out into fuller and fuller bloom, had -scarcely yet attained the height of her soft beauty, despite the little -flock of children round her. Nobody in the county made such a toilette -as little Mrs. Sedgwick. I suspect she must have had _carte blanche_ as -to her milliner’s bills; and when they entered the Hilfont drawing-room, -Clara, with her pretty matronly self-possession, her graceful little -figure, round and full as one of her own babies, and her lovely little -face, with all its cloudless lilies and roses--nobody could have -believed in the time when his good neighbors shrugged their shoulders -and laughed at Hugh Sedgwick’s choice. She sat down, I remember, by Miss -Polly Greenfield--dear old Miss Polly in her primeval drapery--that -crimson satin gown which I had known all my life. Such a contrast they -made in the bright youth and pale age of the two faces, which came -together lovingly in a kiss of greeting! Since her brother, Sir -Willoughby, had married, Miss Polly’s habits had changed greatly. She -had thrown aside her old brown riding-dress and the stiff man’s hat she -used to wear when she rode with Sir Willoughby. And when her old horse -and her old groom were old enough to be pensioned off in their -respective paddock and cottage, Miss Polly set up a pony-carriage, more -suitable to her years. Her niece, a young widow of twenty, a poor, -little, disconsolate soul, who was all the trouble in the world to Miss -Polly, had made a second marriage, and left her two little children to -the care of their grandaunt. They were little girls both, and the tender -old woman was very happy in their society--happier a hundred times than -when she had been mistress of Fenosier Hall. But to hear how little -Clara, who once had stood somewhat in awe of Miss Polly, talked to her -now!--advising her how to manage little Di and Emmy, telling how she -regulated her own Clary, who, though a good deal younger, was very far -on for her age--with what a sweet touch of superiority and simplicity -the dear little matron looked down from her wifely and motherly -elevation upon pale old Miss Polly, who was neither mother nor wife! -Clara was quite ready at the same moment to have bestowed her matronly -counsels upon me. - -After the Sedgwicks, Alice Harley, all by herself, as became one who -felt herself at home, and was all but a daughter of the house, came into -the room. Alice was plain in her dress to the extreme of plainness. That -she assumed an evening dress at all was somewhat against her -convictions, and in compassion to my weakness and prejudice; but the -dress was of dark colored silk, made with a studied sobriety of cut, and -lack of ornament. Instead of sharing Clara’s round soft loveliness, -Alice had grown slender and pale. Unimaginative people called her thin. -Out of her girlish beauty had come a face full of thoughtfulness and -expression, but not so pretty as some people expected--perhaps, because -somehow or other, the ordinary roselight of youth had failed to Alice. -Half by choice, half by necessity, she had settled down into the humdrum -useful existence which the eldest daughter of a large family, if she -does not elude her fate by an early marriage, so often falls into. -Various “offers” had been made to her, one of which Mrs. Harley, divided -between a mother’s natural wish to see her daughter properly “settled,” -and a little reluctance, not less natural, to part with her own -household counsellor and helper, had given a wavering support to. Alice, -however, said No, coldly, and not, as I thought, without the minutest -possible tinge of bitterness answered the persuasions which were -addressed to her. She was rather high and grandiloquent altogether on -the subject of marriage, looking on with a half-comic, disapproving -spectator observation at little Clara’s loving tricks to her husband, -whom that little matron had no awe of now-a-days, and discoursing more -than seemed to me entirely necessary upon the subject. Alice was -somewhat inclined to the views of those philosophers (chiefly feminine, -it must be confessed) who see in the world around them, not a general -crowd of human creatures, but two distinct rows of men and women; and -she was a little condescending and superior, it must also be admitted, -to that somewhat frivolous antagonistic creature, man. The ideal man, -whom Alice had never--so she intimated--had the luck to light upon, was -a demigod; but the real male representatives of the race were poor -creatures--well enough, to be sure, but no more worthy of a woman’s -devotion than of any other superlative gift. With sentiments so distinct -and _prononcés_, Alice had not lived all these years without feeling -some yearning for an independent sway and place of her own, as one may -well suppose--which tempted her into further speculations about women’s -work, and what one could do to make a place for one’s self, who had -positively determined not to be indebted for one’s position to one’s -husband. Such was the peculiar atmosphere out of which Alice Harley -revealed herself to the common world. She was deeply scornful of that -talk about people which pleased my boy so much, and so severe upon -gossip and gossips, that I had on more than one occasion seriously to -defend myself. There she stood in her dark-brown silk dress beside -little Clara’s flowing toilette and vivacious nursery talk, casting a -shadow upon pale Miss Polly in her crimson satin. Alice was as much -unlike that tender old soul, with her old maidenly restraints and -preciseness, her unbounded old womanly indulgence and kindness, as she -was unlike her matronly younger sister; and I confess that to myself, in -all her perverseness, knowing as I did what a genuine heart lay below, -there was quite a charm of her own about the unmarried woman. She was so -conscious of her staid and sober age, so unconscious of her pleasant -youth, and the simplicity which, all unknown to herself, lay in her -wisdom. Such was my Alice; the same Alice who, keeping silent and -keeping her brothers and sisters quiet in the nursery, while she knew -her father lay dying many a long year ago, adjured me with unspeakable -childish pathos--“Oh, don’t be sorry for me! I mustn’t cry!” - -I do not know how it was that, while I contemplated Alice on her first -appearance with a kind of retrospective glance at her history, there -suddenly appeared above her the head of Mr. Reredos. He was a -middle-sized, handsome man, with a pale complexion and dark hair--very -gentlemanly, people said--a man who preached well, talked well, and -looked well, and who, even to my eyes, which were no way partial, had no -particular defect worth noticing, if it were not the soft, large, white -hands without any bones in them, which held your fingers in a warm, -velvety clasp when you shook hands with the new rector. I don’t know how -he had managed to come in without my perceiving him. And strong must -have been the attraction which beguiled Mr. Reredos to neglect the duty -of paying his respects to his hostess, even for five minutes. It was not -five minutes, however, before he recollected himself, and came with his -soft white hand and his sister on his arm. His sister was so far like -himself that she was very pale, with very black hair, and an -“interesting” look. She did not interest me very much; but I could not -help hoping that perhaps in this sentimental heroine Maurice Harley, for -the time being, might meet his fate. I thought that would be rather a -comfortable way of shelving those members of our party; for Maurice, -though he was a very fine gentleman, not to say Fellow of his College, -afflicted my soul with a constant inclination to commit a personal -assault upon him, and have him whipped and sent to bed. - -However, to be sure, we had all the elements of a very pleasant party -about us--people who belonged to us, as one may say. Derwent, who liked -to see a number of cheerful faces about him, was in the lightest -spirits; he paid Clara Sedgwick compliments on her toilette, and -“chaffed” (as he called it--I am not responsible for the word) Alice, -whom he had the sincerest affection for, but loved to tease, and took -Miss Polly in to dinner, while little Derwie did the honors of the -nursery to a party almost as large, and quite as various. I fear we made -rather a night of feasting than a penitential vigil of that Easter Eve. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -When we returned to the drawing-room after dinner, we found, hidden in a -distant corner, with books and portfolios, and stereoscopes blocking up -the table near him, Johnnie Harley. I have said little of this boy. He -was the proxy which the handsome, healthy family had given for their -singular exemption from disease and weakness--the one sufferer, among -many strong, who is so often found in households unexceptionably -healthful, as if all the minor afflictions which might have been divided -among them had concentrated on one and left the rest free. When Johnnie -was a child he had only been moved in the little wheeled chair, got for -him in his father’s lifetime, when they were rich. Now he was better, -and able to move about with the help of a crutch, but even now was a -hopeless cripple, with only his vigorous mind and unconquerable spirits -to maintain him through private hours of suffering. Partly from his -infirmities--partly from his natural temperament--the lad had a certain -superficial shyness, which, though it was easily got over, made it -rather difficult to form acquaintance with him. He could not be induced -to dine with us that first night--but he was in the drawing-room, -showing the stereoscope to Miss Polly’s little nieces, Di and Emmy, when -we came back from dinner; the other little creatures were playing at -some recondite childish game in another part of the room; but Emmy and -Di were very proper little maidens, trained to take judicious care of -their white India muslin frocks, the spare dimensions of which -contrasted oddly enough with Clary’s voluminous little skirts and flush -of ribbons. Clary was like a little rose, with lovely rounded cheeks and -limbs like her mother, dimpled to the very finger-points, while Di and -Emmy, though by no means deficient in good looks, were made up quite -after Miss Polly’s own model, in a taste which was somewhat severe for -their years. Johnnie Harley veiled himself behind these little maidens -till we were safely settled in the room. He was twenty, poor fellow, and -did not know what was to become of him. He was sometimes very -melancholy, and sometimes very gay; he was in rather a doubtful mood -to-night. - -“Look here, Mrs. Crofton,” he said, drawing me shyly aside. “I’ve put -this one in a famous light--do tell me if you like it. I did it -myself.” - -I looked, of course, to please him. It was a pretty view of my own house -at Estcourt, with the orphan children who lived there playing on the -terrace--very pretty, and very minute--so clear that I fancied I could -recognize the children. It pleased me mightily. - -“_You_ did it, Johnnie,” cried I, much gratified. “I am very much -pleased; but I never knew you were a ‘photographic artist’ before.” - -“No more I was,” said Johnnie, who rather affected a little roughness of -speech, “till they got me a camera the other day. Of course I know it -was Alice, and that somehow or other she’s spared it off herself. Do you -know whether there’s anything she ought to have had that she hasn’t, -Mrs. Crofton? One can never find Alice out. She doesn’t go when she’s -made a sacrifice for you and keep hinting and hinting to let you know, -as some people do; but look here--isn’t it horrible to think I’m grown -up and yet have to stay at home like a girl, and can’t do anything. Now -that I’m able to do these slides, I’d give my ears if I could sell them. -I’d go and stand in the market at Simonborough. But of course it’s no -use speaking. Don’t you think, Mrs. Crofton, that there’s surely -something in the world that could be done by a cripple like me?” - -“I have no doubt a dozen things,” said I, boldly; “but have a little -patience, Johnnie. Maurice is ten years older than you are, and he does -nothing that I can see. Besides, it is holiday time--I forbid you to -think of anything but the new camera to-night. Is it a good one? What a -pleasure it must be for all of you,” I continued, looking once more into -the stereoscope, where, most singular of optical delusions, I certainly -saw a pretty new winter bonnet, the back of which, in the wardrobe of -Alice, I had already made a memorandum of, floating over the picture of -my old house. - -“Ah,” said Johnnie, with a sigh, “if I were a fellow like Maurice!--but -here, Di, you have not seen this,” he added, transferring another slide -into that wooden box. Grave little Di looked at it, and summoned her -sister with a little scream of delight. - -“It’s Miss Harley and Baby Sedgwick,” said Di, “and I do believe if any -one was little enough they could go round behind her in the picture. Oh! -let me tell Derwent and Clara, Mr. John!” - -Mr. John was very graciously pleased to exhibit his handiwork to any -number of spectators, and shortly we all gathered round the -stereoscope. Alice stood looking on very demurely, while we were -examining her in that pretty peep-show; she listened to all the usual -observations with due calm, while Johnnie, quite in a flush of pleasure, -produced the pictures, at which I understood afterwards the poor youth -had been working all day long, one by one out of the box. - -“My love,” said Miss Polly, in a mild aside, “I’d like to see you just -so in a house of your own, my dear.” - -Alice colored slightly; very slightly--it was against her principles to -blush--and made no answer, except a slight shake of her head. - -“Such a sweet baby,” said Miss Reredos, “I think one might bear anything -for such a darling! Oh, don’t you think so, Miss Harley? I think it’s so -unnatural for a lady not to love children. I think if dear Clement had -but a family I should be so happy.” - -“But, dear, shouldn’t you be happier,” said Clara, opening her bright -eyes a little wider, with a laughing humor which now-a-days that young -lady permitted herself to exercise pretty freely, “if you had a family -of your own?” - -“Oh! Mrs. Sedgwick, how can you speak so? I am so glad the gentlemen are -not here,” said the Rector’s sister. Alice stood looking at her with a -half vexed, half amused expression. Alice was a little afraid for the -honor of (most frightful of phrases!) her sex. - -“As for Alice,” said Clara, laughing, “do you know she thinks it rather -improper to be married? She would not allow she cared for anybody, not -for the world.” - -“I think women ought to be very careful,” said Alice, responding -instantly to the challenge with a little flush and start; “I think there -are very few men in the world worthy of being loved. Yes, I do think so, -whatever you choose to say. They’re well enough for their trades, but -they’re not good enough to have a woman’s heart for a plaything. Of -course there may be some--I do not deny that; but I never”---- - -Here Alice paused--perhaps she was going to tell a fib--perhaps -conscience stopped her--I will not guess; but Clara clapped her hands in -triumph. - -“Ah, but if you did ever,” said Clara, laughing, “would you marry _him_, -Alice?” - -“If he asked me it is very likely I should,” said Alice, with great -composure; “but not for a house of my own, as Miss Polly says--nor for -fun, like some other people.” - -“My love, it’s very natural to like a house of one’s own,” said Miss -Polly, with a little sigh. “I don’t mind saying it now that I am so old: -once in my life I almost think I would have married for a home--not for -a living, remember, Alice--but for a place and people that should belong -to me, and not to another--that’s what one wishes for, you know; but I -never talked about it either now or then; my dear, I wouldn’t if I were -you.” - -At this address Alice blushed crimson--blushed up to the hair, and -patted her foot upon the ground in a very impatient, not to say angry, -way. She cast a somewhat indignant side-look at me, to express her -conviction that I was at the bottom of this, and had suggested the mild -condemnation of Miss Polly--which, so far as agreeing thoroughly in her -sentiments went, I confess I might have done. Then Alice went off -abruptly to the piano, and began playing to the children, who gathered -round her; before long her voice was pleasantly audible in one of those -immemorial songs with a fox or a robin for a hero, which always delight -children; and when the song was finished there ensued as pretty a scene -as I have ever looked at. Clara gathered the children in a ring, which -danced round and round, with a dazzle of little rosebud faces, flying -white frocks and ribbons, to Alice’s accompaniment. Such scenes I have -no doubt were of nightly occurrence in the big, grand drawing-room at -Waterflag Hall; and little Derwie took his part so heartily, and joined -in the chant with which they went round with lungs and will so -unmistakable, that, for my part, I was quite captivated. Miss Polly and -I sat down to watch them. Little Di, too shy and too big to join them, -being twelve years old and a grandmother among these babes, stood -wistfully behind us, envying Emmy, who was only ten and a half, and “not -too old for such a game.” Di, a long way older and graver than Mrs. -Clare, stood nodding and smiling to encourage her little sister every -time she whisked past. Miss Reredos behind us was examining Johnnie’s -pictures and talking sentiment in a soft half-whisper to that -defenceless boy, while Miss Polly and I sat on a sofa together, looking -on. - -“It is strange,” said Miss Polly, “but yet I’m sure I am very glad. I -thought of asking you, Clare, whether anything had occurred to disturb -that dear girl? I don’t like when I hear young women talk like that, my -dear--it looks to me as if they had something on their mind, you know. -Once I thought there might perhaps be something between Bertie Nugent -and Alice--that would have been a very nice match; but somehow these -nice matches never come about--at least, not without a deal of trouble; -and I suppose it was nothing but an old woman’s fancy, Clare.” - -“I suppose not, indeed,” said I, rather ruefully, looking at that -prettiest spectacle before me, and recognizing, as by intuition, that -Mr. Reredos had just come in, and was standing at the door in a glow of -delight and approbation, looking at Alice, and deciding not to delay his -proposal for an hour longer than it should be absolutely necessary to -keep silent. Ah, me! there was some hope for us in Alice’s philosophical -moods; but when she played to her little nieces and nephews in that -shockingly happy, careless, and easy manner, I was in despair. - -“It’s very sad when people won’t see what’s most for their advantage,” -said Miss Polly, with a ghost of humor in her pale old face. “I daresay, -Clare, my dear, Bertie’s just as happy. I heard from Lady Greenfield the -other day--one of _her letters_, you know--that the dear boy was getting -on very well, but breaking his heart to get home that he might go to the -Crimea to the war.” - -“So he tells me,” said I, “but I rather think I am very glad he has not -the chance of dying on that dreadful hill.” - -“My dear, that’s very true,” said Miss Polly; “one faints at the thought -of it, to be sure, for one’s own; but if I could be -philosophical--which--dear, dear, it isn’t to be expected from an old -woman! I’d say it was wrong to be sorry for the dear young creatures, -God bless them! Think what they’re spared, my dear child. I don’t know -but what it’s a great saving of the labor and the sorrow when they die -young.” - -“Miss Polly, this is not like you,” I cried in surprise. - -“Perhaps it isn’t; but, dear, we’re always learning something,” said -Miss Polly; “there’s Elinor now, and poor Emmy, the unfortunate little -soul! but hush, here’s your new rector coming--I’ll tell you another -time.” - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -“I am surprised,” said Mr. Reredos, as he drank his coffee beside me, -“to hear from Mr. Maurice Harley that he’s not in orders. I really felt -so sure that he must be that I did not think of asking. He’s had his -fellowship this long time, has not he? and really a clergyman’s son, and -with the excellent connections he has--I am surprised!” - -“Ah, so is everybody,” said Miss Polly, significantly. Miss Polly was an -old-fashioned woman, and had little sympathy with those delicate -conscientious scruples which kept our friend Maurice out of the Church. - -“My dear,” continued Miss Polly, turning aside to me, with some energy, -as Mr. Reredos, always polite, took her empty cup from her, “I could -believe in it if he were doing anything or thinking of doing anything; -but if you’ll believe me, Clare, it’s nothing but idleness--that’s what -it is. When a young man’s idle, if he doesn’t fall in love with the -first girl he meets, he falls in love with himself, which is a deal -worse. The Rector here will be trying to help Maurice out of his doubts, -I shouldn’t wonder. His doubts, indeed! If he lost his fellowship and -had to work hard for his living, I shouldn’t be afraid of his doubts, -for my part.” - -“Well,” said I, “but if the loss of his fellowship dispersed poor -Maurice’s dilettante scepticism, and forced him into orders, it might be -better for himself, Miss Polly, but I doubt if it would be better for -the Church. When his conscience keeps him outside, we have no reason to -find fault, but if he came in against his conscience----” - -“Conscience! stuff!” said Miss Polly, with some heat. “Child, that’s not -what I meant. I meant--for being his father’s and mother’s son I can’t -think he’s a bad boy at the bottom--I meant a little trouble and -fighting would soon put those idle vagaries out of his head. Now, Mr. -Reredos, mind you don’t go and argue with Maurice Harley. I’m an old -woman, and I’ve seen such before, many’s the time. Wait till he’s got -something to do and something to bear in this world, as he’s sure to -have, sooner or later. Ah, Life’s a wonderful teacher! When a man sits -among his books, or a woman at her needle--and there isn’t such a great -difference as you might suppose--they get mazing themselves with all -kinds of foolish questions, and think themselves very grand too for -doing it; but only wait till they find out what God means them to do and -to put up with in this world--it makes a deal of difference, Clare.” - -“Miss Polly, you are a philosopher, and we never knew it!” said I, while -Mr. Reredos stood looking on, much annoyed, and in no small degree -contemptuous of the pale old woman who took upon her to direct so -perfect a person as himself--for Mr. Reredos was not unlike Maurice -Harley, though after his different fashion; he thought he could do a -great deal with his wisdom and his words. - -“I am not a philosopher; but I have been alone with the dear children -since my niece Emmy left me,” said Miss Polly, “and not so able to stir -about as I once was; and you know, my dear, one can’t say out everything -in one’s mind to children at their age; so, somehow the thoughts come up -as if I had been gathering them all my life, and never had time to look -at them before.” - -“I suspect that is how most of the thoughts that are worth remembering -do come,” said I. Mr. Reredos did not say anything. He stood, with a -faint smile on his lip, which he did not mean us to suspect, much less -understand--and while he bent his handsome head towards the mistress of -the house, gravely attentive, as it was his duty to be, his eyes turned -towards Maurice and Alice Harley. Did not I know well enough what was in -his mind? He thought we were a couple of old women dozing over our slow -experiences. He was still in the world where words and looks produce -unspeakable results, and where the chance of a moment determines a life. -His eyes turned to those other young people who, like himself, were -speculating upon all manner of questions--he would not laugh at us, but -a faint gleam of criticism and superiority just brightened upon his lip. -I liked him none the worse, for my own part. - -“This reads like a Newdigate,” said Maurice Harley. “I suppose Sedgwick -brought the book to you, Clara, for a sugar-plum. Listen, how sweetly -pretty! These prize poets are really too delicious for anything.” - -“You had better write a poem yourself, Maurice, and show what you can -do,” cried the indignant Clara; “it is so grand to be a critic, and so -easy! Nobody can write to please you, nobody can speak to please you--I -should just like to see you do something yourself, Maurice, that we -could criticise as well.” - -Maurice laughed, poising in his hand the pretty new poetry-book which -Mr. Sedgwick had brought down from London to his wife. He looked so -superior and so triumphant, that even his grave brother-in-law was -provoked. - -“Maurice is not so foolish,” said Mr. Sedgwick, “as long as he doesn’t -_do_ anything he may be a Shakespeare for anything we know. You girls -may worship him as such now, if you please--there he sits quite ready to -receive your homage; but if he really ventured into print, Maurice would -be only Maurice Harley--just himself, like the rest of us--might even -find a critic in his turn, as such is the fate of mortals. No, no, you -may be sure Maurice won’t commit himself; he’s a great deal too wise for -that.” - -Maurice laughed a somewhat constrained laugh, and coloured slightly. -Perhaps a touch of conscience made Mr. Sedgwick’s sarcasm tell--he threw -down the book with a little petulance. - -“Far be it from me to object to Clara’s tastes. Thanks to my sisters, I -know pretty well what young ladies like in the shape of poetry,” said -Maurice; “they all admire the Newdigates. There was a time when I found -Alice in tears over one of these distinguished poems--and that not so -very many years ago.” - -“Oh! don’t be so dreadfully satirical!” said Miss Reredos, who was -beginning to tire of Johnnie and his stereoscope. “I am sure that year -that mamma and I went to Commemoration with Clement there was the -sweetest thing imaginable--and so charmingly read too--and I have a copy -of it now; but, oh! I know why Mr. Harley does not like the Newdigate,” -cried the Rector’s sister, clasping her soft hands, “he’s a Cambridge -man!” - -“Exactly,” said Maurice, recovering himself at once, for he was quite -disposed to take Miss Reredos for his antagonist; “you know the jealousy -which exists between us. Your brother and I preserve an outside -appearance of civility, out of respect to Mrs. Crofton and the presence -of the ladies, but nobody can doubt for a moment how we hate each other -in our hearts.” - -“I say, do you though?” cried the small voice, down at Maurice Harley’s -elbow, of my son Derwie, who was, unluckily, at that moment advancing -with the rest of the little troop to say good-night. “Do you hate the -Rector, Maurice?--he’s the clergyman, you know--he can’t do anything -wrong; so _he_ can’t hate _you_--why do you hate him?--is he cleverer -than you are? Stand up a moment, please--I don’t think he’s quite as -tall.” - -This interruption Derwent made with the most perfect sincerity and -earnestness, unconsciously guessing at the only reasons which could make -a person so accomplished as Maurice Harley hate anybody. Everybody -laughed except the individual questioned, who shot a glance of wrath at -my boy, and eyed Mr. Reredos with a sort of contemptuous inquiry. Could -any one, even a child, imagine the new rector to be cleverer than the -ineffable Maurice? He sank down again in the chair from which Derwie had -dragged him, laughing with a very bad grace. Then all the broken -currents of talk going on in the room, suffered a little ebb and pause. -Little rosy faces clustered close about Clara Sedgwick, about Alice and -myself, and old Miss Polly, holding up rose-lips full of kisses. Mr. -Crofton shook hands with Derwie, and turned him off with an affectionate -grasp upon his shoulders, declaring, with a fondness beyond caresses, -that he was too old to be kissed. Then we all paused, looking after them -as they trooped out of the room. Miss Reredos, full of something clever -to say in the way of an attack upon Maurice--Maurice himself too -self-conscious to be diverted by that pretty procession, and Johnnie, -who was hanging over his stereoscope, and following the Rector’s sister -with his eyes, were the only persons in the room who did not watch with -a smile and an increased warmth at heart these beautiful children -disappearing, one by one, from the door. Mr. Reredos’s face shone, and -he cast sidelong glances at Alice. He was young, in his first romance of -love, not yet spoken. His heart was moved in him with an unconscious -blessing to the children; visions of a house of his own, musical with -such voices, stole into the Rector’s soul--I could see it in his face. - -And was it to be so? There was no side glance from the eyes of Alice, -reciprocating those of Mr. Reredos--no consciousness, as she stood by -the table watching the children, of any future such as that which -sparkled in the young Rector’s eyes. She stood calmly watching them, -nodding and smiling to Derwent, and her little niece Clary, who, hand in -hand, were the last to leave the room--the maiden aunt, only a little -more independent of the children than their mother--almost as much -beloved by them--the young, unmarried woman, gravely cogitating the -necessities of her class of age, and feeling much superior to the -vanities of love-making, without a single palpitation in her of the -future bride, the possible mother. So, at least, it seemed. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -That evening--it was the first of her visit to Hilfont, and a perfectly -natural thing, considering the long affection between us--I paid Alice a -long visit in her own room. I might have done so, even if I had been -conscious of nothing to inquire about, nothing to suggest. It was rather -late when we all came up-stairs, and when I had seen Miss Polly safely -established in her easy chair by her fire, and eluded as well as I could -the story about Elinor’s (to wit, Lady Greenfield, Sir Willoughby’s -wife, once Mrs. Herbert Nugent, my cousin, and Bertie’s aunt) letter--I -turned back to the bright chamber near my own, which was always called -Miss Harley’s room. Alice was sitting rather listlessly by the table, -reading. She looked tired, and did not seem overmuch to enjoy her book. -She was very glad to see me come in, and, I suspect, to be delivered -from her own thoughts, which it was clear enough she could not quite -exorcise by means of literature; for it was not a novel, which there is -some hope in, but a wisdom-book, much esteemed by the superior -classes--one of those books which, if it has any power at all, excites -one into contradiction, by conclusions about human nature in general, -which we can all form our own opinions upon. I suspect Alice could not -keep her attention to it, hard though she tried. - -When we had talked over indifferent matters for some time, my curiosity, -which I might have dignified with the title of anxiety, too, roused me -to closer inquiries than, perhaps, were quite justifiable. I knew that -after Mr. Reredos had spoken--unless, indeed, he happened to be -accepted--Alice’s lips were closed for ever on the subject, so I -wickedly took advantage of my opportunities. - -“Perhaps ere long I shall have to congratulate you,” said I, “and you -may be sure it would be a great matter for me to have you so very near. -We should make famous neighbors, Alice, don’t you think? I may well be -anxious about your decision, my dear, for my own sake.” - -“Mrs. Crofton, I do not understand you,” said Alice, in a little dismay, -looking very curiously and wistfully in my face; then, after a little -pause, a deep color suffused her cheeks, she started, and moved her hand -impatiently upon the table, as if in sudden passion with herself, and -then added, coldly, with an inexpressible self-restraint and subdued -bitterness, which it was hard to understand: “Pray tell me what you -mean?” - -The contrast of her tone, so suddenly chilled and formal, with the -burning color and subdued agitation of her face, struck me wonderfully. -“My dear child,” said I, “I have no right to ask--I don’t want to -interfere--but you are sure to have this question submitted to you, -Alice, and can’t be ignorant of that now, that it has come so far. -Cannot you think what I mean?” - -Alice paused a moment, then she cast rather a defiant glance at me, and -answered, proudly: “If any one has been forming foolish plans about me, -Mrs. Crofton, the responsibility is not mine--I know I am not to blame.” - -“That may be very true,” said I, “but I am not speaking of -responsibility. Don’t you think, dear, that this is important enough to -be taken into consideration without any impatience of personal feeling? -Deciding one’s life by the ordeal of marriage is a human necessity it -appears. You are a clergyman’s daughter--no way could you fill a better -or more congenial place than as a clergyman’s wife. If I were you I -should not conclude at once, because, perhaps, in the meantime, of your -own accord, you have not quite fallen in desperate love with your -lover. My dear, you think I am dreadfully common-place, but I cannot -help it. Think, Alice!--you want a life for yourself--a house belonging -to you, and you only--you do! Don’t say no--everybody does; think! Won’t -you take all this into consideration before you decide?” - -“Because I am going to have ‘an offer,’ and perhaps I never may have -another--because I am not so young now as to be able to throw away my -chances--and it is _you_ who say so!” cried Alice, throwing at me an -angry, bitter, scornful glance. Perhaps, if she had yielded more to my -arguments, I might have found it harder than I did now. - -“You humiliate me,” she cried again: “if I want a life of my own, I want -to make it myself; a house of my own?--no I have no ambition for that.” - -“But you falter a little when you say so,” said I, taking cruel -advantage of her weakness. “Now, we are not going to discuss the -disabilities of women. It is just as impossible for an unmarried man to -have what I call a house of his own as it is for you; and as for the -privilege of choice--good lack, good lack! much use it seems about to be -to poor Mr. Reredos! My dear child, don’t be foolish--there is your -brother Maurice with the most complete of educations, and no lack of -power to make use of it. What is he going to do with himself? Where are -the great advantages he has over his sister? _I_ can’t see them. But no, -that’s not the question. The Rector is a good man; he is young, he is -well off; he is agreeable. Your dearest friend could not choose a more -suitable life for you than that you would have at the Hilfont Rectory. -Now, Alice, think. Are you going to make up your mind to throw away all -this, and a good man’s happiness besides?” - -“Oh, Mrs. Crofton! Mrs. Crofton! and it is you who say so!” said poor -Alice, with looks which certainly must have consumed me had I been of -combustible material--“this is from you!” - -“And why not, my dear?” said I, meekly. “Am not I next to your mother, -Alice?--next oldest friend?--and next interested in your welfare?” - -“If you mean that you have a right to say anything you please to me,” -said Alice, seizing my hand and kissing it in a quick revulsion of -feeling, “it is true to the very farthest that you choose to stretch it; -but that is not what you mean. Oh, dear Mrs. Crofton!” said the poor -girl with a rising blush and a certain solemn indignation wonderful to -me--“I can only say it again; of all persons in the world that I should -have had such words from _you_!” - -With which exclamation she suddenly cast a guilty, startled look upon me -as if she had betrayed something and hid her face in her hands. How did -she know what was in my heart?--how could she tell that I was arguing -against my own dear and long-cherished plans, which I had made it a -point of honor never to hint in the remotest manner to her? But here we -approached the region where another word was impossible. She would not -have uttered a syllable of explanation for her life--I dared not, if I -meant to have any comfort in mine; I said nothing to her by which it was -possible to infer that I understood what she meant. I absolutely slurred -over the whole question--here we had reached the bound. - -“Well, dear,” said I, “don’t distress yourself so very much about -it--you must decide according to your own will and not to mine; only do -think it over again in the fresh morning before the Rector gets an -opportunity of speaking to you. Good night, Alice--don’t sit reading, -but go to sleep!” - -She raised her face to me, and leant her cheek a little more than was -quite needful against mine as I kissed her--and so we parted without -another word between us. Possibly, we women talk a great deal on most -occasions; sometimes, however, we show a singular faculty for keeping -silent. Next morning, Alice and I met each other as if we had never -spoken a word which all the world might not hear. We interchanged no -confidences, looked no looks of private understanding. Indeed, surely -nothing _had_ passed between us--all the world might have listened and -been none the wiser. What had a momentary emphasis, a sudden look to do -with the matter? Alice spoke nothing but her usual sentiments, and I did -not say a word inconsistent with mine. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - -The next morning was Easter Sunday. I have no doubt Mr. Reredos would -have been glad enough to add a private joy of his own to the rejoicings -of the festival, and might not have thought it unsuitable to declare -himself even on that morning could he have had a chance. However, there -was not very much time before Church hours, and to be sure the Rector -ought to have been thinking of something else. It was a true Easter -morning, full of sunshine and that new life of spring born out of death -and darkness which to every heart must bear a certain charm. Is it -something of a compensation to the sorrowful that all the wonderful -silent symbols of Nature speak to them with a special force which does -not belong to the happy? We were all dwelling at ease, people -untroubled--our hearts were glad in the sunshine, which to us looked -like a promise of permanence and peace unclouded. Only far off with an -apprehension of the thoughts, and not of the heart, did the meaning of -the feast which we were keeping occur to us. To Derwent and myself this -was perhaps the happiest time of our lives. Perhaps to us the -Resurrection was little more than an article of belief--I think we thus -paid something for our happiness. At all events it did not jar upon us -to perceive a certain agitation in the Rector’s tones--a certain -catching of his breath in the little pleasant sermon, not without some -small sentences in it specially meant for the ear of Alice, but -perfectly “suited to the occasion,” which Mr. Reredos delivered. -Everybody was very attentive, save Maurice Harley. Maurice had some -liberal and lofty objections to the Athanasian creed; he sat down and -amused himself reading the Gunpowder Plot Service with secret smiles of -criticism, while his neighbors round him murmured forth with a universal -rustic voice that strenuous confession of the faith--and he sketched a -bracket (we were rather proud of our Church) while Mr. Reredos preached -his sermon, and comported himself generally as a highly superior man, -attending Church out of complacency to his friends, might be expected to -do. - -Next day I fear Mr. Reredos ascertained beyond question what he had to -expect from Alice Harley. With a look of stormy agitation, strongly -restrained, he let me know on the Monday that it was quite necessary -for him to return to the Rectory. He had some sick people to attend to, -who demanded his presence in his own house. I did not say that there was -only half a mile of distance between the Rectory and the Hall--I -acquiesced in his explanations, and accepted his apologies. Miss -Reredos, however, was much more difficult to manage. I heard him tell -her in a low tone that she must get ready to go; and the young lady’s -answer of astonishment, and resistance, and total ignorance of any -reason why her pleasure should be balked, was audible enough to -everybody in the room. - -“Go away! Leave Hilfont!” she exclaimed with a gasp of amazement. “Why -should we go away? Mrs. Crofton was good enough to ask us for a week, -and I am sure you could do your duty quite as well here as at the -Rectory. Oh, please, Mrs. Crofton, listen! The only sick people I know -of are that old man at the turnpike, and his blind daughter--he could -visit them quite as well going from Hilfont as from the Rectory. I -believe this is the nearest of the two.” - -“Oh, but Mr. Williams from the little chapel goes to see old Johnnie -Dunn,” interrupted little Derwie; “he was there yesterday, and Martha’s -quite well now, and goes to chapel like anything. Miss Reredos, do you -know Martha wasn’t always blind? she used to work and make dresses when -she was young. Once she lived in Simonborough and learned her trade, and -I suppose it was there she learned to go to chapel. Martha says they’re -not Church-folks at all. I don’t think they want Mr. Reredos to go -there.” - -“You’re not very complimentary, Derwie,” said the Rector, with a slight -quiver of his lip, which I recognized as a sign of the passion and deep -excitement in which he was. With that wild pain and mortification -tugging at his heart, it would have been a relief to him to burst out in -an ebulition of rage or impatience against somebody, and I instinctively -put out my hand to protect my boy. “But it is sometimes my duty to go -where they don’t want me,” he added, with a laugh as significant, “and -with many regrets and many thanks to Mrs. Crofton we must still go back -to-day. Laura, get ready, please.” - -In pity for the unfortunate Rector, who, I saw, longed to escape from -the room, the inquisitive looks of Mrs. Clara, who was present, and the -distinct statement from Derwie, which I knew to be impending, to the -effect, that of his own certain knowledge nobody was ill in the -village, I interposed, and we made a compromise--the Rector left us and -his sister stayed. Miss Reredos was profoundly pleased with the -arrangement. Perhaps her dear Clement did not confide to her his private -reasons for so hasty a return, and I am not sure that she was not quite -as well satisfied with his absence, which might have possibly spoiled -her own particular sport--or interfered with it at least. So he went -away with a certain impetus and haste upon him--his romance come to an -effectual end, and his sensations somewhat bitter. He was not -lackadaisical, but savage, as men are under their mortifications when -they are no longer in their first youth. I daresay, if one could have -read his thoughts, there were ferocious denunciations there against the -women who beguile a man to commit himself so fatally, which would have -been very unjust to poor Alice. I am afraid it is very cold-hearted of -me to speak so lightly of a serious disappointment, which this certainly -was to Mr. Reredos. I have no doubt he was really unhappy; but I thought -it a good symptom that the unhappiness took a savage turn. - -Miss Reredos left behind, pursued, as I have said, her own sport. She -was prettier than I thought her at first--she had a little of that -teasing wit which clever young ladies exercise upon attractive young -men, and she had a strong sentimental reserve, much more in keeping with -her pale complexion and black ringlets than the lighter mood. A couple -of days had not passed over us before we all perceived that the poor -lame boy, Johnnie Harley, was hopelessly taken in her toils. Just at -first nobody had paid particular attention to the intercourse between -these two. It was very kind of Miss Reredos to talk to the unfortunate -young man, and interest herself about his pictures, and listen to his -dreams; and so wonderful a prominence has one’s actual self to one’s own -eyes, however unselfish, that I believe Alice was quite of opinion that -Miss Reredos, expecting to be connected with the family by-and-by, was -paying all these friendly attentions to Johnnie by way of conciliating -herself. Nothing could be further from the intentions of the Rector’s -sister. She was strongly of opinion that each man for himself was the -most satisfactory rule, and being possessed of that spirit of conquest -which some women have by nature, commenced her operations from the -moment of entering the house. I do not think she could help it, poor -girl--it was natural to her. There were in Hilfont only two persons -accessible to her charms--Maurice, in every way an eligible victim, and -poor cripple Johnnie, to whom, one could have supposed, not even a -coquettish girl at a loss for a prey, would have had the heart to offer -her sweet poison. But the heart, I fear, has little to do with such -concerns, and almost before the suspicions of the other women of the -party, from myself downward, were awakened, the mischief was done. Miss -Reredos, we had no difficulty in perceiving, had set her heart upon the -subjugation of Maurice, whether for any personal reason, or for sport, -or as a means of retaliation, it was difficult to tell; and really I was -not in the least concerned about the peace of mind of the Fellow of -Exeter. But Johnnie! we all rose up together to his defence, with secret -vows of self-devotion. All the women of us guarded him about, shielding -his little table and his stereoscope from the approach of the -enemy--even Di, tall, timid, and twelve years old, stood by the lad with -a natural instinct. But we were too late. He answered Miss Polly, I -fear, rather sharply, turned his back upon myself, and gave Mrs. Clara a -brotherly push away from him. He wanted none of us--he wanted only the -Siren who was charming the poor boy among such rocks and quicksands as -his frail boat had never yet ventured upon. When Miss Reredos addressed -herself to Maurice, his unfortunate brother turned savage looks upon -that all-accomplished young man. In our first indignation we were all -rather cold to Miss Reredos, and Johnnie, quick-sighted as his -infirmities helped to make him, perceived it in a moment, and resented -the neglect, which of course he attributed to our envy of her -perfections. Then we tried artifice instead, and Clara, sister of the -victim, got up a very warm sudden regard for the enchantress, whose -opinion she sought upon everything; but this Miss Reredos speedily -discovered, exposed, and exulted in; there was no help for it--the -damage which was done, was done, and could not be repaired. - -Meanwhile the flirtation with Maurice did not advance so -satisfactorily--he was so much accustomed to admire himself, that the -habit of admiring another came slowly to him; and then, as Miss Reredos -took the initiative, and did not spare to be cleverly rude to the young -man, he, taking advantage of his privileges, was cleverly rude to her in -reply, from which fashionable mode of beginning, they advanced by -degrees to closer friendship, or, at least, familiarity of address. -Alice looked on at all this with the most solemn disapproval--it was -amusing to see the dead gravity of her glances towards them, the tacit -displeasure, and shame, and resentment on account of “her sex!” Poor -Alice took the responsibility on her own shoulders; she watched the -levity of the other girl, who did not resemble herself in a single -particular, with a solemn sense of being involved in it, which struck me -as the oddest comicality I had seen. Could anybody suppose Maurice -Harley concerned about another man’s shortcomings, only because the -culprit was a man, and one of his own _sex_? If it had not been so -entirely true and sincere, it would have been absurd--this championship -of Alice; only women ever dream of such an _esprit de corps_--but she -maintained it with such absolute good faith and solemn gravity, that -while one laughed one loved her the better. There she sat, severe in her -youthful virtue, gravely believing herself old, and past the period of -youth, but in her heart as high-flying, as obstinate, as heroical as if -she were seventeen. Mrs. Clara knew nothing of that romance; perhaps -there are delicate touches of feminine character, which only show -themselves to perfection in the “unmarried woman”--the woman who has -come to maturity without having the closer claims of husband and -children to charm her out of her thoughts and theories--though it is -only in a very gracious subject that such an example as Alice Harley -could be produced. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - - -“Well, really!” said little Mrs. Sedgwick, bridling with offended -virtue, “I don’t think I am very hard upon a little innocent -flirting--sometimes, you know, there’s no harm in it--and young people -will amuse themselves; but _really_, Mrs. Crofton, _that_ Miss Reredos -is quite ridiculous. I do wonder for my part how men can be so taken -in!--and our Maurice who is so clever!--and she is not even pretty--if -she had been pretty one could have understood.” - -“My dear Clara,” said I, “perhaps it is not very complimentary to your -brother, but I do think the most sensible thing Maurice could do would -be to fall in love. I don’t say of course with Miss Reredos; but then, -you see, we can’t choose the person. If he fell desperately in love and -made a fool of himself, I am sure I should not think any worse of him, -and it would do him no harm.” - -Both the sisters drew up their shoulders a little, and communicated -between each other a telegraphic glance of displeasure. Between -themselves they could be hard enough upon Maurice, but, after the use of -kinsfolk, could not bear the touch of a stranger. - -“Really, I cannot say I should be very grateful to Maurice for such a -sister-in-law,” said Clara, with a toss of her head. - -“I don’t think there is very much to fear,” said Miss Polly. “Do you -know what little Derwie told me yesterday? He said a poor woman in the -village had three or four children ill with the hooping-cough--at least -so I understood the child from the sound he made to show me what it was. -Now, I really think if I were you, Clare, I would not let that child -wander so much about the village. Neither Di nor Emmy has ever had -hooping-cough, and I shall be almost frightened to let them go out of -doors.” - -“Oh, I assure you it’s nothing, Miss Polly!” cried Clara--“mine had it -two years ago--even the baby--and took their walks just the same in all -weathers; and they must have it one time or other, you know--and such -great girls as your two nieces! Our children all got over it perfectly -well. Though Hugh says I am ridiculously timid, I never was the least -afraid. Their chests were rubbed every night, and they had something -which Hugh said it was polite to call medicine. Oh, I assure you -there’s nothing to be at all afraid of! especially at this time of the -year.” - -“I daresay that’s very true, my dear,” said Miss Polly, who took little -Clara’s nursery instructions and assurances in very good part, “but it -isn’t always so. There’s my poor little nephew, little Willoughby--dear, -dear! to think what a strong man his father is, and how delicate that -poor child looks! I can’t help thinking sometimes it must be his -mother’s fault; though to be sure they have the best of nurses, and Lady -Greenfield can’t be expected to make a slave of herself; that poor dear -little soul was very ill with the hooping-cough. Clara--all children are -not so fortunate as your pretty darlings; and that reminds me, Clare, -that you have never seen Elinor’s letter yet; she mentions her nephew in -it, as I think I told you; so, though it’s almost all about Emmy, my -dear children’s mother, if you’ll wait a minute I’ll just bring it -down.” - -Saying which Miss Polly left the room. Alice sat rather stiffly at her -work and looked very busy--so very busy that I was suspicious of some -small gleam of interest on her part touching the contents of Lady -Greenfield’s letter. - -“Miss Polly does not love Lady Greenfield too much,” said Clara, -laughing; “but,” she added, with a little flush of angry anticipation, -“it’s nothing to laugh at after all. Suppose Maurice were to marry Miss -Reredos! Oh, Mrs. Crofton, isn’t it shocking of you to put such dreadful -thoughts in one’s head! Fancy, Alice! and to settle down hereabout--to -be near us!--I am sure I could never be civil to her: and what do you -suppose mamma would say?” - -“Maurice has nothing but his fellowship,” said Alice. - -“Well, to be sure, that is some comfort,” said Clara; “but then I -daresay he might get a living if he tried, and Hugh could even”---- - -Here Miss Polly came in with her letter, so we did not hear at that -moment what could be done by Hugh, who, in the eyes of his little wife, -was happily a person all-powerful. - -“My dear,” said Miss Polly, laying down the letter in her lap, and -making a little preliminary lecture in explanation, “you remember that -Emmy, my niece, two years ago, married again. Well, you know, one -couldn’t well blame her. She was only one and twenty, poor little soul, -when she was left with these two children; and I was but too glad to -keep the little girls with me, so she was quite what people call without -encumbrance, you see. So she married that curate whom she had met at -Fenosier. Well, it’s no use disguising it--Lady Greenfield and I are -perhaps not such great friends as we ought to be, and Emmy has a temper -of her own, and is just the weak-minded sort of little soul that will -worry herself to death over those slights and annoyances that good near -neighbors can do to each other--she ought to know better, after all -she’s gone through. So here’s a letter from Elinor, telling me, of -course, she’s as innocent as the day, and knows nothing about it--and so -sorry for poor dear little Emmy--and so good and sweet-tempered herself, -that really, if I were as near to her as Emmy is, I do believe I should -do her a mischief. There’s the letter, Clare; you can read that part -about Bertie out aloud if you please--perhaps the girls might like to -hear it.” - -With which, shaking off a little heat of exasperation which had gathered -about her, Miss Polly resumed her usual work and placidity. I confess it -was not without a smile I read Lady Greenfield’s letter. I fortunately -was under no temptations of the kind myself. If I had been, I daresay, I -should have turned out exactly like my neighbors; but the spectators of -a domestic squabble or successful piece of neighborly oppression and -tyranny always see the ludicrous side of it, and I could understand my -lady’s mild malice and certainty of not being to blame, so well. It -appeared that the poor little Emmy, completely overpowered by Lady -Greenfield’s neighborly attentions, had in her turn worried her curate, -and that the result of their united efforts was the withdrawal of the -young clergyman, who did not feel himself able to cope with my lady at -the Hall and his own exasperated little wife in the cottage, which -unlooked-for result Lady Greenfield took the earliest opportunity of -communicating to her dear Polly, with condolences over Emmy’s want of -spirit and weak propensity, poor child!--to see neglect and slight where -nothing of the kind was meant. I was so long getting over this, that, -having heard from him recently myself, I did not make the haste I might -have done to read what Lady Greenfield had to say about Bertie. I was -reminded of this by seeing suddenly over the top of the letter a slight, -quick movement made by Alice. It was only the most common change of -position--nothing could be more natural; but there was a certain -indescribable something of impatience and suspense in it which I -comprehended by a sudden instinct. I stumbled immediately down to the -paragraph about Bertie: - -“Pray tell Clare Crofton,” wrote Lady Greenfield, “in case she should -not have heard from Bertie lately--which is very likely, for young men I -know don’t always keep up their correspondences as they ought, -especially with elderly female relations, like dear Clare and -myself--that I had a letter from my nephew by the last mail. He has not -done yet lamenting that he could not get home and go to the Crimea, but -says his old brigadier is suspicious of the Native army, and prophesies -that there will be some commotion among them, which Bertie thinks will -be great fun, and that a thorough cutting down would do these pampered -fellows all the good in the world: so he says, you know, as boys will -talk--but the Company’s officers laugh at the idea. If all keeps quiet, -Bertie says he is rather sick of India--he thinks he will come back and -see his friends: he thinks perhaps his dear cousin Clare has somebody in -her pocket whom she means him to marry. To be sure, after giving him -Estcourt, it would be only right that she should have a vote in the -choice of his wife. Such a great matter, you know, for a boy like -Bertie, his father’s fourth son, to come into a pretty little property -like Estcourt--and so good of dear Clare!--pray tell her, with my love.” - -Not having taken the precaution to glance over this, as I ought to have -done from my previous acquaintance with “dear” Elinor, I had stumbled -into the middle of that statement about the somebody whom cousin Clare -had in her pocket before I was aware; and after an awkward pause, felt -constrained to proceed. I thought the malice of the epistle altogether -would defeat itself, and went on accordingly to the end of the sentence. -Then I folded up the letter and gave it to Miss Polly. - -“I wonder does Lady Greenfield mean to make me so thoroughly -uncomfortable when Bertie comes home that I shall not let him come here -at all,” said I; “or to terrify me out of the possibility of introducing -him to anybody, lest I should be said to be influencing his choice? But -indeed she need not take the trouble. I know Bertie, and Bertie knows me -much too well for the success of any such attempt. I will not have my -liberty infringed upon, I assure you, Miss Polly, not by half a dozen -Lady Greenfields.” - -“My dear, you don’t suppose me an accessory?” said Miss Polly, with a -little spirit. “Did any one ever see such a wanton mischief-maker? I -think she takes quite a delight in setting people by the ears. If Bertie -ever did say such a thing, Clare,” said Miss Polly, with a little -vehemence, “about somebody in your pocket, you know, I could swear it -was Elinor, and nobody else, who put it into his head.” - -By the merest inadvertence I am sure, certainly not by any evil -intention, Miss Polly, as she delivered these words, allowed her mild -old glances to stray towards Alice. I at the same moment chanced to give -a furtive look in the same direction. Of course, just at the instant of -danger, Alice, who had been immovable hitherto, suddenly looked up and -detected us both. I do not know what meanings of which they were -innocent her sensitive pride discovered in our eyes, but she sprang up -with an impatience and mortification quite irrestrainable, her very neck -growing crimson as she turned her head out of my sight. I understood -well enough that burning blush of shame, and indignation, and wounded -pride; it was not the blush of a love-sick girl, and my heart quaked -when it occurred to me that Lady Greenfield might possibly have done a -more subtle act of mischief by her letter than even she intended. Whom -was I so likely to have in my pocket as Alice Harley? Indeed, was not -she aware by intuition of some such secret desire in my mind? And -suppose Bertie were coming home with tender thoughts towards the friend -of his boyhood, and perhaps a little tender pleasant wonder, full of -suggestions, why Alice Harley, and she alone, out of her immediate -companions, should remain unmarried--what good would that laudable, and -much-to-be-desired frame of mind do to the poor boy now? If he came to -Hilfont this very night, the most passionate lover, did not I know that -Alice would reject him much more vehemently than she had rejected the -Rector--scornfully, because conscious of the secret inclination towards -him, which, alas! lay treacherous at the bottom of her heart? Oh, Lady -Greenfield! Oh, dearest of “dear” Elinors! if you had anywhere two most -sincere well-wishers, they were surely Miss Polly and myself! - - - - -CHAPTER X. - - -“Why will not you come with us to London, Alice?” said I. “Mr. Crofton -wishes it almost as much as I do. Such a change would do you good, and I -do not need to tell you how pleasant it would be to me. Mrs. Harley and -the young people at home can spare you. Kate, you know, is quite old -enough to help your mother. Why are you so obstinate? You have not been -in town in the season since the year after Clara’s marriage.” - -“I went up to see the pictures last year,” said Alice demurely. - -“Oh pray, Alice, don’t be so dreadfully proper!” cried Clara; “that’s -what she’s coming to, Mrs. Crofton. The second week in May--to see all -the exhibitions and hear an Oratorio in Exeter Hall--and make ‘mems.’ in -her diary when she has got through them, like those frightful people who -have their lives written! Oh dear, dear! to think our Alice should have -stiffened into such a shocking old maid!” - -“Well, Clara, dear, I am very glad you find your own lot so pleasant -that you would like to see everybody the same as yourself,” said Alice, -sententiously, and with no small amount of mild superiority; “for my -part I think the _rôle_ of old maid is quite satisfactory, especially -when one has so many nephews and nieces--and why should I go to London, -Mrs. Crofton? It is all very well for Clara--Clara is in circumstances, -of course, that make it convenient and natural--but as for me, who have -nothing at all to do with your grand life, why should I go and vex -myself with my own? Perhaps I might not have strength of mind to return -comfortably to the cottage, and look after the butcher’s bills, and see -that there were no cobwebs in the corners--and though I am of very -little importance elsewhere,” said Alice, coloring a little, and with -some unnecessary fervor, “I am of consequence at home.” - -“But then, you see,” said I, “Mrs. Harley has four daughters--and I have -not one.” - -“Ah! by-and-by,” said Alice, with a smile and a sigh, “Mrs. Harley will -only have one daughter. Kate and little Mary will marry just as Clara -has done. I shall be left alone with mamma and Johnnie; that is why I -don’t want to do anything which shall disgust me with my quiet life--at -least that is one reason,” added Alice, with a slight blush. “No, -no--what would become of the world if we were all exactly alike--what a -hum-drum, dull prospect it would be if everybody were just as happy, and -as gay, and as much in the sun as everybody else. You don’t think, -Clara, how much the gray tints of our household that is to be--mamma -old, Johnnie, poor fellow, so often in trouble, and myself a stout -housekeeper, will add to the picturesqueness of the landscape--much more -than if our house were as gay as your own.” - -“Why, Alice, you are quite a painter!” cried I, in a little surprise. - -“No, indeed--I wish I were,” said Alice. “I wonder why it is that some -people can _do_ things, and some people, with all the will in the world, -can only admire them when they’re done, and think--surely it’s my own -fault--surely if I had tried I could have done as well! I suppose it’s -one of the common troubles of women. I am sure I have looked at a -picture, or read a book many a time, with the feeling that all that was -in my heart if I could only have got it out. You smile, Mrs. -Crofton--perhaps it’s very absurd--I daresay a woman ought to be very -thankful when she can understand books, and has enough to live on -without needing to work,” added this feminine misanthrope with a -certain pang of natural spite and malice in her voice. - -Spite and malice! I venture to use such ugly words, because it was my -dear Alice, the purest, tenderest, and most lovable of women, who spoke. - -“There are a great many people in this world who think it a great -happiness to have enough to live on,” said I, besides women. “I don’t -know if Maurice has your ambition, Alice--but, at least he’s a man, and -has no special disadvantages; yet, begging your pardons, young ladies, I -think Alice is good for something more than _he_ is, as the world -stands.” - -“Ah, but then Maurice, you know, Mrs. Crofton--Maurice has doubts,” said -Clara, with a slight pique at my boldness. “Poor Maurice! he says he -must follow out his inquiries wherever they lead him, and however sad -the issue may be. It is very dreadful--he may not be able to believe in -anything before he is done--but then, he must not trifle with his -conscience. And with such very serious things to trouble him, it is too -bad he should be misunderstood.” - -“Don’t, Clara! hush!” whispered Alice, looking a little ashamed of this -argument. - -“But why should I hush? Hugh says just the same as Mrs. Crofton--it’s -very provoking--but these active people do not take into consideration -the troubles of a thoughtful mind, Maurice says.” - -“That is very likely,” said I, with a little complacency--“but remember -this is all a digression--Alice, will you come to London or will you -not?” - -Alice got up and made me a very pretty curtsey. “No, please, Mrs. -Crofton, I will not,” said that very unmanageable young lady. She looked -so provokingly pretty, piquant, and attractive at the moment that I -longed to punish her. And Bertie was coming home! and her mind was -irretrievably prejudiced against him; it was almost too much for human -patience--but to be sure, when a woman is seven-and-twenty, she has some -sort of right to know her own mind. - -At that moment little Clary Sedgwick, all in a flutter of pink ribbons, -came rustling into the room, her very brief little skirt inflated with -crinoline, and rustling half as much as her mamma’s--a miniature fine -lady, with perfect little gloves, a miraculous little hat, and ineffable -embroideries all over her; but with a child’s face so sweet, and a -little princess’s air so enchanting, that one could no more find fault -with her splendor than one could find fault with the still more -exquisite decorations of a bird or a flower. Clary came to tell her -mamma that the carriage was at the door, and little Mrs. Sedgwick swept -off immediately, followed by Alice, to get ready for her drive. They -were going to call upon somebody near. Clary remained with me till they -came back, and Derwie was not long of finding out his playfellow. Derwie -(my boy was a vulgar-minded boy, with a strong preference for things -over thoughts, as I have before said) stood speechless, lost in -admiration of Clary’s grandeur. Then he cast a certain glance of -half-comical comparison upon his own coat, worn into unspeakable -shabbiness by three weeks of holidays, and upon his brown little hands, -garnished with cuts and scratches, and I am grieved to say not even so -clean as they might have been. When he had a little recovered his first -amazement, Derwie turned her round and round with the tips of his -fingers. Clary was by no means unwilling; she exhibited her Easter -splendor with all the grace of a little belle. - -“Mamma, isn’t she grand?” said Derwie--“isn’t she pretty? I never saw -her look so pretty before.” - -“Oh, Derwie, for shame!” said Clary, holding down her head with a pretty -little affectation of confusion wonderful to behold. - -“For shame?