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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..49e4a77 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #54106 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/54106) diff --git a/old/54106-0.txt b/old/54106-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index fc96638..0000000 --- a/old/54106-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,16399 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Neighbours on the Green; My Faithful Johnny, by -Mrs. 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: Neighbours on the Green; My Faithful Johnny - -Author: Mrs. Oliphant - -Release Date: February 3, 2017 [EBook #54106] -[Last updated: October 14, 2017] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NEIGHBOURS ON THE GREEN *** - - - - -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) - - - - - - - - - - - NEIGHBOURS - - ON THE GREEN - - [Illustration: colophon] - - - - - NEIGHBOURS - - ON THE GREEN - - MRS. OLIPHANT - - ‘Old wives’ tales.’ - - London - MACMILLAN AND CO. - AND NEW YORK - - 1889 - - _All Rights Reserved._ - - RICHARD CLAY AND SONS, LIMITED, - LONDON AND BUNGAY. - - - - - Inscribed - - TO SEVERAL OLD FRIENDS, - - AND ESPECIALLY TO THE GALLANT SOLDIER AND WRITER, - - General George Chesney, - - AND THE DISTINGUISHED CRITIC AND PHILOSOPHER, - - Mr. R. H. Hutton, - - WHO AT THE TIME THESE STORIES WERE - - WRITTEN GAVE DISTINCTION TO - - THE GREEN. - - - - -CONTENTS - - - PAGE - -MY NEIGHBOUR NELLY 1 - -LADY DENZIL 31 - -THE STOCKBROKER AT DINGLEWOOD 65 - -THE SCIENTIFIC GENTLEMAN 99 - -LADY ISABELLA 148 - -AN ELDERLY ROMANCE 182 - -MRS. MERRIDEW’S FORTUNE 207 - -THE BARLEY MOW 237 - -MY FAITHFUL JOHNNY 271 - - - - -Neighbours on the Green - - - - -MY NEIGHBOUR NELLY - - - - -CHAPTER I - - -They were both my neighbours, of course: but to apportion one’s heart’s -love in equal shares according to the claims of justice is a very -different matter. I saw as much of one sister as the other. And Martha -was an excellent girl, quite honest and friendly and good; but as for -Ellen, there never could be any question about her. One did not even -think of discriminating which were her special good qualities. She was -Ellen, that was enough; or Nelly, which I prefer, for my part. We all -lived at Dinglefield Green in these old days. It is a model of a -village, in one sense of the word; not the kind of place, it is true, to -which the name is generally applied, but a village _orné_, as there are -cottages _ornés_. The real little hamlet, where the poor people lived, -was at a little distance, and gave us plenty of occupation and trouble. -But for Dinglefield Green proper, it was such a village as exists -chiefly in novels. The Green was the central point, a great triangular -breadth of soft grass, more like a small common than a village green, -with the prettiest houses round--houses inclosed in their own -grounds,--houses at the very least embosomed in pretty gardens, peeping -out from among the trees. None of us were very rich; nor was there -anything that could be called a ‘place’ in the circle of dwellings. But -I believe there was as much good blood and good connection among us as -are rarely to be found even in a much larger community. The great house -opposite, which was separated from the green by a ha-ha, and opened to -us only a pretty sweep of lawn, looking almost like a park, belonged to -Sir Thomas Denzil, whose pedigree, as everybody knows, is longer than -the Queen’s. Next to him was Mrs. Stoke’s pretty cottage who was--one of -the Stokes who have given their name to places all over the country: -the son is now General Stoke, a C.B., and I don’t know what besides: and -her daughter married Lord Leamington. Next to that--but it is needless -to give a directory of the place: probably our neighbours, in their -different habitations, may appear in their proper persons before my -story is done. - -The sisters lived next to me; my house lay, as their father said, -athwart their bows. The Admiral was too much a gentleman to talk ship, -or shop, as the gentlemen call it, in ordinary conversation; but he did -say that my cottage lay athwart his bows; and the girls admitted that it -would have been unpleasant had it been anybody but me. I was then a -rather young widow, and having no children, did not want much of a -house. My cottage was very pretty. I think myself that there was not so -pretty a room in all the green as my drawing-room; but it was small. My -house stood with its gable-end to the green, and fronted the hedge which -was the boundary of Admiral Fortis’ grounds. His big gate and my small -one were close together. If the hedge had been cut down, I should have -commanded a full view of the lawn before his house, and the door; and -nobody could have gone out or come in without my inspection. They were -so friendly, that it was once proposed to cut it down, and give me and -my flowers more air; but we both reflected that we were mortal; -circumstances might change with both of us; I might die, and some one -else come to the cottage whose inspection might not be desirable; or the -Admiral might die, and his girls marry, and strangers come. In short, -the end of it was that the hedge remained; but instead of being a thick -holly wall, like the rest of my inclosure, it was a picturesque hedge of -hawthorn, which was very sweet in spring and a perfect mass of -convolvulus in autumn; and it had gaps in it and openings. Nelly herself -made a round cutting just opposite my window, and twined the honeysuckle -into a frame for it. I could see them through it as I sat at work. I -could see them at their croquet, and mounting their horses at the door, -and going out for their walks, and doing their capricious gardening. -Indeed it was Nelly only who ever attempted to work in the garden; the -other was afraid of her hands and her complexion, and a hundred things. -Nelly was not afraid of anything--not even of Mr. Nicholson, the -gardener, who filled me with awe and trembling. Perhaps you may say that -there was not much fear of her complexion. She was brown, to begin with; -but the prettiest brown--clear, with crimson flushes that went and came, -and changed her aspect every moment. Her eyes were the softest dark eyes -I ever saw; they did not penetrate or flash or sparkle, but glowed on -you with a warm lambent light. In winter, with her red cloak on, she was -the prettiest little figure; and the cold suited her, and made her glow -and bound about like a creature of air. As for Martha, she was a great -deal larger and whiter than her sister. I suppose, on the whole, she -was the prettier of the two, though she did not please me so well. They -were their father’s only children, and he was very fond of them. Their -mother had been dead so long that they had no recollection of her; and -the girls were not without those defects which girls brought up by a man -are so apt to have. They were rather disposed to think that anything -could be had for a little coaxing. Perhaps they had more confidence in -their own blandishments than is common with girls, and were more ready -to use them, knowing how powerless papa was against their arts. They -were badly educated, for the same reason. The Admiral was too fond of -them to part with them; and he was one of the men who fear reports and -rumours, and would not have a lady, not even a middle-aged governess, in -his house. He had expensive masters for his girls, and the girls did -what they pleased with those excellent gentlemen, and grew up with the -very smallest amount of education compatible with civilization. I rather -liked it, I confess, in Nelly, who was very bright, and asked about -everything, and jumped at an understanding of most things she heard of. -But it did not answer in Martha’s case, who was not bright, and was the -sort of girl who wanted to be taught music, for instance, properly, and -to practise six hours a day. Without being taught, and without -practising, the good girl (for Nelly, as she explained, had no taste for -music) thought it her duty to play to amuse her friends; and the result -was a trial to the temper of Dinglefield Green. We had some very good -musicians among us, and Martha heard them continually, but never was -enlightened as to the nature of her own performance; whereas Nelly knew -and grew crimson every time her sister approached the piano. But Nelly -was my favourite, as everybody knew; and perhaps, as a natural -consequence, I did her sister less than justice. - -We led a very pleasant, neighbourly life in those days. Some of us were -richer, and some poorer; but we all visited each other. The bigger -houses asked the smaller ones to dinner, and did not disdain to pay a -return visit to tea. In the summer afternoons, if you crossed the Green -(and could hear anything for the noise the cricketers made) you would be -sure to hear, in one quarter or another, the click of the croquet balls, -and find all the young people of the place assembled over their game, -not without groups of the elder ones sitting round on the edge of the -well-mown lawns. When I settled there first, I was neither young nor -old, and there was a difficulty which party to class me with; but by -degrees I found my place among the mothers, or aunts, or general -guardians of the society; and by degrees my young neighbours came to be -appropriated to me as my particular charge. We walked home together, and -we went to parties together; and, of course, a little gossip got up -about the Admiral--gossip which was entirely without foundation, for I -detest second marriages, and indeed have had quite enough of it for my -part. But Nelly took a clinging to me--I don’t say a fancy, which would -be too light a word. She had never known a woman intimately -before--never one older than herself, to whom she was half a child and -half a companion. And she liked it, and so did I. - -There was one absurd peculiarity about the two girls, which I shall -always think was the foundation of all the mischief. They never called -each other, nor were called, by their names. They were ‘the Sisters’ to -everybody. I suppose it was a fancy of their father’s--he called them -‘the Sisters’ always. They called each other Sister when they spoke to -or of each other. It annoyed me at first, and I made an attempt to -change the custom. But Martha disliked her name. She had been called -after her grandmother, and she thought it was a shame. ‘Martha and -Ellen!’ she said indignantly. ‘What could papa be thinking of? It sounds -like two old women in the alms-houses. And other girls have such pretty -names. If you call me Martha, Mrs. Mulgrave, I will never speak to you -again.’ When one thought of it, it was a hard case. I felt for her, for -my own name is Sarah, and I remember the trouble it was to me when I was -a girl; and the general use and wont of course overcame me at last. They -were called ‘the Sisters’ everywhere on the Green. I believe some of us -did not even know their proper names. I said mischief might come of it, -and they laughed at me; but there came a time when Nelly, at least, -laughed at me no more. - -It was in the early summer that young Llewellyn came to stay with the -Denzils at their great house opposite. He was a distant cousin of -theirs, which was a warrant that his family was all that could be -desired. And he had a nice little property in Wales, which had come to -him unexpectedly on the death of an elder brother. And, to crown all, he -was a sailor, having gone into the navy when he was a second son. Of -course, being a naval man, it was but natural that he should be brought -to the Admiral first of all. And he very soon got to be very intimate in -the house; and indeed, for that matter, in every house on the Green. I -believe it is natural to sailors to have that hearty, cordial way. He -came to see me, though I had no particular attraction for him, as -cheerfully as if I had been a girl, or alas! had girls of my own. -Perhaps it was the opening in the hedge that pleased him. He would sit -and look--but he did not speak to me of the sisters, more’s the pity. He -was shy of that subject. I could see he was in real earnest, as the -children say, by his shyness about the girls. He would begin to say -something, and then rush on to another subject, and come back again half -an hour after to the identical point he had started from. But I suppose -it never occurred to him that I had any skill to fathom that. He went -with them on all their picnics, and was at all their parties; and he -rode with them, riding very well for a sailor. The rides are beautiful -round Dinglefield. There is a royal park close at hand, where you can -lose yourself in grassy glades and alleys without number. I had even -been tempted to put myself on my old pony, and wander about with them on -the springy turf under the trees; though, as for their canterings and -gallopings, and the way in which Nelly’s horse kicked its heels about -when it got excited, they were always alarming to me. But it was a -pleasant life. There is something in that moment of existence when the -two who are to go together through life see each other first, and are -mysteriously attracted towards each other, and forswear their own ideal -and all their dreams, and mate themselves, under some secret compulsion -which they do not understand--I say there is something in such a moment -which throws a charm over life to all their surroundings. Though it be -all over for us; though perhaps we may have been in our own persons -thoroughly disenchanted, or may even have grown bitter in our sense of -the difference between reality and romance, still the progress of an -incipient wooing gives a zest to our pleasure. There is something in the -air, some magical influence, some glamour, radiating from the hero and -the heroine. When everything is settled, and the wedding looms in sight, -fairyland melts away, and the lovers are no more interesting than any -other pair. It is perhaps the uncertainty, the chance of disaster; the -sense that one may take flight or offence, or that some rival may come -in, or a hundred things happen to dissipate the rising tenderness. There -is the excitement of a drama about it--a drama subject to the curious -contradictions of actual existence, and utterly regardless of all the -unities. I thought I could see the little sister, who was my pet and -favourite, gradually grouping thus with young Llewellyn. They got -together somehow, whatever the arrangements of the party might be. They -might drive to the Dingle, which was our favourite spot, in different -carriages, with different parties, and at different times; but they were -always to be found together under the trees when everybody had arrived. -Perhaps they did not yet know it themselves; but other people began to -smile, and Lady Denzil, I could see, was watching Nelly. She had other -views, I imagine, for her young cousin since he came to the estate. -Nelly, too, once had very different views. I knew what her ideal was. -It, or rather he, was a blonde young giant, six feet tall at least, with -blue eyes, and curling golden hair. He was to farm his own land, and -live a country life, and be of no profession; and he was to be pure -Saxon, to counterbalance a little defect in Nelly’s race, or rather, as -she supposed, in her complexion, occasioned by the fact that her mother -was of Spanish blood. Such was her ideal, as she had often confided to -me. It was funny to see how this gigantic and glorious vision melted out -of her mind. Llewellyn was not very tall; he was almost as dark as -Nelly; he was a sailor, and he was a Welshman. What did it matter? One -can change one’s ideal so easily when one is under twenty. Perhaps in -his imagination he had loved a milk-white maiden too. - -Lady Denzil however watched, having, as I shall always believe, other -intentions in her mind for Llewellyn, though she had no daughter of her -own; and I am sure it was her influence which hurried him away the last -day, without taking leave of any of us. She kept back the telegram which -summoned him to join his ship, until there was just time to get the -train. And so he had to rush away, taking off his hat to us, and almost -getting out of the window of the carriage in his eagerness, when he saw -us at the Admiral’s door, as he dashed past to the station. - -‘Good-bye, for the moment,’ he shouted; ‘I hope I am coming back.’ And I -could see, by the colour in Nelly’s cheek, that their eyes had met, and -understood each other. Her sister bowed and smiled very graciously, and -chattered about a hundred things. - -‘I wonder why he is going in such a hurry? I wonder what he means about -coming back?’ said Martha. ‘I am sure I am very sorry he is gone. He was -very nice, and always ready for anything. What a bore a ship is! I -remember when papa was like that--always rushing away. Don’t you, -Sister?--but you were too young.’ - -‘I remember hearing people talk of it,’ said Nelly with a sigh. - -She was _rêveuse_, clouded over, everything that it was natural to be -under the circumstances. She would not trust herself to say he was nice. -It was I who had to answer, and keep up the conversation for her. For my -own part, I confess I was vexed that he had gone so soon--that he had -gone without an explanation. These things are far better to be settled -out of hand. A man has to go away when his duty calls; but nobody can -make sure when he may come back, or what he may find when he comes back. -I was sorry, for I knew a hundred things might happen to detain, or keep -him silent; and Nelly’s heart was caught, I could see. She had been -quite unsuspecting, unfearing; and it was gone ere she understood what -she was doing. My heart quaked a little for her; not with any fear of -the result, but only with a certain throbbing of experience and anxiety -that springs therefrom. Experience does not produce hope in the things -of this world. It lays one’s heart open to suspicions and fears which -never trouble the innocent. It was not because of anything I had seen in -Llewellyn; but because I had seen a great deal of the world, and things -in general. This was why I kissed her with a little extra meaning, and -told her to lie down on the sofa when she got home. - -‘You have not been looking your best for some days,’ I said. ‘You are -not a giantess, nor so robust as you pretend to be. You must take care -of yourself.’ And Nelly, though she made no reply, kissed me in her -clinging way in return. - -Some weeks passed after that without any particular incident. Things -went on in their usual way, and though we were all sorry that Llewellyn -was gone, we made no particular moan over him after the first. It was -very rarely that a day passed on which I did not see the sisters; but -the weather was beginning to get cold, and one Friday there was a fog -which prevented me from going out. Ours is a low country, with a great -many trees, and the river is not far off; and when there is a fog, it is -very dreary and overwhelming. It closes in over the Green, so that you -cannot see an inch before you; and the damp creeps into your very bones: -though it was only the end of October, the trees hung invisible over our -heads in heavy masses, now and then dropping a faded leaf out of the fog -in a ghostly, silent way: and the chill went to one’s heart. I had a new -book, for which I was very thankful, and my fire burned brightly, and I -did not stir out of doors all day. I confess it surprised me a little -that the girls did not come in to me in the evening, as they had a way -of doing, with their red cloaks round them, and the hoods over their -heads, like Red Riding Hood. But I took it for granted they had some -friends from town, or something pleasant on hand; though I had not heard -any carriage driving up. As for seeing, that was impossible. Next -morning, by a pleasant change, was bright, sunny, and frosty. For the -first time that season, the hedges and gardens, and even the Green -itself, was crisp and white with hoar-frost, which, of course, did not -last, but gave us warning of winter. When I went out, I met Nelly just -leaving her own door. She was in her red cloak, with her dress tucked -up, and the little black hat with the red feather, which was always so -becoming to her. But either it was not becoming that day, or there was -something the matter with the child. I don’t remember whether I have -said that she had large eyes--eyes that, when she was thinner than -usual, or ill, looked out of proportion to the size of her face. They -had this effect upon me that day. One did not seem to see Nelly at all; -but only a big pair of wistful, soft eyes looking at one, with shadowy -lines round them. I was alarmed, to tell the truth, whenever I saw her. -Either something had happened, or the child was ill. - -‘Good morning, my dear,’ I said, ‘I did not see you all yesterday, and -it feels like a year. Were you coming to me now?’ - -‘No,’ said Nelly--and even in the sound of her voice there was something -changed--‘it is so long since I have been in the village. I had settled -to go down there this morning, and take poor Mary Jackson some warm -socks we have been knitting for the babies. It is so cold to-day.’ - -‘I thought you never felt the cold,’ said I, as one does without -thinking. ‘You are always as merry as a cricket in the winter weather, -when we are all shivering. You know you never feel the cold.’ - -‘No,’ said Nelly again. ‘I suppose it is only the first chill’--and she -gave me a strange little sick smile, and suddenly looked down and -stooped to pick up something. I saw in a moment there was nothing to -pick up. Could it be that there were tears in her eyes, which she wanted -to hide? ‘But I must go now,’ she went on hurriedly. ‘Oh, no, don’t -think of coming with me; it is too cold, and I shall have to walk fast, -I am in such a hurry. Good-bye.’ - -I could do nothing but stand and stare after her when she had gone on. -What did it mean? Nelly was not given to taking fancies, or losing her -temper--at least not in this way. She walked away so rapidly that she -seemed to vanish out of my sight, and never once looked round or turned -aside for anything. The surprise was so great that I actually forgot -where I was going. It could not be for nothing that she had changed like -this. I went back to my own door, and then I came out again and opened -the Admiral’s gate. Probably Martha was at home, and would know what was -the matter. As I was going in, Martha met me coming out. She was in her -red cloak, like Nelly, and she had a letter in her hand. When she saw me -she laughed, and blushed a little. ‘Will you come with me to the post, -Mrs. Mulgrave?’ she said. ‘Sister would not wait for me; and when one -has an important letter to post----’ Martha went on, holding it up to -me, and laughing and blushing again. - -‘What makes it so very important?’ said I; and I confess that I tried -very hard to make out the address. - -‘Oh, didn’t she tell you?’ said Martha. ‘What a funny girl she is! If it -had been me I should have rushed all over the Green, and told everybody. -It is--can’t you guess?’ - -And she held out to me the letter in her hand. It was addressed to -‘Captain Llewellyn, H.M.S. _Spitfire_, Portsmouth.’ I looked at it, and -I looked at her, and wonder took possession of me. The address was in -Martha’s handwriting. It was she who was going to post it; it was she -who, conscious and triumphant, giggling a little and blushing a little, -stood waiting for my congratulations. I looked at her aghast, and my -tongue failed me. ‘I don’t know what it means,’ I said, gasping. ‘I -can’t guess. Is it you who have been writing to Captain Llewellyn, or is -it Nelly, or who is it? Can there have been any mistake?’ - -Martha was offended, as indeed she had reason to be. ‘There is no -mistake,’ she said indignantly. ‘It is a very strange sort of thing to -say, when any friend, any acquaintance even, would have congratulated -me. And you who know us so well! Captain Llewellyn has asked me to marry -him--that is all. I thought you might have found out what was coming. -But you have no eyes for anybody but Sister. You never think of me.’ - -‘I beg your pardon,’ said I, faltering; ‘I was so much taken by -surprise. I am sure I wish you every happiness, Martha. Nobody can be -more anxious for your welfare than I am--’ and here I stopped short in -my confusion, choked by the words, and not knowing what to say. - -‘Yes, I am sure of that,’ said Martha affectionately, stopping at the -gate to give me a kiss. ‘I said so to Sister this morning. I said I am -sure Mrs. Mulgrave will be pleased. But are you _really_ so much -surprised? Did you never think this was how it was to be?’ - -‘No,’ I said, trembling in spite of myself; ‘I never thought of it. I -thought indeed--but that makes no difference now.’ - -‘What did you think?’ said Martha; and then her private sense of pride -and pleasure surmounted everything else. ‘Well, you see it is so,’ she -said, with a beaming smile. ‘He kept his own counsel, you see. I should -not have thought he was so sly--should you? I dare say he thinks he -showed it more than he did; for he says I must have seen how it was from -the first day.’ - -And she stood before me so beaming, so dimpling over with smiles and -pleasure, that my heart sank within me. Could it be a mistake, or was it -I--ah! how little it mattered for me--was it my poor Nelly who had been -deceived? - -‘And did you?’ I said, looking into her face, ‘did you see it from the -first day?’ - -‘Well, n-no,’ said Martha, hesitating; and then she resumed with a -laugh, ‘That shows you how sly he must have been. I don’t think I ever -suspected such a thing; but then, to be sure, I never thought much about -him, you know.’ - -A little gleam of comfort came into my heart as she spoke. ‘Oh, then,’ I -said, relieved, ‘there is no occasion for congratulations after all.’ - -‘Why is there no occasion for congratulations?’ said Martha. ‘Of course -there is occasion. I wanted Sister to run in and tell you last night, -but she wouldn’t; and I rather wanted you to tell me what I should say, -or, rather, how I should say it; but I managed it after all by myself. I -suppose one always can if one tries. It comes by nature, people say.’ -And Martha laughed again, and blushed, and cast a proud glance on the -letter she held in her hand. - -‘But if you never had thought of him yesterday,’ said I, ‘you can’t have -accepted him to-day.’ - -‘Why not?’ said Martha, with a toss of her pretty head--and she was -pretty, especially in that moment of excitement. I could not refuse to -see it. It was a mere piece of pink-and-white prettiness, instead of my -little nut-brown maid, with her soft eyes, and her bright varied gleams -of feeling and intelligence. But then you can never calculate on what a -man may think in respect to a girl. Men are such fools; I mean where -women are concerned. - -‘Why not?’ said Martha, with a laugh. ‘I don’t mean I am frantically in -love with him, you know. How could I be, when I never knew he cared for -me? But I always said he was very nice; and then it is so suitable. And -I don’t care for anybody else. It would be very foolish of me to refuse -him without any reason. Of course,’ said Martha, looking down upon her -letter, ‘I shall think of him very differently now.’ - -What could I say? I was at my wits’ end. I walked on by her side to the -post-office in a maze of confusion and doubt. I could have snatched the -letter out of her hand, and torn it into a hundred pieces; but that -would have done little good; and how could I tell if it was a mistake -after all? He might have sought Nelly for her sister’s sake. He might -have been such a fool, such a dolt, as to prefer Martha. All this time -he might but have been making his advances to her covertly--under shield -as it were of the gay bright creature who was too young and too -simple-hearted to understand such devices. Oh, my little nut-brown maid! -no wonder her eyes were so large and shadowy, her pretty cheeks so -colourless! I could have cried with vexation and despair as I went along -step for step with the other on the quiet country road. Though she was -so far from being bright, Martha at last was struck by my silence. It -took her a considerable time to find it out, for naturally her own -thoughts were many, and her mind was fully pre-occupied; but she did -perceive it at last. - -‘I don’t think you seem to like it, Mrs. Mulgrave,’ she said; ‘not so -much as I thought you would. You were the very first person I thought -of; I was coming to tell you when I met you. And I thought you would -sympathize with me and be so pleased to hear----’ - -‘My dear,’ said I, ‘I am pleased to hear--anything that is for your -happiness; but then I am so much surprised. It was not what I looked -for. And then, good heavens! if it should turn out to be some -mistake----’ - -‘Mrs. Mulgrave,’ said Martha angrily, ‘I don’t know what you can mean. -This is the second time you have talked of a mistake. What mistake could -there be? I suppose Captain Llewellyn knows what he is doing: unless you -want to be unkind and cross. And what have I done that you should be so -disagreeable to me?’ - -‘Oh, my dear child!’ I cried in despair, ‘I don’t know what I mean; I -thought once--there was Major Frost, you know----’ - -‘Oh, is it that?’ said Martha, restored to perfect good-humour; ‘poor -Major Frost! But of course if he did not choose to come forward in time, -he could not expect me to wait for him. You may make your mind quite -easy if that is all.’ - -‘And then,’ I said, taking a little courage, ‘Captain Llewellyn paid -Nelly a good deal of attention. He might have thought----’ - -‘Yes,’ said Martha, ‘to be sure; and I never once suspected that he -meant it for me all the time.’ - -I ask anybody who is competent to judge, could I have said any more? I -walked to the post-office with her, and I saw the letter put in. And an -hour afterwards I saw the mail-cart rattling past with the bags, and -knew it had set out to its destination. He would get it next morning, -and the two lives would be bound for ever and ever. The wrong two?--or -was it only we, Nelly and I, who had made the mistake? Had it been -Martha he sought all the time? - - - - -CHAPTER II - - -The news soon became known to everybody on the Green, and great surprise -was excited by it. Everybody, I think, spoke to me on the subject. They -said, ‘If it had been the other sister!’ Even Lady Denzil went so far as -to say this, when, after having called at the Admiral’s to offer her -congratulations, she came in to see me. ‘I do not pretend that I like -the marriage,’ she said, with a little solemnity. ‘There were claims -upon him nearer home. It is not every man that is at liberty to choose -for himself; but if it had been the little one I could have understood -it.’ I hope nobody spoke like this to Nelly; she kept up a great deal -too well to satisfy me. She was in the very centre of all the flutter -that such an event makes in a small society like ours, and she knew -people were watching her; but she never betrayed herself. She had lost -her colour somehow--everybody remarked that; and the proud little girl -got up a succession of maladies, and said she had influenza and -indigestion, and I know not what, that nobody might suspect any other -cause. Sometimes I caught her for one instant off her guard, but it was -a thing that happened very rarely. Two or three times I met her going -off by herself for a long walk, and she would not have my company when I -offered to go with her. ‘I walk so fast,’ she said, ‘and then it is too -far for you.’ Once I even saw her in the spot to which all our walks -tended--the Dingle, which was our favourite haunt. It was a glorious -autumn, and the fine weather lasted long--much longer than usual. Up to -the middle of November there were still masses of gorgeous foliage on -the trees, and the sky was as blue--not as Italy, for Italy is soft and -languorous and melting--but as an English sky without clouds, full of -sunshine, yet clear, with a premonitory touch of frost, can be. The -trees in the Dingle are no common trees; they are giant beeches, -big-boled, heavily-clothed giants, that redden and crisp and hold their -own until the latest moment; and that mount up upon heights, and descend -into hollows, and open up here and there into gleams of the fair plain -around, growing misty in the distance as if it were sea. The great point -in the landscape is a royal castle, the noblest dwelling-place I ever -saw. We who live so near are learned in the different points of view; we -know where to catch it shining like a fairy stronghold in the white hazy -country, or stretching out in gray profile upon its height, or setting -itself--here the great donjon, there a flanking tower--in frames of -leafy branches. I had left my little carriage and my stout old pony on -the road, and had wandered up alone to have my last peep before winter -set in, when suddenly I saw Nelly before me. She was walking up and down -on the soft yielding mossy grass, carpeted with beech-mast and -pine-needles; sometimes stopping to gaze blankly at the view--at the -great plain whitening off to the horizon, and the castle rising in the -midst. I knew what the view was, but I saw also that she did not see it. -Her face was all drawn together, small and shrunken up. There were deep -shadowy lines round her eyes; and as for the eyes themselves, it was -them and not Nelly that I saw. They were dilated, almost exaggerated, -unlike anything I ever saw before. She had come out here to be alone, -poor child! I crept away as best I could through the brown crackling -ferns. If she heard anything probably she thought it was some woodland -creature that could not spy upon her. But I don’t believe she heard -anything, nor saw anything; and I was no spy upon her, dear heart! - -The nearest we ever came to conversation on the subject was once when I -was telling her about a girl I once knew, whose story had been a very -sad one. She had pledged her heart and her life to a foolish young -fellow, who was very fond of her, and then was very fond of somebody -else; and would have been fond of her again, periodically, to any number -of times. She had borne it as long as she could, and then she had broken -down; and it had been a relief to her, poor girl, to come and cry her -heart out to me. - -‘It has never been my way, Nelly,’ I said, ‘but it seems to ease the -heart when it can speak. I don’t think that I could have spoken to any -one, had it been me.’ - -‘And as for me,’ cried Nelly, ‘if I should ever be like that--and if any -one, even you, were so much as to look at me as if you knew, I think I -should die!’ - -This was before the lamp was lighted; and in the dark, I think she put -up a hand to wipe off something from her eyelash. But you may be sure I -took care not to look. I tried to put all speculation out of my eyes -whenever I looked at her afterwards. My poor Nelly! in the very -extravagance of her pride was there not an appeal, and piteous throwing -of herself upon my forbearance? I thought there was, and it went to my -heart. - -The next thing, of course, was that Llewellyn announced himself as -coming to visit his betrothed. He was to come at Christmas, not being -able to leave his ship before. And then it was to be settled when the -marriage should take place. I confess that I listened to all this with a -very bad grace. Any reference to the marriage put me out of temper. He -wrote to her regularly and very often, and Martha used to read his -letters complacently before us all, and communicate little bits out of -them, and spend half her mornings writing her replies. She was not a -ready writer, and it really was hard work to her, and improved her -education--at least in the mechanical matters of writing and spelling. -But I wonder what sort of rubbish it was she wrote to him, and what he -thought of it. Was it possible he could suppose it was my Nelly who -wrote all those commonplaces, or was the mistake on my part, not on his? -As time went on, I came to think, more and more, that the latter was -the case. We had been deceived, Nelly and I. And Martha and Llewellyn -were two lovers worthy of each other. I fear I was not very charitable -to him in my thoughts. - -But I could not help being very nervous the day of his arrival. It was a -bleak wintry day, Christmas Eve, but not what people call Christmas -weather. It rarely is Christmas weather at Christmas. The sky hung low -and leaden over our bare trees, and of course there were no cricketers -now on the Green, nor sound of croquet balls, to enliven the stillness. -I could not rest at home. We had not been informed what train Captain -Llewellyn was to come by, and my mind was in such a disturbed state, -that I kept coming and going, all day long, on one errand or another, -lingering about the road. I don’t myself know what I meant by it; nor -could I have explained it to anybody. Sometimes I thought, if I should -meet him first, I would speak and make sure. Sometimes I fancied that I -could read in his face, at the first look, what it all meant. But, -anyhow, I did not meet him. I thought all the trains were in when I went -to the Admiral’s in the afternoon, at five o’clock--that is, all the -trains that could arrive before dinner, for we were two miles from the -station. Martha and her father were in the drawing-room when I entered. -There was a bright fire, but the candles were not lighted; I suppose, -out of reluctance to shut up the house, and close all the windows, -before the visitor came. Martha was sitting by the fire looking very gay -and bright, and a little excited. She told me Nelly had been all day in -the church, helping with the decorations, and that she was to stay at -the rectory to dinner, as there was a Christmas-tree for the -school-children to be got ready. ‘I dare say she thought we should not -want her this first evening,’ Martha said with a little laugh; and such -was the bitterness and unreasonableness of my heart that I was -speechless with exasperation; which was nonsense, for of course she had -a right to the society of her betrothed. While we were sitting thus over -the fire, all at once there came a sound of wheels, and the dog-cart -from the little inn at Dinglefield Station came rattling up. Martha gave -a little cry, and ran to the drawing-room door. I know I should have -gone away, but I did not. I stood behind in the ruddy gloom, and saw her -rush into Llewellyn’s arms. And he kissed her. And the next moment they -were back in the room beside us, she chatting about his journey, and -looking up in his face, and showing her satisfaction and delight, as it -was quite natural she should do. It seemed to me that he did not make -very much reply; but the room was dark, and his arrival was sudden, and -there was a certain confusion about everything. The Admiral came -forward, and shook hands with him, and so did I; and instead of looking -as if he wished us a hundred miles off, Llewellyn kept peering into the -corners, as if he wanted another greeting. Then he came to the fire, and -stood before it, making the room all the darker with his shadow; and -after we had all asked him if he had felt the cold on his journey, there -did not seem very much to say. I don’t know how the others felt, but I -know my heart began to beat wildly. Martha was in an unnatural state of -excitement. She drew a great comfortable easy-chair to the fire for him. -‘Dear Ellis, sit down,’ she said, laying her hand softly on his arm. The -touch seemed to wake him up out of a kind of reverie. He took her hand, -and held it for a moment, and then let it fall. - -‘You are far too kind,’ he said, ‘to take so much trouble for me. A -thousand thanks. Where is--your sister? She knew I was to come by this -train.’ - -‘No, I don’t think Sister knew,’ said Martha; ‘that was my little -secret. I would not tell them what train you were coming by. She is -helping with the church decorations. She will see you to-morrow, you -know. I wish they would bring the tea: papa, will you ring?--Oh, papa -has gone away. Wait a minute, Ellis dear, and I will run and make them -bring it immediately. It will warm you better than anything else. I -sha’n’t be a moment gone.’ - -The moment she had left us poor Llewellyn turned to me. Notwithstanding -the ruddy firelight, I could see he was quite haggard with the awful -suspicion that must have flashed upon him. ‘Mrs. Mulgrave!’ he cried -hurriedly, holding out his hands, ‘for God’s sake, tell me, what does -this mean?’ - -‘It means that you have come to see your betrothed, Captain Llewellyn,’ -said I; ‘she has just gone out of the room. You made your choice, and I -hope you did not expect to have both the sisters. Martha stayed to -receive you, as was right and natural. You could not expect the same -from Nelly. She thought neither of you would want a third to-night.’ - -I was so angry that I said all this in a breath. I know I ought to be -ashamed of myself, but I did it; I don’t think however that he heard -half. He covered his face with his hands and gave a groan, which seemed -to me to echo all through the house; and I had to add on to what I was -saying, ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, restrain yourself,’ I cried, without -even taking breath; ‘now it is too late!’ - -And then Martha came in, excited and joyous, half dancing with high -spirits. I could have groaned too and hid my face from the light as he -did, poor fellow! but she went up to him and drew down his hands -playfully and said, ‘I am here, Ellis, you needn’t cover your eyes.’ He -did not answer her with a compliment or a caress, as perhaps she -expected; and Martha looked at me where I was standing by the side of -the fire. I knew she thought I was the restraining influence that closed -his mouth and subdued his joy--and what could I do?--I went away: I -could be of no use to him, poor boy! He must face it now as best he -could. I went away, and as soon as I got safely into my own house sat -down and cried. Not that crying would do any good; but when everything -is going wrong, and everybody is on the way to ruin and you see how it -is, and know how to mend it, and yet cannot, dare not, put forth a hand, -what can any one do but sit down and cry? - -But I could not rest in my quiet, comfortable, lonely house, and know -that those poor young hearts were being wrung, and keep still and take -no notice. I had my cup of tea, and I put on my warm cloak and hood and -went across the Green, though it was wet and slippery, to the -school-room, where I knew Nelly would be. She was in the midst of a heap -of toys and paper-flags and little tapers, dressing up the -Christmas-tree. There were three or four girls altogether, and Nelly was -the busiest of all. Her little hands were pricked and scratched with the -points of the holly and the sharp needles of the little fir-tree on -which she was working. Poor child! I wish it had been her hands only -that were wounded. The others had gloves on, but Nelly had taken hers -off, either because she found the pain of the pricks good for her, or -because of some emblematical meaning in it. ‘I can’t work in gloves,’ -she said carelessly, ‘and it doesn’t hurt so much when you are used to -it.’ When I saw her I could not but think of the pictures of Indians -tied to the stake, with arrows flying at them from all quarters. I am -aware St. Sebastian was killed in the same way--but I did not think of -him. - -‘I wish you would come with me, Nelly,’ I said; ‘you know Christmas Eve -is never very merry to me. There is no dinner, but you shall have -something with your tea.’ - -‘I am going to the rectory,’ said Nelly. She did not venture to look at -me, and she spoke very quick, with a kind of catch in her breath. ‘I -promised--and there is a great deal to do yet. When Christmas is not -merry it is best to try and forget it is Christmas. If I were to go with -you, you would talk to me, and that would make you feel everything the -more.’ - -‘I would not talk--you may trust me, Nelly,’ I said eagerly. In my -excitement I was for one minute off my guard. - -She gave me one look and then turned away, and began arranging the flags -and pricking her poor little soft fingers. ‘Talking does not matter to -me,’ she said in her careless way. Her pride was something that filled -me with consternation. She would not yield, not if she had been cut in -little pieces. Her heart was being torn out of her very breast, and she -was ready to look her executioners in the face and cheer them on. - -I don’t know how they all got through that evening. Nelly, I know, went -home late and went to her own room at once, as being tired. It was poor -Llewellyn that was the most to be pitied. I could not get him out of my -mind. I sat and thought and thought over it till I could scarcely rest. -Would he have the courage to emancipate himself and tell the truth? Or -would the dreadful coil of circumstances in which he had got involved -overcome him and subdue his spirit? I asked myself this question till it -made me sick and faint. How was he to turn upon the girl who was -hanging on him so proud and pleased and confident, and say that he had -never cared for her and never sought her? There are men who would have -the nerve to do that; but my poor simple, tender-hearted sailor--who -would not hurt a fly, and who had no warning nor preparation for the -fate that was coming on him--I could not hope that he would be so brave. - -I saw by my first glance next morning at church that he had not been -brave. He was seated by Martha’s side, looking pale and haggard and -stern; such a contrast to her lively and demonstrative happiness. Nelly -was at the other end of the pew under her father’s shadow. I don’t know -what she had done to herself--either it was excitement, or in her pride -she had had recourse to artificial aids. She had recovered her colour as -if by a miracle. I am afraid that I did not pay so much attention to the -service as I ought to have done. My whole thoughts were bent upon the -Admiral’s seat, where there were two people quite serene and -comfortable, and two in the depths of misery and despair. There were -moments when I felt as if I could have got up in church and protested -against it in the sight of God. One feels as if one could do that: but -one keeps still and does nothing all the same. - -In the afternoon Llewellyn came to see me. He would have done it anyhow, -I feel sure, for he had a good heart. But there was a stronger reason -still that Christmas Day. He did not say much to me when he came. He -walked about my drawing-room and looked at all the ornaments on the -tables, and opened the books, and examined my Christmas presents. Then -he came and sat down beside me before the fire. He tried to talk, and -then he broke off and leant his face between his hands. It was again a -gray, dark, sunless day; and it was all the darker in my room because of -the verandah over the windows, which makes it so pleasant in summer. I -could see his profile darkly before me as he made an attempt at -conversation, not looking at me, but staring into the fire; and then, -all at once, his shoulders went up, and his face disappeared in the -shadow of his hands. He stared into the fire still, under that shelter; -but he felt himself safe from my inspection, poor fellow! - -‘I ought to beg your pardon,’ he said, suddenly, concentrating all his -attention upon the glowing embers, ‘for speaking as I did--last -night----’ - -‘There was nothing to pardon,’ said I. And then we came to an -embarrassed pause, for I did not know which was best--to speak, or to be -silent. - -‘I know I was very abrupt,’ he said, ‘I was rude. I hope you will -forgive me. It was the surprise.’ And then he gave vent to something -between a cry and a groan. ‘What is to become of us all, good God!’ he -muttered. It was all I could do to hear him, and the exclamation did not -sound to me profane. - -‘Captain Llewellyn,’ I said, ‘I don’t know whether I ought to say -anything, or whether I should hold my tongue. I understand it all; and I -feel for you with all my heart.’ - -‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said; ‘it doesn’t matter. Feeling is of no use. -But there is one thing you could tell me. She--you know--I can’t call -her by any name--I don’t seem to know her name--Just tell me one thing, -and I’ll try and bear it. Did she mind? Does she think me----? Good -heavens! what does it matter what any one thinks? If you are sure it did -not hurt her, I--don’t mind.’ - -‘N--no,’ said I; but I don’t think he got any comfort from my tone. ‘You -may be sure it will not hurt her,’ I went on, summoning up all my pride. -‘She is not the sort of girl to let it hurt her.’ I spoke indignantly, -for I did not know what was coming. He seized my hand, poor boy, and -wrung it till I could have screamed; and then he broke down, as a man -does when he has come to the last point of wretchedness: two or three -hoarse sobs burst from him. ‘God bless her!’ he cried. - -I was wound up to such a pitch that I could not sit still. I got up and -grasped his shoulder. In my excitement I did not know what I was doing. - -‘Are you going to bear it?’ I said. ‘Do you mean to let it go on? It is -a lie; and are you going to set it up for the truth? Oh, Captain -Llewellyn! is it possible that you mean to let it go on?’ - -Then he gave me one sorrowful look, and shook his head. ‘I have accepted -it,’ he said. ‘It is too late. You said so last night.’ - -I knew I had said so; but things somehow looked different now. ‘I would -speak to Martha herself,’ said I. And I saw he shuddered at her name. ‘I -would speak to her father. The Admiral is sensible and kind. He will -know what to do.’ - -‘He will think I mean to insult them,’ said Llewellyn, shaking his head. -‘I have done harm enough. How was I to know? But never mind--never mind. -It is my own doing, and I must bear it.’ Then he rose up suddenly, and -turned to me with a wan kind of smile. ‘I cannot afford to indulge -myself with talk,’ he said. ‘Good-bye, and thanks. I don’t feel as if I -cared much now what happened. The only thing is, I can’t stay here.’ - -‘But you must stay a week--you must stay over Christmas,’ I cried, as he -stood holding my hand. - -‘Yes,’ he said with a sigh. ‘I must get through to-night. If you’d keep -her out of the way, Mrs. Mulgrave, it would be the kindest thing you -could do. I can’t look at her. It kills me. But I’ll be summoned by -telegram to-morrow,’ he added, with a kind of desperate satisfaction. ‘I -wrote this morning.’ And then he shook hands with me hurriedly, and went -away. - -I had very little trouble to keep Nelly--poor Nelly!--out of his way. -She made me go up-stairs with her after dinner (I always dined there on -Christmas) to show me the presents she had got, and the things she had -prepared for her pensioners in the village. We made a great pet of the -village, we people who lived on the Green, and, I fear, rather spoiled -it. There were things for the babies, and things for the old women, -which were to be bestowed next day when they all came to the school-room -for the Christmas-tree. She never mentioned Llewellyn to me, nor Martha, -nor referred to the domestic event which, in other circumstances, would -have occupied her mind above all. I almost wonder it did not occur to -her that to speak of, and show an interest in, her sister’s engagement -was quite a necessary part of her own self-defence. Either it was too -much, and she could not, or it did not enter into her mind. She never -took any notice of it, at least to me. She never so much as mentioned -his name. They never looked at each other, nor addressed each other, -though I could see that every look and movement of one was visible to -the other. Nelly kept me up-stairs until it was time for me to go home. -She came running out with me, with her red cloak round her, when the -Admiral marched to the gate to see me home, as he made a rule of doing. -She stood at the gate, in the foggy, wintry darkness, to wait for him -until he came back from my door. And I waited on my own threshold, and -saw them going back--Nelly, poor child, clinging fast to her father’s -arm. My heart ached; and yet not so much even for her as for the other. -What was he doing indoors, left alone with the girl he was engaged to, -and did not love? - -Next morning, to the astonishment and dismay of everybody but myself, -Captain Llewellyn was summoned back to his ship by telegraph. Martha was -more excited about it than I should have supposed possible. It was so -hard upon poor dear Ellis, she said, before they had been able to -arrange anything, or even to talk of anything. She had not the slightest -doubt of him. His wretched looks, and his hesitation and coldness, had -taught nothing to Martha. If she was perhaps disappointed at first by -his want of ardour, the disappointment had soon passed. It was his way; -he was not the sort of man to make a fuss. By this means she quite -accounted for it to herself. For my own part, I cannot say that I was -satisfied with his conduct. If he had put a stop to it boldly--if he had -said at once it was all a mistake--then, whatever had come of it, I -could have supported and sympathized with him; but it made an end of -Captain Llewellyn, as a man, in my estimation, when he thus ran away. I -was vexed, and I was sorry; and yet I cannot say I was surprised. - -He wrote afterwards to say it was important business, and that he had no -hope of being able to come back. And then he wrote that he had been -transferred to another ship just put into commission, and had to sail at -once. He could not even come to wish his betrothed good-bye. He assured -her it could not be for long, as their orders were only for the -Mediterranean; but it was a curious reversal of all their former ideas. -‘He must retire,’ Martha said, when she had told me this news with -tears. ‘The idea of a man with a good property of his own being ordered -about like that! Papa says things have changed since his days; he never -heard of anything so arbitrary. After all he said about our marriage -taking place first, to think that he should have to go away now, without -a moment to say good-bye!’ - -And she cried and dried her eyes, while I sat by and felt myself a -conspirator, and was very uncomfortable. Nelly was present too. She sat -working in the window, with her head turned away from us, and took no -part in the conversation. Perhaps it was a relief; perhaps--and this was -what she herself thought--it would have been better to have got it over -at once. Anyhow, at this present juncture, she sat apart, and took no -apparent notice of what we said. - -‘And Nelly never says a word,’ sobbed Martha. ‘She has no sympathy. I -think she hates poor dear Ellis. She scarcely looked at him when he was -here. And she won’t say she is sorry now.’ - -‘When everybody is sorry what does it matter if I say it or not?’ said -Nelly, casting one rapid glance from her work. She never was so fond of -her work before. Now she had become all at once a model girl: she never -was idle for a moment; one kind of occupation or another was constantly -in her hands. She sat at her knitting, while Martha, disappointed and -vexed, cried and folded up her letter. I don’t know whether an inkling -of the truth had come to Nelly’s mind. Sometimes I thought so. When the -time approached which Llewellyn had indicated as the probable period of -his return, she herself proposed that she should go on a visit to her -godmother in Devonshire. It was spring then, and she had a cough; and -there were very good reasons why she should go. The only one that -opposed it was Martha. ‘It will look so unkind to dear Ellis,’ she said; -‘as if you would rather not meet him. At Christmas you were out all the -time. And if she dislikes him, Mrs. Mulgrave, she ought to try to get -over it. Don’t you think so? It is unkind to go away.’ - -‘She does not dislike him,’ said I. ‘But she wants a change, my dear.’ -And so we all said. The Admiral, good man, did not understand it at all. -He saw that something was wrong. ‘There is something on the little one’s -mind,’ he said to me. ‘I hoped she would have taken you into her -confidence. I can’t tell what is wrong with her, for my part.’ - -‘She wants a change,’ said I. ‘She has never said anything to me.’ - -It was quite true; she had never said a word to me. I might have -betrayed Llewellyn, but I could not betray Nelly. She had kept her own -counsel. While the Admiral was talking to me, I cannot describe how -strong the temptation was upon me to tell him all the story. But I dared -not. It was a thing from which the boldest might have shrunk. And though -everybody on the Green had begun to wonder vaguely, and the Admiral -himself was a little uneasy, Martha never suspected anything amiss. She -cried a little when ‘poor Ellis’ wrote to say his return was again -postponed; but it was for his disappointment she cried. Half an hour -after she was quite serene and cheerful again, looking forward to the -time when he should arrive eventually. ‘For he must come some time, you -know; they can’t keep him away for ever,’ she said; until one did not -know whether to be impatient with her serenity, or touched by it, and -could not make up one’s mind whether it was stupidity or faith. - - - - -CHAPTER III - - -Nelly paid her visit to her godmother, and came back; and spring wore -into summer, and the trees were all in full foliage again in the Dingle, -and the cricketers had returned to the Green; but still Captain -Llewellyn was unaccountably detained. Nelly had come home looking much -better than when she went away. His name still disturbed her composure I -could see; though I don’t suppose a stranger who knew nothing of the -circumstances would have found it out. And when Martha threatened us -with a visit from him, her sister shrank up into herself; but otherwise -Nelly was much improved. She recovered her cheerful ways; she became the -soul of all our friendly parties again. I said to myself that I had been -a truer prophet than I had the least hope of; and that she was not the -sort of girl to let herself be crushed in any such way. But she never -spoke to me of her sister’s marriage, nor of her sister’s betrothed. I -mentioned the matter one day when we were alone, cruelly and of set -purpose to see what she would say. ‘When your sister is married, and -when you are married,’ I said, ‘it will be very dull both for the -Admiral and me.’ - -‘I shall never marry,’ said Nelly, with a sudden closing up and veiling -of all her brightness which was more expressive than words. ‘I don’t -know about Sister; but you need not weave any such visions for me.’ - -‘All girls say so till their time comes,’ said I, with an attempt to be -playful; ‘but why do you say you don’t know about Martha? she must be -married before long, of course?’ - -‘I suppose so,’ said Nelly, and then she stopped short; she would not -add another word; but afterwards, when we were all together, she broke -out suddenly--Martha’s conversation at this period was very much -occupied with her marriage. I suppose it was quite natural. In my young -days girls were shy of talking much on that subject, but things are -changed now. Martha talked of it continually: of when dear Ellis would -come; of his probable desire that the wedding should take place at once; -of her determination to have two months at least to prepare her -trousseau; of where they should go after the marriage. She discussed -everything, without the smallest idea, poor girl, of what was passing in -the minds of the listeners. At last, after hearing a great deal of this -for a long time, Nelly suddenly burst forth-- - -‘How strange it would be after all, if we were to turn out a couple of -old maids,’ she cried, ‘and never to marry at all. The two old sisters! -with chairs on each side of the fire, and great authorities in the -village. How droll it would be!--and not so very unlikely after all.’ - -‘Speak for yourself,’ cried Martha indignantly. ‘It is very unlikely so -far as I am concerned. I am as good as married already. As for you, you -can do what you please----’ - -‘Yes, I can do what I please,’ said Nelly, with a curious ring in her -voice; and then she added, ‘But I should not wonder if we were both old -maids after all.’ - -‘She is very queer,’ Martha said to me when her sister had left the -room, in an aggrieved tone. ‘She does not mean it, of course; but I -don’t like it, Mrs. Mulgrave. It does not seem lucky. Why should she -take it into her head about our being old maids? I am as good as married -now.’ - -‘Yes,’ I said vaguely. I could not give any assent more cordial. And -then she resumed her anticipations. But I saw in a moment what Nelly -meant. This was how she thought it was to end. It was a romantic girl’s -notion, but happily she was too young to think how unlikely it was. No -doubt she saw a vision of the two maiden sisters, and of one who would -be their devoted friend, but who could never marry either. That was the -explanation she had put in her heart upon his abrupt departure and his -many delays. He had made a fatal mistake, and its consequences were to -last all his life. They were all three, all their lives long, to -continue in the same mind. He could never marry either of them; and -neither of them, none of the three, were ever to be tempted to marry -another. And thus, in a pathetic climax of faithfulness and delicate -self-sacrifice, they were to grow old and die. Nelly was no longer -miserable when she had framed this ideal in her mind. It seemed to her -the most natural solution of the difficulty. The romance, instead of -ending in a prosaic marriage, was to last all their lives. And the -eldest of them, Llewellyn himself, was but seven-and-twenty! Poor Nelly -thought it the most likely thing in the world. - -If she had consulted me, I could have told her of something much more -likely--something which very soon dawned upon the minds of most people -at Dinglefield Green. It was that a certain regiment had come back to -the barracks which were not very far from our neighbourhood. Before -Captain Llewellyn made his appearance among us, there had been a Major -Frost who had ‘paid attention’ to Martha; and he did not seem at all -disinclined to pay attention to her now that he had come back. Though he -was told of her engagement, the information seemed to have very little -effect upon him. He came over perpetually, and was always at hand to -ride, or walk, or drive, or flirt, as the young ladies felt disposed. -Before he had been back a fortnight it seemed to me that Martha had -begun to talk less about dear Ellis. By degrees she came the length of -confessing that dear Ellis wrote very seldom. I had found out that fact -for myself, but she had never made any reference to it before. I watched -her with an interest which surpassed every other interest in my life at -that moment. I forgot even Nelly, and took no notice of her in -comparison. The elder sister absorbed me altogether. By degrees she gave -up talking of her marriage, and of her wedding-dress, and where they -were to live; and she began to talk of Major Frost. He seemed always to -be telling her something which she had to repeat; and he told her very -private details, with which she could have nothing to do. He told her -that he was much better off than when he was last at the Green. Somebody -had died and had left him a great deal of money. He was thinking of -leaving the army, and buying a place in our county, if possible. He -asked Martha’s advice where he should go. ‘It is odd that he should tell -you all this,’ I said to her one day, when she was re-confiding to me a -great many of Major Frost’s personal affairs; and though she was not -usually very quick of apprehension, something called upon Martha’s cheek -the shadow of a blush. - -‘I think it is quite natural,’ she said; ‘we are such old friends; and -then he knows I am engaged. I always thought he was very nice--didn’t -you? I don’t think he will ever marry,’ Martha added, with a certain -pathos. ‘He says he could never have married but one woman; and he can’t -have her now. He was poor when he was last here you know.’ - -‘And who was the woman he could have married?’ said I. - -‘Oh, of course I did not ask him,’ said Martha with modest -consciousness. ‘Poor fellow! it would have been cruel to ask him. It is -hard that he should have got his money just after I---- I mean after she -was engaged.’ - -‘It is hard that money should always be at the bottom of everything,’ -said I. And though it was the wish nearest to my heart that Martha -should forget and give up Llewellyn, still I was angry with her for what -she said. But that made no difference. She was not bright enough to know -that her faith was wavering. She went on walking and talking with Major -Frost, and boring us all with him and his confidences, till I, for one, -was sick of his very name. But she meant no treachery; she never even -thought of deserting her betrothed. Had any accident happened to bring -him uppermost, she would have gone back to dear Ellis all the same. She -was not faithless nor fickle, nor anything that was wicked: she was -chiefly stupid, or, rather, I stolid. And to think the two were sisters! -The Admiral was not very quick-sighted, but evidently he had begun to -notice how things were going. He came to me one afternoon to consult me -when both the girls were out. I suppose they were at croquet somewhere. -We elders found that afternoon hour, when they were busy with the balls -and mallets, a very handy time for consulting about anything which they -were not intended to know. - -‘I think I ought to write to Llewellyn,’ he said. ‘Things are in a very -unsatisfactory state. I am not satisfied that he was obliged to go away -as he said. I think he might have come to see her had he tried. I have -been consulting the little one about it, and she thinks with me.’ - -‘What does she think?’ I asked with breathless interest, to the -Admiral’s surprise. - -‘She thinks with me that things are in an unsatisfactory state,’ he said -calmly; ‘that it would be far better to have it settled and over, one -way or another. She is a very sensible little woman. I was just about to -write to Llewellyn, but I thought it best to ask you first what your -opinion was.’ - -Should I speak and tell him all? Had I any right to tell him? The -thought passed through my mind quick as lightning. I made a longer pause -than I ought to have done; and then all I could find to say was: - -‘I think I should let things take their course if I were you.’ - -‘What does that mean?’ said the Admiral quickly. ‘Take their course! I -think it is my duty to write to him and let things be settled out of -hand.’ - -It was with this intention he left me. But he did not write, for the -very next morning there came a letter from Llewellyn, not to Martha, but -to her father, telling him that he was coming home. The ship had been -paid off quite unexpectedly I heard afterwards. And I suppose that -unless he had been courageous enough to give the true explanation of his -conduct he had no resource but to come back. It was a curious, abrupt -sort of letter. The young man’s conscience, I think, had pricked him for -his cowardice in running away; and either he had wound himself up to the -point of carrying out his engagement in desperation, or else he was -coming to tell his story and ask for his release. I heard of it -immediately from the Admiral himself, who was evidently not quite at -ease in his mind on the subject. And a short time afterwards Martha came -in, dragging her sister with her, full of the news. - -‘I could scarcely get her to come,’ Martha said. ‘I can’t think what she -always wants running after those village people. And when we have just -got the news that Ellis is coming home!’ - -‘Yes, I heard,’ said I. ‘I suppose I ought to congratulate you. Do you -expect him soon? Does he say anything about----?’ - -‘Oh, his letter was to papa,’ said Martha, interrupting my very -hesitating and embarrassed speech; for my eyes were on Nelly, and I saw -in a moment that her whole expression had changed. ‘He could not be -expected to say anything particular to papa, but I suppose it must be -very soon. I don’t think he will want to wait now he is free.’ - -‘I shall be very glad when it is all over,’ said Nelly, to my great -surprise. It was the first time I had heard her make any comment on the -subject. ‘It will make so much fuss and worry. It is very entertaining -to them, I suppose, but it is rather tiresome to us. Mrs. Mulgrave, I am -going to see Molly Jackson; I can hear all about the _trousseau_ at -home, you know.’ - -‘Nelly!’ said I, as I kissed her; and I could not restrain a warning -look. She flushed up, poor child, to her hair, but turned away with a -sick impatience that went to my heart. - -‘If you had the worry of it night and day as I shall have!’ she said -under her breath, with an impatient sigh. And then she went away. - -I knew all that was in her heart as well as if she had told me. She had -lost her temper and patience as well as her peace of mind. It is hard to -keep serene under a repeated pressure. She did it the first time, but -she was not equal to it the second. She had no excuse to go away now. -She had to look forward to everything, and hear it all discussed, and go -through it in anticipation. She had to receive him as his future sister; -to be the witness of everything, always on the spot; a part of the -bridal pageant, the first and closest spectator. And it was very hard to -bear. As for Martha, she sat serene in a chair which she had herself -worked for me, turning her fair countenance to the light. She saw -nothing strange in Nelly’s temper, nor in anything that happened to her. -She sat waiting till I had taken my seat again, quite ready to go into -the question of the _trousseau_. The sight of her placidity made me -desperate. Suddenly there came before me the haggard looks of poor -Llewellyn, and the pale exasperation and heart-sickness of my bright -little Nelly’s face. And then I looked at Martha, who was sitting, -serene and cheerful, just in the same spot and the same attitude in -which, a few days before, she had told me of Major Frost. She had left -off Major Frost now and come back to her trousseau. What did it matter -to her which of them it was? As for giving her pain or humiliating her, -how much or how long would she feel it? I became desperate. I fastened -the door when I closed it after Nelly that nobody might interrupt us, -and then I came and sat down opposite to my victim. Martha was utterly -unconscious still. It never occurred to her to notice how people were -looking, nor to guess what was in anybody’s mind. - -‘You are quite pleased,’ said I, making my first assault very gently, -‘that Captain Llewellyn is coming home?’ - -‘Pleased!’ said Martha. ‘Of course I am pleased. What odd people you all -are! Anybody might see that it is pleasanter to be settled and know what -one is doing. I wish you would come up to town with me some day, Mrs. -Mulgrave, and help me with my things.’ - -‘My dear,’ said I, ‘in the first place, there is something more -important than your things; there is Major Frost. What do you mean to do -with him?’ - -‘I--with him?’ said Martha, opening her eyes. ‘He always knew I was -engaged. Of course I am very sorry for him; but if he did not choose to -come forward in time, he could not expect that one was to wait.’ - -‘And is that how you mean to leave him,’ said I severely, ‘after all the -encouragement you have given him? Every day, for a month past, I have -expected to hear you say that you had made a mistake about Captain -Llewellyn, and that it was the Major you liked best.’ - -‘Oh, fancy _me_ doing such a thing!’ cried Martha, really roused, ‘after -being engaged to Ellis a whole year. If he had come forward at the -proper time perhaps---- But to make a change when everything was -settled! You never could have believed it of _me_!’ - -‘If you like the other better, it is never too late to make a change,’ -said I, carried away by my motive, which was good, and justified a -little stretch of ethics. ‘You will be doing a dreadful injury to poor -Captain Llewellyn if you marry him and like another man best.’ - -Martha looked at me with a little simper of self-satisfaction. ‘I think -I know my duty,’ she said. ‘I am engaged. I don’t see that anything else -is of any consequence. Of course the gentleman I am engaged to is the -one I shall like best.’ - -‘Do you mean that you are engaged to him because you like him best?’ -said I. ‘Martha, take care. You may be preparing great bitterness for -yourself. I have no motive but your good.’ This was not true, but still -it is a thing that everybody says; and I was so much excited that I had -to stop to take breath. ‘You may never have it in your power to make a -choice again,’ I said with solemnity. ‘You ought to pause and think -seriously which of the two you love. You cannot love them both. It is -the most serious question you will ever have to settle in your life.’ - -Martha looked at me with a calm surprise which drove me wild. ‘Dear Mrs. -Mulgrave,’ she said, ‘I don’t know what you mean. I am engaged to -Ellis--and Major Frost has never proposed even. He may have been only -flirting, for anything I can tell; and how foolish it would be to give -up the one without any real hold on the other! but of course it is -nonsense altogether. Why, Ellis is coming back on purpose; and as Major -Frost did not come forward in time, I don’t see how he can complain.’ - -All this she said with the most perfect placidity, sitting opposite the -window, lifting her serene countenance to the light. It was a practical -concern to Martha. It did not so much matter which it was; but to -interfere with a thing fully arranged and settled, because of any mere -question of liking! I was not by a very long way so cool as she was. -Everything seemed to me to depend upon this last throw, and I felt -myself suddenly bold to put it to the touch. It was not my business, to -be sure; but to think of those two young creatures torn asunder and made -miserable! It was not even Nelly I was thinking of. Nelly would be -free; she was young; she would not have her heartbreak always kept -before her, and time would heal her wounds. But poor Llewellyn was bound -and fettered. He could not escape nor forget. It was for him I made my -last attempt. - -‘Martha, I have something still more serious to say to you,’ I said. ‘Do -you remember, when you told me of Captain Llewellyn’s proposal first, I -asked you if it was not a mistake?’ - -‘Yes, I remember very well,’ said Martha. ‘It was just like you. I never -knew any one who asked such odd questions. I should have been angry had -it been any one but you.’ - -‘Perhaps you will be angry now,’ I said. ‘I know you will be vexed, but -I can’t help it. Oh, my dear, you must listen to me! It is not only your -happiness that is concerned, but that of others. Martha, I have every -reason to think that it was a mistake. Don’t smile; I am in earnest. It -was a mistake. Can’t you see yourself how little heart he puts into it? -Martha, my dear, it is no slight to you. You told me you had never -thought of him before he wrote to you. And it was not you he meant to -write to. What can I say to convince you? It is true; it is not merely -my idea. It was all a mistake.’ - -‘Mrs. Mulgrave,’ said Martha, a little moved out of her composure, ‘I am -not angry. I might be; but I am sure you don’t mean it. It is one of the -fancies you take into your head. How could it be a mistake? It was me he -wrote to, not anybody else. Of course I was not fond of him before; but -when a man asks you to marry him, how is it possible there can be any -mistake?’ - -‘Oh, Martha,’ I said, wringing my hands, ‘let me tell you all; only hear -me, and don’t be vexed. Did you never notice all that summer how he -followed Nelly about? Try and remember. He was always by her side; -wherever we went those two were together. Ask anybody; ask Lady Denzil; -ask your father. Oh, my dear child, I don’t want to hurt your feelings! -I want to save you from something you will be very sorry for. I want you -to be happy. Can’t you see what I mean without any more explanations -from me?’ - -Martha had, notwithstanding her composure, grown pale. Her placid looks -had changed a little. ‘I see it is something about Sister,’ she said. -‘Because you like her best, you think everybody else must like her best -too. I wonder why it is that you are so unkind to me!’ - -As she spoke she cried a little, and turned her shoulder towards me, -instead of her face. - -‘Not unkind,’ I said, ‘oh, not unkind; I am speaking only because I love -you all.’ - -‘You have never loved _me_,’ said Martha, weeping freely; ‘never, though -I have been so fond of you. And now you want to make me ridiculous and -miserable. How can I tell what you mean? What has Sister to do with it? -Ellis was civil to her for--for my sake. It was me he proposed to. How -can I tell what you are all plotting in your hearts? When people write -letters to me, and ask me to marry them, am I not to believe what they -say?’ - -‘When he wrote, he thought Nelly was the eldest,’ I said. ‘You know what -I have always told you about your names. He wrote to her, and it came to -you. Martha, believe me, it is not one of my fancies; it is true.’ - -‘How do you know it is true?’ she cried, with a natural outburst of -anger and indignation. ‘How do you dare to come and say all this now? -Insulting Ellis, and Sister, and me! Oh, I wish I had never known you! I -wish I had never, never come into this house! I wish----’ - -Her voice died away in a storm of sobs and tears. She cried like a -child--as a baby cries, violently, with temper, and not with grief. She -was not capable of Nelly’s suppressed passion and misery; neither did -the blow strike deep enough for that; and she had no pride to restrain -her. She cried noisily, turning her shoulder to me, making her eyes red -and her cheeks blurred. When I got up and went to her, she repulsed me; -I had nothing to do but sit down again, and wait till the passion had -worn itself out. And there she sat sobbing, crushing her pretty hat, and -disfiguring her pretty face, with the bright light falling upon her, and -revealing every heave of her shoulders. By degrees the paroxysm -subsided; she dried her eyes, poor child, and put up her hair, which had -got into disorder, with hasty and agitated hands. Then she turned her -flushed, tear-stained face upon me. It was almost prettier than usual in -this childish passion. - -‘I don’t believe you!’ she cried. ‘I don’t believe it one bit! You only -want to vex me. Oh, I wish I had never known you. I wish I might never -see you again--you, and--all the rest! I wish I were dead! But I shall -tell papa, Mrs. Mulgrave, and I know what he will think of you.’ - -‘Martha, I am very sorry----’ I began, but Martha had rushed to the -door. - -‘I don’t want to hear any more!’ she said. ‘I know everything you can -say. You are fond of Sister, and want her to have everything. And you -always hated me!’ - -With these words she rushed out, shutting not only the door of the room -behind her in her wrath, but the door of the house, which stood always -open. She left me, I avow, in a state of very great agitation. I had not -expected her to take it in this way. And it had been a great strain upon -my nerves to speak at all. I trembled all over, and as soon as she was -gone I cried too, from mere nervousness and agitation, not to speak of -the terrible thought that weighed on my mind--had I done harm or good? -What would the others say if they knew? Would they bless or curse me? -Had I interfered out of season? Had I been officious? Heaven knows! The -result only could show. - -Most people know what a strange feeling it is when one has thus -estranged, or parted in anger from, a daily and intimate companion; how -one sits in a vague fever of excitement, thinking it over--wondering -what else one could have said; wondering if the offended friend will -come or send, or give any sign of reconciliation; wondering what one -ought to do. I was so shaken by it altogether that I was good for -nothing but lying down on the sofa. When my maid came to look for me, -she was utterly dismayed by my appearance. ‘Them young ladies are too -much for you, ma’am,’ she said indignantly. ‘It’s as bad as daughters of -your own.’ I think that little speech was the last touch that was wanted -to make me break down. As bad as daughters of my own! but not as good; -very different. When I thought how those girls would cling round their -father, it was more than I could bear. Not that I envied him. But I was -ready to do more for them than he was; to risk their very love in order -to serve them; and how different was their affection for me! - -All day long I stayed indoors, recovering slowly, but feeling very -miserable. Nobody came near me. The girls, who were generally flitting -out and in twenty times in a day, never appeared again. The very door -which Martha shut in her passion remained closed all day. When it came -to be evening, I could bear it no longer; I could not let the sun go -down upon such a quarrel; I was so lonely I could not afford to be -proud. I drew my shawl round me, though I was still trembling, and went -softly in at the Admiral’s gate. It was dusk, and everything was very -sweet. It had been a lovely autumn day, very warm for the season, and -the twilight lingered as if it were loth to make an end. I thought the -girls would probably be in the drawing-room by themselves, and that I -might invent some excuse for sending Nelly away, and try to make my -peace with her sister. I did not love Martha as I loved Nelly, but I was -fond of her all the same, as one is fond of a girl one has seen grow up, -and watched over from day to day; and I could not bear that she should -be estranged from me. When I went in however Nelly was all alone. She -was sitting in a low chair by the fire, for they always had a fire -earlier than other people. She was sitting over it with her face resting -in her hands, almost crouching towards the friendly blaze. And yet it -was a warm evening, very warm for the time of the year. She started when -she heard my step, and turned round and for the moment I saw that I was -not welcome to Nelly either. Her thoughts had been better company: or -was it possible that Martha could have told her? I did not think however -that this could be the case, when she drew forward my favourite chair -for me, and we began to talk. Nelly had not passed through any crisis -such as that which Martha and I had made for ourselves. She told me her -sister had a headache, and had been lying down before dinner, but that -now she had gone out for a little air. - -‘Only in the garden,’ Nelly said. And then she added, ‘Major Frost is -here. He is with her--and I don’t think he ought to come so -often--now----’ - -‘Major Frost!’ I said, and my heart began to beat; I don’t know what I -feared or hoped, for at this moment the Admiral came in from the -dining-room, and joined us, and we got into ordinary conversation. What -a strange thing ordinary conversation is! We sat in the dark, with only -the firelight making rosy gleams about the room, and wavering in the -great mirror over the mantelpiece, where we were all dimly -reflected--and talked about every sort of indifferent subject. But I -wonder if Nelly was thinking of what she was saying? or if her heart was -away, like mine, hovering over the heads of these two in the garden, or -with poor Llewellyn, who was creeping home an unwilling bridegroom? Even -the Admiral, I believe, had something on his mind different from all our -chit-chat. For my own part I sat well back in my corner, with my heart -thumping so against my breast that it affected my breathing. I had to -speak in gasps, making up the shortest sentences I could think of. And -we talked about public affairs, and what was likely to be the result of -the new measures; and the Admiral, who was a man of the old school, -shook his head, and declared I was a great deal too much of an optimist, -and thought more hopefully than reasonably of the national affairs. -Heaven help me! I was thinking of nothing at that moment but of Martha -and Major Frost. - -Then there was a little stir outside in the hall. The firelight, and the -darkness, and the suspense, and my own feelings generally, recalled to -my mind so strongly the evening on which Llewellyn arrived, that I -should not have been surprised had he walked in, when the door opened. -But it was only Martha who came in. The firelight caught her as she -entered, and showed me for one brief moment a different creature from -the Martha I had parted with that morning in sobs and storms. I don’t -know what she wore; but I know that she was more elaborately dressed -than usual, and had sparkling ornaments about her, which caught the -light. I almost think, though I never could be sure, that it was her -poor mother’s diamond brooch which she had put on, though they were -alone. She came in lightly, with something of the triumphant air I had -noticed in her a year ago, before Captain Llewellyn’s Christmas visit. -It was evident at all events that my remonstrance had not broken her -spirit. I could see her give a little glance to my corner, and I know -that she saw I was there. - -‘Are you here, papa?’ she said. ‘You always sit, like crows, in the -dark, and nobody can see you.’ Then she drew a chair into the circle. -She took no notice of me or any one, but placed herself directly in the -light of the fire. - -‘Yes, my dear,’ said her father. ‘I am glad you have come in. It begins -to get cold.’ - -‘We did not feel it cold,’ said Martha, and then she laughed--a short -little disconnected laugh, which indicated some disturbance of her calm; -then she went on, with a tendency to short and broken sentences, like -myself--‘Papa,’ she said, ‘I may as well tell you at once. When the -Major was here last he was poor, and could not speak--now he’s well -off. And he wants me to marry him. I like him better than--Ellis -Llewellyn. I always--liked him better--and he loves _me_!’ - -Upon which Martha burst into tears. - -If I were to try to describe the consternation produced by this -unlooked-for speech, I should only prolong my story without making it -more clear. The want of light heightened it, and confused us all doubly. -If a bomb had burst in the peaceful place I don’t think it could have -produced a greater commotion. It was only the Admiral however who could -say a word, and of course he was the proper person. Martha very soon -came out of her tears to reply to him. He was angry, he was bewildered, -he was wild for the moment. What was he to say to Llewellyn? What did -she mean? How did Major Frost dare----? I confess that I was crying in -my corner--I could not help it. When the Admiral began to storm, I put -my hand on his arm, and made him come to me, and whispered a word in his -ear. Then the good man subsided into a bewildered silence. And after a -while he went to the library, where Major Frost was waiting to know his -fate. - -It is unnecessary to follow out the story further. Llewellyn, poor -fellow, had to wait a long time after all before Nelly would look at -him. I never knew such a proud little creature. And she never would own -to me that any spark of human feeling had been in her during that -painful year. They were a proud family altogether. Martha met me ever -after with her old affectionateness and composure--never asked pardon, -nor said I was right, but at the same time never resented nor betrayed -my interference. I believe she forgot it even, with the happy facility -that belonged to her nature, and has not an idea now that it was -anything but the influence of love and preference which made her cast -off Llewellyn and choose Major Frost. - -Sometimes however in the gray of the summer evenings, or the long, long -winter nights, I think I might just as well have let things alone. There -are two bright households the more in the world, no doubt. But the -Admiral and I are both dull enough sometimes, now the girls are gone. He -comes, and sits with me, which is always company, and it is not his -fault I have not changed my residence and my lonely condition. But I say -to him, why should we change, and give the world occasion to laugh, and -make a talk of us at our age? Things are very well as they are. I -believe we are better company to each other living next door, than if we -were more closely allied; and our neighbours know us too well to make -any talk about our friendship. But still it often happens, even when we -are together,--in the still evenings, and in the firelight, and when all -the world is abroad of summer nights--that we both of us lament a little -in the silence, and feel that it is very dull without the girls. - - - - -LADY DENZIL - - - - -CHAPTER I - - -The Denzils were the chief people at Dinglefield Green. Their house was -by much the most considerable-looking house, and the grounds were -beautiful. I say the most considerable-looking, for my own impression is -that Dinglewood, which was afterwards bought by the stockbroker whose -coming convulsed the whole Green, was in reality larger than the Lodge; -but the Lodge, when Sir Thomas Denzil was in it, was all the same the -centre of everything. It was like Windsor Castle to us neighbours, or -perhaps in reality it was more what her Majesty’s actual royal -habitation is to the dwellers within her castle gates. We were the poor -knights, the canons, the musical and ecclesiastical people who cluster -about that mingled stronghold of the State and Church--but to the Lodge -was it given to bestow distinction upon us. Those of us who visited Lady -Denzil entered into all the privileges of rank; those who did not -receive that honour fell into the cold shade--and a very uncomfortable -shade it must have been. I speak, you will say, at my ease; for my -people had known the Denzils ages before, and Sir Thomas most kindly -sent his wife to call, almost before I had settled down into my cottage; -but I remember how very sore Mrs. Wood felt about it, though it -surprised me at the time. ‘I have been here five years, and have met -them everywhere, but she has never found the way to my door. Not that I -care in the least,’ she said, with a flush on her cheek. She was a -clergyman’s widow, and very sensitive about her ‘position,’ poor -thing--and almost found fault with me, as if I was to blame for having -known the Denzils in my youth. - -Lady Denzil, who had so much weight among us, was a very small -personage. She would have been tiny and insignificant had she not been -so stately and imposing. I don’t know how she did it. She was some way -over sixty at the time I speak of. Whatever the fashion was, she always -wore long flowing dresses which swept the ground for a yard behind her, -and cloaks ample and graceful: always large, always full, and always -made of black silk. Even in winter, though her carriage would be piled -with heaps of furs, she wore upon her little majestic person nothing -but silk. Such silk!--you should have touched it to know what it was. -The very sound of it, as it rustled softly after her over the summer -lawn or the winter carpet, was totally different from the _frôlement_ of -ordinary robes. Some people said she had it made for herself expressly -at Lyons. I don’t know how that might be, but I know I never saw -anything like it. I believe she had every variety in her wardrobe that -heart of woman could desire: Indian shawls worth a fortune I _know_ were -among her possessions; but she never wore anything but that matchless -silk--long dresses of it, and long, large, ample cloaks to correspond. -Her hair was quite white, like silver. She had the brightest dark eyes, -shining out from under brows which were curved and lined as finely as -when she was eighteen. Her colour was as fresh as a rose. I think there -never was a more lovely old lady. Eighteen, indeed! It has its charms, -that pleasant age. It is sweet to the eye, especially of man. Perhaps a -woman, who has oftenest to lecture the creature, instead of falling down -to worship, may not see so well the witchery which lies in the period; -but find me any face of eighteen that could match Lady Denzil’s. It had -wrinkles, yes; but these were crossed by lines of thought, and lighted -up by that soft breath of experience and forbearance which comes only -with the years. Lady Denzil’s eyes saw things that other eyes could not -see. She knew by instinct when things were amiss. You could tell it by -the charitable absence of all questioning, by a calm taking for granted -the most unlikely explanations. Some people supposed they deceived her, -but they never deceived her. And some people spoke of her extraordinary -insight, and eyes that could see through a millstone. I believe her eyes -were clear; but it was experience, only experience--long knowledge of -the world, acquaintance with herself and human nature, and all the -chances that befall us on our way through this life. That it was, and -not any mere intuition or sharpness that put insight into Lady Denzil’s -eyes. - -The curious thing however was that she had never had any troubles of her -own. She had lived with Sir Thomas in the Lodge since a period dating -far beyond my knowledge. It was a thing which was never mentioned among -us, chiefly, I have no doubt, because of her beautiful manners and -stately look, though it came to be spoken of afterwards, as such things -will; but the truth is, that nobody knew very clearly who Lady Denzil -was. Sir Thomas’s first wife was from Lancashire, of one of the best old -families in the county, and it was not an unusual thing for new comers -to get confused about this, and identify the present Lady Denzil with -her predecessor; but I am not aware that any one really knew the rights -of it or could tell who she was. I have heard the mistake made, and I -remember distinctly the gracious and unsatisfactory way with which she -put it aside. ‘The first Lady Denzil was a Lancashire woman,’ she said; -‘she was one of the Tunstalls of Abbotts Tunstall, and a very beautiful -and charming person.’ This was all; she did not add, as anybody else -would have done, Loamshire or Blankshire is my county. It was very -unsatisfactory, but it was fine all the same--and closed everybody’s -mouth. There were always some connections on the Denzil side staying at -the Lodge at the end of the year. No one could be kinder than she was to -all Sir Thomas’s young connections. But nobody belonging to Lady Denzil -was ever seen among us. I don’t think it was remarked at the time, but -it came to be noted afterwards, and it certainly was very strange. - -I never saw more perfect devotion than that which old Sir Thomas showed -to his wife. He was about ten years older than she--a hale, handsome old -man, nearly seventy. Had he been twenty-five and she eighteen he could -not have been more tender, more careful of her. Often have I looked at -her and wondered, with the peaceful life she led, with the love and -reverence and tender care which surrounded her, how she had ever come to -know the darker side of life, and understand other people’s feelings. No -trouble seemed ever to have come near her. She put down her dainty -little foot only to walk over soft carpets or through bright gardens; -she never went anywhere where those long silken robes might not sweep, -safe even from the summer dust, which all the rest of us have to brave -by times. Lady Denzil never braved it. I have seen her sometimes--very -seldom--with her dress gathered up in her arms in great billows, on the -sheltered sunny lime-walk which was at one side of the Lodge, taking a -little gentle exercise; but this was quite an unusual circumstance, and -meant that the roads were too heavy or too slippery for her horses. On -these rare occasions Sir Thomas would be at her side, like a courtly old -gallant as he was. He was as deferential to his wife as if she had been -a princess and he dependent on her favour: and at the same time there -was a grace of old love in his reverence which was like a poem. It was a -curious little paradise that one looked into over the ha-ha across the -verdant lawns that encircled the Lodge. The two were old and childless, -and sometimes solitary; but I don’t think, though they opened their -house liberally to kith, kin, and connections, that they ever felt less -lonely than when they were alone. Two, where the two are one, is enough. -To be sure the two in Eden were young. Yet it does but confer a certain -tender pathos upon that companionship when they are old. I thought of -the purest romance I knew, of the softest creations of poetry, when I -used to see old Sir Thomas in the lime-walk with his old wife. - -But I was sorry she had not called on poor Mrs. Wood. It would have been -of real consequence to that good woman if Lady Denzil had called. She -was only a clergyman’s widow, and a clergyman’s widow may be anything, -as everybody knows: she may be such a person as will be an acquisition -anywhere, or she may be quite the reverse. It was because Mrs. Wood -belonged to this indefinite class that Lady Denzil’s visit would have -been of such use. Her position was doubtful, poor soul! She was very -respectable and very good in her way, and her daughters were nice girls; -but there was nothing in themselves individually to raise them out of -mediocrity. I took the liberty to say so one day when I was at the -Lodge: but Lady Denzil did not see it somehow; and what could I do? And -on the other hand it was gall and wormwood to poor Mrs. Wood every time -she saw the carriage with the two bays stop at my door. - -‘I saw Lady Denzil here to-day,’ she would say. ‘You ought to feel -yourself honoured. I must say I don’t see why people should give in to -her so. In my poor husband’s time the duchess never came into the parish -without calling. It need not be any object to me to be noticed by a bit -of a baronet’s wife.’ - -‘No, indeed!’ said I, being a coward and afraid to stand to my guns; ‘I -am sure you need not mind. And she is old, poor lady--and I am an old -friend--and indeed I don’t know that Lady Denzil professes to visit,’ I -went on faltering, with a sense of getting deeper and deeper into the -mud. - -‘Oh, pray don’t say so to spare my feelings,’ said Mrs. Wood with -asperity. ‘It is nothing to me whether she calls or not, but you must -know, Mrs. Mulgrave, that Lady Denzil does make a point of calling on -every one she thinks worth her while. I am sure she is quite at liberty -to do as she pleases so far as I am concerned.’ Here she stopped and -relieved herself, drawing a long breath and fanning with her -handkerchief her cheeks, which were crimson. ‘But if I were to say I was -connected with the peerage, or to talk about the titled people I do -know,’ she added with a look of spite, ‘she would very soon find out -where I lived: oh, trust her for that!’ - -‘I think you must have taken up a mistaken idea,’ I said, meekly. I had -not courage enough to stand up in my friend’s defence. Not that I am -exactly a coward by nature, but Mrs. Wood was rather a difficult person -to deal with; and I was sorry in the present instance, and felt that the -grievance was a real one. ‘I don’t think Lady Denzil cares very much -about the peerage. She is an old woman and has her fancies, I suppose.’ - -‘Oh, you are a favourite!’ said Mrs. Wood, tossing her head, as if it -were my fault. ‘You have the _entrées_, and we are spiteful who are left -out, you know,’ she added with pretended playfulness. It was a very -affected little laugh however to which she gave utterance, and her -cheeks flamed crimson. I was very sorry--I did not know what to say to -make things smooth again. If I had been Lady Denzil’s keeper, I should -have taken her to call at Rose Cottage next day. But I was not Lady -Denzil’s keeper. It was great kindness of her to visit me: how could I -force her against her will to visit other people? A woman of Mrs. Wood’s -age, who surely could not have got so far through the world without a -little understanding of how things are managed, ought to have known -that it could do her very little good to quarrel with me. - -And then the girls would come to me when there was anything going on at -the Lodge. ‘We met the Miss Llewellyns the other day,’ Adelaide said on -one occasion. ‘We thought them very nice. They are staying with Lady -Denzil, you know. I wish you would make Lady Denzil call on mamma, Mrs. -Mulgrave. It is so hard to come and settle in a place and be shut out -from all the best parties. Until you have been at the Lodge you are -considered nobody on the Green.’ - -‘The Lodge can’t make us different from what we are,’ said Nora, the -other sister, who was of a different temper. ‘I should be ashamed to -think it mattered whether Lady Denzil called or not.’ - -‘But it does matter a great deal when they are going to give a ball,’ -said Adelaide very solemnly. ‘The best balls going, some of the officers -told me; and everybody will be there--except Nora and me,’ said the poor -girl. ‘Oh, Mrs. Mulgrave, I wish you would make Lady Denzil call!’ - -‘But, my dear, I can’t make Lady Denzil do anything,’ I said; ‘I have no -power over her. She comes to see me sometimes, but we are not intimate, -and I have no influence. She comes because my people knew the Denzils -long ago. She has her own ways. I could not make her do one thing or -another. It is wrong to speak so to me.’ - -‘But you could if you would try,’ said Adelaide; as she spoke, we could -hear the sound of the croquet balls from the Lodge, and voices and -laughter. We were all three walking along the road, under shelter of the -trees. She gave such a wistful look when she heard them, that it went to -my heart. It was not a very serious trouble, it is true. But still to -feel one’s self shut out from anything, is hard when one is twenty. I -had to hurry past the gate, to restrain the inclination I had to brave -everything, and take them in with me, as my friends, to join the croquet -party. I know very well what would have happened had I done so. Lady -Denzil would have been perfectly sweet and gracious, and sent them away -delighted with her; but she would never have crossed my threshold again. -And what good would that have done them? The fact was, they had nothing -particular to recommend them; no special qualities of their own to make -up for their want of birth and connection; and this being the case what -could any one say? - -It gave one a very different impression of Lady Denzil, to see how she -behaved when poor Mrs. Stoke was in such trouble about her youngest boy. -I had been with her calling, and Mrs. Stoke had told us a whole long -story about him; how good-hearted he was, and how generous, spending his -money upon everybody. It was a very hard matter for me to keep my -countenance, for of course I knew Everard Stoke, and what kind of boy he -was. But Lady Denzil took it all with the greatest attention and -sympathy. I could not but speak of it when we came out. ‘Poor Mrs. -Stoke!’ said I, ‘it is strange how she can deceive herself so--and she -must have known we knew better. You who have seen poor Everard grow up, -Lady Denzil----’ - -‘Yes, my dear,’ she said, ‘you are right; and yet, do you know, I think -you are wrong too? She is not deceived. She knows a great deal better -than we do. But then she is on the other side of the scene, and she sees -into the boy’s heart a little. I hope she sees into his heart.’ - -‘I fear it is a very bad heart; I should not think it was any pleasure -to look into it,’ said I in my haste. Lady Denzil gave me a soft, -half-reproachful look. ‘Well,’ she said, and gave a sigh, ‘it has always -been one of my great fancies, that God was more merciful than man, -because He saw fully what was in all our hearts--what we meant, poor -creatures that we are, not what we did. We so seldom have any confidence -in Him for that. We think He will forgive and save, but we don’t think -He understands, and sees everything, and knows that nothing is so bad as -it seems. Perhaps it is dangerous doctrine; at least the vicar would -think so, I fear.’ - -‘In the case of Everard Stoke,’ said I stupidly, coming back to the -starting point. - -‘My dear,’ said Lady Denzil with a little impatience, ‘the older one -grows, the less one feels inclined to judge any one. Indeed when one -grows quite old,’ she went on after a pause, smiling a little, as if it -were at the thought that she, whom no doubt she could remember so -thoughtless and young, _was_ quite old, ‘one comes to judge not at all. -Poor Everard, he never was a good boy--but I dare say his mother knows -him best, and he is better than is thought.’ - -‘At least it was a comfort to her to see you look as if you believed -her,’ said I, not quite entering into the argument. Lady Denzil took no -notice of this speech. It was a beautiful bright day, and it was but a -step from Mrs. Stoke’s cottage to the Lodge gates, which we were just -about entering. But at that moment there was a little party of soldiers -marching along the high-road, at right angles from where we stood. It is -not far from the Green to the barracks, and their red coats were not -uncommon features in the landscape. These men however were marching in a -business-like way, not lingering on the road: and among them was a man -in a shooting-coat, handcuffed, poor fellow! It was a deserter they were -taking back to the punishment that awaited him. I made some meaningless -exclamation or other, and stood still, looking after them for a moment. -Then I suppose my interest failed as they went on, at their rapid, -steady pace, turning their backs upon us. I came back to Lady Denzil, my -passing distraction over; but when I looked at her, there was something -in her face that struck me with the deepest wonder. She had not come -back to me. She was standing absorbed, watching them; the colour all -gone out of her soft old cheeks, and the saddest, wistful, longing gaze -in her eyes. It was not pity--it was something mightier, more intense. -She did not breathe or move, but stood gazing, gazing after them. When -they had disappeared, she came to herself; her hands, which had been -clasped tightly, fell loose at her sides; she gave a long deep sigh, and -then she became conscious of my eyes upon her, and the colour came back -with a rush to her face. - -‘I am always interested about soldiers,’ she said faintly, turning as -she spoke to open the gate. That was all the notice she took of it. But -the incident struck me more than my account of it may seem to justify. -If such a thing had been possible as that the deserter might have been -her husband or her brother, one could have understood it. Had I seen -such a look on Mrs. Stoke’s face, I should have known it was Everard. -But here was Lady Denzil, a contented childless woman, without anybody -to disturb her peace. Sympathy must indeed have become perfect, before -such a wistfulness could come into any woman’s eyes. - -Often since I have recalled that scene to my mind, and wondered over it; -the quick march of the soldiers on the road; the man in the midst with -death environing him all round, and most likely despair in his heart; -and that one face looking on, wistful as love, sad as death--and yet -with no cause either for her sadness or her love. It did not last long, -it is true; but it was one of the strangest scenes I ever witnessed in -my life. - -It even appeared to me next day as if Lady Denzil had been a little -shaken, either by her visit to Mrs. Stoke, or by this strange little -episode which nobody knew of. She had taken to me, which I confess I -felt as a great compliment; and Sir Thomas came in to ask me to go to -her next afternoon. ‘My lady has a headache,’ he said in a quaint way he -had of speaking of her: I think he would have liked to call her my queen -or my princess. When he said ‘my lady’ there was something chivalric, -something romantic in his very tone. When I went into the drawing-room -at the Lodge the great green blind was drawn over the window on the west -side, and the trees gave the same green effect to the daylight, at the -other end. The east windows looked out upon the lime-walk, and the light -came in softly, green and shadowy, through the silken leaves. She was -lying on the sofa, which was not usual with her. As soon as I entered -the room she called me to come and sit by her--and of course she did not -say a word about yesterday. We went on talking for an hour and more, -about the trees, and the sunset; about what news there was; girls going -to be married, and babies coming, and other such domestic incidents. And -sometimes the conversation would languish for a moment, and I did think -once there was something strange in her eyes, when she looked at me, as -if she had something to tell and was looking into my face to see whether -she might or might not do it. But it never went any further; we began -to speak of Molly Jackson, and that was an interminable subject. Molly -was a widow in the village, and she gave us all a great deal of trouble. -She had a quantity of little children, to whom the people on the Green -were very kind, and she was a good-natured soft soul, always falling -into some scrape or other. This time was the worst of all; it was when -the talk got up about Thomas Short. People said that Molly was going to -marry him. It would have been very foolish for them both, of course. He -was poor and he was getting old, and would rather have hindered than -helped her with her children. We gentlefolks may, or may not, be -sentimental about our own concerns; but we see things in their true -light when they take place among our poor neighbours. As for the two -being a comfort to each other we never entered into that question; there -were more important matters concerned. - -‘I don’t know what would become of the poor children,’ said I. ‘The man -would never put up with them, and indeed it could not be expected; and -they have no friends to go to. But I don’t think Molly would be so -wicked; she may be a fool but she has a mother’s heart.’ - -Lady Denzil gave a faint smile and turned on her sofa as if something -hurt her; she did not answer me all at once--and as I sat for a minute -silent in that soft obscurity, Molly Jackson, I acknowledge, went out of -my head. Then all at once when I had gone on to something else, she -spoke; and her return to the subject startled me, I could not have told -how. - -‘There are different ways of touching a mother’s heart,’ she said; ‘she -might think it would be for their good; I don’t think it could be, for -my part; I don’t think it ever is; a woman is deceived, or she deceives -herself; and then when it is too late----’ - -‘What is too late?’ said Sir Thomas behind us. He had come in at the -great window, and we had not noticed. I thought Lady Denzil gave a -little start, but there was no sign of it in her face. - -‘We were talking of Molly Jackson,’ she said. ‘Nothing is ever too late -here, thanks to your precise habits, you old soldier. Molly must be -talked to, Mrs. Mulgrave,’ she said, turning to me. - -‘Oh, yes, she will be talked to,’ said I; ‘I know the rector and his -wife have both called; and last time I saw her, Mrs. Wood----’ - -‘You are not one of the universal advisers,’ said Lady Denzil, patting -my arm with her white hand. It was no virtue on my part, but she spoke -as if she meant it for a compliment. And then we had to tell the whole -story over again to Sir Thomas, who was very fond of a little gossip -like all the gentlemen, but had to have everything explained to him, and -never knew what was coming next. He chuckled and laughed as men do over -it. ‘Old fool!’ he said. ‘A woman with half-a-dozen children.’ It was -not Molly but Thomas Short that he thought would be a fool; and on our -side, it is true that we had not been thinking of him. - -Molly Jackson has not much to do with this story, but yet it may be as -well to say that she listened to reason, and did not do anything so -absurd. It was a relief to all our minds when Thomas went to live in -Langham parish the spring after, and married somebody there. I believe -it was a girl out of the workhouse, who might have been his daughter, -and led him a very sad life. But still in respect to Molly it was a -relief to our minds. I hope she was of the same way of thinking. I know -for one thing that she lost her temper, the only time I ever saw her do -it--and was very indignant about the young wife. ‘Old fool!’ she said, -and again it was Thomas that was meant. We had a way of talking a good -deal about the village folks, and we all did a great deal for -them--perhaps, on the whole, we did too much. When anything happened to -be wanting among them, instead of making an effort to get it for -themselves, it was always the ladies on the Green they came to. And, of -course, we interfered in our turn. - - - - -CHAPTER II - - -It was in the spring of the following year that little Mary first came -to the Lodge. Sir Thomas had been absent for some time, on business, -Lady Denzil said, and it was he who brought the child home. It is all -impressed on my mind by the fact that I was there when they arrived. He -was not expected until the evening, and I had gone to spend an hour with -Lady Denzil in the afternoon. It was a bright spring day, as warm as -summer; one of those sweet surprises that come upon us in England in -intervals between the gray east wind and the rain. The sunshine had -called out a perfect crowd of golden crocuses along the borders. They -had all blown out quite suddenly, as if it had been an actual voice that -called them, and God’s innocent creatures had rushed forth to answer to -their names. And there were heaps of violets about the Lodge which made -the air sweet. And there is something in that first exquisite touch of -spring which moves all hearts. Lady Denzil had come out with me to the -lawn. I thought she was quieter than usual, with the air of a woman -listening for something. Everything was very still, and yet in the -sunshine one felt as if one could hear the buds unfolding, the young -grass and leaflets thrilling with their new life. But it did not seem to -me that Lady Denzil was listening to these. I said, ‘Do you expect Sir -Thomas now?’ with a kind of vague curiosity; and she looked in my face -with a sudden quick glance of something like suspicion which I could not -understand. - -‘Do I look as if I expected something?’ she said. ‘Yes--I expect some -news that probably I shall not like. But it does not matter, my dear. It -is nothing that affects me.’ - -She said these words with a smile that was rather dreary to see. It was -not like Lady Denzil. It was like saying, ‘So long as it does not affect -me you know I don’t care,’--which was so very, very far from my opinion -of her. I did not know what to answer. Her tone somehow disturbed the -spring feeling, and the harmony of the flowers. - -‘I wish Sir Thomas had been here on such a lovely day,’ she said, after -a while; ‘he enjoys it so. Peace is very pleasant, my dear, when you are -old. You don’t quite appreciate it yet, as we do.’ And then she paused -again and seemed to listen, and permitted herself the faintest little -sigh. - -‘I think I am older than you are, Lady Denzil,’ I said. - -Then she laughed in her natural soft way. ‘I dare say you are,’ she -said. ‘That is the difference between your restless middle age and our -_oldness_. You feel old because you feel young. That’s how it is; -whereas, being really old, we can afford to be young again--sometimes,’ -she added softly. The last word was said under her breath. I don’t -suppose she thought I heard it; but I did, being very quick of hearing, -and very fond of her, and feeling there was something underneath which I -did not know. - -Just then there came the sound of wheels upon the road, and Lady Denzil -started slightly. ‘You have put it into my head that Sir Thomas might -come by the three o’clock train,’ she said. ‘It would be about time for -it now.’ She had scarcely stopped speaking and we had just turned -towards the gate, when a carriage entered. I saw at once it was one of -the common flys that are to be had at the station, and that it was Sir -Thomas who put his head out at the window. A moment after it stopped. He -had seen Lady Denzil on the lawn. He got out with that slight hesitation -which betrays an old man; and then he turned and lifted something out of -the carriage. For the first moment one could not tell what it was--he -made a long stride on to the soft greensward, with his eyes fixed upon -Lady Denzil, and then he put down the child on the lawn. ‘Go to that -lady,’ he said. For my part I stood and stared, knowing nothing of the -feelings that might lie underneath. The child stood still with her -little serious face and looked at us both for a moment, and then she -walked steadily up to Lady Denzil, who had not moved. I was quite -unprepared for what followed. Lady Denzil fell down on her knees on the -grass--she took the child to her, into her arms, close to her breast. -All at once she fell into a passion of tears. And yet that does not -express what I saw. It was silent; there were no cries nor sobs, such as -a young woman might have uttered. The tears fell as if they had been -pent up all her life, as if all her life she had been waiting for this -moment: while Sir Thomas stood looking on, half sad, half satisfied. It -seemed a revelation to him as it was to me. All this time when she had -looked so serene and had been so sweet, had she been carrying those -tears in her heart! I think that must have been what was passing through -Sir Thomas’s mind. I had stood and stared, as one does when one is -unexpectedly made the spectator of a crisis in another life. When I came -to myself I was ashamed of spying as it were upon Lady Denzil’s -feelings. I hastened away, shaking hands with Sir Thomas as I passed -him. And so entirely was his mind absorbed in the scene before him, that -I scarcely think he knew who I was. - -After this it may be supposed I took a very great interest in little -Mary. At first I was embarrassed and did not quite know what to -do--whether I should go back next day and ask for the child, and give -Lady Denzil an opportunity of getting over any confusion she might feel -at the recollection that I had been present--or whether I should stay -away; but it turned out that Lady Denzil was not half so sensitive as I -was on the subject. I stayed away for one whole day thinking about -little else--and the next day I went, lest they should think it strange. -It seemed quite curious to me to be received as if nothing had happened. -There was no appearance of anything out of the ordinary course. When I -went in Lady Denzil held out her hand to me as usual without rising from -her chair. ‘What has become of you?’ she said, and made me sit down by -her, as she always did. After we had talked a while she rang the bell. -‘I have something to show you,’ she said smiling. And then little Mary -came in, in her little brown holland overall, as if it was the most -natural thing in the world. She was the most lovely child I ever saw. I -know when I say this that everybody will immediately think of a -golden-haired, blue-eyed darling. But she was not of that description. -Her hair was brown--not dark, but of the shade which grows dark with -years; and it was very fine silky hair, not frizzy and rough as is the -fashion now-a-days. Her eyes were brown too, of that tender wistful kind -which are out of fashion like the hair. Every look the child gave was an -appeal. There are some children’s eyes that look at you with perfect -trust, believing in everybody; and these are sweet eyes. But little -Mary’s were sweeter still, for they told you she believed in _you_. -‘Take care of me: be good to me--I trust you,’ was what they said; ‘not -everybody, but you.’ This was the expression in them; and I never knew -anybody who could resist that look. Then she had the true child’s beauty -of a lovely complexion, pure red and white. She came up to me and looked -at me with those tender serious eyes, and then slid her soft little hand -into mine. Even when I had ceased talking to her and petting her, she -never took her eyes away from my face. It was the creature’s way of -judging of the new people among whom she had been brought--for she was -only about six, too young to draw much insight from words. I was glad to -bend my head over her, to kiss her sweet little face and smooth her -pretty hair by way of hiding a certain embarrassment I felt. But I was -the only one of the three that was embarrassed. Lady Denzil sat and -looked at the child with eyes that seemed to run over with content. ‘She -is going to stay with me, and take care of me,’ she said, with a smile -of absolute happiness; ‘are not you, little Mary?’ - -‘Yes, my lady,’ said the little thing, turning, serious as a judge, to -the old lady. I could not help giving a little start as I looked from -one to the other, and saw the two pair of eyes meet. Lady Denzil was -sixty, and little Mary was but six; but it was the same face; I felt -quite confused after I had made this discovery, and sat silent and heard -them talk to each other. Even in the little voice there was a certain -trill which was like Lady Denzil’s. Then the whole scene rushed before -me. Lady Denzil on her knees, her tears pouring forth and the child -clasped in her arms. What did it mean? My lady was childless--and even -had it been otherwise, that baby never could have been _her_ child--who -was she? I was so bewildered and surprised that it took from me the very -power of speech. - -After this strange introduction the child settled down as an inmate of -the Lodge, and was seen and admired by everybody. And every one -discovered the resemblance. The neighbours on the Green all found it -out, and as there was no reason we knew of why she should not be Lady -Denzil’s relation, we all stated our opinion plainly--except perhaps -myself. I had seen more than the rest, though that was almost nothing. I -had a feeling that there was an unknown story beneath, and somehow I had -not the courage to say to Lady Denzil as I sat there alone with her, and -had her perhaps at a disadvantage. ‘How like the child is to you!’ But -other people were not so cowardly. Not long after, two or three of us -met at the Lodge, at the hour of afternoon tea, which was an invention -of the time which Lady Denzil had taken to very kindly. Among the rest -was young Mrs. Plymley, who was not precisely one of us. She was one of -the Herons of Marshfield, and she and her husband had taken Willowbrook -for the summer. She was a pleasant little woman, but she was fond of -talking--nobody could deny that. And she had children of her own, and -made a great fuss over little Mary the moment she saw her. The child was -too much a little lady to be disagreeable, but I could see she did not -like to be lifted up on a stranger’s knee, and admired and chattered -over. ‘I wish my Ada was half as pretty,’ Mrs. Plymley said; ‘but Ada is -so like her poor dear papa,’ and here she pretended to sigh. ‘I am so -fond of pretty children. It is hard upon me to have mine so plain. Oh, -you little darling! Mary what? you have only told me half your name. -Lady Denzil, one can see in a moment she belongs to you.’ - -Lady Denzil at the moment was pouring out tea. All at once the silver -teapot in her hand seemed to give a jerk, as if it were a living -creature, and some great big boiling drops fell on her black dress. It -was only for a single second, and she had presence of mind to set it -down, and smile and say she was awkward, and it was nothing. ‘My arm is -always shaky when I hold anything heavy,’ she said; ‘ever since I had -the rheumatism in it. Then she turned to Mrs. Plymley, whose injudicious -suggestion we had all forgotten in our fright. Perhaps Lady Denzil had -lost her self-possession a little. Perhaps it was only that she thought -it best to reply at once, so that everybody might hear. ‘Belongs to -me?’ she said with her clear voice. And somehow we all felt immediately -that something silly and uncalled for had been said. - -‘I mean your side of the house,’ said poor Mrs. Plymley abashed. She was -young and nervous, and felt, like all the rest of us, that she was for -the moment the culprit at the bar. - -‘She belongs to neither side of the house,’ said Lady Denzil, with even -unnecessary distinctness. ‘Sir Thomas knows her people, and in his -kindness he thought a change would be good for her. She is -no--connection; nothing at all to us.’ - -‘Oh, I am sure I beg your pardon,’ said Mrs. Plymley; and she let little -Mary slide down from her lap, and looked very uncomfortable. None of us -indeed were at our ease, for we had all been saying it in private. Only -little Mary, standing in the middle, looked wistfully round upon us, -questioning, yet undisturbed. And Lady Denzil, too, stood and looked. At -that moment the likeness was stronger than ever. - -‘It is very droll,’ said Mrs. Damerel, the rector’s wife, whose eye was -caught by it, like mine. ‘She is very like you, Lady Denzil; I never saw -an incidental likeness so strong.’ - -‘Poor little Mary! do you think she is like me?’ said Lady Denzil with a -curious quiver in her voice; and she bent over the child all at once and -kissed her. Sir Thomas had been at the other end of the room, quite out -of hearing. I don’t know by what magnetism he could have known that -something agitating was going on--I did not even see him approach or -look; but all at once, just as his wife betrayed that strange thrill of -feeling, Sir Thomas was at her elbow. He touched her arm quite lightly -as he stood by her side. - -‘I should like some tea,’ he said. - -She stood up and looked at him for a moment as if she did not -understand. And then she turned to the tea-table with something like a -blush of shame on her face. Then he drew forward a chair and sat down by -Mrs. Plymley and began to talk. He was a very good talker when he -pleased, and in two seconds we had all wandered away to our several -subjects, and were in full conversation again. But it was some time -before Lady Denzil took any part in it. She was a long while pouring out -those cups of tea. Little Mary, as if moved by some unconscious touch of -sympathy, stole away with her doll into a corner. It was as if the two -had been made out of the same material and thrilled to the same -touch--they both turned their backs upon us for the moment. I don’t -suppose anybody but myself noticed this; and to be sure it was simply -because I had seen the meeting between them, and knew there was -something in it more than the ordinary visit to the parents’ friends of -a little delicate child. - -Besides, the child never looked like a little visitor; she had brought -no maid with her, and she spoke very rarely of her home. I don’t know -how she might be dressed under those brown holland overalls, but these -were the only outside garb she ever wore. I don’t mean to say they were -ugly or wanting in neatness; they were such things as the children at -the Rectory wore in summer when they lived in the garden and the fields. -But they did not look suitable for the atmosphere of the Lodge. By and -by however these outer garments disappeared. The little creature -blossomed out as it were out of her brown husk, and put forth new -flowers. After the first few weeks she wore nothing but dainty white -frocks, rich with needlework. I recognized Lady Denzil’s taste in -everything she put on. It was clear that her little wardrobe was being -silently renewed, and every pretty thing which a child of her age could -fitly wear was being added to it. This could never have been done to a -little visitor who had come for change of air. Then a maid was got for -her, whom Lady Denzil was very particular about; and no one ever spoke -of the time when little Mary should be going away. By degrees she grew -to belong to the place, to be associated with everything in it. When you -approached the house, which had always been so silent, perhaps it was a -burst of sweet childish laughter that met your ears; perhaps a little -song, or the pleasant sound of her little feet on the gravel in the -sunny lime-walk. The servants were all utterly under her sway. They -spoke of little Miss Mary as they might have spoken of a little princess -whose word was law. As for Sir Thomas, I think he was the first subject -in her realm. She took to patronizing and ordering him about before she -had been a month at the Lodge. ‘Sir Thomas,’ she would say in her clear -little voice, ‘come and walk;’ and the old gentleman would get up and go -out with her, and hold wonderful conversations, as we could see, looking -after them from the window. Lady Denzil did not seem either to pet her, -or to devote herself to her, as all the rest of the house did. But there -was something in her face when she looked at the child which passes -description. It was a sort of ineffable content and satisfaction, as if -she had all that heart could desire and asked no more. Little Mary -watched her eye whenever they were together with a curious sympathy more -extraordinary still. She seemed to know by intuition when my lady wanted -her. ‘’Es, my lady,’ the child would say, watching with her sweet eyes. -It was the only little divergence she made from correctness of speech, -and somehow it pleased my ear. I suppose she said ‘My Lady’ because Sir -Thomas did, and that I liked too. To an old lady like Lady Denzil it is -such a pretty title; I fell into it myself without being aware. - - - - -CHAPTER III - - -Thus the world went softly on, till the roses of June had come instead -of the spring crocuses. Everything went on softly at the Green. True, -there was a tragedy now and then, even among us, like that sad affair -of Everard Stoke; and sometimes a very troublesome complication, going -near to break some hearts, like that of Nelly Fortis--but for the most -part we were quiet enough. And that was a very quiet time. Little Mary -had grown the pet of the Green before June. The little Damerels, who -were nice children enough, were not to be compared with her; and then -there were so many of them, whereas Mary was all alone like a little -star. We all petted her--but she was one of the children whom it is -impossible to spoil. She was never pert or disagreeable, like little -Agatha Damerel. She had her little childish fits of temper by times, but -was always sorry and always sweet, with her soft appealing eyes--a -little woman, but never knowing or forward, like so many children -now-a-days. She was still but a baby, poor darling, not more than seven -years old, when that dreadful scene broke in upon our quietness which I -have now to tell. - -It was June, and there was a large party on the lawn before the Lodge. -As long as the season lasted, while there were quantities of people in -town, Lady Denzil often had these parties. We were all there of course; -everybody on the Green whom she visited--(and I used to be very sorry -for Mrs. Wood and her daughters when one of them was going to take -place). We were in the habit of meeting continually in the same way, to -see the young people play croquet and amuse themselves; and there was -perhaps a little monotony in it. But Lady Denzil always took care to -have some variety. There would be a fine lady or two from town, bringing -with her a whiff of all the grandeurs and gaieties we had no particular -share in, and setting an example to the girls in their dress and -accessories. I never was extravagant in my dress, nor encouraged such a -thing--I think no true lady ever does--but a real fashionable perfect -toilette is generally so complete, and charming, and harmonious, that it -is good for one to see it now and then, especially for girls, though of -course ignorant persons and men don’t understand why. And then there -were a few gentlemen--with all the gossip of the clubs, and town talk, -which made a very pleasant change to us. It was an unusually brilliant -party that day. There was the young Countess of Berkhampstead, who was a -great beauty and had married so strangely; people said the Earl was not -very right in his head, and told the oddest stories about him. Poor -thing, I fear she could not help herself--but she was the loveliest -creature imaginable, and very nice then, though she went wrong -afterwards. She sat by Lady Denzil’s side on the sofa, which was placed -just before the great bank of roses. It was pretty to see them together: -the lovely young lady, with her fits of gaiety and pretty languid -stillnesses, letting us all admire her as if she felt what a pleasure it -was to us; and the lovely old lady, so serene, so fair, so kind. I don’t -know, for my part, which was the more beautiful. There were other fine -ladies besides Lady Berkhampstead, and, as I have just said, it was a -very brilliant party. There never was a more glorious day; the sky was a -delight to look at, and the rich full foliage of the trees clustered out -against the blue, as if they leant caressingly upon the soft air around -them. The breath of the roses went everywhere, and behind Lady Denzil’s -sofa they threw themselves up into space--great globes of burning -crimson, and delicate blush, and creamy white. They were very rich in -roses at the Lodge--I remember one wall quite covered with the _Gloire -de Dijon_--but that is a digression. It was a broad lawn, and left room -for several sets of croquet players, besides all the other people. The -house was on a higher level at one side, the grounds and woods behind, -and in front over the ha-ha we had a pretty glimpse of the Green, where -cricket was being played, and the distant houses on the other side. It -was like fairy-land, with just a peep of the outer world, by which we -kept hold upon the fact that we were human, and must trudge away -presently to our little houses. On the grass before Lady Denzil little -Mary was sitting, a little white figure, with a brilliant picture-book -which somebody had brought her. She was seated sideways, half facing to -Lady Denzil, half to the house, and giving everybody from time to time a -look from her tender eyes. Her white frock which blazed in the sunshine -was the highest light in the picture, as a painter would have said, and -gave it a kind of centre. I was not playing croquet, and there came a -moment when I was doing nothing particular, and therefore had time to -remark upon the scene around me. As I raised my eyes, my attention was -all at once attracted by a strange figure, quite alien to the group -below, which stood on the approach to the house. The house, as I have -said, was on a higher level, and consequently the road which approached -it was higher too, on the summit of the bank which sloped down towards -the lawn. A woman stood above gazing at us. At first it seemed to me -that she was one of the servants: she had a cotton gown on, and a straw -bonnet, and a little black silk cloak. I could not say that she was -shabby or wretched-looking, but her appearance was a strange contrast to -the pretty crowd on the lawn. She seemed to have been arrested on her -way to the door by the sound of voices, and stood there looking down -upon us--a strange, tall, threatening figure, which awoke, I could not -tell how, a certain terror in my mind. By degrees it seemed to me that -her gaze fixed upon little Mary--and I felt more frightened still; -though what harm could any one do to the child with so many anxious -protectors looking on? However people were intent upon their games, or -their talks, or their companions, and nobody saw her but myself. At last -I got so much alarmed that I left my seat to tell Sir Thomas of her. I -had just made one step towards him, when all at once, with a strange -cry, the woman darted down the bank. It was at little Mary she flew: she -rushed down upon her like a tempest, and seized the child, crushing up -her pretty white frock and her dear little figure violently in her -arms. I cried out too in my fright--for I thought she was mad--and -various people sprang from their chairs, one of the last to be roused -being Lady Denzil, who was talking very earnestly to Lady Berkhampstead. -The woman gave a great loud passionate outcry as she seized upon little -Mary. And the child cried out too, one single word which in a moment -transfixed me where I stood, and caught Lady Denzil’s ear like the sound -of a trumpet. It was a cry almost like a moan, full of terror and dismay -and repugnance; and yet it was one of the sweetest words that ever falls -on human ears. The sound stopped everything, even the croquet, and -called Sir Thomas forward from the other end of the lawn. The one word -that Mary uttered, that filled us all with such horror and -consternation, was ‘Mamma!’ - -‘Yes, my darling,’ cried the woman, holding her close, crumpling, even -crushing her up in her arms. ‘They took you from me when I wasn’t -myself! Did I know where they were going to bring you? Here! Oh, yes, I -see it all now. Don’t touch my child! don’t interfere with my -child!--she sha’n’t stay here another day. Her father would curse her if -he knew she was here.’ - -‘Oh, please set me down,’ said little Mary. ‘Oh, mamma, please don’t -hurt me. Oh, my lady!’ cried the poor child, appealing to her -protectress. Lady Denzil got up tottering as she heard this cry. She -came forward with every particle of colour gone from her face. She was -so agitated her lips could scarcely form the words; but she had the -courage to lay her hand upon the woman’s arm,-- - -‘Set her down,’ she said. ‘If you have any claim--set her down--it shall -be seen into. Sir Thomas----’ - -The stranger turned upon her. She was a woman about five-and-thirty, -strong and bold and vigorous. I don’t deny she was a handsome woman. She -had big blazing black eyes, and a complexion perhaps a little heightened -by her walk in the heat. She turned upon Lady Denzil, shaking off her -hand, crushing little Mary still closer in one arm, and raising the -other with a wild theatrical gesture. - -‘You!’ she cried; ‘if I were to tell her father she was with you, he -would curse her. How dare you look me in the face--a woman that’s come -after her child! you that gave up your own flesh and blood. Ay! You may -stare at her, all you fine folks. There’s the woman that sold her son to -marry her master. She’s got her grandeur, and all she bid for; and she -left her boy to be brought up in the streets, and go for a common -soldier. And she’s never set eyes on him, never since he was two years -old; and now she’s come and stole my little Mary from me!’ - -Before this speech was half spoken every soul in the place had crowded -round to hear. No one thought how rude it was. Utter consternation was -in everybody’s look. As for Lady Denzil, she stood like a statue, as -white as marble, in the same spot, hearing it all. She did not move. -She was like an image set down there, capable of no individual action. -She stood and gazed, and heard it all, and saw us all listening. I -cannot tell what dreadful pangs were rending her heart; but she stood -like a dead woman in the sunshine, neither contradicting her accuser nor -making even one gesture in her own defence. - -Then Sir Thomas, on whom there had surely been some spell, came forward, -dividing the crowd, and took the stranger by the arm. ‘Set down the -child,’ he said in a shaking voice. ‘Set her down. How dare _you_ speak -of a mother’s rights? Did you ever do anything for her? Set down the -child, woman! You have no business here.’ - -‘I never forsook my own flesh and blood,’ cried the enraged creature, -letting poor little Mary almost fall down out of her arms, but keeping -fast hold of her. ‘I’ve a better right here than any of these strangers. -I’m her son’s wife. She’s little Mary’s grandmother, though she’ll deny -it. She’s that kind of woman that would deny to her last breath. I know -she would. She’s the child’s grandmother. She’s my mother-in-law. She’s -never seen her son since he was two years old. If he hears the very name -of mother he curses and swears. Let me alone, I have come for my child! -And I’ve come to give that woman her due!’ - -‘Go!’ cried Sir Thomas. His voice was awful. He would not touch her, for -he was a gentleman; but the sound of his voice made my very knees bend -and tremble. ‘Go!’ he said--‘not a word more.’ He was so overcome at -last that he put his hand on her shoulder and pushed her away, and -wildly beckoned to the servants, who were standing listening too. The -woman grasped little Mary by her dress. She crushed up the child’s -pretty white cape in her hot hand and dragged her along with her. But -she obeyed. She dared not resist his voice; and she had done all the -harm it was possible to do. - -‘I’ll go,’ she said. ‘None of you had better touch me. I’m twice as -strong as you, though you’re a man. But I’ll go. She knows what I think -of her now; and you all know what she is!’ she cried, raising her voice. -‘To marry that old man, she deserted her child at two years old, and -never set eyes on him more. That’s Lady Denzil. Now you all know, ladies -and gentlemen; and I’ll go.’ - -All this time Lady Denzil never stirred; but when the woman moved away, -dragging little Mary with her, all at once my lady stretched out her -hands and gave a wild cry. ‘The child!’ she cried; ‘the child!’ And then -the little thing turned to her with that strange sympathy we had all -noticed. I don’t know how she twitched herself out of her mother’s -excited, passionate grasp, but she rushed back and threw herself at Lady -Denzil’s feet, and clutched hold of her dress. My lady, who had not -moved nor spoken except those two words--who was old and capable of no -such exertion, stooped over her and lifted her up. I never saw such a -sight. She was as pale as if she had been dead. She had received such a -shock as might well have killed her. Notwithstanding, this is what she -did. She lifted up the child in her arms, broke away from us who were -surrounding her, mounted the steep bank like a girl, with her treasure -clasped close to her bosom, and before any one knew, before there was -time to speak, or even almost think, had disappeared with her into the -house. The woman would have rushed at her, sprung upon her, if she had -not been held fast. It may easily be imagined what a scene it was when -the mistress of the feast disappeared, and a family secret so -extraordinary was thus tossed to public discussion. The house door rang -after Lady Denzil, as she rushed in, with a sound like a cannon shot. -The stranger stood struggling in the midst of a group of men, visitors -and servants, some of whom were trying to persuade, some to force her -away. Sir Thomas stood by himself, with his old pale hands piteously -clasped together, and his head bent. He was overwhelmed by shame and -trouble, and the shock of this frightful scene. He did not seem able for -the first moment to face any one, to lift his eyes to the disturbed and -fluttering crowd, who were so strangely in the way. And we all stood -about thunderstruck, staring in each other’s faces, not knowing what to -do or to say. Lady Berkhampstead, with the instinct of a great lady, was -the first to recover herself. She turned to me, I scarcely know why, nor -could she have told why. ‘I know my carriage is waiting,’ she said, ‘and -I could not think of disturbing dear Lady Denzil to say good-bye. Will -you tell her how sorry I am to go away without seeing her?’ They all -came crowding round me with almost the same words, as soon as she had -set the example. And presently Sir Thomas roused up as it were from his -stupor. And for the next few minutes there was nothing but shaking of -hands, and the rolling up of carriages, and an attempt on the part of -everybody to smile and look as if nothing had happened. ‘So long as it -does not make dear Lady Denzil ill,’ one of the ladies said. ‘This is -one of the dangers of living so close upon the road. It might have -happened to any of us,’ said another. ‘Of course the creature is mad; -she should be shut up somewhere.’ They said such words with the natural -impulse of saying anything to break the terrible impression of the -scene; but they were all almost as much shocked and shaken as the -principals in it. I never saw such a collection of pale faces as those -that went from the Lodge that afternoon. I was left last of all. Somehow -the woman who had made so dreadful a disturbance had disappeared without -anybody knowing where. Sir Thomas and I were left alone on the lawn, -which ten minutes ago--I don’t think it was longer--had been so gay and -so crowded. So far as I was myself concerned, that was the most trying -moment of all. Everybody had spoken to me as if I belonged to the house, -but in reality I did not belong to the house; and I felt like a spy as I -stood with Sir Thomas all alone. And what was worse, he felt it too, -and looked at me with the forced painful smile he had put on for the -others, as if he felt I was just like them, and it was also needful for -me. - -‘I beg your pardon for staying,’ I said, ‘don’t you think I could be of -any use? Lady Denzil perhaps----’ - -Sir Thomas took my hand and shook it in an imperative way. ‘No, no,’ he -said with his set smile. He even turned me towards the gate and touched -my shoulder with his agitated hand--half no doubt, because he knew I -meant kindly--but half to send me away. - -‘She might like me to do something,’ I said piteously. But all that Sir -Thomas did was to wring my hand and pat my shoulder, and say, ‘No, no.’ -I was obliged to follow the rest with an aching heart. As I went out one -of the servants came after me. It was a man who had been long in the -family, and knew a great deal about the Denzils. He came to tell me he -was very much frightened about the woman, who had disappeared nobody -could tell how. ‘I’m afraid she’s hiding about somewhere,’ he said, ‘to -come again.’ And then he glanced round to see that nobody was by, and -looked into my face. ‘All that about my lady is true,’ he said--‘true as -gospel. I’ve knowed it this forty years.’ - -‘They’ve been very kind to you, Wellman,’ I said indignantly--‘for -shame! to think you should turn upon your good mistress now.’ - -‘Turn upon her!’ said Wellman; ‘not if I was to be torn in little bits; -but being such a friend of the family, I thought it might be a -satisfaction to you, ma’am, to know as it was true.’ - -If anything could have made my heart more heavy I think it would have -been that. He thought it would be a satisfaction to me to know! And -after the first moment of pity was past, were there not some people to -whom it would be a satisfaction to know? who would tell it all over and -gloat upon it, and say to each other that pride went before a fall? My -heart was almost bursting as I crossed the Green in the blazing -afternoon sunshine, and saw the cricketers still playing as if nothing -had happened. Ah me! was this what brought such sad indulgent experience -to Lady Denzil’s eyes?--was this what made her know by instinct when -anything was wrong in a house? I could not think at first what a -terrible accusation it was that had been brought against her. I thought -only of her look, of her desperate snatch at the child, of her rush up -the steep bank with little Mary in her arms. She could scarcely have -lifted the child under ordinary circumstances--what wild despair, what -longing must have stimulated her to such an effort! I put down my veil -to cover my tears. Dear Lady Denzil! how sweet she was, how tender, how -considerate of everybody. Blame never crossed her lips. I cannot -describe the poignant aching sense of her suffering that grew upon me -till I reached my own house. When I was there, out of sight of -everybody, I sat down and cried bitterly. And then gradually, by degrees -it broke upon me what it was that had happened--what the misery was, and -the shame. - -She must have done it forty years ago, as Wellman said, when she was -quite young, and no doubt ignorant of the awful thing she was doing. She -had done it, and she had held by it ever since--had given her child up -at two years old, and had never seen him again. Good Lord! could any -woman do that and live? Her child, two years old. My mind seemed to grow -bewildered going over and over that fact: for evidently it was a fact. -Her child--her own son. - -And for forty years! To keep it all up and stand by it, and never to -flinch or falter. If it is difficult to keep to a good purpose for so -long, what can it be to keep by an evil one? How could she do it? Then a -hundred little words she had said came rushing into my mind. And that -look--the look she cast after the deserter on the road! I understood it -all now. Her heart had been longing for him all the time. She had loved -her child more than other mothers love, every day of all that time. - -Poor Lady Denzil! dear Lady Denzil! this was the end of all my -reasonings on the matter. I went over it again and again, but I never -came to any ending but this:--The thing was dreadful; but she was not -dreadful. There was no change in her. I did not realize any guilt on her -part. My heart only bled for the long anguish she had suffered, and for -the shock she was suffering from now. - -But before evening on this very same day my house was filled with people -discussing the whole story. No one had heard any more than I had heard: -but by this time a thousand versions of the story were afloat. Some -people said she had gone astray when she was young, and had been cast -off by her family, and that Sir Thomas had rescued her; and there were -whispers that such stories were not so rare, if we knew all: a vile echo -that always breathes after a real tragedy. And some said she was of no -family, but had been the former Lady Denzil’s maid; some thought it was -Sir Thomas’s own son that had been thus cast away; some said he had been -left on the streets and no provision made for him. My neighbours went -into a hundred details. Old Mr. Clifford thought it was a bad story -indeed; and the rector shook his head, and said that for a person in -Lady Denzil’s position such a scandal was dreadful; it was such an -example to the lower classes. Mrs. Damerel was still more depressed. She -said she would not be surprised at anything Molly Jackson could do after -this. As for Mrs. Wood, who came late in the evening, all agape to -inquire into the news, there was something like a malicious satisfaction -in her face, I lost all patience when she appeared. I had compelled -myself to bear what the others said, but I would not put up with her. - -‘Lady Denzil is my dear friend,’ I broke out, not without tears; ‘a -great trouble has come upon her. A madwoman has been brought against her -with an incredible story; and when a story is incredible people always -believe it. If you want to hear any more, go to other people who were -present. I can’t tell you anything, and if I must say so, I won’t.’ - -‘Good gracious, Mrs. Mulgrave, don’t go out of your senses!’ said my -visitor. ‘If Lady Denzil has done something dreadful, that does not -affect you!’ - -‘But it does affect me,’ I said, ‘infinitely; it clouds over heaven and -earth; it changes--Never mind, I cannot tell you anything about it. If -you are anxious to hear, you must go to some one else than me.’ - -‘Well, I am very glad I was not there,’ said Mrs. Wood, ‘with my -innocent girls. I am very glad now I never made any attempt to make -friends with her, though you know how often you urged me to do it. I am -quite happy to think I did not yield to you now.’ - -I had no spirit to contradict this monstrous piece of pretence. I was -glad to get rid of her anyhow; for though I might feel myself for an -instant supported by my indignation, the blow had gone to my heart, and -I had no strength to struggle against it. The thought of all that Lady -Denzil might be suffering confused me with a dull sense of pain. And yet -things were not then at their worst with my lady. Next morning it was -found that little Mary had been stolen away. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - - -That was a dreadful morning on the Green. After the lovely weather we -had been having, all the winds and all the fiends seemed to have been -unchained. It blew a hurricane during the night, and next day the Green -was covered with great branches of trees which had been torn off and -scattered about like wreck on a seashore. After this came rain; it -poured as if the windows of heaven were opened, when Sir Thomas himself -stepped in upon me like a ghost, as I sat at my solitary breakfast. -These twenty-four hours had passed over him like so many years. He was -haggard and ashy pale, and feeble. His very mind seemed to be confused. -‘We have lost the child,’ he said to me, with a voice from which all -modulation and softness had gone. ‘Will you come and see my wife?’ - -‘Lost! little Mary?’ I cried. - -And then all his courage gave way; he sat down speechless, with his lips -quivering, and bitter tears in his worn old eyes. Then he got up -restless and shaking. ‘Come to my wife,’ he said. There was not another -word exchanged between us. I put on my cloak with the hood over my head, -and went with him on the moment. As we crossed the Green a sort of -procession arrived, two or three great vans packed with people, with -music and flags, which proceeded to discharge their contents at the -‘Barley-Mow’ under the soaking rain. They had come for a day’s pleasure, -poor creatures, and this was the sort of day they got. The sight of them -is so associated in my mind with that miserable moment, that I don’t -think I could forget it were I to live a hundred years. It seemed to -join on somehow to the tragical breaking-up of the party on the day -before. There was nothing wrong now but in the elements; yet it chimed -in with its little sermon on the vanity of all things. My lady was in -her own room when I entered the Lodge. The shock had struck her down, -but she was not calm enough, or weak enough to go to bed. She lay on a -sofa in her dressing-gown; she was utterly pale, not a touch of her -sweet colour left, and her hands shook as she held them out to me. She -held them out, and looked up in my face with appealing eyes, which put -me in mind of little Mary’s. And then, when I stooped down over her in -the impulse of the moment to kiss her, she pressed my hands so in hers, -that frail and thin as her fingers were, I almost cried out with pain. -Mrs. Florentine, her old maid, stood close by the head of her mistress’s -sofa. She stood looking on very grave and steady, without any surprise, -as if she knew it all. - -For a few minutes Lady Denzil could not speak. And when she did, her -words came out with a burst, all at once. ‘Did he tell you?’ she said. -‘I thought you would help me. You have nobody to keep you back; neither -husband nor---- I said I was sure of you.’ - -‘Dear Lady Denzil,’ I said, ‘if I can do anything--to the utmost of my -strength----’ - -She held my hand fast, and looked at me as if she would look me through -and through. ‘That was what I said--that was what I said!’ she cried; -‘you _can_ do what your heart says; you can bring her back to me; my -child, my little child! I never had but a little child--never that I -knew!’ - -‘I will do whatever you tell me,’ I said, trying to soothe her; ‘but oh! -don’t wear yourself out. You will be ill if you give way.’ - -I said this, I suppose, because everybody says it when any one is in -trouble. I don’t know any better reason. ‘That’s what I’m always telling -my lady, ma’am,’ said Mrs. Florentine; ‘but she pays no heed to me.’ - -Lady Denzil gave us both a faint little smile. She knew too much not to -know how entirely a matter of conventional routine it was that we should -say this to her. She made a pause, and then she took my hand once more. - -‘I ought to tell you,’ she said--‘it is all true--every word. Florentine -knows everything, from the first to the last. I was a poor soldier’s -widow, and I was destitute. I was too young to know what I was doing, -and I was pretty, they said, and there were men that would have taken -advantage of my simplicity. But Sir Thomas was never like that. I -married him to buy a livelihood for my child; and he was very good to -me. When he married me, I was a forlorn young creature, with nothing to -give my helpless baby. I gave up my child, Florentine knows; and yet -every day, every year of his life, I’ve followed him in my heart. If he -had been living in my sight, I could not have known more of him. What I -say is every word true, Florentine will tell you. I want you,’ grasping -my hand tightly, ‘to tell everything to _him_.’ - -‘To him!’ said I, with a gasp of astonishment, not knowing what she -meant. - -‘Yes,’ said Lady Denzil, holding my hand fast, ‘to my boy--I want you to -see my boy. Tell him there has never been a day I have not followed him -in my heart. All his wilfulness I have felt was my fault. I have prayed -God on my knees to lay the blame on me. That day when I saw the -deserter--I want you to tell him everything. I want you to ask him to -give me back the child.’ - -I gave a cry of astonishment; an exclamation which I could not restrain. -‘Can you expect it?’ I said. - -‘Ah, yes, I expect it,’ said Lady Denzil; ‘not that I have any right--I -expect it from his heart. Florentine will tell you everything. It is she -who has watched over him. We never talked of anything else, she and I; -never a day all these forty years but I have figured to myself what my -darling was doing; I say my darling,’ she cried as with a sharp pang, -with a sudden gush of tears, ‘and he is a man and a soldier, and in -prison. Think of that, and think of all I have had to bear!’ - -I could not make any answer. I could only press her hand with a dumb -sympathy. As for Mrs. Florentine, she stood with her eyes cast down, and -smoothed the chintz cover with her hand, taking no part by look or word. -The story was no surprise to her. She knew everything about it; she was -a chief actor in it; she had no need to show any sympathy. The union -between her mistress and herself was deeper than that. - -‘When he married this woman, I was ready to believe it would be for his -good,’ said my lady, when she had recovered herself. ‘I thought it was -somehow giving him back what I had taken from him. I sent her presents -secretly. He has been very, very wilful; and Sir Thomas was so good to -him! He took his mother from him; but he gave him money, education, -everything a young man wants. There are many young men,’ said Lady -Denzil pathetically, ‘who think but little of their mothers--’ and then -she made a pause. ‘There was young Clifford, for example,’ she added, -‘and the rector’s brother who ran away--their mothers broke their -hearts, but the boys did not care much. I have suffered in everything he -suffered by; but yet if he had been here, perhaps he would not have -cared for me.’ - -‘That is not possible,’ I said, not seeing what she meant. - -‘Oh, it is possible, very possible,’ she said. ‘I have seen it times -without number. I have tried to take a little comfort from it. If it -had been a girl, I would never, never have given her up; but a boy---- -That was what I thought. I don’t defend myself. Let him be the judge--I -want him to be the judge. That woman is a wicked woman; she has -disgraced him and left him; she will bring my child up to ruin. Ask him -to give me back my poor little child.’ - -‘I will do what I can,’ I said, faltering. I was pledged; yet how was I -to do it? My courage failed me as I sat by her dismayed and received my -commission. When she heard the tremulous sound of my voice, she turned -round to me and held my hand close in hers once more. - -‘You can do everything,’ she said. Her voice had suddenly grown hoarse. -She was at such a supreme height of emotion, that the sight of her -frightened me. I kissed her; I soothed her; I promised to do whatever -she would. And then she became impatient that I should set out. She was -not aware of the rain or the storm. She was too much absorbed in her -trouble even to hear the furious wail of the wind and the blast of rain -against the windows: but had I been in her case she would have done as -much for me. Before Florentine followed me with my cloak, I had made up -my mind not to lose any more time. It was from her I got all the -details: the poor fellow’s name, and where he was, and all about him. He -had been very wild, Florentine said. Sir Thomas had done everything for -him; but he had not been grateful, and had behaved very badly. His wife -was an abandoned woman, wicked and shameless; and he too had taken to -evil courses. He had strained Sir Thomas’s patience to the utmost time -after time. And then he had enlisted. His regiment was in the Tower, and -he was under confinement there for insubordination. Such was the brief -story. ‘Many a time I’ve thought, ma’am,’ said Mrs. Florentine, ‘if my -lady did but know him as she was a-breaking of her heart for! If he’d -been at home he’d have killed her. But all she knows is that he’s her -child--to love, and nothing more.’ - -‘The Tower is a long way from our railway,’ I said; ‘but it does not -much matter in a cab.’ - -‘Law, ma’am, you’re never going to-day?’ said Florentine. But I had no -intention of arguing the question with her. I went into the library to -Sir Thomas to bid him good-bye. And he too was amazed when I told him. -He took my hand as his wife had done, and shook it, and looked pitifully -into my face. ‘It is I who ought to go,’ he said. But he knew as well as -I did that it was impossible for him to go. He ordered the carriage to -come round for me, and brought me wine--some wonderful old wine he had -in his cellar, which I knew no difference in from the commonest sherry. -But it pleased him, I suppose, to think he had given me his best. And -before I went away, he gave me much more information about the -unfortunate man I was going to see. ‘He is not bad at heart,’ said Sir -Thomas; ‘I don’t think he is bad at heart; but his wife is a wicked -woman.’ And when I was going away, he stooped his gray aged countenance -over me, and kissed me solemnly on the forehead. When I found myself -driving along the wet roads, with the rain sweeping so in the horses’ -faces that it was all the half-blinded coachman could do to keep them -going against the wind, I was so bewildered by my own position that I -felt stupid for the moment. I was going to the Tower to see Sergeant -Gray, in confinement for disrespect to his superior officer--going to -persuade him to exert himself to take his child from his wife’s custody, -and give her to his mother, whom he did not know! I had not even heard -how it was that little Mary had been stolen away. I had taken that for -granted, in face of the immediate call upon me. I had indeed been swept -up as it were by the strong wind of emotion, and carried away and thrust -forward into a position I could not understand. Then I recognized the -truth of Lady Denzil’s words. I had nobody to restrain me: no husband at -home to find fault with anything I might do; nobody to wonder, or fret, -or be annoyed by the burden I had taken upon me. The recollection made -my heart swell a little, not with pleasure. And yet it was very true. -Poor Mr. Mulgrave, had he been living, was a man who would have been -sure to find fault. It is dreary to think of one’s self as of so little -importance to any one; but perhaps one ought to think more than one -does, that if the position is a dreary one, it has its benefits too. One -is free to do what one pleases. I could answer to myself; I had no one -else to answer to. At such a moment there was an advantage in that. - -At the station I met the rector, who was going to town by the same -train. ‘Bless my soul, Mrs. Mulgrave,’ he said, ‘what a dreadful day you -have chosen for travelling. I thought there was no one afloat on the -world but me.’ - -‘There was no choice, Mr. Damerel,’ I said. ‘I am going about business -which cannot be put off.’ - -He was very kind: he got my ticket for me, and put me into a carriage, -and did not insist that I should talk to him on the way up. He talked -enough himself it is true, but he was satisfied when I said yes and no. -Just before we got to town however he returned to my errand. ‘If your -business is anything I can do for you,’ he said, ‘if there is anything -that a man could look after better than a lady--you know how glad I -should be to be of any use.’ - -‘Thank you,’ I said. My feelings were not mirthful, but yet I could have -burst out laughing. I wonder if there is really any business that a man -can do better than a lady, when it happens to be _her_ business and not -his? I have never got much help in that way from the men that have -belonged to me. And to think of putting my delicate, desperate business -into Mr. Damerel’s soft, clerical hands, that had no bone in them! He -got me a cab, which was something--though to be sure a porter would have -done it quite as well--and opened his eyes to their utmost width when -he heard me tell the coachman to go to the Tower. - -What a drive it was! our thirty miles of railway was nothing to it: -through all those damp, dreary, glistening London streets--streets -narrow and drearily vicious; streets still more drearily respectable; -desert lines of warehouses and offices; crowded thoroughfares with -dreary vehicles in a lock, and dreary people crowding about surmounted -with umbrellas--miles upon miles, streets upon streets, from Paddington -to the Tower. I think it was the first drive of the kind I ever took, -and if you can suppose me wrapped up in my waterproof cloak, a little -excited about the unknown man I was going to see; trying to form my -sentences, what I was to say; pondering how I should bring in my -arguments best; wondering where I should have to go to find the mother -and the child. Poor little Mary! after the little gleam of love and of -luxury that had opened upon her, to be snatched off into the dreary -world of poverty, with a violent mother whom it was evident she feared! -And poor mother too! She might be violent and yet might love her child; -she might be wicked and yet might love her child. To go and snatch the -little creature back, at all hazards, was an act which to the popular -mind would always look like a much higher strain of virtue than dear -Lady Denzil’s abandonment. I could not defend Lady Denzil, even to -myself; and what could I say for her to her son, who knew her not? - -At least an hour was lost before I got admittance to Sergeant Gray. As -it happened, by a fortunate chance, Robert Seymour was colonel of the -regiment, and came to my assistance. But for that I might have failed -altogether. Robert was greatly amazed by the request I made him, but of -course he did what I wanted. He told me Sergeant Gray was not in prison, -but simply confined to his quarters, and that he was a very strange sort -of man. ‘I should like to know what you can want with him,’ he said. -‘Yes, of course, I am dreadfully curious--men are--you know it is our -weakness. You may as well tell me what you want with Gray.’ - -‘It is nothing to laugh about,’ said I; ‘it is more tragic than comical. -I have a message to him from his mother. And there is not a moment to -lose.’ - -‘I understand,’ said Robert, ‘I am to take myself off. Here is the door; -but you must tell me anything you know about him when you have seen him. -He is the strangest fellow in the regiment. I never can make him out.’ - -And in two minutes more I was face to face with Sergeant Gray. - -He must have been like his father. There was not a feature in his face -which recalled Lady Denzil’s. He was an immensely tall, powerful man, -with strong chestnut brown hair, and vigour and life in every line of -his great frame. I expected to find a prisoner partially sentimental; -and I found a big man in undress marching freely about his room, with a -long pipe by the fire, and his beer and glasses on the table. I had -expected a refined man, bearing traces of gentleman written on him, and -the fine tastes that became Lady Denzil’s son. There _was_ something -about him, when one came to look at him a second time--but what was it? -Traces of dissipation, a look of bravado, an instant standing to his -arms in self-defence, whatever I might have come to accuse him of; and -the insufferable coxcomb air which comes naturally to the meanest member -of the household troops. Such was the rapid impression I formed as I -went in. He took off his cap with an air of amazement yet assurance, but -put it on again immediately. I stood trembling before this big, -irreverent, unknown man. If the door had been open I think I should have -run away. But as it was I had no resource. - -‘Mr. Gray,’ I said all at once, half from cowardice, half to get it -over, ‘I have come to you--from your mother.’ - -The man actually staggered as he stood before me--he fell back and gazed -at me as if I had been a ghost. ‘From my--mother?’ he said, and his lips -seemed to refuse articulation. His surprise vanquished him; which was -more than with my individual forces I could have hoped to do. - -‘From your mother,’ I repeated. ‘I have come direct from her, where she -is lying ill and much shaken. She has told me all her story--and I love -her dearly--that is why she sent me to you.’ - -All the time I was speaking he stood still and stared at me; but when I -stopped, he appeared gradually to come to himself. He brought forward, -from where it stood against the wall, very deliberately, another chair, -and sitting down looked at me intently. ‘If she has told you all her -story,’ he said, ‘you will know how little inducement I have to listen -to anything she may say.’ - -‘Yes,’ said I, feeling not a fictitious but a real passion swelling up -into my throat, ‘she has told me everything, more than you can know. She -has told me how for forty years--is it forty years?--she has watched -over you in secret, spent her days in thinking of you, and her nights in -praying for you. Ah, don’t smile! if you had seen her pale and broken in -all her pride, lying trembling and telling me this, it would have -touched your heart.’ - -And I could see that it did touch his heart, being so new and unusual to -him. He was not a cynical, over-educated man, accustomed to such -appeals, and to believe them nonsense. And it touched him, being so -unexpected. Then he made a little effort to recover himself, and the -natural bravado of his character and profession. ‘In all her pride!’ he -said bitterly. ‘Yes, that’s very well said; she liked her pride better -than me.’ - -‘She liked your life better than you,’ said I--and heaven forgive me if -I spoke like a sophist--‘and your comfort. To secure bread to you and -education she made that vow. When she had once made it, she had to keep -it. But I tell you what she told me not three hours ago. “There has -never been a day I have not followed him in my heart.” That is what she -said. She and her old maid who used to see you and watch over you talked -of nothing else. Fancy! you a young man growing up, taking your own way, -going against the wishes of your best friends; and your mother, who -dared not go to you, watching you from far off, weeping over you, -praying on her knees, thinking of nothing else, talking of nothing else -when she was alone and dared do it. At other times she had to go into -the world to please her husband, to act as if you had no existence. And -all the time she was thinking of nothing but you in her heart.’ - -He had got up before I came so far. He was unquestionably moved; his -step got quicker and quicker. He made impatient gestures with his hands -as if to put my voice away. But all the same he listened to me greedily. -When I had done--and I got so excited that I was compelled to be done, -for tears came into my throat and choked me--he turned to me with his -face strongly swept by winds of feeling. ‘Who told you?’ he cried -abruptly. ‘Why do you come to disturb me? I was thinking nothing about -my circumstances. I was thinking how I could best be jolly in such a -position. What do I know about anybody who may choose to call herself my -mother? Probably I never had a mother. I can do nothing for her, and she -can do nothing for me.’ - -‘You can do something for her,’ I cried. ‘She sent me to you to beg it -of you. Sir Thomas saw how your wife was living. He saw she should not -have a little girl to ruin. He brought away the child. I was there when -he came home. Your mother knew in a moment who it was, though he never -said a word. She rushed to her, and fell on her knees, and cried as if -her heart would break. She thought God had sent the child. Little Mary -is so like her, so like her! You cannot think how beautiful it was to -see them together. Look! if you don’t know what your mother is, look at -that face.’ - -He had stood as if stupefied, staring at me. When I mentioned his wife -he had made an angry gesture; but his heart melted altogether when I -came to little Mary. I had brought Lady Denzil’s photograph with me, -thinking it might touch his heart, and now I thrust it into his hand -before he knew what I meant. He gave one glance at it, and then he fell -back into his chair, and gazed and gazed, as if he had lost himself. He -was not prepared. He had been wilful--perhaps wicked--but his heart had -not got hardened like that of a man of the world. It had been outside -evils he had done, outside influences that had moved him. When anything -struck deep at his heart he had no armour to resist the blow. He went -back upon his chair with a stride, hiding from me, or trying to hide, -that he was obliged to do it to keep himself steady; he knitted his -brows over the little picture as if it was hard to see it. But he might -have spared himself the trouble. I saw how it was. One does not live in -the world and learn men’s ways for nought: I knew his eyes were filling -with tears; I knew that sob was climbing up into his throat; and I did -not say a word more. It was a lovely little photograph. The sun is often -so kind to old women. It was my lady with all the softness of her white -hair, with her gracious looks, her indulgent, benign eyes. And those -eyes were little Mary’s eyes. They went straight into the poor fellow’s -heart. After he had struggled as long as he could, the sob actually -broke out. Then he straightened himself up all at once, and looked at me -fiercely; but I knew better than to pretend to hear him. - -‘This is nothing to the purpose,’ he said; and then he stopped, and -nature burst forth. ‘Why did she cast me upon the world? Why did she -give me up? You are a good woman, and you are her friend. Why did she -cast me away?’ - -I shook my head, it was all I could do. I was crying, and I could not -articulate. ‘God knows!’ I gasped through my tears. And he got up and -went to the window, and turning his back on me, held up the little -picture to the light. I watched no longer what he was doing. Nature was -working her own way in his heart. - -When he turned round at last, he came up to me and held out his hand. -‘Thank you,’ he said, in a way that, for the first time, reminded me of -Lady Denzil. ‘You have made me think less harshly about my mother. What -is it she wants me to do?’ - -He did not put down the photograph, or give it back to me, but held it -closely in his hand, which gave me courage. And then I entered upon my -story. When I told him how his wife had insulted his mother, his face -grew purple. I gave him every detail: how little Mary clung to my lady; -how frightened she was of the passionate claimant who seized her. When I -repeated her little cry, ‘My lady!’ a curious gleam passed over his -face. He interrupted me at that point. ‘Who is my lady?’ he said, with a -strange consciousness. The only answer I made was to point at the -photograph. It made the most curious impression on him. Evidently he had -not even known his mother’s name. Almost, I think, the title threw a new -light for him upon all the circumstances. There are people who will say -that this was from a mean feeling; but it was from no mean feeling. He -saw by this fact what a gulf she had put between herself and him. He saw -a certain reason in the separation which, if she had been a woman of -different position, could not have existed. And there is no man living -who is not susceptible to the world’s opinion of the people he is -interested in. He changed almost imperceptibly--unawares. He heard all -the rest of my story in grave silence. I told him what my lady had -said--that he was to be the judge; and henceforward it was with the -seriousness of a judge that he sat and listened. He heard me out every -word, and then he sat and seemed to turn it over in his mind. So far as -I was concerned, that was the hardest moment of all. His face was stern -in its composure. He was reflecting, putting this and that together. -His mother was standing at the bar before him. And what should I do, did -he decide against her? Thus I sat waiting and trembling. When he opened -his lips my heart jumped to my mouth. How foolish it was! That was not -what he had been thinking of. Instead of his mother at the bar, it was -his own life he had been turning over in his mind. It all came forth -with a burst when he began to speak: the chances he had lost; the misery -that had come upon him; the shame of the woman who bore his name; and -his poor little desolate child. Then the man forgot himself, and swore a -great oath. ‘As soon as I am free I will go and get her, and send her -to---- my lady!’ he said, with abrupt, half-hysterical vehemence. And -then he rose suddenly and went to the window, and turned his back on me -again. - -I was overcome. I did not expect it so soon, or so fully. I could have -thrown myself upon his neck, poor fellow, and wept. Was he the one to -bear the penalties of all? sinned against by his mother in his -childhood, and more dreadfully by his wife in his maturity. What had he -done that the closest of earthly ties should thus be made a torment to -him? When I had come to myself I rose and went after him, trembling. -‘Mr. Gray,’ I said, ‘is there nothing that can be done for you?’ - -‘I don’t want anything to be done for me,’ he cried abruptly. The -question piqued his pride. ‘Tell her she shall see yet that I understand -the sacrifice she has made,’ he said. If he spoke ironically or in -honesty I cannot tell; when his mouth had once been opened the stream -came so fast. ‘I want to go away, that is all,’ he said, with a certain -heat, almost anger; ‘anywhere--I don’t care where--to the Mauritius, if -they like, where that fever is. No fear that I should die. I have been -brought up like a gentleman--it is quite true. And yet I am here. What -was the use? My father was a common soldier. She---- but it’s no good -talking; I am no credit to anybody now. If I could get drafted into -another regiment, and go--to India or anywhere--you should see a -difference. I swear you should see a difference!’ his voice rose high in -these last words, then he paused. ‘But she is old,’ he said, sinking his -voice; ‘ten years--I couldn’t _do_ in less than ten years. She’ll never -be living then, to see what a man can do.’ - -‘She is a woman that would make shift to live, somehow, to see her son -come back,’ I cried. ‘Give her little Mary, and try.’ - -‘She shall have little Mary, by God!’ cried the excited man; and then he -broke down, and wept. I cannot describe this scene any more. I grasped -his hand when I left him, feeling as if he were my brother; he had his -mother’s picture held fast and hidden in his other hand. If that dear -touch of natural love had come to him before! But God knows! perhaps he -was only ready and open to it then. - -But he could not tell me where to find the child. I had to be content -with his promise that when he was free he would restore her to us. I -went out from him as much shaken as if I had gone through an illness, -and stole out, not to see Robert Seymour, whom I was not equal to -meeting just at that moment. But the end of my mission was nearer than I -thought. When I got outside there was a group of excited people about -the gateway, close to which my cab was waiting me. They were discussing -something which had just happened, and which evidently had left a great -commotion behind. Among the crowd was a group of soldiers’ wives, who -shook their heads, and talked it over to each other with lowered voices. -‘It’s well for her she was took bad here, and never got nigh to him,’ -one of them said. ‘He’d have killed her, I know he would! It’s well for -her she never got in to tempt that man to her death.’ - -‘It was brazen of her to come nigh him at all,’ said another, ‘and him -so proud. She always was a shameless one. What my heart bleeds for is -that poor little child.’ - -‘Where is the child?’ asked a third. ‘It would be well for her, poor -innocent, if the Lord was to take her too.’ - -I was standing stupefied, listening to them, when I heard a little cry, -and the grasp of something at my dress. The cry was so feeble, and the -grasp so light, that I might never have noticed it but for those women. -I turned round, and the whole world swam round me for a moment. I did -what Lady Denzil did--I staggered forward and fell on my knees, though -this was not the soft green grass, but a stony London pavement, and -clasped little Mary tight with a vehemence that would have frightened -any other child; but she was not frightened. The little creature was -drenched with the pitiless rain. She had been tied up in an old shawl, -to hide the miserable, pretty white frock, now clogged with mud and -soaked with water. Her little hat was glued to her head with the floods -to which she had been exposed. I lifted my treasure wildly in my arms, -as soon as I had any strength to do it, and rushed with her to my -carriage. I felt like a thief triumphant; and yet it was no theft. But -my eagerness aroused the suspicions of the soldiers’ wives who had been -standing by. They explained to me that the child was Sergeant Gray’s -child; that her mother had been took very bad in a fit, and had been -carried off to the hospital; and that I, a stranger, had no right to -interfere. I don’t know what hurried explanation I made to them; but I -know that at last I satisfied their fears, and with little Mary in my -arms actually drove away. - -It was true, though I never could believe it. I got her as easily as if -it had been the most natural thing in the world. I could not believe it, -even when I held her fast and drew from her her little story. She had -been taken away early, very early in the morning, when she had run to -the door as soon as she was up to satisfy herself that it rained. No -doubt the wretched mother had hung about the grounds all night in the -storm and rain to get at the child. She had snatched up little Mary in -her arms, and rushed out with her before any one was aware. The child -had been dragged along the dreary roads in the rain. If the woman had -really loved her, if it had been the passion of a tender mother, and not -of a revengeful creature, she never would have subjected the child to -this. She was wet to the skin, with pools in her little boots, and the -water streaming from her dress. I took her to a friend’s house and got -dry clothes to put upon her. The unhappy mother had, no doubt, been out -all night exposed to the storm. She was mad with rage and misery and -fatigue, and probably did not feel her danger at the moment; but just as -she reached the Tower to claim, building upon a common opposition to one -object, her husband’s support, had fallen down senseless on his very -threshold as it were. Nothing indeed but madness could have led her to -the man whom she had disgraced. When the surrounding bystanders saw that -nothing was to be done for her, and that she would not come out of her -faint, they had her carried in alarm to the hospital. Such was the -abrupt conclusion of the tale. Had I known I need not have given myself -the trouble of seeing Sergeant Gray--but that, at least, was a thing -which I could not find in my heart to regret. - -When I took her back Lady Denzil held me in her arms, held me fast, and -looked into my face, even before she listened to little Mary’s call. She -wanted me to tell her of her child--her own child--and I was so weak -that I could not speak to her. I fell crying on her tender old bosom, -like a fool, and had to be comforted, as if it could be anything to -me--in comparison. I don’t know afterwards what I said to her, but she -understood all I meant. As for Sir Thomas he was too happy to ask any -questions. The child had wound herself into his very heart. He sat with -little Mary in his arms all that evening. He would scarcely allow her to -be taken to bed. He went up with his heavy old step to see her sleeping -safe once more under his roof, and made Wellman, with a pistol, sleep in -a little room below. But little Mary was safe enough now. Her father was -confined in his barrack room, with my lady’s photograph in his hands, -and a host of unknown softenings and compunctions in his heart. Her -mother was raving wildly in the hospital on the bed from which she was -never to rise. I don’t know that any one concerned, except myself, -thought of this strange cluster of divers fortunes, of tragic mystery -and suffering, all hanging about the little angel-vision of that child. -Sin, shame, misery, every kind of horror and distress, and little Mary -the centre of all; how strange it was!--how terrible and smiling and -wretched is life! - -It is not to be supposed that such a frightful convulsion and earthquake -could pass over and leave no sign. Little Mary was very ill after her -exposure, and the shadow of death fell on the Lodge. Perhaps that -circumstance softened a little the storm of animadversion that rose up -in the neighbourhood. For six months after, Lady Denzil, who had been -our centre of society, was never seen out of her own gates. Then they -went away, and were absent a whole year. It was the most curious change -to everybody on the Green. For three months no one talked on any other -subject, and the wildest stories were told: stories with just so much -truth in them as to make them doubly wild. It was found out somehow that -that wretched woman had died, and then there were accounts current that -she had died in the grounds at the Lodge--on the road--in the -workhouse--everywhere but the real place, which was in the hospital, -where every indulgence and every comfort that she was capable of -receiving had been given to her, Sir Thomas himself going to town on -purpose to see that it was so. And then it was said that it was she who -was Lady Denzil’s child. It was a terrible moment, and one which left -its mark upon everybody concerned. Sergeant Gray lost his rank, but got -his wish and was drafted into another regiment going to India. I saw him -again, I and poor old Mrs. Florentine. - -But he did not see his mother. They were neither of them able for such a -trial. ‘I will come back in ten years,’ he said to me. I do not know if -he will. I don’t know if Lady Denzil will live so long. But I believe if -she does that then for the first time she will see her son. - -They returned to the Lodge two years ago, and the neighbourhood now, -instead of gossiping, is very curious to know whether Lady Denzil ever -means to go into society again. Everybody calls, and admires little -Mary--how she has grown, and what a charming little princess she is; and -they all remind my lady, with tender reproach, of those parties they -enjoyed so much. ‘Are we never to have any more, dear Lady Denzil?’ Lucy -Stoke asked the other day, kneeling at my lady’s side, and caressing her -soft old ivory-white hand. My lady--to whom her tender old beauty, her -understanding of everybody’s trouble, even the rose-tint in her cheek, -have come back again--made no answer, but only kissed pretty Lucy. I -don’t know if she will give any more parties; but she means to live the -ten years. - -As for Sir Thomas he was never so happy in his life before. He follows -little Mary about like an old gray tender knight worshipping the fairy -creature. Sometimes I look on and cannot believe my eyes. The wretched -guilty mother is dead long ago, and nobody remembers her very existence. -The poor soldier has worked himself up to a commission, and may be high -in rank before he comes back. If Lady Denzil had been the most tender -and devoted of mothers, could things have turned out better? Is this -world all a phantasmagoria and chaos of dreams and chances? One’s brain -reels when Providence thus contradicts all the laws of life. Is it -because God sees deeper and ‘understands,’ as my lady is so fond of -saying? It might well be that He had a different way of judging from -ours, seeing well and seeing always what we mean in our hearts. - - - - -THE STOCKBROKER AT DINGLEWOOD - - - - -CHAPTER I - - -Those who saw Dinglewood only after the improvements had been made could -scarcely be able to form to themselves any idea of what it was before -the Greshams came. I call them improvements because everybody used the -word; but I cannot say I thought the house improved. It was an -old-fashioned red-brick house, nothing to speak of architecturally--in -the style of Kensington Palace and Kew, and the rest of those old homely -royal houses. The drawing-room opened its tall narrow windows upon a -little terrace, which was very green and grassy, and pleasant. I should -be sorry to undertake to say why it was called Dinglewood. Mr. Coventry -made very merry over the name when he had it. He used to say it was -because there were no trees; but that was not strictly the case. It was -quite open and bare, it is true, towards the river, which we could not -see from the Green; but there was a little grove of trees which -interposed between us and the house, as if to shut out Dinglewood from -the vulgarity of neighbours. It was a popular house in a quiet way when -the Coventrys were there. They did not give parties, or pretend to take -much trouble in the way of society, for Lady Sarah was always delicate; -but when we were tired with our view on the Green, and our lawns and -trees, we were always welcome on the Dinglewood terrace, where the old -people were constantly to be found sitting out in the summer afternoons, -Lady Sarah on her sofa, and Mr. Coventry with the newspapers and his -great dog. The lawn went sloping down towards the river, which lay still -and white under the sunshine, with a little green island, and a little -gray house making a centre to the picture. As long as the sloping bank -was lawn it was closely cut and kept like velvet; but when it became -field these niceties stopped, and Lady Sarah’s pet Alderney stood up to -her knees in the cool clover. There was an old mulberry-tree close to -the wall of the house, which shaded the sofa; and a gloomy yew on the -other side did the same thing for Mr. Coventry, though he was an old -Indian and a salamander, and could bear any amount of sunshine. Lady -Sarah’s perpetual occupation was knitting. She knitted all sorts of -bright-coloured things in brilliant German wool with big ivory pins, -and her husband used to read the news to her. They read all the debates -together, stopping every now and then to exchange their sentiments. Lady -Sarah would say with her brisk little voice, ‘He might have made a -better point there. I don’t see that he proves his case. I don’t agree -with that;’ and Mr. Coventry would stop and lay down the paper on his -knees, and discuss it leisurely. There was no reason why they should not -do it at their leisure. The best part of the summer days were spent thus -by the old couple; and the sunshine lay warm and still round them, and -the leaves rustled softly, and the cool grass kept growing under their -peaceful old feet. These feet tread mortal soil no longer, and all this -has nothing in the world to do with my story. But it was a pretty sight -in its way. They were not rich, and the furniture and carpets were very -faded, and everything very different from what it came to be afterwards; -yet we were all very fond of Mr. Coventry and his old wife, and the -old-fashioned house was appropriate to them. I like to think of them -even now. - -We were all anxious, of course, after Mr. Coventry’s death, to know who -would buy the house (Lady Sarah could not bear it after he was gone, and -indeed lived only a year after him); and when it was known that young -Mr. Gresham was the purchaser, it made quite a sensation on the Green. -He was the son of old Gresham, who had bought Bishop’s Hope, a noble -place at Cookesley, about a dozen miles off, but had made all his -fortune as a stockbroker, and, they say, not even the best kind of that. -His son had succeeded him in business, and had lately married somebody -in his own class. He was a nice-looking young fellow enough, and had -been brought up at Eton, to be sure, like so many of those people’s -sons; but still one felt that it was bringing in a new element to the -Green. If his wife had been, as so often happens, a gentlewoman, it -would have made things comparatively easy. But she was only the daughter -of a mercantile man like himself, and there was great discussion among -us as to what we should do when they came. Some families made up their -minds at once not to call; and some, on the other hand, declared that -such rich people were sure to _fêter_ the whole county, and that -everybody would go to them. ‘If they had only been a _little_ rich, it -would never have answered; but they are frightfully rich, and, of -course, we must all go down on our knees,’ Lottie Stoke said. She was -the most eager of all to know them; for her youth was passing away, and -she was not likely to marry, and the Stokes were poor. I confess I was -curious myself to see how things would turn out. - -Their first step however was one which took us all by surprise. Young -Gresham dashed over in his Yankee waggon from Cookesley to go over the -house, and the same day a charming barouche made the tour of the Green, -with a very pretty young woman in it, and a lovely little girl, and a -matchless tiny Skye terrier--all going to inspect Dinglewood. The arms -on the carriage were quartered to the last possibility of quartering, -as if they had come through generations of heiresses and gentlemen of -coat-armour, and the footman was powdered and dazzling to behold. -Altogether it was by far the finest equipage that had been seen in these -parts for a long time. Not to speak of Lady Denzil’s, or the other great -people about, her Majesty’s own carriage, that she drives about the -neighbourhood in, was not to be compared to it. Its emblazoned panels -brushed against the privet hedges in poor old Lady Sarah’s drive, which -was only wide enough for her little pony-carriage, and I have no doubt -were scratched and spoiled; but the next thing we heard about Dinglewood -was that a flood of workmen had come down upon it, and that everything -was to be changed. Young Mrs. Gresham liked the situation, but the house -was _far_ too small for her. My maid told me a new dining-room and -drawing-room, with bed-rooms over, were to be added, and already the -people had set to work. We all looked on thunderstruck while these -‘improvements’ were going on: he had a right to do it, no doubt, as he -had bought it, but still it did seem a great piece of presumption. The -pretty terrace was all cut up, and the poor old mulberry-tree perished -in the changes, though it is true that they had the sense not to spoil -the view. They added two wings to the old house, with one sumptuous room -in each. Poor Lady Sarah’s drawing-room, which was good enough for her, -these millionaires made into a billiard-room, and put them all _en -suite_, making a passage thus between their two new wings. I don’t deny, -as I have already said, that they had a perfect right to do it; but all -the same it was very odd to us. - -And then heaps of new furniture came down from town; the waggons that -brought it made quite a procession along the road. All this grandeur and -display had a bad effect upon the neighbourhood. It really looked as if -these new people were already crowing over us, whose carpets and -hangings were a little faded and out of fashion. There was a general -movement of indignation on the Green. All this expense might be well -enough, for those who could afford it, in a town-house, people said, but -in the country it was vulgar and stupid. Everything was gilded and -ornamented and expensive in the new Dinglewood; Turkey carpets all over -the house, and rich silk curtains and immense mirrors. Then after a -while ‘the family’ arrived. They came with such a flutter of fine -carriages as had never been seen before among us. The drive had been -widened, down which Lady Sarah’s old gray pony used to jog so -comfortably, and there was nothing to be seen all day long but smooth, -shining panels and high-stepping horses whisking in and out. In the -first place there was Mr. Gresham’s Yankee waggon, with a wicked-looking -beast in it, which went like the wind. Then there would be a cosy -brougham carrying Mrs. Gresham to Shoreton shopping, or taking out the -nurse and baby for an airing; and after lunch came the pretty open -carriage with the armorial bearings and the men in powder. We were too -indignant to look round at first when these vehicles passed; but custom -does a great deal, and one’s feelings soften in spite of one’s self. Of -all the people on the Green, Lottie Stoke was the one who did most for -the new people. ‘I mean to make mamma call,’ she said: and she even made -a round of visits for the purpose of saying it. ‘Why shouldn’t we all -call on them? I think it is mean to object to them for being rich. It -looks as if we were ashamed of being poor; and they are sure to have -quantities of people from town, and to enjoy themselves--people as good -as we are, Mrs. Mulgrave: they are not so particular in London.’ - -‘My dear Lottie,’ said I, ‘I have no doubt the Greshams themselves are -quite as good as we are. That is not the question. There are social -differences, you know.’ - -‘Oh, yes! I know,’ cried Lottie; ‘I have heard of them all my life, but -I don’t see what the better we are, for all our nicety; and I mean to -make mamma call.’ - -She was not so good as her word however, for Mrs. Stoke was a timid -woman, and waited to see what the people would do. And in the meantime -the Greshams themselves, independent of their fine house and their showy -carriages, presented themselves as it were before us for approval. They -walked to church on Sunday without any show, which made quite a -revulsion in their favour; and she was very pretty and sweet-looking, -and he was so like a gentleman that you could never have told the -difference. And the end of it all was, that one fine morning Lady -Denzil, without saying a word to any one, called; and after that, -everybody on the Green. - -I do not pretend to say that there was not a little air of newness about -these young people. They were like their house, a little too bright, too -costly, too luxurious. Mrs. Gresham gave herself now and then pretty -little airs of wealth, which, to do her justice, were more in the way of -kindness to others than display for herself. There was a kind of -munificence about her which made one smile, and yet made one grow red -and hot and just a little angry. It might not have mattered if she had -been a princess, but it did not answer with a stockbroker’s wife. She -was so anxious to supply you with anything or everything you wanted. -‘Let me send it,’ she would say in a lavish way, whenever there was any -shortcoming, and opened her pretty mouth and stared with all her pretty -eyes when her offers were declined. She wanted that delicate sense of -other people’s pride, which a true great lady always has. She did not -understand why one would rather have one’s own homely maid to wait, than -borrow her powdered slave; and would rather walk than be taken up in her -fine carriage. This bewildered her, poor little woman. She thought it -was unkind of me in particular. ‘You can’t _really_ prefer to drive -along in the dust in your little low carriage,’ she said, with a curious -want of perception that my pony carriage was my own. This was the only -defect I found in her, and it was a failing which leant to virtue’s -side. Her husband was more a man of the world, but he too had money -written all over him. They were dreadfully rich, and even in their -freest moment they could not get rid of it--and they were young and -open-hearted, and anxious to make everybody happy. They had people down -from town as Lottie prophesied--fashionable people sometimes, and clever -people, and rich people. We met all kinds of radicals, and artists, and -authors, and great travellers at Dinglewood. The Greshams were rather -proud of their literary acquaintances indeed, which was surprising to -us. I have seen old Sir Thomas look very queer when he was told he was -going to meet So-and-So, who had written some famous book. ‘Who is the -fellow?’ he said privately to me with a comical look, for he was not -very literary in his tastes;--neither were the Greshams for that matter: -but then, having no real rank, they appreciated a little distinction, -howsoever it came; whereas the second cousin of any poor lord or good -old decayed family was more to the most of us than Shakespeare himself -or Raphael; though of course it would have been our duty to ourselves to -be very civil to either of those gentlemen had we met them at dinner -anywhere on the Green. - -But there was no doubt that this new lively household, all astir with -new interests, new faces, talk and movement, and pleasant extravagance, -woke us all up. They were so rich that they took the lead in many -things, in spite of all that could be done to the contrary. None of us -could afford so many parties. The Greshams had always something on hand. -Instead of our old routine of dinners and croquet-parties, and perhaps -two or three dances a year for the young people, there was an endless -variety now at Dinglewood; and even if we elders could have resisted -Mrs. Gresham’s pretty winning ways on her own account, it would have -been wicked to neglect the advantage for our children. Of course this -did not apply to me, who have no children; but I was never disposed to -stand very much on my dignity, and I liked the young couple. They were -so fond of each other, and so good-looking, and so happy, and so -ready--too ready--to share their advantages with everybody. Mrs. Gresham -sent her man over with I don’t know how much champagne the morning of -the day when they were all coming to play croquet on my little lawn, and -he wanted to know, with his mistress’s love, whether he should come to -help, or if there was anything else I wanted. I had entertained my -friends in my quiet way before she was born, and I did not like it. -Lottie Stoke happened to be with me when the message arrived, and took -the reasonable view, as she had got into the way of doing where the -Greshams were concerned. - -‘Why should not they send you champagne?’ she said. ‘They are as rich as -Crœsus, though I am sure I don’t know much about him; and you are a -lady living by yourself, and can’t be expected to think of all these -things.’ - -‘My dear Lottie,’ said I--and I confess I was angry--‘if you are not -content with what I can give you, you need not come to me. The Greshams -can stay away if they like. Champagne in the afternoon when you are -playing croquet! It is just like those _nouveaux riches_. They would -think it still finer, I have no doubt, if they could drink pearls, like -Cleopatra. Champagne!’ - -‘They must have meant it for Cup, you know,’ said Lottie, a little -abashed. - -‘I don’t care what they meant it for,’ said I. ‘You shall have cups of -tea; and I am very angry and affronted. I wonder how they think we got -on before they came!’ - -And then I sat down and wrote a little note, which I fear was terribly -polite, and sent it and the baskets back with John Thomas, while Lottie -went and looked at all the pictures as if she had never seen them -before, and hummed little airs under her breath. She had taken up these -Greshams in the most curious way. Not that she was an unreasonable -partisan; she could see their faults like the rest of us, but she was -always ready to make excuses for them. ‘They don’t know any better,’ she -would say softly when she was driven to the very extremity of her -special pleading. And she said this when I had finished my note and was -just sending it away. - -‘But why don’t they know better?’ said I; ‘they have had the same -education as other people. He was at Eton where a boy should learn how -to behave himself, even if he does not learn anything else. And she went -to one of the fashionable schools--as good a school as any of you ever -went to.’ - -‘We were never at any school at all,’ said Lottie with a little -bitterness. ‘We were always much too poor. We have never learned -anything, we poor girls; whereas Ada Gresham has learned everything,’ -she added with a little laugh. - -It was quite true. Poor little Mrs. Gresham was overflowing with -accomplishments. There never was such an education as she had received. -She had gone to lectures, and studied thorough bass, and knew all about -chemistry, and could sympathize with her husband, as the newspapers say, -and enter into all his pursuits. How fine it sounds in the newspapers! -Though I was angry, I could not but laugh too--a young woman wanted an -elaborate education indeed to be fit to be young Gresham’s wife. - -‘Well,’ I said, ‘after all, I don’t suppose she means to be impertinent, -Lottie, and I like her. I don’t think her education has done her much -harm. Nobody could teach her to understand other people’s feelings; and -to be rich like that must be a temptation.’ - -‘I should like to have such a temptation,’ said Lottie, with a sudden -sparkle in her eyes. ‘Fancy there are four Greshams, and they are all as -rich. The girl is married, you know, to a railway man; and, by the by,’ -she went on suddenly after a pause, ‘they tell me one of the brothers is -coming here to-day.’ - -She said this in an accidental sort of way, but I could see there was -nothing accidental about it. She drew her breath hard, poor girl, and a -little feverish colour got up in her cheeks. It is common to talk of -girls looking out for husbands, and even hunting that important quarry. -But when now and then in desperate cases such a thing does actually come -before one’s eyes, it is anything but an amusing sight. The Stokes were -as poor as the Greshams were rich. Everard had ruined himself, and -half-killed everybody belonging to him only the year before; and now -poor Lottie saw a terrible chance before her, and rose to it with a kind -of tragic valour. I read her whole meaning and resolution in her face, -as she said, with an attempt at a smile, these simple-sounding words; -and an absolute pang of pity went through me. Poor Lottie!--it was a -chance, for her family and for herself--even for poor Everard, whom they -all clung to, though he had gone so far astray. What a change it would -make in their situation and prospects, and everything about them! You -may say it was an ignoble foundation to build family comfort upon. I do -not defend it in any way; but when I saw what Lottie meant, my heart -ached for her. It did not seem to me ridiculous or base, but tragic and -terrible; though to be sure in all likelihood there is nobody who will -think so but me. - -Before Lottie left me, Mrs. Gresham came rushing over in her pretty -summer dress, with her curls and ribbons fluttering in the breeze. She -came to ask me why I had been so unkind, and to plead and remonstrate. -‘We have so much, we don’t know what to do with it,’ she said; ‘Harry is -always finding out some new vintage or other, and the cellars are -overflowing. Why would not you use some of it? We have so much of -everything we don’t know what to do.’ - -‘I would rather not, thanks,’ I said, feeling myself flush; ‘what a -lovely day it is. Where are you going for your drive? The woods will be -delicious to-day.’ - -‘Oh, I have so much of the woods,’ cried Mrs. Gresham. ‘I thought of -going towards Estcott to make some calls. But, dear Mrs. Mulgrave, about -the Champagne?’ - -‘It is a little too early for the heath,’ said Lottie, steadily looking -our visitor in the face. ‘It is always cold there. What they call -bracing, you know; but I don’t care about being braced, the wind goes -through and through one, even on a sunny day.’ - -‘It is because you are so thin,’ said Mrs. Gresham; ‘I never feel the -cold for my part; but I shall not drive at all to-day--I forgot--I shall -go and fetch Harry from the station, and come to you, Mrs. Mulgrave: and -you will not be cross, but let me send back John Thomas with--’ - -‘My dear, I am going to give you some tea,’ said I, ‘and my maids can -manage beautifully; the sight of a gorgeous creature like John Thomas -distracts them; they can do nothing but stare at his plush and his -powder. We shall be very glad to have Mr. Gresham and you.’ - -‘But--’ she began eagerly. Then she caught Lottie’s look, who had made -some sign to her, and stopped short, staring at me with her blue eyes. -She could not make it out, and no hint short of positive demonstration -could have shown her that she had gone too far. She stopped in obedience -to Lottie’s sign, but stared at me all the same. Her prosperity, her -wealth, her habit of overcoming everything that looked in the least like -a difficulty, had taken even a woman’s instinct from her. She gazed at -me, and by degrees her cheeks grew red: she saw she had made a mistake -somehow, but even up to that moment could not tell what it was. - -‘Harry’s brother is coming with him,’ she said, a little subdued; ‘may I -bring him? He is the eldest, but he is not married yet. He is such a man -of the world. Of course he might have married when he liked, as early as -we did, there was nothing to prevent him: but he got into a fashionable -set first, and then he got among the artists. He is quite what they call -a Bohemian you know. He paints beautifully--Harry always consults Gerald -before buying any pictures; I don’t know what he does with all his -money, for he keeps up no establishment, and no horses nor anything. I -tell him sometimes he is an old miser, but I am sure I have no reason to -say so, for he gives me beautiful presents. I should so like to bring -him here.’ - -‘Yes, bring him by all means,’ said I; but I could not help giving a -little sigh as I looked at Lottie, who was listening eagerly. When she -saw me look at her, her face flamed scarlet, and she went in great haste -to the window to hide it from Mrs. Gresham. She saw I had found her out, -and did not know what compassion was in my heart. She gave a wistful -glance up into my face as she went away. ‘Don’t despise me!’ it said. -Poor Lottie! as if it ever could be lawful to do evil that good might -come! They went away together, the poor girl and the rich, happy young -wife. Lottie was a little the older of the two, and yet she was not old, -and they were both pretty young women. They laid their heads together -and talked earnestly as girls do, as they went out of my gate, and -nobody could have dreamed that their light feet were entangled in any -web of tragedy. The sight of the two who were so unlike, and the thought -of the future which might bring them into close connection made me -melancholy, I could not have told why. - - - - -CHAPTER II - - -We did not miss the Champagne-cup that afternoon; indeed I do not -approve of such beverages for young people, and never sanction anything -but tea before dinner. The Dinglewood people were doing their best to -introduce these foolish extravagances among us, but I for one would not -give in. Young Gresham, though he took some tea, drew his wife aside -the moment after, and I heard him question her. - -‘It was not my fault, Harry,’ she cried, not knowing I was so near. ‘She -sent it all back, and Lottie said I had hurt her feelings. I did not -know what to do. She would not even have John Thomas to wait.’ - -‘Nonsense!’ said Harry Gresham; ‘you should have insisted. We ought not -to let her go to any expense. I don’t suppose she has a shilling more -than she wants for her own affairs.’ - -‘But I could not help it,’ said his wife. - -I don’t know what Lottie had said to her, but she was evidently a little -frightened. As for Harry, I think he would have liked to leave a -bank-note for me on one of the tables. People have told me since that it -was a very bad sign, and that it is only when people are getting -reckless about money that they think of throwing it away in presents; -but I cannot say I have had much experience of that weakness. The new -brother who had come with them was a very different kind of man. I -cannot say I took to him at first. He was not a wealthy, simple-minded, -lavish creature like his brother. He was more like other people. Harry -Gresham was red and white, like a girl, inclining to be stout, though he -was not above thirty, and with the manners which are, or were, supposed -to be specially English--downright and straightforward. Gerald was a few -years older, a little taller, bronzed with the sun, and bearing the -indescribable look of a man who has mixed much with the world. I looked -at Lottie Stoke when I made my first observations upon the stranger, and -saw that she too was looking at him with a strange expression, half of -repugnance, half of wistfulness in her eyes. Lottie had not done her -duty in the way of marrying, as she ought to have done, in her early -youth. She had refused very good offers, as her mother was too apt to -tell with a little bitterness. Now at last, when things were going so -badly with the family, she had made up her mind to try; but when she did -so she expected a second Harry Gresham, and not this man of the world. -She looked at him as a martyr might look standing on the edge of a -precipice, gathering up her strength for the plunge, shrinking yet -daring. My party was quite dull for the first hour because of this pause -which Lottie made on the brink, for she was always the soul of -everything. When I saw her all at once rise up from the chair where she -had been sitting obstinately beside old Mrs. Beresford, and go up to -Mrs. Gresham, who was standing aside with her brother-in-law looking on, -I knew she had made up her mind at last, and taken the plunge. An -experienced rich young man of the nineteenth century! I thought to -myself she might spare her pains. - -Just at that moment I saw the gorgeous figure of John Thomas appear at -the end of my lawn, and a sudden flush of anger came over me. I got up -to see what he wanted, thinking they had sent him back again -notwithstanding my refusal. But just before I reached him I perceived -that his errand was to his master, to whom he gave a telegram. Mr. -Gresham tore it open at my side. He ran his eye over the message, and -muttered something between his teeth, and grew red all over in -indignation or trouble. Then, seeing me, he turned round, with an -effort, with one of his broad smiles. - -‘Business even in the midst of pleasure,’ he said. ‘Is it not too bad?’ - -‘If it is only business--’ said I. Whenever I see one of those telegraph -papers, it makes my heart beat. I always think somebody is ill or dead. - -‘_Only_ business, by Jove!’ said Harry. His voice was quite subdued, but -he laughed--a laugh which sounded strange and not very natural. Then he -gave himself a sort of shake, and thrust the thing into his pocket, and -offered me his arm, to lead me back to my place. ‘By the by,’ he said, -‘I am going to quarrel with you, Mrs. Mulgrave. When we are so near why -don’t you let us be of some use to you? It would give the greatest -pleasure both to Ada and me.’ - -‘Oh, thanks; but indeed I don’t want any help,’ I cried, abruptly coming -to a sudden stop before Lady Denzil’s chair. - -‘You are so proud,’ he said with a smile, and so left me to plunge into -the midst of the game, where they were clamouring for him. He played all -the rest of the afternoon, entering into everything with the greatest -spirit; and yet I felt a little disturbed. Whether it was for Lottie, or -whether it was for Harry Gresham I could not well explain to myself; a -feeling came over me like the feeling with which one sometimes wakes in -the morning without any reason for it--an uneasy restless sense that -something somehow was going wrong. - -The Greshams were the last of my party to go away, and I went to the -gate with them, as I had a way of doing, and lingered there for a few -minutes in the slanting evening light. It was nearly seven o’clock, but -they did not dine till eight, and were in no hurry. She wore a very -pretty dress--one of those soft pale grays which soil if you look hard -at them--and had gathered the long train over her arm like a figure in a -picture; for though she was not very refined, Ada Gresham was not a -vulgar woman to trail her dress over a dusty road. She had taken her -husband’s arm as they went along the sandy brown pathway, and Gerald on -the other side carried her parasol and leant towards her to talk. As I -looked at them I could not but think of the strange differences of life: -how some people have to get through the world by themselves as best they -may, and some have care and love and protection on every side of them. -These two would have kept the very wind from blowing upon Ada; they were -ready to shield her from every pain, to carry her in their arms over any -thorns that might come in her way. The sunshine slanted sideways upon -them as they went along, throwing fantastic broken shadows of the three -figures on the hedgerow, and shining right into my eyes. I think I can -see her now leaning on her husband’s arm, looking up to his brother, -with the pretty sweep of the gray silk over her arm, the white -embroidered skirts beneath, and the soft rose-ribbons that caught the -light. Poor Ada! I have other pictures of her, beside this one, in my -memory now. - -Next day we had a little discussion upon the new brother, in the -afternoon when my visitors looked in upon me. We did not confine -ourselves to that one subject. We diverged, for instance, to Mrs. -Gresham’s toilette, which was so pretty. Lottie Stoke had got a new -bonnet for the occasion; but she had made it herself, and though she was -very clever, she was not equal to Elise. - -‘Fancy having all one’s things made by Elise!’ cried Lucy the little -sister, with a rapture of anticipation. ‘If ever I am married, nobody -else shall dress _me_.’ - -‘Then you had better think no more of curates,’ said some malicious -critic, and Lucy blushed. It was not her fault if the curates amused -her. They were mice clearly intended by Providence for fun and torture. -She was but sixteen and meant no harm, and what else could the kitten -do? - -Then a great controversy arose among the girls as to the claims of the -new brother to be called handsome. The question was hotly discussed on -both sides, Lottie alone taking no part in the debate. She sat by very -quietly, with none of her usual animation. Nor did she interpose when -the Gresham lineage and connection--the little cockney papa who was like -a shabby little miser, the mother who was large and affable and -splendid, a kind of grand duchess in a mercantile way--were taken in -hand. Lottie could give little sketches of them all when she so pleased; -but she did not please that day. - -‘This new one does not look like a nobody,’ said one of my visitors. ‘He -might be the Honourable Gerald for his looks. He is fifty times better -than Mr. Gresham, though Mr. Gresham is very nice too.’ - -‘And he has such a lovely name!’ cried Lucy. ‘Gerald Gresham! Any girl I -ever heard of would marry him just for his name.’ - -‘They have all nice names,’ said the first speaker, who was young too, -and attached a certain weight to this particular. ‘They don’t sound like -mere rich people. They might be of a good old family to judge by their -names.’ - -‘Yes; she is Ada,’ said Lucy, reflectively, ‘and he is Harry, and the -little boy’s name is Percy. But Gerald is the darling! Gerald is the one -for me!’ - -The window was open at the time, and the child was talking incautiously -loud, so that I was not much surprised, for my part, when a peal of -laughter from outside followed this speech, and Ada, with her -brother-in-law in attendance, appeared under the veranda. Of course -Lucy was covered with confusion; but her blushes became the little -creature, and gave her a certain shy grace which was very pretty to -behold. As for Lottie, I think the contrast made her paler. Looking at -her beautiful refined head against the light, nobody could help admiring -it; but she was not round and dimpled and rosy like her little sister. -After a while Gerald Gresham managed to get into the corner where Lottie -was, to talk to her; but his eyes sought the younger creature all the -same. A man has it all his own way when there is but one in the room. He -was gracious to all the girls, like a civilized English sultan; but they -were used to that, poor things, and took it very good-naturedly. - -‘It is not his fault if he is the only man in the place,’ said Lucy; and -she was not displeased, though her cheeks burned more hotly than ever -when he took advantage of her incautious speech. - -‘I must not let you forget that it is Gerald who is the darling,’ he -said laughing. Of course it was quite natural, and meant nothing, and -perhaps no one there but Lottie and myself thought anything of this -talk; but it touched her, poor girl, with a certain mortification, and -had a curious effect upon me. I could not keep myself from thinking, -Would it be Lucy after all? After her sister had made up her mind in -desperation; after she had screwed her courage to the last fatal point; -after she had consciously committed herself and compromised her maiden -up-rightness, would it be Lucy who would win the prize without an -effort? I cannot describe the effect it had upon me. It made me burn -with indignation to think that Lottie Stoke was putting forth all her -powers to attract this stranger--this man who was rich, and could buy -her if he pleased; and, at the same time, his looks at Lucy filled me -with the strangest sense of disappointment. I ought to have been glad -that such humiliating efforts failed of success, and yet I was not. I -hated them, and yet I could not bear to think they would be in vain. - -‘And Harry has gone to town again to-day,’ said Ada, with a pout of her -pretty mouth, ‘though he promised to stay and take me up the river. They -make his life wretched with those telegrams and things. I ask him, What -is the good of going on like this, when we have plenty of money? And -then he tells me I am a little fool and don’t understand.’ - -‘I always feel sure something dreadful has happened whenever I see a -telegram,’ said Mrs. Stoke. - -‘Oh, we are quite used to them: they are only about business,’ said Ada, -taking off her hat and smoothing back, along with a twist of her pretty -hair, the slightest half visible pucker of care from her smooth young -brow. - -‘Only business!’ said Gerald. They were the same words Harry had said -the day before, and they struck me somehow. When he caught my eye he -laughed, and added something about the strange ideas ladies had. ‘As if -any accident, or death, or burial could be half so important as -business,’ he said, with the half sneer which we all use as a disguise -to our thoughts. And some of the little party exclaimed, and some -laughed with him. To be sure, a man in business, like Harry Gresham, or -a man of the world, like his brother, must be less startled by such -communications than such quiet country people as we were. That was easy -enough to see. - -That same night, when I came across from the Lodge, where I had been -spending the evening, Dinglewood stood blazing out against the sky with -all its windows lighted up. Sir Thomas, who was walking across the Green -with me, as it was so fine a night, saw me turn my head that way and -looked too. The whole house had the air of being lighted up for an -illumination. It always had; it revealed itself, its different floors, -and even the use of its different rooms to all the world by its lights. -The Greshams were the kind of people who have every new improvement that -money can procure. They made gas for themselves, and lighted up the -entire house, in that curious mercantile, millionaire way which you -never see in a real great house. Sir Thomas’s look followed mine, and he -shook his gray head a little. - -‘I hope no harm will come of it,’ he said; ‘they are going very fast -over there, Mrs. Mulgrave. I hope they are able to keep it up.’ - -‘Able!’ said I, ‘they are frightfully rich;’ and I felt half aggrieved -by the very supposition. - -‘Yes,’ said Sir Thomas, ‘they would need to be rich. For a little while -that may do; but I don’t think any man in business can be rich enough to -stand that sort of thing for a long time together.’ - -‘Oh, they can bear it, no doubt,’ I said, impatient of Sir Thomas’s -old-fashioned ways. ‘Of course it was very different in the Coventrys’ -time.’ - -‘Ah, in the Coventrys’ time,’ said Sir Thomas regretfully; ‘one does not -often get such neighbours as the Coventrys. Take care of that stone. And -now, here we are at your door.’ - -‘Good-night!’ said I, ‘and many thanks;’ but I stood outside a little in -the balmy evening air, as Sir Thomas went home across the Green. I could -not see Dinglewood from my door, and the Lodge, which was opposite, -glimmered in a very different way, with faint candles in Lady Denzil’s -chamber, and some of the servants’ sleeping rooms, and the soft white -lamp-light in the windows below; domestic and necessary lights, not like -the blaze in the new house. Sir Thomas plodded quietly home, with his -gray head bent and his hands behind him under his coat, in the musing -tranquillity of old age; and a certain superstitious feeling came over -me. It was my gaze at the illuminated house which made him say those -uncomfortable words. I felt as if I had attracted to the Greshams, poor -children, in their gaiety and heedlessness, the eye of some sleeping -Fate. - - - - -CHAPTER III - - -I have often been impatient in reading books, to find the story go on -from one party to another, from one ball to another, as if life had -nothing more important in it. But sometimes no doubt it does happen so. -The life of the Greshams was made up of balls and parties; they were -never alone; Dinglewood blazed out to the skies every evening, and the -carriages flashed out and in, and one kind of merry-making or another -went on all day. Lottie Stoke was there continually, and there grew up a -curious friendship, half strife, half accord, between Gerald and -herself. He had nothing to do with the business as it turned out, and -consequently was not half so rich as his brother. But still he was very -well off. I don’t know what it is about people in business which gives -them a kind of primitive character: they are less sophisticated than the -rest of us, though possibly not more simple. The Greshams took a simple -pleasure in pleasure for itself, without making it a mere medium for -other things, as most of us do. They were fond of company, fond of -dancing, delighted with picnics, and even with croquet, without any -ulterior motive, like children. They were fond even of their wealth, -which gave them so many pretty and so many pleasant things. They enjoyed -it with all their hearts, and took an innocent, foolish delight in it, -which spiteful people set down to purse-pride; but which in reality was -more like the open satisfaction of children in their dear possessions. -Gerald was a very different being: I never saw him without feeling that -his visit was not a mere visit, but had some motive in it. Before Lottie -roused him to talk and battle with her, he would look on at their great -parties with a curious, anxious, dissatisfied air, as if he suspected or -feared something. I think poor Lottie went further than she meant to go: -she grew interested herself, when she had meant only to interest him, -and was more excited by his presence than he was by hers. They carried -on a kind of perpetual duel, very amusing to the spectators: and there -was no doubt that he liked it. But he liked Lucy’s funny little shy -speeches too; and he had some interest more absorbing, more serious than -either, which made his face very grave when the two girls were not -there. Harry Gresham had sometimes the air of getting impatient of his -brother’s presence. Now and then they passed my house walking together, -and not enjoying their walk, according to appearances. Once as I stood -at my gate I heard Harry say sharply, ‘In any case Ada has her -settlement,’ with a defiant air. And Gerald’s face was full of -remonstrance and expostulation. I could not help taking a great interest -in these young people, and feeling a little anxious at the general -aspect of affairs. - -Things were in this state when the ball was given on Mrs. Gresham’s -birthday. I had nobody to take charge of for a wonder, and nothing to do -but look on. The entire suite of rooms was thrown open, ablaze with -light and sweet with flowers. There were great banks of geraniums in -every corner where they could be piled, and the whole neighbourhood had -been ravaged for roses. The room in which I took refuge was the smallest -of all, which had been old Lady Sarah’s boudoir in old times, and was a -little removed from the dancing, and cooler than the rest. It had one -little projecting window, not large enough to be called a bay, which -looked out upon the terrace just above the spot where the old couple -used to sit in the summer days. It was open, and the moon streamed in, -making a curious contrast with the floods of artificial light. Looking -out from it, you could see the Thames, like a silver ribbon, at the -bottom or the slope, and the little island and the little house gleaming -out white, with intense black shadows. Lottie Stoke came up to me while -I stood at the window, and looked out over my shoulder. ‘It looks like -the ghost of the river and the ghost of the island,’ she said, putting -her pretty arm round my waist with an agitated grasp. ‘I almost think we -are all ghosts too.’ - -‘A curious moment to think so,’ said Gerald Gresham. My back was turned -to them, so that I did not see him, but there sounded something like a -thrill of excitement in the half laugh of his voice. - -‘Not curious at all,’ said Lottie: ‘how many of us are really here do -you think? I know where Mrs. Mulgrave is. She is outside on the terrace -with old Lady Sarah, listening to the old people’s talk, though I am -holding her fast all the same. We are in all sorts of places the real -halves of us, but our doubles do the dancing and the laughing, and eat -the ices quite as well. It is chilly to be a ghost,’ said Lottie with a -laugh; ‘come in from the window, I am sure there is a draught there.’ - -‘There is no draught,’ said Gerald; ‘you are afraid of being obliged to -go into particulars, that is all.’ - -‘I am not in the least afraid,’ said Lottie. ‘There is Mrs. Damerel. She -is in the nursery at the rectory, though you think you have her here. -She is counting Agatha’s curl-papers to see if there is the right -number, for children are never properly attended to when the mother’s -eye is wanting. I don’t know where you are, Mr. Gerald Gresham; that -would be too delicate an inquiry. But look, your brother has gone upon -‘Change, though he is in the middle of his guests. He looks as like -business as if he had all the Reduced Consols on his mind; he looks as -if---- good heavens!’ - -Lottie stopped, and her tone was so full of alarm and astonishment, that -I turned suddenly round to look too, in a fright. Harry Gresham was -standing at the door; he had a yellow envelope in his hand, another of -those terrible telegrams which are always bringing misery. He had turned -round unawares facing us, and facing the stream of people who were -always coming and going. I never saw in all my life so ghastly a face. -It showed the more that he was so ruddy and cheerful by nature. In a -moment every tinge of colour had disappeared from it. His mouth was -drawn down, his blue eyes looked awful, shrinking back as it were among -the haggard lines of the eyelids. The sight of him struck Lottie dumb, -and came upon me like a touch of horror. But Gerald, it was evident, was -not taken by surprise. Some crisis which he had been looking for had -come at last. - -‘He has had some bad news,’ he said; ‘excuse me, my mother is ill--it -must be that;’ and he went through the stream of guests, fording the -current as it were with noiseless rapidity. As for Lottie, she drew me -back into the recess of the window and clung to me and cried--but not -for Harry Gresham. Her nerves were at the highest strain, and broke down -under this last touch; that was all. - -‘I knew something was going to happen,’ she said. ‘I felt it in the air; -but I never thought it was coming upon _them_.’ - -‘It must be his mother,’ I said, though I did not think so. ‘Hush, -Lottie! Don’t frighten _her_, poor child.’ - -Lottie was used to restraining herself, and the tears relieved her. She -dried her eyes and gave me a nervous hug as she loosed her arm from my -waist. - -‘I cannot stand this any longer,’ she said; ‘I must go and dance, or -something. I know there is trouble coming, and if I sit quiet I shall -make a fool of myself. But you will help them if you can,’ she cried in -my ear. Alas! what could I do? - -By the time she left me the brothers had disappeared, and after half an -hour’s waiting, as nothing seemed to come of it, and as the heat -increased I went to the window again. The moon had gone off the house, -but still shone white and full on the lawn like a great sheet of silvery -gauze, bound and outlined by the blackest shadow. My mind had gone away -from that temporary interruption. I was not thinking about the Greshams -at all, when all at once I heard a rustle under the window. When I -looked down two figures were standing there in the shadow. I thought at -first they were robbers, perhaps murderers, waiting to waylay some one. -All my self-command could not restrain a faint exclamation. There seemed -a little struggle going on between the two. ‘You don’t know her,’ said -the one; ‘why should you trust her?’ ‘She is safer than the servants,’ -said the other, ‘and she is fond of poor Ada.’ If my senses had not been -quickened by excitement and alarm I should never have heard what they -said. Then something white was held up to me in a hand that trembled. - -‘Give it to Ada--when you can,’ said Harry Gresham in a quick, -breathless, imperative voice. - -I took the bit of paper and clutched it in my hand, not knowing what I -did, and then stood stupefied, and saw them glide down in the dark -shadow of the house towards the river. Where were they going? What had -happened? This could be no sudden summons to a mother’s death-bed. They -went cautiously in the darkness the two brothers, keeping among the -trees; leaning out of the window as far as I could, I saw Gerald’s -slighter figure and poor Harry’s portly one emerge into the moonlight -close to the river, just upon the public road. Then I felt some one pull -me on the other side. It was Lottie who had come back, excited, to ask -if I had found out anything. - -‘I thought you were going to stretch out of the window altogether,’ she -said, with a half-suspicious glance; and I held my bit of paper tight, -with my fan in my other hand. - -‘I was looking at the moon,’ I said. ‘It is a lovely night. I am sorry -it has gone off the house. And then the rooms are so hot inside.’ - -‘I should like to walk on the terrace,’ said Lottie, ‘but my cavalier -has left me. I was engaged to him for this dance, and he has never come -to claim it. Where has he gone?’ - -‘I suppose he must have left the room,’ I said. ‘I suppose it is their -mother who is ill; perhaps they have slipped out quietly not to disturb -the guests. If that is the case, you should go and stand by Mrs. -Gresham, Lottie. She will want your help.’ - -‘But they never would be so unkind as to steal away like this and leave -everything to Ada!’ cried Lottie. ‘Never! Harry Gresham would not do it -for twenty mothers. As for Gerald, I dare say _any_ excuse--’ - -And here she stopped short, poor girl, with an air of exasperation, and -looked ready to cry again. - -‘Never mind,’ I said; ‘go to Mrs. Gresham. Don’t say anything, Lottie, -but stand by her. She may want it, for anything we know.’ - -‘As you stood by us,’ said Lottie affectionately; and then she added -with a sigh and a faint little smile, ‘But it never could be so bad as -that with them.’ - -I did not make her any reply. I was faint and giddy with fear and -excitement; and just then, of course, Admiral Fortis’s brother, a hazy -old gentleman, who was there on a visit, and _havered_ for hours -together, whenever he could get a listener, hobbled up to me. He had got -me into a corner as it were, and built entrenchments round me before I -knew, and then he began his longest story of how his brother had been -appointed to the _Bellerophon_, and how it was his interest that did it. -The thing had happened half a century before, and the Admiral had not -been at sea at all for half that time, and here was a present tragedy -going on beside us, and the message of fate crushed up with my fan in my -hand. Lottie Stoke made her appearance in the doorway several times, -casting appealing looks at me. Once she beckoned, and pointed -energetically to the drawing-room in which poor little Mrs. Gresham was. -But when I got time to think, as I did while the old man was talking, I -thought it was best, on the whole, to defer giving my letter, whatever -it was. It could not be anything trifling or temporary which made the -master of the house steal away in the darkness. I have had a good many -things put into my hands to manage, but I don’t think I ever had -anything so difficult as this. For I did not know, and could not divine, -what the sudden misfortune was which I had to conceal from the world. -All this time Mr. Fortis went on complacently with his talk about the -old salt-water lords who were dead and gone. He stood over me, and was -very animated; and I had to look up to him, and nod and smile, and -pretend to listen. What ghosts we were, as Lottie said! My head began to -swim at last as Mr. Fortis’s words buzzed in my ear. ‘“_My lord,” I -said, “my brother’s services--not to speak of my own family -influence--_”’ This formed a kind of chorus to it, and came in again and -again. He was only in the middle of his narrative when Lottie came up, -making her way through all obstacles. She was trembling, too, with -excitement which had less foundation than mine. - -‘I can’t find Mr. Gresham anywhere,’ she whispered. ‘He is not in any of -the rooms; none of the servants have seen him, and it is time for -supper. What are we to do?’ - -‘Is Ada alarmed?’ said I. - -‘No; she is such a child,’ said Lottie. ‘But she is beginning to wonder. -Come and say something to her. Come and do something. Don’t sit for ever -listening to that tiresome old man. I shall go crazy if you do not come; -and she dancing as if nothing had happened!’ - -Mr. Fortis had waited patiently while this whispering went on. When I -turned to him again he went on the same as ever. ‘This was all to the -senior sea-lord, you understand, Mrs. Mulgrave. As for the other--’ - -‘I hope you will tell me the rest another time,’ I said, like a -hypocrite. ‘I must go to Mrs. Gresham. Lottie has come to fetch me. I am -so sorry--’ - -‘Don’t say anything about it,’ said Mr. Fortis. ‘I shall find an -opportunity,’ and he offered me his arm. I had to walk with him looking -quite at my ease through all those pretty groups, one and another -calling to me as I passed. ‘Oh, please tell me if my wreath is all -right,’ Nelly Fortis whispered, drawing me from her uncle. ‘Mrs. -Mulgrave, will you look if I am torn?’ cried another. Then pair after -pair of dancers came whirling along, making progress dangerous. Such a -sight at any time, when one is past the age at which one takes a -personal interest in it, is apt to suggest a variety of thoughts; but at -this moment! Lottie hovered about me, a kind of _avant-coureur_, -clearing the way for me. There was something amazing to me in her -excitement, especially as, just at the moment when she was labouring to -open a way for me, Ada Gresham went flying past, her blue eyes shining, -her cheeks more like roses than ever. She gave me a smiling little nod -as her white dress swept over my dark one, and was gone to the opposite -end of the room before I could say a word. Lottie drew her breath hard -at the sight. Her sigh sounded shrill as it breathed past me. ‘Baby!’ -she whispered. ‘Doll!’ And then the tears came to her eyes. I was -startled beyond description by her looks. Had she come to _care for_ -Gerald in the midst of that worldly dreadful scheme of hers? or what did -her agitation mean? - -It was time for supper however, and the elders of the party began to -look for it; and there were a good many people wondering and inquiring -where was Mr. Gresham? where were the brothers? Young ladies stood with -injured faces, who had been engaged to dance with Harry or Gerald; and -Ada herself, when her waltz was over, began to look about anxiously. By -this time I had got rid of Mr. Fortis, and made up my mind what to do. I -went up to her and stopped her just as she was asking one of the -gentlemen had he seen her husband?--where was Harry? I kept Harry’s bit -of paper fast in my hand. I felt by instinct that to give her that would -only make matters worse. I made up the best little story I could about -old Mrs. Gresham’s illness. - -‘They both went off quite quietly, not to disturb the party,’ I said. ‘I -was to put off telling you as long as I could, my dear, not to spoil -your pleasure. They could not help themselves. They were very much put -out at the thought of leaving you. But Sir Thomas will take Mr. -Gresham’s place; and you know they were obliged to go.’ - -Tears sprang to poor Ada’s eyes. ‘Oh, how unkind of Harry,’ she cried, -‘to go without telling me. As if I should have kept on dancing had I -known. I don’t understand it at all--to tell you, and go without a word -to me!’ - -‘My dear, he would not spoil your pleasure,’ I said; ‘and it would have -been so awkward to send all these people away. And you know she may get -better after all.’ - -‘That is true,’ said easy-minded Ada. ‘It _would_ have been awkward -breaking up the party. But it is odd about mamma. She was quite well -yesterday. She was to have been here to-night.’ - -‘Oh, it must have been something sudden,’ I cried, at the end of my -invention. ‘Shall I call Sir Thomas? What can I do to be a help to you? -You must be Mr. and Mrs. Gresham both in one for to-night.’ - -Ada put her laced handkerchief up to her eyes and smiled a little faint -smile. ‘Will _you_ tell Sir Thomas?’ she said. ‘I feel so bewildered I -don’t know what to do.’ - -Then I commenced another progress in search of Sir Thomas, Lottie Stoke -still hovering about me as pale as a spirit. She took my arm as we went -on. ‘Was that all a story?’ she whispered in my ear, clasping my arm -tightly with her hands. I made her no answer; I dared not venture even -to let her see my face. I went and told the same story very -circumstantially over again to Sir Thomas. I hope it was not a great -sin; indeed it might be quite true for anything I could tell. It was -the only natural way of accounting for their mysterious absence; and -everybody was extremely sorry, of course, and behaved as well as -possible. Old Mrs. Gresham was scarcely known at Dinglewood, and Ada, it -was evident, was not very profoundly affected after the first minute by -the news, so that, on the whole, the supper-table was lively enough, and -the very young people even strayed into the dancing-room after it. But -of course we knew better than that when trouble had come to the house. -It was not much above one o’clock in the morning when they were all -gone. I pretended to go too, shaking off Lottie Stoke as best I could, -and keeping out of sight in a corner while they all streamed away. On -the whole, I think public opinion was in favour of Harry Gresham’s quiet -departure without making any disturbance. ‘He was a very good son,’ -people said: and then some of them speculated if the poor lady died, how -Harry and his wife would manage to live in the quietness which family -affliction demanded. ‘They will bore each other to death,’ said a lively -young man. ‘Oh, they are devoted to each other!’ cried a young lady. Not -a suspicion entered any one’s mind. The explanation was quite -satisfactory to everybody but Lottie Stoke; but then she had seen Harry -Gresham’s face. - -When I had made quite sure that every one was gone, I stole back quietly -into the blazing deserted rooms. Had I ever been disposed to moralize -over the scene of a concluded feast, it certainly would not have been at -that moment. Yet there was something pathetic in the look of the -place--brilliant as day, with masses of flowers everywhere, and that air -of lavish wealth, prodigality, luxury--and to feel that one carried in -one’s hand something that might turn it into the scene of a tragedy, and -wind up its bright story with the darkest conclusion. My heart beat loud -as I went in. My poor little victim was still in the dancing-room--the -largest and brightest of all. She had thrown herself down on a sofa, -with her arms flung over her head like a tired child. Tears were -stealing down her pretty cheeks. Her mouth was pouting and melancholy. -When she saw me she rose with a sudden start, half annoyed, half -pleased, to have some one to pour out her troubles upon. ‘I can’t help -crying,’ she said. ‘I don’t mean to blame Harry; but it was unkind of -him to go away without saying a word to me. We never, never parted in -that way before;’ and from tears the poor little woman fell into -sobs--grievous, innocent sobs, all about nothing, that broke one’s -heart. - -‘I have come to tell you something,’ I said, ‘though I don’t know myself -what it is. I am afraid it is something worse than you think. I said -_that_ because your brother-in-law said it; but I don’t believe it is -anything about Mrs. Gresham. Your husband put this into my hand through -the window as he went away. Take courage, dear. You want all your -courage--you must keep up for the sake of the children, Ada!’ - -I babbled on, not knowing what words I used, and she stared at me with -bewildered eyes. ‘Into your hand through the window!’ she said. She -could not understand. She looked at the paper as if it were a charm. -Then she opened it slowly, half afraid, half stupefied. Its meaning did -not seem to penetrate her mind at first. After a while she gave a loud -sudden shriek, and turned her despairing eyes on me. Her cry was so -piercing and sudden that it rang through the house and startled every -one. She was on the verge of hysterics, and incapable of understanding -what was said to her, but the sight of the servants rushing to the door -to ask what was the matter brought her to herself. She made a brave -effort and recovered something like composure, while I sent them away; -and then she held out to me the letter which she had clutched in her -hand. It was written in pencil, and some words were illegible. This was -what Harry said:-- - - ‘Something unexpected has happened to me, my darling. I am obliged - to leave you without time even to say good-bye. You will know all - about it only too soon. It is ruin, Ada--and it is my own - fault--but I never meant to defraud any man. God knows I never - meant it. Try and keep up your heart, dear; I believe it will blow - over, and you will be able to join me. I will write to you as soon - as I am safe. You have your settlement. Don’t let anybody persuade - you to tamper with your settlement. My father will take care of - that. Why should you and the children share my ruin? Forgive me, - dearest, for the trouble I have brought on you. I dare not pause to - think of it. Gerald is with me. If they come after me, say I have - gone to Bishop’s Hope.’ - -‘What does it mean?’ cried poor Ada close to my ear. ‘Oh, tell me, you -are our friend! What does it mean?’ - -‘God knows,’ I said. My own mind could not take it in, still less could -I express the vague horrors that floated across me. We sat together with -the lights blazing round us, the grand piano open, the musicians’ stands -still in their places. Ada was dressed like a queen of fairies, or of -flowers: her gown was white, covered with showers of rosebuds; and she -had a crown of natural roses in her bright hair. I don’t know how it was -that her dress and appearance suddenly impressed themselves on me at -that moment. It was the horror of the contrast, I suppose. She looked me -piteously in the face, giving up all attempt at thought for her own -part, seeking the explanation from me. ‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘Why has -he gone away? Who is coming after him? Oh, my Harry! my Harry!’ the poor -young creature moaned. What could I say? I took her in my arms and -kissed her. I could do no more. - -At this moment there came a loud knocking at the door. The house had -fallen into deadly stillness, and at that hour of the night, and in the -state we were, the sound was horrible. It rang through the place as if -it had been uninhabited, waking echoes everywhere. Ada’s very lips grew -white--she clasped her small hands over mine holding me fast. ‘It is -some one who has forgotten something,’ I said, but my agitation was so -great that I felt a difficulty in speaking. We sat and listened in -frightful suspense while the door was opened and the sound of voices -reached us. It was not Harry who had come back; it was not any one -belonging to the place. Suddenly Ada rushed to the door with a flash of -momentary petulance which simulated strength. ‘If it is any one for Mr. -Gresham, bring him in here,’ she cried imperiously. I hurried after her -and took her hand. It was like touching an electric machine. She was so -strung to the highest pitch that only to touch her made me thrill and -vibrate all over. And then the two men--two homely black -figures--startled even in spite of their acquaintance with strange -sights, came hesitatingly forward into the blazing light to confront the -flower-crowned, jewelled, dazzling creature, made up of rose and lily, -and diamond and pearl. They stood thunderstruck before her, -notwithstanding the assurance of their trade. Probably they had never in -their lives seen such an apparition before. The foremost of the two took -off his hat with a look of deprecation. I do not think Ada had the least -idea who they were. They were her husband’s enemies, endowed with a -certain dignity by that fact. But I knew in a moment, by instinct, that -they must be London detectives in search of him, and that the very worst -possibility of my fears had come true. - -I cannot tell what we said to these men or they to us; they were not -harsh nor unfeeling; they were even startled and awe-struck in their -rough way, and stepped across the room cautiously, as if afraid of -hurting something. We had to take them over all the house, through the -rooms in which not a single light had been extinguished. To see us in -our ball dresses, amid all that silent useless blaze of light, leading -these men about, must have been a dreadful sight. For my part, though my -share in it was nothing, I felt my limbs shake under me when we had gone -over all the rooms below. But Ada took them all over the house. They -asked her questions and she answered them in her simplicity. Crime might -have fled out of that honest, joyous home, but it was innocence, candid -and open, with nothing to conceal, which dwelt there. I had to interfere -at last and tell them we would answer no more questions; and then they -comforted and encouraged us in their way. ‘With this fine house and all -these pretty things you’ll have a good bit of money yet,’ said the -superior of the two; ‘and if Mr. Gresham was to pay up, they might come -to terms.’ - -‘Then is it debt?’ cried I, with a sudden bound of hope. - -The man gave a short laugh. ‘It’s debt to the law,’ he said. ‘It’s -felony, and that’s bad; but if you could give us a bit of a clue to -where he is, and this young lady would see ’em and try, why it mightn’t -be so bad after all. Folks often lets a gentleman go when they won’t let -a common man.’ - -‘Would money do it?’ cried poor Ada; ‘and I have my settlement. Oh, I -will give you anything, everything I have, if you’ll let my poor Harry -go.’ - -‘We haven’t got him yet, ma’am,’ said the man. ‘If you can find us any -clue----’ - -And it was then I interfered; I could not permit them to go on with -their cunning questions to poor Ada. When they went away she sank down -on a sofa near that open window in the boudoir from which I had seen -Harry disappear. The window had grown by this time ‘a glimmering -square,’ full of the blue light of early dawn. The birds began to chirp -and stir in the trees; the air which had been so soft and refreshing -grew chill, and made us shiver in our light dresses; the roses in Ada’s -hair began to fade and shed their petals silently over her white -shoulders. As long as the men were present she had been perfectly -self-possessed; now suddenly she burst into a wild torrent of tears. -‘Oh, Harry, my Harry, where is he? Why did not he take me with him?’ she -cried. I cannot say any more, though I think every particular of that -dreadful night is burned in on my memory. Such a night had never -occurred in my recollection before. - -Then I got Ada to go to bed, and kept off from her the sleepy, insolent -man in powder who came to know if he was to sit up for master. ‘Your -master has gone to Bishop’s Hope,’ I said, ‘and will not return -to-night.’ The fellow received what I said with a sneer. He knew as -well, or perhaps better than we did, what had happened. Everybody would -know it next day. The happy house had toppled down like a house of -cards. Nothing was left but the helpless young wife, the unconscious -babies, to fight their battle with the world. There are moments when the -sense of a new day begun is positive pain. When poor Ada fell into a -troubled sleep, I wrapped myself up and opened the window and let in the -fresh morning air. Looking out over the country, I felt as if I could -see everything. There was no charitable shadow now to hide a flying -figure: every eye would be upon him, every creature spying his flight. -Where was Harry? When I looked at the girl asleep--she was but a girl, -notwithstanding her babies--and thought of the horror she would wake to, -it made my heart sick. And her mother was dead. There seemed no one to -stand by her in her trouble but a stranger like me. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - - -When Ada woke however, instead of being, as I was, more hopeless, she -was almost sanguine. ‘There is my money, you know,’ she said. ‘After -all, so long as it is only money--I will go and see them, as the men -said, and they will come to terms. So long as we are together, what do I -mind whether we have a large house or a little one? And Harry himself -speaks of my settlement. Don’t cry. I was frightened last night; but now -I see what to do. Will you come up to town with me by the twelve o’clock -train? And you shall see all will come right.’ - -I had not the heart to say a word. I went home, and changed that -wretched evening dress which I had worn all through the night. It was a -comfort to throw it off and cast it away from me; and I never wore it -again; the very sight of it made me ill ever after. I found Ada almost -in high spirits with the strength of her determination and certainty -that she was going to redeem her husband and make all right, when I went -back. Just before noon however, when she was putting on her bonnet to -start, a carriage swept up to the door. I was at the window of the -dining-room when it came in sight, waiting for the brougham to convey us -to the station. And the rector and his wife were coming up the avenue -with ‘kind inquiries,’ in full belief that old Mrs. Gresham was dying, -and that the house was ‘in affliction.’ No wonder they started and -stared at the sight. It was old Mrs. Gresham herself, in her pink -ribbons, fresh and full and splendid, in robust health, and all the -colours of the rainbow, who came dashing up with her stately bays, to -the door. - -I had only time to realize that all our little attempts to keep up -appearances were destroyed for ever when the old people came in; for -Harry’s father had come too, though no one ever noticed him in presence -of his wife. Mrs. Gresham came in smiling and gracious, in her usual -affable and rather overwhelming way. She would have dismissed me -majestically before she went to her daughter-in-law, but I was in -reality too obtuse, by reason of fatigue and excitement, to understand -what she meant. When she went to Ada the old man remained with me. He -was not an attractive old man, and I had scarcely spoken to him before. -He walked about the room looking at everything, while I sat by the -window. If he had been an auctioneer valuing the furniture, he could not -have been more particular in his investigations. He examined the -handsome oak furniture, which was the envy of the Green, the immense -mirrors, the great china vases, the pictures on the walls, as if making -a mental calculation. Then he came and stood by me, and began to talk. -‘In my time young people were not so extravagant,’ he said. ‘There are -thousands of pounds, I believe, sunk in this house.’ - -‘Mr. Gresham had a great deal of taste,’ I said faltering. - -‘Taste! Nonsense. You mean waste,’ said the old man, sitting down -astride on a carved chair, and looking at me across the back of it. ‘But -I admit the things have their value--they’ll sell. Of course you know -Harry has got into a mess?’ he went on. ‘Women think they can hush up -these things; but that’s impossible. He has behaved like an idiot, and -he must take the consequences. Fortunately the family is provided for. -Her friends need not be concerned in that respect.’ - -‘I am very glad,’ said I, as it was necessary to say something. - -‘So am I,’ said old Mr. Gresham. ‘I suppose they would have come upon -_me_ if that had not been the case. It’s a bad business; but it is not -so bad as it might have been. I can’t make out how a son of mine should -have been such an ass. But they all go so fast in these days. I suppose -you had a very grand ball last night? A ball!’ he repeated, with a sort -of snort. I don’t know if there was any fatherly feeling at all in the -man, but if there was he hid it under this mask of harshness and -contempt. - -‘Will not Mr. Gresham return?’ I asked foolishly; but my mind was too -much worn out to have full control of what I said. - -The old man gave a shrug, and glanced at me with a mixture of scorn and -suspicion. ‘I can’t say what may happen in the future,’ he said dryly. -‘I should advise him not. But Ada can live where she likes--and she will -not be badly off.’ - -Old Mrs. Gresham stayed a long time up-stairs with her daughter-in-law; -so long that my patience almost deserted me. Mr. Gresham went off, after -sitting silent opposite to me for some time, to look over the house, -which was a relief; and no doubt I might have gone too, for we were far -too late for the train. But I was too anxious to go away. When the two -came down the old lady was just as cheerful and overwhelming as usual, -though poor Ada was deadly pale. Mrs. Gresham came in with her rich, -bustling, prosperous look, and shook hands with me over again. ‘I am -sure I beg your pardon,’ she said; ‘I had so much to say to Ada. We have -not met for a whole month; and poor child, they gave her such a fright -last night. My dear, don’t you mean to give us some luncheon? Grandpapa -never takes lunch; you need not wait for him, but I am quite hungry -after my long drive.’ - -Then poor Ada rose and rang the bell; she was trembling so that she -tottered as she moved. I saw that her lips were dry, and she could -scarcely speak. She gave her orders so indistinctly that the man could -not hear her. ‘Luncheon!’ cried the old lady in her imperious way. -‘Can’t you hear what Mrs. Gresham says? Lunch directly--and tell my -people to be at the door in an hour. Ada, a man who stared in my face -like that, and pretended not to understand, should not stay another day -in my house; you are a great deal too easy. So your ball was interrupted -last night, Mrs. Mulgrave,’ she went on with a laugh, ‘and the blame -laid on me. Oh, those boys! I hope the good people hereabouts will not -take offence. I will never forgive them, though, for giving Ada such a -fright, poor child. She thought I was dying, I suppose; and it was only -one of Gerald’s sporting scrapes. Some horse was being tampered with, -and he would have lost thousands if they had not rushed off; so they -made out I was dying, the wretched boys. Ha, ha! I don’t look much like -dying to-day.’ - -‘No, indeed,’ was all I could say. As for Ada she never opened her white -lips, except to breathe in little gasps like a woman in a fever. The old -lady had all the weight of the conversation to bear; and indeed she was -talking not for our benefit, but for that of the servants, who were -bringing the luncheon. She looked so rich and assured of herself that I -think they were staggered in their certainty of misfortune and believed -her for the moment. The young footman, who had just been asking me -privately to speak a word for him to secure him another place, gave me a -stealthy imploring look, begging me as it were not to betray him. The -old gentleman was out, going over the house and grounds, but Mrs. -Gresham ate a very good luncheon and continued her large and ample talk. -‘They sent me a message this morning,’ she said, as she ate, ‘and -ordered me to come over and make their excuses and set things right. -Just like boys! Give me some sherry, John Thomas. I shall scold them -well, I promise you, when they come back--upsetting poor Ada’s nerves, -and turning the house upside down like this. I don’t know what Ada would -have done without you, Mrs. Mulgrave; and I hear you had their -stable-men, trainers, or whatever they call them, to puzzle you too.’ - -‘Yes,’ I said, struck dumb with wonder. Was this all an invention, or -was she herself deceived? Poor Ada sat with her eyes cast down, and -never spoke except in monosyllables; she could scarcely raise to her -lips the wine which her mother-in-law made her swallow. I could not but -admire the energy and determination of the woman. But at the same time -she bewildered me, as she sat eating and drinking, with her elbow on the -table and her rich lace mantle sweeping over the white tablecloth, -conversing in this confident way. To meet her eyes, which had not a -shade of timidity or doubt about them, and see her evident comfort and -enjoyment, and believe she was telling a downright lie, was almost more -than was possible. ‘I did not know Mr. Gerald was a racing man,’ I -faltered, not knowing what to say. - -‘Oh, yes, he is on the turf,’ said Mrs. Gresham, shrugging her -shoulders; ‘he is on everything that don’t pay. That boy has been a -nuisance all his life. Not that there is anything bad about him; but -he’s fashionable, you know, and we are known to be rich, and everybody -gives him his own way; and Harry’s such a good brother----’ said the -rash woman all at once, to show how much at her ease she was. But this -was taking a step too much. Ada could bear it no longer. There was a -sudden sound of choking sobs, and then she sprang from the table. The -strain had gone too far. - -‘I hear baby crying; I must go to baby,’ she sobbed; and rushed from the -room without any regard to appearances. Even Mrs. Gresham, -self-possessed as she was, had gone too far for her own strength. Her -lip quivered in spite of herself. She looked steadily down, and crumbled -the bread before her in her strong agitated fingers. Then she gave a -little laugh, which was not much less significant than tears. - -‘Poor little Ada,’ she said, ‘she can’t bear to be crossed. She has had -such a happy life, when anything goes contrairy it puts her out.’ -Perhaps it was the quivering of her own lip that brought back her -vernacular. And then we began to discuss the ball as if nothing had -happened. Her husband came in while we were talking, and shrugged his -shoulders and muttered disapprobation, but she took no notice. She must -have been aware that I knew all; and yet she thought she could bewilder -me still. - -I went home shortly after, grieved and disgusted and sick at heart, -remembering all the wicked stories people tell of mercantile dishonesty, -of false bankruptcies, and downright robberies, and the culprits who -escape and live in wealth and comfort abroad. This was how it was to be -in the case of Harry Gresham. His wife had her settlement, and would go -to him, and they would be rich, and well off, though he had as good as -stolen his neighbour’s property and squandered it away. Of course I did -not know all the particulars then; and I had got to be fond of these -young people. I knew very well that Harry was not wicked, and that his -little wife was both innocent and good. When one reads such stories in -the papers, one says, ‘Wretches!’ and thinks no more of it. But these -two were not wretches, and I was fond of them, and it made me sick at -heart. I went up-stairs and shut myself into my own room, not being able -to see visitors or to hear all the comment that, without doubt, was -going on. But it did not mend matters when I saw from my window Mrs. -Gresham driving past, lying back in her carriage, sweeping along swift -as two superb horses could carry her, with her little old husband in the -corner by her side, and a smile on her face, ready to wave her hand in -gracious recognition of any one she knew. She was like a queen coming -among us, rather than the mother of a man who had fled in darkness and -shame. I never despised poor Mrs. Stoke or thought less of her for -Everard’s downfall, but I felt scorn and disgust rise in my heart when -these people passed my door; though Mrs. Gresham, too, was her son’s -champion in her own worldly way. - -Some hours later Ada sent me a few anxious pleading words, begging me to -go to her. I found her in the avenue, concealing herself among the -trees; though it was a warm summer day she was cold and shivering. I do -not know any word that can express her pallor. It was not the whiteness -of death, but of agonized and miserable life, palpitating in every nerve -and straining every faculty. - -‘Hush!’ she said. ‘Don’t go to the house--I can’t bear it--I am watching -for him--here!’ - -‘Is he coming back?’ I cried in terror. - -‘I do not know; I can’t tell where he is, or where he is going!’ cried -poor Ada, grasping my arm; ‘but if he should come back he would be -taken. The house is watched. Did you not see that old man sitting under -the hedge? There are people everywhere about watching for my Harry; and -they tell me I am to stay quiet and take no notice. I think I will -die--I wish I could die!’ - -‘No, my darling!’ I said, crying over her. ‘Tell me what it is? Did they -bring you no comfort? He will not come back to be taken. There is no -fear. Did they not tell you what it means?’ - -‘They told me,’ cried Ada, with a violent colour flushing over her face, -‘that I was to keep my money to myself, and not to pay back -that--that--what he has taken! It is true; he has taken some money that -was not his, and lost it; but he meant to pay it back again, Mrs. -Mulgrave. We were so rich; he knew he could pay it all back. And now he -has lost everything and can’t pay it. And they will put him in prison. -Oh, I wish he had died! I wish we had all died!’ cried Ada, ‘rather than -this--rather than to feel what I do to-day!’ - -‘My dear,’ I cried, ‘don’t say so; we cannot die when we please. It is a -terrible misfortune; but when he did not mean it--’ - -Great tears rushed to Ada’s eyes. ‘He did not mean _that_,’ she said; -‘but I think he meant me to keep my money and live on it. Oh, what shall -I do! They say I will be wicked if I give it up. I will work for him -with all my heart. But I cannot go on living like this, and keep what is -not mine. If your husband had done it, Mrs. Mulgrave--don’t be angry -with me--would not you have sold the cottage and given up everything? -And what am I to do?’ - -‘You must come in and rest,’ I said. ‘Never mind what they said to you. -You must do what is right, Ada, and Gerald will stand by you. He will -know how to do it. Come in now and rest.’ - -‘Ah, Gerald!’ cried the poor child, and then she leant on my shoulder -and cried. The moment she heard even the name of one man whom she could -trust her strength broke down. ‘Gerald will know how to do it,’ she said -faintly, as I led her in, and tried to smile at me. It was a gleam of -comfort in the darkness. - -I cannot describe the period of terrible suspense that followed. I -stayed with her, making no pretence of going back to my own house; -though when the story came to be in the newspapers all my friends wrote -letters to me and disapproved of my conduct. I did not care; one knows -one’s own duties better than one’s friends do. The day after the ball -hosts of cards, and civil messages, and ‘kind inquiries’ had poured upon -Ada; but after that they totally stopped. Not a carriage nor a visitor -came near the house for the three last days. The world fell away from us -and left the poor young creature to bear her burden alone. In the midst -or all this real suffering there was one little incident which affected -my temper more than all the rest. Old Thomas Lee, an old man from the -village, who used to carry little wares about in a basket, and made his -living by it, had taken his place under the hedge close to the gates of -Dinglewood, and sat there watching all day long. Of course he was paid -to do it, and he was very poor. But I don’t think the money he has -earned so has done him much good. I have never given a penny or a -penny’s worth to old Lee since that time. Many a sixpence poor Harry had -tossed at him as he passed in his Yankee waggon every morning to the -station. I had no patience with the wretched old spy. He had the -assurance to take off his hat to me when I went into the house he was -watching, and I confess that it was with a struggle, no later back than -last winter, when the season was at its coldest, that I consented to -give him a little help for his children’s sake. - -It was nearly a week before we got any letters, and all these long days -we watched and waited, glad when every night fell, trembling when every -morning rose; watching at the windows, at the gates, everywhere that a -peep could be had of the white, blinding, vacant road. Every time the -postman went round the Green our hearts grew faint with anxiety: once or -twice when the telegraph boy appeared, even I, though I was but a -spectator, felt the life die out of my heart. But at last this period of -dreadful uncertainty came to a close. It was in the morning by the first -post that the letters came. They were under cover to me, and I took them -to Ada’s room while she was still sleeping the restless sleep of -exhaustion. She sprang up in a moment and caught at her husband’s letter -as if it had been a revelation from heaven. The happiest news in the -world could not have been more eagerly received. He was safe. He had put -the Channel between him and his pursuers. There was no need for further -watching. The relief in itself was a positive happiness. Ten days ago it -would have been heart-rending to think of Harry Gresham as an escaped -criminal, as an exile, for whom return was impossible; disgraced, -nameless, and without hope. To-day the news was joyful news; he was -safe, if nothing more. - -Then for the first time Ada indulged in the luxury of tears--tears that -came in floods, like those thunder-showers which ease the hearts of the -young. She threw herself on my neck and kissed me again and again. ‘I -should have died but for you: I had no mamma of my own to go to,’ she -sobbed like a baby. Perhaps the thing that made these childish words go -so to my heart was that I had no child. - -Of course I expected, and everybody will expect, that after this -excitement she should have fallen ill. But she did not. On the contrary, -she came down-stairs with me and ate (almost for the first time) and -smiled, and played with her children, while I stood by with the feeling -that I ought to have a brain fever myself if Ada would not see what was -expected of her. But as the day ran on she became grave, and ever -graver. She said little, and it was mostly about Gerald; how he must -come home and manage everything; how she was determined to take no -rest, to listen to no argument, till the money was paid. I went home to -my own house that evening, and she made no opposition. I said good-night -to her in the nursery, where she was sitting close by her little girl’s -bed. She was crying, poor child, but I did not wonder at that; and nurse -was a kind woman, and very attentive to her little mistress. I went -round to the terrace and out by the garden, without having any -particular reason for it. But before I reached the gate some one came -tripping after me, and looking round I saw it was Ada, wrapped in a -great waterproof cloak. She was going to walk home with me, she said. I -resisted her coming, but it was in vain. It was a warm, balmy night, and -I could not understand why she should have put on her great cloak. But -as soon as she was safe in my little drawing-room, her secret came out. -Then she opened her mantle with a smile. On one of her arms hung a -bundle; on the other rested her sleeping baby. She laughed at my amaze, -and then she cried. ‘I am going to Harry,’ she said; and held her child -closer, and dried her eyes and sat immovable, ready to listen to -anything I chose to say. Heaven knows I said everything I could think -of--of the folly of it, of her foolhardiness; that she was totally -unable for the task she was putting on herself; that Harry had Gerald, -and could do without her. All which she listened to with a smile, -impenetrable, and not to be moved. When I had come to an end of my -arguments, she stretched out to me the arm on which the bundle hung, and -drew me close to her and kissed me again. ‘You are going to give me some -biscuits and a little flask of wine,’ she said, ‘to put in my pocket. I -have one of the housekeeper’s old-fashioned pockets, which is of some -use. And then you must say “God bless you,” and let me go.’ - -‘God bless you, my poor child,’ I said, overcome; ‘but you must not go; -little Ada too--’ - -Then her eyes filled with tears. ‘My pretty darling!’ she said; ‘but -grandmamma will take her to Bishop’s Hope. It is only baby that cannot -live without his mother. Baby and Harry. What is Gerald? I know he wants -_me_.’ - -‘But he can wait,’ I cried; ‘and you so young, so delicate, so unused to -any trouble!’ - -‘I can carry my child perfectly,’ said Ada. ‘I never was delicate. There -is a train at eleven down to Southampton, I found it out in the book: -and after that I know my way. I am a very good traveller,’ she said with -a smile, ‘and Gerald must come to settle everything. Give me the -biscuits, dear Mrs. Mulgrave, and kiss me and let me go.’ - -And it had to be so, though I pleaded with her till I was hoarse. When -the moment came, I put on my cloak too and walked with her, late as it -was, a mile off to the new station, which both she and I had thought too -far for walking in the cheerful daylight. I carried the bundle, while -she carried the baby, and we looked like two homely country women -trudging home. She drew her hood over her head while she got her -ticket, and I waited outside. Then in the dark I kissed her for the last -time. I could not speak, nor did she. She took the bundle from me, -grasping my hand with her soft fingers almost as a man might have done; -and we kissed each other with anguish, like people who part for ever. -And I have never seen her again. - -As I came back, frightened and miserable, all by myself along the -moonlit road, I had to pass the Stokes’ cottage. Lottie was leaning out -of the window, though it was now nearly midnight, with her face, all -pallid in the moon, turned towards Dinglewood. I could scarcely keep -myself from calling to her. She did not know what we had been doing, yet -her heart had been with us that night. - - - - -CHAPTER V - - -I will not describe the tumult that arose when it was discovered. The -servants rushed over to me in a body, and I suggested that they should -send for Mrs. Gresham, and that great lady came, in all her splendour, -and took little Ada away, and gave everybody ‘notice.’ Then great bills -of the auction covered the pillars at the gate, and strangers came in -heaps to see the place. In a month everything had melted away like a -tale that is told. The Greshams, and their wealth, and their liberality, -and their good-nature fell out of the very recollection of the people on -the Green, along with the damask and the gilding and the flowers, the -fine carriages and the powdered footmen. Everything connected with them -disappeared. The new tenant altered the house a second time, and -everything that could recall the handsome young couple and their lavish -ways was cleared away. Of course there was nothing else talked of for a -long time after. Everybody had his or her account of the whole business. -Some said poor Harry met his pursuers in the field close to the river, -and that Gerald and he fought with them, and left them all but dead in -the grass; some said that Ada and I defended the house, and would not -let them in; and there were countless romances about the escape and -Ada’s secret following after. The imagination of my neighbours made many -a fancy sketch of that last scene; but never hit upon anything so -touching as my last glimpse of her, with her baby under her cloak, going -into the train. I held my peace, and let them talk. She had been as my -own child for about a week, just a week of our lives; before that she -was a common acquaintance, after it a stranger; but I could not let any -vulgar tongues meddle with our relationship or her story in that sacred -time. - -And after a while the tale fell into oblivion, as every story does if we -can but wait long enough. People forgot about the Greshams; sometimes a -stranger would observe the name of Mr. Gresham, of Bishop’s Hope, in -some list of county charities, and would ask if he was a Gresham of -Greshambury, or if he was any connection of the man who ran away. Of -course, at the time, it was in all the newspapers. He had taken money -that somebody had trusted him with and used it in his speculations. Of -course he meant to pay it back; but then a great crash came. The men say -there was no excuse for him, and I can see that there is no excuse; but -he never meant it, poor Harry! And then the papers were full of further -incidents, which were more unusual than Harry’s sin or his flight. The -_Times_ devoted a leading article to it which everybody read, holding -Mrs. Gresham up to the applause of the world. Ada gave up her settlement -and all her own fortune, and ‘one of his brothers,’ the papers said, -came forward, too, and most of the money was paid back. But Harry, poor -fellow, disappeared. He was as if he had gone down at sea. His name and -every sign of his life went out of knowledge--waves of forgetfulness, -desertion, exile closed over them. And at Dinglewood they were never -either seen or heard of again. - -As long as it continued to be in the papers, Lottie Stoke kept in a very -excited state. She came to me for ever, finding out every word that was -printed about it, dwelling on everything. That evening when the article -appeared about Mrs. Gresham’s heroic abandonment of her fortune, and -about ‘one of his brothers,’ Lottie came with her eyes lighted up like -windows in an illumination, and her whole frame trembling with -excitement. She read it all to me, and listened to my comments, and -clasped my hand in hers when I cried out, ‘That must be Gerald!’ She sat -on the footstool, holding the paper, and gazed up into my face with her -eyes like lamps. ‘Then I do not mind!’ she cried, and buried her face in -her hands and sobbed aloud. And I did not ask her what she meant--I had -not the heart. - -It was quite years after before I heard anything more of the Greshams, -and then it was by way of Lottie Stoke that the news came. She had grown -thinner and more worn year by year. She had not had the spirits to go -out, and they were so poor that they could have no society at home. And -by degrees Lottie came to be considered a little old, which is a -dreadful business for an unmarried girl when her people are so poor. -Mrs. Stoke did not upbraid her; but still, it may be guessed what her -feelings were. But, fortunately, as Lottie sank into the background, -Lucy came to the front. She was pretty, and fresh, and gay, and more -popular than her sister had ever been. And, by and by, she did fulfil -the grand object of existence, and married well. When Lucy told me of -her engagement she was very angry with her sister. - -‘She says, how can I do it? She asks me if I have forgotten Gerald -Gresham?’ cried Lucy. ‘As if I ever cared for Gerald Gresham; or as if -anybody would marry him after---- I shall think she cared for him -herself if she keeps going on.’ - -‘Lucy!’ said Lottie, flushing crimson under her hollow eyes. Lucy, for -her part, was as bright as happiness, indignation, high health, and -undiminished spirits could make her. But, for my part, I liked her -sister best. - -‘Well!’ she said, ‘and I do think it. You _would_ lecture me about him -when we were only having a little fun. As if I ever cared for him. And I -don’t believe,’ cried Lucy courageously, ‘that he ever cared for me.’ - -Her sister kissed her, though she had been so angry. ‘Don’t let us -quarrel now when we are going to part,’ she said, with a strange quiver -in her voice. Perhaps the child was right; perhaps he had never cared -for her, though Lottie and I both thought he did. He cared for neither -of them, probably; and there was no chance that he would ever come back -to Dinglewood, or show himself where his family had been so disgraced. -But yet Lottie brightened up a little after that day, I can scarcely -tell why. - -Some time after she went on a visit to London in the season; and it was -very hard work for her, I know, to get some dresses to go in, for she -never would have any of Lucy’s presents. She was six weeks away, and she -came back looking a different creature. The very first morning after her -return she came over to me, glowing with something to tell. ‘Who do you -think I met?’ she said with a soft flush trembling over her face. Her -look brought one name irresistibly to my mind. But I would not re-open -that old business; I shook my head, and said I did not know. - -‘Why, Gerald Gresham!’ she cried. ‘It is true, Mrs. Mulgrave; he is -painting pictures now--painting, you understand, not for his pleasure, -but like a trade. And he told me about Ada and poor Harry. They have -gone to America. It has changed him very much, even his looks; and -instead of being rich, he is poor.’ - -‘Ah,’ I said, ‘“one of his brothers.” You always said it was Gerald;’ -but I was not prepared for what was to come next. - -‘Did not I?’ cried Lottie, triumphant; ‘I knew it all the time.’ And -then she paused a little, and sat silent, in a happy brooding over -something that was to come. ‘And I think she was right,’ said Lottie -softly. ‘He had not been thinking of Lucy; it was not Lucy for whom he -cared.’ - -I took her hands into my own, perceiving what she meant; and then all at -once Lottie fell a crying, but not for sorrow. - -‘That was how I always deceived myself,’ she said. ‘It was so base of me -at first; I wanted to marry him because he was rich. And then I thought -it was Lucy he liked; she was so young and so pretty--’ Then she made a -long pause, and put my hands upon her hot cheeks and covered herself -with them. ‘Your hands are so cool,’ she said, ‘and so soft and kind. I -am going to marry him now, Mrs. Mulgrave, and he is poor.’ - -This is a kind of postscript to the story, but still it is so connected -with it that it is impossible to tell the one without the other. We were -much agitated about this marriage on the Green. If Gerald Gresham had -been rich, it would have been a different matter. But a stockbroker’s -son, with disgrace in the family, and poor. I don’t know any one who was -not sorry for Mrs. Stoke under this unexpected blow. But I was not sorry -for Lottie. Gerald, naturally, is not fond of coming to the Green, but I -see them sometimes in London, and I think they suit each other. He tells -me of poor Ada every time I see him. And I believe old Mr. Gresham is -very indignant at Harry’s want of spirit in not beginning again, and at -Ada for giving up her settlement, and at Gerald for expending his money -to help them--‘A pack of fools,’ says the old man. But of course they -will all, even the shipwrecked family in America, get something from him -when he dies. As for the mother, I met her once at Lottie’s door, -getting into her fine carriage with the bays, and she was very affable -to me. In her opinion it was all Ada’s fault. ‘What can a man do with an -extravagant wife who spends all his money before it is made?’ she said -as she got into her carriage; and I found it a little hard to keep my -temper. But the Greshams and their story, and all the brief splendours -of Dinglewood are almost forgotten by this time by everybody on the -Green. - - - - -THE SCIENTIFIC GENTLEMAN - - - - -PART I - - - - -CHAPTER I - - -There were a great variety of houses on the Green; some of them handsome -and wealthy, some very old-fashioned, some even which might be called -tumbledown. The two worst and smallest of these were at the lower end of -the Green, not far from the ‘Barleymow.’ It must not be supposed however -that they were unpleasantly affected by the neighbourhood of the -‘Barleymow.’ They were withdrawn from contact with it quite as much as -we were, who lived at the other end; and though they were small and out -of repair, and might even look mouldy and damp to a careless passer-by, -they were still houses for gentlefolk, where nobody need have been -ashamed to live. They were built partly of wood and partly of -whitewashed brick, and each stood in the midst of a very luxuriant -garden. At the time Mr. Reinhardt, of whom I am going to speak, came to -East Cottage, as it was called, the place had been very much neglected; -the trees and bushes grew wildly all over the garden; the flower-beds -had gone to ruin; the kitchen-garden was a desert, with only a dreary -cabbage or great long straggling onion-plant run to seed showing among -the gooseberries and currants, which looked like the copsewood in a -forest. It is miserable to see a place go to destruction like this, and -I could not but reflect often how many poor people there were without a -roof to shelter them, while this house was going to ruin for want of an -inhabitant. ‘My dear lady, that is communism, rank communism,’ the -Admiral said to me when I ventured to express my sentiments aloud; but I -confess I never could see it. - -The house belonged to Mr. Falkland, who was a distant relation of Lord -Goodwin’s, and lived chiefly in London. He was a young man, and a -barrister, living, I suppose, in chambers, as most of them do; but I -wondered he did not furnish the place and keep it in order, if it had -been only for the pleasure of coming down with his friends from Saturday -to Monday, to spend Sunday in the country. When I suggested this, young -Robert Lloyd, Mrs. Damerel’s brother, took it upon him to laugh. - -‘There is nothing to do here,’ he said. ‘If it were near the river, for -boating, it would be a different matter, or even if there was a stream -to fish in; but a fellow has nothing to do here, and why should Falkland -come to bore himself to death?’ Thus the young man ended with a sigh for -himself, though he had begun with a laugh at me. - -‘If he is so afraid to be bored himself,’ said I--for I was rather angry -to hear our pretty village so lightly spoken of--‘I am sure he must know -quantities of people who would not be bored. Young barristers marry -sometimes, I suppose, imprudently, like other young people----’ - -‘Curates, for instance,’ said Robert, who was a saucy boy. - -‘Curates, and young officers, and all sorts of foolish people,’ said I; -‘and think what a comfort that little house would be to a poor young -couple with babies! Oh no, I do not like to see such a waste; a house -going to rack and ruin for want of some one to live in it, and so many -people famishing for want of fresh air, and the country. Don’t say any -more, for it hurts me to see it. I wish it were mine to do what I liked -with it only for a year.’ - -‘Communism, rank communism,’ said the Admiral. But if that is communism, -then I am a communist, and I don’t deny it. I would not waste a -Christian dwelling-place any more than I would throw away good honest -wholesome bread. - -However this state of things came to an end one spring, a good many -years ago. Workmen came and began to put East Cottage in order. We all -took the greatest interest in the work. It was quite a place to go to -for our afternoon walks, and sometimes as many as three and four parties -would meet there among the shavings and the pails of plaster and -whitewash. It was being very thoroughly done up. We consulted each other -and gave our opinions about all the papers, as if it mattered whether we -liked them or not. The Green thought well of the new tenant’s taste on -the whole, though some of us had doubts about the decoration of the -drawing-room, which was rather a dark little room by nature. The paper -for it was terribly artistic. It was one of those new designs which I -always think are too mediæval for a private house--groups of five or six -daisies tied together, with long stalks detached and distinct, and all -the hair on their heads standing on end, so to speak; but we who -objected had a conviction that it was only our ignorance, and merely -whispered to each other in corners, that we were not quite sure--that -perhaps it was just a little--but the people who knew better thought -it showed very fine taste indeed. - -It was some time before we found out who the new tenant was. He did not -come down until after everything had been arranged and ready for some -weeks. Then we found out that he was a Mr. Reinhardt, a gentleman who -was well-known, people said, in scientific circles. He was of German -extraction, we supposed, by his name, and as for his connections, or -where he came from, nobody knew anything about them. An old housekeeper -was the first person who made her appearance, and then came an old -man-servant; both of them looked the very models of respectability, but -I do not think, for my own part, that the sight of them gave me a very -pleasant feeling about their master. They chilled you only to look at -them. The woman had a suspicious, watchful look, her eyes seemed to be -always on the nearest corner looking for some one, and she had an air of -resolution which I should not have liked to struggle against. The man -was not quite so alarming, for he was older and rather feeble on his -legs. One felt that there must be some weakness in his character to -justify the little deviousness that would now and then appear in his -steps. These two people attracted our notice in the interval of waiting -for their master. The man’s name was White--an innocent, feeble sort of -name, but highly respectable--and he called the woman something which -sounded like Missis Sarah; but whether it was her Christian name or her -surname we never could make out. - -It was on a Monday evening, and I had gone to dine at the Lodge with Sir -Thomas and Lady Denzil, when the first certain news of the new tenant of -East Cottage reached us. The gentlemen, of course, had been the first to -hear it. Somehow, though it is taken for granted that women are the -great traffickers in gossip, it is the men who always start the subject. -When they came into the drawing-room after dinner they gave us the -information, which they had already been discussing among themselves -over their wine. - -‘Mr. Reinhardt has arrived,’ Sir Thomas said to Lady Denzil; and we all -asked, ‘When?’ - -‘He came yesterday, I believe,’ said Sir Thomas. - -‘Yesterday! Why, yesterday was Sunday,’ cried some one; and though we -are, as a community, tolerably free from prejudice, we were all somewhat -shocked; and there was a pause. - -‘I believe Sunday is considered the most lucky day for everything -abroad,’ said Lady Denzil, after that interval; ‘for beginning a -journey, and no doubt for entering a house. And as he is of German -extraction----’ - -‘He does not look like a German,’ said Robert Lloyd; ‘he is quite an old -fellow--about fifty, I should say--and dark, not fair.’ - -At this speech the most of us laughed; for an old fellow of fifty seemed -absurd to us, who were that age, or more; but Robert, at twenty, had no -doubt on the subject. - -‘Well,’ he said, half offended, ‘I could not have said a young fellow, -could I? He stoops, he is awfully thin, like an old magician, and -shabbily dressed, and----’ - -‘You must have examined him from head to foot, Robert.’ - -‘A fellow can’t help seeing,’ said Robert, ‘when he looks; and I thought -you all wanted to know.’ - -Then we had a discussion as to what notice should be taken of the new -comer. We did not know whether he was married or not, and, -consequently, could not go fully into the question; but the aspect of -the house and the looks of the servants were much against it. For my own -part, I felt convinced he was not married; and, so far as we ladies were -concerned, the question was thus made sufficiently easy. But the -gentlemen felt the weight proportionably heavy on their shoulders. - -‘I never knew any one of the name of Reinhardt,’ Sir Thomas said with a -musing air. - -‘Probably he will have brought letters from somebody,’ the Admiral -suggested: and that was a wonderful comfort to all the men. - -Of course he must have letters from somebody; he must know some one who -knew Sir Thomas, or Mr. Damerel, or the Admiral, or General Perronet, or -the Lloyds. Surely the world was not so large as to make it possible -that the new comer did not know some one who knew one of the people on -the Green. As for being a scientific notability, or even a literary -character, I am afraid that would not have done much for him in -Dinglefield. If he had been cousin to poor Lord Glyndon, who was next to -an idiot, it would have been of a great deal more service to him. I do -not say that we were right; I think there are other things which ought -to be taken into consideration; but, without arguing about it, there is -no doubt that so it was. - -The Green generally kept a watchful eye for some time on the East -Cottage. There were no other servants except those two whom we had -already seen. Sometimes the gardener, who kept all the little gardens -about in order--‘doing for’ ladies like myself, for instance, who could -not afford to keep a gardener--was called in to assist at East Cottage; -and I believe (of course I could not question him on the subject; I -heard this through one of the maids) that he was very jocular about the -man-servant, who was a real man-of-all-work, doing everything you could -think of, from helping to cook, down to digging in the garden. Our -gardener opened his mouth and uttered a great laugh when he spoke of -him. He held the opinion common to a great many of his class, that to -undertake too much was a positive injury to others. A servant who kept -to his own work, and thought it was ‘not his place’ to interfere with -anything beyond it, or lend a helping hand in matters beyond his own -immediate calling, was Matthew’s model of what a servant ought to be, -and a man who pretended to be a butler, and was a Jack-of-all-trades, -was a contemptible object to our gardener: ‘taking the bread out o’ -other folks’s mouths,’ he said. He thought the man at the East Cottage -was a foreigner, and altogether had a very poor opinion of him. But -however what was a great deal worse was the fact that neither the -man-servant, nor the woman, nor the master, appeared to care for our -notice, or in any way took the place they ought to have done in our -little community. They had their things down from London; they either -did their washing ‘within themselves’ or sent it also away to a -distance; they made no friends, and sought none. Mr. Reinhardt brought -no letters of introduction. Sometimes--but rarely--he might be seen of -an evening walking towards the Dell, with an umbrella over his head to -shield him from the setting sun, but he never looked at anybody whom he -met, or showed the least inclination to cultivate acquaintance, even -with a child or a dog. And the worst of all was that he certainly never -went to church. We were very regular church-goers on the Green. Some of -us preferred sometimes to go to a little church in the woods, which was -intended for the scattered population of our forest district, and was -very pretty and sweet in the midst of the great trees, instead of to the -parish. But to one or other everybody went once every Sunday at least. -It was quite a pretty sight on Sunday morning to see everybody turning -out--families all together, and lonely folk like myself, who scarcely -could feel lonely when there was such a feeling of harmony and -friendliness about. The young people set off walking generally a little -while before us; but most of the elder people drove, for it was a good -long way. And though some rigid persons thought it was wrong on the -Sunday, yet the nice carriages and horses looked pleasant, and the -servants always had time to come to church; and an old lady like Lady -Denzil, for instance, must have stayed at home altogether if she had not -been allowed to drive. I think a distinction should be made in such -cases. But when all the houses thus opened their doors and poured forth -their inhabitants, it may be supposed how strange it looked that one -house should never open and no figure ever come from it to join the -Sunday stream. Even the housekeeper, so far as we could ascertain, never -had a Sunday out. They lived within those walls, within the trees that -were now so tidy and trim. One morning when I had a cold, and was -reading the service by myself in my own room, I had a glimpse of the -master of the house. It was a summer day, very soft and blue, and full -of sunshine. You know what I mean when I say blue--the sky seemed to -stoop nearer to the earth, the earth hushed itself and looked up all -still and gentle to the sky. There were no clouds above, and nobody -moving below; nothing but a little thrill and flicker of leaves, a faint -rustle of the grass, and the birds singing with a softer note, as if -they too knew it was Sunday. My room is in the front of the house, and -overlooks all the Green. The window was open, and the click of a latch -sounding in the stillness made me lift my head without thinking from the -lesson I was reading. It was Mr. Reinhardt, who had come out of his -cottage. He came to the garden gate and stood for a moment looking out. -I was not near enough to see his face, but in every line of his spare, -stooping figure there was suspicion and doubt. He looked to the right -and to the left with a curious prying eagerness, as if he expected to -see some one coming. And then he came out altogether, and began to walk -up and down, up and down. The stillness was so great that, though he -walked very softly, the sound of his steps on the gravel of the road -reached me from time to time. I stopped in my reading to watch him, in -spite of myself. Every time he turned he looked about him in the same -suspicious, curious way. Was he waiting for some one? Was he looking out -for a visitor? or was he (the thought sprang into my mind all at once) -insane perhaps, and had escaped from his keepers in the cottage? This -thought made my heart jump, but a little reflection calmed me, for he -had not the least appearance of insanity. The little jar now and then of -his foot when he turned kept me in excitement; I felt it impossible to -keep from watching him. When I found how abstracted my mind was getting, -I changed my place that I might not be tempted to look out any more, -feeling that it was wrong to yield to this curiosity; and when I had -finished my reading the first carriage--the Denzils’ carriage--was -coming gleaming along the distant road in the sunshine, coming back from -church, and the lonely figure was gone. I did not know whether he had -gone in again or had extended his walk. But I felt somehow all that day, -though you will say with very little reason, that I knew something more -about our strange neighbour than most people did on the Green. - - - - -CHAPTER II - - -This seclusion and isolation of East Cottage did not however last very -long. Before the summer was over Sir Thomas, who, though he stood on his -dignity sometimes, was very kind at bottom, began to feel compunctious -about his solitary neighbour: now and then he would say something which -betrayed this. ‘It worries me to think there is some one there who has -been taken no notice of by anybody,’ he would say. ‘Of course it is his -own fault--entirely his own fault.’ The next time one met him he would -return to the subject. ‘What a lovely day! Everybody seems to be -out-of-doors--except at East Cottage, where they have the blinds drawn -down.’ This would be said with a pucker of vexation and annoyance about -his mouth. He was angry with the stranger, and sorry, and did not know -what to do. And I for one knew what would follow. But we were all very -curious when we heard that Sir Thomas had actually called. The Stokes -came running in to tell me one afternoon. ‘Oh, fancy, Mrs. Mulgrave, Sir -Thomas has called!’ cried Lucy. ‘And he has been admitted, which is -still greater fun,’ said Robert Lloyd, who was with them. I may say in -passing that this was before Robert had passed his examination, when he -was an idle young man at home, trying hard to persuade Lucy Stoke that -he and she were in love with each other. Their parents, of course, would -never have permitted such a thing for a moment, and fortunately there -turned out to be nothing in it; but at present this was the chief -occupation of Robert’s life. - -‘I am very glad,’ said I. ‘I knew Sir Thomas never would be happy till -he had done it.’ - -‘And oh, you don’t know what funny stories there are about,’ said Lucy. -‘They say he killed his wife, and that he is always thinking he sees her -ghost. I wonder if it is true? They say he can never be left alone or in -the dark; he is so frightened. I met him yesterday, and it made me jump. -I never saw a man who killed his wife before.’ - -‘But who says he killed his wife?’ - -‘Oh, everybody; we heard it from Matthew the gardener, and I think he -heard it at the “Barleymow,” and it is all over the place. Fancy Sir -Thomas calling on such a person! for I suppose,’ said Lucy, ‘though you -are so very superior, you men, and may beat us, and all that, it is not -made law yet that you may kill your wives.’ - -‘It might just as well be the law: for I am sure there are many other -things quite as bad,’ said Lottie, while Robert, who had been appealed -to, whispered some answer which made Lucy laugh. ‘Poor man, I wonder if -she was a very bad woman, and if she haunts him. How disappointed he -must have been to find he could not get rid of her even that way!’ - -‘Lottie, my dear, here is Sir Thomas coming; don’t talk so much -nonsense,’ said I hurriedly. - -I am afraid however that Sir Thomas rather liked the nonsense. He had -not the feeling of responsibility in encouraging girls to run on, that -most women have. He thought it was amusing, as men generally do, and -never paused to think how bad it was for the girls. But to-day he was -too full of his own story to care much for theirs. He came in with dusty -boots, which was quite against his principles, and stretched his long -spare limbs out on the beautiful rug which the Stokes had worked for me -in a way that went to my heart. That showed how very much pre-occupied -he was; for Sir Thomas was never inconsiderate about such matters. - -‘Well,’ he said, pushing his thin white hair off his forehead, and -stretching out his legs as if he were quite worn out, ‘there is one -piece of work well over. I have had a good many tough jobs in my life, -but I don’t know that I ever had a worse.’ - -‘Oh, tell us what happened. Is he mad? Has he shut himself in? Has he -hurt you?’ cried the Stokes. - -Sir Thomas smiled upon this nonsense as if it had been perfectly -reasonable, and the best sense in the world. - -‘Hurt me! well, not quite: he was not likely to try that. He is a little -mite of a man, who could not hurt a fly. And besides,’ added Sir Thomas, -correcting himself, ‘he is a gentleman. I have no reason to doubt he is -a perfect gentleman. He conducts himself quite as--as all the rest of us -do. No, it was the difficulty of getting in that bewildered me.’ - -‘Was there a difficulty in getting in?’ - -‘You shall hear. The servant looked as if he would faint when he saw -me. “Mr. Reinhardt at home?” Oh! he could not quite say; if I would wait -he would go and ask. So I waited in the hall,’ said Sir Thomas with a -smile. ‘Well, yes, it was odd, of course; but such an experience now and -then is not bad for one. It shows you, you know, of how little -importance you are the moment you get beyond the circle of people who -know you. I think really it is salutary, you know, if you come to -that--and amusing,’ he added, this time with a little laugh. - -‘Oh, but what a shame: how shocking! how horrid! You, Sir Thomas, whom -everybody knows!’ - -‘That is just what makes it so instructive,’ he said. ‘I must have stood -in the hall a quarter of an hour: allowing for the tediousness of -waiting, I should say certainly a quarter of an hour; and then the man -came back and asked me, what do you think? if I had come of my own -accord, or if some one had sent me! It was ludicrous,’ said Sir Thomas -with a half laugh; ‘but if you will think of it, it was rather -irritating. I am afraid I lost my temper a little. I said, “I am Sir -Thomas Denzil. I live at the Lodge, and I have come to call upon your -master,” in a tone which made the old fool of a man shake, and then some -one else appeared at the top of the stairs. It was Mr. Reinhardt, who -had heard my voice.’ - -‘What did he say for himself?’ I asked. - -‘It was not his fault,’ said Sir Thomas; ‘he knew nothing of it. He is a -very well-informed man, Mrs. Mulgrave. He is quite able to enter into -conversation on any subject. He was very glad to see me. He is a sort of -recluse, it is easy to perceive, but quite a proper person; very -well-informed, one whom it was a pleasure to converse with, I assure -you. He made a thousand apologies. He said something about unfortunate -circumstances, and a disagreeable visitor, as an excuse for his man; but -whether the disagreeable visitor was some one who had been there or who -was expected----’ - -‘Oh, I know,’ cried Lucy Stoke, with excitement. ‘It was his wife’s -ghost.’ - -Sir Thomas stopped short aghast, and looked at me to ask if the child -had gone mad. - -‘How could they think Sir Thomas was the wife’s ghost?’ cried Lottie, -‘you little goose! and besides, most likely it is not true.’ - -‘What is not true?’ asked Sir Thomas in dismay. - -‘Oh, they say he killed her,’ said Lucy, ‘and that she haunts him. They -say his man sleeps in his room, and the housekeeper just outside. He -cannot be left by himself for a moment: and I do not wonder he should be -frightened if he has killed his wife.’ - -‘Nonsense, nonsense,’ said Sir Thomas, raising his voice. ‘Nonsense!’ he -was quite angry. He had taken up the man and felt responsible for him, -‘My dear child, I think you are going out of your little wits,’ he -cried. ‘Killed his wife! why, the man is a thorough gentleman. A most -well-informed man, and knows my friend Sir Septimus Dash, who is the -head of the British Association. Why, why, Lucy! you take away my -breath.’ - -‘It was not I who said it,’ cried Lucy. ‘It is all over the -Green--everybody knows. They say she disappeared all at once, and never -was heard of more; and then there used to be sounds like somebody crying -and moaning; and then he got so frightened, he never would go anywhere, -nor look any one in the face. Oh! only suppose; how strange it would be -to have a haunted house on the Green. If I had anybody to go with me I -should like to walk down to East Cottage at midnight.’ - -‘Let me go with you,’ whispered Robert; but fortunately I heard him, and -gave Lucy a look. She was a silly little girl certainly, but not so bad -as that. - -‘This is really very great nonsense,’ said Sir Thomas. ‘A haunted house -at this time of day! Mrs. Mulgrave, I hope you will use all your -influence to put down this story if it exists. I give you my word, Mr. -Reinhardt is quite an addition to our society, and knows Sir Septimus -Dash. A really well-bred, well-informed man. I am quite shocked, I -assure you. Lucy, I hope you will not spread this ridiculous story. I -shall ask your mother what she thinks. Poor man! no wonder he looked -uncomfortable, if there is already such a rumour abroad.’ - -‘Then he did look uncomfortable?’ said Lottie. - -‘No, I can’t say he did. No; I don’t mean uncomfortable,’ said Sir -Thomas, seeing he had committed himself. ‘I mean---- it is absurd -altogether. A charming man; one whom you will all like immensely. I -think Lady Denzil must have returned from her drive. We are to see you -all to-morrow, I believe, in the afternoon? Now, Lucy, no more gossip; -leave that to the old women, my dear.’ - -‘Sir Thomas does not know what to make of it,’ said Lottie, as we -watched him cross the Green. ‘He has gone to my lady to have his mind -made up whether he ought to pay any attention to it or not.’ - -‘And my lady will say not,’ said I; ‘fortunately we are all sure of -that. Lady Denzil will not let anybody be condemned without a hearing. -And, Lucy, I think Sir Thomas gave you very good advice; when you are -old it will be time enough to amuse yourself with spreading stories, -especially such dreadful stories as this.’ - -Lucy took offence at what I said, and went away pouting--comforted by -Robert Lloyd, and very indignant with me. Lottie stayed for a moment -behind her to tell me that it was really quite true, and that the report -had gone all over the Green, and everybody was talking of it. No one -knew quite where it had come from, but it was already known to all the -world at Dinglewood, and a very unpleasant report it was. - -However time went on, and no more was heard of this. In a little place -like Dinglewood, as soon as everybody has heard a story, a pause ensues. -We cannot go on indefinitely propagating it, and renewing our own faith -in it. When we all know it, and nothing new can be said on the subject, -we are stopped short; and unless there are new facts to comment upon, or -some new light thrown upon the affair, it is almost sure to die away, as -a matter of course. This was the case in respect to the report about Mr. -Reinhardt. We got no more information, and we could not go on talking -about the old story for ever. We exhausted it, and grew tired of it, and -let it drop; and thus, by degrees, we got used to him, and became -acquainted with him, more or less. - -The other gentlemen called, one by one, after Sir Thomas. Mr. Reinhardt -was asked, timidly, to one or two dinner-parties, and declined, which we -thought at first showed, on the whole, good taste on his part. But he -became quite friendly when we met him on the road, and would stop to -talk, and showed no moroseness, nor fear of any one. He had what was -generally pronounced to be a refined face--the features high and clear, -with a kind of ivory paleness, and keen eyes, which were very sharp to -note everything. He was, as Sir Thomas said, very well-informed. There -seemed to be nothing that you could talk about that he did not know; and -in science, the gentlemen said he was a perfect mine of knowledge. I am -not sure however that they were very good judges, for I don’t think -either Sir Thomas or the Admiral knew much about science. One thing -however which made some of us still doubtful about him was the fact that -he never talked of _people_. When a name was mentioned in conversation -he never said, ‘Oh, I know him very well--I knew his father--a cousin of -his was a great friend of mine,’ as most people do. All the expression -went out of his face as soon as we came to this kind of talk; and it may -be supposed how very much at a loss most people were in consequence for -subjects to talk about. But this, though it was strange, was not any -sort of proof that he had done anything wicked. It might be--and the -most of us thought it was--an evidence that he had not lived in society. -‘He knows my friend, Sir Septimus Dash,’ Sir Thomas always said in his -favour; but then, of course, Sir Septimus was a public personage, and -Mr. Reinhardt might have made his acquaintance at some public place. But -still, a man may be of no family, and out of society, and yet not have -murdered his wife. After a while we began to think, indeed, that whether -he had killed her or not, it was just as well there was no wife in the -question--‘Just as well,’ Mrs. Perronet said, who was great in matters -of society. ‘A man whom nobody knows does not matter; but what should we -have done with a woman?’ - -‘He must have killed her on purpose to save us the trouble,’ said -Lottie. But the General’s wife was quite in earnest, and did not see the -joke. - - - - -CHAPTER III - - -It is a good thing, on the whole, to have a house with a mystery about -it in one’s immediate neighbourhood. Gradually we ceased to believe that -Mr. Reinhardt had anything criminal about him. But it was quite certain -that there was a mystery--that we knew nothing about him, neither where -he came from, nor what his family was. For one thing, he had certainly -no occupation: therefore, of course, he must be sufficiently well off to -do without that: and he had no relations--no one who ever came to see -him, nor of whom he talked; and though the men who called upon him had -been admitted, they were never asked to go back, nor had one of us -ladies ever crossed his threshold. It would seem indeed that he had made -a rule against admitting ladies, for when Mrs. Damerel herself called to -speak of the soup-kitchen, old White came and spoke to her at the gate, -and trembled very much, and begged her a hundred pardons, but -nevertheless would not let her in--a thing which made her very -indignant. Thus the house became to us all a mysterious house, and, on -the whole, I think we rather liked it. The mystery did no harm, and it -certainly amused us, and kept our interest alive. - -Thus the summer passed, and Dinglefield had got used to the Scientific -Gentleman. That was the name he generally went by. When strangers came -to the Green, and had it all described to them--Sir Thomas here, the -Admiral there, the General at the other side, and so on, we always gave -a little special description of Mr. Reinhardt. - -‘He is a Fellow of the Royal Society,’ one would say, not knowing much -what that meant. ‘He belongs to the British Association,’ said another. -‘He is a great scientific light.’ We began even to feel a little proud -of him. Even I myself, on the nights when I did not sleep well, used to -feel quite pleased, when I looked out, to see the Scientific Gentleman’s -light still burning. He was sitting up there, no doubt, pondering things -that were much beyond our comprehension--and it made us proud to think -that, on the Green, there was some one who was going over the abstrusest -questions in the dead of the night. - -It was about six months after his arrival when, one evening, for some -special reason, I forget what, I went to Mrs. Stoke’s to tea. She lives -a little way down the lane, on the other side of the ‘Barleymow.’ It is -not often that she asks any one even to tea. As a rule, people generally -ask her and her daughters, for we are all very well aware of her -circumstances; but on this particular night, I was there for some reason -or other. It was October, and the nights had begun to be cold; but there -was a full moon, and at ten o’clock it was as light as day. This was why -I would not let them send any one home with me. I must say I have never -understood how middle-aged women like myself can have a pretty young -maid-servant sent for them, knowing very well that the girl must walk -one way alone, and that, if there is any danger at all, a young woman of -twenty is more in the way of it, than one who might be her mother. I -remember going to the door to look out, and protesting that I was not -the least nervous--nor was I. I knew all the roads as well as I knew my -own garden, and everybody round about knew me. The way was not at all -lonely. To be sure, there were not many people walking about; but then -there were houses all along--and lastly, it was light as day. The moon -was shining in that lavish sort of way which she only has when she is at -the full. The houses amid their trees stood whitened over, held fast by -the light as the wedding-guest was held by the eye of the Ancient -Mariner. The shadows were as black as the light was white. There was a -certain solemnity about it, so full of light, and yet so colourless. -After I had left the house, and had come out--I and my shadow--into the -full whiteness, it made an impression upon me which I could scarcely -resist. My first idea when I glanced back was that my own shadow was -some one stealing after me. That gave me a shake for a moment, though I -laughed at myself. The lights of the ‘Barleymow’ neutralized this solemn -feeling, and I went on, thinking to myself what a good story it would be -for my neighbours--my own shadow! I did not cross the Green, as I -generally did, partly from a vague feeling that, though it was so light -and so safe, there was a certain company in being close to the -houses--not that I was the least afraid, or that indeed there was any -occasion to fear, but just for company’s sake. By this time, I think it -must have been very nearly eleven o’clock, which is a late hour for -Dinglefield. All the houses seemed shut up for the night. Looking up the -Green, the effect of the sleeping place, with the moon shining on the -pale gables and ends of houses, and all the trees in black, and the -white stretch of space in the centre, looking as if it had been clean -swept by the moonlight of every obstacle, had the strangest effect. I -was not in the least afraid. What should I be afraid of, so close to my -own door? But still I felt a little shiver run over me--a something -involuntary, which I could not help, like that little thrill of the -nerves, which makes people say that some one is walking over your grave. - -And all at once in the great stillness and quiet I heard a sound quite -near. It was very soft at first, not much louder than a sigh. I hurried -on for a few steps frightened, I could not tell why, and then, disgusted -with myself, I stopped to listen. Yes, now it came again, louder this -time; and then I turned round to look where it came from. It was the -sound of some one moaning either in sorrow or in pain; a soft, -interrupted moan, now and then stopping short with a kind of sob. My -heart began to beat, but I said to myself, it is some one in trouble, -and I can’t run away. The sound came from the side of East Cottage, -just where the little railing in front ended; and, after a long look, I -began to see that there was some one there. What I made out was the -outline of a figure seated on the ground with knees drawn up, and -looking so thin that they almost came to a point. It was straight up -against the railing, and so overshadowed by the lilac-bushes that the -outline of the knees, black, but whitened over as it were with a -sprinkling of snow or silver, was all that could be made out. It was -like something dimly seen in a picture, not like flesh and blood. It -gave me the strangest sensation to see this something, this shrouded -semblance of a human figure, at Mr. Reinhardt’s door. All the stories -that had been told of him came back to my mind. His wife! I would have -kept the recollection out of my mind if I could, but it came without any -will of mine. I turned and went on as fast as ever I could. I should -have run like a frightened child had I followed my own instinctive -feeling. My heart beat, my feet rang upon the gravel; and then I stopped -short, hating myself. How silly and weak I was! It might be some poor -creature, some tramp or wandering wretch, who had sunk down there in -sickness or weariness, while I in my cowardice passed by on the other -side frightened lest it should be a ghost. I do not know to this day how -it was that I forced myself to turn and go back, but I did. Oh! what a -moaning, wailing sound it was; not loud, but the very cry of desolation. -I felt as I went, though my heart beat so, that such a moaning could -only come from a living creature, one who had a body full of weariness -and pain, as well as a suffering soul. - -I turned back and went up to the thing with those sharp-pointed knees; -then I saw the hands clasped round the knees, and the hopeless head -bowed down upon them, all black and silvered over like something cut out -of ebony. I even saw, or thought I saw, amid the flickering of the -heavens above and the shadows below, a faint rocking in the miserable -figure;--that mechanical, unconscious rocking which is one of the -primitive ways of showing pain. I went up, all trembling as I was, and -asked ‘What is the matter?’ with a voice as tremulous. There was no -answer; only the moaning went on, and the movement became more -perceptible. Fortunately, my terror died away when I saw this. The human -sound and action, that were like what everybody does, brought me back at -once out of all supernatural dread. It was a woman, and she was unhappy. -I dismissed the other thought--or rather, it left me unawares. - -This gave me a great deal of courage. I repeated my question; and then, -as there was no answer, went up and touched her softly. The figure rose -with a spring in a moment, before I could think what she was going to -do. She put out one of her hands, and pushed me off. - -‘Ah! have I brought you out at last?’ she cried wildly; and then stopped -short and stared at me; while I stared, too, feeling, whoever it might -be she had expected, that I was not the person. Her movement was so -sudden, that I shrank back in terror, fearing once more I could not tell -what. She was a very tall, slight woman, with a cloak tightly wrapped -about her. In the confusion of the moment I could remark nothing more. - -‘Are you ill?’ I said, faltering. ‘My good woman, I--I don’t want to -harm you; I heard you moaning, and I--thought you were ill----’ - -She seized me by the arm, making my very teeth chatter. The grasp was -bony and hard like the hand of a skeleton. - -‘Are you from that house? Are you from him?’ she cried, pointing behind -her with her other hand. ‘Bid him come out to me himself; bid him come -out and go down on his knees before I’ll give in to enter his door. Oh! -I’ve not come here for nought--I’ve not come here for nought! I’ve come -with all my wrongs that he’s done me. Tell him to come out himself; it -is his part.’ - -Her voice grew hoarse with the passion that was in it, and yet it was a -voice that had been sweet. - -I put up my hand, pleading with her, trying to get a hearing, but she -held me fast by the arm. - -‘I have not come from that house,’ I said. ‘You frighten me. I--I live -close by. I was passing and heard you moan. Is there anything the -matter? Can I be--of any use?’ - -I said this very doubtfully, for I was afraid of the strange figure, and -the passionate speech. - -Then she let go her hold all at once. She looked at me and then all -round. There was not another creature visible except, behind me, I -suppose, the open door and lights of the ‘Barleymow.’ She might have -done almost what she would to me had she been disposed;--at least, at -the moment that was how I felt. - -‘You live close by?’ she said, putting her hand upon her heart, which -was panting and heaving with her passion. - -‘Yes. Are you--staying in the neighbourhood? Have you--lost your way?’ - -I said this in my bewilderment, not knowing what the words were which -came from my lips. Then the poor creature leaned back upon the wall and -gasped and sobbed. I could not make out at first whether it was emotion -or want of breath. - -‘Yes, I’ve lost my way,’ she said; ‘not here, but in life; I’ve lost my -way in life, and I’ll never find it again. Oh! I’m ill--I’m very ill. If -you are a good Christian, as you seem, take me in somewhere and let me -lie down till the spasm’s past; I feel it coming on now.’ - -‘What is it?’ I asked. - -She put her hand upon her heart and panted and gasped for breath. Poor -wretch! At that moment I heard behind me the locking of the door at the -‘Barleymow.’ I know I ought to have called out to them to wait, but I -had not my wits about me as one ought to have. - -‘Have you no home?’ I asked; ‘nowhere to go to? You must live -somewhere. I will go with you and take you home.’ - -‘Home!’ she cried. ‘It is here or in the churchyard, nowhere else--here -or in the churchyard. Take me to one or the other, good woman, for -Christ’s sake: I don’t care which--to my husband’s house or to the -churchyard--for Christ’s sake.’ - -For Christ’s sake! You may blame me, but what could I do? Could any of -you refuse if you were asked in that name? You may say any one can use -such words--any vagabond, any wretch--and, of course, it is true; but -could you resist the plea--you who are neither a wretch nor a -vagabond?