--Why?--For you know you are pretty,” said my straightforward -son, “whether you are dressed grand or not. Mamma, did you ever see her -like this before?--I never did. I should just like to have a great big -glass case and put you in, Clary, so that you might always look just as -you look now.” - -“Oh, Derwie!” cried Clary, again, but this time with unaffected horror, -“I’d starve if you put me in there!” - -“No, because I’d bring you something every day,” said Derwie--“all my -own pudding, and every cake I got, and the poor women in the village -would be so pleased to come and look at you, Clary. Tell me what’s the -name of this thing; I’ll tell Susan Stubbs, the dressmaker, all about -you. They like to see ladies in grand dresses, all the cottage people; -so do I; but I like to see you best of all. Here, Clary, Clary! don’t go -away! Look at her pink little gloves, mamma!--and I say, Clary, haven’t -you got a parasol?” - -“You silly boy! what do you suppose I want with a parasol when I’m going -to drive with mamma?” cried Clary, with that indescribable little toss -of her head. - -At that interesting moment the mamma, of whom this delightful little -beauty was a reproduction, made her appearance, buttoning pink gloves -like Clary’s, and rustling in her rosy, shining, silken draperies, like -a perfect rose, all dewy and fragrant, not even quite full-blown yet, in -spite of the bud by her side. Alice came after her, a little demure, in -her brown silk gown, very affectionate, and just a little patronizing to -the pretty mother and daughter--on the whole rather superior to these -lovely fooleries of theirs, on her eminence of unmarried woman. My -pretty Alice! Her gravity, notwithstanding she was quite as much a child -as either of them, was wonderfully amusing, though she did not know it. -They went down-stairs with their pleasant feminine rustle, charming the -echoes with their pleasant voices. My boy Derwie, entirely captivated by -Mrs. Sedgwick’s sudden appearance on the scene--an enlarged edition of -Clary--followed them to the door, vainly attempting to lay up some -memoranda in his boyish mind for the benefit of Susan Stubbs. Pleased -with them all, I turned to the window to see them drive away, when, lo! -there suddenly emerged out of the curtains the dark and agitated face of -Johnnie Harley. Had we said anything in our late conversation to wound -the sensitive mind of the cripple? He had been there all the time. - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - - -“Johnnie, is there anything the matter. Why have you been sitting -there?” cried I. - -“Oh, no, there’s nothing the matter,” said Johnnie, in such a tone as a -wild beast making a snap at one might have used if it had possessed the -faculty of words. “I was there because I happened to be there before you -came into the room, Mrs. Crofton; I beg your pardon! I don’t mean to be -rude.” - -“I think it is quite necessary you should say as much,” said I. “Your -sisters and I have been talking here for some time, quite unaware of -your presence. That is not becoming. No one ought to do such things, -especially a young man of right feeling like yourself.” - -“Oh, you think I have right feelings,” cried Johnnie, bitterly, “you -think I am man enough to know what honor means? That is something, at -least. I have been well brought up, haven’t I? Mrs. Crofton,” continued -the unfortunate youth, “you were rather hard upon Maurice just now--I -heard you, and he deserves it. If I were like Maurice, I should be -ashamed to be as useless as he is. I’m not so useless now, in spite of -everything; but you’ll be frank with me--why does Alice speak of keeping -house with my mother and _Johnnie_? Why, when Kate, and even little -Mary, are supposed to have homes of their own, and Maurice, of course, -to be provided for--why is there to be a special establishment, all -neutral colored and in the shade, for my mother, and Alice, and _me_?” - -I sat gazing at the poor youth in the most profound confusion and -amazement. What could I say to him? How, if he did not perceive it -himself, could I explain the naturalness of poor Alice’s anticipations? -I had not a word to say; his question took me entirely by surprise, and -struck me dumb--it was unanswerable. - -“You do not say anything,” said Johnnie, vehemently. “Why does Alice -suppose _she_ will have to take care of me all my life through? Why -should I go to contribute that alternative of shade which makes the -landscape picturesque?--picturesque!” exclaimed poor Johnnie, breathing -out the words upon a long breath of wrath and indignation; “is that all -I am good for? Do you suppose God has made me in a man’s form, with a -man’s heart, only to add a subtle charm to another man’s happiness by -the contrast of my misery? I believe in no such thing, Mrs. Crofton. Is -that what Alice means?” - -“I believe in no such thing either,” said I, relieved to be able to say -something; “and you forget, Johnnie, that the same life which Alice -assigned to you she chose for herself. She thought, I suppose, because -your health is not strong, that you would choose to live at home--she -thought”---- - -“Mrs. Crofton,” said Johnnie, “why don’t you say it out? she -thought--but why say thought--she _knew_ I was a cripple, and debarred -from the joyous life of man; she thought that to such as me no heavenly -help could come; it did not occur to her that perhaps there might be an -angel in the spheres who would love me, succor me, give me a place among -the happy--yes, even me! You think I speak like a fool,” continued the -young man, the flush of his excitement brightening all his face, and the -natural superlatives of youth, all the warmer and stronger for the -physical infirmities which seemed to shut him out from their legitimate -use, pouring to his lips, “and so I should have been, but for the divine -chance that brought me here. Ah, Mrs. Crofton, you did not know what an -Easter of the soul you were asking me to! I came only a boy, scarcely -aware of the dreary colors in which life lay before me. Now I can look -at these dreary colors only by way of Alice’s contrast--to make the -reality more glorious--for I too shall have the home and the life of a -man!” - -He stopped, not because his words were exhausted, but because breath -failed him--he stood before me, raising himself erect out of his -habitual stoop of weakness, strengthened by the inspiring force of the -great delusion, which gave color to his face and nerve to his hand. -Looking at him so, his words did not seem such sad, bitter, -heart-breaking folly as they were. Poor boy! poor Johnnie! how would he -fall prostrate upon the cold, unconsolatory earth, when this spell was -broken! I could have cried over him, as he stood there defying me; he -had drunk that cup of Circe--but he did not know in his momentary -intoxication that it was poison to him. - -“My dear Johnnie,” said I, “I am very glad of anything that makes you -happy--but there is surely no occasion to speak so strongly. Alice, I -must remind you again, chose exactly the same life for herself that she -supposed for you”---- - -“Alice has had her youth and her choice,” said Johnnie, with a calmer -tone, and sinking, his first excitement over, into a chair; “but she -does not think Maurice is likely to share that gray life of -hers--Maurice, who, as you say yourself, is of no use in the world--nor -Harry, whom they have all forgotten now he is in Australia, nor the -children at home; only mamma when she is old, and _Johnnie_--well, it is -of no use speaking. A man’s business is not to speak, but to work.” - -“That is very true, certainly,” said I: “but tell me, will you--if it is -not wrong to ask--what has made this great change in your ideas, all at -once?” - -“Ah, Mrs. Crofton, don’t you know?” cried Johnnie, blushing, a soft -overpowering youthful blush, which would have done no discredit to Clara -herself; and the poor, foolish boy looked at me with an appealing -triumphant look, as if he at once entreated me to say, and defied me to -deny that _she_ was altogether an angel, and he the very happiest of -boys or men. - -“My dear boy,” said I, “don’t be angry with me. I’ve known you all your -life, Johnnie. I don’t mean to say a word against Miss Reredos--but tell -me, has there been any explanation between her and you?” - -He hesitated a moment, blushing still. - -“No,” he said, after a pause; “no--I have not been able to arrange my -thoughts at all yet. I have thought of nothing but--but herself--and -this unimaginable hope of happiness--and I am a man of honor, Mrs. -Crofton. I will not speak to her till I know whether I have anything but -love to offer--not because I am so base as to suppose that money could -recommend a man to _her_, or so foolish as to think that I will ever -have anything beyond _income_; but when I do speak, you understand, Mrs. -Crofton, it is not for vague love-making, but to ask her to be my wife.” - -He looked at me with his sudden air of manhood and independence, again -somewhat defiant. Heaven help the poor boy! I heard myself groaning -aloud in the extremity of my bewilderment and confusion; poor Johnnie, -with his superb self-assumption!--he, a fortnight ago, the cheerfulest -of boy invalids, the kindest of widow’s sons!--and she, five years older -than he, at the lowest reckoning, an experienced young lady, with dreams -of settlements and trousseaux occupying her mature mind! Alack, alack! -what was to come of it? I sat silent, almost gaping with wonderment at -the boy. At last I caught at the idea of asking him what his prospects -or intentions were--though without an idea that he had any prospects, or -knew in the least what he was talking about. - -“You spoke of income, Johnnie--may I ask what you were thinking of?” - -Johnnie blushed once more, though after a different fashion; he grew -confidential and eager--like himself. - -“I have told no one else,” he said, “but I will tell you, Mrs. Crofton, -not only because you are our oldest friend, but because I have just told -you something so much more important. I--I have written -something--nobody knows!” - -“Oh, you poor boy!” cried I, quite thankful to be able on less delicate -ground to make an outcry over him; “don’t you think half the people in -the country have written something?--and are you to make an income by -that?” - -“I beg your pardon,” said Johnnie, with dignity, “but it’s _accepted_, -Mrs. Crofton--that makes all the difference. Half the country don’t have -letters from the booksellers saying that it’s very good and they’ll -publish it on the usual terms. I could show you the letter,” added my -young author, blushing once more, and putting his hand to his -breast-pocket--“I have it here.” - -And there it was, accordingly, to my intense wonderment--and Johnnie’s -hopes had, however small, an actual foundation. On the book about to be -published on “the usual terms” the poor boy had built up his castle. -Here he was to bring Miss Reredos to a fairy bower of love and -literature--which, alas! I doubted would be very little to that young -lady’s taste; but I dared not tell Johnnie so--poor, dreaming, foolish -cripple-boy! Nothing afterwards, perhaps, would taste so sweet as that -delusion, and though the natural idea that “it would be kindness to -undeceive him” of course moved me strongly, I had not the boldness to -try, knowing very well that it would do no good. He must undeceive -himself, that was evident. Thank Heaven he was so young! When his eyes -were opened he would be the bitterest and most miserable of misanthropes -for a few months, and then, it was to be hoped, things would mend. I saw -no other ending to Johnnie’s romance. But he went hobbling away from me -with his stick and his stoop, as full of his momentary fallacious -happiness, as if he had been the handsome young prince of the fairy -tale, whom the love of Miss Reredos would charm back to his proper -comeliness. Alas, poor Johnnie! If his Laura could have wrought that -miracle I fear the spell was still impossible, for lack of the -love--miraculous magic! the only talisman which even in a fairy tale can -charm the lost beauty back. - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - - -“Now, if I had the luck to hold a confidential talk with Maurice, I -should have gone round the entire Harley family,” said I to myself the -next morning, “and be in the secret of sundry imaginations which have -not seen the light of day--but Maurice, fortunately, is not likely to -make me nor any one else his _confidante_. I wonder if there is anything -at all concerning him which it would be worth one’s while to be curious -about?” - -The question was solved sooner than I thought. When everybody had left -our pleasant breakfast-room but myself, and I, with my little basket of -keys in my hand, was preparing to follow, Maurice, who had been -lingering by the great window, startled me by asking for a few minutes’ -conversation, “if I was quite at leisure.” I put down my basket with the -utmost promptitude. Curiosity, if not courtesy, made me perfectly at -leisure to hear anything he might have to say. - -“I have undertaken a very foolish office,” said Maurice--“I have had the -supreme conceit and presumption of supposing that I could perhaps plead -with you, Mrs. Crofton, the cause of a friend.” - -“I trust I shall feel sufficiently flattered,” said I, assuming the same -tone. “And pray who is the friend who has the advantage of your support, -Maurice? and what does he want of me?” - -The young man colored and looked affronted--he was highly sensitive to -ridicule, like all self-regarding men. - -“Nay, pray don’t convince me so distinctly of my folly before I start,” -he said; “the friend is a college friend of mine, who was so absurd as -to marry before he had anything to live on; a very good fellow with--oh! -don’t be afraid--perfectly sound views, I assure you, Mrs. Crofton, -though he is acquainted with me.” - -“I should think being acquainted with you very likely to help a sensible -man to sound views,” said I, with some natural spite, thankful for the -opportunity of sending a private arrow into him in passing; “and what -does your friend want that I can help him in?” - -“The Rector of Estcourt is an old man, and very ill,” said Maurice, -after a pause of offence; “Owen, my friend, has a curacy in -Simonborough. I told him I should venture--though of course aware I had -not the slightest title to influence you--to name him to Mrs. Crofton, -in case of anything happening.” - -“Aware that you have not the slightest title to influence me--that -means, does it not, Maurice?” said I, “that you rather think you have -some claim upon that Rectory at Estcourt, and that you magnanimously -resign it in favor of your friend? It was your father’s--it is your -mother’s desire to see you in his place--you have thought of it vaguely -all your life as a kind of inheritance, which you were at liberty to -accept or withdraw from; now, to be sure, we are very, very old -friends--is not that plainly, and without any superfluity of words, what -you mean?” - -Maurice made a still longer pause--he was seized with the restlessness -common to men when they are rather hard tested in conversation. He got -up unawares, picked up a book off the nearest table, as if he meant to -answer me by means of that, and then returned to his chair. Then, after -a little further struggle, he laughed, growing very red at the same -time. - -“You put the case strongly, but I will not say you are wrong,” he -answered; “after all, I believe, if it must be put into words, that is -about how the thing stands; but, of course, you know I am perfectly -aware”---- - -“Exactly,” said I; “we both understand it, and it is not necessary to -enter further into that part of the subject; but now, tell me, Maurice, -supposing your rights of natural succession to be perfectly -acknowledged, why is it that you substitute another person, and postpone -your own settlement to his?” - -“My dear Mrs. Crofton,” cried Maurice, restored to himself by the -question, “what would not I give to be able to accept as mine that calm, -religious life?--what would not I relinquish for a faith as entire and -simple as my friend Owen’s? But that is my misfortune. I suppose my mind -is not so wholesomely constituted as other people’s. I cannot believe so -and so, just because I am told to believe it--I cannot shape my creed -according to the received pattern. If I could, I should be but too -happy; but _que voulez-vous_? a man cannot act against his -convictions--against his nature.” - -“Nay, I assure you I am a very calm spectator,” said I; “I would not -have either one thing or another. I have not the least doubt that you -will know better some day, and why should I concern myself about the -matter?” - -“Why, indeed?” echoed Maurice, faintly; but he was mortified; he -expected a little honor, at the very least, as his natural due, if not a -womanish attempt at proselytizing. The discomfiture of my adversary was -balm to my eyes--I was, as may be perceived, in a perfectly unchristian -state of mind. - -“And how then about yourself?--what do you mean to do?” asked I; “you -are getting towards the age when men begin to think of setting up houses -and families for themselves. Do you mean to be a College Don all your -life, Maurice? I fear that must be rather an unsatisfactory kind of -existence; and one must take care, if that is the case, not to ask any -young ladies again to meet you--some one might happen to be too -captivating for your peace of mind--a Miss Reredos might outweigh a -fellowship;--such things have been even with men of minds as original as -your own.” - -“Miss Reredos! ah, she amuses herself!” said Maurice, with a conscious -smile. - -“Yes, I think you are very well matched,” said I, calmly; “you will not -do her much harm, nor she inflict a very deep wound on your heart, but -it might have happened differently. People as wise as yourself, when -their turn comes, are often the most foolish in these concerns.” - -“Ah, you forget that I am past youth,” said Maurice; “you, Mrs. -Crofton, have made a private agreement, I suppose, with the old enemy, -but I have no such privilege--I have done with that sort of thing long -ago. However, about Owen, if I may remind you, is there anything to -say?” - -“Somebody asked me for the living of Estcourt when your father lay -dying; I was younger then, as you say--I was deeply horrified,” said I. -“We must wait.” - -“Ah, yes; but my father was a man in the prime of life, and this is an -old man, whom even his own family cannot expect to live long,” said -Maurice; “but, of course, if you do not like it, I have not another word -to say.” - -“Ah, Maurice,” said I, forgetting for a moment the personage who sat -before me, and thinking of Dr. Harley’s death-bed, and the fatherless -children there so helpless and dependent on other people’s judgment, -“your father was a good man, but he had not the heart to live after he -lost his fortune, and your mother is a good woman, but she had not the -heart to bring you up poorly and bravely in your own home. They are my -dear friends, and I dare speak of them even to you. Why did she send you -to that idle uncle of yours, to be brought up in idleness?--you big, -strong, indolent man! What is the good of you, though you are Fellow of -Exeter? You might have been of some use in the world by this time if you -had lived among your brothers and sisters, a widow’s son.” - -Maurice started--rose up--made a surprised exclamation of my name--and -then dropped into his chair again without saying anything. He did not -answer me a word. The offence melted out of his face, but he kept his -eyes down and did not look at me. I could not tell whether he was -angry--I had been moved by my own feelings beyond, for the moment, -thinking of his. - -“Ask your friend to come and see you here,” I said, after an awkward -little pause; “say, Mr. Crofton and I will be glad if he will dine with -us before you go--perhaps, to-morrow, Maurice, and that will leave him -time to get home on Saturday--and we will think about it, should the -living of Estcourt fall vacant. Forgive me,” I continued, as I rose to -go away, “I said more than I ought to have said.” - -He took my hand and wrung it with an emphatic pressure; what he said I -made out only with difficulty, I think it was, “No more than is true.” - -And I left him with somewhat uncomfortable feelings. I had not the very -least right to lecture this young man; quite the other way--for was not -I a woman and an illiterate person, and he Fellow of his College? I -confess I did not feel very self-complacent as I left the room. This -third confidential interview, in which I had over-passed the prudent -limits of friendliness, did not _feel_ at all satisfactory. -Nevertheless, I was glad to see that Maurice was magnanimous--that he -was likely to forgive me--and that possibly there were elements of -better things even in his regarding indolence. All which symptoms, -though in a moral point of view highly gratifying, made me but feel the -more strongly that I had gone beyond due limits, and exceeded the margin -of truth-telling and disagreeableness which one is _not_ allowed towards -one’s guests, and in one’s own house. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - - -It may be allowed to me to confess that I watched during the remainder -of that day with a little natural, but extremely absurd curiosity to see -“what effect” our conversation had upon Maurice Harley. After I had got -over my own unpleasant sensations, I began to flatter myself, with -natural vanity, that perhaps I might have “done him good.” I had an -inkling that it was absurd, but that made very little difference, and I -acknowledge that I felt quite a new spur and stimulus of interest in the -young man. I listened to his chance observations during the day with an -attention which I had never before bestowed upon them. For the moment, -instead of simple impatience of his indolence, and virtuous, gentlemanly -good-for-nothingness, I began to sympathize somewhat in the lamenting -admiration of his friends that so much talent should be lost to the -world. Altogether, in my capacity of hostess to Maurice, I was for that -day a reformed and penitent person, full of compunction for my offence. -I am obliged to confess, however, that there was no corresponding change -upon my guest. Maurice demeaned himself that day exactly as he had done -the day before--was as superior, and critical, and indifferent, as much -above the common uses of life and motives of humanity as he had ever -been. Still, my penitential feelings lasted out the day, and it was not -till I perceived how entirely he was laying himself out to charm and -captivate Miss Reredos and make up to her for the attentions she had -paid him, that I detected myself in the simple-minded vanity of -expecting to have “done him good.” The flirtation that evening was so -evident, and Maurice threw himself so much more warmly into it than on -any former occasion, that we, the spectators, were all roused to double -observation. Johnnie sat behind the little table in the corner, with the -stereoscope before him, blazing the wildest rage out of his half-hidden -eyes upon his brother, and sometimes quite trembling with passion. Alice -moved about with a little indignant dilation of her person and elevation -of her head--half out of regard to the honor of her “sex,” which Miss -Reredos, she supposed, was compromising, and half out of shame and -annoyance at the “infatuation” of her brother. And not quite knowing -what this new fervor might portend, I took an opportunity as I passed -by Maurice’s chair to speak to him quietly-- - -“Is Miss Reredos, then, to be more attractive than the fellowship?” I -said, lingering a moment as I passed. - -Maurice looked up at me with a certain gleam of boyish malice and temper -in his eye. - -“You know we are very well matched, and I cannot do _her_ much harm,” he -said, quoting my own words. - -This was the good I had done him--this, out of a conversation which -ended so seriously, was the only seed that had remained in that fertile -and productive soil, the mind of Maurice Harley, and behold already its -fructifications. I went back to my seat, and sat down speechless. I was -inexpressibly angry and mortified for the moment. To be sure it was a -little private and personal vanity which made the special sting. Yet he -had been unquestionably moved by my candid opinion of him, in which very -little admiration was mingled with the regret--but had I not piqued -_his_ vanity as well? - -As for Johnnie, having been taken into his confidence, I was doubly -alive to the feelings with which he watched his brother. Miss Reredos -managed admirably well between the lover real and the lover -make-believe, _her_ vanity being of course in play even more decidedly -than anybody else’s. I believe she was quite deceived by the sudden -warmth of Maurice. I believe the innocent young woman fell captive in an -instant, not to his fascinations, but to the delusion of believing that -she had fascinated him, and that the name of the Fellow of Exeter was -that evening inscribed upon her long list of victims; but, -notwithstanding, she would not give up Johnnie; I suppose his youthful -adoration was something new and sweet to the experienced young lady--the -absoluteness of his trust in her and admiration of her was delicious to -the pretty coquette, with whom warier men were on their guard. Over -Johnnie she was absolute, undisputed sovereign--he was ready to defy the -whole world in her behalf, and disown every friend he had at her -bidding. Such homage, even from a cripple, was too sweet to be parted -with. Somehow, by means of those clever eyes of hers, even while at the -height of her flirtation with Maurice, she kept Johnnie in hand, -propitiated, and calmed him. I don’t know how it is done--I don’t think -Alice knew either; but I am not sure that a certain instinctive -perception of the manner of that skilful double movement did not come -natural to Clara Sedgwick, and stimulate her disgust at the proceeding. -If she had not been married so early and been so happy a little wife, -Clara might have been a little flirt herself--who knows? I saw that she -had an intuition how it was done. - -As for Miss Polly, she could do nothing but talk about the advantages of -useful training for girls. “If these poor children should turn out -flirts, Clare!” she cried, in dismay. To be sure, Emmy, the pretty one, -was only ten and a half--but still if education could hinder such a -catastrophe, there was certainly no time to be lost. - -Mr. Owen came to dinner next day, according to my invitation. He was a -young man, younger than Maurice, and a hundred times more agreeable. He -was curate of St. Peter’s, in Simonborough, where a curate among the -multitude of divines congregated about the cathedral, was as hard to -find or make any note of as the famous needle in the bundle of hay. And -it is very probable that he was not a brilliant preacher, or noted for -any gift in particular; but I liked the honest, manful young fellow, who -was not ashamed either to do his work or to talk of it when occasion -called--nor afraid to marry upon his minute income, nor to tell me with -a passing blush and a happy laugh, which became him, what a famous -little housekeeper his wife was, and what fun they had over her -economics. Maurice heard and smiled--calm, ineffable, superior--and -wished he could only submit his unhappily more enlightened mind to a -simple faith like Owen’s. And Owen, on his part, was respectful of the -dainty disbeliever, and took off his hat to that scepticism, born of -idleness and an unoccupied mind, for which I, in my secret heart, for -sheer impatience and disgust, could have whipped the Fellow of Exeter. -Mr. Owen was as respectful of it as if that pensive negation had been -something actual and of solemn importance. He shook his head and talked -to me mysteriously of poor Harley. Maurice had rather distinguished -himself at college before he sank into his fellowship. His old -companions who were of the same standing were a little proud of his -scholarly attainments. “He could be anything if he chose,” they said to -themselves; and because Maurice did not choose, his capabilities looked -all the grander. Owen was quite a partisan of Harley. “What a pity it -was!” the honest fellow said, “with such a mind, if he could but get -right views”---- - -At which juncture I struck the excellent young man dumb and breathless -by uttering aloud a fervent desire and prayer that by some happy chance -Maurice should fall in love. - -Mr. Owen looked at me for a moment thunderstruck, the words of his own -former sensible sentence hanging half-formed about his lips; then, when -he had recovered himself a little, he smiled and said, “You have so much -confidence in a female preacher? No doubt they are irresistible--but not -in matters of doctrine, perhaps.” - -“No such thing,” said I, “I have no confidence in female preachers or -religious courtship; but apart from the intense satisfaction which I own -I should have in seeing Maurice make, as people say, a fool of himself, -that is the only means I see of bringing him back to life.” - -“To life!” said my new acquaintance, with a lively look of -interrogation. - -“Oh, I do not mean anything grand; I mean common life, with the -housekeeping to be provided for,” said I smiling, “and the daily bread, -and the other mouths that have to eat it. I daresay, even you yourself, -who seem to stand in no such need as Maurice, have found out something -in the pleasant jingle you were talking of--of Mrs. Owen’s basket of -keys.” - -The young man blushed once more that slight passing color of happiness, -and answered gravely, yet with a smile, “It is true, I see what you -mean--and it is very possible indeed--but,” he added, stopping -abruptly, and looking at his friend, who was in the full tide of -flirtation with Miss Reredos, “Mrs. Crofton, look there!” - -I shook my head. “Nothing will come of it,” said I; “they are amusing -themselves.” - -Condign punishment came upon my head almost as I spoke; I had turned my -head incautiously, and Johnnie and Alice had both heard me. - -“Amusing themselves!” cried Johnnie, hissing the words into my ears in a -whisper. “Amusing! do you suppose that it is anything but her -angel-sweetness, Mrs. Crofton, that makes her so forbearing with -Maurice--_my_ brother? I adore her for it,” cried (but in a whisper) the -deluded boy. - -“Amusing themselves!” cried Alice, raising her head, “and _you_ can say -so, Mrs. Crofton? Oh, I am ashamed, to think a woman should forget -herself so strangely; I could forgive anything--almost anything,” said -Alice, correcting herself with a blush, “which really sprang from true -strong feeling; but flirting--amusing themselves! Oh, Mrs. Crofton!” - -“My dear child, it is not my fault,” said I, “I have no hand in the -matter, either one way or the other.” - -“Yes, that is true,” said Alice, with that lively impatience and -disinclination to suffer a dear friend to rest in an opinion different -from her own, which I have felt myself and understood perfectly,--“but -you will not see how unworthy it is--how dishonoring to women! That is -what wounds me.” - -“Is it not dishonoring to men as well?--two are playing at it, and the -other creature is accountable likewise. Are you not concerned for the -credit of your sex?” said I, turning to Owen. - -The young curate laughed, Alice blushed and looked deeply affronted, and -Johnnie, turning all the fury of his jealousy upon me, looked as if it -would have pleased him to do me some bodily harm. Well, well, one can -bear all that--and I am happy to say that I think I accelerated -distantly and humbly by this said conversation, the coming on of Maurice -Harley’s fate. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - - -Very shortly after our little party separated, it was time to go back to -London to Derwent’s treadmill; our holiday was over--and as Alice had -positively declined my invitation to go with us to London, we were again -for several months quite separated from our country friends. I heard -from them in the meantime various scraps of information, from which I -could gather vaguely how their individual concerns went on. Mr. Reredos -was again a visitor at the cottage, and Mrs. Harley, who was not in the -secret of his previous rejection, wrote to me two or three long, -anxious, confidential letters about his evident devotion to her dear -girl--and what did I think of it? It was, the good mother said, the -position of all others which she would choose for her daughter, if it -lay in her decision--a country clergyman’s wife, the same position which -she herself had held long ago, when Dr. Harley lived, and she was -happy!--but she could not make out what Alice’s mind was. Alice was -sometimes cordial and sometimes distant to this candidate for her -favor--“And I often fear that it will just be with Mr. Reredos as with -the rest,” said Mrs. Harley, despondingly--“and I like him so much--he -reminds me of what her dear father was once--and the connection would -altogether be so eligible that I should be very sorry if it came to -nothing. Do you think, dear Mrs. Crofton, that you could use your -influence with her on this subject? My dear girl is so shocked and -disgusted with the idea of people marrying for an establishment, that I -really do not venture to say a word to her about her own establishment -in life; but _you_ know as well as I do, dear Mrs. Crofton, that such -things must be thought of, and really this is so thoroughly -eligible”---- - -Alice followed on the same key. - -“Mamma teases me again on that everlasting subject, dear Mrs. Crofton; -there is some one so completely eligible, she says--and I quite feel -it--so entirely eligible that if there was not another in the world! -Mamma is provoked, and says if somebody came who was quite the reverse -of eligible that I should answer differently--and indeed I am not sure -but there is justice in what she says. But do interfere on my behalf, -please; I prefer to be always Alice Harley--do, please, dear Mrs. -Crofton, persuade my mother not to worry me, but to believe that I know -my own mind.” - -From which double correspondence I inferred that Mr. Reredos had somehow -managed to resume his suit and to make a partisan of Mrs. Harley without -giving a desperate and hopeless affront to the pride of Alice, which -raised my opinion of his generalship so greatly that I began to imagine -there might possibly be some likelihood of success for the Rector--a -conclusion which I fear did not gratify me so much as Mrs. Harley had -imagined it should. - -Along with this information I heard of a sister of Mr. Owen’s, who was -paying them a visit--of repeated excursions into Simonborough--of -Maurice’s growing relish for home, and some anxieties on the young man’s -part about his future life. And Johnnie’s book was published--a book -which in my wildest imagination I could not have supposed to be produced -by the cripple boy, who, out of the cottage, knew nothing whatever of -life. Johnnie’s hero was a hero who did feats of strength and skill -unimaginable--tamed horses, knocked down bullies, fought, rode, rowed, -and cricketed, after the most approved fashion of the modern youth, -heroical and muscular--and in his leisure hours made love!--such -love!--full of ecstasies and despairs, quite inconceivable to any -imagination above twenty--but all enforced and explained with such -perfect ingenuousness and good faith that one could have hugged the boy -all the time for the exquisite and delightful folly, in which there did -not mix an evil thought. Nothing could well be more remarkable than this -fiery outburst of confined and restrained life from the bosom of the -cripple, to whom all these active delights were impossible--it was -profoundly pathetic too, to me. Poor Johnnie! with that fervid -imagination in him, how was he to bear the gray life which Alice had -predicted--the life which must be his, notwithstanding all his dreams -and hopes? How, when it came to that, was he to undergo the downfall of -his first miraculous castle in the air, his vain and violent -love-passion? Poor heart, foredoomed! would he ever learn to bring the -music of Patience, so lovely to those who hear, so hard to those who -make it, out of those life-chords which were drawn all awry, beyond the -reach of happiness? I was happy myself in those days. I had little -desire to think of the marvellous life to come in which all these -problems shall be made clear. I could not cast forward my mind beyond -this existence--and the strange inequality between this boy’s mind and -his fate vexed me at the heart. - -And so, quite quietly and gradually, the time stole on. I heard nothing -more from poor Bertie Nugent, in India; he meant to come home, but he -had not yet obtained his leave of absence, and it remained quite -uncertain when we should see him. Everything was very quiet at home. Our -fighting was over--our national pride and confidence in our own arms and -soldiers, revived by actual experience; everything looking prosperous -within the country, and nothing dangerous without. - -It was at this time that the dreadful news of the Indian mutiny came -upon the country like the shock of an earthquake. News more frightful -never startled a peaceful people. Faces paled, and hearts sickened, even -among people who had no friends in that deadly peril; and as for us, who -had relatives and connections to be anxious for, it is impossible to -describe the fear that took possession of us. I knew nobody there but -Bertie, and he, thank Heaven, was but a man, and could only be killed at -the worst; but I had people belonging to me there, though I did not know -them; people whom I had heard of for years and years, though I had never -seen them; cousins, and such like--Nugents--with women among them--God -help us! creatures who might have to bear tortures more cruel than -death. The thought woke me up into a restless fever of horror and -anxiety, which I cannot describe. Perhaps I felt the hideous contrast -more because of my own perfect safety and happiness, but I could neither -sleep by night nor smile by day, for the vision of that horrible anguish -which had fallen upon some, and might be--might be--for anything I -knew--at any moment--ah! the thought was too much for flesh and blood. -It was growing towards autumn, yet I, who hated London, was reluctant -that year to leave it. We were nearer to those news which it was so -sickening to hear, yet so dreadful to be out of reach of, and it seemed -to me as if it would be impossible to go into those tranquil country -places, where all was happy, and still, and prosperous, with such a -cloud of horror, and fear, and rage about one’s heart. At that time I -almost think I could have heard without any great additional pang that -Bertie himself had been killed. He was a man, thank Heaven, and they -could only kill him! Mere family affection was lost for the moment in -the overpowering horror of the time. - -But the first miseries were over by the time we went to Hilfont--it had -begun to be a fight of man to man--that is to say, of one man to some -certain number of heathen creatures, from a dozen to a hundred--and the -news, breathless news, mad with gasps of grief, anxiety, and -thanksgiving, did not now strike such horror and chill to our blood. We -went home and quieted ourselves, and grew anxious about Bertie--very -anxious. Of course he was in the thick of the fight. If he had not been, -could we ever have forgiven him?--but he was, and we had only to wait, -and long, and tremble for news, to catch here and there a glimpse of him -through obscure telegraphic reports, and slow dispatches, coming long, -long, and slow, after that bewildering, tantalizing snatch of -half-comprehensible tidings. Then I saw, for the first time, how -thoroughly the young man, though he had been away eight years, kept his -hold upon our hearts. Derwent would ride a dozen miles to the railway -for a chance of hearing a little earlier than was possible at Hilfont, -when the _new_ news came in; everybody about the house looked breathless -till they heard if the Captain, as they called him, was still safe. As -for Alice Harley, I do not remember that she ever asked a question--she -went and came about the house, read all the papers, listened to all the -conversations, stood by and heard everything, while her sister Clara -poured forth inquiry upon inquiry, while the gentlemen discussed the -whole matter, and decided what everybody must do; while even Lady -Greenfield, drawn towards me, though we were but indifferent friends, -by a common touch of nature (for I cannot deny that she liked her -nephews), consulted and argued where Bertie could be now, and wished him -safe home. My little Derwent, with a flush on his childish cheeks, and -tears in his eyes, cried out against her; “Do you think Bertie will come -safe home when they are murdering the women and the babies?” cried -Derwie, with a half-scream of childish excitement. “Bertie?--if he did, -I would like to kill him; but he never, never, will till they’re all on -board the ships--he had better be killed than come safe home!” - -The tears were in my own eyes, so that I did not see the child very -clearly as he spoke; but I saw Alice bend quickly down to kiss him, and -heard in the room the sound of one sob--a sound surprised out of -somebody’s heart. Not Lady Greenfield’s, who put her handkerchief to her -eyes, and said that really she was only human, and might be forgiven for -wishing her own relations safe. Miss Polly had come with her -sister-in-law that day--she was paler than ever, the tender old lady. -She cried a little as we talked, but it was not out of her calm old -heart that such a sob of anguish and passion came. - -“My dear,” said Miss Polly, speaking as if she addressed me, but not -looking in my direction, “I’m afraid Derwie’s right; if he die he must -do his duty--there’s no talk of being safe in such times.” - -“It is very easy for you to speak,” said Lady Greenfield, and I believe -she thought so; “but Clare and I feel differently--he is not a relation -of yours.” - -“I pray for the dear boy, night and morning, all the same. God bless -him, at this moment, wherever he may be!” said Miss Polly. I was -conscious of a quick, sudden movement as the words fell, soft and grave, -from her dear old lips. It was Alice who had left the room. - -She could not bear it any longer. _She_ did not belong to him--she was -not old enough to speak like Miss Polly--she durst not flutter forth her -anxiety for her old playfellow as Clara did. Her heart was throbbing and -burning in her young warm breast. She did not say a word or ask a -question; but when the tender old woman bade God bless him, Alice could -stand quiet no longer. I knew it, though she had not a word to say. - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - - -This time of anxiety was one which, in that great common interest and -grief, drew many people together who had little sympathy with each other -in ordinary times. Many a close, private, confidential talk, deluged -with tears, or tremulous with hope, I had within these days with many a -troubled woman, who up to that time had been only an acquaintance, or -very slightly known to me, but who was now ready, at the touch of this -magical sympathy, to take me into her heart. Derwent’s custom of riding -to the railway for the earliest perusable news, and an occasional -message by telegraph, which came to him when any important intelligence -arrived, made our house besieged by anxious people, to whom the greatest -joy of their lives was to find no mention in these breathless dispatches -of the individual or the place in which they were interested. Nugents, -whom I had never heard of, started up everywhere, asking from me -information about Bertie and his family. The girls who had been brought -up at Estcourt deluged me with letters asking after him. I am not sure -that our entire household did not feel, amid all its anxiety, a little -pride in the consciousness of thus having a share in the universal -national sympathy which was bestowed so warmly and freely upon all who -had friends in India. As for little Derwie, he devoted himself entirely -now to the business of carrying news. He knew already by heart the list -of all the families--I had almost said in all the county, certainly -between Hilfont and Simonborough--who had soldier-sons; and Derwie and -his pony flew along all the country roads for days together when news -came, the child carrying in his faithful childish memory every detail of -the dispatch to the cottage women, who had no other means of hearing it. -The people about--that is to say, Miss Reredos and the important people -of the village--called my boy the telegraph-boy, and I am not quite sure -that I was not rather proud of the name. Whether his news-carrying -always did good I will not say--perhaps it was little comfort to the -mother of a nameless rank-and-file man to hear that another battle had -been won, or a successful march made, in which, perhaps, God knows, that -undistinguished boy of hers might have fainted and fallen aside to die. -But the common people--God bless them!--are more hopeful in their -laborious hearts than we who have leisure to think all our anxieties -out, and grow sick over them. - -Derwie flew here and there on his pony, telling the news--possessed with -it to the exclusion of every other thought--and I could but be thankful -that he was a child, and the telegraph-boy, not a man, able to set out -with a heart of flame to that desperate and furious strife. - -I surprised a nursery party at this memorable period in the expression -of their sentiments. It was somebody’s birthday at Waterflag, and all -the little people were collected there. Derwent had been telling them of -a feat performed in India by a Flintshire man, which all the newspapers -had celebrated, and which we were all rather proud of. Derwie, in his -capacity of newsboy, read the papers to the best of his ability, with -very original readings of the Indian names, but he was much more -thoroughly informed than any of the others--by reason of his trade--and -they listened to him as to an oracle. Then came an account of the mutiny -and all its frightful consequences, as well as Derwie knew. The children -listened absorbed, the girls being, as I rather think is very common, -much the most greatly excited. Willie Sedgwick, the chubby pink and -white heir, who looked so much younger than Derwie, sat silent, -fingering his buttons, and with no remarkable expression in his face; -but Miss Polly’s two nieces bent down from their height of superior -stature to listen, and Clara Sedgwick--lovely little coquette--stood in -the middle of the room, arrested in something she had been doing, -breathless, her little face burning with the strongest childish -excitement. She was not now arrayed in that glorious apparel which had -captivated Derwie and myself in the spring. It was only a simple gray -morning frock, which was expanded upon her infantine crinoline at this -moment; but her beautiful little figure, all palpitating with wonder, -wrath, and excitement, was a sight to see. - -“Oh!” cried out the child, stamping her little foot, as Derwie, -breathless himself, paused in his tale--“oh! if I had only a gun, I -would take hold of papa’s hand and shoot them all!” - -“Ah!” cried Emmy, whose thoughts had been doubtless following the same -track, and to whom this sudden sense of a want which, perhaps, she -scarcely realized in ordinary times, came sharp in sudden contrast with -that exclamation of Clary’s--“Ah, Clary!” cried the poor child, with a -shrill accent in the momentary pang it gave her, “but we have no papa.” -It struck me like a sudden passionate, artless postscript of personal -grief, striking its key-note upon the big impersonal calamity which -raised, even in these children’s bosoms, such generous horror and -indignation. - -“He was killed in India,” said Di, in a low tone, her womanly little -face growing dark with a sudden twilight of feeling more serious than -her years. - -“They don’t want _us_ to fight,” said Derwie, whom this personal -digression did not withdraw from his main interest; “you may be sure, -Clary, they don’t want a little thing like you, or me, or Willie; to be -sure, if we had been older!--but never mind, there’s sure to be somebody -to fight with when we’re big enough; and then there’s such famous -fellows there--there’s Sam Rivers, I was telling you of, that -Huntingdonshire man; I know his mother, I’ll take you to see her, if you -like; and there’s Bertie--there’s our Bertie, don’t you know?--he’ll -never come home till they’re all safe, or till he’s killed.” - -“If he’s killed he’ll never come back,” said Willie Sedgwick. - -“Oh, I wish you would go away, you horrid great boy!” cried Clary, -indignantly--“Killed! when you know mamma is so fond of Mrs. Crofton’s -Bertie, and loves him as much as Uncle Maurice!--but Willie doesn’t care -for anything,” she said, in an aggrieved tone, turning away from her -brother with a disgust which I slightly shared. - -“I could bear him to be killed,” said Derwie, who, poor child, had never -seen the hero he discussed, “if he did something worth while first--like -that one, you know, who blew himself up, or that one”---- - -“But, Derwie, what was the good of blowing himself up,” said Clary, with -wondering round eyes. - -“Don’t you see?” cried Derwie, impatiently; “why, to destroy the powder -and things, to be sure, that they might not have it to fire at us.” - -“I’d have poured water all on the powder, if it had been me, and spoiled -it without hurting any one,” said the prudent Willie. - -“As if he had time to think about hurting any one!” said Derwie--“as if -he didn’t just _do_ it--the first thought that came into his head.” - -“Oh, Derwent!” cried Clary again, “if they were all--every one--ten -thousand thousand, standing up before one big gun, and papa would only -take hold of my hand, I would fire it off!” - -“Aunty says we should forgive,” said Miss Polly’s gentle Di, in a low -voice; “’tis dreadful to be killed, but it would be worse to kill -somebody else.” - -“I don’t think so at all,” cried Clary, “I would kill them every one if -I could--every one that did such horrid, cruel, wicked things. I hope -Bertie will kill ever so many--hundreds! Don’t you hope so, Derwie? I -would if I were him.” - -This sanguinary speech was interrupted by an arrival of nurses and -attendants, and Clary, quite beautiful in her childish fury, went off to -make a captivating toilette for the early childs’ dinner, where -everybody was to appear in gala costume, to do honor to the birthday -hero. The elder Clara, the child’s mother, had been standing with me in -one end of the great nursery, listening to this discussion. She turned -round with a laugh when the party had dispersed. - -“What a little wretch!” said Clara; “but oh! Mrs. Crofton, isn’t it -absurd what people say about children’s gentleness and sweetness, and -all that? I know there is never a story told in my nursery of a wicked -giant, or a bad uncle, or anything of that sort, but the very baby, if -he could speak, would give his vote for cutting the villain up in little -pieces. There never were such cruel imps. They quite shout with -satisfaction when that poor innocent giant, who never did any harm that -I can see, tumbles down the beanstalk and gets killed--though I am sure -that impudent little thief Jack deserves it a great deal more. But what -a memory Derwie has!--and how he understands! I am sure, I hope most -sincerely that Bertie, after all, will get safe home. Is there any more -news?” - -“No more,” said I, “I have not heard from himself a long time now--and -the public news only keeps us anxious. I am not quite so philosophical -as Derwie--few things would make me so thankful as to hear that Bertie -was on his way home.” - -“Oh, I should be so glad!” said Clara, eagerly; then, after a pause and -with a smile, “young men who want their friends to get dreadfully -interested about them should all go out--don’t you think, Mrs. Crofton? -There is Alice, for example. I thought everything was coming round quite -nicely, and that Alice was going to be quite rational, and _settle_ like -other people, at last--but just when everything seemed in such excellent -train, lo! here came this Indian business, and upset the whole again.” - -“Upset what? I don’t understand what you mean,” said I, with a little -wonder, partly affected and partly real. - -“Oh, Mrs. Crofton! you _do_,” cried Clara; “you know mamma and I had -just been making up our minds that Mr. Reredos was _the_ person, and -that all was to be quite pleasant and comfortable. He was _so_ -attentive, and Alice really so much better behaved than she had ever -been before. Then this Indian business, you know, happened, and she was -all in a craze again. She doesn’t say much, but I am quite sure it is -nothing else that has upset her. Of course, looking at it in a rational -way, Bertie and Alice can’t _really_ be anything to each other. But he’s -far away, and he’s in danger, and there’s quite an air of romance about -him. And Alice is so ridiculous! I am quite sure in my own mind that -this is the only reason why she’s so very cool to the Rector again.” - -“It is very injudicious to say so, Clara,” said I; “of course she must -be interested--her old playfellow--like a brother to you both; but as -for interposing between her and an eligible”---- - -“Now, please don’t be rational,” pleaded Clara, “I know exactly what you -are going to say--but after all she must marry somebody, you know, and -where is the harm of an eligible establishment? Perhaps it would be as -well if mamma did not use the word--but still!--oh! to be sure, dear, -good, kind Bertie--the children are quite right,” said Clara, with a -sweet suffusion of kindness and good feeling over all her face--“I am -sure I love him every bit as much as I love Maurice--he was always like -a brother, the dear fellow! I don’t say Alice should not be interested -in him; but only it’s all her romance, you know. She’s not in love with -him--if she were in love with him, I couldn’t say a word--it’s only -sympathy, and friendship, and sisterhood, and all that; and because he’s -in trouble she’ll forget all about herself, and send this good man, who -is very fond of her, away.” - -“These young ladies, you see, Clara,” said I, “they are not at all to be -depended on; they never will attend to what we experienced people say.” - -“Ah, yes, that is true,” said Alice’s younger sister, with a sigh of -serious acquiescence, and the simplest good faith. - -Clara, with her five babies, had forgotten that she was not her sister’s -senior--while Alice, for her part, looking down from her quiet -observatory in her brown silk dress upon Clara’s wonderful toilettes and -blooming beauty, felt herself a whole century older than that pretty -matron-sister, who was always so sweetly occupied with life, and had so -little time for thought. I smiled upon them both, being near twenty -years their senior, and thought them a couple of children still. So we -all go on, thinking ourself the wisest always. In these days I began to -moralize a little. I have no doubt Miss Polly had similar thoughts of -me. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - - -That evening I had the satisfaction (or dissatisfaction) of beholding a -very similar condition of things to that which had occupied my attention -in my own house at Easter. All the Harleys were at Waterflag, in honor -of Willie’s birthday, including the pretty little Kate, whose first -party this was, and--a more perplexing addition--their mother. Mrs. -Harley was exactly what she had always been, but age had made her -uncertain mind more uncertain, while it increased her anxiety to have -her children “provided for,” as she called it. The colder Alice was to -Mr. Reredos, the more warmly and tenderly her mother conciliated and -courted him. Here was a good match, which might be lost for a caprice, -one might have supposed the good woman to be thinking; and it was her -duty to prevent that consummation, if possible. Mrs. Harley quite gave -herself up to the task of soothing down the temper which Alice had -ruffled, and whispering perseverance to the discouraged suitor. She -referred to him on all occasions, thrust his opinions into anything that -was going forward, contrived means of bringing him into immediate -contact with Alice, which last brought many a little sting and slight to -the unfortunate and too well-befriended lover--on the whole, conducted -herself as a nervous, anxious, well-meaning woman, to whom Providence -has not given the gift of comprehending other people’s individualities, -might be supposed likely to do. As Mrs. Harley sat in her great chair by -the fire in the Waterflag drawing-room, and looked round her upon her -children and descendants, I did not wonder that she was both proud and -anxious. There was Maurice with a new world of troublous thoughts in his -face. I could no more understand what was their cause than I could -interfere with them. Was it that dread following out of his -investigations into Truth, wherever she might lead him, which he had -contemplated with tragical but complacent placidity six months since--or -had other troubles, more material, overtaken the Fellow of Exeter? I was -somewhat curious, but how could I hope to know? Then there was Johnnie, -poor, happy, deluded boy! Miss Reredos was of the company--and while she -still saw nobody else who was more likely game, she amused herself with -Johnnie, and overwhelmed his simple soul with joy. His book and his love -together had changed him much, poor fellow; he was sadly impatient of -being spoken to as a youth, or almost as a child, in the old -sympathetic, tender custom which all his family had fallen into. He was -jealous of being distinguished in any way from other people, and took -the indulgences long accorded to his ill-health and helplessness -fiercely, as if they had been so many insults. Poor Johnnie! he thought -himself quite lifted above the old warm family affection, which clung so -close to the weakest of the flock, by this new imaginary love of his. I -wonder what that syren of his imagination felt when she saw what she had -done! I imagine nothing but amusement, and a little pleasurable thrill -of vanity. Many men made love to Miss Reredos, or had done so during the -past career of that experienced young lady; few perhaps had thrown -themselves at her feet _tout entier_, like our poor cripple Johnnie. She -felt the flattery, though she cared little about the victim. I believe, -while she foresaw quite coolly the misery she was bringing on the boy, -she yet had and would retain a certain grateful memory of him all her -life. - -But it appeared that she had either tired of Maurice, or recognized as -impracticable her flirtation with that accomplished young gentleman. -They were on somewhat spiteful terms, having a little passing encounter -of pique on the one side and anger on the other, whenever they chanced -to come in contact. The pique was on the lady’s side; but as for -Maurice, he looked as if it would have been a decided relief to his -feelings to do her some small personal injury. There was a kind of snarl -in his voice when he addressed her, such as I have heard men use to a -woman who had somehow injured them, and whom they supposed to have taken -a mean advantage of her woman’s exemption from accountability. “If you -were a man I could punish you; but you are not a man, and I have to be -polite to you, you cowardly female creature,” said the tone, but not the -words of Maurice’s voice; and I could discover by that tone that -something new must have happened which I did not know of. All the more -fervently for the coolness of his mother and sisters to her, and for the -constraint and gloomy looks of Maurice, did Johnnie, poor boy, hang upon -the words and watch the looks of the enchantress--he saw nobody else in -the room, cared for nobody else--was entirely carried beyond all other -affections, beyond gratitude, beyond every sentiment but that of the -exalted boyish passion which had, to his own consciousness, changed all -his life and thoughts. - -And there, on the other hand, was Alice, thwarting all the wishes and -inclinations of her friends. Mrs. Harley forgave Johnnie, and turned all -her wrath for his foolishness upon Miss Reredos; but she did not forgive -Alice for those cold and brief answers, that unapproachable aspect which -daunted the Rector, comfortable and satisfactory as was his opinion of -himself. I could not help looking at these young people with a passing -wonder in my mind over the strange caprices and cross-purposes of their -period of life. Maurice, for instance--what was it that had set Maurice -all astray from his comfortable self-complacency and _dilettante_ -leisure? Somehow the pleasure-boat of his life had got among the rocks, -and nothing but dissatisfaction--extreme, utter, unmitigated -dissatisfaction--was left to the young man, as I could perceive, of all -his accomplishments and perfections. Alice was thrusting ordinary life -away from her--thrusting aside love, and independence, and “an eligible -establishment,” trying to persuade herself that there were other -pursuits more dignified than the common life of woman--for--a caprice, -Clara said. Johnnie, poor Johnnie, was happy in the merest folly of -self-deception that ever innocent boy practised. Alas! and that was but -the threshold of hard, sober existence, and who could tell what bitter -things were yet in store for them? How hard is life! Perhaps Bertie -Nugent at that moment lay stark upon some Eastern field of battle; -perhaps he was pledging his heart and life to some of those -languid-lively Indian Englishwomen, ever so many thousand miles off--who -can tell? And why, because Bertie was in danger, should Alice Harley -snub that excellent young Rector, and turn from his attentions with such -an air of impatience, almost of disgust? Nobody could answer me these -simple questions. Indeed, to tell the truth, I did not ask anybody, but -quietly pursued the elucidation of them for myself. - -And of course our conversation during the course of the evening ran upon -matters connected with India and the last news. Derwent and Mr. Sedgwick -held grave consultations on the political aspect of the matter and the -future government of India. Miss Reredos shuddered, and put on pretty -looks of earnest attention; Clara told the story of the conversation in -the nursery; while, in the mean time, Alice expressed her interest -neither by look nor word--only betrayed it by sitting stock-still, -taking no part in the conversation, and restraining more than was -natural every appearance of feeling. That silence would have been -enough, if there had been nothing else, to betray her to me. - -But I confess I was surprised to hear the eager part which Maurice took -in the conversation, and the heat and earnestness with which he spoke. - -“If there is one man on earth whom I envy it is Bertie Nugent,” said -Maurice, when Clara had ended her nursery story. “I remember him well -enough, and I know the interest Mrs. Crofton takes in him. You need not -make faces at me, Clara--I don’t think he’s very brilliant, and neither, -I daresay, does Mrs. Crofton; but he’s in his proper place.” - -“Maurice, my dear, the place Providence appoints to us is always our -proper place,” said Mrs. Harley, with the true professional spirit of a -clergyman’s wife. - -“Oh! just so, mother,” said the Fellow of Exeter, with a momentary -return of his old, superb, superior smile, “only, you know, one differs -in opinion with Providence now and then. Bertie Nugent, however, has no -doubt about it, I am certain. I envy him,” added the young man, with a -certain glance at me, as if he expected me to appreciate the change in -his sentiments, and to feel rather complimented that my poor Bertie was -promoted to the envy of so exalted a personage. - -“I thought Mr. Maurice Harley despised soldiers,” said Miss Reredos, -dropping her words slowly out of her mouth, as if with a pleasant -consciousness that they contained a sting. - -“On the contrary, I think soldiering the only natural profession to -which we are born,” said Maurice, starting with an angry flush, and all -but rudeness of tone. - -“Don’t say so, please, before the children,” cried Clara. “War’s -disgusting. For one thing, nobody can talk of anything else when it’s -going on. And then only think what shoals of poor men it carries away, -never to bring them back again. Ah, poor Bertie!” cried Clara, with a -little feeling, “I wish the war were over, and he was safe home.” - -“I am not sure that war is not the most wholesome of standing -institutions,” said Maurice, philosophically. “Your shoals of poor men -who go away, and never return, don’t matter much to general humanity. -There were more went off in the Irish exodus than we shall lose in -India. We can afford to lose a little blood.” - -“Oh, yes, and sometimes it takes troublesome people out of the way,” -said the Rector’s sister--“one should not forget that.” - -“Extremely true, and very philosophical, for a woman,” said Maurice, -with a savage look. “It drains the surplus population off, and makes -room for those who remain.” - -Clara and her mother, both of them, rushed into the conversation with -the same breath as women rush to separate combatants. I should have been -very much surprised had I been more deeply interested. But at present I -was occupied with that imperturbable, uninterfering quietness with which -Alice sat at the table, saying nothing;--how elaborately unconscious and -unconcerned she looked!--that was much more important to me than any -squabble between Maurice and the Rector’s sister--or than the Rector -himself, or any one of the many and various individual concerns which, -like the different threads of a web, were woven into the quiet household -circle--giving a deep dramatic interest to the well-bred, unpicturesque -pose of the little company in that quiet English room. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - - -We stayed all that night at Waterflag, as we always did when we dined -with the Sedgwicks, and of course I was subjected to a long private and -confidential conversation with Mrs. Harley in my dressing-room, when we -both ought to have been at rest. She poured out her anxieties upon me as -she had done many a long year ago, when all these young people were -unconscious little children, and Dr. Harley, poor good man, was newly -dead. Only Time had changed both of us since then--she had become an old -woman with silver-white hair under her snowy cap. I was old too, though -my boy was but a child, and kept me nearer to youth than belonged to my -years; but Mrs. Harley was as glad of this outlet to her anxieties, and -felt as much relief in pouring these anxieties forth upon somebody -else’s shoulders as ever. - -“Ah, Clare!” she said, “you have only one, to be sure, and he’s nobly -provided for; but we’re never so happy, though we don’t think it, as -when they’re all children. There’s nothing but measles and such things -to frighten one _then_--but _now_!--dear, dear! the charge of all these -grown up young people, Clare, is far too much for a poor woman like me. -I believe I shall break down all at once, one of these days.” - -“Let us take it quietly,” said I, “they are very good, sensible, -well-educated young people--they know what they are doing--don’t you -think you might trust them to act for themselves?” - -“They will, whether I trust them or not,” sighed poor Mrs. Harley. “Ah -dear! to think how one toils and denies one’s self for one’s family, and -how little account they make of one’s wishes when all is done! I think -mine have quite set themselves--all but Clara, dear girl, who is so -perfectly satisfactory in every way--to thwart and cross me, Alice--you -know how unreasonable she is--I can do nothing with her. Just the thing -of all others that I could have chosen for her, and such a nice, -excellent, judicious young man. You saw how she behaved to him -to-night.” - -“But really, Mrs. Harley, if Alice doesn’t like him”--I interposed with -humility. - -“Oh, nonsense--she does like him--at least, she doesn’t like anybody -else that I know of--and why shouldn’t she like him?” asked the -exasperated mother. “You know, Mrs. Crofton, that my poor income dies -with me--and there is Johnnie, poor child, to make some provision for, -and when I die what will she do?--though to be sure,” concluded Mrs. -Harley, drawing herself up a little, “I am not the sort of person to -marry my daughters merely for an establishment--that never was my way. -This case, you must perceive, Clare, is quite different. He is such a -very nice--such an entirely satisfactory person; and the position--I was -a clergyman’s wife myself, and I would choose that sphere rather than -any other for Alice; and as for liking, I really cannot see a single -reason why she should not like him, do you?” - -“Why, no--except just, perhaps, that--I fear--she doesn’t,” said I, with -hesitation; for I confess this superlative mother’s argument quite -nonplused me. After all, why shouldn’t she like that good, young, -handsome Rector? I reserved the question for private consideration, but -was a little staggered by the strength of Mrs. Harley’s case. - -“My opinion is that Alice thinks it rather a merit to refuse an eligible -person,” said Mrs. Harley--“like all these young people. There is -Maurice, too--you will not believe it, Clare--but Maurice has actually -had the folly to fall in love with Francis Owen’s sister in -Simonborough. I could not believe my ears when I heard of it first. -Maurice, who has always been such a very prudent boy! She is a very -nice, pretty girl, but, of course has not a penny--and Maurice has -nothing but his fellowship. It is a pretty mess altogether. In the very -best view of the case, if Maurice even had been content to think like -other people, and had a nice living waiting for him, they might both -have done better--_he_ might have done a _great_ deal better at least. -But, no!--when they find somebody quite unsuitable, that is the very -thing to please young people in these days; and there is my son, -Clare--my eldest son--who was never intended for any profession but the -Church--actually broaching all kinds of wild schemes about work, and -talking of going to Australia, or taking a laborer’s hod, or any other -wild thing he can think of; it is enough to break my heart!” - -“Then do you mean that Maurice intends to throw up his fellowship, and -marry?” said I, thinking this too good news to be true. - -Mrs. Harley shook her head. - -“It is all a muddle,” she said, “there is no satisfaction at all in it; -she thought he flirted with Miss Reredos, and he thought she flirted -with some of the officers; and Miss Reredos has such a grudge at him -for falling in love with anybody but herself, that she did all she could -to help them to a quarrel; and a very good thing, too, for of course -they never would have been so mad as to marry, and I dislike long -engagements exceedingly; only since then it is really almost impossible -to endure Maurice in the house. He is _so_ ill-tempered, it is really -quite dreadful. I am sure, when I was young, I never gave my parents any -uneasiness about me, yet my two eldest children seem to think it quite -an amusement to worry me out of my life.” - -“Let us believe they don’t do it on purpose,” said I; “troubles never -come single, you know--and I daresay this is the most critical time of -their life.” - -“Ah, Alice should have had all these affairs over long ago!” said Mrs. -Harley, disapprovingly; “Alice is seven and twenty, Mrs. Crofton--she -ought to have been settled in life years ago. I am sure, considering all -the opportunities she has had, it is quite disgraceful. I can’t help -feeling that people--her father’s friends, for instance--will blame me.” - -I found it difficult not to smile at this refinement of maternal -anxiety, but after a while succeeded in soothing the good mother, whose -mind was evidently eased by the utterance, and persuading her that -everything would come right. She went away shaking her head, but smiling -through her anxious looks. She laid down her burden at my door, and left -it there. When she had gone I took up my portion of it with sundry -compunctions. Bertie Nugent had been seven years away--when he went away -Alice was scarcely twenty. They had of course been very much in each -other’s society before this, but seven years is a long break, even for -lovers. These two were not lovers; and was not Clara right when she -stigmatized as the merest foolish romance any interest which Alice might -have in her long-departed and indifferent playfellow? I began to blame -myself for cherishing in my own mind the lingering hope that my wishes -might still be accomplished concerning them. Perhaps that hope had, by -some subtle means, betrayed itself to Alice, and had helped to -strengthen her in her natural perversity and the romance of that vague -visionary link which existed only in her mind and mine. I have known -very similar cases more than once in my life--cases in which a childish -liking, kept up only by chance inquiries or friendly messages at long -intervals on one side or the other, has forestalled the imagination of -the two subjects of it so completely, that both have kept from all -engagements for years, until at long and last, encountering each other -once again, they have discovered themselves to have loved each other all -this time, and married out of hand. This vague sort of tie, which is no -tie, has a more captivating hold upon the mind than a real engagement; -but then it might come to nothing. And after an interval of seven years, -was it not everybody’s duty to turn the dreamer away from that romantic -distance to the real ground close at hand? I had considered the question -many times with too strong a regard for Bertie (who, to be sure, had no -particular solicitude about the matter, or he might have been home long -ago) in my thoughts. Now I rather changed my point of view. If Alice -liked Bertie, it was purely a love of the imagination. Why, for that -Will-o’-the-wisp, was she to keep dreaming in the twilight while the -broad daylight of life and all its active duties were gliding out of her -reach? I resolved to bestir myself and startle Alice into common sense -and ordinary prudence. Here was she, letting youth pass her, not -perceiving how it went, looking so far away out of her horizon to that -fantastic, unreal attraction at the other end of the world. Thinking -over it I grew more and more dissatisfied. She was wrong to entertain, -I was wrong to encourage, so uncomfortable a piece of self-delusion. It -is true, Bertie was in danger, and surrounded with a flush of interest -and anxiety which doubled his claims on everybody who knew him. Still it -must not be permitted to continue--she must be roused out of this vain -imaginary attachment which blinded her to the love that sought her close -at hand. Why did she not like the Rector? I resolved to be at the bottom -of that question, which I could not answer, before twenty-four hours -were out. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII. - - -But who can tell what is to happen within twenty-four hours? When I left -my dressing-room next morning, I found Derwent lingering in the corridor -outside, waiting for me. He carried in his hand one of those ominous -covers which thrill the hearts of private people with fears of evil -tidings. He had been half afraid to bring it into me, but he did not -hide either the startling hieroglyphics which proclaimed the nature of -the dispatch, nor his own distressed and sorrowful face. - -“What is the matter?” I cried, in breathless alarm, when I saw him; -“something has happened!” - -“I fear so,” said Derwent; “but softly--softly, Clare; in the first -place it is not absolutely his name and there are such perpetual -mistakes by this confounded telegraph. Softly, softly, Clare.” - -I had seized the dispatch while he was speaking--I read it without -saying a word--did I not know how it would be?--ah, that concise, -dreadful, murderous word--killed! I knew it the moment I saw Derwent’s -face. - -“But, my love, it is not his name--look! it absolutely may be somebody -else and not Bertie,” cried my husband. - -Ah, Bertie! the sound of his dear, pleasant, homely name overcame me. -There was no longer any Bertie in the world! I had borne the dreadful -excitement of reading the dispatch, but I lost my self-command entirely -when all the world of love and hope that had lived in him came before me -in his name--it went to my heart. - -Long after, Derwent returned to point out the possibilities, which I had -no heart to find out. I heard him languidly--I had made up my mind at -once to the worst. One hopes least when one’s heart is most deeply -concerned; but still my mind roused to catch at the straw, such as it -was. The telegraph reported that it was Captain N. Hugent who was -killed. It was a very slight travesty to rest any confidence upon; but -then Bertie was Lieutenant-Colonel, lately breveted. I refused to listen -for a long time; but at last the hope caught hold of me. Derwent -recalled to my recollection so many other errors--even in this very -dispatch the name of one place was quite unrecognizable. When I did -receive the idea into my head, I started up, crying for an Army List. -Why did they not have one in Waterflag? It was afternoon then, and the -day had gone past like a ghost, without a thought of our return home, or -of anything but this dismal piece of news. Now I put my bonnet on -hurriedly, and begged Derwent to get the carriage. We had a list at -home. We could see if there was anybody else whose name might be -mistaken for our dear boy’s. - -A pale afternoon--a ghostly half twilight of clouds and autumn -obscurity. I went into Clara’s favorite sitting-room, where she was by -herself, to bid her good-bye, unable to bear the sight of the whole -family, especially of Mrs. Harley, and the sympathy, sincere though it -was, which she would give me. That miserable morsel of hope, which I did -not believe in, yet trusted to, in spite of myself, raised to a fever my -grief and distress. The deepest calamity, which is certain, and not to -be doubted, is so far better than suspense, that it has not the burning -agitation of anxiety to augment its pangs. I went into Clara’s room with -the noiseless step of a ghost, impelled by I cannot tell what impulse of -swiftness and silence. Clara was crying abundantly for her old -playfellow. Alice, as I did not observe at the time, but remembered -afterwards, was not to be seen that day, and never came to whisper a -word of consolation to me, nor even to bid me good-bye. I put my veil -aside for a moment to kiss Clara. “Oh, Mrs. Crofton! it will turn out to -be somebody else!” cried Clara, with her unreasoning impulse of -consolation. I wrung the little hand she put into mine and hurried away. -Ah! God help us! if it was not Bertie it must be somebody else--if we -were exempted, other hearts must break. Oh, heavy life! oh, death -inexorable! some one must bear this blow, whether another household or -our own. - -We hurried back to Hilfont, all very silent, little Derwie leaning back -in his corner of the carriage, his eyes ablaze, and not a tear in them; -the child was in the highest excitement, but not for Bertie’s -life--panting to know, not that the cousin whom he had never seen was -saved, but that something noble and great had been done by this hero of -his childish imagination. As for my husband, I knew it was only in -consideration of my weakness that he had remained all day inactive. I -saw him look at his watch, and lean out to speak to the coachman. I knew -that he would continue his journey to town as fast as steam could carry -him. I felt certain Derwent could not rest without certain news. - -When we reached home, I hastened at once, in advance of them all, to -the library, where I knew that Army List was. I remember still how I -threw the books out of my way till I found it, and how, with a haste -which defeated its own object, I ruffled over the leaves with my -trembling hands. I found nothing like Bertie’s name--nothing that could -be changed into that Captain N. Hugent in all his regiment. I threw the -book away from me and sunk upon a chair, faint and giddy. My hopes had -grown as I approached to the point of resolving them; now they forsook -me in a moment. Why should I quarrel with that inevitable fate? Why -should we be exempted, and no other? Long and peaceful had been this -interregnum. Years had passed since grief touched us--now it was over, -and the age of sorrow had begun again. - -“I have only a minute to spare,” said Derwent, looking over the list -himself, with a grave and unsatisfied face; “of course I must go to town -immediately, Clare, and see if any more information is to be had. But -look here! it is not so much the mistake of name as of rank which weighs -with me; military people, you know, are rigid in that respect. Had it -been Colonel, I should not have questioned the transposing of the -initials; but see! he is registered as Major even here.” - -“Don’t say anything, Derwent,” said I; “let me make up my mind to it. -Why should not we have our share of suffering as well as so many others? -Do not try to soothe me with a hope which you don’t feel.” - -“My dear, if I were not so anxious, I should be sure of it,” said -Derwent. “I am very hopeful even now. And, Clare,” said my husband, -stopping sorrowfully to look at me, “grieved as we are, think, at the -most, it might have been worse still--it might have been your own son.” - -I turned my head away for the moment, with something of an added pang. -My boy Bertie!--he was not my son--he did not even look so very, very -much younger than I, now-a-days, as he had been used to do; yet he was -my boy, kindred in blood and close in heart. Little Derwent stood by, -listening up to this moment in silence. Now he spoke. - -“Mamma, are you sorry?” cried the child; “our Bertie would not die for -nothing, if he did die. Is it for Bertie, because he’s been a brave -soldier that you cry? Then how will you do, mamma, when _I’m_ a man?” - -How should I do? I clasped my son close in my arms and wept aloud. His -father went away from us with a trembling lip, and tears in his eyes. -My heart groaned and exulted over the child, who felt himself a knight -and champion born. Ah! what should I do when he was a man? What would -every one do who loved Derwie, if death and danger came in the way of -_his_ duty? But some such men bear charmed lives. - -Derwent went away that day to do all that was possible towards -ascertaining the truth. We were left alone in the house, Derwie and I. -My boy kept by me all day, unfolding to me the stores of his wonderful -childish information--what in my pride and admiration I had been used to -call Derwie’s gossip. He did not console, nor suggest consolation; but -the heart swelled in his child’s bosom to think of some great thing -which he had yet to hear of, that Bertie had done. He was entirely -possessed with that idea; and by-and-by his enthusiasm breathed itself -into his mother also. I began to bear myself proudly in the depths of my -grief. “Another for England!” I said in my heart: Ah! more than for -England, for humanity, nature, our very race and blood. If Bertie had -died to deliver the helpless from yonder torturing demons, could we -grudge his life for that cause? So I tried to stifle down my fond hopes -for my chosen heir--to put Alice Harley and Estcourt aside out of my -mind, that nothing might come between me and our dearest young hero. He -was killed. That murderous chariot of war had gone over him, and -extinguished those fair and tender prospects out of this world; but not -the praise nor the love, which should last for ever. - -So I thought, waiting for further tidings, persuading myself that I had -no other expectation than to hear that fatal dispatch confirmed--yet -cherishing I cannot tell what unspoken, unpermitted secret hopes at the -bottom of my heart. - -Some days of extreme suspense ensued. Derwent found no satisfaction in -London; but remained there in order to get the first news that came. -Heavily those blank hours of uncertainty went over us. Lady Greenfield -came to Hilfont, and she and I grew friends, as we mingled our -tears--friends for the first time. All my other neighbors distressed me -with inquiries or condolences. Some wondered I went to church on the -next Sunday, and was not in mourning. Nobody would let me alone in my -anxiety and grief. I had a visit almost every day from Clara Sedgwick, -who came in crying, as if that would console me, and hung upon my neck. -I was far too deeply excited to take any comfort out of Clara’s -caresses; perhaps, if truth must be told, I was a little bored with -demonstrations of affection, to which, uneasy and miserable as I was, I -could make so little response. - -Then came the day for news--the dread day, when all secret hopes which -might be lurking in our hearts were to receive confirmation or -destruction, the last being so very much the most probable. I felt -assured that if the news was favorable, Derwent would return that day, -and waited with a beating heart for the dispatch, which I knew he would -not delay a moment in sending me. The news came--alas! such unhappy -no-news! The same perplexing, murderous information, simply repeated -without a single clue to the mistake, whatever it was. I sank down in my -chair, with an overpowering sickness at my heart while I read--sickness -of depressed hope, of disappointment of a conviction and certainty which -crushed me. The repetition somehow weighed heavily with my imagination. -I could no longer either deny or doubt the truth of it. It was all over. -There was no more Bertie Nugent of Estcourt now to maintain the name of -my fathers; so many hopes and dreams were ended, and such a noble, fresh -young life, full of all good and generous impulses, was finished for -ever. - -“I fear--I fear, Derwie, my darling--I fear it must be true,” said I. - -“But what did he do? Bertie did not die for nothing, mamma--is it not in -the paper what he _did_?” cried Derwie. - -If it had been, perhaps one could have borne it better. If he had died -relieving a distressed garrison, or freeing a band of agonized -fugitives, and we had known that he did so, perhaps--perhaps--it might -have been easier to bear. I sat down listlessly in the great window of -the breakfast-room. Something of the maze of grief came over me. If I -had seen him coming through the avenue yonder, crossing the lawn, -approaching to me with his pleasant smile, I should not have wondered. -Death had separated Bertie from the limits of place and country--he was -mysteriously near, though what remained of him might be thousands of -miles away. - -Thus I sat languidly looking out, and saying over in my heart those -verses which everybody must remember who has ever been in great -trouble--those verses of _In Memoriam_, in which the poet sees the ship -come home with its solemn, silent passenger, and yet feels that if along -with the other travellers he saw the dead man step forth-- - - “And strike a sudden hand in mine, - And ask a thousand things of home;-- - - “And I should tell him all my pain, - And how my life had drooped of late, - And he should sorrow o’er my state, - And marvel what possessed my brain; - - “And I perceived no touch of change, - No hint of death in all his frame, - But found him all in all the same, - I should not feel it to be strange.” - -Wonderful subtle intuition of the poetic soul! Who does not know that -strange contrast of death and life? A week ago, and had I seen Bertie -from that window, I should have hailed his appearance with the wildest -amazement. But I should neither have wondered nor faltered had I seen -him this day; on the contrary, would have felt in my heart that it was -natural and fit he should be there. - -But I did not see Bertie. I saw far off a homely country gig driving up -rapidly towards the house, and strained my eyes, wondering if it could -be Derwent, though he had sent me no intimation of his return. As it -came closer, however, I saw that one of the figures it contained was a -woman’s, and at last perceived that my visitors were no other than Alice -Harley and her brother Maurice. I started nervously up, and hid away my -dispatch, for I trembled to see my dear girl. What had she to do coming -here?--she who could not ask after his fate with calmness, and yet to -the bottom of her maiden heart felt that she had _no right_ to be -concerned. - -Alice was very pale--I could see the nervous trembling over her whole -frame, which she subdued painfully, and with a nervous force, as she -came in. Though her voice would scarcely serve her to say the words, she -made an explanation before she asked if I had any news. “My mother sent -me,” said Alice, with bare childish simplicity, but with that breathless -gasp in her voice which I knew so well--gasp of utter despair at the -thought of enduring that suspense, and concealing it for five minutes -longer--“to know if you had any further news--if you had heard,” she -added, with a convulsive calmness, casting at me a fiery glance, defiant -of the compassion she saw in my face. I saw she meant to say his name, -to show me how firm she was, but nature was too much for Alice--she -concluded hurriedly in the baldest, briefest words--“anything more?” - -I shook my head, and she sank into the nearest seat--not -fainting--people do not faint at such moments--kept alive and conscious -by a burning force of pain. - -“Only the same miserable news over again,” said I, “with the same -mistake in the name; letters must come, I fear, before we can know--but -I am afraid to hope.” - -A little convulsive sound came from Alice’s breast--she heard it -herself, and drew herself up after it to hide the wound still if she -could. Maurice, too, was greatly affected, though he could scarcely be -said to have known Bertie; he walked about the room in his careless -man’s way, doing everything in the world without intending it, to make -that composure we two women had wound ourselves up to, -impossible--making his lamentations as he paced about from table to -table, picking up all the books to look at them as he went and came. - -“Poor Nugent!” said Maurice--“poor honest fellow!--he was not very -brilliant, but people liked him all the better for that. What a bright -frank face he had--what a laugh! I shall never hear anybody laugh so -heartily again. And to think of a fellow like that, and hundreds more, -sacrificed to these black demons! Good heavens! and we sitting here at -home idling away our lives!” - -“Ah, my Bertie!” cried I, out of my heart, “and no one left behind him -to bear his name--nobody to mourn for him except ourselves--nobody -belonging to _him_! If there is one thing a man has a right to in life -and death, it is surely a woman’s tears.” - -I did not think what I was saying. The words were scarcely out of my -lips when an overpowering burst of tears broke through all the painful -reserve and forced calmness of Alice. She covered her face with her -hands, hid her head, drew her veil frantically over her passionate -weeping. But the flood would have its way, and she could not stop it. I -dried my own tears to look on almost with awe at that outburst of -controlled and restrained nature. My poor Bertie! the last sad right of -a man had fallen to him unawares; he had that mournful possession, all -to himself, poured forth upon the grave of his youth with a fulness that -knew no reserve--a woman’s tears! - -Maurice stood by overwhelmed with surprise; he looked at his sister--he -grew crimson up to his hair--he drew back a step as if he felt himself -an intruder spying upon this unsuspected grief. Then he retired to the -bookcase at the other side of the room, with an appealing glance at me. -I followed him softly, Alice being far too entirely absorbed to observe -us for the moment. - -“What does it mean--was there anything between them?” asked Maurice, in -my ear. - -“They were playfellows and dear friends,” said I; “you know how Clara -feels it too.” - -“Not like _that_,” said Maurice, once more growing red, as he turned to -the books in the shelves--he stood there absorbed in these books, taking -out some to examine them, showing himself entirely occupied with this -investigation till Alice had recovered her composure. She looked up at -me with a guilty, pale face when she had wept out her tears; and I was -comforted that she saw her brother coldly standing in the background -with his back to us and a book in his hand. I had never been so pleased -with Maurice before. - -“You are not well, my dear child,” said I, “I will bring you some wine, -and you must rest a little. Thank you for remembering him, Alice. Now we -can give him nothing but tears.” - -Alice, all pale, miserable, and abashed, gasped forth something of which -I could only distinguish the words “playfellow” and “old friend.” - -“I was saying so--you were like his sisters, Clara and you,” said I, out -loud to reach Maurice’s ear. - -Alice looked up in my face, now that she had betrayed herself. I thought -she was almost jealous that I did not understand her--that I really -believed these were, like Clara’s, friendly and sisterly tears. - -What could I do? I hushed her, drawing her head to my breast. I could -say nothing,--he was gone--he could neither learn what love was bestowed -upon him nor return it. Words could no longer touch that secret matter -which was made holy by Bertie’s grave. - -“Look here, Mrs. Crofton,” said Maurice, turning round upon me, when he -saw I had left Alice’s side, with the Army List in his hand; “it is not -in Nugent’s regiment, certainly, but the 53d is in India, too--look -here.” - -I looked with little interest, believing it only a kind expedient to -break up the trying situation in which we all stood. It was a name which -Maurice pointed out, the name entirely unknown to me, of Captain Nicolas -Hughes. - -“What of it?” said I, almost disposed to think he was making light of -our trouble. - -“Captain N. Hughes--Captain N. Hugent--the mistake might be quite -explainable; at least,” said Maurice, putting up the book, “at least -with such a similarity we ought not yet to despair. Alice we’ll go home -now. I daresay Mrs. Crofton has too many visitors just at present, and -my mother will be anxious to hear. Dear Mrs. Crofton,” said the young -man, in whom I could not recognize that Fellow of Exeter, grasping my -hand warmly, “don’t despair.” - -And Alice, with a painful blush on her cheeks, and her veil over her -face, followed him out without a word. I took but faint hope from the -suggestion of that name; but if it were possible--if still we might hope -that Bertie was spared--never would Alice Harley forgive him for that -outburst of tears. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX. - - -Derwent had not yet returned, and I could understand perfectly why he -waited, uneasy for further news, or at least for some explanation of -that which we had already heard. I waited also, spending the days sadly, -but giving up hope, and consequently in a state of anxiety less painful. -Sometimes, indeed, Derwie thrust me back into my fever of suspense by -his oft-repeated wonder that there should be no news yet of that feat of -arms which had cost Bertie his life. The child could not and would not -understand how the bravest may perish by some anonymous undistinguished -shot, as well as the coward; nor believe that “Bertie had died for -nothing,” as he said. And sometimes that name which Maurice Harley -pointed out to me wavered through my memory for hours together, and -upset my calm. Captain Nicolas Hughes--who was he? I wondered, musing at -the window, with still that vague thrilling thought at my heart that it -would not surprise me to see Bertie coming across the lawn. Was he -young, perhaps, and had mother and sisters at home breaking their hearts -with an anxiety kindred to our own--or, harder still, perhaps a wife -trembling to believe that her children had no father? Alas! alas! who -could choose to be delivered one’s-self at the cost of another’s -heartbreak? God’s will be done, whatever it was! _He_ knew, though we -did not. There was nothing else to say. - -A few days after I had an unexpected, and, I am grieved to say, not very -welcome visit from Mrs. Harley. I had shunned seeing her hitherto, -afraid alike of her condolences over a sorrow which I had not consented -to, or her weak encouragements of a hope in which I durst not believe. -Had it been possible to so old a friend, I would have denied myself, -when I saw the same gig in which Maurice had driven Alice--a convenient -rural vehicle belonging to a farmer close by her house--driving up once -more to Hilfont with Mrs. Harley; but as, in spite of thirty years’ -close friendship, the good woman would still have set this down as a -slight to her poverty, I did not venture to refuse her admittance. She -came in with her best conventional look of sympathy, shook my hand with -emphasis, and gave me a slow lingering kiss; did all those things by -which our friends mark their profound consciousness of our sorrow, and -readiness to receive our confidence. I, for my part, was disposed to say -very little on the subject. There was no more news--nothing to say. I -was afraid to speculate, or to have any speculations upon this, which -none of us could elucidate. It was best to leave it in silence while we -waited--time enough to speak when all was secure. - -Yet when I saw that Mrs. Harley’s sympathy was the merest superficial -crust overlaid upon her own perennial anxieties, I am not sure that I -was pleased. One feels it impossible that one’s friends can feel for one -fully; yet one is disappointed, notwithstanding, when one perceives how -entirely occupied they are with the closer current of their own affairs. -Mrs. Harley had no sooner expressed her feeble affliction over “the sad -calamity,” than she forsook that subject for a more interesting one; and -it was a little grievous to be called upon to adjudicate in favor of -Alice’s lover, just after I had looked with respect and sympathy on -Alice’s tears. - -“My dear Mrs. Crofton, I am sure I would not for the world trouble you -with my affairs, when you are in such deep affliction,” said Mrs. -Harley, doing of course the very thing she deprecated; “but I am in -such anxiety about Alice; and really Mr. Reredos is so very urgent that -I no longer know what to say to him. I ventured to give him an -intimation, a few weeks ago, that Alice was rather inclining towards -him, as I thought--and of course the poor young man redoubled his -attentions; and now, whether it is mere perversity or dislike, or what -it is, I cannot tell, but from that time Alice has treated him with such -indifference, not to say disdain, that I am at my wit’s end.” - -“It would have been better to have said nothing to the Rector without -Alice’s consent,” said I, languidly, yet not without a certain -satisfaction in piercing my visitor with this little javelin. Mrs. -Harley shook her head and wiped her eyes. - -“It is so easy to say so,” said the troubled mother, “so easy to think -what is best when one’s own heart is not concerned; But if I _was_ wrong -I cannot help it now--Alice is so very unreasonable. She cannot endure -the very sight of Mr. Reredos now--it is extremely distressing to me.” - -“I am very sorry to hear it, Mrs. Harley, but you know I cannot help -you,” said I. - -“Oh! my dear Clare, I beg your pardon a thousand times for troubling you -when you have such distressing news, but you know quite well you are -all-powerful with Alice. Then another thing, Clara tells me that dear -Bertie--dear fellow!--I am sure I loved him like a child of my own--had -something to do with her sister’s behavior to the Rector--not that they -were in love, you know, only some old childish friendship that the dear -girl remembered when he was in danger. Do you think there is anything in -it, Clara? Can that be the reason? but you know of course it is quite -nonsense. Why, they have not met for eight years!” - -“That proves it must be nonsense, to be sure,” said I; “but excuse me, -Mrs. Harley, this dear boy who is gone was very dear to me--I cannot -mingle his name in any talk about other people. I beg your pardon--I -can’t indeed.” - -“Dear, dear, it is I who should beg your pardon,” cried Mrs. Harley, in -great distress; “I am sure I did not mean to be so selfish; but you used -to be very fond of Alice, Clare--fonder of her than of any one else, -though I say it. Long ago you would not have turned off anything that -was for the poor girl’s good.” - -“You know I am as fond of Alice as ever I was--what do you want me to -do?” cried I. - -“Oh, nothing, Clare, dear--nothing but a little good advice,” said Mrs. -Harley. “If it should happen to be dear Bertie whom she has set her -thoughts upon, just because he was in danger, as girls will do, and -refusing other eligible offers, and throwing away quite a satisfactory -match and suitable establishment, wouldn’t you speak to her, dear Clare? -Her dear papa had such confidence in you that you would always be a -friend to his girls--he said so many a time, long before we knew what -was going to happen. You have such influence with all my children, Mrs. -Crofton--almost more than their mother has. Do represent to Alice how -much she’s throwing away--and especially, alas! _now_.” - -This emphasis was rather too much for my patience. - -“You forget,” I said, “that Alice is able to judge for herself--she is -not a girl now”---- - -“She is seven and twenty, Mrs. Crofton--do you mean to reproach her with -her age?” said Mrs. Harley, with an angry color rising on her face. - -“Reproach her! for what?” said I, constrained to laugh in the midst of -my grief. “Why will you tease Alice, and yourself, and me? She is very -well--she is,” I added, with a little gulp, swallowing my better -knowledge, “quite contented and happy--why will you torture her into -marrying? She is quite satisfied to be as she is.” - -“Ah, Clare--but I have so many children to provide for!” cried poor Mrs. -Harley, with a gush of tears. - -This silenced me, and I said no more. But Mrs. Harley had not exhausted -her budget of complaints. - -“And Maurice,” said this unfortunate mother; “after the education he has -had, and all the money and pains that have been expended on -him--Maurice, I do believe, Mrs. Crofton, will do something violent one -of these days; he will go into business, or,” with another outburst of -tears, “set himself to learn a trade.” - -“Surely nothing quite so bad as that,” said I, with as much sympathy as -I could summon up. - -“Ah, you don’t know how he speaks--if you could only hear him; and the -troubles in India and this last dreadful news have had such an effect -upon Maurice,” said Mrs. Harley; “you would suppose, to hear him speak, -that the poor soldiers had suffered all the more because he was doing -nothing. Such nonsense! And instead of going into the Church in a proper -and dignified manner, like his dear father, I see nothing better for it -but that he’ll make a tradesman of himself.” - -“But it would be satisfactory to see him doing something for -himself--improving his own position; he can never settle and make a -home for himself while he has only his Fellowship. Don’t you think -Maurice is right?” said I, keeping up the conversation from mere -politeness, and already sufficiently tired of the interruption it made. - -“He has his mother’s house,” said Mrs. Harley, a little sharply, “and he -has the position of a gentleman,” she added a moment after, in a -faltering, apologetic tone. Good, troubled woman! She had come to that -age of conflicting interests when the instincts of the heart do not -always guide true. She wanted--very naturally--to see her daughter -provided for; and so, if she could, would have persuaded Alice into an -unwilling marriage. She could not bear to see her son derogating from -the “position” which his father’s son ought to fill; and as he would not -go into the Church, she would fain have condemned the young man to -shrivel up into the dreary dignity of a College Don. Poor Mrs. -Harley!--that was all that the philosophy of the affections instructed -her to do. - -She had scarcely left me half an hour when I was startled by the -appearance of the Rector. He was grave and pale, held my hand in his -tight grasp, and made his professions of sympathy all very properly and -in good taste. But his looks and his tone aggravated a sick impatience -of sympathy which began to grow about my heart. I began to comprehend -how people in deep and real grief, might grow disgusted with the -conventional looks expected from them, and learn an almost levity of -manner, to forestall those vulgar, dreary sympathies; and this sympathy, -too, covered something very different--something a great deal nearer to -the Rector’s heart. - -“It may seem to you a very indelicate question--I beg your pardon, Mrs. -Crofton--I ask it with great diffidence--but I do not hesitate to -confess to you that my own happiness is deeply concerned,” said Mr. -Reredos, blushing painfully--and I knew at once, and recognized with a -certain thrill of impatience and disgust, what he was going to ask; -“Miss Harley and the late Captain Nugent were almost brought up -together, I have heard; will you forgive me asking if there was any -attachment--any engagement between them?” - -“_Colonel_ Nugent, please!” said I, I fear rather haughtily; “and it is -surely premature to say the late, as I trust in Heaven we shall yet have -better news.” - -“I beg your pardon,” repeated the Rector, quickly, “I--I was not -aware--but might I ask an answer to my question?” - -“If there was any engagement between Alice and my dear Bertie?--none -whatever!” cried I, with all my might--“nothing of the kind! Pardon me, -you have _not_ been delicate--you have _not_ considered my feelings--if -Alice has been unfavorable to you, it is for your own merits, and not on -his account.” - -I was half sorry when I saw the grave, grieved, ashamed expression with -which this other young man turned away. He bowed and was gone almost -before I knew what I had said--I fear not without an arrow of -mortification and injured pride tingling through the love in his heart. - - - - -CHAPTER XX. - - -And after all, the Rector was premature--we were all premature, -lamenting for him over whom we were so speedily to rejoice. When Derwent -put the dispatch into my hand (he did not send, but brought it, to make -more sure), I could not read the words for tears. My eyes were clear -enough when I saw that terrible _killed_, in which we believed to read -Bertie’s fate. But the dear boy’s own message, in rapid reply to one -which Derwent, out of my knowledge, had managed to have sent to him, -floated upon me in a mist of weeping. The truth came inarticulate to my -mind--I could neither see, nor scarcely hear the words in which it was -conveyed. - -But, alas! alas! it _was_ Captain Nicholas Hughes who had fallen, -instead of Bertie. I inquired all that I could learn about this unknown -soldier, with a remorseful grief in the midst of my joy, which I cannot -describe. I could not join in the tumult of exultation which rose round -me. I could not forget that this news, which came so welcome to us, -brought desolation upon another house. I could not think of him but as -Bertie’s substitute, nor help a painful, fantastical idea that it was to -our prayers and our dear boy’s safety that he owed his death. I was -almost glad to find that the widow whom he had left behind him had need -of what kind offices we could do her for the bringing up of her -children, and vowed to myself, with a compunction as deep as it was, no -doubt, imaginary, that she should never want while Estcourt remained -mine. Was it not their dismal loss and bereavement which had saved the -heir of my father’s house? - -“It is the fortune of war,” said Derwent, when he learned, to his -profound amazement, this idea which had taken possession of me. “It is -the will of God,” said Captain Hughes’s pale widow, lifting her tearful -face to me, from under the heavy veil of her mourning. So it was--but -sharp and poignant is the contest between grief and joy. - -“See what your despised telegraph can do, after all!” cried Derwent, -rejoicing with all his honest heart over the news he had brought. - -“But, ah! if Bertie’s friend had been poor!” said I. “How many souls do -we wring with additional pangs, to have our anxiety dispelled the more -easily? Think of the news of a battle, with so many killed and -wounded--and some dreadful fortnight, or maybe month, to live through -before one knows whether one’s own is dead or alive. No, ’tis a cruel -earthly Geni, and not a celestial Spirit--it does good now and then, -only because it cannot help it--relieves us, Derwent, but slaughters -poor Mrs. Hughes.” - -“I believe Clare is not half-content--nobody must be killed to satisfy -you women--but, unfortunately that will not do in this world,” said -Derwent. “We have to be thankful for our own exemption, without entering -too deeply into other people’s grief. And most of us find that -philosophy easy enough.” - -“Most of us are very poor creatures,” said Maurice Harley, -sententiously. He came alone to make his inquiries this time. Alice was -invisible, and not to be heard of. I could not see her even when I -called at the cottage. She had taken overpowering shame to herself, and -shrank from my eyes. It was her brother who carried our news to his -mother’s house--carried it, as I discovered incidentally, with the -rarest and most delicate care for her--rigidly keeping up the fiction of -supposing her not to care for it, nor to be specially interested, any -more than for her old playfellow. He was ill at ease himself, and -distracted with questions no longer of a _dilettante_ kind. In my eyes -this increased his kindness all the more. - -“Yes, we are poor creatures the most of us,” repeated Maurice, when my -husband--who did not notice any particular improvement in the Fellow of -Exeter, and was disposed to be contemptuous, as elder men are, of his -superiority to ordinary mortals--had sauntered, half-laughing, -half-disgusted, out of the room. “Something you said the other day has -stuck to my memory, Mrs. Crofton--help me out with it, pray. Are we -worth a woman’s tears, the greater part of us? What is the good of us? I -don’t mean Bertie, who is doing something in this world, but, for -example, such a fellow as me!” - -“Take care, Maurice! I see hoofs and a tail upon that humility of -yours,” said I. “You, who are so wise, do you not know that women and -their tears are no more superlative than men and their doings? Did you -think I meant the tender, heroical, sentimental tears of romance, for -the sake of which the sublime knight might be content to die? No such -thing. I meant only that there seems a kind of pathetic, homely justice -in it, when the man who dies--especially the man who dies untimely--has -a woman belonging to him, to be his true and faithful mourner; that is -all--it is nothing superlative; the sublime men are no better loved than -the homeliest ones. Alice, if you asked her, would give you the poetical -youthful interpretation of it, but I mean no such thing, Maurice. We -want no great deeds, we womenkind; we were born to like you, and to cry -over you, troublesome creatures that you are!” - -“Ah! that is very well,” said Maurice, who in his heart was young enough -to like the superlative idea best. “I wish I had a supreme right to -somebody’s tears--but why should anybody cry over me? Am not I -foredoomed to shrivel up into a College Don?” - -“If you please,” said I. - -“And if I don’t please?” cried Maurice, starting up, and seizing, after -his usual fashion, a book off the table. He made a hurried march about -the room, as usual, too; throwing that down; and picking up another to -look at its title, then returned, and repeated, with some emphasis--“And -what if I don’t please?” - -“Why then, please God, you will do something better,” said I; “I hope so -sincerely--it will give me the greatest pleasure--but you don’t make any -progress by talking of it; that is our woman’s province. _Do_, Maurice, -_do_! don’t _say_!” - -The young man flashed with an angry and abashed color. “Thank you, I -will, if it were to carry a hod. I have not forgotten,” he said, with a -little bitter meaning, “that I am a widow’s son.” - -“A widow’s son should be the prince of sons,” said I. “You make me -preach, you young people, though it is not my vocation. Carry a hod -then, if you will, like a gentleman and a Christian, and I, for one, -will bid you God speed.” - -Maurice put down his book, and came forward to me, holding out his hand. -I suspect he liked me, though he had no great reason, and I confess, -now-a-days, that I liked him. He held out his hand to say good-bye, and -in saying good-bye opened his heart. - -“Mrs. Crofton, you preach very well, considering that it is not your -vocation; but I begin to think I am coming to that big preacher, Life, -whom you once told me of. _He_ is not a college don. Do you know,” said -Maurice, with a frank, confused laugh, and rising color, “I’m in love?” - -“I suspected as much,” said I. “Is all well?” - -“All was ill, what with my own folly, and what with that spiteful little -witch at the Rectory,” said Maurice; “but it’s coming right again. If I -were to die to-morrow--little as I deserve them--I believe I should have -these woman’s tears.” - -“My dear boy, be thankful, and go home and live!” said I, with the water -in my eyes. I was half inclined to kiss, and bless, and cry over him in -the foolishness of my heart. - -“I will,” said Maurice, in the fulness and effusion of his; and he -kissed my hand with a congenial impulse, and went away abruptly, moved -beyond speaking. He left me more profoundly and pleasantly touched than -I had been for a long time. Perhaps I thought, with natural vanity, that -I had a little--just a little--share in it. Dire must be the -disappointment, and heavy the calamity, which should shrivel up Maurice -Harley now into a college don. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI. - - -Another long period of home quietness, but great anxiety followed this. -Bertie, of course, would not return while the crisis of affairs in India -had not yet been determined; and we were so much the more anxious about -him, since he had been restored to us, as it seemed, out of the very -grave. Later he was seriously wounded, threatened with fever, and really -in great danger, but got through that as he had through all the other -perils of that murderous Indian war. He distinguished himself, too, to -our great pride and delight, especially to the boundless exultation of -Derwie, and gained both credit and promotion almost beyond the hopes of -so young a man. But, in the meantime, we were both anxious and -concerned, for we could not induce him to think that he had encountered -his full share of the fighting, and might now, surely, with perfect -honor and satisfaction bring his laurels home. - -“If the women and the babies are all safe on board the ships,” said -Derwie, who was almost as reluctant to consent to Bertie’s return -before the fighting was over as Bertie himself. - -During all this time I scarcely saw Alice; she avoided coming in my way; -when we met, avoided speaking to me--avoided looking in my face when -that was practicable--could neither forgive herself for having betrayed -her feelings, nor me for having witnessed that betrayal. Altogether her -feelings towards me and in my presence were evidently so uncomfortable, -that out of mere charity and consideration I no longer visited Mrs. -Harley’s as I had done, nor invited them to Hilfont. They still came -sometimes, but not as they had done before. I began to fear that I had -lost Alice, which, to be sure, was unkind of her, considering what very -old friends we were; but she could not forget nor forgive either herself -or me for those tears out of which she had been cheated over that -supposititious grave where Bertie Nugent was not. - -So that there occurred an interregnum of information, at least, if not -of interest, in respect to the Harleys. Maurice was in London, -struggling forward to find what place he could in that perennial -battle--struggling not very successfully--for, to the amazement of all, -and, above all, to his own, he was not so greatly in advance of other -people, when he had done something definite to be judged by, as the -Fellow of Exeter had supposed himself. Providence, in quaint, poetic -justice, had deprived Maurice, for example, of that faculty of writing -which he had, maybe, esteemed too highly. His admirers had prophesied -great triumphs for him in the field of literature before he had tried -his pen there; but it turned out that Maurice could not write, and the -discovery was rather humiliating to the young man. I have no doubt he -made an infinitude of other discoveries equally unpleasant. His -Fellowship kept him from starving, but it aggravated his failures and -the pain of them, and held up more conspicuously than might have been -desired, the unexpected imperfections of “Harley of Exeter,” in whom his -contemporaries had been disposed to put a great deal of faith. -Nevertheless, Maurice held on bravely. I liked him better and better as -he found himself out. And he bore the discovery like a man. - -As for Johnnie, poor boy, who had, all uneducated and without training -as he was, just that gift of putting his mind into words which his -brother lacked--he had not yet come to the bitter ending of his boyish -dream. He was busy with his second book, in high hope and spirits, -thinking himself equally secure of fame and of love. The poor lad had -forgotten entirely the difference between the present time and that -past age in which literature, fresh and novel, took its most sovereign -place. He thought how Fanny Burney was fêted and applauded for her early -novel; he thought of Scott’s unrivalled influence and honor; and he -forgot that a hundred people write books, and especially write stories, -now-a-days, for one who wrote then--and that he himself was only the -unconsidered member of a multitudinous tribe, over whose heads Fame -soared far away. It was not wonderful--he was scarcely one and twenty -yet, though he was an author, and Miss Reredos’s slave. He meant to make -the lady of his love “glorious with his pen,” as Montrose did, and -expected to find an equal monarchy in her heart. Poor cripple Johnnie! a -sadder or more grievous folly never was. - -But it surprised me to find that he, poor fellow, was never the object -of his mother’s anxiety. She was sorry, with a sort of contempt for his -“infatuation,” and could not for her life imagine what men could see in -that Miss Reredos. Mrs. Harley was a very kind and tender mother, ready -at any time to deny herself for any real gratification to her boy; but -she did not make much account of his heartbreak, of which “nothing could -come.” For all practical purposes Johnnie’s love-tale was but a -fable--nothing could ever come of it. Anything so unlikely as that Miss -Reredos would marry the cripple never entered anybody’s mind but his -own. And Mrs. Harley accordingly took it calmly, save for a momentary -outburst of words now and then against the cause of Johnnie’s -delusion--that was all. Nothing save the bitter disappointment, the -violent mortification, the youthful despair, all augmented and made -doubly poignant by the ill health and infirmities of this unfortunate -boy, could result from his unlucky love-fever. So his mother was calm, -and made no account of that among her may troubled and anxious concerns. - -As for Alice, she was still Mrs. Harley’s greatest grievance, though I -was not trusted with the same confidences, nor implored to use my -influence, as before. Alice was more capricious, more tantalizing, less -to be reckoned on than ever. She had, I suppose, dismissed Mr. Reredos -with less courtesy than the Rector believed due to him, for he went -about his duties with a certain grim sullenness, like an injured man, -and never permitted himself to mention her name. I was in the Rector’s -ill graces, as well as in those of Alice. He could not forgive me any -more than she could, for the confidence themselves had bestowed. It was -rather hard upon me to be thus excommunicated for no ill-doings of my -own; but I bore it as best I could, sorry for Mr. Reredos, and not -doubting that, some time or other, Alice would come to herself. - -It was thus, in our immediate surroundings, that we spent the time until -Bertie’s return. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII. - - -It was once more spring when Bertie returned. Spring--Easter--that -resurrection time which came to our hearts with a more touching force -when we received home into our peaceful house--so pale, so worn out, and -yet so sunburnt and scarred with violent labors past--that Bertie, who -had gone from us so strong and so bold. He had been repeatedly -wounded--had suffered more than once from fever--had felt, at last, that -his health was broken, and that there was little more use in him while -he remained in India, and so was persuaded to come home. Derwent, -kindest of friends, went to meet him at Southampton, and brought him -home as tenderly as any nurse, or rather far more tenderly, with a -tenderness more considerate and requiring less response than that of a -woman. To see our young hero an invalid, overpowered me entirely. I -quite broke down under it, comparing him with what he was, and fearing -everything from the mortal paleness, thrown by his sunbrowned -complexion into a ghastly yellow, which sometimes overspread his face. -Derwent judged more justly--he held up his finger to me when he saw the -exclamation of dismay and grief that trembled on my lips. - -“He’s tired, Clare,” said my husband. “A bright fire, and an English bed -and rest--that’s all Bertie wants to-night. He’ll answer all your -questions to-morrow. Come, old fellow, you know your way to your old -room.” - -“I should think so, indeed--and thank God I am at home,” cried Bertie, -with his familiar voice. With a thrill of anguish I restrained my -salutations and followed quietly to see that all was comfortable for -him. He protested that it was nonsense, that he could come downstairs -perfectly well, that Mr. Crofton only wanted to humble his vanity; but -at the same moment drew up his foot wearily upon the sofa, with a -gesture that showed better than words his need of rest. - -“Alas, Derwent, has it come to this?” said I, as we went downstairs. - -Derwent turned round upon me, put his big hands upon my shoulders, and -thrust me in before him to the handiest room. “Now, Clare,” he said, -with comical solemnity, “if we are going to have any nonsense or -lamentations, I’ll shut you up here till my patient’s better. The boy -is as sound as I am, and would be able to ride to cover in a fortnight, -if any such chances were going. Now don’t say a word--I am speaking -simple truth.” - -“I must trust my own eyes,” said I; “but you need not fear my -indiscretion. See how I have refrained from agitating him now.” - -“Agitating him! Oh!” cried Derwent, with a good-humored roar. “What -stuff you speak, to be sure! He is quite able to be agitated as much as -you please--there is nothing in the world but wounds and fatigue the -matter with Bertie. I am afraid you are only a woman after all, Clare; -but you’re not to interfere with my patient. I’ve taken him in hand, and -mind you, I’m to have the credit, and bring him through.” - -“But, oh, Derwent,” said I, “how pale he is!” - -“If I had seen as many dreadful sights as he has, I should be pale too,” -said Derwent. “Seriously, he is tired and worn out, but not ill. Don’t -be sorry for him, Clare--don’t put anything in his head. Talk -pleasantly. I don’t forbid the subject, for example,” said my husband, -looking at me with a certain affectionate cloudy mirth, as if he had -known my secret all along, “of Alice Harley, if you choose.” - -I put him aside a little impatiently, and he followed me into the very -late dinner, which had been deferred for the arrival of the travellers, -and where Bertie’s empty chair struck me again with a little terror. But -I was wise for once, and yielded to Derwent’s more cheerful opinion. On -the next morning Bertie was better--he went on getting better day by -day. Derwent took care of him, and attended him in a way which took me -by surprise; never teasing him with questions--never gazing at him with -his heart in his eyes, as we womanish creatures do, to mar the work we -would give our lives to accomplish; but with his eyes always open, and -his attention really missing nothing that happened, and taking account -of all. - -A week after his arrival, Bertie, who hitherto had been telling me, as -he could, his adventures in India--dread adventures, interwoven with all -the thread of that murderous history--at last broke all at once into the -full tide of home talk. - -“And dear old Estcourt, Cousin Clare,” said Bertie, “stands exactly as -it was, I suppose; and Miss Austin as steadfast as the lime trees--and -the children to keep the old park cheerful--all as it was?” - -“All as it was, Bertie; but the other house ready and waiting for you.” - -I looked up with a little anxiety to see the effect of what I said. -Distracted with a disappointed love, Bertie had left us--ill and languid -he had returned. I thought my words might recall to his mind at once his -old dreams and his present weakness; and with some terror I glanced at -his face. He was lying on the sofa in that bright morning room with the -great bow window, from which, shining afar like a great picture, he -could see all the peaceful slope of our low-country, with the river -glistening in links and bends, and the cathedral towers far off, lending -a graceful centre and conclusion to the scene. - -Bertie did not return my glance; he lay still, with a languid ease and -satisfaction in his attitude which struck me for the first time--as if -he was profoundly content to be there, and felt his fatigues and pains -melt away in that warmth of home. As I looked at him a warmer color rose -over his brown-pale face, a pleasant glimmer woke in his eye--his whole -aspect warmed and brightened--a half conscious smile came playing about -his parted lips. Whatever Bertie thought upon, it was neither -disappointment nor broken health. - -There was a long pause--the silence was pleasant--broken only by the -soft domestic sounds of a great house; brightly lay that pleasant -landscape outside the window, all soft and sweet with spring; tender -and pleasant was the contrast of all the scene, the care and love -surrounding the soldier now, with the burning plains and cruel contests -from which he had come; and thoughts, dear, warm, and tender, arose in -Bertie’s heart. He paused long, perhaps, with a simple art, to conceal -from me a little the link of pleasant association which had directed his -thoughts that way--then, with that wavering, conscious smile, spoke-- - -“So Alice Harley is not married,” he said, turning on his elbow, with a -pretence of carelessness, as if to get a fuller view. “How is that, -Cousin Clare?” - -To think that Alice Harley connected herself instinctively with the idea -of Bertie’s house which was ready for him, was a pleasant thought to me; -but I only answered, “There is no telling, Bertie. She might have been -married two or three times had she pleased.” - -“I am very glad of it,” said Bertie; “to see every pretty girl whom one -used to know converted into the mother of ever so many children, makes a -fellow feel old before his time. I am not so frightfully old, after all; -but I fear nobody will have anything to say to a worn-out poor soldier -like me.” - -“Don’t be too humble, Bertie,” said I. “I don’t think, between -ourselves, that Colonel Nugent is so very diffident of his own merits. -On the contrary, he knows he has made a little noise in this world, is -aware that people will drink his health, and fête him when he is well -enough, and that all the young ladies will smile upon the hero. Don’t -you think now, honestly, that this is the real state of the case?” - -Bertie blushed and fell back to his old position. “Don’t be hard upon a -fellow, Cousin Clare,” he said, with a slightly pleading tone--half -afraid of ridicule--half conscious that little ridicule was to be -expected from me. - -“No indeed, quite the reverse--nobody will be hard upon you, my boy,” -said I. “Huntingshire is quite ready to bestow anything you wish upon -you, Bertie--anything from a seat in Parliament, up to the prettiest -daughter it has, if you mean to set up your household gods in the -Estcourt jointure-house.” - -Bertie blushed once more, and coughed, and cleared his throat a little, -as if he had some intentions of taking me into his confidence, when my -boy Derwie suddenly made a violent diversion by rushing in all red and -excited, and flinging himself against our soldier with all his might. - -“Bertie!” shouted little Derwent, “is it true you’re going to have the -Victoria Cross?” - -Bertie colored violently as he recovered from that shock. I don’t -believe, if he had been suddenly charged with running away, that he -would have looked half as much abashed. - -“Why, you know, Derwie, we’d all like it if we could get it,” he said, -faltering slightly; but I knew in a moment, by the sudden movement of -his head and glance of his eye, that he really did believe it possible, -and that this was the darling ambition of Bertie’s heart. - -“But Bevan told me!” cried Derwie--“he told me about those gates, you -know, that you and the rest blew up. Mamma, listen! There were six of -them, forlorn-hope men, Bevan says”---- - -“Ah, Derwie, hush!--four of them sleep yonder, the brave fellows!--four -privates, who could not hope for distinction like me,” cried Bertie, -with that same profound awe and compunction, contrasting his own -deliverance with the calamity of others, which had once stricken me. - -“A private can have the Victoria Cross as well as a general,” cried -Derwie, clapping his hands; “and more likely, Bevan says--for a general -commands and doesn’t fight.” - -“That is true--God save the Queen!” cried Bertie. “If Corporal Inglis -gets it, Derwie--and he ought--we’ll illuminate.” - -“If you get it,” said Derwie, “you deserve it all the same. Mamma, they -blew up the gates with gunpowder; they went close--so close that”---- - -“Boh!” cried Bertie; “mamma read all about it in the papers. It was -nothing particular--it only had to be done, that’s all. Now, Derwie, -don’t you know when a thing has to be done somebody must do it?” - -“Yes, I know,” said Derwie, “perfectly well. When mamma says _must_ I -always go directly--don’t I, mamma?--and if I were as big as you I -wouldn’t mind being killed either. When you were killed, Bertie--that -time you know when everybody thought so--oh, what a crying there was!” - -“Was there?” asked Bertie, with a softened tone, putting his arm round -the eager child. - -But a new point of interest in those human studies which were so dear to -him had suddenly seized upon Derwie’s imagination. He turned abruptly to -me. - -“Mamma, didn’t Alice come once and cry? I saw her go away with such red -eyes; and she never came again, and never looked like her own self when -she did come,” said my boy, with a courageous disregard of grammar. -“What is that for? Wasn’t she glad when Bertie came alive again, and it -was only poor Captain Hughes?” - -“Hush, Derwie, my boy--you don’t understand these things. I was deeply -grieved for that poor Captain Hughes, Bertie--I almost felt as if, in -our great anxiety for you, his fall was our fault.” - -But Bertie was not thinking of Captain Hughes. He was looking intently -at me with that wavering color in his cheeks and an eager question in -his eyes. When I spoke, my words recalled him a little, and he put on a -grave look, and murmured something about the “poor fellow!” or “brave -fellow!” I could not tell which--then looked at me again, eager, with a -question hovering on his lips. The question of all others which I was -resolute not to answer. So I gathered up my work remorselessly, put it -away in my work-table, jingled my keys, told him I would see if the -newspaper had come yet, and left the room without looking round. He -might find that out at Alice’s own hands if he wished it--he should not -receive any clandestine information from me. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII. - - -The first visit which Bertie was able to make was to the cottage--to see -Mrs. Harley, as he said, gravely--but I fear he did not get a very -satisfactory reception. He told me he thought Alice greatly changed when -he returned; but he was not communicative on the subject, and had a -decided inclination to go back again. Perhaps the wavering, pleasant, -half-conscious sentiment, and tender youthful reminiscence, with which -Bertie came home, was the better of a little opposition to warm it into -independent life; and Alice had reason enough for a double share of -perversity and caprice, though Bertie knew nothing of that. She had -betrayed herself to me, and, for a moment, to Maurice. She thought, no -doubt, that everybody had suspected that secret of hers--and with -unconscious self-importance, that it was whispered throughout the -country with secret smiles over all her former unmarried-woman -superiority to vulgar love-affairs. Her credit was consequently very -deeply involved--she would not have smiled upon Bertie Nugent now had -it been to save his life. - -Still, however, Bertie, in the pleasant leisure of his convalescence, -betook himself to Mrs. Harley’s cottage; and came home talking of -Johnnie and little Kate, and the letters from Maurice--but very little -about Alice, save chance words now and then, which showed a singularly -close observation of her habits. Sometimes he asked me puzzled questions -about those opinions of hers. Bertie, though he had been cheated once, -was not contemptuous of womenkind. He did not understand these new views -about the vulgarity of being married, and the propriety of multiplying -female occupations. I suspect he entertained the natural delusion that, -while he himself stood there, most ready and anxious, to share with her -the common course of life, private projects of her own, which turned her -aside from that primitive and ancient occupation of wife, were a little -fantastical, and extremely perplexing. But Bertie was not like Mr. -Reredos--he wanted simply to be at the bottom of it, and find out what -she meant. He was not the man to worry any woman into marrying him, or -to lay insidious siege to her friends. Ancient kindness, a lingering -recollection of her youthful sweetness and beauty, which had come softly -back to Bertie after his early love-troubles, and which had been kept -alive by the fascination of a secret delicious wonder, whether, perhaps, -_he_ might have anything to do with the fact of her remaining unmarried, -had combined to direct Bertie’s thoughts towards Alice, and to connect -her image with all the plans and intentions of his return home. In -short, the feeling upon both sides was very much alike--with both it was -a certain captivating imaginary link, far more subtle and sweet than an -understood engagement, which warmed their hearts to each other. But for -those tragical possibilities which had so deeply excited Alice, all -would have gone as smoothly as possible when our hero came home. Now the -obstacles on each side were great. On Alice’s, that dread idea of having -betrayed a secret, unsought, unreturned affection for the distant -soldier, along with the lesser but still poignant remembrance of Lady -Greenfield’s malicious report that Bertie himself had expected Cousin -Clare to have somebody in her pocket for him to marry. On Bertie’s part, -the equally dangerous chance that, deeply mortified by finding his hope -of having some share in her thoughts so entirely unfounded, as it -appeared, he might turn away sorrowfully from the theories which -influenced her, but which his simple intelligence did not comprehend. -Never matchmaker was more perplexed than I was between these two; I -dared not say a word to either--I looked on, trembling, at the untoward -course of affairs. It was Bertie who disappointed me once; for all I -could see, it was most likely to be Alice now. - -When we began--which was not till another autumn restored us to -Hilfont--to be able to give some entertainments to our country -neighbors, in honor of our soldier, Alice, most cleverly and cunningly -avoided coming. She had always some admirable excuse--some excuse so -unquestionable that it would have been quite cruel to have grumbled at -it. I do not think she had been once within our house since Bertie -returned. She sent me her love, and the most dutiful messages. She was -so sorry, but she was sure her dear Mrs. Crofton would not be displeased -when she knew. I was displeased, however, and had hard ado with myself -to keep from saying as much, and declaring my conviction that she was -very unkind to Bertie. I daresay I might have done so with advantage, -though prudence and the fear of something coming of it, restrained -me--for the idea of being unkind to Bertie would, doubtless, have been -balm to Alice’s soul. - -They met, however, though she would not come to Hilfont--Clara Sedgwick, -who was as bold to give Bertie welcome as she had been to weep her free -sisterly tears, which there was no need to conceal, over his supposed -grave, arranged one of her very largest and grandest dinner-parties for -Bertie as soon as it was practicable. Everybody was there--Lady -Greenfield and her husband, who had all at once grown an old man, his -wife having stopped his fox-hunting long ago--and Miss Polly, and all -the Croftons, far and near, and such Nugents as could be picked up -handily; and finally, all the great people of the county, to glorify our -hero. I cannot tell by what ingenious process of badgering Alice had -been driven out of her retirement, and produced that night in the -Waterflag drawing-room. I will not even guess what cruel sisterly -sarcasms and suggestions of what people might say, had supplemented the -sisterly coaxing which were, no doubt, ineffectual; but there Alice -was--there she stood by the side of Clara’s dazzling toilette and rosy -tints, pale and clouded, in her brown silk dress--her _old_ brown silk -dress, made in a fashion which “went out” at least three years ago; -without a single ornament about her anywhere--her hair braided as -plainly as though she had just come down-stairs to make the tea, and -superintend the breakfast table--not even the pretty bouquet of delicate -flowers at her breast, which made so pretty a substitute for jewels on -little Kate’s white dress--not a bracelet nor a ring--nothing to -diversify the entire plainness of her appearance, nor a single sparkle -or gleam of reflection on neck, finger, or arm. I confess that I was -both annoyed and disappointed. Instead of doing her womanly utmost to -look well and young, as became her, Alice had exhausted all her perverse -pains in making a dowdy of herself. I cannot say she had succeeded. It -was the crisis of her life, and mind and heart were alike full of -movement and agitation. She could not prevent the excitement of her -circumstances from playing about her with a gleaming fitful light, which -made her expressive face wonderfully attractive. She could not but -betray, in despite of her cold, unadorned appearance, and the almost -prim reserve which she affected, the tumult and contest within -her--extreme emotion, so restrained that the effort of self-control gave -a look of power and command to her face, and somehow elevated and -dilated her entire figure, and so contradictory that it flashed a -hundred different meanings in a moment out of those eyes which were -defiant, sarcastic, tender, and proud, all in a glance. I am not sure -even that her plain dress did not defeat its purpose still more -palpably; it distinguished her, singularly enough, from other -people--it directed everybody’s attention to her--it suggested reasons -for that prim and peculiar attire--all which, if Alice had guessed them, -would have thrown her into an agony of shame. - -Miss Reredos was also one of Clara’s great party--much against little -Mrs. Sedgwick’s will--only because it could not be helped, Mrs. Harley -being still pertinacious in favor of the Rector, who had all but given -up his own cause. And we were still engaged in the mysteries of dinner, -and there still remained all the long evening to operate in, when I -perceived that this indefatigable young lady had seriously devoted -herself to the entertainment of Bertie. He was doing his best to be -polite, the good fellow; but it was a long time before he could be -warmed into a flirtation. At last some very decided slight from Alice -irritated my poor soldier. He turned to the play beside him, and began -to amuse himself with it as so many other men had done. Thanks to Miss -Reredos, it speedily became a notable flirtation, witnessed and observed -by all the party. Alice watched it with a gradual elevation of her head, -paling of her cheeks, and look of lofty silent indignation, which was -infinitely edifying to me. What had she to do with it?--she who would -not bestow a single glance upon Colonel Nugent--who called him -perpetually by that ceremonious name--who was blind and deaf to all his -deprecating looks and allusions to youthful days. If he should flirt or -even fall in love with and marry Miss Reredos, what was that to Alice? -But, to be sure, most likely that indignation of hers was all for -Johnnie’s sake. - -Poor Johnnie! He sat glaring at Bertie with furious eyes. Johnnie’s -little bit of bookish distinction disappeared and sank to nothing in -presence of Bertie’s epaulettes. Nobody felt the least interest to-day -in Mrs. Harley’s clever cripple-boy. His Laura indeed had kept him in -life, when she first arrived, by some morsels of kindness, but Laura too -had gone over to the enemy. Laura was visibly disposed to charm into her -own train that troublesome interloper, and Johnnie, who had resented and -forgiven fifty violent flirtations of his lady-love since he himself -first found new life, as he said, in her eyes, was more bitterly -resentful of this defection than he had been of any previous one. If she -and the other culprit, Bertie, could have been consumed by looks, we -should have had only two little heaps of ashes to clear away from the -Sedgwicks’ dinner-table that day in place of those two unfortunate -people; but Miss Reredos was happily non-combustible. She swept away in -all the fulness of crinoline when the inevitable moment came and we -womenkind were dismissed, insulting her unhappy young lover by a little -nod and smile addressed to him across the table, which would have been -delicious an hour ago, but was wormwood and bitterness now. Bertie, I -think, at the same moment caught Alice’s lofty, offended, indignant -glance, and brightened to see the quiet resentment in that perverse -young woman’s face. It had all the effect of sunshine upon our soldier. -At that crisis we left affairs, when we went to the drawing-room. I -confess I don’t share the often-expressed sentiment about the dulness -and absurdity of that little after-dinner interval. The young ladies and -the young gentlemen may not like it, perhaps, but when could we maturer -womenkind snatch a comfortable moment for that dear domestic talk which -you superior people call gossip, if it were not in the pleasant -relaxation of this interregnum, when the other creatures are comfortably -disposed of downstairs? But for once in my life, being profoundly -interested in the present little drama--there is always one at least -going on in a great house in the country full of visitors--I did long -that day for the coming of the gentlemen, or of Bertie, at least, the -hero at once of the situation and of the day. - -The first to come upstairs was Johnnie Harley. For some time past he had -rather affected, as a manly practice, the habit of sitting to the last -after dinner. This day he was burning to discharge the fulness of his -wrath upon Miss Reredos, so he lost no time, anxious to be beforehand -with his new rival. Miss Reredos had already posed herself at a table, -covered with a wealth of prints and photographs, these sentimental -amusements being much in her way. - -“I have come to have my turn,” said Johnnie, savagely. I was seated -within hearing, and, I confess, felt no very strong inducement to -withdraw from my position. Perhaps Johnnie did not see me--Miss Reredos -did, and certainly did not care. “I am come to have my turn, and to tell -you that I can’t be content to take turns--especially with that empty -fellow Nugent, whom you seem, like all the rest, to have taken so great -a fancy to.” - -“Colonel Nugent is not an empty fellow--he is a very agreeable man,” -said Miss Reredos, calmly. - -“Oh! and I am not, I suppose?” cried the reckless and embittered boy. - -“You certainly are not always agreeable,” answered poor Johnnie’s false -love, quite blandly; “and as for being a _man_ at all---- We have -really had quite enough of this, thank you, Master Harley. One tires of -these scenes--they don’t answer when they are repeated every day.” - -“No--not when there is better sport going!” cried poor Johnnie. “I see -it all now--you have only been making game of me all the time.” - -“Did you ever suppose anything else?” asked the witch coldly. I think it -must have been Johnnie’s transport of passion which made the floor -thrill, as I felt under my chair. I heard a furious muttered -exclamation--then a long pause. The passion changed, and a great sob -came out of Johnnie’s boyish heart. - -“You don’t mean what you say--Laura, Laura!” groaned the poor lad. I -could have---- well, to be sure I am only a vindictive woman, as women -are. I don’t know what I could not have done to her, sitting calm and -self-satisfied there. - -“It is quite time this should be over,” said the virtuous Miss Reredos; -“I was not making game of you; but I certainly was amusing myself, as I -thought you were doing, also. Why, I am three or four years older than -you--you silly boy!--don’t you know?” - -She might have said five or six years, which would have been nearer the -truth, but it mattered nothing to Johnnie. - -“I could be as good a man as _him_ for your sake,” he cried, with a -gasp. Miss Reredos only played with the fan which dangled from her -wrist. - -“Say you did not mean it, Laura,” whispered the unfortunate boy again. - -But Laura shook her head. - -“No, no--it has gone quite far enough. Oh! I’m not angry--but, dear, -dear, don’t you see it’s no use. You are a great deal--at least you are -younger than I am--and we have nothing, neither of us--and besides”---- - -“Besides I am a cripple, and you don’t love me!” cried Johnnie, wildly. - -“I can’t contradict it,” said Circe with a toss of her head. - -Another fierce exclamation, a hurried dash across the room, a wondering -little scream from Clara, across whose ample skirts her brother plunged, -as he rushed half frantic away, ended this episode. Clara rose up, -startled and nervous, to look after him--and I had to restrain myself -from the same impulse; but Circe sat calm among her photographs, and -made no sign. After a few moments’ interval Clara went tremulously after -him. I could only settle myself on my chair again. The poor cripple -boy--tenderest and merriest of the flock--whom all the rest had guarded -so jealously!--they could do nothing for him now. He, too, like all the -rest of us, had his burden to bear alone. - -But I sat on thorns, fearing to see Bertie, when he came upstairs, -resume his flirtation with “that witch from the Rectory,” whom Maurice -had so truly named. He did not, to my great satisfaction--but remained -very quiet, refusing, great lion as he was, to roar--and looking as -plaintive and pathetic as it was possible for Bertie’s honest face, -unused to simulation of any kind, to look. I fancy the poor fellow -imagined--a forlorn hope of that good, simple mind of his, which -certainly was not original in its expedients--that Alice might possibly -be influenced more favorably by his pitiful looks. - -Seeing this, I undertook a little management of that very refractory -young person myself. - -“Alice, you will come to Hilfont on my birthday, as you have always -done--won’t you?--that will be in a fortnight,” said I. - -“If you please, Mrs. Crofton,” said Alice, very demurely. - -“You know I please; but I don’t please that you should promise, and then -send me such a clever, pretty, reasonable excuse when the time comes, -that I cannot say a word against it, but only feel secretly that it is -very unkind.” - -“Unkind! to _you_, Mrs. Crofton!” cried Alice, with a little blush and -start. - -“To me--who else?--it is for _my_ birthday that I ask you to come,” said -I, with an artful pretense of feeling offended; “but really, if you -treat me as you have done before, I shall be disposed to believe there -is _some reason_ why you refuse so steadily to come.” - -“You may be quite sure I will not stay away,” said Alice, with great -state. - -She sat by me for half an hour longer, but we did not exchange a dozen -words. She said “nothing to nobody” all the remainder of the evening; -she looked just a little cross as well, if the truth must be told. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV. - - -A fortnight after came my birthday, and a family festival. - -Mr. Crofton was greatly given to keeping birthdays; he was not a man to -be daunted by that coldest and vulgarest commonplace, which warns us -with lugubrious mock solemnity that these birthdays are hastening us to -the grave. The grave out of which our Lord rose was no devouring, -irresponsible monster to Derwent--it was a Christian institution, -blessed and hallowed by Him who triumphed over it. So he kept his -birthdays with thanks and a celebration of love; and I was well content -in this, as in many another kind suggestion of his genial nature, that -my husband should have his way. - -Bertie was to leave us shortly after, to look after the fitting up of -his own house--the Estcourt jointure-house, which he was to occupy -during my lifetime. It was a very sufficient, comfortable house, and he -was to fit it up according to his own taste. But he was very slow to -talk of his intentions. Any suggestions which I made to him on the -subject he received in silence, or with a confused assent. Good -Bertie!--he meant that somebody else should decide these questions for -him; and somebody else was so perverse, so unaccountable, so -unsatisfactory. He sighed, and held his peace. - -Johnnie Harley wandered off from Waterflag that night, after his -explanation with Miss Reredos. For a week the unfortunate lad was not -heard of, and the family spent that interval in the wildest anxiety, -making every kind of search after him, from Maurice’s hunt through -London, whither they thought it likely he would go, to fruitless -dragging in the pretty Est river, which mudded its pleasant pools, but -fortunately had no other result. At the end of a week he came -home--where he had been he never would tell. He returned ill, -remorseful, and penitent, with all his little money gone, and his -watch--his father’s watch--a catastrophe which quite completed Mrs. -Harley’s misery. Renewed and increased ill health followed this sad -escapade of poor Johnnie; but the boy was happy in his -unhappiness--nothing could part from him that all-forgiving home-love -which forgot every fault of the poor cripple boy. - -And in that fortnight Bertie made a brief journey to London--a journey -which thrilled the whole household with the highest excitement, and -warmed every individual in it with a touch of the reflected glory. -Bertie was _decoré_ when he returned; but no, there is no French word in -existence which deserves to be used in connection with that supremest -badge of modern chivalry, which our boy, with a modest and shame-faced -delight, impossible to describe in words, received from his Queen. - -Bertie wore his prize with a swelling breast, but an abashed cheek; -indeed, he did not wear it at all, reserving it for his private triumph, -and, as I supposed, for my birthday feast. But our hero had something -else in his mind. - -The day came at last, and at last, most earnestly looked for, in a -carriage filled with the Sedgwick children, and, I believe, all the -flowers in Clara’s conservatory, and all that could be come by honestly -or dishonestly within ten miles of country--Alice Harley made her -appearance. To show emphatically how much I was mistaken in supposing -that _any reason_ could keep her away from Hilfont when her dear Mrs. -Crofton wished her to be there, Alice with rash temerity had volunteered -to take charge of the children, and come with them early and alone. In -the same spirit she had actually taken a little trouble with her dress, -which was new, full, soft, and delicate--if not white, as nearly so as -Alice’s conscience and profound conviction of her grave years could -permit it to be. She was on her defence, but not exactly defiant as -yet--a little melted in spite of herself by sundry associations of the -place and time--by good news from Maurice, which she whispered in my -ear, news of an appointment which her brother had got after much -exertion, and which would enable him to marry; and perhaps a little by -the honor which she knew her “old playfellow” had come to. I saw her -cast a momentary but somewhat eager look at Bertie’s breast when she saw -him first, but to my disappointment, as to hers, his decoration was not -there. - -And then Alice had a present for me. I had by me a little present to be -given to her on the same occasion--an old ornament of my own, which I -thought, for that reason at least, the prim Alice might perhaps be -induced to wear. The children had gone away with their attendants, to be -extricated out of the many wrappings in which their mother’s care had -enveloped them. Only Derwie stayed with us in the breakfast-room; the -child was extremely anxious about these two, I could not tell why. Some -unconscious link of association, or acute childish observation, -connected them in little Derwent’s mind. He stood by my side on pretence -of waiting till Clary and the rest were ready, but I believe in my heart -from sheer curiosity and interest in these affairs of life and humanity -which were so deeply attractive to my son. - -Alice was seated near the great window, her pretty figure visible -against the light, looking fresher and more youthful than she had done -for a long time, and the soft breadth of landscape without, making a -pleasant background to the picture. A little more in the shade stood -Bertie, and Derwie and I were opposite Alice, with a little table -between us, all full in the light of the large bow-window, from which -all curtains and obscuring influences--such was my husband’s cheerful -pleasure--were always drawn as much back as possible. My present to -Alice was a little gold chain for the neck. I like that fashion of -ornament. This one was long enough to encircle that pretty throat twice, -or to hang loose upon her breast if she pleased. I said it wanted a -pendant, as I threw it loosely round her neck. - -Alice had been a little nervous and tremulous before; this made her -rather more so--she kissed me in a trembling, breathless way. She could -not help feeling conscious of that shadow behind her, and of a certain -want of air and cloud which betokened a crisis. She knew something was -coming, and faltered--it was quite a secret, close, appealing touch -which her arms gave me for the moment. Alice was afraid. When she sat -down again she played with the clasp of the chain and unloosed it, and -continued so, unconsciously dangling that loose end in her hand. - -“It should have a heart at it, mamma--like Clary’s,” said little -Derwent. - -“Yes,” said I, “certainly it wants a pendant--a locket--or, as Derwie -says, a heart, or a cross, or----” - -“For once let me supply what it wants,” said Bertie, suddenly starting -forward with one of those long, noiseless steps which people only make -when they are almost past speaking. He took the end of the chain from -Alice’s fingers, slid his own matchless decoration on it, clasped it, -let it fall. “Heart and Cross!” said Bertie, breathless with feelings he -could not speak. Alice had not looked up--did not see what it was, so -rapidly was all done, till it lay dark upon the white bosom of her -dress, moving with the palpitations of her heart--cold, ugly, -glorious--a gift far beyond all Bertie’s fortune--more precious to him -than his life. - -She gazed at it astonished for a moment, then glanced round at us all -with an amazed, inquiring glance--then faltering, and making the utmost -efforts to control herself, took it in her hands, put it to her lips, -and burst into an irrestrainable passion of tears. - -Little Derwie and I, like sensible people, took each other’s hands, and -marched away. - -Alice did not wear her hero’s cross that night to her chain. He wore it -himself, as was fit--but it did not much matter. She had taken the other -invaluable and invisible appendage which Bertie offered with his -glorious badge--had consented to be solemnly endowed with all his -worldly goods, cross and heart included, and humbly put her chain round -her neck without any pendant, in token of the unwilling bondage to which -she had yielded at last. - -So ended, after eight years of disappointment, and _that_ early -love-affair, which Colonel Bertie had long ago forgotten, my solitary -enterprise in match-making. Let nobody despair. I am secure now that -Estcourt shall have no alien mistress, and that all Huntingshire will -not hold a happier household than that of Bertie Nugent, my heir, who -has already added the highest distinction of modern chivalry to the name -of his fathers and mine. - -THE END. - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Heart and Cross, by Margaret Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HEART AND CROSS *** - -***** This file should be named 53645-0.txt or 53645-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/3/6/4/53645/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Heart and Cross - -Author: Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: December 1, 2016 [EBook #53645] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HEART AND CROSS *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - -</pre> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="319" height="500" alt="" title="" /> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_001" id="page_001"></a>{1}</span></p> - -<p class="c">H E A R T A N D C R O S S.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_002" id="page_002"></a>{2}</span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_003" id="page_003"></a>{3}</span> </p> - -<div class="bbox"> -<p class="c"> -<a href="#CHAPTER_I"><span class="smcap">Chapter</span> I., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_II"> II., </a> -<a href="#Chapter_III"> III., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IV"> IV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_V"> V., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VI"> VI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VII"> VII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VIII"> VIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IX"> IX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_X"> X., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XI"> XI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XII"> XII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIII"> XIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIV"> XIV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XV"> XV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVI"> XVI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVII"> XVII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII"> XVIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIX"> XIX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XX"> XX., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXI"> XXI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXII"> XXII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII"> XXIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV"> XXIV.</a> -</p> -</div> - -<h1> -HEART AND CROSS.</h1> - -<p class="cb"> -BY<br /> -<br /> -MRS. OLIPHANT.<br /> -<br /> -<small>AUTHOR OF “MARGARET MAITLAND,” “ADAM GRAEME,” “THE LAST OF THE<br /> -MORTIMERS,” “THE LAIRD OF MORLAW,” ETC., ETC.</small><br /> -<br /><br /> -IN ONE VOLUME.<br /> -<br /><br /> -NEW YORK:<br /> -JAMES G. GREGORY.<br /> -1863.<br /> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_004" id="page_004"></a>{4}</span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_005" id="page_005"></a>{5}</span></p> - -<h1>HEART AND CROSS.</h1> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">I know</span> no reason why I should begin my story of the fortunes of the -Harleys by a description of my own son. Perhaps it is just because there -is no reason whatever that I feel so much disposed to do it—also -because the appearance of that son is the only difference that has come -to my own life since last my unknown friends heard of me, and because -there is quite an exhilaration in thinking that here is a new audience -to whom I am at liberty to introduce the second Derwent Crofton. This -story is not in the least about my boy, and, in consequence, it is quite -an unusual delight to be able to drag him in head and shoulders. Women -are not logical, as everybody knows.</p> - -<p>My son, then, is, at the present writing, exactly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_006" id="page_006"></a>{6}</span> seven years old. He -is a little athlete—straight and strong. We have often explained to -ourselves that it is in consequence of his having got over the baby -period of existence sooner than most children do, that he is not quite -so plump, as, for example, that red and white heir of the Sedgwicks, who -has a succession of rosy cushions on all the points where there should -be angles of his small frame. Derwent, I confess, has corners about -him—but then what limbs! what color! what hard, consistent stuff the -little rogue is made of! And I am not quite sure that I entirely approve -of these fat children—not when they are past the baby-age. I will not -delude myself, nor anybody else, into the idea that the boy is very -clever. Truth to speak, he has not taken very kindly as yet to -book-learning; but then does not everybody remember that it is the -dunces who grow into great men? Neither is he in the slightest degree -meditative or thoughtful, nor what you would call an interesting child. -He has as many scars upon him as a warrior, and has been bumped and -bruised in all directions. At first the child’s misfortunes somewhat -alarmed me, but by this time I am hardened to their daily occurrence, -and no longer grow pale when I am informed that Master Derwent has -broken his head or got a bad fall. This<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_007" id="page_007"></a>{7}</span> peculiarity is one in which his -father rather rejoices. I hear Mr. Crofton sometimes privately -communicating to his especial friends the particulars of little -Derwent’s accidents: “He was certainly born to knock about the world, -that boy of mine. Such a fellow was never intended to take peaceable -possession of Hilfont, and settle down a calm country gentleman,” says -Derwent, with a chuckle. And even when once or twice in the child’s life -my husband’s fears have been really excited about some misadventure -greater than usual, there has always been visible to me a certain gleam -of complacence and pride in his fear. For already he sees in the boy, -whom I am half disposed to keep a baby as long as possible, a man—the -heir of his own personal qualities as well as his land.</p> - -<p>Little Derwent, however, has none of the sentimental qualities, which -might be expected from an only child. He has indemnified himself in the -oddest fashion for the want of those nursery friendships which sweeten -the beginning of life. In the oddest fashion! I am almost ashamed to -confess—I admit it with natural blushes and hesitation—that this -little boy of ours is the most inveterate gossip that ever was born! -Yes, there is no use disguising the fact, gossiping, plain, naked, and -unsophisticated, is the special faculty<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_008" id="page_008"></a>{8}</span> of Derwent. He has all the -natural childish thirst for a story, but he prefers to have his stories -warm from the lips of the heroes and heroines of the same; and somehow -everybody to whom he has access confides in the child. He goes through -every corner of Hilfont, from cellar to attic, with his bold, quick -step, and his bright, curious eyes, interested about every individual -under the roof. Too young to feel any of those sentiments which detract -from the value of a sympathizer—without either the condescension of a -superior or the self-comparison of an equal—I find nobody who is not -pleased and comforted by the child’s warm interest in their concerns; -pleased and half amused as well—till, by habit, housekeeper and nurse, -kitchenmaid and groom—for any efforts I might once have made to keep -Derwent a proper little boy, circulating only in an orthodox round -between the drawing-room and the nursery, have proved so totally -fruitless, that I have given up the endeavor—repose a flattered but -perfectly sincere confidence in their master’s little son. Nor is the -village at all stoical to his attractions. He drops in at all the -cottages as if he were the curate or the parish doctor—asks questions -about everything—never forgets any special circumstances which may -happen to have been told him—knows all about<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_009" id="page_009"></a>{9}</span> the old women’s marriages -and the number of their children, and which one’s son has been wild and -’listed, and which one’s daughter is at service in Simonborough. He is -ready for as many fairy tales as anybody will tell him; but nothing is -so thoroughly interesting to Derwent as the people round about him and -their homely lives. I began by being a little shocked at this propensity -of his—then gradually grew amused at it—then tried my utmost to -restrain that deep inquisitiveness which seemed inherent in him—and at -last have come to accept it quietly as the child’s peculiarity, a part -of himself. If the best object for the study of mankind is man, Derwent -will, perhaps, some day turn out a great philosopher. At present he is -the most sincere and simple-minded of little gossips, pursuing his -favorite branch of knowledge boldly, without any compunctions; such is -the most distinct and remarkable characteristic of my son.</p> - -<p>And only to imagine the difference which that pair of blue eyes has -wrought in our great house and our calm life! My husband and I were, to -be sure, “very happy,” as people say, before; as happy as two people can -make each other, by a hearty and sincere love and cordial union; the -climax of happiness we would have thought it, each in our separate -thoughts, when we lived<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_010" id="page_010"></a>{10}</span> lonely lives apart. But love, which makes labor -sweet and life pleasant, does not answer for daily bread—never does, -let the romancers say what they will; no—not even to women. The heart -within me was dissatisfied even with Derwent—I could not content myself -with that life we lived—that calm, happy, tranquil life, which knew no -burdens, and if it overflowed in courtesies and charities, which cost us -nothing, was thought a model existence by our hard-working neighbors.</p> - -<p>By dint of perpetual pin-pricks and unceasing agitation, I had managed -to drive Derwent into Parliament, where he somewhat solaced me by his -intense affliction and sufferings during the season of Parliamentary -martyrdom, and was himself happier during the rest of the year in the -relief of escaping that treadmill; but the content that had fluttered -off from my heart, when I had only my husband and myself to think of, -came with a flash of magic in the train of the little heir. All life -glowed and brightened up with a different interest—there were no longer -only ourselves who had attained all that was attainable in our own -mature and settled existence; but this new living, loving creature, with -all the possibilities of life burning upon his fresh horizon. The -picture changed as if by enchantment; the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_011" id="page_011"></a>{11}</span> master and mistress of that -tranquil great house—lone, happy people set apart, none of the changes -of life coming near them, living for themselves, changed into a father -and mother, linked by sweet ties of succession to the other generations -of the world; belonging not to ourselves, but to the past and the -future—to the coming age, which <i>he</i> should influence—to the former -age, which had hailed <i>our</i> entrance as we hailed <i>his</i>. One cannot be -content with the foot-breadth of human soil that supports one’s own -weight—one must thrust out one’s hands before and behind. I felt that -we fell into our due place in the world’s generations, and laid hold -upon the lineal chain of humanity when little Derwent went forth before -us, trusted to our guidance—the next generation—the Future to us, as -to the world.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_012" id="page_012"></a>{12}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II.</h2> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">I suppose</span>, Clare,” said Mr. Crofton to me one morning at breakfast, -“that Alice Harley has made up her mind, like somebody I once knew, to -live for other people, and on no account to permit herself to be -married—is it so?”</p> - -<p>“I really cannot undertake to say whether she is like that person you -once knew,” said I, somewhat demurely. I had some hopes that she was—I -was much inclined to imagine that it was a youthful prepossession, of -which, perhaps, she herself was unaware, that kept Alice Harley an -unmarried woman; but of course I was not going to say so even to -Derwent, who, with all his good qualities, was after all only a man. An -unmarried woman!—that I should call my pretty Alice by that harsh, -mature, common-place name! But I am sorry to say the appellation was -quite a just one. She was nearer eight and twenty than eighteen, -now-a-days; she had no love, no engagement, no sentimental gossip at all -to be made about her. I will not undertake to say<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_013" id="page_013"></a>{13}</span> that she had not some -ideas of another kind, with which I had but a very limited sympathy—but -an unmarried woman Alice Harley was, and called herself—with (I -thought) a little quiet secret interest, which she deeply resented any -suspicion of, in Indian military affairs.</p> - -<p>“Because,” said Derwent, with the old affectionate laugh, and glance of -old love-triumph over his old wife, which he never outgrew or exhausted, -“there is that very good fellow, our new Rector, would give his ears for -such a wife—and from all I can see, would suit her famously; which, by -the way, Clare, now that her mother is so dependent on her, is not what -every man would. You should say a good word for Reredos—it is your duty -to look after your protégée’s establishment in life.”</p> - -<p>I confess when Derwent said these words a great temptation came to me. -It suddenly flashed upon my mind that Alice in the Rectory would be my -nearest neighbor, and the most pleasant of possible companions. At the -same moment, and in the light of that momentary selfish illumination, it -also became suddenly visible to me that my dear girl had a great many -notions which I rather disapproved of, and was rapidly confirming -herself in that <i>rôle</i> of unmarried woman, which, having once rather -taken to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_014" id="page_014"></a>{14}</span> it myself, I knew the temptations of. Mr. Reredos was only -about five years older than herself, good-looking, well-connected, with -a tolerably good living, and a little fortune of his own. And how could -I tell whether my private designs would ever come to anything? Derwent, -simple-minded man, had not fallen on so potent an argument for many a -day before.</p> - -<p>“Mamma,” said little Derwent, who heard everything without listening, -“the housekeeper at the Rectory has a son in the Guards—like the men in -the steel-coats that you showed me when we went to London; the other -sons are all comfortable, she says; but this one, when she speaks of -<i>him</i>, she puts up her apron to her eyes. Mamma, I want to know if it is -wicked to go for a soldier—Sally Yeoman’s son -’listed last year, and -<i>she</i> puts up her apron to her eyes. Now, my cousin Bertie is in -India—was it wicked in him to go for a soldier?—or what’s the good of -people being sad when people ’list?—eh, mamma?”</p> - -<p>“Did you ever see anybody sad about your cousin Bertie?” said I, with a -sudden revulsion of feeling and the profoundest interest.</p> - -<p>“N—no,” said little Derwent. He applied himself after that devoutly to -his bread and jam—there was something not altogether assured in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_015" id="page_015"></a>{15}</span> the -sound of that “N—no.” Derwent could not help having quick eyes—but the -child knew sometimes that it was best to hold his tongue.</p> - -<p>“I should like to know,” said Derwent the elder, laughing, “why Mr. -Reredos’s housekeeper’s son in the Guards has been dragged headlong into -this consultation. Suppose you go for a soldier yourself, Derwie. -There’s your drum in the corner. I have something to say to mamma.”</p> - -<p>Little Derwent marched off, obedient, if not very willing. His -inquisitive tendencies did not carry him beyond that rule of obedience -which was the only restraint I put upon the boy. Derwent, elder, -followed him with happy looks. He only came back to his subject after an -interval of pleased and silent observation when there suddenly fell into -the stillness of our cheerful breakfast-room the first thunder of -Derwie’s drum.</p> - -<p>“What an inquisitive little imp it is!” said Derwent; “but in spite of -the housekeeper’s son in the Guards, I don’t think you could do a more -charitable action, Clare, than to support Reredos’s suit to Alice -Harley. Such a famous thing for both—and such an excellent neighbor for -yourself.”</p> - -<p>“That is very true,” said I; “but still I cannot help building something -upon that son in the Guards.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_016" id="page_016"></a>{16}</span></p> - -<p>Mr. Crofton looked up somewhat puzzled, with a smile upon his lips. I -daresay he asked, “What on earth do you mean?” somewhat exasperated at -the repetition; but Derwie’s drum filled all the apartment at the -moment, and of course I could not hear, much less answer him. We had -some further talk on the subject later, when Derwent called me into the -library to read over that speech of his, which he made a few evenings -before at Simonborough, and which the Editor of the Simonborough -Chronicle had sent over in proof to ask if my husband would kindly -glance over it and see if it was correct. Mr. Reredos was coming to -dinner to meet the Harleys, among other people—and Mr. Crofton, always -good-humored, and disposed to aid and abet all honest love affairs, -could not sufficiently point out the advantages of such a connection to -me.</p> - -<p>And I said no more to perplex him, of the son in the Guards; but for -myself remembered that mythical personage, whatever was said to me on -the subject; and appreciated with the highest admiration that singularly -delicate line of association which suggested the reference to little -Derwie’s mind and thoughts. Yes, to be sure! the old women will put up -their aprons to their eyes when they talk about the son who has -’listed;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_017" id="page_017"></a>{17}</span> the young women will keep a shadowy corner in their hearts for -that unfortunate—and yet it is not wicked to go for a soldier. I felt -Mr. Reredos’s handsome figure quite blotted out by the suggestion -conveyed in that of his housekeeper’s son. When I had finished my -housekeeping affairs, and given orders about the visitors we expected -for Easter—this I should have said was the Easter recess, the glimpse -of spring at Hilfont, which was all we could catch now that Derwent, to -his great affliction, was a Parliament man—I took my seat in the great -cheerful window of that room where we had breakfasted, and which -overlooked half the country. Far away in the distance the sun caught the -spires and roofs of Simonborough, with its cathedral faintly shining out -from among the lower level of the housetops, and nearer at hand struck -bright upon the slow and timid river which wound through the fields down -below us, at the bottom of this great broad slope of country, which had -no pretensions to be a hill, though its advantage of altitude in our -level district was greater than that of many an elevation twice or three -times as high. Spring was stealing into the long drooping branches of -those willows which marked the irregular line of the stream. Spring -brightened with doubtful, wavering dewy<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_018" id="page_018"></a>{18}</span> smiles over all the surface of -the country. I remember when I should have been glad to turn my eyes -indoors, away from the sweet suggestions of Nature conveyed by that -sweetest and most suggestive season; but I took the fullest and freest -enjoyment of it now; rather, I sat at the window calmly pleased and -unconscious, as we are when we are happy, feeling no contrast to wound -me between the world without and the world within—and considered fully -the circumstances of Alice Harley, and how I ought to forward, as -Derwent said, my dear girl’s establishment in life.</p> - -<p>Now I have to confess that many years before this I had formed my own -plans for Alice—had quite made up my mind, indeed, to a secret scheme -of match-making in which at the moment I had been grievously -disappointed. At that time, when little Derwie was undreampt of, and I -had prematurely made up my mind to a childless life, I had settled my -inheritance of Estcourt upon my young cousin Bertie Nugent, with a -strong hope that the boy, who had known her for so many years, would -naturally prefer my pretty Alice to all strangers, when his good fortune -and affectionate heart put marriage into his head. This did not turn out -the case, however. Bertie made his choice otherwise, was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_019" id="page_019"></a>{19}</span> disappointed, -and went off to India, where for eight long years he had remained. -Sometimes, when he wrote to me, I found a message of good wishes to his -old playmates at the very end of the page; once or twice it had occurred -to him to ask, “Is not Alice Harley married?” but the question seemed to -proceed rather from surprise and curiosity than any tender interest. It -is impossible to imagine a greater separation than there was between -these two. Bertie, now Captain Herbert Nugent, at a remote station in -the Bengal Presidency, where, scattered over that vast, arid country, he -had friends, brothers, and cousins by the dozen; and Alice, with her -new-fangled notions, and staid single-woman dignity, hid away in the -depths of a quiet English home, where she addressed herself to her duty -and the education of her little sisters and eschewed society. Whether -any secret thoughts of each other lingered in their minds nobody of -course could tell; but they certainly had not, except in my persistent -thoughts, a single bond of external connection. So long as they were -both unmarried, I could not help putting them together with an -imagination which longed for the power of giving efficacy to its dreams; -but nobody else had ever done so—there were thousands of miles of land -and water dividing them—many long<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_020" id="page_020"></a>{20}</span> years, and most likely a world of -dissimilar dispositions, experiences and thoughts.</p> - -<p>While on the other hand Mr. Reredos was actually present on the scene, -in a pretty Rectory just half a mile from my own house, and not a dozen -miles from Mrs. Harley’s cottage. The young clergyman lost no -opportunity of doing his duty towards that lady, though her dwelling was -certainly in another parish—and showed himself so far disposed towards -Alice’s new-fangled notions as to preach a sermon upon the changed -position and new duties of Woman, on the occasion of her last visit to -Hilfont. I trust it edified Alice, for it had rather a contrary effect -upon myself, and filled the parishioners generally with the wildest -amazement. Most people are flattered by such an adoption of their own -opinions—and a young woman aged twenty-seven, thinking herself very -old, and trying hard to make every one else believe the same, is -especially open to such a compliment. Besides, I could not say anything -even to myself against Mr. Reredos. He was well-bred, well-looking, and -well-dispositioned—the match would be particularly suitable in every -way. Dr. Harley’s daughter, had her father and his fortune survived till -the present day, would still have made quite a sensible marriage in -accepting the Rector of Hilfont.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_021" id="page_021"></a>{21}</span> And then the advantage of having her -so near!</p> - -<p>I sat in the great window of the breakfast-room, looking over half the -county. If I had been a woman of elevated mind or enlightened views, I -should have been thinking of all the human wishes and disappointments -that lay beneath my eyes, each one under its own roof and its own -retirement. But, on the contrary, I observed nothing but a small figure -on a small pony ascending the road from the village. In the same way I -ought to have been benevolently glad that our excellent young Rector had -inclined his eyes and heart towards my own favorite and friend—the -friend and favorite now of so many years—and that a home so suitable, -at once to her origin and her tastes, awaited the acceptance of Alice. -But I was not glad—I sent my thoughts ever so far away to Bertie’s -bungalow, and felt aggrieved and disappointed for the boy who, alas! was -a boy no longer, and most likely, instead of feeling aggrieved on his -own account, would have nothing but his warmest congratulations to send -when he heard of his old playmate’s marriage. Things are very perverse -and unmanageable in this world. The right people will not draw together, -let one wish it ever so strongly, whereas the wrong people are always -approaching each<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_022" id="page_022"></a>{22}</span> other in eccentric circles, eluding every obstacle -which one can place in their way. I could not be very melancholy on the -subject, because the pony and its little rider came every moment nearer, -and brightened the face of the earth to my eyes—but still it was in the -highest degree provoking. If it ever came to anything! There was still -that escape from this perplexing matter; for whether I felt disposed to -support his suit or not, it was still by no means certain, even when Mr. -Reredos had finally declared himself, what Alice Harley might say.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_023" id="page_023"></a>{23}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="Chapter_III" id="Chapter_III"></a>Chapter III.</h2> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Who</span> are we to have, Clare?—let us hear. You don’t suppose that my -mind, weighed down with the responsibilities of law-making, can remember -everything, eh?—even my wife’s guests?” said Derwent, rubbing his -hands, as we sat after dinner near the fire in the warm crimson -dining-room. When we were alone I gave Mr. Crofton’s claret my benign -countenance till he was ready to go with me to the drawing-room. There -were not enough of us to separate at that genial hour, especially as -little Derwent sat between us peeling his orange, and quite ready to -give his opinion on any knotty point that might occur.</p> - -<p>“Papa, please give Willie Sedgwick the little grey pony,” said Derwie, -“to ride when he’s here; he says his papa will never let him take his -horse anywhere with him—there’s such a lot of children,” added my boy, -parenthetically, with some pity and contempt. “I like little Clary -best—I like her because her name’s the same as mamma’s, and because she -has blue eyes, and because she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_024" id="page_024"></a>{24}</span> likes me, and she’s good to that poor -old nurse, too, who has her daughter in a fever, and daren’t go to see -her.”</p> - -<p>“How do you know about the nurse’s daughter’s fever, Derwie?” asked I.</p> - -<p>“Mamma, they sent <i>me</i> to the nursery, when you were calling there,” -said Derwie, with some emphasis, “and she told me she has the scarlet -fever, and Mrs. Sedgwick won’t let her mamma go to see her, for fear of -the children taking it—isn’t it a shame? Clary told me she said her -prayers for her every night, to get her well; and so,” said Derwent, -coloring, and looking up with some apparent idea that this was not -perfectly right, and the most manful intention to stand out the -consequences, “and so do I.”</p> - -<p>His father and I looked at each other, and neither of us said anything -just for that moment, which silence emboldened Derwie to believe that no -harm was coming of his confession, and to go on with his story.</p> - -<p>“And Mr. Sedgwick’s man—he’s such a funny fellow. I wish you’d ask him -to tell you one of his stories, mamma,” said Derwie, “for I know he’s -coming here with them. He has a brother like Johnny Harley—just as -lame—and he got cured in Wales, at St. Winifred’s Well. Why don’t you -ask Mrs. Harley to send Johnny to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_025" id="page_025"></a>{25}</span> St. Winifred’s Well, mamma?—she only -laughed at me when I said so. I say, mamma,” continued Derwie, with his -mouth full of his orange, “I’ll tell Russell he’s to tell you one of his -stories—I never knew a fellow that could tell such famous stories—I -wish you had a man like Russell, papa. He’s been all over the world, and -he’s got two children at home, and the name of one of them is John—John -Russell—like the little gentleman in <i>Punch</i>.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t be personal, Derwie,” said Mr. Crofton, laughing; “we are to have -Mr. Sedgwick’s Russell, and Mrs. Sedgwick’s nurse—who else?”</p> - -<p>“The Harleys,” said I, “for we’ll postpone for a little, if you please, -Derwie, your friends below-stairs; and Mr. Reredos and his sister, and -Miss Polly Greenfield, and her little nieces. I fear the womankind will -rather predominate in our Easter party—though Maurice Harley, to be -sure”——</p> - -<p>“Yes—Maurice Harley, to be sure,” said Derwent, still with a smile, -“is—what should you call him now, Clare—a host in himself?”</p> - -<p>“Fellow of Exeter College, Cambridge,” said I, demurely; “he has it on -his card.”</p> - -<p>“Mamma, is Maurice Harley a clergyman?—shouldn’t a clergyman care about -people?” said<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_026" id="page_026"></a>{26}</span> little Derwent; “I don’t think <i>he</i> does. He likes -books.”</p> - -<p>“And what do you mean by people?—and don’t you like books?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“Oh! yes, sometimes,” said my son; “when there’s pictures in them. But -<i>you</i> know what people mean, mamma—quite well! You talk to them, <i>you</i> -do—but Maurice Harley puts up his shoulders like this, and looks more -tired than Bob Dawkes does after his ploughing—so tired—just as if he -could drop down with tiredness. Oh!” cried Derwent, with a sudden burst -of enthusiasm, “I would not give our Johnnie for a hundred of <i>him</i>.”</p> - -<p>“A hundred of <i>him</i>!” I confess the thought filled me with alarm. In my -heart I doubted, with a little shudder of apprehension, whether the -country, not to speak of Hilfont, could have survived the invasion of a -hundred such accomplished men. “But, Derwie,” said I, recovering from -that shock, “if you do not like books except when they have pictures in -them, how do you think you are ever to learn all the things that Maurice -Harley knows?”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Sedgwick says he’s a prig,” says little Derwent, with great -seriousness, “and I know more things now than he does—I know how to -make rabbits’ houses. If you were to get some<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_027" id="page_027"></a>{27}</span> little white rabbits, -mamma, I could make a beautiful house for them. Will Morris taught me -how. Oh! papa, don’t you know Will Morris wants to marry little Susan at -the shop?—he has her picture, and it’s not the least like her, and I -heard Maurice Harley say the photographs <i>must</i> be like, because the sun -took them. Does the sun see better than other people? That one’s like -you with the paper in your hand; but Will Morris’s picture, instead of -being Susan, is anybody in a checked dress.”</p> - -<p>“I begin to think you will turn out a great critic, Derwie,” said his -admiring father, who desired no better than to spend his after-dinner -hour listening to the wisdom of his son.</p> - -<p>“What’s a critic? is it anything like a prig?” asked Derwent, who was -trying hard to set up the crooked stem of a bunch of raisins—now, alas, -denuded of every vestige of its fruit—like a tree upon his plate; the -endeavor was not very successful, although when propped up on each side -by little mounds of orange-peel, the mimic tree managed to hold a very -slippery and precarious footing, and for a few minutes kept itself -upright. We two sat looking at this process in a hush of pleased and -interested observation. Maurice Harley, with all his powers and -pretensions, could neither have done nor said anything<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_028" id="page_028"></a>{28}</span> which could thus -have absorbed us, and I doubt whether we would have looked at the -highest triumphs of art or genius with admiration as complete as that -with which we regarded little Derwie setting up the stalk of the bunch -of raisins between these little mounds of orange-peel.</p> - -<p>“Clare, how old is he now?” said Mr. Crofton to me.</p> - -<p>As if he did not know! but I answered with calm pride, “Seven on Monday, -Derwent—and you remember it was Easter Monday too that year—and tall -for his age, certainly—but he is not so stout as Willie Sedgwick.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, Monday’s your birthday, is it, old fellow?” said Derwent; “what -should you like on your birthday, Derwie—let us hear?”</p> - -<p>“May I have anything I like, papa?” asked the child, throwing down -immediately both the raisin-stalk and the orange-skin. His father nodded -in assent. I, a little in terror of what “anything I like” at seven -years old might happen to be, hastened to interpose.</p> - -<p>“Anything in reason, Derwie, dear—not the moon, you know, nor the -crown, nor an impossible thing. You are a very sensible little boy when -you please; think of something in papa’s power.”</p> - -<p>“It is only little babies that cry for the moon,”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_029" id="page_029"></a>{29}</span> said Derwie, -contemptuously, “and I’ve got it in the stereoscope—and what’s the good -of it if one had it? nobody lives there; but, papa, I’ll tell you what I -should like—give me the key of the door of the House of Commons, where -you go every day when we are in town. That’s what I should like for my -birthday; what makes you laugh?” continued my boy, coming to a sudden -pause and growing red, for he was deeply susceptible to ridicule, bold -as he was.</p> - -<p>“Why on earth do you want to go to the House of Commons?” cried his -father, when his laughter permitted him to speak.</p> - -<p>“It’s in the Bible that the people used to come to tell everything to -the king,” said Derwie, a little peevishly; “and isn’t the House of -Commons instead of the king in this country? and doesn’t everybody go to -the House of Commons when they want anything? I should like to see them -all coming and telling their stories—what fun it must be! That’s why -you go there, I suppose, every night? but I don’t know why you never -should take mamma or me.”</p> - -<p>“It would never do to let the ladies come in,” said Derwent, with mock -seriousness; “you know they would talk so much that we could never hear -what the people had to say.”</p> - -<p>“Mamma does not talk very much,” said Derwie,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_030" id="page_030"></a>{30}</span> sharply; “nor Alice -either. Old Mrs. Sedgwick, to be sure—but then it’s some good when she -talks; it isn’t all about books or things I can’t understand, it’s about -people—that’s real talk, that is. Before I go to school—just till this -session is over—oh, papa, will you give me that key?”</p> - -<p>“My boy,” said Derwent, with the love and the laughter rivalling each -other in his eyes, “they don’t give me any key, or you should have -it—there’s a turnkey at the door, who opens it to let the poor people -out and in; but some day you and mamma shall go and be shut up in a cage -we have for the ladies, and hear all that’s said. I’m afraid, Derwie, -when you’ve once been there you won’t want to go again.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I shall!” cried Derwie, all his face glowing with eagerness; when -there suddenly appeared a solemn and silent apparition at the door, -namely Nurse, under whose iron rule the young gentleman, much resisting, -was still held, so far at least as his toilette was concerned. That -excellent woman said not a word. She opened the door with noiseless -solemnity, came in, and stood smoothing down her spotless apron by the -wall. No need for words to announce the presence of that messenger of -fate; Derwie made some unavailing struggles with destiny, and at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_031" id="page_031"></a>{31}</span> last -resigned himself and marched off defiantly, followed by the mighty -Nemesis. When the door closed upon the well-preserved skirts of that -brown silk gown, in which, ever since little Derwie emerged from -babyhood, nurse had presented herself in the dining-room to fetch him to -bed, Mr. Crofton and I once more looked at each other with those looks -of fondness and praise and mutual congratulation which our boy had -brought to our eyes. We had already exhausted all the phrases of -parental wonder and admiration; we only looked at each other with a -mutual tender delight and congratulation. Nobody else, surely, since the -beginning of the world, ever had such a boy!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_032" id="page_032"></a>{32}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> next day after, being the Saturday, our little Easter party -assembled; first our neighbors the Sedgwicks, who were a party in -themselves. Ten years before, Hugh Sedgwick had been the finest -gentleman in our neighborhood, which he filled with amazement and -consternation when he chose to fall in love with and marry little Clara -Harley, whom, in the most literal sense of the word, he married out of -the school-room, and who was just seventeen years old. But now that five -children had followed this marriage, nobody could have supposed or -believed in the existence of any such great original contrast between -the husband and wife. Either Mr. Sedgwick had grown younger, or Clara -older, than their years. He who now called Maurice Harley a prig, had -been himself the prince of prigs—according to the estimate of the -country gentlemen, his neighbors—in his day; but that day was long -departed. Hugh Sedgwick, fastidious, dilettante fine gentleman, as he -had been, was now the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_033" id="page_033"></a>{33}</span> solicitous father of little children, and not -above giving very sound advice upon measles and hooping-cough—while -Clara, who had gradually blossomed out into fuller and fuller bloom, had -scarcely yet attained the height of her soft beauty, despite the little -flock of children round her. Nobody in the county made such a toilette -as little Mrs. Sedgwick. I suspect she must have had <i>carte blanche</i> as -to her milliner’s bills; and when they entered the Hilfont drawing-room, -Clara, with her pretty matronly self-possession, her graceful little -figure, round and full as one of her own babies, and her lovely little -face, with all its cloudless lilies and roses—nobody could have -believed in the time when his good neighbors shrugged their shoulders -and laughed at Hugh Sedgwick’s choice. She sat down, I remember, by Miss -Polly Greenfield—dear old Miss Polly in her primeval drapery—that -crimson satin gown which I had known all my life. Such a contrast they -made in the bright youth and pale age of the two faces, which came -together lovingly in a kiss of greeting! Since her brother, Sir -Willoughby, had married, Miss Polly’s habits had changed greatly. She -had thrown aside her old brown riding-dress and the stiff man’s hat she -used to wear when she rode with Sir Willoughby. And when her old horse -and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_034" id="page_034"></a>{34}</span> her old groom were old enough to be pensioned off in their -respective paddock and cottage, Miss Polly set up a pony-carriage, more -suitable to her years. Her niece, a young widow of twenty, a poor, -little, disconsolate soul, who was all the trouble in the world to Miss -Polly, had made a second marriage, and left her two little children to -the care of their grandaunt. They were little girls both, and the tender -old woman was very happy in their society—happier a hundred times than -when she had been mistress of Fenosier Hall. But to hear how little -Clara, who once had stood somewhat in awe of Miss Polly, talked to her -now!—advising her how to manage little Di and Emmy, telling how she -regulated her own Clary, who, though a good deal younger, was very far -on for her age—with what a sweet touch of superiority and simplicity -the dear little matron looked down from her wifely and motherly -elevation upon pale old Miss Polly, who was neither mother nor wife! -Clara was quite ready at the same moment to have bestowed her matronly -counsels upon me.</p> - -<p>After the Sedgwicks, Alice Harley, all by herself, as became one who -felt herself at home, and was all but a daughter of the house, came into -the room. Alice was plain in her dress to the extreme of plainness. That -she assumed an<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_035" id="page_035"></a>{35}</span> evening dress at all was somewhat against her -convictions, and in compassion to my weakness and prejudice; but the -dress was of dark colored silk, made with a studied sobriety of cut, and -lack of ornament. Instead of sharing Clara’s round soft loveliness, -Alice had grown slender and pale. Unimaginative people called her thin. -Out of her girlish beauty had come a face full of thoughtfulness and -expression, but not so pretty as some people expected—perhaps, because -somehow or other, the ordinary roselight of youth had failed to Alice. -Half by choice, half by necessity, she had settled down into the humdrum -useful existence which the eldest daughter of a large family, if she -does not elude her fate by an early marriage, so often falls into. -Various “offers” had been made to her, one of which Mrs. Harley, divided -between a mother’s natural wish to see her daughter properly “settled,” -and a little reluctance, not less natural, to part with her own -household counsellor and helper, had given a wavering support to. Alice, -however, said No, coldly, and not, as I thought, without the minutest -possible tinge of bitterness answered the persuasions which were -addressed to her. She was rather high and grandiloquent altogether on -the subject of marriage, looking on with a half-comic, disapproving -spectator observation at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_036" id="page_036"></a>{36}</span> little Clara’s loving tricks to her husband, -whom that little matron had no awe of now-a-days, and discoursing more -than seemed to me entirely necessary upon the subject. Alice was -somewhat inclined to the views of those philosophers (chiefly feminine, -it must be confessed) who see in the world around them, not a general -crowd of human creatures, but two distinct rows of men and women; and -she was a little condescending and superior, it must also be admitted, -to that somewhat frivolous antagonistic creature, man. The ideal man, -whom Alice had never—so she intimated—had the luck to light upon, was -a demigod; but the real male representatives of the race were poor -creatures—well enough, to be sure, but no more worthy of a woman’s -devotion than of any other superlative gift. With sentiments so distinct -and <i>prononcés</i>, Alice had not lived all these years without feeling -some yearning for an independent sway and place of her own, as one may -well suppose—which tempted her into further speculations about women’s -work, and what one could do to make a place for one’s self, who had -positively determined not to be indebted for one’s position to one’s -husband. Such was the peculiar atmosphere out of which Alice Harley -revealed herself to the common world. She was deeply scornful of that -talk<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_037" id="page_037"></a>{37}</span> about people which pleased my boy so much, and so severe upon -gossip and gossips, that I had on more than one occasion seriously to -defend myself. There she stood in her dark-brown silk dress beside -little Clara’s flowing toilette and vivacious nursery talk, casting a -shadow upon pale Miss Polly in her crimson satin. Alice was as much -unlike that tender old soul, with her old maidenly restraints and -preciseness, her unbounded old womanly indulgence and kindness, as she -was unlike her matronly younger sister; and I confess that to myself, in -all her perverseness, knowing as I did what a genuine heart lay below, -there was quite a charm of her own about the unmarried woman. She was so -conscious of her staid and sober age, so unconscious of her pleasant -youth, and the simplicity which, all unknown to herself, lay in her -wisdom. Such was my Alice; the same Alice who, keeping silent and -keeping her brothers and sisters quiet in the nursery, while she knew -her father lay dying many a long year ago, adjured me with unspeakable -childish pathos—“Oh, don’t be sorry for me! I mustn’t cry!”</p> - -<p>I do not know how it was that, while I contemplated Alice on her first -appearance with a kind of retrospective glance at her history, there -suddenly appeared above her the head of Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_038" id="page_038"></a>{38}</span> Reredos. He was a -middle-sized, handsome man, with a pale complexion and dark hair—very -gentlemanly, people said—a man who preached well, talked well, and -looked well, and who, even to my eyes, which were no way partial, had no -particular defect worth noticing, if it were not the soft, large, white -hands without any bones in them, which held your fingers in a warm, -velvety clasp when you shook hands with the new rector. I don’t know how -he had managed to come in without my perceiving him. And strong must -have been the attraction which beguiled Mr. Reredos to neglect the duty -of paying his respects to his hostess, even for five minutes. It was not -five minutes, however, before he recollected himself, and came with his -soft white hand and his sister on his arm. His sister was so far like -himself that she was very pale, with very black hair, and an -“interesting” look. She did not interest me very much; but I could not -help hoping that perhaps in this sentimental heroine Maurice Harley, for -the time being, might meet his fate. I thought that would be rather a -comfortable way of shelving those members of our party; for Maurice, -though he was a very fine gentleman, not to say Fellow of his College, -afflicted my soul with a constant inclination to commit a personal -assault<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_039" id="page_039"></a>{39}</span> upon him, and have him whipped and sent to bed.</p> - -<p>However, to be sure, we had all the elements of a very pleasant party -about us—people who belonged to us, as one may say. Derwent, who liked -to see a number of cheerful faces about him, was in the lightest -spirits; he paid Clara Sedgwick compliments on her toilette, and -“chaffed” (as he called it—I am not responsible for the word) Alice, -whom he had the sincerest affection for, but loved to tease, and took -Miss Polly in to dinner, while little Derwie did the honors of the -nursery to a party almost as large, and quite as various. I fear we made -rather a night of feasting than a penitential vigil of that Easter Eve.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_040" id="page_040"></a>{40}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">When</span> we returned to the drawing-room after dinner, we found, hidden in a -distant corner, with books and portfolios, and stereoscopes blocking up -the table near him, Johnnie Harley. I have said little of this boy. He -was the proxy which the handsome, healthy family had given for their -singular exemption from disease and weakness—the one sufferer, among -many strong, who is so often found in households unexceptionably -healthful, as if all the minor afflictions which might have been divided -among them had concentrated on one and left the rest free. When Johnnie -was a child he had only been moved in the little wheeled chair, got for -him in his father’s lifetime, when they were rich. Now he was better, -and able to move about with the help of a crutch, but even now was a -hopeless cripple, with only his vigorous mind and unconquerable spirits -to maintain him through private hours of suffering. Partly from his -infirmities—partly from his natural temperament—the lad<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_041" id="page_041"></a>{41}</span> had a certain -superficial shyness, which, though it was easily got over, made it -rather difficult to form acquaintance with him. He could not be induced -to dine with us that first night—but he was in the drawing-room, -showing the stereoscope to Miss Polly’s little nieces, Di and Emmy, when -we came back from dinner; the other little creatures were playing at -some recondite childish game in another part of the room; but Emmy and -Di were very proper little maidens, trained to take judicious care of -their white India muslin frocks, the spare dimensions of which -contrasted oddly enough with Clary’s voluminous little skirts and flush -of ribbons. Clary was like a little rose, with lovely rounded cheeks and -limbs like her mother, dimpled to the very finger-points, while Di and -Emmy, though by no means deficient in good looks, were made up quite -after Miss Polly’s own model, in a taste which was somewhat severe for -their years. Johnnie Harley veiled himself behind these little maidens -till we were safely settled in the room. He was twenty, poor fellow, and -did not know what was to become of him. He was sometimes very -melancholy, and sometimes very gay; he was in rather a doubtful mood -to-night.</p> - -<p>“Look here, Mrs. Crofton,” he said, drawing me shyly aside. “I’ve put -this one in a famous<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_042" id="page_042"></a>{42}</span> light—do tell me if you like it. I did it -myself.”</p> - -<p>I looked, of course, to please him. It was a pretty view of my own house -at Estcourt, with the orphan children who lived there playing on the -terrace—very pretty, and very minute—so clear that I fancied I could -recognize the children. It pleased me mightily.</p> - -<p>“<i>You</i> did it, Johnnie,” cried I, much gratified. “I am very much -pleased; but I never knew you were a ‘photographic artist’ before.”</p> - -<p>“No more I was,” said Johnnie, who rather affected a little roughness of -speech, “till they got me a camera the other day. Of course I know it -was Alice, and that somehow or other she’s spared it off herself. Do you -know whether there’s anything she ought to have had that she hasn’t, -Mrs. Crofton? One can never find Alice out. She doesn’t go when she’s -made a sacrifice for you and keep hinting and hinting to let you know, -as some people do; but look here—isn’t it horrible to think I’m grown -up and yet have to stay at home like a girl, and can’t do anything. Now -that I’m able to do these slides, I’d give my ears if I could sell them. -I’d go and stand in the market at Simonborough. But of course it’s no -use speaking. Don’t you think, Mrs. Crofton, that there’s surely -something in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_043" id="page_043"></a>{43}</span> the world that could be done by a cripple like me?”</p> - -<p>“I have no doubt a dozen things,” said I, boldly; “but have a little -patience, Johnnie. Maurice is ten years older than you are, and he does -nothing that I can see. Besides, it is holiday time—I forbid you to -think of anything but the new camera to-night. Is it a good one? What a -pleasure it must be for all of you,” I continued, looking once more into -the stereoscope, where, most singular of optical delusions, I certainly -saw a pretty new winter bonnet, the back of which, in the wardrobe of -Alice, I had already made a memorandum of, floating over the picture of -my old house.</p> - -<p>“Ah,” said Johnnie, with a sigh, “if I were a fellow like Maurice!—but -here, Di, you have not seen this,” he added, transferring another slide -into that wooden box. Grave little Di looked at it, and summoned her -sister with a little scream of delight.</p> - -<p>“It’s Miss Harley and Baby Sedgwick,” said Di, “and I do believe if any -one was little enough they could go round behind her in the picture. Oh! -let me tell Derwent and Clara, Mr. John!”</p> - -<p>Mr. John was very graciously pleased to exhibit his handiwork to any -number of spectators,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_044" id="page_044"></a>{44}</span> and shortly we all gathered round the -stereoscope. Alice stood looking on very demurely, while we were -examining her in that pretty peep-show; she listened to all the usual -observations with due calm, while Johnnie, quite in a flush of pleasure, -produced the pictures, at which I understood afterwards the poor youth -had been working all day long, one by one out of the box.</p> - -<p>“My love,” said Miss Polly, in a mild aside, “I’d like to see you just -so in a house of your own, my dear.”</p> - -<p>Alice colored slightly; very slightly—it was against her principles to -blush—and made no answer, except a slight shake of her head.</p> - -<p>“Such a sweet baby,” said Miss Reredos, “I think one might bear anything -for such a darling! Oh, don’t you think so, Miss Harley? I think it’s so -unnatural for a lady not to love children. I think if dear Clement had -but a family I should be so happy.”</p> - -<p>“But, dear, shouldn’t you be happier,” said Clara, opening her bright -eyes a little wider, with a laughing humor which now-a-days that young -lady permitted herself to exercise pretty freely, “if you had a family -of your own?”</p> - -<p>“Oh! Mrs. Sedgwick, how can you speak so? I am so glad the gentlemen are -not here,” said<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_045" id="page_045"></a>{45}</span> the Rector’s sister. Alice stood looking at her with a -half vexed, half amused expression. Alice was a little afraid for the -honor of (most frightful of phrases!) her sex.</p> - -<p>“As for Alice,” said Clara, laughing, “do you know she thinks it rather -improper to be married? She would not allow she cared for anybody, not -for the world.”</p> - -<p>“I think women ought to be very careful,” said Alice, responding -instantly to the challenge with a little flush and start; “I think there -are very few men in the world worthy of being loved. Yes, I do think so, -whatever you choose to say. They’re well enough for their trades, but -they’re not good enough to have a woman’s heart for a plaything. Of -course there may be some—I do not deny that; but I never”——</p> - -<p>Here Alice paused—perhaps she was going to tell a fib—perhaps -conscience stopped her—I will not guess; but Clara clapped her hands in -triumph.</p> - -<p>“Ah, but if you did ever,” said Clara, laughing, “would you marry <i>him</i>, -Alice?”</p> - -<p>“If he asked me it is very likely I should,” said Alice, with great -composure; “but not for a house of my own, as Miss Polly says—nor for -fun, like some other people.”</p> - -<p>“My love, it’s very natural to like a house of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_046" id="page_046"></a>{46}</span> one’s own,” said Miss -Polly, with a little sigh. “I don’t mind saying it now that I am so old: -once in my life I almost think I would have married for a home—not for -a living, remember, Alice—but for a place and people that should belong -to me, and not to another—that’s what one wishes for, you know; but I -never talked about it either now or then; my dear, I wouldn’t if I were -you.”</p> - -<p>At this address Alice blushed crimson—blushed up to the hair, and -patted her foot upon the ground in a very impatient, not to say angry, -way. She cast a somewhat indignant side-look at me, to express her -conviction that I was at the bottom of this, and had suggested the mild -condemnation of Miss Polly—which, so far as agreeing thoroughly in her -sentiments went, I confess I might have done. Then Alice went off -abruptly to the piano, and began playing to the children, who gathered -round her; before long her voice was pleasantly audible in one of those -immemorial songs with a fox or a robin for a hero, which always delight -children; and when the song was finished there ensued as pretty a scene -as I have ever looked at. Clara gathered the children in a ring, which -danced round and round, with a dazzle of little rosebud faces, flying -white frocks and ribbons, to Alice’s accompaniment. Such<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_047" id="page_047"></a>{47}</span> scenes I have -no doubt were of nightly occurrence in the big, grand drawing-room at -Waterflag Hall; and little Derwie took his part so heartily, and joined -in the chant with which they went round with lungs and will so -unmistakable, that, for my part, I was quite captivated. Miss Polly and -I sat down to watch them. Little Di, too shy and too big to join them, -being twelve years old and a grandmother among these babes, stood -wistfully behind us, envying Emmy, who was only ten and a half, and “not -too old for such a game.” Di, a long way older and graver than Mrs. -Clare, stood nodding and smiling to encourage her little sister every -time she whisked past. Miss Reredos behind us was examining Johnnie’s -pictures and talking sentiment in a soft half-whisper to that -defenceless boy, while Miss Polly and I sat on a sofa together, looking -on.</p> - -<p>“It is strange,” said Miss Polly, “but yet I’m sure I am very glad. I -thought of asking you, Clare, whether anything had occurred to disturb -that dear girl? I don’t like when I hear young women talk like that, my -dear—it looks to me as if they had something on their mind, you know. -Once I thought there might perhaps be something between Bertie Nugent -and Alice—that would have been a very nice match; but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_048" id="page_048"></a>{48}</span> somehow these -nice matches never come about—at least, not without a deal of trouble; -and I suppose it was nothing but an old woman’s fancy, Clare.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose not, indeed,” said I, rather ruefully, looking at that -prettiest spectacle before me, and recognizing, as by intuition, that -Mr. Reredos had just come in, and was standing at the door in a glow of -delight and approbation, looking at Alice, and deciding not to delay his -proposal for an hour longer than it should be absolutely necessary to -keep silent. Ah, me! there was some hope for us in Alice’s philosophical -moods; but when she played to her little nieces and nephews in that -shockingly happy, careless, and easy manner, I was in despair.</p> - -<p>“It’s very sad when people won’t see what’s most for their advantage,” -said Miss Polly, with a ghost of humor in her pale old face. “I daresay, -Clare, my dear, Bertie’s just as happy. I heard from Lady Greenfield the -other day—one of <i>her letters</i>, you know—that the dear boy was getting -on very well, but breaking his heart to get home that he might go to the -Crimea to the war.”</p> - -<p>“So he tells me,” said I, “but I rather think I am very glad he has not -the chance of dying on that dreadful hill.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_049" id="page_049"></a>{49}</span></p> - -<p>“My dear, that’s very true,” said Miss Polly; “one faints at the thought -of it, to be sure, for one’s own; but if I could be -philosophical—which—dear, dear, it isn’t to be expected from an old -woman! I’d say it was wrong to be sorry for the dear young creatures, -God bless them! Think what they’re spared, my dear child. I don’t know -but what it’s a great saving of the labor and the sorrow when they die -young.”</p> - -<p>“Miss Polly, this is not like you,” I cried in surprise.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps it isn’t; but, dear, we’re always learning something,” said -Miss Polly; “there’s Elinor now, and poor Emmy, the unfortunate little -soul! but hush, here’s your new rector coming—I’ll tell you another -time.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_050" id="page_050"></a>{50}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI.</h2> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">I am</span> surprised,” said Mr. Reredos, as he drank his coffee beside me, -“to hear from Mr. Maurice Harley that he’s not in orders. I really felt -so sure that he must be that I did not think of asking. He’s had his -fellowship this long time, has not he? and really a clergyman’s son, and -with the excellent connections he has—I am surprised!”</p> - -<p>“Ah, so is everybody,” said Miss Polly, significantly. Miss Polly was an -old-fashioned woman, and had little sympathy with those delicate -conscientious scruples which kept our friend Maurice out of the Church.</p> - -<p>“My dear,” continued Miss Polly, turning aside to me, with some energy, -as Mr. Reredos, always polite, took her empty cup from her, “I could -believe in it if he were doing anything or thinking of doing anything; -but if you’ll believe me, Clare, it’s nothing but idleness—that’s what -it is. When a young man’s idle, if he doesn’t fall in love with the -first girl he meets, he falls<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_051" id="page_051"></a>{51}</span> in love with himself, which is a deal -worse. The Rector here will be trying to help Maurice out of his doubts, -I shouldn’t wonder. His doubts, indeed! If he lost his fellowship and -had to work hard for his living, I shouldn’t be afraid of his doubts, -for my part.”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said I, “but if the loss of his fellowship dispersed poor -Maurice’s dilettante scepticism, and forced him into orders, it might be -better for himself, Miss Polly, but I doubt if it would be better for -the Church. When his conscience keeps him outside, we have no reason to -find fault, but if he came in against his conscience——”</p> - -<p>“Conscience! stuff!” said Miss Polly, with some heat. “Child, that’s not -what I meant. I meant—for being his father’s and mother’s son I can’t -think he’s a bad boy at the bottom—I meant a little trouble and -fighting would soon put those idle vagaries out of his head. Now, Mr. -Reredos, mind you don’t go and argue with Maurice Harley. I’m an old -woman, and I’ve seen such before, many’s the time. Wait till he’s got -something to do and something to bear in this world, as he’s sure to -have, sooner or later. Ah, Life’s a wonderful teacher! When a man sits -among his books, or a woman at her needle—and there isn’t such a great -difference as you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_052" id="page_052"></a>{52}</span> might suppose—they get mazing themselves with all -kinds of foolish questions, and think themselves very grand too for -doing it; but only wait till they find out what God means them to do and -to put up with in this world—it makes a deal of difference, Clare.”</p> - -<p>“Miss Polly, you are a philosopher, and we never knew it!” said I, while -Mr. Reredos stood looking on, much annoyed, and in no small degree -contemptuous of the pale old woman who took upon her to direct so -perfect a person as himself—for Mr. Reredos was not unlike Maurice -Harley, though after his different fashion; he thought he could do a -great deal with his wisdom and his words.</p> - -<p>“I am not a philosopher; but I have been alone with the dear children -since my niece Emmy left me,” said Miss Polly, “and not so able to stir -about as I once was; and you know, my dear, one can’t say out everything -in one’s mind to children at their age; so, somehow the thoughts come up -as if I had been gathering them all my life, and never had time to look -at them before.”</p> - -<p>“I suspect that is how most of the thoughts that are worth remembering -do come,” said I. Mr. Reredos did not say anything. He stood, with a -faint smile on his lip, which he did not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_053" id="page_053"></a>{53}</span> mean us to suspect, much less -understand—and while he bent his handsome head towards the mistress of -the house, gravely attentive, as it was his duty to be, his eyes turned -towards Maurice and Alice Harley. Did not I know well enough what was in -his mind? He thought we were a couple of old women dozing over our slow -experiences. He was still in the world where words and looks produce -unspeakable results, and where the chance of a moment determines a life. -His eyes turned to those other young people who, like himself, were -speculating upon all manner of questions—he would not laugh at us, but -a faint gleam of criticism and superiority just brightened upon his lip. -I liked him none the worse, for my own part.</p> - -<p>“This reads like a Newdigate,” said Maurice Harley. “I suppose Sedgwick -brought the book to you, Clara, for a sugar-plum. Listen, how sweetly -pretty! These prize poets are really too delicious for anything.”</p> - -<p>“You had better write a poem yourself, Maurice, and show what you can -do,” cried the indignant Clara; “it is so grand to be a critic, and so -easy! Nobody can write to please you, nobody can speak to please you—I -should just like to see you do something yourself, Maurice, that we -could criticise as well.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_054" id="page_054"></a>{54}</span></p> - -<p>Maurice laughed, poising in his hand the pretty new poetry-book which -Mr. Sedgwick had brought down from London to his wife. He looked so -superior and so triumphant, that even his grave brother-in-law was -provoked.</p> - -<p>“Maurice is not so foolish,” said Mr. Sedgwick, “as long as he doesn’t -<i>do</i> anything he may be a Shakespeare for anything we know. You girls -may worship him as such now, if you please—there he sits quite ready to -receive your homage; but if he really ventured into print, Maurice would -be only Maurice Harley—just himself, like the rest of us—might even -find a critic in his turn, as such is the fate of mortals. No, no, you -may be sure Maurice won’t commit himself; he’s a great deal too wise for -that.”</p> - -<p>Maurice laughed a somewhat constrained laugh, and coloured slightly. -Perhaps a touch of conscience made Mr. Sedgwick’s sarcasm tell—he threw -down the book with a little petulance.</p> - -<p>“Far be it from me to object to Clara’s tastes. Thanks to my sisters, I -know pretty well what young ladies like in the shape of poetry,” said -Maurice; “they all admire the Newdigates. There was a time when I found -Alice in tears over one of these distinguished poems—and that not so -very many years ago.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_055" id="page_055"></a>{55}</span></p> - -<p>“Oh! don’t be so dreadfully satirical!” said Miss Reredos, who was -beginning to tire of Johnnie and his stereoscope. “I am sure that year -that mamma and I went to Commemoration with Clement there was the -sweetest thing imaginable—and so charmingly read too—and I have a copy -of it now; but, oh! I know why Mr. Harley does not like the Newdigate,” -cried the Rector’s sister, clasping her soft hands, “he’s a Cambridge -man!”</p> - -<p>“Exactly,” said Maurice, recovering himself at once, for he was quite -disposed to take Miss Reredos for his antagonist; “you know the jealousy -which exists between us. Your brother and I preserve an outside -appearance of civility, out of respect to Mrs. Crofton and the presence -of the ladies, but nobody can doubt for a moment how we hate each other -in our hearts.”</p> - -<p>“I say, do you though?” cried the small voice, down at Maurice Harley’s -elbow, of my son Derwie, who was, unluckily, at that moment advancing -with the rest of the little troop to say good-night. “Do you hate the -Rector, Maurice?—he’s the clergyman, you know—he can’t do anything -wrong; so <i>he</i> can’t hate <i>you</i>—why do you hate him?—is he cleverer -than you are? Stand up a moment, please—I don’t think he’s quite as -tall.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_056" id="page_056"></a>{56}</span></p> - -<p>This interruption Derwent made with the most perfect sincerity and -earnestness, unconsciously guessing at the only reasons which could make -a person so accomplished as Maurice Harley hate anybody. Everybody -laughed except the individual questioned, who shot a glance of wrath at -my boy, and eyed Mr. Reredos with a sort of contemptuous inquiry. Could -any one, even a child, imagine the new rector to be cleverer than the -ineffable Maurice? He sank down again in the chair from which Derwie had -dragged him, laughing with a very bad grace. Then all the broken -currents of talk going on in the room, suffered a little ebb and pause. -Little rosy faces clustered close about Clara Sedgwick, about Alice and -myself, and old Miss Polly, holding up rose-lips full of kisses. Mr. -Crofton shook hands with Derwie, and turned him off with an affectionate -grasp upon his shoulders, declaring, with a fondness beyond caresses, -that he was too old to be kissed. Then we all paused, looking after them -as they trooped out of the room. Miss Reredos, full of something clever -to say in the way of an attack upon Maurice—Maurice himself too -self-conscious to be diverted by that pretty procession, and Johnnie, -who was hanging over his stereoscope, and following the Rector’s sister -with his eyes, were the only persons in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_057" id="page_057"></a>{57}</span> room who did not watch with -a smile and an increased warmth at heart these beautiful children -disappearing, one by one, from the door. Mr. Reredos’s face shone, and -he cast sidelong glances at Alice. He was young, in his first romance of -love, not yet spoken. His heart was moved in him with an unconscious -blessing to the children; visions of a house of his own, musical with -such voices, stole into the Rector’s soul—I could see it in his face.</p> - -<p>And was it to be so? There was no side glance from the eyes of Alice, -reciprocating those of Mr. Reredos—no consciousness, as she stood by -the table watching the children, of any future such as that which -sparkled in the young Rector’s eyes. She stood calmly watching them, -nodding and smiling to Derwent, and her little niece Clary, who, hand in -hand, were the last to leave the room—the maiden aunt, only a little -more independent of the children than their mother—almost as much -beloved by them—the young, unmarried woman, gravely cogitating the -necessities of her class of age, and feeling much superior to the -vanities of love-making, without a single palpitation in her of the -future bride, the possible mother. So, at least, it seemed.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_058" id="page_058"></a>{58}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">That</span> evening—it was the first of her visit to Hilfont, and a perfectly -natural thing, considering the long affection between us—I paid Alice a -long visit in her own room. I might have done so, even if I had been -conscious of nothing to inquire about, nothing to suggest. It was rather -late when we all came up-stairs, and when I had seen Miss Polly safely -established in her easy chair by her fire, and eluded as well as I could -the story about Elinor’s (to wit, Lady Greenfield, Sir Willoughby’s -wife, once Mrs. Herbert Nugent, my cousin, and Bertie’s aunt) letter—I -turned back to the bright chamber near my own, which was always called -Miss Harley’s room. Alice was sitting rather listlessly by the table, -reading. She looked tired, and did not seem overmuch to enjoy her book. -She was very glad to see me come in, and, I suspect, to be delivered -from her own thoughts, which it was clear enough she could not quite -exorcise by means of literature; for it was not a novel,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_059" id="page_059"></a>{59}</span> which there is -some hope in, but a wisdom-book, much esteemed by the superior -classes—one of those books which, if it has any power at all, excites -one into contradiction, by conclusions about human nature in general, -which we can all form our own opinions upon. I suspect Alice could not -keep her attention to it, hard though she tried.</p> - -<p>When we had talked over indifferent matters for some time, my curiosity, -which I might have dignified with the title of anxiety, too, roused me -to closer inquiries than, perhaps, were quite justifiable. I knew that -after Mr. Reredos had spoken—unless, indeed, he happened to be -accepted—Alice’s lips were closed for ever on the subject, so I -wickedly took advantage of my opportunities.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps ere long I shall have to congratulate you,” said I, “and you -may be sure it would be a great matter for me to have you so very near. -We should make famous neighbors, Alice, don’t you think? I may well be -anxious about your decision, my dear, for my own sake.”</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Crofton, I do not understand you,” said Alice, in a little dismay, -looking very curiously and wistfully in my face; then, after a little -pause, a deep color suffused her cheeks, she started, and moved her hand -impatiently upon the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_060" id="page_060"></a>{60}</span> table, as if in sudden passion with herself, and -then added, coldly, with an inexpressible self-restraint and subdued -bitterness, which it was hard to understand: “Pray tell me what you -mean?”</p> - -<p>The contrast of her tone, so suddenly chilled and formal, with the -burning color and subdued agitation of her face, struck me wonderfully. -“My dear child,” said I, “I have no right to ask—I don’t want to -interfere—but you are sure to have this question submitted to you, -Alice, and can’t be ignorant of that now, that it has come so far. -Cannot you think what I mean?”</p> - -<p>Alice paused a moment, then she cast rather a defiant glance at me, and -answered, proudly: “If any one has been forming foolish plans about me, -Mrs. Crofton, the responsibility is not mine—I know I am not to blame.”</p> - -<p>“That may be very true,” said I, “but I am not speaking of -responsibility. Don’t you think, dear, that this is important enough to -be taken into consideration without any impatience of personal feeling? -Deciding one’s life by the ordeal of marriage is a human necessity it -appears. You are a clergyman’s daughter—no way could you fill a better -or more congenial place than as a clergyman’s wife. If I were you I -should not conclude at once, because, perhaps, in the meantime, of your -own accord, you have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_061" id="page_061"></a>{61}</span> not quite fallen in desperate love with your -lover. My dear, you think I am dreadfully common-place, but I cannot -help it. Think, Alice!—you want a life for yourself—a house belonging -to you, and you only—you do! Don’t say no—everybody does; think! Won’t -you take all this into consideration before you decide?”</p> - -<p>“Because I am going to have ‘an offer,’ and perhaps I never may have -another—because I am not so young now as to be able to throw away my -chances—and it is <i>you</i> who say so!” cried Alice, throwing at me an -angry, bitter, scornful glance. Perhaps, if she had yielded more to my -arguments, I might have found it harder than I did now.</p> - -<p>“You humiliate me,” she cried again: “if I want a life of my own, I want -to make it myself; a house of my own?—no I have no ambition for that.”</p> - -<p>“But you falter a little when you say so,” said I, taking cruel -advantage of her weakness. “Now, we are not going to discuss the -disabilities of women. It is just as impossible for an unmarried man to -have what I call a house of his own as it is for you; and as for the -privilege of choice—good lack, good lack! much use it seems about to be -to poor Mr. Reredos! My dear<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_062" id="page_062"></a>{62}</span> child, don’t be foolish—there is your -brother Maurice with the most complete of educations, and no lack of -power to make use of it. What is he going to do with himself? Where are -the great advantages he has over his sister? <i>I</i> can’t see them. But no, -that’s not the question. The Rector is a good man; he is young, he is -well off; he is agreeable. Your dearest friend could not choose a more -suitable life for you than that you would have at the Hilfont Rectory. -Now, Alice, think. Are you going to make up your mind to throw away all -this, and a good man’s happiness besides?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mrs. Crofton! Mrs. Crofton! and it is you who say so!” said poor -Alice, with looks which certainly must have consumed me had I been of -combustible material—“this is from you!”</p> - -<p>“And why not, my dear?” said I, meekly. “Am not I next to your mother, -Alice?—next oldest friend?—and next interested in your welfare?”</p> - -<p>“If you mean that you have a right to say anything you please to me,” -said Alice, seizing my hand and kissing it in a quick revulsion of -feeling, “it is true to the very farthest that you choose to stretch it; -but that is not what you mean. Oh, dear Mrs. Crofton!” said the poor<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_063" id="page_063"></a>{63}</span> -girl with a rising blush and a certain solemn indignation wonderful to -me—“I can only say it again; of all persons in the world that I should -have had such words from <i>you</i>!”</p> - -<p>With which exclamation she suddenly cast a guilty, startled look upon me -as if she had betrayed something and hid her face in her hands. How did -she know what was in my heart?—how could she tell that I was arguing -against my own dear and long-cherished plans, which I had made it a -point of honor never to hint in the remotest manner to her? But here we -approached the region where another word was impossible. She would not -have uttered a syllable of explanation for her life—I dared not, if I -meant to have any comfort in mine; I said nothing to her by which it was -possible to infer that I understood what she meant. I absolutely slurred -over the whole question—here we had reached the bound.</p> - -<p>“Well, dear,” said I, “don’t distress yourself so very much about -it—you must decide according to your own will and not to mine; only do -think it over again in the fresh morning before the Rector gets an -opportunity of speaking to you. Good night, Alice—don’t sit reading, -but go to sleep!”</p> - -<p>She raised her face to me, and leant her cheek a little more than was -quite needful against mine<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_064" id="page_064"></a>{64}</span> as I kissed her—and so we parted without -another word between us. Possibly, we women talk a great deal on most -occasions; sometimes, however, we show a singular faculty for keeping -silent. Next morning, Alice and I met each other as if we had never -spoken a word which all the world might not hear. We interchanged no -confidences, looked no looks of private understanding. Indeed, surely -nothing <i>had</i> passed between us—all the world might have listened and -been none the wiser. What had a momentary emphasis, a sudden look to do -with the matter? Alice spoke nothing but her usual sentiments, and I did -not say a word inconsistent with mine.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_065" id="page_065"></a>{65}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> next morning was Easter Sunday. I have no doubt Mr. Reredos would -have been glad enough to add a private joy of his own to the rejoicings -of the festival, and might not have thought it unsuitable to declare -himself even on that morning could he have had a chance. However, there -was not very much time before Church hours, and to be sure the Rector -ought to have been thinking of something else. It was a true Easter -morning, full of sunshine and that new life of spring born out of death -and darkness which to every heart must bear a certain charm. Is it -something of a compensation to the sorrowful that all the wonderful -silent symbols of Nature speak to them with a special force which does -not belong to the happy? We were all dwelling at ease, people -untroubled—our hearts were glad in the sunshine, which to us looked -like a promise of permanence and peace unclouded. Only far off with an -apprehension of the thoughts, and not of the heart, did the meaning<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_066" id="page_066"></a>{66}</span> of -the feast which we were keeping occur to us. To Derwent and myself this -was perhaps the happiest time of our lives. Perhaps to us the -Resurrection was little more than an article of belief—I think we thus -paid something for our happiness. At all events it did not jar upon us -to perceive a certain agitation in the Rector’s tones—a certain -catching of his breath in the little pleasant sermon, not without some -small sentences in it specially meant for the ear of Alice, but -perfectly “suited to the occasion,” which Mr. Reredos delivered. -Everybody was very attentive, save Maurice Harley. Maurice had some -liberal and lofty objections to the Athanasian creed; he sat down and -amused himself reading the Gunpowder Plot Service with secret smiles of -criticism, while his neighbors round him murmured forth with a universal -rustic voice that strenuous confession of the faith—and he sketched a -bracket (we were rather proud of our Church) while Mr. Reredos preached -his sermon, and comported himself generally as a highly superior man, -attending Church out of complacency to his friends, might be expected to -do.</p> - -<p>Next day I fear Mr. Reredos ascertained beyond question what he had to -expect from Alice Harley. With a look of stormy agitation, strongly -restrained, he let me know on the Monday<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_067" id="page_067"></a>{67}</span> that it was quite necessary -for him to return to the Rectory. He had some sick people to attend to, -who demanded his presence in his own house. I did not say that there was -only half a mile of distance between the Rectory and the Hall—I -acquiesced in his explanations, and accepted his apologies. Miss -Reredos, however, was much more difficult to manage. I heard him tell -her in a low tone that she must get ready to go; and the young lady’s -answer of astonishment, and resistance, and total ignorance of any -reason why her pleasure should be balked, was audible enough to -everybody in the room.</p> - -<p>“Go away! Leave Hilfont!” she exclaimed with a gasp of amazement. “Why -should we go away? Mrs. Crofton was good enough to ask us for a week, -and I am sure you could do your duty quite as well here as at the -Rectory. Oh, please, Mrs. Crofton, listen! The only sick people I know -of are that old man at the turnpike, and his blind daughter—he could -visit them quite as well going from Hilfont as from the Rectory. I -believe this is the nearest of the two.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but Mr. Williams from the little chapel goes to see old Johnnie -Dunn,” interrupted little Derwie; “he was there yesterday, and Martha’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_068" id="page_068"></a>{68}</span> -quite well now, and goes to chapel like anything. Miss Reredos, do you -know Martha wasn’t always blind? she used to work and make dresses when -she was young. Once she lived in Simonborough and learned her trade, and -I suppose it was there she learned to go to chapel. Martha says they’re -not Church-folks at all. I don’t think they want Mr. Reredos to go -there.”</p> - -<p>“You’re not very complimentary, Derwie,” said the Rector, with a slight -quiver of his lip, which I recognized as a sign of the passion and deep -excitement in which he was. With that wild pain and mortification -tugging at his heart, it would have been a relief to him to burst out in -an ebulition of rage or impatience against somebody, and I instinctively -put out my hand to protect my boy. “But it is sometimes my duty to go -where they don’t want me,” he added, with a laugh as significant, “and -with many regrets and many thanks to Mrs. Crofton we must still go back -to-day. Laura, get ready, please.”</p> - -<p>In pity for the unfortunate Rector, who, I saw, longed to escape from -the room, the inquisitive looks of Mrs. Clara, who was present, and the -distinct statement from Derwie, which I knew to be impending, to the -effect, that of his own certain knowledge nobody was ill in the -village,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_069" id="page_069"></a>{69}</span> I interposed, and we made a compromise—the Rector left us and -his sister stayed. Miss Reredos was profoundly pleased with the -arrangement. Perhaps her dear Clement did not confide to her his private -reasons for so hasty a return, and I am not sure that she was not quite -as well satisfied with his absence, which might have possibly spoiled -her own particular sport—or interfered with it at least. So he went -away with a certain impetus and haste upon him—his romance come to an -effectual end, and his sensations somewhat bitter. He was not -lackadaisical, but savage, as men are under their mortifications when -they are no longer in their first youth. I daresay, if one could have -read his thoughts, there were ferocious denunciations there against the -women who beguile a man to commit himself so fatally, which would have -been very unjust to poor Alice. I am afraid it is very cold-hearted of -me to speak so lightly of a serious disappointment, which this certainly -was to Mr. Reredos. I have no doubt he was really unhappy; but I thought -it a good symptom that the unhappiness took a savage turn.</p> - -<p>Miss Reredos left behind, pursued, as I have said, her own sport. She -was prettier than I thought her at first—she had a little of that -teasing wit which clever young ladies exercise<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_070" id="page_070"></a>{70}</span> upon attractive young -men, and she had a strong sentimental reserve, much more in keeping with -her pale complexion and black ringlets than the lighter mood. A couple -of days had not passed over us before we all perceived that the poor -lame boy, Johnnie Harley, was hopelessly taken in her toils. Just at -first nobody had paid particular attention to the intercourse between -these two. It was very kind of Miss Reredos to talk to the unfortunate -young man, and interest herself about his pictures, and listen to his -dreams; and so wonderful a prominence has one’s actual self to one’s own -eyes, however unselfish, that I believe Alice was quite of opinion that -Miss Reredos, expecting to be connected with the family by-and-by, was -paying all these friendly attentions to Johnnie by way of conciliating -herself. Nothing could be further from the intentions of the Rector’s -sister. She was strongly of opinion that each man for himself was the -most satisfactory rule, and being possessed of that spirit of conquest -which some women have by nature, commenced her operations from the -moment of entering the house. I do not think she could help it, poor -girl—it was natural to her. There were in Hilfont only two persons -accessible to her charms—Maurice, in every way an eligible victim, and -poor cripple Johnnie, to whom, one<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_071" id="page_071"></a>{71}</span> could have supposed, not even a -coquettish girl at a loss for a prey, would have had the heart to offer -her sweet poison. But the heart, I fear, has little to do with such -concerns, and almost before the suspicions of the other women of the -party, from myself downward, were awakened, the mischief was done. Miss -Reredos, we had no difficulty in perceiving, had set her heart upon the -subjugation of Maurice, whether for any personal reason, or for sport, -or as a means of retaliation, it was difficult to tell; and really I was -not in the least concerned about the peace of mind of the Fellow of -Exeter. But Johnnie! we all rose up together to his defence, with secret -vows of self-devotion. All the women of us guarded him about, shielding -his little table and his stereoscope from the approach of the -enemy—even Di, tall, timid, and twelve years old, stood by the lad with -a natural instinct. But we were too late. He answered Miss Polly, I -fear, rather sharply, turned his back upon myself, and gave Mrs. Clara a -brotherly push away from him. He wanted none of us—he wanted only the -Siren who was charming the poor boy among such rocks and quicksands as -his frail boat had never yet ventured upon. When Miss Reredos addressed -herself to Maurice, his unfortunate brother turned savage looks upon -that all-accomplished<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_072" id="page_072"></a>{72}</span> young man. In our first indignation we were all -rather cold to Miss Reredos, and Johnnie, quick-sighted as his -infirmities helped to make him, perceived it in a moment, and resented -the neglect, which of course he attributed to our envy of her -perfections. Then we tried artifice instead, and Clara, sister of the -victim, got up a very warm sudden regard for the enchantress, whose -opinion she sought upon everything; but this Miss Reredos speedily -discovered, exposed, and exulted in; there was no help for it—the -damage which was done, was done, and could not be repaired.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile the flirtation with Maurice did not advance so -satisfactorily—he was so much accustomed to admire himself, that the -habit of admiring another came slowly to him; and then, as Miss Reredos -took the initiative, and did not spare to be cleverly rude to the young -man, he, taking advantage of his privileges, was cleverly rude to her in -reply, from which fashionable mode of beginning, they advanced by -degrees to closer friendship, or, at least, familiarity of address. -Alice looked on at all this with the most solemn disapproval—it was -amusing to see the dead gravity of her glances towards them, the tacit -displeasure, and shame, and resentment on account of “her sex!” Poor -Alice took the responsibility<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_073" id="page_073"></a>{73}</span> on her own shoulders; she watched the -levity of the other girl, who did not resemble herself in a single -particular, with a solemn sense of being involved in it, which struck me -as the oddest comicality I had seen. Could anybody suppose Maurice -Harley concerned about another man’s shortcomings, only because the -culprit was a man, and one of his own <i>sex</i>? If it had not been so -entirely true and sincere, it would have been absurd—this championship -of Alice; only women ever dream of such an <i>esprit de corps</i>—but she -maintained it with such absolute good faith and solemn gravity, that -while one laughed one loved her the better. There she sat, severe in her -youthful virtue, gravely believing herself old, and past the period of -youth, but in her heart as high-flying, as obstinate, as heroical as if -she were seventeen. Mrs. Clara knew nothing of that romance; perhaps -there are delicate touches of feminine character, which only show -themselves to perfection in the “unmarried woman”—the woman who has -come to maturity without having the closer claims of husband and -children to charm her out of her thoughts and theories—though it is -only in a very gracious subject that such an example as Alice Harley -could be produced.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_074" id="page_074"></a>{74}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX.</h2> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Well</span>, really!” said little Mrs. Sedgwick, bridling with offended -virtue, “I don’t think I am very hard upon a little innocent -flirting—sometimes, you know, there’s no harm in it—and young people -will amuse themselves; but <i>really</i>, Mrs. Crofton, <i>that</i> Miss Reredos -is quite ridiculous. I do wonder for my part how men can be so taken -in!—and our Maurice who is so clever!—and she is not even pretty—if -she had been pretty one could have understood.”</p> - -<p>“My dear Clara,” said I, “perhaps it is not very complimentary to your -brother, but I do think the most sensible thing Maurice could do would -be to fall in love. I don’t say of course with Miss Reredos; but then, -you see, we can’t choose the person. If he fell desperately in love and -made a fool of himself, I am sure I should not think any worse of him, -and it would do him no harm.”</p> - -<p>Both the sisters drew up their shoulders a little, and communicated -between each other a telegraphic<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_075" id="page_075"></a>{75}</span> glance of displeasure. Between -themselves they could be hard enough upon Maurice, but, after the use of -kinsfolk, could not bear the touch of a stranger.</p> - -<p>“Really, I cannot say I should be very grateful to Maurice for such a -sister-in-law,” said Clara, with a toss of her head.</p> - -<p>“I don’t think there is very much to fear,” said Miss Polly. “Do you -know what little Derwie told me yesterday? He said a poor woman in the -village had three or four children ill with the hooping-cough—at least -so I understood the child from the sound he made to show me what it was. -Now, I really think if I were you, Clare, I would not let that child -wander so much about the village. Neither Di nor Emmy has ever had -hooping-cough, and I shall be almost frightened to let them go out of -doors.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I assure you it’s nothing, Miss Polly!” cried Clara—“mine had it -two years ago—even the baby—and took their walks just the same in all -weathers; and they must have it one time or other, you know—and such -great girls as your two nieces! Our children all got over it perfectly -well. Though Hugh says I am ridiculously timid, I never was the least -afraid. Their chests were rubbed every night, and they had something -which Hugh said it was polite to call<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_076" id="page_076"></a>{76}</span> medicine. Oh, I assure you -there’s nothing to be at all afraid of! especially at this time of the -year.”</p> - -<p>“I daresay that’s very true, my dear,” said Miss Polly, who took little -Clara’s nursery instructions and assurances in very good part, “but it -isn’t always so. There’s my poor little nephew, little Willoughby—dear, -dear! to think what a strong man his father is, and how delicate that -poor child looks! I can’t help thinking sometimes it must be his -mother’s fault; though to be sure they have the best of nurses, and Lady -Greenfield can’t be expected to make a slave of herself; that poor dear -little soul was very ill with the hooping-cough. Clara—all children are -not so fortunate as your pretty darlings; and that reminds me, Clare, -that you have never seen Elinor’s letter yet; she mentions her nephew in -it, as I think I told you; so, though it’s almost all about Emmy, my -dear children’s mother, if you’ll wait a minute I’ll just bring it -down.”</p> - -<p>Saying which Miss Polly left the room. Alice sat rather stiffly at her -work and looked very busy—so very busy that I was suspicious of some -small gleam of interest on her part touching the contents of Lady -Greenfield’s letter.</p> - -<p>“Miss Polly does not love Lady Greenfield too<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_077" id="page_077"></a>{77}</span> much,” said Clara, -laughing; “but,” she added, with a little flush of angry anticipation, -“it’s nothing to laugh at after all. Suppose Maurice were to marry Miss -Reredos! Oh, Mrs. Crofton, isn’t it shocking of you to put such dreadful -thoughts in one’s head! Fancy, Alice! and to settle down hereabout—to -be near us!—I am sure I could never be civil to her: and what do you -suppose mamma would say?”</p> - -<p>“Maurice has nothing but his fellowship,” said Alice.</p> - -<p>“Well, to be sure, that is some comfort,” said Clara; “but then I -daresay he might get a living if he tried, and Hugh could even”——</p> - -<p>Here Miss Polly came in with her letter, so we did not hear at that -moment what could be done by Hugh, who, in the eyes of his little wife, -was happily a person all-powerful.</p> - -<p>“My dear,” said Miss Polly, laying down the letter in her lap, and -making a little preliminary lecture in explanation, “you remember that -Emmy, my niece, two years ago, married again. Well, you know, one -couldn’t well blame her. She was only one and twenty, poor little soul, -when she was left with these two children; and I was but too glad to -keep the little girls with me, so she was quite what people call without -encumbrance, you see. So she married that curate<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_078" id="page_078"></a>{78}</span> whom she had met at -Fenosier. Well, it’s no use disguising it—Lady Greenfield and I are -perhaps not such great friends as we ought to be, and Emmy has a temper -of her own, and is just the weak-minded sort of little soul that will -worry herself to death over those slights and annoyances that good near -neighbors can do to each other—she ought to know better, after all -she’s gone through. So here’s a letter from Elinor, telling me, of -course, she’s as innocent as the day, and knows nothing about it—and so -sorry for poor dear little Emmy—and so good and sweet-tempered herself, -that really, if I were as near to her as Emmy is, I do believe I should -do her a mischief. There’s the letter, Clare; you can read that part -about Bertie out aloud if you please—perhaps the girls might like to -hear it.”</p> - -<p>With which, shaking off a little heat of exasperation which had gathered -about her, Miss Polly resumed her usual work and placidity. I confess it -was not without a smile I read Lady Greenfield’s letter. I fortunately -was under no temptations of the kind myself. If I had been, I daresay, I -should have turned out exactly like my neighbors; but the spectators of -a domestic squabble or successful piece of neighborly oppression and -tyranny always see the ludicrous<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_079" id="page_079"></a>{79}</span> side of it, and I could understand my -lady’s mild malice and certainty of not being to blame, so well. It -appeared that the poor little Emmy, completely overpowered by Lady -Greenfield’s neighborly attentions, had in her turn worried her curate, -and that the result of their united efforts was the withdrawal of the -young clergyman, who did not feel himself able to cope with my lady at -the Hall and his own exasperated little wife in the cottage, which -unlooked-for result Lady Greenfield took the earliest opportunity of -communicating to her dear Polly, with condolences over Emmy’s want of -spirit and weak propensity, poor child!—to see neglect and slight where -nothing of the kind was meant. I was so long getting over this, that, -having heard from him recently myself, I did not make the haste I might -have done to read what Lady Greenfield had to say about Bertie. I was -reminded of this by seeing suddenly over the top of the letter a slight, -quick movement made by Alice. It was only the most common change of -position—nothing could be more natural; but there was a certain -indescribable something of impatience and suspense in it which I -comprehended by a sudden instinct. I stumbled immediately down to the -paragraph about Bertie:</p> - -<p>“Pray tell Clare Crofton,” wrote Lady Greenfield,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_080" id="page_080"></a>{80}</span> “in case she should -not have heard from Bertie lately—which is very likely, for young men I -know don’t always keep up their correspondences as they ought, -especially with elderly female relations, like dear Clare and -myself—that I had a letter from my nephew by the last mail. He has not -done yet lamenting that he could not get home and go to the Crimea, but -says his old brigadier is suspicious of the Native army, and prophesies -that there will be some commotion among them, which Bertie thinks will -be great fun, and that a thorough cutting down would do these pampered -fellows all the good in the world: so he says, you know, as boys will -talk—but the Company’s officers laugh at the idea. If all keeps quiet, -Bertie says he is rather sick of India—he thinks he will come back and -see his friends: he thinks perhaps his dear cousin Clare has somebody in -her pocket whom she means him to marry. To be sure, after giving him -Estcourt, it would be only right that she should have a vote in the -choice of his wife. Such a great matter, you know, for a boy like -Bertie, his father’s fourth son, to come into a pretty little property -like Estcourt—and so good of dear Clare!—pray tell her, with my love.”</p> - -<p>Not having taken the precaution to glance<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_081" id="page_081"></a>{81}</span> over this, as I ought to have -done from my previous acquaintance with “dear” Elinor, I had stumbled -into the middle of that statement about the somebody whom cousin Clare -had in her pocket before I was aware; and after an awkward pause, felt -constrained to proceed. I thought the malice of the epistle altogether -would defeat itself, and went on accordingly to the end of the sentence. -Then I folded up the letter and gave it to Miss Polly.</p> - -<p>“I wonder does Lady Greenfield mean to make me so thoroughly -uncomfortable when Bertie comes home that I shall not let him come here -at all,” said I; “or to terrify me out of the possibility of introducing -him to anybody, lest I should be said to be influencing his choice? But -indeed she need not take the trouble. I know Bertie, and Bertie knows me -much too well for the success of any such attempt. I will not have my -liberty infringed upon, I assure you, Miss Polly, not by half a dozen -Lady Greenfields.”</p> - -<p>“My dear, you don’t suppose me an accessory?” said Miss Polly, with a -little spirit. “Did any one ever see such a wanton mischief-maker? I -think she takes quite a delight in setting people by the ears. If Bertie -ever did say such a thing, Clare,” said Miss Polly, with a little -vehemence, “about somebody in your pocket, you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_082" id="page_082"></a>{82}</span> know, I could swear it -was Elinor, and nobody else, who put it into his head.”</p> - -<p>By the merest inadvertence I am sure, certainly not by any evil -intention, Miss Polly, as she delivered these words, allowed her mild -old glances to stray towards Alice. I at the same moment chanced to give -a furtive look in the same direction. Of course, just at the instant of -danger, Alice, who had been immovable hitherto, suddenly looked up and -detected us both. I do not know what meanings of which they were -innocent her sensitive pride discovered in our eyes, but she sprang up -with an impatience and mortification quite irrestrainable, her very neck -growing crimson as she turned her head out of my sight. I understood -well enough that burning blush of shame, and indignation, and wounded -pride; it was not the blush of a love-sick girl, and my heart quaked -when it occurred to me that Lady Greenfield might possibly have done a -more subtle act of mischief by her letter than even she intended. Whom -was I so likely to have in my pocket as Alice Harley? Indeed, was not -she aware by intuition of some such secret desire in my mind? And -suppose Bertie were coming home with tender thoughts towards the friend -of his boyhood, and perhaps a little tender pleasant wonder, full of -suggestions, why<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_083" id="page_083"></a>{83}</span> Alice Harley, and she alone, out of her immediate -companions, should remain unmarried—what good would that laudable, and -much-to-be-desired frame of mind do to the poor boy now? If he came to -Hilfont this very night, the most passionate lover, did not I know that -Alice would reject him much more vehemently than she had rejected the -Rector—scornfully, because conscious of the secret inclination towards -him, which, alas! lay treacherous at the bottom of her heart? Oh, Lady -Greenfield! Oh, dearest of “dear” Elinors! if you had anywhere two most -sincere well-wishers, they were surely Miss Polly and myself!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_084" id="page_084"></a>{84}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X.</h2> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Why</span> will not you come with us to London, Alice?” said I. “Mr. Crofton -wishes it almost as much as I do. Such a change would do you good, and I -do not need to tell you how pleasant it would be to me. Mrs. Harley and -the young people at home can spare you. Kate, you know, is quite old -enough to help your mother. Why are you so obstinate? You have not been -in town in the season since the year after Clara’s marriage.”</p> - -<p>“I went up to see the pictures last year,” said Alice demurely.</p> - -<p>“Oh pray, Alice, don’t be so dreadfully proper!” cried Clara; “that’s -what she’s coming to, Mrs. Crofton. The second week in May—to see all -the exhibitions and hear an Oratorio in Exeter Hall—and make ‘mems.’ in -her diary when she has got through them, like those frightful people who -have their lives written! Oh dear, dear! to think our Alice should have -stiffened into such a shocking old maid!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_085" id="page_085"></a>{85}</span></p> - -<p>“Well, Clara, dear, I am very glad you find your own lot so pleasant -that you would like to see everybody the same as yourself,” said Alice, -sententiously, and with no small amount of mild superiority; “for my -part I think the <i>rôle</i> of old maid is quite satisfactory, especially -when one has so many nephews and nieces—and why should I go to London, -Mrs. Crofton? It is all very well for Clara—Clara is in circumstances, -of course, that make it convenient and natural—but as for me, who have -nothing at all to do with your grand life, why should I go and vex -myself with my own? Perhaps I might not have strength of mind to return -comfortably to the cottage, and look after the butcher’s bills, and see -that there were no cobwebs in the corners—and though I am of very -little importance elsewhere,” said Alice, coloring a little, and with -some unnecessary fervor, “I am of consequence at home.”</p> - -<p>“But then, you see,” said I, “Mrs. Harley has four daughters—and I have -not one.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! by-and-by,” said Alice, with a smile and a sigh, “Mrs. Harley will -only have one daughter. Kate and little Mary will marry just as Clara -has done. I shall be left alone with mamma and Johnnie; that is why I -don’t want to do anything which shall disgust me with my quiet life—at -least that is one reason,” added Alice, with a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_086" id="page_086"></a>{86}</span> slight blush. “No, -no—what would become of the world if we were all exactly alike—what a -hum-drum, dull prospect it would be if everybody were just as happy, and -as gay, and as much in the sun as everybody else. You don’t think, -Clara, how much the gray tints of our household that is to be—mamma -old, Johnnie, poor fellow, so often in trouble, and myself a stout -housekeeper, will add to the picturesqueness of the landscape—much more -than if our house were as gay as your own.”</p> - -<p>“Why, Alice, you are quite a painter!” cried I, in a little surprise.</p> - -<p>“No, indeed—I wish I were,” said Alice. “I wonder why it is that some -people can <i>do</i> things, and some people, with all the will in the world, -can only admire them when they’re done, and think—surely it’s my own -fault—surely if I had tried I could have done as well! I suppose it’s -one of the common troubles of women. I am sure I have looked at a -picture, or read a book many a time, with the feeling that all that was -in my heart if I could only have got it out. You smile, Mrs. -Crofton—perhaps it’s very absurd—I daresay a woman ought to be very -thankful when she can understand books, and has enough to live on -without needing to work,” added this feminine misanthrope<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_087" id="page_087"></a>{87}</span> with a -certain pang of natural spite and malice in her voice.</p> - -<p>Spite and malice! I venture to use such ugly words, because it was my -dear Alice, the purest, tenderest, and most lovable of women, who spoke.</p> - -<p>“There are a great many people in this world who think it a great -happiness to have enough to live on,” said I, besides women. “I don’t -know if Maurice has your ambition, Alice—but, at least he’s a man, and -has no special disadvantages; yet, begging your pardons, young ladies, I -think Alice is good for something more than <i>he</i> is, as the world -stands.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, but then Maurice, you know, Mrs. Crofton—Maurice has doubts,” said -Clara, with a slight pique at my boldness. “Poor Maurice! he says he -must follow out his inquiries wherever they lead him, and however sad -the issue may be. It is very dreadful—he may not be able to believe in -anything before he is done—but then, he must not trifle with his -conscience. And with such very serious things to trouble him, it is too -bad he should be misunderstood.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t, Clara! hush!” whispered Alice, looking a little ashamed of this -argument.</p> - -<p>“But why should I hush? Hugh says just the same as Mrs. Crofton—it’s -very provoking—but these active people do not take into consideration<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_088" id="page_088"></a>{88}</span> -the troubles of a thoughtful mind, Maurice says.”</p> - -<p>“That is very likely,” said I, with a little complacency—“but remember -this is all a digression—Alice, will you come to London or will you -not?”</p> - -<p>Alice got up and made me a very pretty curtsey. “No, please, Mrs. -Crofton, I will not,” said that very unmanageable young lady. She looked -so provokingly pretty, piquant, and attractive at the moment that I -longed to punish her. And Bertie was coming home! and her mind was -irretrievably prejudiced against him; it was almost too much for human -patience—but to be sure, when a woman is seven-and-twenty, she has some -sort of right to know her own mind.</p> - -<p>At that moment little Clary Sedgwick, all in a flutter of pink ribbons, -came rustling into the room, her very brief little skirt inflated with -crinoline, and rustling half as much as her mamma’s—a miniature fine -lady, with perfect little gloves, a miraculous little hat, and ineffable -embroideries all over her; but with a child’s face so sweet, and a -little princess’s air so enchanting, that one could no more find fault -with her splendor than one could find fault with the still more -exquisite decorations of a bird or a flower. Clary came to tell her -mamma that the carriage was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_089" id="page_089"></a>{89}</span> at the door, and little Mrs. Sedgwick swept -off immediately, followed by Alice, to get ready for her drive. They -were going to call upon somebody near. Clary remained with me till they -came back, and Derwie was not long of finding out his playfellow. Derwie -(my boy was a vulgar-minded boy, with a strong preference for things -over thoughts, as I have before said) stood speechless, lost in -admiration of Clary’s grandeur. Then he cast a certain glance of -half-comical comparison upon his own coat, worn into unspeakable -shabbiness by three weeks of holidays, and upon his brown little hands, -garnished with cuts and scratches, and I am grieved to say not even so -clean as they might have been. When he had a little recovered his first -amazement, Derwie turned her round and round with the tips of his -fingers. Clary was by no means unwilling; she exhibited her Easter -splendor with all the grace of a little belle.</p> - -<p>“Mamma, isn’t she grand?” said Derwie—“isn’t she pretty? I never saw -her look so pretty before.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Derwie, for shame!” said Clary, holding down her head with a pretty -little affectation of confusion wonderful to behold.</p> - -<p>“For shame?—Why?—For you know you are pretty,” said my straightforward -son, “whether<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_090" id="page_090"></a>{90}</span> you are dressed grand or not. Mamma, did you ever see her -like this before?—I never did. I should just like to have a great big -glass case and put you in, Clary, so that you might always look just as -you look now.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Derwie!” cried Clary, again, but this time with unaffected horror, -“I’d starve if you put me in there!”</p> - -<p>“No, because I’d bring you something every day,” said Derwie—“all my -own pudding, and every cake I got, and the poor women in the village -would be so pleased to come and look at you, Clary. Tell me what’s the -name of this thing; I’ll tell Susan Stubbs, the dressmaker, all about -you. They like to see ladies in grand dresses, all the cottage people; -so do I; but I like to see you best of all. Here, Clary, Clary! don’t go -away! Look at her pink little gloves, mamma!—and I say, Clary, haven’t -you got a parasol?”</p> - -<p>“You silly boy! what do you suppose I want with a parasol when I’m going -to drive with mamma?” cried Clary, with that indescribable little toss -of her head.</p> - -<p>At that interesting moment the mamma, of whom this delightful little -beauty was a reproduction, made her appearance, buttoning pink gloves -like Clary’s, and rustling in her rosy,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_091" id="page_091"></a>{91}</span> shining, silken draperies, like -a perfect rose, all dewy and fragrant, not even quite full-blown yet, in -spite of the bud by her side. Alice came after her, a little demure, in -her brown silk gown, very affectionate, and just a little patronizing to -the pretty mother and daughter—on the whole rather superior to these -lovely fooleries of theirs, on her eminence of unmarried woman. My -pretty Alice! Her gravity, notwithstanding she was quite as much a child -as either of them, was wonderfully amusing, though she did not know it. -They went down-stairs with their pleasant feminine rustle, charming the -echoes with their pleasant voices. My boy Derwie, entirely captivated by -Mrs. Sedgwick’s sudden appearance on the scene—an enlarged edition of -Clary—followed them to the door, vainly attempting to lay up some -memoranda in his boyish mind for the benefit of Susan Stubbs. Pleased -with them all, I turned to the window to see them drive away, when, lo! -there suddenly emerged out of the curtains the dark and agitated face of -Johnnie Harley. Had we said anything in our late conversation to wound -the sensitive mind of the cripple? He had been there all the time.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_092" id="page_092"></a>{92}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI.</h2> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Johnnie</span>, is there anything the matter. Why have you been sitting -there?” cried I.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, there’s nothing the matter,” said Johnnie, in such a tone as a -wild beast making a snap at one might have used if it had possessed the -faculty of words. “I was there because I happened to be there before you -came into the room, Mrs. Crofton; I beg your pardon! I don’t mean to be -rude.”</p> - -<p>“I think it is quite necessary you should say as much,” said I. “Your -sisters and I have been talking here for some time, quite unaware of -your presence. That is not becoming. No one ought to do such things, -especially a young man of right feeling like yourself.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you think I have right feelings,” cried Johnnie, bitterly, “you -think I am man enough to know what honor means? That is something, at -least. I have been well brought up, haven’t I? Mrs. Crofton,” continued -the unfortunate youth, “you were rather hard upon Maurice<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_093" id="page_093"></a>{93}</span> just now—I -heard you, and he deserves it. If I were like Maurice, I should be -ashamed to be as useless as he is. I’m not so useless now, in spite of -everything; but you’ll be frank with me—why does Alice speak of keeping -house with my mother and <i>Johnnie</i>? Why, when Kate, and even little -Mary, are supposed to have homes of their own, and Maurice, of course, -to be provided for—why is there to be a special establishment, all -neutral colored and in the shade, for my mother, and Alice, and <i>me</i>?”</p> - -<p>I sat gazing at the poor youth in the most profound confusion and -amazement. What could I say to him? How, if he did not perceive it -himself, could I explain the naturalness of poor Alice’s anticipations? -I had not a word to say; his question took me entirely by surprise, and -struck me dumb—it was unanswerable.</p> - -<p>“You do not say anything,” said Johnnie, vehemently. “Why does Alice -suppose <i>she</i> will have to take care of me all my life through? Why -should I go to contribute that alternative of shade which makes the -landscape picturesque?—picturesque!” exclaimed poor Johnnie, breathing -out the words upon a long breath of wrath and indignation; “is that all -I am good for? Do you suppose God has made me in a man’s form, with a -man’s heart, only to add a subtle<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_094" id="page_094"></a>{94}</span> charm to another man’s happiness by -the contrast of my misery? I believe in no such thing, Mrs. Crofton. Is -that what Alice means?”</p> - -<p>“I believe in no such thing either,” said I, relieved to be able to say -something; “and you forget, Johnnie, that the same life which Alice -assigned to you she chose for herself. She thought, I suppose, because -your health is not strong, that you would choose to live at home—she -thought”——</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Crofton,” said Johnnie, “why don’t you say it out? she -thought—but why say thought—she <i>knew</i> I was a cripple, and debarred -from the joyous life of man; she thought that to such as me no heavenly -help could come; it did not occur to her that perhaps there might be an -angel in the spheres who would love me, succor me, give me a place among -the happy—yes, even me! You think I speak like a fool,” continued the -young man, the flush of his excitement brightening all his face, and the -natural superlatives of youth, all the warmer and stronger for the -physical infirmities which seemed to shut him out from their legitimate -use, pouring to his lips, “and so I should have been, but for the divine -chance that brought me here. Ah, Mrs. Crofton, you did not know what an -Easter of the soul you were asking me to! I came only<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_095" id="page_095"></a>{95}</span> a boy, scarcely -aware of the dreary colors in which life lay before me. Now I can look -at these dreary colors only by way of Alice’s contrast—to make the -reality more glorious—for I too shall have the home and the life of a -man!”</p> - -<p>He stopped, not because his words were exhausted, but because breath -failed him—he stood before me, raising himself erect out of his -habitual stoop of weakness, strengthened by the inspiring force of the -great delusion, which gave color to his face and nerve to his hand. -Looking at him so, his words did not seem such sad, bitter, -heart-breaking folly as they were. Poor boy! poor Johnnie! how would he -fall prostrate upon the cold, unconsolatory earth, when this spell was -broken! I could have cried over him, as he stood there defying me; he -had drunk that cup of Circe—but he did not know in his momentary -intoxication that it was poison to him.</p> - -<p>“My dear Johnnie,” said I, “I am very glad of anything that makes you -happy—but there is surely no occasion to speak so strongly. Alice, I -must remind you again, chose exactly the same life for herself that she -supposed for you”——</p> - -<p>“Alice has had her youth and her choice,” said Johnnie, with a calmer -tone, and sinking,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_096" id="page_096"></a>{96}</span> his first excitement over, into a chair; “but she -does not think Maurice is likely to share that gray life of -hers—Maurice, who, as you say yourself, is of no use in the world—nor -Harry, whom they have all forgotten now he is in Australia, nor the -children at home; only mamma when she is old, and <i>Johnnie</i>—well, it is -of no use speaking. A man’s business is not to speak, but to work.”</p> - -<p>“That is very true, certainly,” said I: “but tell me, will you—if it is -not wrong to ask—what has made this great change in your ideas, all at -once?”</p> - -<p>“Ah, Mrs. Crofton, don’t you know?” cried Johnnie, blushing, a soft -overpowering youthful blush, which would have done no discredit to Clara -herself; and the poor, foolish boy looked at me with an appealing -triumphant look, as if he at once entreated me to say, and defied me to -deny that <i>she</i> was altogether an angel, and he the very happiest of -boys or men.</p> - -<p>“My dear boy,” said I, “don’t be angry with me. I’ve known you all your -life, Johnnie. I don’t mean to say a word against Miss Reredos—but tell -me, has there been any explanation between her and you?”</p> - -<p>He hesitated a moment, blushing still.</p> - -<p>“No,” he said, after a pause; “no—I have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_097" id="page_097"></a>{97}</span> not been able to arrange my -thoughts at all yet. I have thought of nothing but—but herself—and -this unimaginable hope of happiness—and I am a man of honor, Mrs. -Crofton. I will not speak to her till I know whether I have anything but -love to offer—not because I am so base as to suppose that money could -recommend a man to <i>her</i>, or so foolish as to think that I will ever -have anything beyond <i>income</i>; but when I do speak, you understand, Mrs. -Crofton, it is not for vague love-making, but to ask her to be my wife.”</p> - -<p>He looked at me with his sudden air of manhood and independence, again -somewhat defiant. Heaven help the poor boy! I heard myself groaning -aloud in the extremity of my bewilderment and confusion; poor Johnnie, -with his superb self-assumption!—he, a fortnight ago, the cheerfulest -of boy invalids, the kindest of widow’s sons!—and she, five years older -than he, at the lowest reckoning, an experienced young lady, with dreams -of settlements and trousseaux occupying her mature mind! Alack, alack! -what was to come of it? I sat silent, almost gaping with wonderment at -the boy. At last I caught at the idea of asking him what his prospects -or intentions were—though without an idea that he had any prospects, or -knew in the least what he was talking about.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_098" id="page_098"></a>{98}</span></p> - -<p>“You spoke of income, Johnnie—may I ask what you were thinking of?”</p> - -<p>Johnnie blushed once more, though after a different fashion; he grew -confidential and eager—like himself.</p> - -<p>“I have told no one else,” he said, “but I will tell you, Mrs. Crofton, -not only because you are our oldest friend, but because I have just told -you something so much more important. I—I have written -something—nobody knows!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you poor boy!” cried I, quite thankful to be able on less delicate -ground to make an outcry over him; “don’t you think half the people in -the country have written something?—and are you to make an income by -that?”</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon,” said Johnnie, with dignity, “but it’s <i>accepted</i>, -Mrs. Crofton—that makes all the difference. Half the country don’t have -letters from the booksellers saying that it’s very good and they’ll -publish it on the usual terms. I could show you the letter,” added my -young author, blushing once more, and putting his hand to his -breast-pocket—“I have it here.”</p> - -<p>And there it was, accordingly, to my intense wonderment—and Johnnie’s -hopes had, however small, an actual foundation. On the book about<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_099" id="page_099"></a>{99}</span> to be -published on “the usual terms” the poor boy had built up his castle. -Here he was to bring Miss Reredos to a fairy bower of love and -literature—which, alas! I doubted would be very little to that young -lady’s taste; but I dared not tell Johnnie so—poor, dreaming, foolish -cripple-boy! Nothing afterwards, perhaps, would taste so sweet as that -delusion, and though the natural idea that “it would be kindness to -undeceive him” of course moved me strongly, I had not the boldness to -try, knowing very well that it would do no good. He must undeceive -himself, that was evident. Thank Heaven he was so young! When his eyes -were opened he would be the bitterest and most miserable of misanthropes -for a few months, and then, it was to be hoped, things would mend. I saw -no other ending to Johnnie’s romance. But he went hobbling away from me -with his stick and his stoop, as full of his momentary fallacious -happiness, as if he had been the handsome young prince of the fairy -tale, whom the love of Miss Reredos would charm back to his proper -comeliness. Alas, poor Johnnie! If his Laura could have wrought that -miracle I fear the spell was still impossible, for lack of the -love—miraculous magic! the only talisman which even in a fairy tale can -charm the lost beauty back.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100"></a>{100}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII.</h2> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Now</span>, if I had the luck to hold a confidential talk with Maurice, I -should have gone round the entire Harley family,” said I to myself the -next morning, “and be in the secret of sundry imaginations which have -not seen the light of day—but Maurice, fortunately, is not likely to -make me nor any one else his <i>confidante</i>. I wonder if there is anything -at all concerning him which it would be worth one’s while to be curious -about?”</p> - -<p>The question was solved sooner than I thought. When everybody had left -our pleasant breakfast-room but myself, and I, with my little basket of -keys in my hand, was preparing to follow, Maurice, who had been -lingering by the great window, startled me by asking for a few minutes’ -conversation, “if I was quite at leisure.” I put down my basket with the -utmost promptitude. Curiosity, if not courtesy, made me perfectly at -leisure to hear anything he might have to say.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101"></a>{101}</span></p> - -<p>“I have undertaken a very foolish office,” said Maurice—“I have had the -supreme conceit and presumption of supposing that I could perhaps plead -with you, Mrs. Crofton, the cause of a friend.”</p> - -<p>“I trust I shall feel sufficiently flattered,” said I, assuming the same -tone. “And pray who is the friend who has the advantage of your support, -Maurice? and what does he want of me?”</p> - -<p>The young man colored and looked affronted—he was highly sensitive to -ridicule, like all self-regarding men.</p> - -<p>“Nay, pray don’t convince me so distinctly of my folly before I start,” -he said; “the friend is a college friend of mine, who was so absurd as -to marry before he had anything to live on; a very good fellow with—oh! -don’t be afraid—perfectly sound views, I assure you, Mrs. Crofton, -though he is acquainted with me.”</p> - -<p>“I should think being acquainted with you very likely to help a sensible -man to sound views,” said I, with some natural spite, thankful for the -opportunity of sending a private arrow into him in passing; “and what -does your friend want that I can help him in?”</p> - -<p>“The Rector of Estcourt is an old man, and very ill,” said Maurice, -after a pause of offence;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102"></a>{102}</span> “Owen, my friend, has a curacy in -Simonborough. I told him I should venture—though of course aware I had -not the slightest title to influence you—to name him to Mrs. Crofton, -in case of anything happening.”</p> - -<p>“Aware that you have not the slightest title to influence me—that -means, does it not, Maurice?” said I, “that you rather think you have -some claim upon that Rectory at Estcourt, and that you magnanimously -resign it in favor of your friend? It was your father’s—it is your -mother’s desire to see you in his place—you have thought of it vaguely -all your life as a kind of inheritance, which you were at liberty to -accept or withdraw from; now, to be sure, we are very, very old -friends—is not that plainly, and without any superfluity of words, what -you mean?”</p> - -<p>Maurice made a still longer pause—he was seized with the restlessness -common to men when they are rather hard tested in conversation. He got -up unawares, picked up a book off the nearest table, as if he meant to -answer me by means of that, and then returned to his chair. Then, after -a little further struggle, he laughed, growing very red at the same -time.</p> - -<p>“You put the case strongly, but I will not say you are wrong,” he -answered; “after all, I believe, if it must be put into words, that is -about<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103"></a>{103}</span> how the thing stands; but, of course, you know I am perfectly -aware”——</p> - -<p>“Exactly,” said I; “we both understand it, and it is not necessary to -enter further into that part of the subject; but now, tell me, Maurice, -supposing your rights of natural succession to be perfectly -acknowledged, why is it that you substitute another person, and postpone -your own settlement to his?”</p> - -<p>“My dear Mrs. Crofton,” cried Maurice, restored to himself by the -question, “what would not I give to be able to accept as mine that calm, -religious life?—what would not I relinquish for a faith as entire and -simple as my friend Owen’s? But that is my misfortune. I suppose my mind -is not so wholesomely constituted as other people’s. I cannot believe so -and so, just because I am told to believe it—I cannot shape my creed -according to the received pattern. If I could, I should be but too -happy; but <i>que voulez-vous</i>? a man cannot act against his -convictions—against his nature.”</p> - -<p>“Nay, I assure you I am a very calm spectator,” said I; “I would not -have either one thing or another. I have not the least doubt that you -will know better some day, and why should I concern myself about the -matter?”</p> - -<p>“Why, indeed?” echoed Maurice, faintly; but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104"></a>{104}</span> he was mortified; he -expected a little honor, at the very least, as his natural due, if not a -womanish attempt at proselytizing. The discomfiture of my adversary was -balm to my eyes—I was, as may be perceived, in a perfectly unchristian -state of mind.</p> - -<p>“And how then about yourself?—what do you mean to do?” asked I; “you -are getting towards the age when men begin to think of setting up houses -and families for themselves. Do you mean to be a College Don all your -life, Maurice? I fear that must be rather an unsatisfactory kind of -existence; and one must take care, if that is the case, not to ask any -young ladies again to meet you—some one might happen to be too -captivating for your peace of mind—a Miss Reredos might outweigh a -fellowship;—such things have been even with men of minds as original as -your own.”</p> - -<p>“Miss Reredos! ah, she amuses herself!” said Maurice, with a conscious -smile.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I think you are very well matched,” said I, calmly; “you will not -do her much harm, nor she inflict a very deep wound on your heart, but -it might have happened differently. People as wise as yourself, when -their turn comes, are often the most foolish in these concerns.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, you forget that I am past youth,” said<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105"></a>{105}</span> Maurice; “you, Mrs. -Crofton, have made a private agreement, I suppose, with the old enemy, -but I have no such privilege—I have done with that sort of thing long -ago. However, about Owen, if I may remind you, is there anything to -say?”</p> - -<p>“Somebody asked me for the living of Estcourt when your father lay -dying; I was younger then, as you say—I was deeply horrified,” said I. -“We must wait.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, yes; but my father was a man in the prime of life, and this is an -old man, whom even his own family cannot expect to live long,” said -Maurice; “but, of course, if you do not like it, I have not another word -to say.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, Maurice,” said I, forgetting for a moment the personage who sat -before me, and thinking of Dr. Harley’s death-bed, and the fatherless -children there so helpless and dependent on other people’s judgment, -“your father was a good man, but he had not the heart to live after he -lost his fortune, and your mother is a good woman, but she had not the -heart to bring you up poorly and bravely in your own home. They are my -dear friends, and I dare speak of them even to you. Why did she send you -to that idle uncle of yours, to be brought up in idleness?—you big, -strong, indolent man! What is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106"></a>{106}</span> the good of you, though you are Fellow of -Exeter? You might have been of some use in the world by this time if you -had lived among your brothers and sisters, a widow’s son.”</p> - -<p>Maurice started—rose up—made a surprised exclamation of my name—and -then dropped into his chair again without saying anything. He did not -answer me a word. The offence melted out of his face, but he kept his -eyes down and did not look at me. I could not tell whether he was -angry—I had been moved by my own feelings beyond, for the moment, -thinking of his.</p> - -<p>“Ask your friend to come and see you here,” I said, after an awkward -little pause; “say, Mr. Crofton and I will be glad if he will dine with -us before you go—perhaps, to-morrow, Maurice, and that will leave him -time to get home on Saturday—and we will think about it, should the -living of Estcourt fall vacant. Forgive me,” I continued, as I rose to -go away, “I said more than I ought to have said.”</p> - -<p>He took my hand and wrung it with an emphatic pressure; what he said I -made out only with difficulty, I think it was, “No more than is true.”</p> - -<p>And I left him with somewhat uncomfortable feelings. I had not the very -least right to lecture this young man; quite the other way—for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107"></a>{107}</span> was not -I a woman and an illiterate person, and he Fellow of his College? I -confess I did not feel very self-complacent as I left the room. This -third confidential interview, in which I had over-passed the prudent -limits of friendliness, did not <i>feel</i> at all satisfactory. -Nevertheless, I was glad to see that Maurice was magnanimous—that he -was likely to forgive me—and that possibly there were elements of -better things even in his regarding indolence. All which symptoms, -though in a moral point of view highly gratifying, made me but feel the -more strongly that I had gone beyond due limits, and exceeded the margin -of truth-telling and disagreeableness which one is <i>not</i> allowed towards -one’s guests, and in one’s own house.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108"></a>{108}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> may be allowed to me to confess that I watched during the remainder -of that day with a little natural, but extremely absurd curiosity to see -“what effect” our conversation had upon Maurice Harley. After I had got -over my own unpleasant sensations, I began to flatter myself, with -natural vanity, that perhaps I might have “done him good.” I had an -inkling that it was absurd, but that made very little difference, and I -acknowledge that I felt quite a new spur and stimulus of interest in the -young man. I listened to his chance observations during the day with an -attention which I had never before bestowed upon them. For the moment, -instead of simple impatience of his indolence, and virtuous, gentlemanly -good-for-nothingness, I began to sympathize somewhat in the lamenting -admiration of his friends that so much talent should be lost to the -world. Altogether, in my capacity of hostess to Maurice, I was for that -day a reformed and penitent person, full of compunction for my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109"></a>{109}</span> offence. -I am obliged to confess, however, that there was no corresponding change -upon my guest. Maurice demeaned himself that day exactly as he had done -the day before—was as superior, and critical, and indifferent, as much -above the common uses of life and motives of humanity as he had ever -been. Still, my penitential feelings lasted out the day, and it was not -till I perceived how entirely he was laying himself out to charm and -captivate Miss Reredos and make up to her for the attentions she had -paid him, that I detected myself in the simple-minded vanity of -expecting to have “done him good.” The flirtation that evening was so -evident, and Maurice threw himself so much more warmly into it than on -any former occasion, that we, the spectators, were all roused to double -observation. Johnnie sat behind the little table in the corner, with the -stereoscope before him, blazing the wildest rage out of his half-hidden -eyes upon his brother, and sometimes quite trembling with passion. Alice -moved about with a little indignant dilation of her person and elevation -of her head—half out of regard to the honor of her “sex,” which Miss -Reredos, she supposed, was compromising, and half out of shame and -annoyance at the “infatuation” of her brother. And not quite knowing -what<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110"></a>{110}</span> this new fervor might portend, I took an opportunity as I passed -by Maurice’s chair to speak to him quietly—</p> - -<p>“Is Miss Reredos, then, to be more attractive than the fellowship?” I -said, lingering a moment as I passed.</p> - -<p>Maurice looked up at me with a certain gleam of boyish malice and temper -in his eye.</p> - -<p>“You know we are very well matched, and I cannot do <i>her</i> much harm,” he -said, quoting my own words.</p> - -<p>This was the good I had done him—this, out of a conversation which -ended so seriously, was the only seed that had remained in that fertile -and productive soil, the mind of Maurice Harley, and behold already its -fructifications. I went back to my seat, and sat down speechless. I was -inexpressibly angry and mortified for the moment. To be sure it was a -little private and personal vanity which made the special sting. Yet he -had been unquestionably moved by my candid opinion of him, in which very -little admiration was mingled with the regret—but had I not piqued -<i>his</i> vanity as well?</p> - -<p>As for Johnnie, having been taken into his confidence, I was doubly -alive to the feelings with which he watched his brother. Miss Reredos -managed admirably well between the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111"></a>{111}</span> lover real and the lover -make-believe, <i>her</i> vanity being of course in play even more decidedly -than anybody else’s. I believe she was quite deceived by the sudden -warmth of Maurice. I believe the innocent young woman fell captive in an -instant, not to his fascinations, but to the delusion of believing that -she had fascinated him, and that the name of the Fellow of Exeter was -that evening inscribed upon her long list of victims; but, -notwithstanding, she would not give up Johnnie; I suppose his youthful -adoration was something new and sweet to the experienced young lady—the -absoluteness of his trust in her and admiration of her was delicious to -the pretty coquette, with whom warier men were on their guard. Over -Johnnie she was absolute, undisputed sovereign—he was ready to defy the -whole world in her behalf, and disown every friend he had at her -bidding. Such homage, even from a cripple, was too sweet to be parted -with. Somehow, by means of those clever eyes of hers, even while at the -height of her flirtation with Maurice, she kept Johnnie in hand, -propitiated, and calmed him. I don’t know how it is done—I don’t think -Alice knew either; but I am not sure that a certain instinctive -perception of the manner of that skilful double movement did not come -natural to Clara Sedgwick, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112"></a>{112}</span> stimulate her disgust at the proceeding. -If she had not been married so early and been so happy a little wife, -Clara might have been a little flirt herself—who knows? I saw that she -had an intuition how it was done.</p> - -<p>As for Miss Polly, she could do nothing but talk about the advantages of -useful training for girls. “If these poor children should turn out -flirts, Clare!” she cried, in dismay. To be sure, Emmy, the pretty one, -was only ten and a half—but still if education could hinder such a -catastrophe, there was certainly no time to be lost.</p> - -<p>Mr. Owen came to dinner next day, according to my invitation. He was a -young man, younger than Maurice, and a hundred times more agreeable. He -was curate of St. Peter’s, in Simonborough, where a curate among the -multitude of divines congregated about the cathedral, was as hard to -find or make any note of as the famous needle in the bundle of hay. And -it is very probable that he was not a brilliant preacher, or noted for -any gift in particular; but I liked the honest, manful young fellow, who -was not ashamed either to do his work or to talk of it when occasion -called—nor afraid to marry upon his minute income, nor to tell me with -a passing blush and a happy laugh, which became him, what a famous -little housekeeper his wife<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113"></a>{113}</span> was, and what fun they had over her -economics. Maurice heard and smiled—calm, ineffable, superior—and -wished he could only submit his unhappily more enlightened mind to a -simple faith like Owen’s. And Owen, on his part, was respectful of the -dainty disbeliever, and took off his hat to that scepticism, born of -idleness and an unoccupied mind, for which I, in my secret heart, for -sheer impatience and disgust, could have whipped the Fellow of Exeter. -Mr. Owen was as respectful of it as if that pensive negation had been -something actual and of solemn importance. He shook his head and talked -to me mysteriously of poor Harley. Maurice had rather distinguished -himself at college before he sank into his fellowship. His old -companions who were of the same standing were a little proud of his -scholarly attainments. “He could be anything if he chose,” they said to -themselves; and because Maurice did not choose, his capabilities looked -all the grander. Owen was quite a partisan of Harley. “What a pity it -was!” the honest fellow said, “with such a mind, if he could but get -right views”——</p> - -<p>At which juncture I struck the excellent young man dumb and breathless -by uttering aloud a fervent desire and prayer that by some happy chance -Maurice should fall in love.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114"></a>{114}</span></p> - -<p>Mr. Owen looked at me for a moment thunderstruck, the words of his own -former sensible sentence hanging half-formed about his lips; then, when -he had recovered himself a little, he smiled and said, “You have so much -confidence in a female preacher? No doubt they are irresistible—but not -in matters of doctrine, perhaps.”</p> - -<p>“No such thing,” said I, “I have no confidence in female preachers or -religious courtship; but apart from the intense satisfaction which I own -I should have in seeing Maurice make, as people say, a fool of himself, -that is the only means I see of bringing him back to life.”</p> - -<p>“To life!” said my new acquaintance, with a lively look of -interrogation.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I do not mean anything grand; I mean common life, with the -housekeeping to be provided for,” said I smiling, “and the daily bread, -and the other mouths that have to eat it. I daresay, even you yourself, -who seem to stand in no such need as Maurice, have found out something -in the pleasant jingle you were talking of—of Mrs. Owen’s basket of -keys.”</p> - -<p>The young man blushed once more that slight passing color of happiness, -and answered gravely, yet with a smile, “It is true, I see what you -mean—and it is very possible indeed—but,” he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115"></a>{115}</span> added, stopping -abruptly, and looking at his friend, who was in the full tide of -flirtation with Miss Reredos, “Mrs. Crofton, look there!”</p> - -<p>I shook my head. “Nothing will come of it,” said I; “they are amusing -themselves.”</p> - -<p>Condign punishment came upon my head almost as I spoke; I had turned my -head incautiously, and Johnnie and Alice had both heard me.</p> - -<p>“Amusing themselves!” cried Johnnie, hissing the words into my ears in a -whisper. “Amusing! do you suppose that it is anything but her -angel-sweetness, Mrs. Crofton, that makes her so forbearing with -Maurice—<i>my</i> brother? I adore her for it,” cried (but in a whisper) the -deluded boy.</p> - -<p>“Amusing themselves!” cried Alice, raising her head, “and <i>you</i> can say -so, Mrs. Crofton? Oh, I am ashamed, to think a woman should forget -herself so strangely; I could forgive anything—almost anything,” said -Alice, correcting herself with a blush, “which really sprang from true -strong feeling; but flirting—amusing themselves! Oh, Mrs. Crofton!”</p> - -<p>“My dear child, it is not my fault,” said I, “I have no hand in the -matter, either one way or the other.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, that is true,” said Alice, with that lively<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116"></a>{116}</span> impatience and -disinclination to suffer a dear friend to rest in an opinion different -from her own, which I have felt myself and understood perfectly,—“but -you will not see how unworthy it is—how dishonoring to women! That is -what wounds me.”</p> - -<p>“Is it not dishonoring to men as well?—two are playing at it, and the -other creature is accountable likewise. Are you not concerned for the -credit of your sex?” said I, turning to Owen.</p> - -<p>The young curate laughed, Alice blushed and looked deeply affronted, and -Johnnie, turning all the fury of his jealousy upon me, looked as if it -would have pleased him to do me some bodily harm. Well, well, one can -bear all that—and I am happy to say that I think I accelerated -distantly and humbly by this said conversation, the coming on of Maurice -Harley’s fate.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117"></a>{117}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Very</span> shortly after our little party separated, it was time to go back to -London to Derwent’s treadmill; our holiday was over—and as Alice had -positively declined my invitation to go with us to London, we were again -for several months quite separated from our country friends. I heard -from them in the meantime various scraps of information, from which I -could gather vaguely how their individual concerns went on. Mr. Reredos -was again a visitor at the cottage, and Mrs. Harley, who was not in the -secret of his previous rejection, wrote to me two or three long, -anxious, confidential letters about his evident devotion to her dear -girl—and what did I think of it? It was, the good mother said, the -position of all others which she would choose for her daughter, if it -lay in her decision—a country clergyman’s wife, the same position which -she herself had held long ago, when Dr. Harley lived, and she was -happy!—but she could not make out what<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118"></a>{118}</span> Alice’s mind was. Alice was -sometimes cordial and sometimes distant to this candidate for her -favor—“And I often fear that it will just be with Mr. Reredos as with -the rest,” said Mrs. Harley, despondingly—“and I like him so much—he -reminds me of what her dear father was once—and the connection would -altogether be so eligible that I should be very sorry if it came to -nothing. Do you think, dear Mrs. Crofton, that you could use your -influence with her on this subject? My dear girl is so shocked and -disgusted with the idea of people marrying for an establishment, that I -really do not venture to say a word to her about her own establishment -in life; but <i>you</i> know as well as I do, dear Mrs. Crofton, that such -things must be thought of, and really this is so thoroughly -eligible”——</p> - -<p>Alice followed on the same key.</p> - -<p>“Mamma teases me again on that everlasting subject, dear Mrs. Crofton; -there is some one so completely eligible, she says—and I quite feel -it—so entirely eligible that if there was not another in the world! -Mamma is provoked, and says if somebody came who was quite the reverse -of eligible that I should answer differently—and indeed I am not sure -but there is justice in what she says. But do interfere on my behalf, -please; I prefer to be always Alice Harley—do, please,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119"></a>{119}</span> dear Mrs. -Crofton, persuade my mother not to worry me, but to believe that I know -my own mind.”</p> - -<p>From which double correspondence I inferred that Mr. Reredos had somehow -managed to resume his suit and to make a partisan of Mrs. Harley without -giving a desperate and hopeless affront to the pride of Alice, which -raised my opinion of his generalship so greatly that I began to imagine -there might possibly be some likelihood of success for the Rector—a -conclusion which I fear did not gratify me so much as Mrs. Harley had -imagined it should.</p> - -<p>Along with this information I heard of a sister of Mr. Owen’s, who was -paying them a visit—of repeated excursions into Simonborough—of -Maurice’s growing relish for home, and some anxieties on the young man’s -part about his future life. And Johnnie’s book was published—a book -which in my wildest imagination I could not have supposed to be produced -by the cripple boy, who, out of the cottage, knew nothing whatever of -life. Johnnie’s hero was a hero who did feats of strength and skill -unimaginable—tamed horses, knocked down bullies, fought, rode, rowed, -and cricketed, after the most approved fashion of the modern youth, -heroical and muscular—and in his leisure hours made love!—such -love!—full<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120"></a>{120}</span> of ecstasies and despairs, quite inconceivable to any -imagination above twenty—but all enforced and explained with such -perfect ingenuousness and good faith that one could have hugged the boy -all the time for the exquisite and delightful folly, in which there did -not mix an evil thought. Nothing could well be more remarkable than this -fiery outburst of confined and restrained life from the bosom of the -cripple, to whom all these active delights were impossible—it was -profoundly pathetic too, to me. Poor Johnnie! with that fervid -imagination in him, how was he to bear the gray life which Alice had -predicted—the life which must be his, notwithstanding all his dreams -and hopes? How, when it came to that, was he to undergo the downfall of -his first miraculous castle in the air, his vain and violent -love-passion? Poor heart, foredoomed! would he ever learn to bring the -music of Patience, so lovely to those who hear, so hard to those who -make it, out of those life-chords which were drawn all awry, beyond the -reach of happiness? I was happy myself in those days. I had little -desire to think of the marvellous life to come in which all these -problems shall be made clear. I could not cast forward my mind beyond -this existence—and the strange inequality between this boy’s mind and -his fate vexed me at the heart.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121"></a>{121}</span></p> - -<p>And so, quite quietly and gradually, the time stole on. I heard nothing -more from poor Bertie Nugent, in India; he meant to come home, but he -had not yet obtained his leave of absence, and it remained quite -uncertain when we should see him. Everything was very quiet at home. Our -fighting was over—our national pride and confidence in our own arms and -soldiers, revived by actual experience; everything looking prosperous -within the country, and nothing dangerous without.</p> - -<p>It was at this time that the dreadful news of the Indian mutiny came -upon the country like the shock of an earthquake. News more frightful -never startled a peaceful people. Faces paled, and hearts sickened, even -among people who had no friends in that deadly peril; and as for us, who -had relatives and connections to be anxious for, it is impossible to -describe the fear that took possession of us. I knew nobody there but -Bertie, and he, thank Heaven, was but a man, and could only be killed at -the worst; but I had people belonging to me there, though I did not know -them; people whom I had heard of for years and years, though I had never -seen them; cousins, and such like—Nugents—with women among them—God -help us! creatures who might have to bear tortures more cruel than -death. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122"></a>{122}</span> thought woke me up into a restless fever of horror and -anxiety, which I cannot describe. Perhaps I felt the hideous contrast -more because of my own perfect safety and happiness, but I could neither -sleep by night nor smile by day, for the vision of that horrible anguish -which had fallen upon some, and might be—might be—for anything I -knew—at any moment—ah! the thought was too much for flesh and blood. -It was growing towards autumn, yet I, who hated London, was reluctant -that year to leave it. We were nearer to those news which it was so -sickening to hear, yet so dreadful to be out of reach of, and it seemed -to me as if it would be impossible to go into those tranquil country -places, where all was happy, and still, and prosperous, with such a -cloud of horror, and fear, and rage about one’s heart. At that time I -almost think I could have heard without any great additional pang that -Bertie himself had been killed. He was a man, thank Heaven, and they -could only kill him! Mere family affection was lost for the moment in -the overpowering horror of the time.</p> - -<p>But the first miseries were over by the time we went to Hilfont—it had -begun to be a fight of man to man—that is to say, of one man to some -certain number of heathen creatures, from a dozen to a hundred—and the -news, breathless<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123"></a>{123}</span> news, mad with gasps of grief, anxiety, and -thanksgiving, did not now strike such horror and chill to our blood. We -went home and quieted ourselves, and grew anxious about Bertie—very -anxious. Of course he was in the thick of the fight. If he had not been, -could we ever have forgiven him?—but he was, and we had only to wait, -and long, and tremble for news, to catch here and there a glimpse of him -through obscure telegraphic reports, and slow dispatches, coming long, -long, and slow, after that bewildering, tantalizing snatch of -half-comprehensible tidings. Then I saw, for the first time, how -thoroughly the young man, though he had been away eight years, kept his -hold upon our hearts. Derwent would ride a dozen miles to the railway -for a chance of hearing a little earlier than was possible at Hilfont, -when the <i>new</i> news came in; everybody about the house looked breathless -till they heard if the Captain, as they called him, was still safe. As -for Alice Harley, I do not remember that she ever asked a question—she -went and came about the house, read all the papers, listened to all the -conversations, stood by and heard everything, while her sister Clara -poured forth inquiry upon inquiry, while the gentlemen discussed the -whole matter, and decided what everybody must do; while even Lady -Greenfield, drawn towards me,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124"></a>{124}</span> though we were but indifferent friends, -by a common touch of nature (for I cannot deny that she liked her -nephews), consulted and argued where Bertie could be now, and wished him -safe home. My little Derwent, with a flush on his childish cheeks, and -tears in his eyes, cried out against her; “Do you think Bertie will come -safe home when they are murdering the women and the babies?” cried -Derwie, with a half-scream of childish excitement. “Bertie?—if he did, -I would like to kill him; but he never, never, will till they’re all on -board the ships—he had better be killed than come safe home!”</p> - -<p>The tears were in my own eyes, so that I did not see the child very -clearly as he spoke; but I saw Alice bend quickly down to kiss him, and -heard in the room the sound of one sob—a sound surprised out of -somebody’s heart. Not Lady Greenfield’s, who put her handkerchief to her -eyes, and said that really she was only human, and might be forgiven for -wishing her own relations safe. Miss Polly had come with her -sister-in-law that day—she was paler than ever, the tender old lady. -She cried a little as we talked, but it was not out of her calm old -heart that such a sob of anguish and passion came.</p> - -<p>“My dear,” said Miss Polly, speaking as if she addressed me, but not -looking in my direction,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125"></a>{125}</span> “I’m afraid Derwie’s right; if he die he must -do his duty—there’s no talk of being safe in such times.”</p> - -<p>“It is very easy for you to speak,” said Lady Greenfield, and I believe -she thought so; “but Clare and I feel differently—he is not a relation -of yours.”</p> - -<p>“I pray for the dear boy, night and morning, all the same. God bless -him, at this moment, wherever he may be!” said Miss Polly. I was -conscious of a quick, sudden movement as the words fell, soft and grave, -from her dear old lips. It was Alice who had left the room.</p> - -<p>She could not bear it any longer. <i>She</i> did not belong to him—she was -not old enough to speak like Miss Polly—she durst not flutter forth her -anxiety for her old playfellow as Clara did. Her heart was throbbing and -burning in her young warm breast. She did not say a word or ask a -question; but when the tender old woman bade God bless him, Alice could -stand quiet no longer. I knew it, though she had not a word to say.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126"></a>{126}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">This</span> time of anxiety was one which, in that great common interest and -grief, drew many people together who had little sympathy with each other -in ordinary times. Many a close, private, confidential talk, deluged -with tears, or tremulous with hope, I had within these days with many a -troubled woman, who up to that time had been only an acquaintance, or -very slightly known to me, but who was now ready, at the touch of this -magical sympathy, to take me into her heart. Derwent’s custom of riding -to the railway for the earliest perusable news, and an occasional -message by telegraph, which came to him when any important intelligence -arrived, made our house besieged by anxious people, to whom the greatest -joy of their lives was to find no mention in these breathless dispatches -of the individual or the place in which they were interested. Nugents, -whom I had never heard of, started up everywhere, asking from me -information about Bertie and his family. The girls who<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127"></a>{127}</span> had been brought -up at Estcourt deluged me with letters asking after him. I am not sure -that our entire household did not feel, amid all its anxiety, a little -pride in the consciousness of thus having a share in the universal -national sympathy which was bestowed so warmly and freely upon all who -had friends in India. As for little Derwie, he devoted himself entirely -now to the business of carrying news. He knew already by heart the list -of all the families—I had almost said in all the county, certainly -between Hilfont and Simonborough—who had soldier-sons; and Derwie and -his pony flew along all the country roads for days together when news -came, the child carrying in his faithful childish memory every detail of -the dispatch to the cottage women, who had no other means of hearing it. -The people about—that is to say, Miss Reredos and the important people -of the village—called my boy the telegraph-boy, and I am not quite sure -that I was not rather proud of the name. Whether his news-carrying -always did good I will not say—perhaps it was little comfort to the -mother of a nameless rank-and-file man to hear that another battle had -been won, or a successful march made, in which, perhaps, God knows, that -undistinguished boy of hers might have fainted and fallen aside to die. -But the common people—God bless<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128"></a>{128}</span> them!—are more hopeful in their -laborious hearts than we who have leisure to think all our anxieties -out, and grow sick over them.</p> - -<p>Derwie flew here and there on his pony, telling the news—possessed with -it to the exclusion of every other thought—and I could but be thankful -that he was a child, and the telegraph-boy, not a man, able to set out -with a heart of flame to that desperate and furious strife.</p> - -<p>I surprised a nursery party at this memorable period in the expression -of their sentiments. It was somebody’s birthday at Waterflag, and all -the little people were collected there. Derwent had been telling them of -a feat performed in India by a Flintshire man, which all the newspapers -had celebrated, and which we were all rather proud of. Derwie, in his -capacity of newsboy, read the papers to the best of his ability, with -very original readings of the Indian names, but he was much more -thoroughly informed than any of the others—by reason of his trade—and -they listened to him as to an oracle. Then came an account of the mutiny -and all its frightful consequences, as well as Derwie knew. The children -listened absorbed, the girls being, as I rather think is very common, -much the most greatly excited. Willie Sedgwick, the chubby pink and -white heir, who looked so much younger<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129"></a>{129}</span> than Derwie, sat silent, -fingering his buttons, and with no remarkable expression in his face; -but Miss Polly’s two nieces bent down from their height of superior -stature to listen, and Clara Sedgwick—lovely little coquette—stood in -the middle of the room, arrested in something she had been doing, -breathless, her little face burning with the strongest childish -excitement. She was not now arrayed in that glorious apparel which had -captivated Derwie and myself in the spring. It was only a simple gray -morning frock, which was expanded upon her infantine crinoline at this -moment; but her beautiful little figure, all palpitating with wonder, -wrath, and excitement, was a sight to see.</p> - -<p>“Oh!” cried out the child, stamping her little foot, as Derwie, -breathless himself, paused in his tale—“oh! if I had only a gun, I -would take hold of papa’s hand and shoot them all!”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” cried Emmy, whose thoughts had been doubtless following the same -track, and to whom this sudden sense of a want which, perhaps, she -scarcely realized in ordinary times, came sharp in sudden contrast with -that exclamation of Clary’s—“Ah, Clary!” cried the poor child, with a -shrill accent in the momentary pang it gave her, “but we have no papa.” -It struck me like a sudden passionate, artless postscript of personal<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130"></a>{130}</span> -grief, striking its key-note upon the big impersonal calamity which -raised, even in these children’s bosoms, such generous horror and -indignation.</p> - -<p>“He was killed in India,” said Di, in a low tone, her womanly little -face growing dark with a sudden twilight of feeling more serious than -her years.</p> - -<p>“They don’t want <i>us</i> to fight,” said Derwie, whom this personal -digression did not withdraw from his main interest; “you may be sure, -Clary, they don’t want a little thing like you, or me, or Willie; to be -sure, if we had been older!—but never mind, there’s sure to be somebody -to fight with when we’re big enough; and then there’s such famous -fellows there—there’s Sam Rivers, I was telling you of, that -Huntingdonshire man; I know his mother, I’ll take you to see her, if you -like; and there’s Bertie—there’s our Bertie, don’t you know?—he’ll -never come home till they’re all safe, or till he’s killed.”</p> - -<p>“If he’s killed he’ll never come back,” said Willie Sedgwick.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I wish you would go away, you horrid great boy!” cried Clary, -indignantly—“Killed! when you know mamma is so fond of Mrs. Crofton’s -Bertie, and loves him as much as Uncle Maurice!—but Willie doesn’t care -for anything,”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131"></a>{131}</span> she said, in an aggrieved tone, turning away from her -brother with a disgust which I slightly shared.</p> - -<p>“I could bear him to be killed,” said Derwie, who, poor child, had never -seen the hero he discussed, “if he did something worth while first—like -that one, you know, who blew himself up, or that one”——</p> - -<p>“But, Derwie, what was the good of blowing himself up,” said Clary, with -wondering round eyes.</p> - -<p>“Don’t you see?” cried Derwie, impatiently; “why, to destroy the powder -and things, to be sure, that they might not have it to fire at us.”</p> - -<p>“I’d have poured water all on the powder, if it had been me, and spoiled -it without hurting any one,” said the prudent Willie.</p> - -<p>“As if he had time to think about hurting any one!” said Derwie—“as if -he didn’t just <i>do</i> it—the first thought that came into his head.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Derwent!” cried Clary again, “if they were all—every one—ten -thousand thousand, standing up before one big gun, and papa would only -take hold of my hand, I would fire it off!”</p> - -<p>“Aunty says we should forgive,” said Miss Polly’s gentle Di, in a low -voice; “<span class="lftspc">’</span>tis dreadful to be killed, but it would be worse to kill -somebody else.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132"></a>{132}</span></p> - -<p>“I don’t think so at all,” cried Clary, “I would kill them every one if -I could—every one that did such horrid, cruel, wicked things. I hope -Bertie will kill ever so many—hundreds! Don’t you hope so, Derwie? I -would if I were him.”</p> - -<p>This sanguinary speech was interrupted by an arrival of nurses and -attendants, and Clary, quite beautiful in her childish fury, went off to -make a captivating toilette for the early childs’ dinner, where -everybody was to appear in gala costume, to do honor to the birthday -hero. The elder Clara, the child’s mother, had been standing with me in -one end of the great nursery, listening to this discussion. She turned -round with a laugh when the party had dispersed.</p> - -<p>“What a little wretch!” said Clara; “but oh! Mrs. Crofton, isn’t it -absurd what people say about children’s gentleness and sweetness, and -all that? I know there is never a story told in my nursery of a wicked -giant, or a bad uncle, or anything of that sort, but the very baby, if -he could speak, would give his vote for cutting the villain up in little -pieces. There never were such cruel imps. They quite shout with -satisfaction when that poor innocent giant, who never did any harm that -I can see, tumbles down the beanstalk and gets killed—though I am sure -that impudent little thief Jack deserves it a great deal<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133"></a>{133}</span> more. But what -a memory Derwie has!—and how he understands! I am sure, I hope most -sincerely that Bertie, after all, will get safe home. Is there any more -news?”</p> - -<p>“No more,” said I, “I have not heard from himself a long time now—and -the public news only keeps us anxious. I am not quite so philosophical -as Derwie—few things would make me so thankful as to hear that Bertie -was on his way home.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I should be so glad!” said Clara, eagerly; then, after a pause and -with a smile, “young men who want their friends to get dreadfully -interested about them should all go out—don’t you think, Mrs. Crofton? -There is Alice, for example. I thought everything was coming round quite -nicely, and that Alice was going to be quite rational, and <i>settle</i> like -other people, at last—but just when everything seemed in such excellent -train, lo! here came this Indian business, and upset the whole again.”</p> - -<p>“Upset what? I don’t understand what you mean,” said I, with a little -wonder, partly affected and partly real.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mrs. Crofton! you <i>do</i>,” cried Clara; “you know mamma and I had -just been making up our minds that Mr. Reredos was <i>the</i> person, and -that all was to be quite pleasant and comfortable. He was <i>so</i> -attentive, and Alice really<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134"></a>{134}</span> so much better behaved than she had ever -been before. Then this Indian business, you know, happened, and she was -all in a craze again. She doesn’t say much, but I am quite sure it is -nothing else that has upset her. Of course, looking at it in a rational -way, Bertie and Alice can’t <i>really</i> be anything to each other. But he’s -far away, and he’s in danger, and there’s quite an air of romance about -him. And Alice is so ridiculous! I am quite sure in my own mind that -this is the only reason why she’s so very cool to the Rector again.”</p> - -<p>“It is very injudicious to say so, Clara,” said I; “of course she must -be interested—her old playfellow—like a brother to you both; but as -for interposing between her and an eligible”——</p> - -<p>“Now, please don’t be rational,” pleaded Clara, “I know exactly what you -are going to say—but after all she must marry somebody, you know, and -where is the harm of an eligible establishment? Perhaps it would be as -well if mamma did not use the word—but still!—oh! to be sure, dear, -good, kind Bertie—the children are quite right,” said Clara, with a -sweet suffusion of kindness and good feeling over all her face—“I am -sure I love him every bit as much as I love Maurice—he was always like -a brother, the dear fellow! I don’t say Alice should not be interested -in him; but only it’s all her romance,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135"></a>{135}</span> you know. She’s not in love with -him—if she were in love with him, I couldn’t say a word—it’s only -sympathy, and friendship, and sisterhood, and all that; and because he’s -in trouble she’ll forget all about herself, and send this good man, who -is very fond of her, away.”</p> - -<p>“These young ladies, you see, Clara,” said I, “they are not at all to be -depended on; they never will attend to what we experienced people say.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, yes, that is true,” said Alice’s younger sister, with a sigh of -serious acquiescence, and the simplest good faith.</p> - -<p>Clara, with her five babies, had forgotten that she was not her sister’s -senior—while Alice, for her part, looking down from her quiet -observatory in her brown silk dress upon Clara’s wonderful toilettes and -blooming beauty, felt herself a whole century older than that pretty -matron-sister, who was always so sweetly occupied with life, and had so -little time for thought. I smiled upon them both, being near twenty -years their senior, and thought them a couple of children still. So we -all go on, thinking ourself the wisest always. In these days I began to -moralize a little. I have no doubt Miss Polly had similar thoughts of -me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136"></a>{136}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">That</span> evening I had the satisfaction (or dissatisfaction) of beholding a -very similar condition of things to that which had occupied my attention -in my own house at Easter. All the Harleys were at Waterflag, in honor -of Willie’s birthday, including the pretty little Kate, whose first -party this was, and—a more perplexing addition—their mother. Mrs. -Harley was exactly what she had always been, but age had made her -uncertain mind more uncertain, while it increased her anxiety to have -her children “provided for,” as she called it. The colder Alice was to -Mr. Reredos, the more warmly and tenderly her mother conciliated and -courted him. Here was a good match, which might be lost for a caprice, -one might have supposed the good woman to be thinking; and it was her -duty to prevent that consummation, if possible. Mrs. Harley quite gave -herself up to the task of soothing down the temper which Alice had -ruffled, and whispering perseverance to the discouraged<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137"></a>{137}</span> suitor. She -referred to him on all occasions, thrust his opinions into anything that -was going forward, contrived means of bringing him into immediate -contact with Alice, which last brought many a little sting and slight to -the unfortunate and too well-befriended lover—on the whole, conducted -herself as a nervous, anxious, well-meaning woman, to whom Providence -has not given the gift of comprehending other people’s individualities, -might be supposed likely to do. As Mrs. Harley sat in her great chair by -the fire in the Waterflag drawing-room, and looked round her upon her -children and descendants, I did not wonder that she was both proud and -anxious. There was Maurice with a new world of troublous thoughts in his -face. I could no more understand what was their cause than I could -interfere with them. Was it that dread following out of his -investigations into Truth, wherever she might lead him, which he had -contemplated with tragical but complacent placidity six months since—or -had other troubles, more material, overtaken the Fellow of Exeter? I was -somewhat curious, but how could I hope to know? Then there was Johnnie, -poor, happy, deluded boy! Miss Reredos was of the company—and while she -still saw nobody else who was more likely game, she amused herself with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138"></a>{138}</span> -Johnnie, and overwhelmed his simple soul with joy. His book and his love -together had changed him much, poor fellow; he was sadly impatient of -being spoken to as a youth, or almost as a child, in the old -sympathetic, tender custom which all his family had fallen into. He was -jealous of being distinguished in any way from other people, and took -the indulgences long accorded to his ill-health and helplessness -fiercely, as if they had been so many insults. Poor Johnnie! he thought -himself quite lifted above the old warm family affection, which clung so -close to the weakest of the flock, by this new imaginary love of his. I -wonder what that syren of his imagination felt when she saw what she had -done! I imagine nothing but amusement, and a little pleasurable thrill -of vanity. Many men made love to Miss Reredos, or had done so during the -past career of that experienced young lady; few perhaps had thrown -themselves at her feet <i>tout entier</i>, like our poor cripple Johnnie. She -felt the flattery, though she cared little about the victim. I believe, -while she foresaw quite coolly the misery she was bringing on the boy, -she yet had and would retain a certain grateful memory of him all her -life.</p> - -<p>But it appeared that she had either tired of Maurice, or recognized as -impracticable her flirtation<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139"></a>{139}</span> with that accomplished young gentleman. -They were on somewhat spiteful terms, having a little passing encounter -of pique on the one side and anger on the other, whenever they chanced -to come in contact. The pique was on the lady’s side; but as for -Maurice, he looked as if it would have been a decided relief to his -feelings to do her some small personal injury. There was a kind of snarl -in his voice when he addressed her, such as I have heard men use to a -woman who had somehow injured them, and whom they supposed to have taken -a mean advantage of her woman’s exemption from accountability. “If you -were a man I could punish you; but you are not a man, and I have to be -polite to you, you cowardly female creature,” said the tone, but not the -words of Maurice’s voice; and I could discover by that tone that -something new must have happened which I did not know of. All the more -fervently for the coolness of his mother and sisters to her, and for the -constraint and gloomy looks of Maurice, did Johnnie, poor boy, hang upon -the words and watch the looks of the enchantress—he saw nobody else in -the room, cared for nobody else—was entirely carried beyond all other -affections, beyond gratitude, beyond every sentiment but that of the -exalted boyish passion which had, to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140"></a>{140}</span> his own consciousness, changed all -his life and thoughts.</p> - -<p>And there, on the other hand, was Alice, thwarting all the wishes and -inclinations of her friends. Mrs. Harley forgave Johnnie, and turned all -her wrath for his foolishness upon Miss Reredos; but she did not forgive -Alice for those cold and brief answers, that unapproachable aspect which -daunted the Rector, comfortable and satisfactory as was his opinion of -himself. I could not help looking at these young people with a passing -wonder in my mind over the strange caprices and cross-purposes of their -period of life. Maurice, for instance—what was it that had set Maurice -all astray from his comfortable self-complacency and <i>dilettante</i> -leisure? Somehow the pleasure-boat of his life had got among the rocks, -and nothing but dissatisfaction—extreme, utter, unmitigated -dissatisfaction—was left to the young man, as I could perceive, of all -his accomplishments and perfections. Alice was thrusting ordinary life -away from her—thrusting aside love, and independence, and “an eligible -establishment,” trying to persuade herself that there were other -pursuits more dignified than the common life of woman—for—a caprice, -Clara said. Johnnie, poor Johnnie, was happy in the merest folly of -self-deception that ever innocent<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141"></a>{141}</span> boy practised. Alas! and that was but -the threshold of hard, sober existence, and who could tell what bitter -things were yet in store for them? How hard is life! Perhaps Bertie -Nugent at that moment lay stark upon some Eastern field of battle; -perhaps he was pledging his heart and life to some of those -languid-lively Indian Englishwomen, ever so many thousand miles off—who -can tell? And why, because Bertie was in danger, should Alice Harley -snub that excellent young Rector, and turn from his attentions with such -an air of impatience, almost of disgust? Nobody could answer me these -simple questions. Indeed, to tell the truth, I did not ask anybody, but -quietly pursued the elucidation of them for myself.</p> - -<p>And of course our conversation during the course of the evening ran upon -matters connected with India and the last news. Derwent and Mr. Sedgwick -held grave consultations on the political aspect of the matter and the -future government of India. Miss Reredos shuddered, and put on pretty -looks of earnest attention; Clara told the story of the conversation in -the nursery; while, in the mean time, Alice expressed her interest -neither by look nor word—only betrayed it by sitting stock-still, -taking no part in the conversation, and restraining more than was -natural<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142"></a>{142}</span> every appearance of feeling. That silence would have been -enough, if there had been nothing else, to betray her to me.</p> - -<p>But I confess I was surprised to hear the eager part which Maurice took -in the conversation, and the heat and earnestness with which he spoke.</p> - -<p>“If there is one man on earth whom I envy it is Bertie Nugent,” said -Maurice, when Clara had ended her nursery story. “I remember him well -enough, and I know the interest Mrs. Crofton takes in him. You need not -make faces at me, Clara—I don’t think he’s very brilliant, and neither, -I daresay, does Mrs. Crofton; but he’s in his proper place.”</p> - -<p>“Maurice, my dear, the place Providence appoints to us is always our -proper place,” said Mrs. Harley, with the true professional spirit of a -clergyman’s wife.</p> - -<p>“Oh! just so, mother,” said the Fellow of Exeter, with a momentary -return of his old, superb, superior smile, “only, you know, one differs -in opinion with Providence now and then. Bertie Nugent, however, has no -doubt about it, I am certain. I envy him,” added the young man, with a -certain glance at me, as if he expected me to appreciate the change in -his sentiments, and to feel rather complimented that my poor Bertie<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143"></a>{143}</span> was -promoted to the envy of so exalted a personage.</p> - -<p>“I thought Mr. Maurice Harley despised soldiers,” said Miss Reredos, -dropping her words slowly out of her mouth, as if with a pleasant -consciousness that they contained a sting.</p> - -<p>“On the contrary, I think soldiering the only natural profession to -which we are born,” said Maurice, starting with an angry flush, and all -but rudeness of tone.</p> - -<p>“Don’t say so, please, before the children,” cried Clara. “War’s -disgusting. For one thing, nobody can talk of anything else when it’s -going on. And then only think what shoals of poor men it carries away, -never to bring them back again. Ah, poor Bertie!” cried Clara, with a -little feeling, “I wish the war were over, and he was safe home.”</p> - -<p>“I am not sure that war is not the most wholesome of standing -institutions,” said Maurice, philosophically. “Your shoals of poor men -who go away, and never return, don’t matter much to general humanity. -There were more went off in the Irish exodus than we shall lose in -India. We can afford to lose a little blood.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, and sometimes it takes troublesome people out of the way,” -said the Rector’s sister—“one should not forget that.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144"></a>{144}</span></p> - -<p>“Extremely true, and very philosophical, for a woman,” said Maurice, -with a savage look. “It drains the surplus population off, and makes -room for those who remain.”</p> - -<p>Clara and her mother, both of them, rushed into the conversation with -the same breath as women rush to separate combatants. I should have been -very much surprised had I been more deeply interested. But at present I -was occupied with that imperturbable, uninterfering quietness with which -Alice sat at the table, saying nothing;—how elaborately unconscious and -unconcerned she looked!—that was much more important to me than any -squabble between Maurice and the Rector’s sister—or than the Rector -himself, or any one of the many and various individual concerns which, -like the different threads of a web, were woven into the quiet household -circle—giving a deep dramatic interest to the well-bred, unpicturesque -pose of the little company in that quiet English room.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145"></a>{145}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVII" id="CHAPTER_XVII"></a>CHAPTER XVII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">We</span> stayed all that night at Waterflag, as we always did when we dined -with the Sedgwicks, and of course I was subjected to a long private and -confidential conversation with Mrs. Harley in my dressing-room, when we -both ought to have been at rest. She poured out her anxieties upon me as -she had done many a long year ago, when all these young people were -unconscious little children, and Dr. Harley, poor good man, was newly -dead. Only Time had changed both of us since then—she had become an old -woman with silver-white hair under her snowy cap. I was old too, though -my boy was but a child, and kept me nearer to youth than belonged to my -years; but Mrs. Harley was as glad of this outlet to her anxieties, and -felt as much relief in pouring these anxieties forth upon somebody -else’s shoulders as ever.</p> - -<p>“Ah, Clare!” she said, “you have only one, to be sure, and he’s nobly -provided for; but we’re never so happy, though we don’t think it,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146"></a>{146}</span> as -when they’re all children. There’s nothing but measles and such things -to frighten one <i>then</i>—but <i>now</i>!—dear, dear! the charge of all these -grown up young people, Clare, is far too much for a poor woman like me. -I believe I shall break down all at once, one of these days.”</p> - -<p>“Let us take it quietly,” said I, “they are very good, sensible, -well-educated young people—they know what they are doing—don’t you -think you might trust them to act for themselves?”</p> - -<p>“They will, whether I trust them or not,” sighed poor Mrs. Harley. “Ah -dear! to think how one toils and denies one’s self for one’s family, and -how little account they make of one’s wishes when all is done! I think -mine have quite set themselves—all but Clara, dear girl, who is so -perfectly satisfactory in every way—to thwart and cross me, Alice—you -know how unreasonable she is—I can do nothing with her. Just the thing -of all others that I could have chosen for her, and such a nice, -excellent, judicious young man. You saw how she behaved to him -to-night.”</p> - -<p>“But really, Mrs. Harley, if Alice doesn’t like him”—I interposed with -humility.</p> - -<p>“Oh, nonsense—she does like him—at least, she doesn’t like anybody -else that I know of—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147"></a>{147}</span>and why shouldn’t she like him?” asked the -exasperated mother. “You know, Mrs. Crofton, that my poor income dies -with me—and there is Johnnie, poor child, to make some provision for, -and when I die what will she do?—though to be sure,” concluded Mrs. -Harley, drawing herself up a little, “I am not the sort of person to -marry my daughters merely for an establishment—that never was my way. -This case, you must perceive, Clare, is quite different. He is such a -very nice—such an entirely satisfactory person; and the position—I was -a clergyman’s wife myself, and I would choose that sphere rather than -any other for Alice; and as for liking, I really cannot see a single -reason why she should not like him, do you?”</p> - -<p>“Why, no—except just, perhaps, that—I fear—she doesn’t,” said I, with -hesitation; for I confess this superlative mother’s argument quite -nonplused me. After all, why shouldn’t she like that good, young, -handsome Rector? I reserved the question for private consideration, but -was a little staggered by the strength of Mrs. Harley’s case.</p> - -<p>“My opinion is that Alice thinks it rather a merit to refuse an eligible -person,” said Mrs. Harley—“like all these young people. There is -Maurice, too—you will not believe it, Clare—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148"></a>{148}</span>but Maurice has actually -had the folly to fall in love with Francis Owen’s sister in -Simonborough. I could not believe my ears when I heard of it first. -Maurice, who has always been such a very prudent boy! She is a very -nice, pretty girl, but, of course has not a penny—and Maurice has -nothing but his fellowship. It is a pretty mess altogether. In the very -best view of the case, if Maurice even had been content to think like -other people, and had a nice living waiting for him, they might both -have done better—<i>he</i> might have done a <i>great</i> deal better at least. -But, no!—when they find somebody quite unsuitable, that is the very -thing to please young people in these days; and there is my son, -Clare—my eldest son—who was never intended for any profession but the -Church—actually broaching all kinds of wild schemes about work, and -talking of going to Australia, or taking a laborer’s hod, or any other -wild thing he can think of; it is enough to break my heart!”</p> - -<p>“Then do you mean that Maurice intends to throw up his fellowship, and -marry?” said I, thinking this too good news to be true.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Harley shook her head.</p> - -<p>“It is all a muddle,” she said, “there is no satisfaction at all in it; -she thought he flirted with Miss Reredos, and he thought she flirted -with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149"></a>{149}</span> some of the officers; and Miss Reredos has such a grudge at him -for falling in love with anybody but herself, that she did all she could -to help them to a quarrel; and a very good thing, too, for of course -they never would have been so mad as to marry, and I dislike long -engagements exceedingly; only since then it is really almost impossible -to endure Maurice in the house. He is <i>so</i> ill-tempered, it is really -quite dreadful. I am sure, when I was young, I never gave my parents any -uneasiness about me, yet my two eldest children seem to think it quite -an amusement to worry me out of my life.”</p> - -<p>“Let us believe they don’t do it on purpose,” said I; “troubles never -come single, you know—and I daresay this is the most critical time of -their life.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, Alice should have had all these affairs over long ago!” said Mrs. -Harley, disapprovingly; “Alice is seven and twenty, Mrs. Crofton—she -ought to have been settled in life years ago. I am sure, considering all -the opportunities she has had, it is quite disgraceful. I can’t help -feeling that people—her father’s friends, for instance—will blame me.”</p> - -<p>I found it difficult not to smile at this refinement of maternal -anxiety, but after a while succeeded in soothing the good mother, whose -mind<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150"></a>{150}</span> was evidently eased by the utterance, and persuading her that -everything would come right. She went away shaking her head, but smiling -through her anxious looks. She laid down her burden at my door, and left -it there. When she had gone I took up my portion of it with sundry -compunctions. Bertie Nugent had been seven years away—when he went away -Alice was scarcely twenty. They had of course been very much in each -other’s society before this, but seven years is a long break, even for -lovers. These two were not lovers; and was not Clara right when she -stigmatized as the merest foolish romance any interest which Alice might -have in her long-departed and indifferent playfellow? I began to blame -myself for cherishing in my own mind the lingering hope that my wishes -might still be accomplished concerning them. Perhaps that hope had, by -some subtle means, betrayed itself to Alice, and had helped to -strengthen her in her natural perversity and the romance of that vague -visionary link which existed only in her mind and mine. I have known -very similar cases more than once in my life—cases in which a childish -liking, kept up only by chance inquiries or friendly messages at long -intervals on one side or the other, has forestalled the imagination of -the two subjects of it so completely,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151"></a>{151}</span> that both have kept from all -engagements for years, until at long and last, encountering each other -once again, they have discovered themselves to have loved each other all -this time, and married out of hand. This vague sort of tie, which is no -tie, has a more captivating hold upon the mind than a real engagement; -but then it might come to nothing. And after an interval of seven years, -was it not everybody’s duty to turn the dreamer away from that romantic -distance to the real ground close at hand? I had considered the question -many times with too strong a regard for Bertie (who, to be sure, had no -particular solicitude about the matter, or he might have been home long -ago) in my thoughts. Now I rather changed my point of view. If Alice -liked Bertie, it was purely a love of the imagination. Why, for that -Will-o’-the-wisp, was she to keep dreaming in the twilight while the -broad daylight of life and all its active duties were gliding out of her -reach? I resolved to bestir myself and startle Alice into common sense -and ordinary prudence. Here was she, letting youth pass her, not -perceiving how it went, looking so far away out of her horizon to that -fantastic, unreal attraction at the other end of the world. Thinking -over it I grew more and more dissatisfied. She was wrong to entertain,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152"></a>{152}</span> -I was wrong to encourage, so uncomfortable a piece of self-delusion. It -is true, Bertie was in danger, and surrounded with a flush of interest -and anxiety which doubled his claims on everybody who knew him. Still it -must not be permitted to continue—she must be roused out of this vain -imaginary attachment which blinded her to the love that sought her close -at hand. Why did she not like the Rector? I resolved to be at the bottom -of that question, which I could not answer, before twenty-four hours -were out.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153"></a>{153}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVIII" id="CHAPTER_XVIII"></a>CHAPTER XVIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">But</span> who can tell what is to happen within twenty-four hours? When I left -my dressing-room next morning, I found Derwent lingering in the corridor -outside, waiting for me. He carried in his hand one of those ominous -covers which thrill the hearts of private people with fears of evil -tidings. He had been half afraid to bring it into me, but he did not -hide either the startling hieroglyphics which proclaimed the nature of -the dispatch, nor his own distressed and sorrowful face.</p> - -<p>“What is the matter?” I cried, in breathless alarm, when I saw him; -“something has happened!”</p> - -<p>“I fear so,” said Derwent; “but softly—softly, Clare; in the first -place it is not absolutely his name and there are such perpetual -mistakes by this confounded telegraph. Softly, softly, Clare.”</p> - -<p>I had seized the dispatch while he was speaking—I read it without -saying a word—did I not know how it would be?—ah, that concise, -dreadful,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154"></a>{154}</span> murderous word—killed! I knew it the moment I saw Derwent’s -face.</p> - -<p>“But, my love, it is not his name—look! it absolutely may be somebody -else and not Bertie,” cried my husband.</p> - -<p>Ah, Bertie! the sound of his dear, pleasant, homely name overcame me. -There was no longer any Bertie in the world! I had borne the dreadful -excitement of reading the dispatch, but I lost my self-command entirely -when all the world of love and hope that had lived in him came before me -in his name—it went to my heart.</p> - -<p>Long after, Derwent returned to point out the possibilities, which I had -no heart to find out. I heard him languidly—I had made up my mind at -once to the worst. One hopes least when one’s heart is most deeply -concerned; but still my mind roused to catch at the straw, such as it -was. The telegraph reported that it was Captain N. Hugent who was -killed. It was a very slight travesty to rest any confidence upon; but -then Bertie was Lieutenant-Colonel, lately breveted. I refused to listen -for a long time; but at last the hope caught hold of me. Derwent -recalled to my recollection so many other errors—even in this very -dispatch the name of one place was quite unrecognizable. When I did -receive<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155"></a>{155}</span> the idea into my head, I started up, crying for an Army List. -Why did they not have one in Waterflag? It was afternoon then, and the -day had gone past like a ghost, without a thought of our return home, or -of anything but this dismal piece of news. Now I put my bonnet on -hurriedly, and begged Derwent to get the carriage. We had a list at -home. We could see if there was anybody else whose name might be -mistaken for our dear boy’s.</p> - -<p>A pale afternoon—a ghostly half twilight of clouds and autumn -obscurity. I went into Clara’s favorite sitting-room, where she was by -herself, to bid her good-bye, unable to bear the sight of the whole -family, especially of Mrs. Harley, and the sympathy, sincere though it -was, which she would give me. That miserable morsel of hope, which I did -not believe in, yet trusted to, in spite of myself, raised to a fever my -grief and distress. The deepest calamity, which is certain, and not to -be doubted, is so far better than suspense, that it has not the burning -agitation of anxiety to augment its pangs. I went into Clara’s room with -the noiseless step of a ghost, impelled by I cannot tell what impulse of -swiftness and silence. Clara was crying abundantly for her old -playfellow. Alice, as I did not observe at the time, but remembered -afterwards, was not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156"></a>{156}</span> to be seen that day, and never came to whisper a -word of consolation to me, nor even to bid me good-bye. I put my veil -aside for a moment to kiss Clara. “Oh, Mrs. Crofton! it will turn out to -be somebody else!” cried Clara, with her unreasoning impulse of -consolation. I wrung the little hand she put into mine and hurried away. -Ah! God help us! if it was not Bertie it must be somebody else—if we -were exempted, other hearts must break. Oh, heavy life! oh, death -inexorable! some one must bear this blow, whether another household or -our own.</p> - -<p>We hurried back to Hilfont, all very silent, little Derwie leaning back -in his corner of the carriage, his eyes ablaze, and not a tear in them; -the child was in the highest excitement, but not for Bertie’s -life—panting to know, not that the cousin whom he had never seen was -saved, but that something noble and great had been done by this hero of -his childish imagination. As for my husband, I knew it was only in -consideration of my weakness that he had remained all day inactive. I -saw him look at his watch, and lean out to speak to the coachman. I knew -that he would continue his journey to town as fast as steam could carry -him. I felt certain Derwent could not rest without certain news.</p> - -<p>When we reached home, I hastened at once, in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157"></a>{157}</span> advance of them all, to -the library, where I knew that Army List was. I remember still how I -threw the books out of my way till I found it, and how, with a haste -which defeated its own object, I ruffled over the leaves with my -trembling hands. I found nothing like Bertie’s name—nothing that could -be changed into that Captain N. Hugent in all his regiment. I threw the -book away from me and sunk upon a chair, faint and giddy. My hopes had -grown as I approached to the point of resolving them; now they forsook -me in a moment. Why should I quarrel with that inevitable fate? Why -should we be exempted, and no other? Long and peaceful had been this -interregnum. Years had passed since grief touched us—now it was over, -and the age of sorrow had begun again.</p> - -<p>“I have only a minute to spare,” said Derwent, looking over the list -himself, with a grave and unsatisfied face; “of course I must go to town -immediately, Clare, and see if any more information is to be had. But -look here! it is not so much the mistake of name as of rank which weighs -with me; military people, you know, are rigid in that respect. Had it -been Colonel, I should not have questioned the transposing of the -initials; but see! he is registered as Major even here.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158"></a>{158}</span></p> - -<p>“Don’t say anything, Derwent,” said I; “let me make up my mind to it. -Why should not we have our share of suffering as well as so many others? -Do not try to soothe me with a hope which you don’t feel.”</p> - -<p>“My dear, if I were not so anxious, I should be sure of it,” said -Derwent. “I am very hopeful even now. And, Clare,” said my husband, -stopping sorrowfully to look at me, “grieved as we are, think, at the -most, it might have been worse still—it might have been your own son.”</p> - -<p>I turned my head away for the moment, with something of an added pang. -My boy Bertie!—he was not my son—he did not even look so very, very -much younger than I, now-a-days, as he had been used to do; yet he was -my boy, kindred in blood and close in heart. Little Derwent stood by, -listening up to this moment in silence. Now he spoke.</p> - -<p>“Mamma, are you sorry?” cried the child; “our Bertie would not die for -nothing, if he did die. Is it for Bertie, because he’s been a brave -soldier that you cry? Then how will you do, mamma, when <i>I’m</i> a man?”</p> - -<p>How should I do? I clasped my son close in my arms and wept aloud. His -father went away from us with a trembling lip, and tears in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159"></a>{159}</span> his eyes. -My heart groaned and exulted over the child, who felt himself a knight -and champion born. Ah! what should I do when he was a man? What would -every one do who loved Derwie, if death and danger came in the way of -<i>his</i> duty? But some such men bear charmed lives.</p> - -<p>Derwent went away that day to do all that was possible towards -ascertaining the truth. We were left alone in the house, Derwie and I. -My boy kept by me all day, unfolding to me the stores of his wonderful -childish information—what in my pride and admiration I had been used to -call Derwie’s gossip. He did not console, nor suggest consolation; but -the heart swelled in his child’s bosom to think of some great thing -which he had yet to hear of, that Bertie had done. He was entirely -possessed with that idea; and by-and-by his enthusiasm breathed itself -into his mother also. I began to bear myself proudly in the depths of my -grief. “Another for England!” I said in my heart: Ah! more than for -England, for humanity, nature, our very race and blood. If Bertie had -died to deliver the helpless from yonder torturing demons, could we -grudge his life for that cause? So I tried to stifle down my fond hopes -for my chosen heir—to put Alice Harley and Estcourt aside out of my -mind, that nothing might come between me and our dearest young hero. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160"></a>{160}</span> -was killed. That murderous chariot of war had gone over him, and -extinguished those fair and tender prospects out of this world; but not -the praise nor the love, which should last for ever.</p> - -<p>So I thought, waiting for further tidings, persuading myself that I had -no other expectation than to hear that fatal dispatch confirmed—yet -cherishing I cannot tell what unspoken, unpermitted secret hopes at the -bottom of my heart.</p> - -<p>Some days of extreme suspense ensued. Derwent found no satisfaction in -London; but remained there in order to get the first news that came. -Heavily those blank hours of uncertainty went over us. Lady Greenfield -came to Hilfont, and she and I grew friends, as we mingled our -tears—friends for the first time. All my other neighbors distressed me -with inquiries or condolences. Some wondered I went to church on the -next Sunday, and was not in mourning. Nobody would let me alone in my -anxiety and grief. I had a visit almost every day from Clara Sedgwick, -who came in crying, as if that would console me, and hung upon my neck. -I was far too deeply excited to take any comfort out of Clara’s -caresses; perhaps, if truth must be told, I was a little bored with -demonstrations of affection, to which, uneasy and miserable as I was, I -could make so little response.</p> - -<p>Then came the day for news—the dread day,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161"></a>{161}</span> when all secret hopes which -might be lurking in our hearts were to receive confirmation or -destruction, the last being so very much the most probable. I felt -assured that if the news was favorable, Derwent would return that day, -and waited with a beating heart for the dispatch, which I knew he would -not delay a moment in sending me. The news came—alas! such unhappy -no-news! The same perplexing, murderous information, simply repeated -without a single clue to the mistake, whatever it was. I sank down in my -chair, with an overpowering sickness at my heart while I read—sickness -of depressed hope, of disappointment of a conviction and certainty which -crushed me. The repetition somehow weighed heavily with my imagination. -I could no longer either deny or doubt the truth of it. It was all over. -There was no more Bertie Nugent of Estcourt now to maintain the name of -my fathers; so many hopes and dreams were ended, and such a noble, fresh -young life, full of all good and generous impulses, was finished for -ever.</p> - -<p>“I fear—I fear, Derwie, my darling—I fear it must be true,” said I.</p> - -<p>“But what did he do? Bertie did not die for nothing, mamma—is it not in -the paper what he <i>did</i>?” cried Derwie.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162"></a>{162}</span></p> - -<p>If it had been, perhaps one could have borne it better. If he had died -relieving a distressed garrison, or freeing a band of agonized -fugitives, and we had known that he did so, perhaps—perhaps—it might -have been easier to bear. I sat down listlessly in the great window of -the breakfast-room. Something of the maze of grief came over me. If I -had seen him coming through the avenue yonder, crossing the lawn, -approaching to me with his pleasant smile, I should not have wondered. -Death had separated Bertie from the limits of place and country—he was -mysteriously near, though what remained of him might be thousands of -miles away.</p> - -<p>Thus I sat languidly looking out, and saying over in my heart those -verses which everybody must remember who has ever been in great -trouble—those verses of <i>In Memoriam</i>, in which the poet sees the ship -come home with its solemn, silent passenger, and yet feels that if along -with the other travellers he saw the dead man step forth—</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">“And strike a sudden hand in mine,<br /></span> -<span class="i2"> And ask a thousand things of home;—<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“And I should tell him all my pain,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And how my life had drooped of late,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">And he should sorrow o’er my state,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">And marvel what possessed my brain;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163"></a>{163}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“And I perceived no touch of change,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">No hint of death in all his frame,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">But found him all in all the same,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">I should not feel it to be strange.”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Wonderful subtle intuition of the poetic soul! Who does not know that -strange contrast of death and life? A week ago, and had I seen Bertie -from that window, I should have hailed his appearance with the wildest -amazement. But I should neither have wondered nor faltered had I seen -him this day; on the contrary, would have felt in my heart that it was -natural and fit he should be there.</p> - -<p>But I did not see Bertie. I saw far off a homely country gig driving up -rapidly towards the house, and strained my eyes, wondering if it could -be Derwent, though he had sent me no intimation of his return. As it -came closer, however, I saw that one of the figures it contained was a -woman’s, and at last perceived that my visitors were no other than Alice -Harley and her brother Maurice. I started nervously up, and hid away my -dispatch, for I trembled to see my dear girl. What had she to do coming -here?—she who could not ask after his fate with calmness, and yet to -the bottom of her maiden heart felt that she had <i>no right</i> to be -concerned.</p> - -<p>Alice was very pale—I could see the nervous<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164"></a>{164}</span> trembling over her whole -frame, which she subdued painfully, and with a nervous force, as she -came in. Though her voice would scarcely serve her to say the words, she -made an explanation before she asked if I had any news. “My mother sent -me,” said Alice, with bare childish simplicity, but with that breathless -gasp in her voice which I knew so well—gasp of utter despair at the -thought of enduring that suspense, and concealing it for five minutes -longer—“to know if you had any further news—if you had heard,” she -added, with a convulsive calmness, casting at me a fiery glance, defiant -of the compassion she saw in my face. I saw she meant to say his name, -to show me how firm she was, but nature was too much for Alice—she -concluded hurriedly in the baldest, briefest words—“anything more?”</p> - -<p>I shook my head, and she sank into the nearest seat—not -fainting—people do not faint at such moments—kept alive and conscious -by a burning force of pain.</p> - -<p>“Only the same miserable news over again,” said I, “with the same -mistake in the name; letters must come, I fear, before we can know—but -I am afraid to hope.”</p> - -<p>A little convulsive sound came from Alice’s breast—she heard it -herself, and drew herself up<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165"></a>{165}</span> after it to hide the wound still if she -could. Maurice, too, was greatly affected, though he could scarcely be -said to have known Bertie; he walked about the room in his careless -man’s way, doing everything in the world without intending it, to make -that composure we two women had wound ourselves up to, -impossible—making his lamentations as he paced about from table to -table, picking up all the books to look at them as he went and came.</p> - -<p>“Poor Nugent!” said Maurice—“poor honest fellow!—he was not very -brilliant, but people liked him all the better for that. What a bright -frank face he had—what a laugh! I shall never hear anybody laugh so -heartily again. And to think of a fellow like that, and hundreds more, -sacrificed to these black demons! Good heavens! and we sitting here at -home idling away our lives!”</p> - -<p>“Ah, my Bertie!” cried I, out of my heart, “and no one left behind him -to bear his name—nobody to mourn for him except ourselves—nobody -belonging to <i>him</i>! If there is one thing a man has a right to in life -and death, it is surely a woman’s tears.”</p> - -<p>I did not think what I was saying. The words were scarcely out of my -lips when an overpowering burst of tears broke through all the painful -reserve and forced calmness of Alice. She covered<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166"></a>{166}</span> her face with her -hands, hid her head, drew her veil frantically over her passionate -weeping. But the flood would have its way, and she could not stop it. I -dried my own tears to look on almost with awe at that outburst of -controlled and restrained nature. My poor Bertie! the last sad right of -a man had fallen to him unawares; he had that mournful possession, all -to himself, poured forth upon the grave of his youth with a fulness that -knew no reserve—a woman’s tears!</p> - -<p>Maurice stood by overwhelmed with surprise; he looked at his sister—he -grew crimson up to his hair—he drew back a step as if he felt himself -an intruder spying upon this unsuspected grief. Then he retired to the -bookcase at the other side of the room, with an appealing glance at me. -I followed him softly, Alice being far too entirely absorbed to observe -us for the moment.</p> - -<p>“What does it mean—was there anything between them?” asked Maurice, in -my ear.</p> - -<p>“They were playfellows and dear friends,” said I; “you know how Clara -feels it too.”</p> - -<p>“Not like <i>that</i>,” said Maurice, once more growing red, as he turned to -the books in the shelves—he stood there absorbed in these books, taking -out some to examine them, showing himself entirely occupied with this -investigation till Alice had recovered her composure. She<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167"></a>{167}</span> looked up at -me with a guilty, pale face when she had wept out her tears; and I was -comforted that she saw her brother coldly standing in the background -with his back to us and a book in his hand. I had never been so pleased -with Maurice before.</p> - -<p>“You are not well, my dear child,” said I, “I will bring you some wine, -and you must rest a little. Thank you for remembering him, Alice. Now we -can give him nothing but tears.”</p> - -<p>Alice, all pale, miserable, and abashed, gasped forth something of which -I could only distinguish the words “playfellow” and “old friend.”</p> - -<p>“I was saying so—you were like his sisters, Clara and you,” said I, out -loud to reach Maurice’s ear.</p> - -<p>Alice looked up in my face, now that she had betrayed herself. I thought -she was almost jealous that I did not understand her—that I really -believed these were, like Clara’s, friendly and sisterly tears.</p> - -<p>What could I do? I hushed her, drawing her head to my breast. I could -say nothing,—he was gone—he could neither learn what love was bestowed -upon him nor return it. Words could no longer touch that secret matter -which was made holy by Bertie’s grave.</p> - -<p>“Look here, Mrs. Crofton,” said Maurice,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168"></a>{168}</span> turning round upon me, when he -saw I had left Alice’s side, with the Army List in his hand; “it is not -in Nugent’s regiment, certainly, but the 53d is in India, too—look -here.”</p> - -<p>I looked with little interest, believing it only a kind expedient to -break up the trying situation in which we all stood. It was a name which -Maurice pointed out, the name entirely unknown to me, of Captain Nicolas -Hughes.</p> - -<p>“What of it?” said I, almost disposed to think he was making light of -our trouble.</p> - -<p>“Captain N. Hughes—Captain N. Hugent—the mistake might be quite -explainable; at least,” said Maurice, putting up the book, “at least -with such a similarity we ought not yet to despair. Alice we’ll go home -now. I daresay Mrs. Crofton has too many visitors just at present, and -my mother will be anxious to hear. Dear Mrs. Crofton,” said the young -man, in whom I could not recognize that Fellow of Exeter, grasping my -hand warmly, “don’t despair.”</p> - -<p>And Alice, with a painful blush on her cheeks, and her veil over her -face, followed him out without a word. I took but faint hope from the -suggestion of that name; but if it were possible—if still we might hope -that Bertie was spared—never would Alice Harley forgive him for that -outburst of tears.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169"></a>{169}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIX" id="CHAPTER_XIX"></a>CHAPTER XIX.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Derwent</span> had not yet returned, and I could understand perfectly why he -waited, uneasy for further news, or at least for some explanation of -that which we had already heard. I waited also, spending the days sadly, -but giving up hope, and consequently in a state of anxiety less painful. -Sometimes, indeed, Derwie thrust me back into my fever of suspense by -his oft-repeated wonder that there should be no news yet of that feat of -arms which had cost Bertie his life. The child could not and would not -understand how the bravest may perish by some anonymous undistinguished -shot, as well as the coward; nor believe that “Bertie had died for -nothing,” as he said. And sometimes that name which Maurice Harley -pointed out to me wavered through my memory for hours together, and -upset my calm. Captain Nicolas Hughes—who was he? I wondered, musing at -the window, with still that vague thrilling thought at my heart that it -would not surprise me to see Bertie<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170"></a>{170}</span> coming across the lawn. Was he -young, perhaps, and had mother and sisters at home breaking their hearts -with an anxiety kindred to our own—or, harder still, perhaps a wife -trembling to believe that her children had no father? Alas! alas! who -could choose to be delivered one’s-self at the cost of another’s -heartbreak? God’s will be done, whatever it was! <i>He</i> knew, though we -did not. There was nothing else to say.</p> - -<p>A few days after I had an unexpected, and, I am grieved to say, not very -welcome visit from Mrs. Harley. I had shunned seeing her hitherto, -afraid alike of her condolences over a sorrow which I had not consented -to, or her weak encouragements of a hope in which I durst not believe. -Had it been possible to so old a friend, I would have denied myself, -when I saw the same gig in which Maurice had driven Alice—a convenient -rural vehicle belonging to a farmer close by her house—driving up once -more to Hilfont with Mrs. Harley; but as, in spite of thirty years’ -close friendship, the good woman would still have set this down as a -slight to her poverty, I did not venture to refuse her admittance. She -came in with her best conventional look of sympathy, shook my hand with -emphasis, and gave me a slow lingering kiss; did<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171"></a>{171}</span> all those things by -which our friends mark their profound consciousness of our sorrow, and -readiness to receive our confidence. I, for my part, was disposed to say -very little on the subject. There was no more news—nothing to say. I -was afraid to speculate, or to have any speculations upon this, which -none of us could elucidate. It was best to leave it in silence while we -waited—time enough to speak when all was secure.</p> - -<p>Yet when I saw that Mrs. Harley’s sympathy was the merest superficial -crust overlaid upon her own perennial anxieties, I am not sure that I -was pleased. One feels it impossible that one’s friends can feel for one -fully; yet one is disappointed, notwithstanding, when one perceives how -entirely occupied they are with the closer current of their own affairs. -Mrs. Harley had no sooner expressed her feeble affliction over “the sad -calamity,” than she forsook that subject for a more interesting one; and -it was a little grievous to be called upon to adjudicate in favor of -Alice’s lover, just after I had looked with respect and sympathy on -Alice’s tears.</p> - -<p>“My dear Mrs. Crofton, I am sure I would not for the world trouble you -with my affairs, when you are in such deep affliction,” said Mrs. -Harley, doing of course the very thing she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172"></a>{172}</span> deprecated; “but I am in -such anxiety about Alice; and really Mr. Reredos is so very urgent that -I no longer know what to say to him. I ventured to give him an -intimation, a few weeks ago, that Alice was rather inclining towards -him, as I thought—and of course the poor young man redoubled his -attentions; and now, whether it is mere perversity or dislike, or what -it is, I cannot tell, but from that time Alice has treated him with such -indifference, not to say disdain, that I am at my wit’s end.”</p> - -<p>“It would have been better to have said nothing to the Rector without -Alice’s consent,” said I, languidly, yet not without a certain -satisfaction in piercing my visitor with this little javelin. Mrs. -Harley shook her head and wiped her eyes.</p> - -<p>“It is so easy to say so,” said the troubled mother, “so easy to think -what is best when one’s own heart is not concerned; But if I <i>was</i> wrong -I cannot help it now—Alice is so very unreasonable. She cannot endure -the very sight of Mr. Reredos now—it is extremely distressing to me.”</p> - -<p>“I am very sorry to hear it, Mrs. Harley, but you know I cannot help -you,” said I.</p> - -<p>“Oh! my dear Clare, I beg your pardon a thousand times for troubling you -when you have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173"></a>{173}</span> such distressing news, but you know quite well you are -all-powerful with Alice. Then another thing, Clara tells me that dear -Bertie—dear fellow!—I am sure I loved him like a child of my own—had -something to do with her sister’s behavior to the Rector—not that they -were in love, you know, only some old childish friendship that the dear -girl remembered when he was in danger. Do you think there is anything in -it, Clara? Can that be the reason? but you know of course it is quite -nonsense. Why, they have not met for eight years!”</p> - -<p>“That proves it must be nonsense, to be sure,” said I; “but excuse me, -Mrs. Harley, this dear boy who is gone was very dear to me—I cannot -mingle his name in any talk about other people. I beg your pardon—I -can’t indeed.”</p> - -<p>“Dear, dear, it is I who should beg your pardon,” cried Mrs. Harley, in -great distress; “I am sure I did not mean to be so selfish; but you used -to be very fond of Alice, Clare—fonder of her than of any one else, -though I say it. Long ago you would not have turned off anything that -was for the poor girl’s good.”</p> - -<p>“You know I am as fond of Alice as ever I was—what do you want me to -do?” cried I.</p> - -<p>“Oh, nothing, Clare, dear—nothing but a little good advice,” said Mrs. -Harley. “If it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174"></a>{174}</span> should happen to be dear Bertie whom she has set her -thoughts upon, just because he was in danger, as girls will do, and -refusing other eligible offers, and throwing away quite a satisfactory -match and suitable establishment, wouldn’t you speak to her, dear Clare? -Her dear papa had such confidence in you that you would always be a -friend to his girls—he said so many a time, long before we knew what -was going to happen. You have such influence with all my children, Mrs. -Crofton—almost more than their mother has. Do represent to Alice how -much she’s throwing away—and especially, alas! <i>now</i>.”</p> - -<p>This emphasis was rather too much for my patience.</p> - -<p>“You forget,” I said, “that Alice is able to judge for herself—she is -not a girl now”——</p> - -<p>“She is seven and twenty, Mrs. Crofton—do you mean to reproach her with -her age?” said Mrs. Harley, with an angry color rising on her face.</p> - -<p>“Reproach her! for what?” said I, constrained to laugh in the midst of -my grief. “Why will you tease Alice, and yourself, and me? She is very -well—she is,” I added, with a little gulp, swallowing my better -knowledge, “quite contented and happy—why will you torture her into -marrying? She is quite satisfied to be as she is.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175"></a>{175}</span></p> - -<p>“Ah, Clare—but I have so many children to provide for!” cried poor Mrs. -Harley, with a gush of tears.</p> - -<p>This silenced me, and I said no more. But Mrs. Harley had not exhausted -her budget of complaints.</p> - -<p>“And Maurice,” said this unfortunate mother; “after the education he has -had, and all the money and pains that have been expended on -him—Maurice, I do believe, Mrs. Crofton, will do something violent one -of these days; he will go into business, or,” with another outburst of -tears, “set himself to learn a trade.”</p> - -<p>“Surely nothing quite so bad as that,” said I, with as much sympathy as -I could summon up.</p> - -<p>“Ah, you don’t know how he speaks—if you could only hear him; and the -troubles in India and this last dreadful news have had such an effect -upon Maurice,” said Mrs. Harley; “you would suppose, to hear him speak, -that the poor soldiers had suffered all the more because he was doing -nothing. Such nonsense! And instead of going into the Church in a proper -and dignified manner, like his dear father, I see nothing better for it -but that he’ll make a tradesman of himself.”</p> - -<p>“But it would be satisfactory to see him doing something for -himself—improving his own position;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176"></a>{176}</span> he can never settle and make a -home for himself while he has only his Fellowship. Don’t you think -Maurice is right?” said I, keeping up the conversation from mere -politeness, and already sufficiently tired of the interruption it made.</p> - -<p>“He has his mother’s house,” said Mrs. Harley, a little sharply, “and he -has the position of a gentleman,” she added a moment after, in a -faltering, apologetic tone. Good, troubled woman! She had come to that -age of conflicting interests when the instincts of the heart do not -always guide true. She wanted—very naturally—to see her daughter -provided for; and so, if she could, would have persuaded Alice into an -unwilling marriage. She could not bear to see her son derogating from -the “position” which his father’s son ought to fill; and as he would not -go into the Church, she would fain have condemned the young man to -shrivel up into the dreary dignity of a College Don. Poor Mrs. -Harley!—that was all that the philosophy of the affections instructed -her to do.</p> - -<p>She had scarcely left me half an hour when I was startled by the -appearance of the Rector. He was grave and pale, held my hand in his -tight grasp, and made his professions of sympathy all very properly and -in good taste. But his looks and his tone aggravated a sick impatience<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177"></a>{177}</span> -of sympathy which began to grow about my heart. I began to comprehend -how people in deep and real grief, might grow disgusted with the -conventional looks expected from them, and learn an almost levity of -manner, to forestall those vulgar, dreary sympathies; and this sympathy, -too, covered something very different—something a great deal nearer to -the Rector’s heart.</p> - -<p>“It may seem to you a very indelicate question—I beg your pardon, Mrs. -Crofton—I ask it with great diffidence—but I do not hesitate to -confess to you that my own happiness is deeply concerned,” said Mr. -Reredos, blushing painfully—and I knew at once, and recognized with a -certain thrill of impatience and disgust, what he was going to ask; -“Miss Harley and the late Captain Nugent were almost brought up -together, I have heard; will you forgive me asking if there was any -attachment—any engagement between them?”</p> - -<p>“<i>Colonel</i> Nugent, please!” said I, I fear rather haughtily; “and it is -surely premature to say the late, as I trust in Heaven we shall yet have -better news.”</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon,” repeated the Rector, quickly, “I—I was not -aware—but might I ask an answer to my question?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178"></a>{178}</span></p> - -<p>“If there was any engagement between Alice and my dear Bertie?—none -whatever!” cried I, with all my might—“nothing of the kind! Pardon me, -you have <i>not</i> been delicate—you have <i>not</i> considered my feelings—if -Alice has been unfavorable to you, it is for your own merits, and not on -his account.”</p> - -<p>I was half sorry when I saw the grave, grieved, ashamed expression with -which this other young man turned away. He bowed and was gone almost -before I knew what I had said—I fear not without an arrow of -mortification and injured pride tingling through the love in his heart.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179"></a>{179}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XX" id="CHAPTER_XX"></a>CHAPTER XX.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">And</span> after all, the Rector was premature—we were all premature, -lamenting for him over whom we were so speedily to rejoice. When Derwent -put the dispatch into my hand (he did not send, but brought it, to make -more sure), I could not read the words for tears. My eyes were clear -enough when I saw that terrible <i>killed</i>, in which we believed to read -Bertie’s fate. But the dear boy’s own message, in rapid reply to one -which Derwent, out of my knowledge, had managed to have sent to him, -floated upon me in a mist of weeping. The truth came inarticulate to my -mind—I could neither see, nor scarcely hear the words in which it was -conveyed.</p> - -<p>But, alas! alas! it <i>was</i> Captain Nicholas Hughes who had fallen, -instead of Bertie. I inquired all that I could learn about this unknown -soldier, with a remorseful grief in the midst of my joy, which I cannot -describe. I could not join in the tumult of exultation which rose round<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180"></a>{180}</span> -me. I could not forget that this news, which came so welcome to us, -brought desolation upon another house. I could not think of him but as -Bertie’s substitute, nor help a painful, fantastical idea that it was to -our prayers and our dear boy’s safety that he owed his death. I was -almost glad to find that the widow whom he had left behind him had need -of what kind offices we could do her for the bringing up of her -children, and vowed to myself, with a compunction as deep as it was, no -doubt, imaginary, that she should never want while Estcourt remained -mine. Was it not their dismal loss and bereavement which had saved the -heir of my father’s house?</p> - -<p>“It is the fortune of war,” said Derwent, when he learned, to his -profound amazement, this idea which had taken possession of me. “It is -the will of God,” said Captain Hughes’s pale widow, lifting her tearful -face to me, from under the heavy veil of her mourning. So it was—but -sharp and poignant is the contest between grief and joy.</p> - -<p>“See what your despised telegraph can do, after all!” cried Derwent, -rejoicing with all his honest heart over the news he had brought.</p> - -<p>“But, ah! if Bertie’s friend had been poor!” said I. “How many souls do -we wring with additional pangs, to have our anxiety dispelled the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181"></a>{181}</span> more -easily? Think of the news of a battle, with so many killed and -wounded—and some dreadful fortnight, or maybe month, to live through -before one knows whether one’s own is dead or alive. No, ’tis a cruel -earthly Geni, and not a celestial Spirit—it does good now and then, -only because it cannot help it—relieves us, Derwent, but slaughters -poor Mrs. Hughes.”</p> - -<p>“I believe Clare is not half-content—nobody must be killed to satisfy -you women—but, unfortunately that will not do in this world,” said -Derwent. “We have to be thankful for our own exemption, without entering -too deeply into other people’s grief. And most of us find that -philosophy easy enough.”</p> - -<p>“Most of us are very poor creatures,” said Maurice Harley, -sententiously. He came alone to make his inquiries this time. Alice was -invisible, and not to be heard of. I could not see her even when I -called at the cottage. She had taken overpowering shame to herself, and -shrank from my eyes. It was her brother who carried our news to his -mother’s house—carried it, as I discovered incidentally, with the -rarest and most delicate care for her—rigidly keeping up the fiction of -supposing her not to care for it, nor to be specially interested, any -more than for her old playfellow. He was ill at ease himself, and -distracted<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182"></a>{182}</span> with questions no longer of a <i>dilettante</i> kind. In my eyes -this increased his kindness all the more.</p> - -<p>“Yes, we are poor creatures the most of us,” repeated Maurice, when my -husband—who did not notice any particular improvement in the Fellow of -Exeter, and was disposed to be contemptuous, as elder men are, of his -superiority to ordinary mortals—had sauntered, half-laughing, -half-disgusted, out of the room. “Something you said the other day has -stuck to my memory, Mrs. Crofton—help me out with it, pray. Are we -worth a woman’s tears, the greater part of us? What is the good of us? I -don’t mean Bertie, who is doing something in this world, but, for -example, such a fellow as me!”</p> - -<p>“Take care, Maurice! I see hoofs and a tail upon that humility of -yours,” said I. “You, who are so wise, do you not know that women and -their tears are no more superlative than men and their doings? Did you -think I meant the tender, heroical, sentimental tears of romance, for -the sake of which the sublime knight might be content to die? No such -thing. I meant only that there seems a kind of pathetic, homely justice -in it, when the man who dies—especially the man who dies untimely—has -a woman belonging to him, to be his true and faithful mourner;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183"></a>{183}</span> that is -all—it is nothing superlative; the sublime men are no better loved than -the homeliest ones. Alice, if you asked her, would give you the poetical -youthful interpretation of it, but I mean no such thing, Maurice. We -want no great deeds, we womenkind; we were born to like you, and to cry -over you, troublesome creatures that you are!”</p> - -<p>“Ah! that is very well,” said Maurice, who in his heart was young enough -to like the superlative idea best. “I wish I had a supreme right to -somebody’s tears—but why should anybody cry over me? Am not I -foredoomed to shrivel up into a College Don?”</p> - -<p>“If you please,” said I.</p> - -<p>“And if I don’t please?” cried Maurice, starting up, and seizing, after -his usual fashion, a book off the table. He made a hurried march about -the room, as usual, too; throwing that down; and picking up another to -look at its title, then returned, and repeated, with some emphasis—“And -what if I don’t please?”</p> - -<p>“Why then, please God, you will do something better,” said I; “I hope so -sincerely—it will give me the greatest pleasure—but you don’t make any -progress by talking of it; that is our woman’s province. <i>Do</i>, Maurice, -<i>do</i>! don’t <i>say</i>!”</p> - -<p>The young man flashed with an angry and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184"></a>{184}</span> abashed color. “Thank you, I -will, if it were to carry a hod. I have not forgotten,” he said, with a -little bitter meaning, “that I am a widow’s son.”</p> - -<p>“A widow’s son should be the prince of sons,” said I. “You make me -preach, you young people, though it is not my vocation. Carry a hod -then, if you will, like a gentleman and a Christian, and I, for one, -will bid you God speed.”</p> - -<p>Maurice put down his book, and came forward to me, holding out his hand. -I suspect he liked me, though he had no great reason, and I confess, -now-a-days, that I liked him. He held out his hand to say good-bye, and -in saying good-bye opened his heart.</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Crofton, you preach very well, considering that it is not your -vocation; but I begin to think I am coming to that big preacher, Life, -whom you once told me of. <i>He</i> is not a college don. Do you know,” said -Maurice, with a frank, confused laugh, and rising color, “I’m in love?”</p> - -<p>“I suspected as much,” said I. “Is all well?”</p> - -<p>“All was ill, what with my own folly, and what with that spiteful little -witch at the Rectory,” said Maurice; “but it’s coming right again. If I -were to die to-morrow—little as I deserve them—I believe I should have -these woman’s tears.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185"></a>{185}</span></p> - -<p>“My dear boy, be thankful, and go home and live!” said I, with the water -in my eyes. I was half inclined to kiss, and bless, and cry over him in -the foolishness of my heart.</p> - -<p>“I will,” said Maurice, in the fulness and effusion of his; and he -kissed my hand with a congenial impulse, and went away abruptly, moved -beyond speaking. He left me more profoundly and pleasantly touched than -I had been for a long time. Perhaps I thought, with natural vanity, that -I had a little—just a little—share in it. Dire must be the -disappointment, and heavy the calamity, which should shrivel up Maurice -Harley now into a college don.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186"></a>{186}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXI" id="CHAPTER_XXI"></a>CHAPTER XXI.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">Another</span> long period of home quietness, but great anxiety followed this. -Bertie, of course, would not return while the crisis of affairs in India -had not yet been determined; and we were so much the more anxious about -him, since he had been restored to us, as it seemed, out of the very -grave. Later he was seriously wounded, threatened with fever, and really -in great danger, but got through that as he had through all the other -perils of that murderous Indian war. He distinguished himself, too, to -our great pride and delight, especially to the boundless exultation of -Derwie, and gained both credit and promotion almost beyond the hopes of -so young a man. But, in the meantime, we were both anxious and -concerned, for we could not induce him to think that he had encountered -his full share of the fighting, and might now, surely, with perfect -honor and satisfaction bring his laurels home.</p> - -<p>“If the women and the babies are all safe on board the ships,” said -Derwie, who was almost<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187"></a>{187}</span> as reluctant to consent to Bertie’s return -before the fighting was over as Bertie himself.</p> - -<p>During all this time I scarcely saw Alice; she avoided coming in my way; -when we met, avoided speaking to me—avoided looking in my face when -that was practicable—could neither forgive herself for having betrayed -her feelings, nor me for having witnessed that betrayal. Altogether her -feelings towards me and in my presence were evidently so uncomfortable, -that out of mere charity and consideration I no longer visited Mrs. -Harley’s as I had done, nor invited them to Hilfont. They still came -sometimes, but not as they had done before. I began to fear that I had -lost Alice, which, to be sure, was unkind of her, considering what very -old friends we were; but she could not forget nor forgive either herself -or me for those tears out of which she had been cheated over that -supposititious grave where Bertie Nugent was not.</p> - -<p>So that there occurred an interregnum of information, at least, if not -of interest, in respect to the Harleys. Maurice was in London, -struggling forward to find what place he could in that perennial -battle—struggling not very successfully—for, to the amazement of all, -and, above all, to his own, he was not so greatly in advance of other -people, when he had done something definite<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188"></a>{188}</span> to be judged by, as the -Fellow of Exeter had supposed himself. Providence, in quaint, poetic -justice, had deprived Maurice, for example, of that faculty of writing -which he had, maybe, esteemed too highly. His admirers had prophesied -great triumphs for him in the field of literature before he had tried -his pen there; but it turned out that Maurice could not write, and the -discovery was rather humiliating to the young man. I have no doubt he -made an infinitude of other discoveries equally unpleasant. His -Fellowship kept him from starving, but it aggravated his failures and -the pain of them, and held up more conspicuously than might have been -desired, the unexpected imperfections of “Harley of Exeter,” in whom his -contemporaries had been disposed to put a great deal of faith. -Nevertheless, Maurice held on bravely. I liked him better and better as -he found himself out. And he bore the discovery like a man.</p> - -<p>As for Johnnie, poor boy, who had, all uneducated and without training -as he was, just that gift of putting his mind into words which his -brother lacked—he had not yet come to the bitter ending of his boyish -dream. He was busy with his second book, in high hope and spirits, -thinking himself equally secure of fame and of love. The poor lad had -forgotten entirely the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189"></a>{189}</span> difference between the present time and that -past age in which literature, fresh and novel, took its most sovereign -place. He thought how Fanny Burney was fêted and applauded for her early -novel; he thought of Scott’s unrivalled influence and honor; and he -forgot that a hundred people write books, and especially write stories, -now-a-days, for one who wrote then—and that he himself was only the -unconsidered member of a multitudinous tribe, over whose heads Fame -soared far away. It was not wonderful—he was scarcely one and twenty -yet, though he was an author, and Miss Reredos’s slave. He meant to make -the lady of his love “glorious with his pen,” as Montrose did, and -expected to find an equal monarchy in her heart. Poor cripple Johnnie! a -sadder or more grievous folly never was.</p> - -<p>But it surprised me to find that he, poor fellow, was never the object -of his mother’s anxiety. She was sorry, with a sort of contempt for his -“infatuation,” and could not for her life imagine what men could see in -that Miss Reredos. Mrs. Harley was a very kind and tender mother, ready -at any time to deny herself for any real gratification to her boy; but -she did not make much account of his heartbreak, of which “nothing could -come.” For all practical purposes<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190"></a>{190}</span> Johnnie’s love-tale was but a -fable—nothing could ever come of it. Anything so unlikely as that Miss -Reredos would marry the cripple never entered anybody’s mind but his -own. And Mrs. Harley accordingly took it calmly, save for a momentary -outburst of words now and then against the cause of Johnnie’s -delusion—that was all. Nothing save the bitter disappointment, the -violent mortification, the youthful despair, all augmented and made -doubly poignant by the ill health and infirmities of this unfortunate -boy, could result from his unlucky love-fever. So his mother was calm, -and made no account of that among her may troubled and anxious concerns.</p> - -<p>As for Alice, she was still Mrs. Harley’s greatest grievance, though I -was not trusted with the same confidences, nor implored to use my -influence, as before. Alice was more capricious, more tantalizing, less -to be reckoned on than ever. She had, I suppose, dismissed Mr. Reredos -with less courtesy than the Rector believed due to him, for he went -about his duties with a certain grim sullenness, like an injured man, -and never permitted himself to mention her name. I was in the Rector’s -ill graces, as well as in those of Alice. He could not forgive me any -more than she could, for the confidence themselves had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191"></a>{191}</span> bestowed. It was -rather hard upon me to be thus excommunicated for no ill-doings of my -own; but I bore it as best I could, sorry for Mr. Reredos, and not -doubting that, some time or other, Alice would come to herself.</p> - -<p>It was thus, in our immediate surroundings, that we spent the time until -Bertie’s return.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192"></a>{192}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXII" id="CHAPTER_XXII"></a>CHAPTER XXII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was once more spring when Bertie returned. Spring—Easter—that -resurrection time which came to our hearts with a more touching force -when we received home into our peaceful house—so pale, so worn out, and -yet so sunburnt and scarred with violent labors past—that Bertie, who -had gone from us so strong and so bold. He had been repeatedly -wounded—had suffered more than once from fever—had felt, at last, that -his health was broken, and that there was little more use in him while -he remained in India, and so was persuaded to come home. Derwent, -kindest of friends, went to meet him at Southampton, and brought him -home as tenderly as any nurse, or rather far more tenderly, with a -tenderness more considerate and requiring less response than that of a -woman. To see our young hero an invalid, overpowered me entirely. I -quite broke down under it, comparing him with what he was, and fearing -everything from the mortal paleness, thrown by his sunbrowned -complexion<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193"></a>{193}</span> into a ghastly yellow, which sometimes overspread his face. -Derwent judged more justly—he held up his finger to me when he saw the -exclamation of dismay and grief that trembled on my lips.</p> - -<p>“He’s tired, Clare,” said my husband. “A bright fire, and an English bed -and rest—that’s all Bertie wants to-night. He’ll answer all your -questions to-morrow. Come, old fellow, you know your way to your old -room.”</p> - -<p>“I should think so, indeed—and thank God I am at home,” cried Bertie, -with his familiar voice. With a thrill of anguish I restrained my -salutations and followed quietly to see that all was comfortable for -him. He protested that it was nonsense, that he could come downstairs -perfectly well, that Mr. Crofton only wanted to humble his vanity; but -at the same moment drew up his foot wearily upon the sofa, with a -gesture that showed better than words his need of rest.</p> - -<p>“Alas, Derwent, has it come to this?” said I, as we went downstairs.</p> - -<p>Derwent turned round upon me, put his big hands upon my shoulders, and -thrust me in before him to the handiest room. “Now, Clare,” he said, -with comical solemnity, “if we are going to have any nonsense or -lamentations, I’ll<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194"></a>{194}</span> shut you up here till my patient’s better. The boy -is as sound as I am, and would be able to ride to cover in a fortnight, -if any such chances were going. Now don’t say a word—I am speaking -simple truth.”</p> - -<p>“I must trust my own eyes,” said I; “but you need not fear my -indiscretion. See how I have refrained from agitating him now.”</p> - -<p>“Agitating him! Oh!” cried Derwent, with a good-humored roar. “What -stuff you speak, to be sure! He is quite able to be agitated as much as -you please—there is nothing in the world but wounds and fatigue the -matter with Bertie. I am afraid you are only a woman after all, Clare; -but you’re not to interfere with my patient. I’ve taken him in hand, and -mind you, I’m to have the credit, and bring him through.”</p> - -<p>“But, oh, Derwent,” said I, “how pale he is!”</p> - -<p>“If I had seen as many dreadful sights as he has, I should be pale too,” -said Derwent. “Seriously, he is tired and worn out, but not ill. Don’t -be sorry for him, Clare—don’t put anything in his head. Talk -pleasantly. I don’t forbid the subject, for example,” said my husband, -looking at me with a certain affectionate cloudy mirth, as if he had -known my secret all along, “of Alice Harley, if you choose.”</p> - -<p>I put him aside a little impatiently, and he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195"></a>{195}</span> followed me into the very -late dinner, which had been deferred for the arrival of the travellers, -and where Bertie’s empty chair struck me again with a little terror. But -I was wise for once, and yielded to Derwent’s more cheerful opinion. On -the next morning Bertie was better—he went on getting better day by -day. Derwent took care of him, and attended him in a way which took me -by surprise; never teasing him with questions—never gazing at him with -his heart in his eyes, as we womanish creatures do, to mar the work we -would give our lives to accomplish; but with his eyes always open, and -his attention really missing nothing that happened, and taking account -of all.</p> - -<p>A week after his arrival, Bertie, who hitherto had been telling me, as -he could, his adventures in India—dread adventures, interwoven with all -the thread of that murderous history—at last broke all at once into the -full tide of home talk.</p> - -<p>“And dear old Estcourt, Cousin Clare,” said Bertie, “stands exactly as -it was, I suppose; and Miss Austin as steadfast as the lime trees—and -the children to keep the old park cheerful—all as it was?”</p> - -<p>“All as it was, Bertie; but the other house ready and waiting for you.”</p> - -<p>I looked up with a little anxiety to see the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196"></a>{196}</span> effect of what I said. -Distracted with a disappointed love, Bertie had left us—ill and languid -he had returned. I thought my words might recall to his mind at once his -old dreams and his present weakness; and with some terror I glanced at -his face. He was lying on the sofa in that bright morning room with the -great bow window, from which, shining afar like a great picture, he -could see all the peaceful slope of our low-country, with the river -glistening in links and bends, and the cathedral towers far off, lending -a graceful centre and conclusion to the scene.</p> - -<p>Bertie did not return my glance; he lay still, with a languid ease and -satisfaction in his attitude which struck me for the first time—as if -he was profoundly content to be there, and felt his fatigues and pains -melt away in that warmth of home. As I looked at him a warmer color rose -over his brown-pale face, a pleasant glimmer woke in his eye—his whole -aspect warmed and brightened—a half conscious smile came playing about -his parted lips. Whatever Bertie thought upon, it was neither -disappointment nor broken health.</p> - -<p>There was a long pause—the silence was pleasant—broken only by the -soft domestic sounds of a great house; brightly lay that pleasant -landscape<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197"></a>{197}</span> outside the window, all soft and sweet with spring; tender -and pleasant was the contrast of all the scene, the care and love -surrounding the soldier now, with the burning plains and cruel contests -from which he had come; and thoughts, dear, warm, and tender, arose in -Bertie’s heart. He paused long, perhaps, with a simple art, to conceal -from me a little the link of pleasant association which had directed his -thoughts that way—then, with that wavering, conscious smile, spoke—</p> - -<p>“So Alice Harley is not married,” he said, turning on his elbow, with a -pretence of carelessness, as if to get a fuller view. “How is that, -Cousin Clare?”</p> - -<p>To think that Alice Harley connected herself instinctively with the idea -of Bertie’s house which was ready for him, was a pleasant thought to me; -but I only answered, “There is no telling, Bertie. She might have been -married two or three times had she pleased.”</p> - -<p>“I am very glad of it,” said Bertie; “to see every pretty girl whom one -used to know converted into the mother of ever so many children, makes a -fellow feel old before his time. I am not so frightfully old, after all; -but I fear nobody will have anything to say to a worn-out poor soldier -like me.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t be too humble, Bertie,” said I. “I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198"></a>{198}</span> don’t think, between -ourselves, that Colonel Nugent is so very diffident of his own merits. -On the contrary, he knows he has made a little noise in this world, is -aware that people will drink his health, and fête him when he is well -enough, and that all the young ladies will smile upon the hero. Don’t -you think now, honestly, that this is the real state of the case?”</p> - -<p>Bertie blushed and fell back to his old position. “Don’t be hard upon a -fellow, Cousin Clare,” he said, with a slightly pleading tone—half -afraid of ridicule—half conscious that little ridicule was to be -expected from me.</p> - -<p>“No indeed, quite the reverse—nobody will be hard upon you, my boy,” -said I. “Huntingshire is quite ready to bestow anything you wish upon -you, Bertie—anything from a seat in Parliament, up to the prettiest -daughter it has, if you mean to set up your household gods in the -Estcourt jointure-house.”</p> - -<p>Bertie blushed once more, and coughed, and cleared his throat a little, -as if he had some intentions of taking me into his confidence, when my -boy Derwie suddenly made a violent diversion by rushing in all red and -excited, and flinging himself against our soldier with all his might.</p> - -<p>“Bertie!” shouted little Derwent, “is it true you’re going to have the -Victoria Cross?”</p> - -<p>Bertie colored violently as he recovered from<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199"></a>{199}</span> that shock. I don’t -believe, if he had been suddenly charged with running away, that he -would have looked half as much abashed.</p> - -<p>“Why, you know, Derwie, we’d all like it if we could get it,” he said, -faltering slightly; but I knew in a moment, by the sudden movement of -his head and glance of his eye, that he really did believe it possible, -and that this was the darling ambition of Bertie’s heart.</p> - -<p>“But Bevan told me!” cried Derwie—“he told me about those gates, you -know, that you and the rest blew up. Mamma, listen! There were six of -them, forlorn-hope men, Bevan says”——</p> - -<p>“Ah, Derwie, hush!—four of them sleep yonder, the brave fellows!—four -privates, who could not hope for distinction like me,” cried Bertie, -with that same profound awe and compunction, contrasting his own -deliverance with the calamity of others, which had once stricken me.</p> - -<p>“A private can have the Victoria Cross as well as a general,” cried -Derwie, clapping his hands; “and more likely, Bevan says—for a general -commands and doesn’t fight.”</p> - -<p>“That is true—God save the Queen!” cried Bertie. “If Corporal Inglis -gets it, Derwie—and he ought—we’ll illuminate.”</p> - -<p>“If you get it,” said Derwie, “you deserve it all the same. Mamma, they -blew up the gates<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200"></a>{200}</span> with gunpowder; they went close—so close that”——</p> - -<p>“Boh!” cried Bertie; “mamma read all about it in the papers. It was -nothing particular—it only had to be done, that’s all. Now, Derwie, -don’t you know when a thing has to be done somebody must do it?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I know,” said Derwie, “perfectly well. When mamma says <i>must</i> I -always go directly—don’t I, mamma?—and if I were as big as you I -wouldn’t mind being killed either. When you were killed, Bertie—that -time you know when everybody thought so—oh, what a crying there was!”</p> - -<p>“Was there?” asked Bertie, with a softened tone, putting his arm round -the eager child.</p> - -<p>But a new point of interest in those human studies which were so dear to -him had suddenly seized upon Derwie’s imagination. He turned abruptly to -me.</p> - -<p>“Mamma, didn’t Alice come once and cry? I saw her go away with such red -eyes; and she never came again, and never looked like her own self when -she did come,” said my boy, with a courageous disregard of grammar. -“What is that for? Wasn’t she glad when Bertie came alive again, and it -was only poor Captain Hughes?”</p> - -<p>“Hush, Derwie, my boy—you don’t understand<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201"></a>{201}</span> these things. I was deeply -grieved for that poor Captain Hughes, Bertie—I almost felt as if, in -our great anxiety for you, his fall was our fault.”</p> - -<p>But Bertie was not thinking of Captain Hughes. He was looking intently -at me with that wavering color in his cheeks and an eager question in -his eyes. When I spoke, my words recalled him a little, and he put on a -grave look, and murmured something about the “poor fellow!” or “brave -fellow!” I could not tell which—then looked at me again, eager, with a -question hovering on his lips. The question of all others which I was -resolute not to answer. So I gathered up my work remorselessly, put it -away in my work-table, jingled my keys, told him I would see if the -newspaper had come yet, and left the room without looking round. He -might find that out at Alice’s own hands if he wished it—he should not -receive any clandestine information from me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202"></a>{202}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXIII.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> first visit which Bertie was able to make was to the cottage—to see -Mrs. Harley, as he said, gravely—but I fear he did not get a very -satisfactory reception. He told me he thought Alice greatly changed when -he returned; but he was not communicative on the subject, and had a -decided inclination to go back again. Perhaps the wavering, pleasant, -half-conscious sentiment, and tender youthful reminiscence, with which -Bertie came home, was the better of a little opposition to warm it into -independent life; and Alice had reason enough for a double share of -perversity and caprice, though Bertie knew nothing of that. She had -betrayed herself to me, and, for a moment, to Maurice. She thought, no -doubt, that everybody had suspected that secret of hers—and with -unconscious self-importance, that it was whispered throughout the -country with secret smiles over all her former unmarried-woman -superiority to vulgar love-affairs. Her credit was consequently very -deeply<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203"></a>{203}</span> involved—she would not have smiled upon Bertie Nugent now had -it been to save his life.</p> - -<p>Still, however, Bertie, in the pleasant leisure of his convalescence, -betook himself to Mrs. Harley’s cottage; and came home talking of -Johnnie and little Kate, and the letters from Maurice—but very little -about Alice, save chance words now and then, which showed a singularly -close observation of her habits. Sometimes he asked me puzzled questions -about those opinions of hers. Bertie, though he had been cheated once, -was not contemptuous of womenkind. He did not understand these new views -about the vulgarity of being married, and the propriety of multiplying -female occupations. I suspect he entertained the natural delusion that, -while he himself stood there, most ready and anxious, to share with her -the common course of life, private projects of her own, which turned her -aside from that primitive and ancient occupation of wife, were a little -fantastical, and extremely perplexing. But Bertie was not like Mr. -Reredos—he wanted simply to be at the bottom of it, and find out what -she meant. He was not the man to worry any woman into marrying him, or -to lay insidious siege to her friends. Ancient kindness, a lingering -recollection of her youthful sweetness and beauty, which had come softly -back to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204"></a>{204}</span> Bertie after his early love-troubles, and which had been kept -alive by the fascination of a secret delicious wonder, whether, perhaps, -<i>he</i> might have anything to do with the fact of her remaining unmarried, -had combined to direct Bertie’s thoughts towards Alice, and to connect -her image with all the plans and intentions of his return home. In -short, the feeling upon both sides was very much alike—with both it was -a certain captivating imaginary link, far more subtle and sweet than an -understood engagement, which warmed their hearts to each other. But for -those tragical possibilities which had so deeply excited Alice, all -would have gone as smoothly as possible when our hero came home. Now the -obstacles on each side were great. On Alice’s, that dread idea of having -betrayed a secret, unsought, unreturned affection for the distant -soldier, along with the lesser but still poignant remembrance of Lady -Greenfield’s malicious report that Bertie himself had expected Cousin -Clare to have somebody in her pocket for him to marry. On Bertie’s part, -the equally dangerous chance that, deeply mortified by finding his hope -of having some share in her thoughts so entirely unfounded, as it -appeared, he might turn away sorrowfully from the theories which -influenced her, but which his simple intelligence did not comprehend.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205"></a>{205}</span> -Never matchmaker was more perplexed than I was between these two; I -dared not say a word to either—I looked on, trembling, at the untoward -course of affairs. It was Bertie who disappointed me once; for all I -could see, it was most likely to be Alice now.</p> - -<p>When we began—which was not till another autumn restored us to -Hilfont—to be able to give some entertainments to our country -neighbors, in honor of our soldier, Alice, most cleverly and cunningly -avoided coming. She had always some admirable excuse—some excuse so -unquestionable that it would have been quite cruel to have grumbled at -it. I do not think she had been once within our house since Bertie -returned. She sent me her love, and the most dutiful messages. She was -so sorry, but she was sure her dear Mrs. Crofton would not be displeased -when she knew. I was displeased, however, and had hard ado with myself -to keep from saying as much, and declaring my conviction that she was -very unkind to Bertie. I daresay I might have done so with advantage, -though prudence and the fear of something coming of it, restrained -me—for the idea of being unkind to Bertie would, doubtless, have been -balm to Alice’s soul.</p> - -<p>They met, however, though she would not come to Hilfont—Clara Sedgwick, -who was as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206"></a>{206}</span> bold to give Bertie welcome as she had been to weep her free -sisterly tears, which there was no need to conceal, over his supposed -grave, arranged one of her very largest and grandest dinner-parties for -Bertie as soon as it was practicable. Everybody was there—Lady -Greenfield and her husband, who had all at once grown an old man, his -wife having stopped his fox-hunting long ago—and Miss Polly, and all -the Croftons, far and near, and such Nugents as could be picked up -handily; and finally, all the great people of the county, to glorify our -hero. I cannot tell by what ingenious process of badgering Alice had -been driven out of her retirement, and produced that night in the -Waterflag drawing-room. I will not even guess what cruel sisterly -sarcasms and suggestions of what people might say, had supplemented the -sisterly coaxing which were, no doubt, ineffectual; but there Alice -was—there she stood by the side of Clara’s dazzling toilette and rosy -tints, pale and clouded, in her brown silk dress—her <i>old</i> brown silk -dress, made in a fashion which “went out” at least three years ago; -without a single ornament about her anywhere—her hair braided as -plainly as though she had just come down-stairs to make the tea, and -superintend the breakfast table—not even the pretty bouquet of delicate -flowers at her breast,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207"></a>{207}</span> which made so pretty a substitute for jewels on -little Kate’s white dress—not a bracelet nor a ring—nothing to -diversify the entire plainness of her appearance, nor a single sparkle -or gleam of reflection on neck, finger, or arm. I confess that I was -both annoyed and disappointed. Instead of doing her womanly utmost to -look well and young, as became her, Alice had exhausted all her perverse -pains in making a dowdy of herself. I cannot say she had succeeded. It -was the crisis of her life, and mind and heart were alike full of -movement and agitation. She could not prevent the excitement of her -circumstances from playing about her with a gleaming fitful light, which -made her expressive face wonderfully attractive. She could not but -betray, in despite of her cold, unadorned appearance, and the almost -prim reserve which she affected, the tumult and contest within -her—extreme emotion, so restrained that the effort of self-control gave -a look of power and command to her face, and somehow elevated and -dilated her entire figure, and so contradictory that it flashed a -hundred different meanings in a moment out of those eyes which were -defiant, sarcastic, tender, and proud, all in a glance. I am not sure -even that her plain dress did not defeat its purpose still more -palpably; it distinguished her, singularly enough,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208"></a>{208}</span> from other -people—it directed everybody’s attention to her—it suggested reasons -for that prim and peculiar attire—all which, if Alice had guessed them, -would have thrown her into an agony of shame.</p> - -<p>Miss Reredos was also one of Clara’s great party—much against little -Mrs. Sedgwick’s will—only because it could not be helped, Mrs. Harley -being still pertinacious in favor of the Rector, who had all but given -up his own cause. And we were still engaged in the mysteries of dinner, -and there still remained all the long evening to operate in, when I -perceived that this indefatigable young lady had seriously devoted -herself to the entertainment of Bertie. He was doing his best to be -polite, the good fellow; but it was a long time before he could be -warmed into a flirtation. At last some very decided slight from Alice -irritated my poor soldier. He turned to the play beside him, and began -to amuse himself with it as so many other men had done. Thanks to Miss -Reredos, it speedily became a notable flirtation, witnessed and observed -by all the party. Alice watched it with a gradual elevation of her head, -paling of her cheeks, and look of lofty silent indignation, which was -infinitely edifying to me. What had she to do with it?—she who would -not bestow a single glance upon Colonel<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209"></a>{209}</span> Nugent—who called him -perpetually by that ceremonious name—who was blind and deaf to all his -deprecating looks and allusions to youthful days. If he should flirt or -even fall in love with and marry Miss Reredos, what was that to Alice? -But, to be sure, most likely that indignation of hers was all for -Johnnie’s sake.</p> - -<p>Poor Johnnie! He sat glaring at Bertie with furious eyes. Johnnie’s -little bit of bookish distinction disappeared and sank to nothing in -presence of Bertie’s epaulettes. Nobody felt the least interest to-day -in Mrs. Harley’s clever cripple-boy. His Laura indeed had kept him in -life, when she first arrived, by some morsels of kindness, but Laura too -had gone over to the enemy. Laura was visibly disposed to charm into her -own train that troublesome interloper, and Johnnie, who had resented and -forgiven fifty violent flirtations of his lady-love since he himself -first found new life, as he said, in her eyes, was more bitterly -resentful of this defection than he had been of any previous one. If she -and the other culprit, Bertie, could have been consumed by looks, we -should have had only two little heaps of ashes to clear away from the -Sedgwicks’ dinner-table that day in place of those two unfortunate -people; but Miss Reredos was happily non-combustible. She swept away in -all the fulness<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210"></a>{210}</span> of crinoline when the inevitable moment came and we -womenkind were dismissed, insulting her unhappy young lover by a little -nod and smile addressed to him across the table, which would have been -delicious an hour ago, but was wormwood and bitterness now. Bertie, I -think, at the same moment caught Alice’s lofty, offended, indignant -glance, and brightened to see the quiet resentment in that perverse -young woman’s face. It had all the effect of sunshine upon our soldier. -At that crisis we left affairs, when we went to the drawing-room. I -confess I don’t share the often-expressed sentiment about the dulness -and absurdity of that little after-dinner interval. The young ladies and -the young gentlemen may not like it, perhaps, but when could we maturer -womenkind snatch a comfortable moment for that dear domestic talk which -you superior people call gossip, if it were not in the pleasant -relaxation of this interregnum, when the other creatures are comfortably -disposed of downstairs? But for once in my life, being profoundly -interested in the present little drama—there is always one at least -going on in a great house in the country full of visitors—I did long -that day for the coming of the gentlemen, or of Bertie, at least, the -hero at once of the situation and of the day.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211"></a>{211}</span></p> - -<p>The first to come upstairs was Johnnie Harley. For some time past he had -rather affected, as a manly practice, the habit of sitting to the last -after dinner. This day he was burning to discharge the fulness of his -wrath upon Miss Reredos, so he lost no time, anxious to be beforehand -with his new rival. Miss Reredos had already posed herself at a table, -covered with a wealth of prints and photographs, these sentimental -amusements being much in her way.</p> - -<p>“I have come to have my turn,” said Johnnie, savagely. I was seated -within hearing, and, I confess, felt no very strong inducement to -withdraw from my position. Perhaps Johnnie did not see me—Miss Reredos -did, and certainly did not care. “I am come to have my turn, and to tell -you that I can’t be content to take turns—especially with that empty -fellow Nugent, whom you seem, like all the rest, to have taken so great -a fancy to.”</p> - -<p>“Colonel Nugent is not an empty fellow—he is a very agreeable man,” -said Miss Reredos, calmly.</p> - -<p>“Oh! and I am not, I suppose?” cried the reckless and embittered boy.</p> - -<p>“You certainly are not always agreeable,” answered poor Johnnie’s false -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212"></a>{212}</span>love, quite blandly; “and as for being a <i>man</i> at all—— We have -really had quite enough of this, thank you, Master Harley. One tires of -these scenes—they don’t answer when they are repeated every day.”</p> - -<p>“No—not when there is better sport going!” cried poor Johnnie. “I see -it all now—you have only been making game of me all the time.”</p> - -<p>“Did you ever suppose anything else?” asked the witch coldly. I think it -must have been Johnnie’s transport of passion which made the floor -thrill, as I felt under my chair. I heard a furious muttered -exclamation—then a long pause. The passion changed, and a great sob -came out of Johnnie’s boyish heart.</p> - -<p>“You don’t mean what you say—Laura, Laura!” groaned the poor lad. I -could have—— well, to be sure I am only a vindictive woman, as women -are. I don’t know what I could not have done to her, sitting calm and -self-satisfied there.</p> - -<p>“It is quite time this should be over,” said the virtuous Miss Reredos; -“I was not making game of you; but I certainly was amusing myself, as I -thought you were doing, also. Why, I am three or four years older than -you—you silly boy!—don’t you know?”</p> - -<p>She might have said five or six years, which would have been nearer the -truth, but it mattered nothing to Johnnie.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213"></a>{213}</span></p> - -<p>“I could be as good a man as <i>him</i> for your sake,” he cried, with a -gasp. Miss Reredos only played with the fan which dangled from her -wrist.</p> - -<p>“Say you did not mean it, Laura,” whispered the unfortunate boy again.</p> - -<p>But Laura shook her head.</p> - -<p>“No, no—it has gone quite far enough. Oh! I’m not angry—but, dear, -dear, don’t you see it’s no use. You are a great deal—at least you are -younger than I am—and we have nothing, neither of us—and besides”——</p> - -<p>“Besides I am a cripple, and you don’t love me!” cried Johnnie, wildly.</p> - -<p>“I can’t contradict it,” said Circe with a toss of her head.</p> - -<p>Another fierce exclamation, a hurried dash across the room, a wondering -little scream from Clara, across whose ample skirts her brother plunged, -as he rushed half frantic away, ended this episode. Clara rose up, -startled and nervous, to look after him—and I had to restrain myself -from the same impulse; but Circe sat calm among her photographs, and -made no sign. After a few moments’ interval Clara went tremulously after -him. I could only settle myself on my chair again. The poor cripple -boy—tenderest and merriest of the flock—whom all the rest had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214"></a>{214}</span> guarded -so jealously!—they could do nothing for him now. He, too, like all the -rest of us, had his burden to bear alone.</p> - -<p>But I sat on thorns, fearing to see Bertie, when he came upstairs, -resume his flirtation with “that witch from the Rectory,” whom Maurice -had so truly named. He did not, to my great satisfaction—but remained -very quiet, refusing, great lion as he was, to roar—and looking as -plaintive and pathetic as it was possible for Bertie’s honest face, -unused to simulation of any kind, to look. I fancy the poor fellow -imagined—a forlorn hope of that good, simple mind of his, which -certainly was not original in its expedients—that Alice might possibly -be influenced more favorably by his pitiful looks.</p> - -<p>Seeing this, I undertook a little management of that very refractory -young person myself.</p> - -<p>“Alice, you will come to Hilfont on my birthday, as you have always -done—won’t you?—that will be in a fortnight,” said I.</p> - -<p>“If you please, Mrs. Crofton,” said Alice, very demurely.</p> - -<p>“You know I please; but I don’t please that you should promise, and then -send me such a clever, pretty, reasonable excuse when the time comes, -that I cannot say a word against it, but only feel secretly that it is -very unkind.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215"></a>{215}</span></p> - -<p>“Unkind! to <i>you</i>, Mrs. Crofton!” cried Alice, with a little blush and -start.</p> - -<p>“To me—who else?—it is for <i>my</i> birthday that I ask you to come,” said -I, with an artful pretense of feeling offended; “but really, if you -treat me as you have done before, I shall be disposed to believe there -is <i>some reason</i> why you refuse so steadily to come.”</p> - -<p>“You may be quite sure I will not stay away,” said Alice, with great -state.</p> - -<p>She sat by me for half an hour longer, but we did not exchange a dozen -words. She said “nothing to nobody” all the remainder of the evening; -she looked just a little cross as well, if the truth must be told.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216"></a>{216}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXIV.</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">A fortnight</span> after came my birthday, and a family festival.</p> - -<p>Mr. Crofton was greatly given to keeping birthdays; he was not a man to -be daunted by that coldest and vulgarest commonplace, which warns us -with lugubrious mock solemnity that these birthdays are hastening us to -the grave. The grave out of which our Lord rose was no devouring, -irresponsible monster to Derwent—it was a Christian institution, -blessed and hallowed by Him who triumphed over it. So he kept his -birthdays with thanks and a celebration of love; and I was well content -in this, as in many another kind suggestion of his genial nature, that -my husband should have his way.</p> - -<p>Bertie was to leave us shortly after, to look after the fitting up of -his own house—the Estcourt jointure-house, which he was to occupy -during my lifetime. It was a very sufficient, comfortable house, and he -was to fit it up according to his own taste. But he was very slow<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217"></a>{217}</span> to -talk of his intentions. Any suggestions which I made to him on the -subject he received in silence, or with a confused assent. Good -Bertie!—he meant that somebody else should decide these questions for -him; and somebody else was so perverse, so unaccountable, so -unsatisfactory. He sighed, and held his peace.</p> - -<p>Johnnie Harley wandered off from Waterflag that night, after his -explanation with Miss Reredos. For a week the unfortunate lad was not -heard of, and the family spent that interval in the wildest anxiety, -making every kind of search after him, from Maurice’s hunt through -London, whither they thought it likely he would go, to fruitless -dragging in the pretty Est river, which mudded its pleasant pools, but -fortunately had no other result. At the end of a week he came -home—where he had been he never would tell. He returned ill, -remorseful, and penitent, with all his little money gone, and his -watch—his father’s watch—a catastrophe which quite completed Mrs. -Harley’s misery. Renewed and increased ill health followed this sad -escapade of poor Johnnie; but the boy was happy in his -unhappiness—nothing could part from him that all-forgiving home-love -which forgot every fault of the poor cripple boy.</p> - -<p>And in that fortnight Bertie made a brief<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218"></a>{218}</span> journey to London—a journey -which thrilled the whole household with the highest excitement, and -warmed every individual in it with a touch of the reflected glory. -Bertie was <i>decoré</i> when he returned; but no, there is no French word in -existence which deserves to be used in connection with that supremest -badge of modern chivalry, which our boy, with a modest and shame-faced -delight, impossible to describe in words, received from his Queen.</p> - -<p>Bertie wore his prize with a swelling breast, but an abashed cheek; -indeed, he did not wear it at all, reserving it for his private triumph, -and, as I supposed, for my birthday feast. But our hero had something -else in his mind.</p> - -<p>The day came at last, and at last, most earnestly looked for, in a -carriage filled with the Sedgwick children, and, I believe, all the -flowers in Clara’s conservatory, and all that could be come by honestly -or dishonestly within ten miles of country—Alice Harley made her -appearance. To show emphatically how much I was mistaken in supposing -that <i>any reason</i> could keep her away from Hilfont when her dear Mrs. -Crofton wished her to be there, Alice with rash temerity had volunteered -to take charge of the children, and come with them early and alone. In -the same spirit she had actually taken a little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219"></a>{219}</span> trouble with her dress, -which was new, full, soft, and delicate—if not white, as nearly so as -Alice’s conscience and profound conviction of her grave years could -permit it to be. She was on her defence, but not exactly defiant as -yet—a little melted in spite of herself by sundry associations of the -place and time—by good news from Maurice, which she whispered in my -ear, news of an appointment which her brother had got after much -exertion, and which would enable him to marry; and perhaps a little by -the honor which she knew her “old playfellow” had come to. I saw her -cast a momentary but somewhat eager look at Bertie’s breast when she saw -him first, but to my disappointment, as to hers, his decoration was not -there.</p> - -<p>And then Alice had a present for me. I had by me a little present to be -given to her on the same occasion—an old ornament of my own, which I -thought, for that reason at least, the prim Alice might perhaps be -induced to wear. The children had gone away with their attendants, to be -extricated out of the many wrappings in which their mother’s care had -enveloped them. Only Derwie stayed with us in the breakfast-room; the -child was extremely anxious about these two, I could not tell why. Some -unconscious link of association, or acute childish observation,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220"></a>{220}</span> -connected them in little Derwent’s mind. He stood by my side on pretence -of waiting till Clary and the rest were ready, but I believe in my heart -from sheer curiosity and interest in these affairs of life and humanity -which were so deeply attractive to my son.</p> - -<p>Alice was seated near the great window, her pretty figure visible -against the light, looking fresher and more youthful than she had done -for a long time, and the soft breadth of landscape without, making a -pleasant background to the picture. A little more in the shade stood -Bertie, and Derwie and I were opposite Alice, with a little table -between us, all full in the light of the large bow-window, from which -all curtains and obscuring influences—such was my husband’s cheerful -pleasure—were always drawn as much back as possible. My present to -Alice was a little gold chain for the neck. I like that fashion of -ornament. This one was long enough to encircle that pretty throat twice, -or to hang loose upon her breast if she pleased. I said it wanted a -pendant, as I threw it loosely round her neck.</p> - -<p>Alice had been a little nervous and tremulous before; this made her -rather more so—she kissed me in a trembling, breathless way. She could -not help feeling conscious of that shadow behind her, and of a certain -want of air and cloud<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221"></a>{221}</span> which betokened a crisis. She knew something was -coming, and faltered—it was quite a secret, close, appealing touch -which her arms gave me for the moment. Alice was afraid. When she sat -down again she played with the clasp of the chain and unloosed it, and -continued so, unconsciously dangling that loose end in her hand.</p> - -<p>“It should have a heart at it, mamma—like Clary’s,” said little -Derwent.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said I, “certainly it wants a pendant—a locket—or, as Derwie -says, a heart, or a cross, or——”</p> - -<p>“For once let me supply what it wants,” said Bertie, suddenly starting -forward with one of those long, noiseless steps which people only make -when they are almost past speaking. He took the end of the chain from -Alice’s fingers, slid his own matchless decoration on it, clasped it, -let it fall. “Heart and Cross!” said Bertie, breathless with feelings he -could not speak. Alice had not looked up—did not see what it was, so -rapidly was all done, till it lay dark upon the white bosom of her -dress, moving with the palpitations of her heart—cold, ugly, -glorious—a gift far beyond all Bertie’s fortune—more precious to him -than his life.</p> - -<p>She gazed at it astonished for a moment, then glanced round at us all -with an amazed, inquiring<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222"></a>{222}</span> glance—then faltering, and making the utmost -efforts to control herself, took it in her hands, put it to her lips, -and burst into an irrestrainable passion of tears.</p> - -<p>Little Derwie and I, like sensible people, took each other’s hands, and -marched away.</p> - -<p>Alice did not wear her hero’s cross that night to her chain. He wore it -himself, as was fit—but it did not much matter. She had taken the other -invaluable and invisible appendage which Bertie offered with his -glorious badge—had consented to be solemnly endowed with all his -worldly goods, cross and heart included, and humbly put her chain round -her neck without any pendant, in token of the unwilling bondage to which -she had yielded at last.</p> - -<p>So ended, after eight years of disappointment, and <i>that</i> early -love-affair, which Colonel Bertie had long ago forgotten, my solitary -enterprise in match-making. Let nobody despair. I am secure now that -Estcourt shall have no alien mistress, and that all Huntingshire will -not hold a happier household than that of Bertie Nugent, my heir, who -has already added the highest distinction of modern chivalry to the name -of his fathers and mine.</p> - -<p class="c">THE END.</p> - -<hr class="full" /> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Heart and Cross, by Margaret Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HEART AND CROSS *** - -***** This file should be named 53645-h.htm or 53645-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/3/6/4/53645/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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