--I know you could not, any more than me. - -‘Lean upon me,’ I said; ‘take my arm; try if you can walk. Oh! I don’t -know who you are or what you are, but when you ask for Christ’s sake, -you know, He sees into your heart. If you have any place that I can take -you to, tell me; you must know it is difficult to take a stranger into -one’s house like this. Tell me if you have not some room--some place -where you can be taken care of; I will give you what you want all the -same.’ - -We were going on all this time, walking slowly towards my house; she was -gasping, holding one hand to her heart and with the other leaning -heavily on me. When I made this appeal to her she stopped and turned -half round, waving her hand towards the house we were leaving behind us. - -‘If that is Mr. Reinhardt’s house,’ she said, ‘take me there if you -will. I am--his wife. He’ll leave me to die--on the doorstep--most -likely; and be glad. I haven’t strength--to--say any more.’ - -‘His wife!’ I cried in my dismay. - -‘Lord have mercy upon us!’ cried the panting creature. ‘Ay! that’s the -truth.’ - -What could I do? She was scarcely able to totter along, panting and -breathless. It was her heart. Poor soul! how could any one tell what she -might have had to suffer? I took her, though with trembling--what could -I do else?--to my own house. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - - -I cannot attempt to describe what my feelings were when I went into my -own house with that strange woman. Though it was a very short way, we -took a long time to get there. She had disease of the heart evidently, -and one of the paroxysms had come on. - -‘I shall be better by and by,’ she said to me, gasping as she leaned on -my arm. - -My mind was in such a confusion that I did not know what I was doing. -She might be only a tramp, a thief, a vagabond. As for what she had said -of being Mr. Reinhardt’s wife--my head swam, I could neither understand -nor explain to myself how this had come about. But, whether she was good -or bad, I could not help myself; I was committed to it. Every house on -the Green was closed and silent. The shutters were all put up at the -‘Barleymow,’ and silence reigned. No, thank Heaven! in the Admiral’s -window there were still lights, so that if anything happened I could -call him to my aid. He was my nearest neighbour, and the sight of his -lighted window gave me confidence. - -My maid gave a little shriek when she opened the door, and this too -roused me. I said, ‘Mary, this--lady is ill; she will lie down on the -sofa in the drawing-room while we get ready the west room. You will not -mind the trouble, I am sure, when you see how ill she is.’ - -This I said to smooth matters, for it is not to be supposed that Mary, -who was already yawning at my late return, should be quite pleased at -being sent off to make up a bed and prepare a room unexpectedly as it -were in the middle of the night. And I was glad also to send her away, -for I saw her give a wondering look at the poor creature’s clothes, -which were dusty and soiled. She had been sitting on the dusty earth by -Mr. Reinhardt’s cottage, and it was not wonderful if her clothes showed -marks of it. I made her lie down on the sofa, and got her some wine. -Poor forlorn creature! The rest seemed to be life however to her. She -sank back upon the soft cushions, and her heavy breathing softened -almost immediately. I left her there (though, I confess, not without a -slight sensation of fear), and went to the west room to help Mary. It -was a room we seldom used, at the end of a long passage, and therefore -the one best fitted to put a stranger, about whom I knew nothing, in. -Mary did not say anything, but I could feel that she disapproved of me -in every pat she gave to the fresh sheets and pillows. And I was -conciliatory, as one so often is to one’s servants. I drew a little -picture of how I had found the ‘poor lady’ panting for breath and unable -to walk--of how weak and how thin she was--and what a terrible thing to -have heart-disease, which came on with any exertion--and how anxious her -friends must be. - -All this Mary listened to in grim silence, patting now and then the -bedclothes with her hand, as if making a protest against all I said. At -length, when I had exhausted my eloquence, and began to grow a little -angry, Mary cleared her throat and replied, - -‘Please, ma’am, I know it ain’t my place to speak----’ - -‘Oh! you can say what you please, Mary, so long as it is not unkind to -your neighbours,’ said I. - -‘I never set eyes on the--lady--before, so she can’t be a neighbour of -mine,’ said Mary; ‘but she’s been seen about the Green days and days. -I’ve seen her myself a-haunting East Cottage, where that poor gentleman -lives.’ - -‘You said this moment that you never set eyes on her before.’ - -‘Not to know her, ma’am,’ said Mary; ‘it’s different. I saw her to-day -walking up and down like a ghost, and I wouldn’t have given sixpence -for all she had on her. It ain’t my place to speak, but one as you don’t -know, and as may have a gang ready to murder us all in our beds---- -Mother was in service in London when she was young, and oh! to hear the -tales she knows. Pretending to be ill is the commonest trick of all, -mother says, and then they get took in, and then, when all’s still----’ - -‘It is very kind of you, I am sure, to instruct me by your mother’s -experiences,’ said I, feeling very angry. ‘Now you can go to bed if you -please, and lock your door, and then you will be safe. I shall not want -you any more to-night.’ - -‘Oh! but please, ma’am. I don’t want to leave you by yourself--please, I -don’t!’ cried Mary, with the ready tears coming to her eyes. - -However I sent her away. I was angry, and perhaps unreasonable, as -people generally are when they are angry; though, when Mary went to bed, -I confess it was not altogether with an easy mind that I found myself -alone with the stranger in the silent house. It is always a comfort to -know that there is some one within reach. I went back softly to the -drawing-room: she was still lying on the sofa, quite motionless and -quiet, no longer panting as she had done. When I looked at her closely I -saw that she had dropped asleep. The light of the lamp was full on her -face, and yet she had dropped asleep, being, as I suppose, completely -worn out. I saw her face then for the first time, and it startled me. It -was not a face which you could describe by any of the lighter words of -admiration as pretty or handsome. It was simply the most beautiful face -I ever saw in my life. It was pale and worn, and looked almost like -death lying back in that attitude of utter weakness on the velvet -cushions; and, though the eyes were closed, and the effect of them lost, -it was impossible to believe that the loveliest eyes in the world could -have made her more beautiful. She had dark hair, wavy and slightly -curling upon the forehead; her eyelashes were very long and dark, and -curled upwards; her features, I think, must have been perfect; and the -look of pain had gone from her face; she was as serene as if she had -been dead. - -I was very much startled by this: so much so that for the moment I sank -down upon a chair, overcome by confusion and surprise, and did not even -shade the lamp, as I had intended to do. You may wonder that I should be -so much surprised, but then you must remember that great beauty is not -common anywhere, and that to pick it out of the ditch as it were, and -find it thus in the person of one who might be a mere vagabond and -vagrant for aught you could tell, was very strange and startling. It -took away my breath; and then, the figure which belonged to this face -formed so strange a contrast with it. I know, as everybody else does, -that beauty is but skin-deep; that it is no sign of excellence, or of -mental or moral superiority in any way; that it is accidental and -independent of the character of its possessor as money is, or anything -else you are born to: I know all this perfectly well; and yet I feel, as -I suppose everybody else does, that great beauty is out of place in -squalid surroundings. When I saw the worn and dusty dress, the cloak -tightly drawn across her breast, the worn shoes that peeped out from -below her skirt, I felt ashamed. It was absurd, but such was my feeling; -I felt ashamed of my good gown and lace, and fresh ribbons. To think -that I, and hundreds like me, should deck ourselves, and leave this -creature in her dusty gown! My suspicions went out of my mind in a -moment. Instead of the uneasy doubt whether perhaps she might have -accomplices (it made me blush to think I had dreamt of such a thing) -waiting outside, I began to feel indignant with everybody that she could -be in such a plight. Reinhardt’s wife! How did he dare, that mean, -insignificant man, to marry such a creature, and to be cruel to her -after he had married her! I started up and removed the lamp, shading her -face, and I took my shawl, which was my best shawl, an Indian one, and -really handsome, and covered her with it. I did it--I can’t tell -why--with a feeling that I was making her a little compensation. Then I -opened one of the windows to let in the air, for the night was sultry; -and then I put myself into my favourite chair, and leant back my head, -and made myself as comfortable as I could to watch her till she woke. I -should have thought this a great hardship a little while before, but I -did not think it a hardship now. I had become her partisan, her -protector, her servant, in a moment, and all for no reason except the -form of her features, the look of that sleeping face. I acknowledge that -it was absurd, but still I know you would have done the same had you -been in my place. I suspected her no more, had no doubts in my mind, and -was not the least annoyed that Mary had gone to bed. It seemed to me as -if her beauty established an immediate relationship between us, somehow, -and made it natural that I, or any one else who might happen to be in -the way, should give up our own convenience for her. It was her beauty -that did it, nothing else, not her great want and solitude, not even the -name by which she had adjured me;--her beauty, nothing more. I do not -defend myself for having fallen prostrate before this primitive power; I -could not help it, but I don’t attempt to excuse myself. - -I must have dozed in my chair, for I woke suddenly, dreaming that some -one was standing over me and staring at me--a kind of nightmare. I -started with a little cry, and for the first moment I was bewildered, -and could not think how I had got there. Then all at once I saw her, and -the mystery was solved. She had woke too, and lay on her side on the -sofa, looking intently at me with a gaze which renewed my first -impression of terror. She had not moved, she lay in the same attitude of -exhaustion and grateful repose, with her head thrown back upon the -cushions. There was only this difference--that whereas she had then -been unconscious in sleep, she was now awake, and so vividly, intensely -conscious that her look seemed an active influence. I felt that she was -doing something to me by gazing at me so. She had woke me no doubt by -that look. She made me restless now, so that I could not keep still. I -rose up, and made a step or two towards her. - -‘Are you better? I hope you are better,’ I said. - -Still she did not move, but said calmly, without any attempt at -explanation: ‘Are you watching me from kindness or because you were -afraid I should do some harm?’ - -She was not grateful: the sight of me woke no kindly feeling in her: and -I was wounded in spite of myself. - -‘Neither,’ said I; ‘you fell asleep, and I preferred staying here to -waking you; but it is almost morning and the oil is nearly burnt out in -the lamp. There is a room ready for you; will you come with me now?’ - -‘I am very comfortable,’ she said; ‘I have not been so comfortable for a -very long time. I have not been well off. I have had to lie on hard beds -and eat poor fare, whilst all the time those who had a right to take -care of me----’ - -‘Don’t think of that now,’ I said. ‘You will feel better if you are -undressed. Come now and go to bed.’ - -She kept her position, without taking any notice of what I said. - -‘I have a long story to tell you--a long story,’ she went on. ‘When you -hear it you will change your mind about some things. Oh, how pleasant it -is to be in a nice handsome _lady’s_ room again! How pleasant a carpet -is, and pictures on the walls! I have not been used to them for a long -time. I suppose he has every kind of thing, everything that is pleasant; -and, if he could, he would have liked to see me die at his door. That is -what he wants. It would be a pleasure to him to look out some morning -and see me lying like a piece of rubbish under the wall. He would have -me thrown upon the dust-heap, I believe, or taken off by the scavengers -as rubbish. Yes, that is what he would like, if he could.’ - -‘Oh, don’t think so,’ I cried. ‘He cannot be so cruel. He has not a -cruel face.’ - -Upon this she sat up, with the passion rising in her eyes. - -‘How can you tell?--you were never married to him!’ she said. ‘He never -cast you off, never abandoned you, never----’ Her excitement grew so -great that she now rose up on her feet, and clenched her hand and shook -it as if at some one in the distance. ‘Oh, no!’ she cried; ‘no one knows -him but me!’ - -‘Oh, if you would go to bed!’ I said. ‘Indeed I must insist: you will -tell me your story in the morning. Come, you must not talk any more -to-night.’ - -I did not get her disposed of so easily as this, but after a while she -did allow herself to be persuaded. My mind had changed about her again, -but I was too tired now to be frightened. I put her into the west room. -And oh! how glad I was to lie down in my bed, though I had a stranger in -the house whom I knew nothing of, and though it only wanted about an -hour of day! - - - - -CHAPTER V - - -When I got up, about two hours after, I was in a very uncomfortable -state of mind, not knowing in the least what I ought to do. Daylight is -a great matter to be sure, and consoles one in one’s perplexity; but yet -daylight means the visits of one’s friends, and inquiries into all that -one has done and means to do. I could not have such an inmate in my -house without people knowing it. I was thrusting myself as it were into -a family quarrel which I knew nothing of--I, one of the most peaceable -people--! - -When I went down-stairs the drawing-room was still as I had left it, and -the sofa and its cushions were all marked with dust where my poor -visitor had lain down. I believe, though Mary is a good girl on the -whole, that there was a little spite in all this to show me my own -enormity. A decanter of wine was left on the table too, with the glass -which had been used last night. It gave the most miserable, squalid look -to the room, or at least I thought so. Then Mary appeared with her broom -and dustpan, severely disapproving, and I was swept away, like the dust, -and took refuge in the garden, which was hazy and dewy, and rather cold -on this October morning. The trees were all changing colour, the -mignonette stalks were long and straggling, there was nothing in the -beds but asters and dahlias and some other autumn flowers. And the -monthly rose on the porch looked pale, as if it felt the coming frost. I -went to the gate and looked out upon the Green with a pang of -discomfort. What would everybody think? There were not many people about -except the tradespeople going for orders and the servants at their work. -East Cottage looked more human than usual in the hazy autumn morning -sun. The windows were all open, and White was sweeping the fallen leaves -carefully away from the door. I even saw Mr. Reinhardt in his -dressing-gown come out to speak to him. My heart beat wildly and I drew -back at the sight. As if Mr. Reinhardt was anything to me! But I was -restless and uncomfortable and could not compose myself. When I went in -I could not sit down and breakfast by myself as I usually did. I wanted -to see how my lodger was, and yet I did not want to disturb her. At last -I went to the door of the west room and listened. When I heard signs of -movement inside I knocked and went in. She was still in bed; she was -lying half-smothered up in the fine linen and downy pillows. On the bed -there was an eiderdown coverlet covered with crimson silk, and she had -stretched out her arm over it and was grasping it with her hand. She -greeted me with a smile which lighted up her beautiful face like -sunshine. - -‘Oh, yes, I am better--I am quite well,’ she said. ‘I am so happy to be -here.’ - -She did not put out her hand, or offer any thanks or salutations, and it -seemed to me that this was good taste. I was pleased with her for not -being too grateful or affectionate. I believe if she had been very -grateful and affectionate I should have thought that was best. For again -the charm came over me--a charm doubled by her smile. How beautiful she -was! The warm nest she was lying in, and the pleasure and comfort she -evidently felt in being there, had brought a little colour to her -cheeks--just a very little--but that became her beauty best. She was -younger than I thought. I had supposed her to be over thirty last night, -now she looked five or six-and-twenty, in the very height and fulness of -her bloom. - -‘Shall I send you some breakfast?’ I said. - -‘Oh, please! I suppose you don’t know how nice it is to lie in a soft -bed like this, to feel the nice linen and the silk, and to be waited -upon? You have always been just so, and never known the difference? Ah! -what a difference it is.’ - -‘I have been very poor in my time,’ said I. - -‘Have you? I should not have thought it. But never so poor as me. Let me -have my breakfast please--tea with cream in it. May I have some cream? -and--anything--whatever you please; for I am hungry; but tea with -cream.’ - -‘Surely,’ I said; ‘it is being prepared for you now.’ - -And then I stood looking at her, wondering. I knew nothing of her, not -even her name, and yet I stood in the most familiar relation to her, -like a mother to a child. Her smile quite warmed and brightened me, as -she lay there in such childish enjoyment. How strange it was. And it -seemed to me that everything had gone out of her mind except the -delightful novelty of her surroundings. She forgot that she was a -stranger in a strange house, and all the suspicious, unpleasant -circumstances. When Mary came in with the tray she positively laughed -with pleasure, and jumped up in bed, raising herself as lightly as a -child. - -‘You must have a shawl to put round your shoulders,’ I said. - -‘Oh, let me have the beautiful one you put over me last night. What a -beauty it was! Let me have that,’ she cried. - -Mary gave me a warning look. But I was indignant with Mary. I went and -fetched it almost with tears in my eyes. Poor soul! poor child! like a -baby admiring it because it was pretty. I put it round her, though it -was my best; and with my cashmere about her shoulders, and her beautiful -face all lighted up with pleasure, she was like a picture. I am sure the -Sleeping Beauty could not have been more lovely when she started from -her hundred years’ sleep. - -I went back to the dining-room and took my own breakfast quite -exhilarated. My perplexities floated away. I too felt like a child with -a new toy. If I had but had a daughter like that, I said to myself--what -a sweet companion, what a delight in one’s life! But then daughters will -marry; and to think of such a one, bound to a cruel husband, who -quarrelled with her, deserted her--Oh, what cruel stuff men are made of! -What pretext could he have for conduct so monstrous? She was as sweet as -a flower, and more beautiful than any woman I ever saw; and to leave her -sitting in the dust at his closed door! I could scarcely keep still; my -indignation was so great. The bloodless wretch! without ruth, or heart, -or even common charity. One has heard such tales of men wrapped up in -some cold intellectual pursuit; how they get to forget everything, and -despise love and duty, and all that is worth living for, for their -miserable science. They would rather be fellows of a learned society -than heads of happy houses; rather make some foolish discovery to be -written down in the papers, than live a good life and look after their -own. I have even known cases--certainly nothing so bad as this--but -cases in which a man for his art, or his learning, or something, has -driven his wife into miserable solitude, or still more miserable -society. Yes, I have known such cases: and the curious thing is, that it -is always the weak men, whose researches can be of use to no mortal -being, who neglect everything for science. The great men are great -enough to be men and philosophers too. All this I said in my heart with -a contempt for our scientific gentleman which I did not disguise to -myself. I finished my breakfast quickly, longing to go back to my guest, -when all at once Martha and Nelly, the Admiral’s daughters, came running -in, as they had a way of doing. They were great favourites of mine, or, -at least, Nelly was--but I was annoyed more than I could tell to see -them now. - -‘We came in to ask if you were quite well,’ said Nelly. ‘Papa frightened -us all with the strangest story. He insists that you came home quite -late, leaning on Mary’s arm, and was sure you must have been ill. You -can’t think how positive he is, and what a story he made out. He saw you -from his window coming along the road, so he says; and now I look at -you, Mrs. Mulgrave, you are a little pale.’ - -‘It was not I, you can tell the Admiral,’ I said. ‘I wonder his sharp -eyes were deceived. It was a--friend--I have staying with me.’ - -‘A friend you have staying with you? Fancy, Nelly! and we not to know.’ - -‘She came quite late--yesterday,’ said I. ‘She is in--very poor health. -She has come to be--quiet. Poor thing, I had to give her my arm.’ - -‘But I thought you were at the Stokes’ last night?’ said Martha. - -‘So I was; but when I came back it was such a lovely night; you should -have been out, Nelly, you who are so fond of moonlight. I never saw the -Green look more beautiful. I could hardly make up my mind to come in.’ - -Dear, dear, dear! I wonder if all our fibs are really kept an account -of? As I went on romancing I felt a little shiver run over me. But what -could I do? - -Nelly gave me a look. She was wiser than her sister, who took everything -in a matter-of-fact way. She gave me a kiss, and said, ‘We had better go -and satisfy papa. He was quite anxious.’ - -Nelly knew me best, and she did not believe me. But what story could I -make up to Lady Denzil, for instance, whose eyes went through and -through me, and saw everything I thought? - -Then I went back to my charge. She had finished her breakfast, but she -would not part with the shawl. She was sitting up in bed, stroking and -patting it with her hand. - -‘It is so lovely,’ she said, ‘I can’t give it up just yet. I like myself -so much better when I have it on. Oh! I should be so much more proud of -myself than I am if I lived like this. I should feel as if I were so -much better. And don’t ask me, please! I can’t--I can’t get up to put -myself in those dusty hideous clothes.’ - -‘They are not dusty now,’ I said, and a faint little sense of difficulty -crossed my mind. She was taking everything for granted, as if she -belonged to me, and had come on a visit. I think if I had offered to -give her my Indian cashmere and all the best things I had she would not -have been surprised. - -She made no answer to this. She continued patting and caressing the -shawl, laying down her beautiful cheek on her shoulder for the pleasure -of feeling it. It was very senseless, very foolish, and yet it was such -pretty play that I was more pleased than vexed. I sat down by her, -watching her movements. They were so graceful always--nothing harsh, or -rough, or unpleasant to the eye, and all so natural--like the movements -of a child. - -I don’t know how long I sat and watched her--almost as pleased as she -was. It was only when time went on, and when I knew I was liable to -interruption, that I roused myself up. I tried to lead her into serious -conversation. ‘You look a great deal better,’ I said, ‘than I could have -hoped to see you last night.’ - -‘Better than last night? Indeed, I should think so. Please, don’t speak -of it. Last night was darkness, and this is light.’ - -‘Yes, but---- I fear I must speak of it. I should like to know how you -got there, and if some one perhaps ought to be written to--some one who -may be anxious about you.’ - -‘Nobody is anxious about me.’ - -‘Indeed I am sure you must be mistaken,’ I said. ‘I am sure you have -friends, and then---- I don’t want to trouble you, but you must remember -I don’t know your name.’ - -She threw back the shawl off her shoulders all at once, and sat up -erect. - -‘My name is Mrs. Reinhardt: I told you,’ she said, ‘and I hope you don’t -doubt my word.’ - -It was impossible to look in her face, and say to her, ‘I don’t know -anything about you. How can I tell whether your word is to be trusted or -not?’ This was true, but I could not say it. - -I faltered, ‘You were ill last night, and we were both excited and -confused. I wish very much you would tell me now once again. I think you -said you would.’ - -‘Oh, I suppose I did,’ she said, throwing the shawl away, and nestling -down once more among the pillows. A look of irritation came over her -face. ‘It is so tiresome,’ she said, ‘always having to explain. I felt -so comfortable just now, as if I had got over that.’ - -There was an aggrieved tone in her voice, and she looked as if, out of -her temporary pleasure and comfort, she had been brought back to painful -reality in an unkind and uncalled-for way. I felt guilty before her. Her -face said plainly, ‘I was at ease, and all for your satisfaction, for no -reason at all, you have driven me back again into trouble.’ I cannot -describe how uncomfortable I felt. - -‘If I am to be of any use to you,’ I said apologetically, ‘you must see -that I ought to know. It is not that I wish to disturb you.’ - -‘Everybody says that,’ she murmured, with an angry pull at the -bedclothes; and then, all at once, in a moment, she brightened up, and -met my look with a smile. My relief was immense. - -‘I am a cross thing,’ she said; ‘don’t you think so? But it was so nice -to be comfortable. I felt as it I should like to forget it all, and be -happy. I felt good---- But never mind; you cannot help it. I must go -back to all the mud, and dirt, and misery, and tell you everything. -Don’t look distressed, for it is not your fault.’ - -Every word she said seemed to convince me more and more that it was my -fault. I could scarcely keep from begging her pardon. How cruel I had -been! And yet, and yet---- My head swam, what with the dim consciousness -in my mind of the true state of affairs, and the sense of her view of -the question, which had impressed itself so strongly upon me since I -came into the room. Which was the right view I could not tell for the -moment, and bewilderment filled my mind. I could only stare at her, and -wait for what she pleased to say. - - - - -PART II - - - - -CHAPTER VI - - -After my visitor had got over her little fit of passion I took up my -shawl--my good shawl, which she had flung from her--and put it away; and -then I sat down by the bedside to hear her story. She had begun to -think; her face had changed again. Her bewildered sort of feeling (which -I could not understand, but yet which seemed so natural) that she had -got over all that was disagreeable, passed away, and her life came back -to her, as it were. She remembered herself, and her past, which I did -not know. She did not speak for some time, while I sat there waiting. -She kept twitching at the clothes, and moving about restlessly from side -to side. The look of content and comfort which had filled up the thin -outline of her beautiful face, and given it for the moment the roundness -of youth, disappeared. At last she looked up at me almost angrily as I -sat waiting. - -‘Oh, you are so calm,’ she said. ‘You take it all so quietly. You don’t -know what it is to have your heart broken, and your character destroyed, -and yourself driven mad. To see you so calm makes me wild. If I am to -tell you my story I must get up; I must be my own self again; I must put -on my filthy clothes.’ - -‘They are not filthy now. There are some clean things, if you like to -use them,’ I said softly; but I was very glad she should get up. I left -her to do so with an easier mind, and had the fire made up in the -dining-room that she might not be in the way of visitors. It was a long -time before she came, and when she at last made her appearance I found -she had again wrapped herself in my Indian shawl. To tell the truth, I -did not like it. I gave a slight start when I saw her, but I could not -take it from her shoulders. She had put on her old black gown, which had -been carefully brushed and the clean cuffs and collar I had put out for -her, and had dressed her hair in a fashionable way. She was dressed as -poorly as a woman could be, and yet it appeared she had all the pads and -cushions, which young women were then so foolish as to wear, for her -hair. She was tall, and very slight, as I had remarked last night, but -my shawl about her shoulders took away the angularity from her figure, -and made it dignified and noble. To find fault with such a splendid -creature for borrowing a shawl! I could as soon have remonstrated with -the Queen herself. - -‘This is not the pretty room you brought me to last night,’ she said. - -‘No; this is the dining-room. I thought it would be quieter and -pleasanter for you, in case any one should call.’ - -‘Ah! yes, that was very considerate for my feelings,’ she said, ‘but I -am used to it, I am always thrust into a corner now. It did not use to -be so before that man came and ruined me. Whereabouts is it that he -lives?’ - -‘You can see the house from the window,’ said I. - -Then she went to the window and looked out. She shook her clenched fist -at the cottage; her face grew dark like a sky covered by a -thunder-cloud. She came back and seated herself in front of me, wrapping -herself close in my shawl. - -‘When I married him I was as beautiful as the day. That was what they -all said,’ she began. ‘I was nineteen, and the artists used to go on -their knees to me to sit to them. I might have married anybody. I don’t -know why it was that I took him, I must have been mad; twenty years -older than me at the least, and nothing to recommend him. Of course he -was rich. Ah! and I was so young, and thought money could buy -everything, and that it would last for ever. We had a house in town and -a house in the country, and he gave me a lovely phaeton for the park, -and we had a carriage and pair. It was very nice at first. He was always -a curious man, never satisfied, but we did very well at first. He was -not a man to make a woman happy, but still I got on well enough till he -sent me away.’ - -‘He sent you away!’ - -‘Yes. Oh! that was nothing; that got to be quite common. When he thought -I was enjoying myself, all at once he would say, “Pack up your things; -we shall go to the country to-morrow;” always when I was enjoying -myself.’ - -‘But if he went with you, that was not sending you away.’ - -‘Then it was taking me away--which is much the same--from all I cared -for; and he did not always go with me. The last two times I was sent by -myself as if I had been a prisoner. And then, at last, after years and -years of oppression, he turned me out of the house,’ she said--‘turned -me out! He dared to do it. Oh! only think how I hated him. He said every -insult to me a man could say, and he turned me out of his house, and -bade me never come back. One day I was there the mistress of all, with -everything heart could desire, and the next day I was turned out, -without a penny, without a home, still so pretty as I was, and at my -age!’ - -‘Oh! that was terrible,’ I cried, moved more by her rising passion than -by her words--‘that was dreadful. How could he do it? But you went to -your friends--?’ - -‘I had no friends. My people were all dead, and I did not know much -about them when they were living. He separated me from everybody, and he -told lies of me--lies right and left. He had made up his mind to destroy -me,’ she cried, bursting into sobs. ‘Oh! what a devil he is! Everything -I could desire one day, and the next turned out!’ - -Looking at her where she sat, something came into my throat which choked -me and kept me from speaking: and yet I felt that I must make an effort. - -‘Without any--cause?’ I faltered with a mixture of confusion and pain. - -‘Cause?’ - -‘I mean, did not he allege something--say something? He must have given -some--excuse--for himself.’ - -She looked at me very composedly, not angry, as I had feared. - -‘Cause? excuse?’ she repeated. ‘Of course he said it was my fault.’ - -She kept her eyes on me when she said this; no guilty colour was on her -face, no flush even of shame at the thought of having been slandered. -She was a great deal calmer than I was; indeed I was not calm at all, -but disturbed beyond the power of expression, not knowing what to think. - -‘He is very clever,’ she went on. ‘I am clever myself, in a kind of a -way, but not a match for him. Men have education, you see. They are -trained what to do; but I was so handsome that nobody thought I required -any training. If I had been as clever as he is, ah! he would not have -found it so easy. He drove me into a trap, and then he shut me down -fast. That is four years ago. Fancy, four years without anything, -wandering about, none of the comforts I was used to! I wonder how I gave -in at the time: it was because he had broken my spirit. But I am -different now; I have made up my mind, until he behaves to me as he -ought, I will give him no peace, no grace!’ - -‘But you must not be revengeful,’ I said, knowing less and less what to -say. ‘And if you were not happy together before, I am afraid you would -not be so now.’ - -She did not make any answer; a vague sort of smile flitted over her -face, then she gave a little shiver as of cold, and wrapped the shawl -closer. ‘A shawl suits me,’ she said, ‘especially since I am so thin. Do -you think a woman loses as much as they say by being thin? It is my -heart-disease. When it comes on it is very bad, though afterwards I feel -just as well as usual. But it must tell on one’s looks. Could you tell -that I was thin by my face?’ - -‘No,’ I said, and I did not add, though it was on my lips, ‘O woman, one -could not tell by your face that you were not an angel or a queen. And -what are you? What are you?’ Alas! she was not an angel, I feared. - -A little while longer she sat musing in silence. How little she had told -me after all. How much more she must know in that world within herself -to which she had now retired. At length she turned to me, her face -lighted up with the most radiant smile. ‘Shall I be a great trouble to -you?’ she asked. ‘Am I taking up anybody’s room?’ - -She spoke as a favourite friend might speak who had arrived suddenly, -and did not quite know what your arrangements were, though she was -confident nothing could make her coming a burden to you. She took away -my breath. - -‘N--no,’ I said; and then I took courage and added: ‘But your friends -will be expecting you--the people where you live: and you are better -now----’ - -I could not, had my life depended on it, have said more. - -‘Oh, they will not mind much,’ she said. ‘I don’t live anywhere in -particular. When one thinks that one’s own husband, the man who is bound -to support one, has a home, and is close at hand, how do you think one -can stay in a miserable lodging! But he does not care: he will sit there -doing his horrible problems, and what is it to him if I were to die at -his door! He would be glad. Yes, he would be glad. He would have me -carted away as rubbish. He cares for nothing but his books and his -experiments. I have sat at his door a whole night begging him to take me -in, begging out of the cold and the snow, and his light has burnt -steady, and he has gone on with his work, and then he has gone to bed -and taken no notice. Oh, my God! I should have let him in had he been a -cat or a dog.’ - -‘Oh, surely, surely you must be mistaken,’ I cried. - -‘I am not mistaken. I heard the window open; he looked down at me, and -then he went away. I know he knew me: and so he did last night. He knew -I was there; and he had a fire lighted in the room where he works. So he -knew it was cold, too; and I his wife, his lawful wedded wife, sitting -out in the chill. Some time or other he thinks it will be too much for -me, and I shall die, and he will be free.’ - -‘It is too dreadful to think of,’ said I. ‘I don’t think he could have -known that you were there.’ - -She smiled without making any further reply. She held out her thin hands -to the fire with a little nervous shiver. They would have been beautiful -hands had they not been so thin, almost transparent. She wore but one -ring, her wedding-ring; and that was so wide that it was secured to her -finger with a silk thread. I suppose she perceived that I looked at it. -She held it up to me with a smile. - -‘See,’ she said, ‘how worn it is. But I have never put it off my finger; -never gone by another name, or done anything to forfeit my rights. -Whatever he may say against me, he cannot say that.’ - -At this moment she espied a chair in a corner which looked more -comfortable than the one she was seated in, and rose and wheeled it to -the fire. She said no ‘By’r leave’ to me, but did it as if she had been -at home; there was something so natural and simple in this that I did -not know how to object to it, but yet--I have had many a troublesome -responsibility thrown upon me by strangers, but I was never so -embarrassed or perplexed in my life. She drew the easy chair to the -fire, she found a footstool and put her feet on it, basking in the -warmth. She had my velvet slippers on her feet, my Indian shawl round -her shoulders, and here she was settled and comfortable--for how long? I -dared not even guess. A sick sort of consciousness came upon me that she -had established herself and meant to stay. - -After a while, during which I sat and watched, sitting bolt upright on -my chair and gazing with a consternation and bewilderment which I cannot -express upon her graceful attitude as she reclined back, wooing every -kind of comfort, she suddenly drew her chair a little nearer to me and -put her hand upon my knee. - -‘Look here,’ she said hurriedly, ‘you must see him for me. If any one -could move him to do his duty it would be you. You must see him, and -tell him I am--willing to go back. Perhaps he may not listen to you at -first, but if you keep your temper and persevere----’ - -‘I?’ said I, dismayed. - -‘Yes, indeed, who else? only you could do it. And if you are patient -with him and keep your temper--the great thing with him is to keep your -temper--I never could do it, but you could. It would not be difficult to -you. You have not got that sort of a nature, one can see it in your -face.’ - -‘But you mistake me, I--I could not take it upon myself,’ I gasped. - -‘Not when I ask you? You might feel you were not equal to it, I allow. -But when _I_ ask you? Oh, yes, you can do it. It is not so very hard, -only to keep your temper, and to take no denial--no denial! Make him say -he will not be so unkind any more. Oh, how tired it makes me even to -think of it!’ she cried, suddenly putting up her hands to her face. -‘Please don’t ask me any more, but do it--do it! I know you can.’ - -And then she sat and rocked herself gently with her hands clasped over -her face. This explanation had been too much for her, and somehow I felt -that I was blamable, that it was my fault. I sat by her in a kind of -dream, wondering what had happened to me. Was I under a spell? I did not -seem able to move a step or raise a hand to throw off this burden from -me. And the curious thing was that she never thanked me, never -expressed, nor apparently felt, any sort of gratitude to me, but simply -signified her will, and took my acquiescence as a right. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - - -I cannot tell how I got through that day: she got through it very -comfortably, I think. In the evening she asked me to go into the pretty -room she had been in last night. - -‘I am so fond of what is pretty,’ she said; ‘I like everything that is -nice and pleasant. I never would sit in any but the best rooms in the -house if I had a house like this.’ - -‘But--someone might come in,’ I said. ‘To be sure the time for callers -is over, but still my neighbours are very intimate with me, and some one -might come in.’ - -‘Well?’ she said, looking up in my face. ‘If they do, I don’t mind. You -may have objections perhaps, but I have none. I don’t mind.’ - -‘Oh! if you don’t mind,’ I said in my consternation; and I took up the -cushion she had placed in her chair, and carried it humbly for her, -while she made her way to the drawing-room. - -I think I was scarcely in possession of my senses. I was dazed. The -whole position was so extraordinary. I was ashamed to think of any one -coming in and finding her there: not because I was ashamed of _her_, but -for my own sake. What was I to say to anybody? How was I to explain -myself? I had taken her in without knowing anything of her, and she had -taken possession of my house. Fortunately, no one came that night. She -placed herself on the sofa, where she had lain in her wretchedness the -night before. She stretched herself out upon it, lying back with an air -of absolute enjoyment. She had got a book--a novel--which she was -reading, not taking very much notice of me; but now and then she would -pause to say a word. I think had any one seen us seated together that -evening, without knowing anything of the circumstances, he would have -decided that she was the lady of the house and I her humble and rather -stupid companion. But I was more than rather stupid--I felt like a fool; -and that in nothing more than this--that I could not for my life tell -what to do. - -‘Nobody is coming to-night, I suppose?’ she said at last, putting down -her book. - -‘No, I suppose not.’ - -‘I thought from what you said you had always some one coming; and I like -seeing people; I should like of all things to see some of the people -here. Do you think if they saw me it would make any difference----? Oh, -I can’t tell you exactly what I mean. I mean--but it is so very -unpleasant to be always obliged to explain;’ and then she yawned: and -then she said: ‘I am so tired; I think I shall go to bed. Hush! was not -that some one at the door?’ - -‘It is my next neighbour going home,’ I said. - -‘Does Reinhardt know the people about here?’ - -‘He has not gone into society at all; but many of them know him to speak -to,’ said I. - -‘Ah! that is always the way; you hide me out of sight, and you send word -to your people not to come; but everybody is quite ready to make friends -with him. Oh! I am so tired--I am tired of everything; life is so dull, -so monotonous, always the same thing over, no pleasure, no amusement.’ - -‘I live a very dull, quiet life,’ I said, as firmly as I could; ‘I -cannot expect it to suit you; and perhaps to-morrow you will be able to -make arrangements to go to your own home.’ - -‘Ah!’ she said, giving a curious little cry. She looked at me, catching -her breath; and then she cried, ‘My own home!--my own home! That is at -the cottage yonder; you will open the door for me, and take me back -there----’ - -‘But how can I? Be reasonable,’ I said. ‘I scarcely know--your husband; -I don’t know--you; how can I mediate between you? I don’t know anything -of the circumstances. There must have been some cause for all this. -Indeed it will be a great deal better to go home and get some one to -interfere who knows all.’ - -‘Don’t you believe in feelings?’ she said suddenly. ‘I do. The first -time I saw Reinhardt I had the feeling I ought not to have anything to -do with him, and I neglected it. When I saw you, it went through and -through me like an arrow: ‘This is the person to do it. And I always -trust my feelings. I am sure that you can do it, and no one else.’ - -‘Indeed--indeed you are mistaken.’ - -‘Oh! I am so tired,’ she cried again. ‘Let me go to bed. I can’t argue -to-night; I am so dreadfully tired.’ - -This was her way of getting over a difficulty, and what could I do? I -could not stop her from going to bed; I could not turn her out of my -house. I went to the door of the west room with her, more embarrassed -and uncomfortable than could be described. She turned round and waved -her hand to me as she shut the door. The light of the candle which she -held shone upon her pale, beautiful face. She had my shawl still round -her. I, too, had a candle in my hand, and as I strayed back through the -long passage I am sure I looked like a ghost. Bewilderment was in my -soul. Had I taken a burden on my shoulders for life? Was I never to be -free again? Never alone as I used to be? It had only lasted one day; but -there seemed no reason why it should ever come to an end. - -Then I went back and sat over the fire in the drawing-room, till it died -away into white ashes, trying to decide what I should do. To consult -somebody was of course my first thought; but whom could I consult? There -was not one creature on the Green who would not blame me, who would not -be shocked at my foolishness. I did not dare even to confess it to Lady -Denzil. I must keep her concealed till I could persuade her to go away. -And to think she should have been disappointed that nobody came! Good -heavens! if anybody did come and see her, what should I do? Looming up -before my imagination, in spite of all my resistance to it, came a -picture of a possible interview with Mr. Reinhardt. It drove me half -wild with fear to think of such a thing, and yet I felt as one sometimes -does, that out of mere terror I should be driven to do it, if I could -not persuade her to go away. That was my only hope, and I felt already -what a forlorn hope it was. - -And thus another day passed, and another night. She was quite -well-behaved, and sometimes her beauty overwhelmed me so that I felt I -could do anything for her; and sometimes her strange calmness and -matter-of-course way of taking everything filled me with irritation. -She never looked or spoke as if she were obliged to me, neither did she -ever imply, by anything she said or did, that she meant to go away. She -would stand for a long time by the window, gazing at the East Cottage; -she even stepped out into the garden through the drawing-room window, -and went and stood at the gate, looking out, though I called her back, -and trembled lest she should be seen (and, of course, she was seen); but -the answer she gave me when I objected put a stop to the controversy. - -‘You are afraid to let people see me,’ she said; ‘but I don’t mind. -There is nothing to be ashamed of in looking at Reinhardt’s house. If -any one calls, it is quite the same to me. Indeed I would rather be seen -than otherwise. I think it is right that people should see me.’ - -To this I made no answer, for my heart was growing faint. And then she -turned, and seized my arm--it was in the garden. - -‘Oh!’ she said, ‘listen to me. When are you going to see him? Are you -going to-day?’ - -As she spoke the sound of footsteps quite close to us made me start. I -had my back to the gate, and she was standing close to the verandah, so -that she saw who was coming though I could not. She dropped my arm -instantly; she subdued her voice; she put on a smile; and then she -half-turned, and began to gather some rosebuds from the great monthly -rose, with the air of one who is waiting to be called forward. - -‘Oh, Mrs. Mulgrave! we have found you at last,’ said a voice in my ear, -and, turning round, I saw the Stokes--Lottie and Lucy, and their brother -Everard, a short way behind, following them on to the lawn. - -‘At last?’ I said. - -‘Yes, and I think we have a very good right to complain. Why, you have -shut yourself up for two whole days. The Green is in a commotion about -it,’ said Lottie, as she kissed me; and she threw a quick glance at the -stranger, whom she did not know, and asked me, ‘Who is that?’ with her -eyes. - -‘And somebody said you had visitors, but we would not believe it,’ Lucy -began, open-mouthed. - -‘And so she has--one visitor, at least,’ said my guest, turning round, -with her hand full of roses. Then she stopped short, and a look, which -was half alarm, crept over her face. Everard Stoke was coming up behind. - -‘How do you do, Mrs. Mulgrave?’ he said in his languid way. ‘It is not -my fault if I came in unceremoniously. It’s the girls who are to blame.’ - -‘There is no one to blame,’ said I, turning round, and holding out my -hand to him. - -But even in the moment of my turning round a change had come over him. -He gave a slight start, and he looked straight over my shoulder at my -companion. I said to myself that perhaps they knew each other, and -forgave him his rudeness. But the next moment he went on hastily, ‘We -must not stay now. Lottie, I have just remembered something I promised -to do for my mother. I have just thought of it. Mrs. Mulgrave will -excuse me. Come away quick, please.’ - -‘Why, we have but just arrived!’ said Lucy, full of a girl’s resistance. - -‘Come!’ her brother said; and before I could speak he had swept them -away again, leaving me in greater consternation than ever. My companion -had turned back, and was busy again among the roses, gathering them. I -had not even her to respond to my look of wonder. What was the meaning -of it? Could they have known each other, Everard and she? - -‘Your friends are gone very soon,’ she said without turning to me; ‘it -is rather strange; but I suppose they are strange people. Oh! how sweet -these roses are--I never thought such pale roses could be so sweet.’ - -I made her no answer, and, what was strangest of all, she did not seem -to expect it, for immediately after she went back into the drawing-room, -and the next minute I heard her voice singing as if on the way to her -own room. The more I thought of it the more strange it seemed. - -That night she began to question me about my neighbours on the Green, -and somehow managed to bring the conversation to the people who had -called. - -‘I thought I knew the man’s face; I must have met him out,’ she said, -looking at me steadily. - -Everard Stoke did not bear a good character on the Green. To have known -him was no recommendation to any one; and this encounter did not -increase my happiness. But after that first evening it did not disturb -her. Next day went on like the previous one. I told the servants not to -admit any visitors, and I felt as if I must be going mad. I could think -only of one subject, my imagination could bring forward but one picture -before me, and that was of a meeting with Mr. Reinhardt, which I kept -going over in my mind. I said to myself, ‘I could not do it--I could not -do it,’ with an angry vehemence, and yet I seemed to see just how he -would look, and to hear what we were to say. It seemed to be the only -outlet out of this impossible position in which I stood. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - - -‘Lady Denzil says she must see you, please, ma’am,’ said Mary at my room -door. - -It had lasted for a week and I was downright ill. She would not go away; -when I represented to her that I could not go on keeping her, that she -must go to her own home, wherever that was, she either moaned that she -had no home, or that I must open a way for her back to her husband. She -was quite unmoved by my attempts to dislodge her. I told her I had -people coming, and she assured me she did not mind, that there was -plenty of room in the house, and that, if I wished it, she would change -into a smaller chamber. This drove me almost out of my senses, I could -not turn her out by force. I dared not face the criticisms of my -neighbours: I shut myself up. I got a headache which never left me, and -the result was, that I was quite ill. I had been lying down in my own -room to try to get a little quiet and respite from the pain in my head; -and I was impatient in my trouble, and felt disposed to turn my back on -all the world. - -‘I cannot see her,’ I said impatiently. ‘I am not well enough to see any -one.’ - -‘Please, ma’am, is that what I am to say?’ asked Mary. - -Then I recollected myself. Lady Denzil was my close friend and -counsellor. I had been admitted into the secret places of her life, and -she knew me in every aspect of mine. I would not send such a reply to my -old friend. I rose from my sofa and went stumbling to the door, feeling -more miserable than I can say. ‘Tell her I have a very bad headache, -Mary. I will try to see her to-morrow. Give her my love, and say that I -could not talk to-day, nor explain anything. If she will please leave it -till to-morrow!--’ - -‘Please, ma’am,’ said Mary, earnestly, ‘I think it would be a deal -better if you could make up your mind to see my lady to-day.’ - -‘I cannot do it--I cannot do it!’ I said. ‘If you but knew how my head -aches! Give her my dear love, but I must keep quiet. If you tell her -that, she will understand.’ - -‘If you won’t give no other answer, ma’am--’ said Mary, disapprovingly; -and I had lost my wits so completely that I actually locked the door -when she went down-stairs, in case some one should force the way. I went -back to my sofa and lay down again. I had closed the shutters, I don’t -know why--not that the light hurt me, but because I did not feel able to -bear anything. I never lost my head in the same way before. I was -irritable to such a degree that I could not bear any one to speak to -me--this was, I suppose, because I felt that nobody would approve of me, -and was ashamed of myself and my weakness. While I lay thus, _she_ began -to sing down-stairs; she had a pretty voice; there was a quaver in it, -which was in reality a defect, but did not appear so when she sang. Her -voice, I felt sure, could be heard half over the Green, and Lady Denzil -would be sure to hear it, and what would they think of me? They would -think she was a relation, somebody belonging to me, whom I had motive -for hiding. No one would believe that she was a mere stranger whom I -knew nothing of. - -I kept as much away from her as I could during the day, and in the -evening, when I came down-stairs, I managed to steal out by myself for -a walk. I thought the fresh air would do me good, and, as all the people -were at dinner, I was not likely to meet any one. When I felt myself -outside and free, I stood still for a moment, and in my weakness three -or four different impulses came upon me. In the first place I had a -temptation to run away. It seems absurd to write it, but my feeling of -nervous irritation was so great that I actually entertained for a moment -the idea of abandoning my own house because this strange woman had taken -possession of it. And then I thought of rushing to Lady Denzil, whom I -had not long before sent away from my door, and entreating her to come -and save me. When I had made but a few steps from my own gate a nervous -terror made me pause again, and, turning round suddenly, I almost ran -against some one coming in the opposite direction. I made a -half-conscious clutch at him when I saw who it was, and then tried to -hurry past in the fluctuations of my despair. But he stopped, struck, I -suppose, by the strangeness of my looks. - -‘Can I do anything for you?’ he asked. - -‘Oh, yes--everything!’ I gasped forth, not knowing what I said. - -‘I! That is strange--that is very strange! but if it should be so!--Will -you lean upon my arm, Mrs. Mulgrave? you are very much agitated.’ - -‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I am very much agitated, but I will not lean upon you, -for perhaps you will think I am your enemy--though I don’t mean to be -anybody’s enemy, Heaven knows.’ - -‘Ah!’ he said. This little cry came from him unawares, and he fell back -a step, and his face, which was like ivory, took a yellower pale tint. I -do not mean that I observed this in my agitation at the moment, but I -felt it. His countenance changed. He already divined what it was. - -‘I am very sure of that--that you mean only to be kind to all the -world,’ he said. He had a slight foreign accent, a roll of the _r_ which -is not in an English voice, and he spoke very deliberately, like one to -whom English was an acquired language. I think this struck me now for -the first time. - -Then we paused and looked at each other--he on his guard; I, trembling -in every limb trying to remember what I had said in my imaginary -interviews with him, and feeling as if my very mind had gone. I made a -despairing attempt to collect myself, to state her case in the best -possible way, but I might as well have tried any impossible feat of -athletics. I could not do it. - -‘There is a lady,’ I faltered, ‘in my house.’ - -A kind of smile crossed his face at the first words. He gave a nod as if -to say, ‘I know it;’ but again a change came over him when I finished my -sentence. - -‘In your house!’ - -‘Yes, in my house,’ I went on, finding myself at last wound up to -speech. ‘I found her on Friday last at your door--seated in the dust, -almost dying.’ - -Here he stopped, making an incredulous movement--a shrug of the -shoulders, an elevation of the eyebrows. - -‘It is true,’ I said: ‘she has heart-disease: she could scarcely walk -the little distance to my house. Had you seen her, as I did, panting, -gasping for very breath----’ - -‘I should have thought it a fiction,’ he said, bitterly, ‘and I know her -best.’ - -‘It was no fiction. Oh, you may have had your wrongs. I say nothing to -the contrary,’ I cried: ‘for anything I can tell, you may have been -deeply wronged; but she is so beautiful, and so young, and loves -pleasure and luxury so----’ - -I think he heard only the half of what I said, and that struck him like -an unexpected arrow. He turned from me and walked a few steps away, and -then came back again. ‘So beautiful and so young,’ he cried. ‘Who should -know that so well as I?--who should know that so well as I?’ - -‘You know it, and still you let her sit at your door all through the -lonely night? I would not let a tramp shiver at mine if I could help it. -You let her perish within reach of you. You condemn her at her age, with -her lovely face, unheard----’ - -He put out his hand to stop me. He was as much agitated as I was. ‘Her -lovely face,’ he said to himself,--‘oh, her lovely face!’ That was the -point at which I touched him. It woke recollections in him which were -more eloquent than anything I could say. - -‘Yes,’ I said, ‘think of it.’ I do not know by what inspiration I laid -hold upon this feature of the story--her beauty; perhaps because it was -the real explanation of the power she had acquired over me. - -But in a minute more he had overcome his agitation; he came to a sudden -pause in front of me and looked at me in the face, though there were -signs of a conflict in his. ‘It is vain to attempt to move me,’ he said, -hoarsely. ‘I do not know why you should take it in hand, or why you -should try to attain your object in this way. I did not expect it from -such as you. Her lovely face--does that make her good or true or fit for -a man’s wife?’ - -‘No doubt it was for that you married her,’ said I, with an impulse I -could not restrain. - -He turned away from me again; he made a few hasty steps and then he came -back. ‘I do not choose to discuss my own history with a stranger,’ he -said; and then softening into politeness: ‘You said I could do something -for you. What can I do?’ - -This question suddenly brought me to a standstill, for even in my -perplexity and confusion, and the state of semi-despair I had been -thrown into by my visitor, a vestige of reason still remained in my -mind. After all he must know her and his own concerns better than I -could. His question seemed to stop my breath. ‘She is in my house,’ I -said. - -‘You are too charitable, Mrs. Mulgrave,’ he answered harshly. His voice -sounded loud and sharp to me after the subdued tone in which we had been -speaking, for we were the only two living creatures visible on the -Green. Everything was quiet around us, and the night beginning to fall. - -‘I did not mean to be charitable,’ I said, feeling that there was, -without any consciousness of mine, a tone of apology in my voice. ‘I did -not expect--what has happened. I meant her to leave me--next day.’ - -‘She will never leave you as long as you will keep her and give her all -she wants,’ he said, in the same sharp, harsh voice. - -‘Then Heaven help me!’ I cried, in my confusion, ‘what am I to do?’ - -He seized my arm, so that he hurt me, in what seemed a sudden access of -passion. ‘It will teach you not to thrust yourself into other people’s -concerns, or meddle with what does not concern you,’ he said. He had -come quite close to me, and his face was flushed with passion. I think -it was the only time I was ever so spoken to in my life. The effect was -bewildering, but I was more surprised than afraid. In short, the curious -shock of this unexpected rage, the rude, sudden touch, the angry voice, -brought me to myself. - -‘I think you forget yourself, Mr. Reinhardt,’ I said. - -Then he dropped my arm as if the touch burned him, and turned away, and -shook, as I could see, with the effort to control himself. His passion -calmed me, but it swept over him like a storm. He muttered something at -length, hurriedly, in which there was the word ‘pardon,’ as if he were -forced most unwillingly to say it, and then he turned round upon me -again: ‘I may have forgotten myself, as you say; but you force me to -face a subject I would give the world to forget, and in the only way -that makes it unavoidable. Good heavens! your amiability, and your -Christianity, and all that, force me to take up again what I had put -from me for ever. And you look for politeness, too!’ - -I did not make any answer: what was the use? At bottom, I did blame -myself; I should not have interfered; I should have been firm enough and -strong enough to take her to her home, wherever it was: I did not stand -upon my defence. I let him say what he would; and I cannot tell how long -this went on. I suppose the interval was not nearly so long as it seemed -to me. He stood before me, and he smiled and frowned, and ground his -teeth and discharged, as it were, bitter sentences at me. Englishmen can -be brutal enough, but no Englishman, I think, would have done it in this -way. He seemed to take a pleasure in saying everything that was most -disagreeable. When he scowled at me I could bear it, but when he smiled -and affected politeness I grew so angry that I could have struck him. -Poor wretch! perhaps there was some justification for him after all. - -‘Because you are a woman!’ he cried. ‘A woman!--what it is to be a -woman! It gives you a right to set every power of hell in motion, and -always to be spared the consequences; to upset every arrangement of the -world, and disturb the quiet, and put your fingers into every mess, and -always to be held blameless. That is your right. Oh, I like those -women’s rights! I should have knocked down the man who had interfered as -you have done; but, because you are a woman, I must come out of my -quiet, I must derange my life, to save you from your folly. God in -heaven! was that what those creatures, those slaves, those toys were -made for? To interfere--for ever to interfere--and to be spared the -consequences at any cost to us?’ - -I don’t know how I bore it all. I got tired after a while of the mere -physical effort of standing to listen to him. I did not try to answer at -first, and after the torrent began I could not, he spoke so fast and so -vehemently. But at length I turned from him, and walked slowly, as well -as I was able, to my own door. He paused for a moment as if in surprise, -and then turned and walked on with me, talking and gesticulating. -‘Nothing else would have disturbed me,’ he said; ‘I had made my -arrangements. How was I to tell that a fool, a woman,--would thrust -herself into it, and put it on my honour as a gentleman to free her? -What has honour to do with it? Why should I trouble more for a woman--an -old woman--than for a man? Bah! Ah, I will be rude; yes, I am rude; it -is a pleasure--it is a compensation. You are plain; you are old. You -have lost what charms. Therefore, what right have you to be considered? -Why should you not bear your own folly? Why should I interfere?’ - -‘Pray make yourself quite easy about me,’ I said, roused in my turn. ‘I -did not appeal to you on my account, and anything you can do for me -would be dearly purchased by submitting to this violence. Go your own -way, and leave me to manage my own concerns.’ - -He stopped, bewildered; and then he asked with confusion, ‘What do you -call your own concerns?’ - -‘Nothing that can any way affect you,’ I said, and in my passion I went -in at my own gate and closed it upon him. I stood on one side defying -him, and he stood on the other with confusion and amazement on his face. - -‘You do not wish my help any more?’ - -‘No more. I shall act for myself, without thought of you,’ I said. He -stood and gazed at me for a moment, and then suddenly he turned round -and left me. I looked after him as he walked rapidly away, and I confess -that, notwithstanding my indignation and pride, my heart sank. He was -the only creature who could help me, and I had driven him away. I had -taken once more upon myself the task which it had made me half frantic -to think of. My heart fell. I looked back upon my house, which had been -such a haven of quietness and rest for so many years, and felt that the -Eden was spoiled--that it was no longer my paradise. And yet I had -rejected the only help! I was very forlorn, standing there with my hand -upon my gate under the chilly October stars, having thrust all my -friends from me, and refused even the only possible deliverance. ‘I -cannot allow myself to be insulted,’ I said to myself, trying to get -some comfort from my pride, but that was cold consolation. I turned -round to go in, sighing and ready to sink with fatigue and trouble; and -then I suddenly heard moans coming from the house, and Mary calling and -beckoning from the open door. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - - -‘Oh, ma’am, the poor lady’s took bad--the poor dear lady’s took very -bad!’ This was Mary’s cry as she hurried me in. The windows were all -wide open to give her air. She was lying on the sofa gasping for breath, -her mouth and her eyes open, two hectic circles of red upon her cheeks, -and that wildly anxious look upon her face which always accompanies a -struggle for breath. I did not feel at all sure that she was not dying. -I called out to my cook to run instantly for the doctor. Both the women -had been in the room running about as she gave them wild orders, opening -the windows one after another, fetching her fans, eau-de-cologne, water, -wine--as one thing after another occurred to her. She stretched out her -hands to me as I came in, and grasped and pulled me to her; she said -something which I could not make out in her gasping, broken voice, and I -nodded my head and pretended to understand, saying, ‘Yes, yes,’ to calm -her--‘Yes, yes.’ It did not seem to matter what one said or promised at -such a moment. For some time, every gasp looked to me as if it must be -her last. I bathed her forehead with eau-de-cologne, I wetted her lips -with wine; I had hard ado not to cry out, too, in sympathy with her -distress. I shut down now one window, now another, fearing the cold for -her, and then opening them again, in obedience to her gestures to give -her air. I seem to see and to feel now, as I recall it, the room so -unlike itself, with the cold night air blowing through and through it, -and the great squares of blackness and night, with a bit of sky in one, -which broke confusedly the familiar walls, and made it doubtful to my -bewildered and excited mind whether I was out of doors or in--whether -the chairs and sofa and the lamp on the table had been transported into -the garden, or the garden had invaded the house. The wind made me -shiver; the flame of the lamp wavered even within its protecting glass; -darkness and mystery breathed in; and, in the centre absorbing all -thoughts, was this struggle between, as I thought, death and life. I -cannot tell how time passed, or how long we were in this suspense; but -it seemed to me that half the night must have been over before the -doctor came, in evening dress, with huge white wristbands, as if he were -going to perform an operation. Notwithstanding the anxiety I was in, -this fantastic idea flashed across my mind: for his cuffs were always -too long and white. But it was a relief beyond description when he came: -the responsibility, at least, seemed to be taken off my shoulders. I had -scarcely permitted myself to hope before that the paroxysm was already -beginning to subside; but now it became evident to me; and Dr. Houghton -gave her something, which at once relieved her. I sat down beside the -sofa, feeling half stupefied with the sensation of relief, and watched -her breathing gradually grow calmer, and the struggle abate. I think my -own brain had given way slightly under the tension. It seemed to me that -the room behind me was full of people whispering and flitting about, and -that all kinds of echoes and murmurs of voices were coming in at the -open windows. I suppose it was only my own maids, and Susan from the -Admiral’s next door who had come to see what was the matter; but the -strange sensation of being almost in the open air, and the worn-out -state in which I was, produced this effect. I could not move however to -put a stop to it. I could do nothing but sit still and watch. And thus -the scene of the first evening, when I brought this strange inmate home -to my house, reproduced itself, with another bewildering effect, before -my eyes. She was no longer dusty and miserable; her poor black dress was -neat and covered by my shawl; her hair had been elaborately dressed, -and, though a little disordered, still showed how carefully it had been -arranged; but otherwise, the attitude, the look, were exactly the same. -Her head was thrown back in utter exhaustion upon the dark velvet -pillow, which showed it in relief, like a white cameo on the dark -background of the _pietra dura_. Her eyes were softly closed, and her -lips. The doctor, who had gone away to write a prescription, was struck -by her wonderful beauty, as I had been that night. He started in his -surprise when he came back and saw how she had dropped asleep. He drew -me aside in his amazement; the discovery flashed upon him all in a -moment, as it had done on me. When a woman is very ill, when one’s mind -is full of anxiety for her, her beauty is the last thing one thinks of. -So that the sudden sight of her confounded him. ‘How beautiful she is!’ -he said in my ear with a certain agitation; and though I am only a -woman, I had been agitated, too, when I found it out. - -It was just when the doctor had said this that my eye was suddenly -caught by a strange figure at one of the open windows. It stepped on to -the sill, dark against the blackness without, and there paused a moment. -Had this occurred at any other time I should, no doubt, have been very -much frightened, I should have rushed to the window and demanded to know -what he wanted, with terror and indignation; but to-night I took it as a -matter of course. I did not even move, but kept still by the side of my -patient’s sofa and looked at him: and when he came in it seemed to me -the most natural thing in the world. He entered with a sudden, impetuous -movement as if something had pushed him forward. He advanced into the -middle of the room--into the little circle round the sofa. It was Mr. -Reinhardt. He had never been in my house before, or in any house on the -Green, and Dr. Houghton looked at him and looked at me with positive -consternation. For my part, I gave him no greeting. I did not say a -word. It seemed natural that he should come, that was all. - -There was a curious sort of smile upon his face; he was wound up to some -course of action or other. What he thought of doing I cannot tell. His -face looked as if he had come with the intention of taking her by the -shoulders and turning her out. I don’t know why I thought so, but there -was a certain mixture of fierceness, and contempt, and impatience in his -look which suggested the idea. ‘I have come to put a stop to all this. I -shall not put up with it for a moment longer.’ Though he did not speak a -word, this seemed to sound in my ears, somehow, as if he had said it in -his mind. But when he came to the sofa and saw her laid out in that dead -sleep, her face white as marble, the blue veins visible on her closed -eyelids, the breath faintly coming and going, he came to a sudden pause. -I think for the first moment he thought she was dead. He gave a short -cry, and then turned to me wildly, as if I were responsible. ‘You have -killed her,’ he said. He was in that state of suppressed passion in -which anything might happen. He would have railed at her had he found -her conscious, he would have railed at me if I would have let him: he -was half mad. - -‘Tell him,’ I said, turning to the doctor. Dr. Houghton was a man of the -world, and tried very hard not to look surprised. He put his hand upon -Mr. Reinhardt’s shoulder to draw him away: but he would not be drawn -away. He stood fast there, with his brows contracted and his eyes fixed -on the sleeping face: he listened to the doctor’s explanations without -moving or looking up. He said not a word further to any one, but drew a -chair in front of the sofa and sat down there with his eyes fixed upon -her. Oh, what thoughts must have been going through his mind. The woman -whom he had loved--I do not doubt passionately in his way--whom he had -married, whom he had cast away from him! And there she lay before him -unconscious, unaware of his presence, beautiful as when she had been -his, like a creature seen in a dream. - -‘He had better be got to go away before she wakes,’ Dr. Houghton said in -my ear. ‘Do you think you can make one more exertion, Mrs. Mulgrave, and -send him away? Can you hear what I am saying? She will be in a very weak -state, and any excitement might be dangerous. I don’t know what -connection there is between them, but can’t you send him away? Who is -this next?’ - -This time it was a very timid figure at the window, a halting, furtive -old man peeping in. And somehow this, too, seemed quite natural to me. I -felt that I knew everything that happened as if I had planned it all -beforehand. ‘It is his servant come to look for him,’ said I. And the -doctor went to the window with impatience and pulled poor old White in, -and shut it down. - -‘The draught goes through and through one,’ he said, with a shiver. It -was quite true; I was trembling with cold where I sat by the sleeping -woman’s side; but it had not occurred to me to shut the window; -everything seemed unchangeable, as if we had nothing to do with it -except to accept whatever happened. When White came in he looked round -him with great astonishment, and made me a very humble, frightened bow, -while he whispered and explained to the doctor how it was he had taken -the liberty. Then he gradually approached his master;--but when he saw -the figure on the sofa consternation swallowed up all his other -sentiments. He flung his arms above his head and uttered a stifled cry, -and then he rushed at his master with a sudden vehemence which showed -how deeply the sight had moved him. He put his hand upon Mr. Reinhardt’s -shoulder and shook him gently. - -‘Sir, sir!’ he cried; then stooped to his ear and whispered, ‘Master; -Mr. Reinhardt; master!’ Reinhardt took no notice of the old man, he sat -absorbed with his eyes fixed on that marble, beautiful face. ‘Oh, sir, -come with me! Oh! come with me, my dear master!’ said the old man. ‘You -know what I’m saying is for your good--you know it’s for your good. It’s -getting late, sir, time for the house to be shut up. Oh, Mr. -Reinhardt--sir, come away with me! come with me--do!’ - -Mr. Reinhardt pushed him impatiently away, but did not answer a word; he -never removed his eyes from her for a moment. They seemed to me to grow -like Charon’s eyes, like circles of fire, while he gazed at her. Was it -in wrath--was it in love? - -‘Mrs. Mulgrave, ma’am,’ cried White, turning to me, but always in a -voice which was scarcely above a whisper, ‘Oh, speak to him! It ain’t -for his good to sit and stare at her like that. I know what comes of it. -If he sits like that and looks to her it’ll all begin over again. He -ain’t a man that can stand it, he ain’t indeed. Oh, my lady, if you’ll -be a friend to him, speak and make him go.’ - -‘Ah!’ said a soft, sighing voice. ‘Ah! old White!’ We all started as if -a shell had fallen among us: and yet it was not wonderful that she -should wake with all this conversation going on by her bed--and besides -she had slept a long time, more than an hour. She had not changed her -position in the least, all she had done was to open her eyes. I don’t -know whether it was simply her supreme yet indolent self-estimation -which kept her from paying us the compliment of making any movement on -our account, or if it was from some consciousness that her beauty could -not be shown to greater advantage. But certainly she did not move. She -only opened her eyes, and said, ‘Ah, old White!’ - -But oh, to see how the man started, who was nearer to her than White! It -was as if a ball or a sword-stroke had gone through him. He sprang from -his chair, and then he checked himself and drew it close and sat down -again. He glanced round upon us all as if he would have cleared not only -the chamber but the world of us, had it been possible, and then he leant -over her and said sternly, ‘There are others here besides White.’ - -‘Ah!’ Either she was afraid of him or pretended to be; she clutched at -my sleeve with her hand, she shrank back a little, but still did not -change her attitude nor raise herself so as to see his face. - -‘I am here,’ he went on, his voice trembling with passion. ‘I whom you -have hunted, whose life you have poisoned. Oh, woman! you dare not look -at me nor speak to me, but you wrong me behind my back. You whisper -tales of me wherever I go. Here I had a moment’s peace and you have -ruined it. Tell these people the truth once in your life. Is it I that -am in the wrong or you?’ - -A frightened look had stolen over her face, her eyebrows contracted as -with fear. Her eyes became full of tears, and the corners of her -beautiful mouth quivered. Heaven forgive me! I asked myself was it all -feigning, or had she something kinder and better in her which I had -never seen till now? But those eyes, which were like great cups of light -filled with dew, once more turned to him. She remained immovable, -looking up to his face, when he repeated hoarsely, ‘You or I, which is -in the wrong?’ - -She answered with a shiver which ran all over her, ‘I.’ Her voice was -like a sigh. I did not know what his wrongs might be, but whatever they -were, at that moment there could be no doubt about it. He, a hard, -unsympathetic, inhuman soul, it must be he that was in the wrong, not -she, though she confessed it so sweetly; and if this effect was produced -upon me, what should it be upon him? - -Mr. Reinhardt shook like a leaf in the wind. He had not expected this. -It was a surprise to him. He had expected to be blamed. It startled him -so, that for the moment he was silent, gazing at her. But old White was -not silent. ‘Oh! master, master, come away, come home,’ he pleaded, -wringing his hands; and then he came and touched my shoulder and cried -like a child. ‘Speak to him, send him away!’ he cried. ‘It is for his -own good. If she speaks to him like that, if she keeps her temper, it is -all over; it will have all to be begun again.’ - -Reinhardt made a long pause. He looked as if he were gathering up his -strength to speak again, and when he did so, it was with the fictitious -heat of a man whose heart is melting. ‘How dare you say “I,”’ he said, -‘when you do not mean it?--when all your life you have said otherwise? -You have reproached me, stirred up my friends against me, kept your own -sins in the background and published mine. You have done this for -years, and now is it a new art you are trying? Do not think you can -deceive me,’ he cried, getting up in his agitation; ‘it is impossible. I -am not such a credulous fool.’ - -She kept her eyes on the ceiling, not looking at him; the moisture in -them seemed to swell, but did not overflow. ‘I may not change then?’ she -said, very low. ‘I may not see that I am wrong? I am not to be permitted -to repent?’ - -He turned from her and began to pace up and down the room; he plucked at -his waistcoat and cravat as though they choked him. More than once he -returned to the sofa as if with something to say, but went away again. -When White approached, he was pushed away with impatience, and once with -such force that he span round as he was driven back. This last repulse -seemed to convince him. ‘Be a fool, then, if you will, sir,’ he said -sharply, and withdrew altogether into a corner, where he watched the -scene. I do not think Reinhardt even saw this or anything else. He was -walking up and down hastily like a man out of his mind, struggling, one -could not but see, with a hundred demons, and tempting his fate. - -He came back again however in his tumultuous uncertainty, and bent over -her once more. ‘Talk of repentance--talk of change,’ he cried bitterly. -‘How often have you pretended as much? Do you hear me, woman?’ (bending -down so close that his breath must have touched her)--‘how often have -you done it? how often have you pretended? Oh, false, false as death!’ - -She put her hand upon his shoulder, almost on his neck. He broke away -from her with a hoarse cry; he made another wild march round the room. -Then he came back. - -‘Julia,’ he cried, ‘Julia, Julia, Julia! Mine!’ - -She lay still as a tiger that is going to spring. He fell on his knees -beside her, weeping, storming in his passion. Good Lord! was it my -doing? was I responsible? White gave me a furious look, and rushed out -of the room. The husband and wife were reconciled. - - - - -CHAPTER X - - -This is about the end of the story so far as I am concerned. He spent -the night there by her sofa, kissing her dress and her hands, and -watching her in a transport of passion and perhaps delight. For the last -I would not answer. It must have been at best a troubled joy; and a -man’s infatuation for a beautiful face is not what I call love, though -it is often a very tragic and terrible passion. He took her away in the -morning, but not to his own house. They went straight from mine to -London, that great receptacle of everybody’s misery and happiness. I saw -them both before they left, though only for a moment. She was still -lying on the sofa as when I left her, and the half disorder of her -hair, the exhaustion in her face, seemed rather to enhance her beauty. -Any one else would have looked jaded and worn out, but a faint flush of -triumph and satisfaction had stolen over her (partly perhaps produced by -her weakness) and woke the marble into life. She stretched out her hand -to me carelessly as I went in. She said with a smile, ‘You see my -feeling was right. I always trust my feelings. I knew you were the -person to do it, and you have done it. I felt it whenever I saw your -face.’ - -‘I hope it will be lasting, and that you may be happy,’ I said, -faltering, not knowing what tone to take. - -‘Oh, yes, it is to be hoped so. He is going to take me to London,’ she -answered carelessly. ‘I am quite sorry to leave your nice house, -everything has been so comfortable. It is small and it is plain, but you -know how to make yourself comfortable. I suppose when one has lived so -long one naturally does.’ - -This was all her thanks to me. The husband took the matter in a -different way. They had a fire lighted and coffee taken to them in the -drawing-room (which was left in the saddest confusion after all the -disturbance of the night); and it was when the carriage he had ordered -was at the door, and she had gone to make herself ready, that he came to -me. I was in the dining-room with my breakfast on the table, which I was -too much worn out to take. His face was very strange; it was full of -suppressed excitement, with a wild, strained look about the eyes, and a -certain air of heat and haste, though his colour was like ivory as -usual. ‘I have to thank you,’ he said to me, very stiffly, ‘and if I -said anything amiss in my surprise last night, I hope you will forgive -it. I can only thank you now; nothing else is possible. But I must add, -I hope we shall never meet again.’ - -‘I assure you, if we do, it shall not be with my will,’ said I, feeling -very angry as I think I had a right to be. - -He bowed, but made no reply; not because words failed him. I felt that -he would have liked nothing better than to have fallen upon me and -metaphorically torn me to pieces. He had been overcome by his own heart -or passions, and had taken her back, but he hated me for having drawn -him to do so. He saw the tragic folly of the step he was taking. There -was a gloom in his excitement such as I cannot describe. He had no -strength to resist her, but she was hateful to him even while he adored -her. And doubly hateful, without any counter-balancing attraction, was -I, who had as it were betrayed him to his fate. - -‘I trust your wife and you will be happy--now,’ I said, trying to speak -firmly. He interrupted me with a hoarse laugh. - -‘My wife!’ - -‘Is she not your wife?’ I said in alarm. - -He laughed again, even more hoarsely, with a sharp tone in the sound. -‘What do you call a woman who is taken back after--everything? Who is -taken back because---- What is she, do you suppose? What is he, the -everlasting dupe and fool! Don’t speak to me any more.’ He hurried away -from me, and then turned round again at the door. ‘I spoke a little -wildly perhaps,’ he said, with a smile, which was more disagreeable than -his rage, ‘without due thought for Mrs. Reinhardt’s reputation. Make -yourself quite easy--she is my wife.’ - -That was the last I saw of them. I was too much offended to go to the -door to see them leave the house, but it is impossible to describe the -relief with which I listened to the wheels ringing along the road as -they went away. Was it really true?--was this nightmare removed from me, -and my house my own again? I did not know whether to laugh or to cry. I -fell down on my knees and made some sort of confused thanksgiving. It -seemed to me as if I had been in this horrible bondage half my life. - -Mary came in about half-an-hour after to take away the breakfast things. -I had swallowed a cup of tea, but I had not been able to eat. Mary was -still disapproving, but quieter than at first; she shook her head over -the untouched food. ‘We’ll be having you ill next, ma’am,’ she said, -with an evident feeling that cook and she would in that case have good -reason to complain; and then, after a pause, she added severely, ‘I -don’t know if you knew, ma’am, as the lady is gone off in your best -shawl?’ - -‘My shawl!’ I had thought no more of it: but this sudden news took away -my breath. - -‘She was always fond of it,’ said Mary grimly. ‘She liked the best of -everything did that lady; and she couldn’t make up her mind to take it -off when she went away.’ - -Though I was so confounded and confused, I made an effort to keep up -appearances still. ‘She will send it back, of course, as soon as she -gets--home,’ I said; ‘as soon as she gets--her own things.’ - -‘I am sure I hope so, ma’am,’ said Mary, carrying off her tray. Her tone -was not one to inspire hope in the listener, and I confess that for the -rest of the morning my shawl held a very large place in my thoughts. It -was the most valuable piece of personal property I possessed. When I -used to take it out and wrap it round me, it was always with a certain -pride. It was the kind of wrap which dignifies any dress. ‘With that -handsome shawl, it does not matter what else you wear,’ Mrs. Stoke was -in the habit of saying to me; and though Mrs. Stoke was not a great -authority in most matters, she knew what she was saying on this point. I -said to myself, ‘Of course she will send it back,’ but I had a very -chill sensation of doubt about my heart. - -All the morning I sat still over the fire, with a longing to go and talk -to some one. For more than a week now, I had not exchanged a word with -my neighbours, and this was terrible to a person like me, living -surrounded by so many whose lives had come to be a part of mine. But I -had not the courage to take the initiative. I cannot tell how I longed -for some one to come, for the ice to be broken. And it was only natural -that people should be surprised and offended, and even have learned to -distrust me. For who could they suppose I was hiding away like -that--some mysterious sinner belonging to myself--some one I had a -special interest in? And then she had been recognized by Everard Stoke! - -At about twelve o’clock my quietness was disturbed by the sound of some -one coming; my heart began to beat and my face to flush, but it was only -old White with his fellow-servant, Mississarah, as he called her, -pronouncing the two words as if they were one. Their visit put me in -possession of the whole miserable story. It was like a tale of -enchantment all through. The man had been a mature man of forty or more, -buried in science and learning, when he first saw the beautiful creature -who since seemed to have been the curse of his life. She was an -innkeeper’s daughter, untaught and unrefined. He had tried to educate -her, married her, done everything that a man mad with love could do to -make her a lady--nay, to make her a decorous woman--but he had failed -and over again failed. They did not tell me, and I did not wish to hear, -what special sins she had done against him. I suppose she had done -everything that a wicked wife could do. She had been put into honourable -retirement with the hope of recovery again and again. Then she had been -sent away in anger. But every time the unfortunate husband had fallen -under her personal influence--the influence of her beauty--she had been -taken back. - -‘She hates him,’ poor White said, almost crying, ‘but he can’t resist -her. He’s mad, ma’am, mad, that’s what it is. He could kill hisself for -giving in, but he can’t help hisself. We’ve had to watch him night and -day as he shouldn’t hear her nor see her, for when her money’s done she -always comes back to him. He’ll kill her some day or kill hisself. -Mississarah knows as I’m speaking true.’ - -‘As true as the Bible,’ said Mississarah; but she was softer than he -towards the wife. ‘He was too wise and too good for her, ma’am,’ she -said, ‘a fool and a wise man can’t walk together--it’s hard on the wise -man, but maybe it’s a bit hard too on the fool. Folks don’t make -themselves. She mightn’t have been so bad----’ - -‘Oh, go along; go along, Mississarah, do,’ said White. ‘We’ll have to go -off from here where all was quiet and nice, and start again without -knowing no more than Adam. But he’ll kill her, some day, you’ll see, or -he’ll kill hisself.’ - -Mississarah was a north-country woman, and had a little feeling that her -master was a foreigner, and therefore necessarily more or less guilty; -but White was half a foreigner himself and totally devoted to his -master. When they had poured forth their sorrows to me, they went away -disconsolate, and their fears about leaving East Cottage were so soon -justified that I never saw them more. - -And then came my melancholy luncheon, which was set on the table for me, -and which I loathed the sight of. To escape from it I went into the -drawing-room, from which all traces of last night’s confusion were gone. -I was so miserable, and lonely, and weary that I think I dropped asleep -over the fire. I had been up almost all night, and there seemed nothing -so comfortable in all the world as forgetting one’s very existence and -being able to get to sleep. - -I woke with the murmur of voices in my ears. Lady Denzil was sitting by -me holding my hand. She gave me a kiss, and whispered to me in her soft -voice,--‘We know all about it--we know all about it, my dear,’ patting -me softly with her kind hand. I’m afraid I broke down and cried like a -child. I am growing old myself, to be sure, but Lady Denzil, thank -Heaven, might have been even my mother--and if you consider all the -agitation, all the disturbance I had come through! - -I think everybody on the Green called that day, and each visitor was -more kind than the other. ‘I shall always consider it a special -providence, however, that none of us called or were introduced to her,’ -Mrs. General Perronet said solemnly. But she was the only one who made -any allusion to the terrible guest I had been hiding in my house. They -took me out to get the air--they made me walk to the Dell to see the -autumn colour on the trees. They carried me off to dine at the Lodge, -and brought me home with a body-guard. ‘You are not fit to be trusted to -walk home by yourself,’ Lottie Stoke said, giving me her arm. In short, -the Green received me back with acclamations, as if I had been a -returned Prodigal, and I found that I could laugh over the new and most -unexpected _rôle_, which I thus found myself filling, as soon as the -next day. - -Some time after, I received my shawl in a rough parcel, sent by railway. -It was torn in two or three places by the pins it had been fastened -with, and had several small stains upon it. It was sent without a word, -without any apologies, with Mrs. Reinhardt’s compliments written outside -the brown paper cover, in a coarse hand. And that was the only direct -communication I ever had with my strange guest. Before Christmas however -there was a paragraph in some of the papers that L. Reinhardt, Esq., had -volunteered to accompany an expedition going to Africa in order to make -some scientific observations. There was a great crowded, enthusiastic -meeting of the Geographical Society, in which his wonderful devotion was -dwelt on and the sacrifice he was making to the interests of science. -And he was even mentioned in the House of Commons, where some great -personage took it upon him to say that in the arrangement of the -expedition the greatest assistance had been received from Mr. Reinhardt, -who, himself a man of wealth and leisure, had generously devoted his -energies to it, and smoothed away a great many of the difficulties in -the way--a good work for which science and his country would alike be -grateful to him, said the orator. Oh, me! oh, me! I looked up in Lady -Denzil’s face as Sir Thomas read out these words to us. Sir Thomas took -it quite calmly, and was rather pleased indeed that Mr. Reinhardt, by -getting himself publicly thanked in the House of Commons, had justified -the impulse which prompted himself, Sir Thomas Denzil, head as it were -of society on the Green, to call upon him. But my lady laid her soft old -hand on mine, and her eyes filled with tears. ‘Do not let us blame him, -my dear,--do not let us blame him,’ she said to me when we were alone. -She had known what temptation was. - - - - -LADY ISABELLA - - - - -CHAPTER I - - -There was one house in our neighbourhood which was perfect and above -criticism. I do not mean to say that it was a great house; but the very -sight of it was enough to make you feel almost bitter if you were poor, -and much pleased and approving if you were well-off. Naturally it was -the very next house to Mrs. Merridew’s, who had heaps of children and a -small income, and could not have things so very nice as might have been -wished. Mrs. Spencer and Lady Isabella lived within sight of her, with -but two holly-hedges between; the hedge on the side of the Merridews’ -house was bristly and untidy, but on the other side it was trimmed and -clipped till it looked like a barrier-wall of dark green Utrecht velvet; -and inside that inclosure everything was in perfection; the lawn was -mown every other day; there was never an obtrusive daisy on it, and no -fallen leaf presumed to lie for half an hour. The flower-beds which -surrounded it were more brilliant than any I ever saw--not mere vulgar -geraniums and calceolarias, but a continual variety, and always such -masses of colour. Inside everything was just as perfect. They had such -good servants, always the best trained of their class; such soft -carpets, upon which no step ever sounded harsh; and Mrs. Spencer’s ferns -were the wonder of the neighbourhood; and the flowers in the two -drawing-rooms were always just at the point of perfection, with never a -yellow leaf or a faded blossom. We poorer people sometimes tried to -console ourselves by telling each other that such luxury was monotonous. -‘Nothing ever grows and nothing ever fades,’ said Lottie Stoke, ‘but -always one eternal beautifulness; I should not like it if it were I. I -should like to watch them budding, and pick off the first faded leaves.’ -This Lottie said with confidence, though she was notoriously indifferent -to such cares, and declared, on other occasions, that she could not be -troubled with flowers, they required so much looking after; but poor -little Janet Merridew used to shake her head and groan with an innocent -envy that would bring the tears to her eyes; not that she wished to -take anything from her neighbours, but she loved beautiful things so -much, and they were so far out of her reach. - -Mrs. Spencer and Lady Isabella lived together in this beautiful house; -they were two friends so intimately allied, that I was in the habit of -saying they were more like man and wife than anything else. It was a -wonder to us all at Dinglefield how they managed their money matters in -respect to housekeeping. Many a little attempt I have seen to find this -out, and heard many a speculation; whether the house was Mrs. Spencer’s, -whether Lady Isabella only paid for her board, which of them was at the -expense of the carriage, or whether they kept a rigid account of all -their expenditure and divided it at the end of the year, as some -thought--nobody could make out. When they first came to Dinglefield it -was universally prophesied that it would not last. ‘Depend upon it, -these arrangements never answer,’ was the opinion of old Mr. Lloyd, who -was Mrs. Damerel’s father, and lived with them at the rectory. ‘They -will quarrel in three months,’ the Admiral said, who was not very -favourable to ladies. But when seven years had come and gone, Mrs. -Spencer and Lady Isabella still lived together and had not quarrelled. -By this time Lady Isabella, who was really quite young when they came, -must have been nearly five-and-thirty, and people had made up their -minds she would not marry now, so that the likelihood was, as it had -lasted so long, it would last all their lives. They did not, at the -first glance, look like people likely to suit each other. Mrs. Spencer -was a woman overflowing with activity; she was thin, she could not have -been anything else, so energetic was she, always in motion, setting -everybody right. She was shortsighted, or said she was shortsighted, so -far as the outer world was concerned, but in her own house, and in all -that involved her own affairs, she had the eye of a lynx; nothing -escaped her. It was she who kept everything in such beautiful order, and -made the lawns and the flowers the wonder of the neighbourhood. Lady -Isabella’s part was the passive one; she enjoyed it. She did not worry -her friend by pretending to take any trouble. She was full ten years -younger than Mrs. Spencer, inclining to be stout, pretty, but undeniably -inactive. I am afraid she was a little indolent, or, perhaps, in such -close and constant contact with her friend’s more active nature, Lady -Isabella had found it expedient to seem more indolent than she was. She -left all the burdens of life on Mrs. Spencer’s shoulders. Except the one -habitual walk in the day, which it was said Mrs. Spencer compelled her -to take, lest she should grow fat, we at Dinglefield only saw Lady -Isabella in her favourite easy-chair in the drawing-room, or her -favourite garden-bench on the lawn. Indolent--but not so perfectly -good-tempered as indolent people usually are, and fond of saying sharp -things without perhaps always considering the feelings of others. Indeed -she seemed to live on such a pinnacle of ease and wealth and comfort, -that she must have found it difficult to enter into the feelings of such -as were harassed, or careworn, or poor. She had a way of begging -everybody not to make a fuss when anything happened; and I am afraid -most of us thought that a selfish regard for her own comfort lay at the -bottom of this love of tranquillity. I don’t think now that we were -quite right in our opinion of her. She had to go through a great deal of -fuss whether she liked it or not; and I remember now that when she -uttered her favourite sentiment she used to give a glance, half-comic, -half-pathetic, to where Mrs. Spencer was. But she bore with Mrs. -Spencer’s ‘ways’ as a wife bears with her husband. Mrs. Spencer had all -the worry and trouble, such as it was. Plenty of money is a great -sweetener of such cares; but still, to be sure, it was easy for Lady -Isabella to sit and laugh and adjure everybody not to make a fuss, when -she herself had no trouble about anything, never had even to scold a -servant, or turn an unsatisfactory retainer away. - -We were never very intimate, they and I; but it happened, one autumn -evening, that I went in to call rather out of the regular order of calls -which we exchanged punctiliously. When I say we were not intimate, I -only mean that there was no personal and individual attraction between -us. Of course we knew each other very well, and met twice or thrice -every week, as people do at Dinglefield. I had been calling upon Mrs. -Merridew, and I cannot tell what fascination one found--coming out of -that full house, which was as tidy as she could make it, but not, alas! -as tidy as it might have been--in the next house, which was so wonderful -a contrast, where the regions of mere tidiness were overpast, and good -order had grown into beauty and grace. I suppose it was the contrast. I -found myself going in at the other gate almost before I knew it; and -there I found Lady Isabella alone, seated in the twilight, for it was -growing dark, in her favourite corner, not very far from the fire. She -was not doing anything; and as I went in, I fancied, to my great -surprise, that something like the ghost of a sigh came to greet me just -half a moment in advance of Lady Isabella’s laugh. She had a way of -laughing, which was not disagreeable when one came to know her, though -at first people were apt to think that she was laughing at them. - -‘Mrs. Spen is out,’ she said, ‘and I am quite fatigued, for I have been -standing at my window watching the Merridew babies in their garden. They -look like nice little fat puppies among the grass; but it must be damp -for them at this time of the year.’ - -‘Poor little things! there are so many of them that they get hardy; they -are not used to being looked after very much. Some people’s children -would be killed by it,’ said I. - -‘How lucky for the little Merridews that they are not those people’s -children!’ said Lady Isabella; ‘and I think they must like it, for it is -a great bore being looked after too much.’ As she spoke she leant back -in her chair with something that sounded like another sigh. ‘I was -rather fond of babies once,’ she added, with a laugh which quickly -followed the sigh. ‘Absurd, was it not? but don’t say a word, or Mrs. -Spen will turn me out.’ - -‘It would take more than that to part you two,’ said I. - -‘Well, I suppose it would. I think sometimes it would take a great deal. -Mrs. Mulgrave, do you know I have been turning it over in my mind -whether I could ask you to do something for me or not? and I think I -have decided that I will--that is not to say that you are to do it, you -know, unless you please.’ - -‘I think most likely I shall please--unless it is something very unlike -you,’ said I. - -‘Well, it is unlike me,’ said Lady Isabella; and though I could not make -out her face in the least, I felt sure, by the sound of her voice, and a -certain movement she made, and an odd little laugh that accompanied her -words, that she was blushing violently in the dark. ‘At least, it is -very unlike anything you know of me. You might not think it, perhaps,’ -she went on, with again that little constrained laugh, ‘but do you know -I was young once?’ - -‘My dear, I think you are young still,’ said I. - -‘Oh dear, no; that is quite out of the question. When a woman is over -thirty, she ought to give up all such ideas,’ said Lady Isabella, with -an amount of explanatoriness which I did not understand; and she began -to fold hems in her handkerchief in a nervous way. ‘When a woman is -thirty, she may just as well be fifty at once for any difference it -makes.’ - -‘I don’t think even fifty is anything so very dreadful,’ said I. ‘One’s -ideas change as one gets older; but twenty years make a wonderful -difference, whatever you may think.’ - -‘Perhaps, for some things,’ she said hastily. ‘And you must know, Mrs. -Mulgrave, in that fabulous time when I was young other marvels existed. -They always do in the fabulous period in all histories; and there was -once somebody who was--or at least he said he was--in love with me. -There, the murder is out,’ she said, pushing her chair a little further -back into the dark corner; and, to my amazement, her voice was full of -agitation, as if she had been telling me the secret of her life. - -‘My dear Lady Isabella,’ I said, ‘do you really expect me to be -surprised at that?’ - -‘Well, no, perhaps not,’ she said, with another laugh. ‘Not at the -simple fact. They say every woman has such a thing happen to her some -time in her life. Do you think that is true?’ - -‘The people in the newspapers say it can’t be true,’ said I, -‘now-a-days: though I don’t think I ever knew a woman who had not----’ - -‘Mrs. Spen will be back directly,’ cried Lady Isabella, hastily, ‘and I -don’t want her to know. I need not tell you that it all came to nothing, -for you can see that; but, Mrs. Mulgrave, now comes the funny part of -it. His regiment is coming to the barracks, and he will be within five -miles of us. Is it not odd?’ - -‘I don’t think it is at all odd,’ said I. ‘I dare say it is just in the -natural order. If it will be painful to you to meet him, Lady -Isabella----’ - -‘That is the funniest of all,’ she said. ‘It will not be in the least -painful to me to meet him. On the contrary, I want to meet him. It is -very droll, but I do. I should so like to see what he looks like now, -and if his temper is improved, and a hundred things. Besides, his sister -used to be a great friend of mine; and when we broke it off I lost -Augusta too. I want so much to know about her. Indeed, that is my chief -reason,’ she went on faltering, ‘for wishing to meet him.’ The words -were scarcely spoken when she burst into a little peal of laughter. -‘What a stupid I am,’ she cried, ‘trying to take you in. No, Mrs. -Mulgrave, let me be honest; it is not for Augusta I want to see him. I -should so like just to make sure--you know--if I was a very great fool, -or if he was worth thinking of after all. Now,’ with a little sigh, -‘when one is perfectly dispassionate--and cool----’ - -‘To be sure,’ said I, glad that it was dark, and she could not see me -smile; ‘and now that we have settled all that, tell me what I am to do.’ - -‘You are so very kind,’ she said; and then went off again in that -agitated laugh. ‘I am betraying myself frightfully; but I am sure you -will understand me, Mrs. Mulgrave, and not think anything absurd. You -are sure to get acquainted with him, you know; and if you would ask him -to the cottage--and ask us to meet him---- Good heavens! what a fool you -must think me,’ she cried: ‘but I should like it, I confess.’ - -‘But, my dear, I never give dinners,’ I said; ‘and to ask a man, a -strange man, to tea----’ - -‘He would be sure to come--to you,’ she said very quickly, as if her -breath had failed her. - -‘But, my dear, you are just as likely as I am--more likely--to meet him -at other houses. It would be impossible otherwise. Not that I should -mind asking him--though it is so odd to ask a man to tea.’ - -‘Hush!’ she said, suddenly leaning forward and grasping my arm. ‘Mrs. -Spen has told Lady Denzil--she meant it for kindness--so we shall not be -asked to meet him. And I do wish it, just for once. Hush, here she is -coming. I don’t want her to know.’ - -‘Then, my dear, I will do it,’ said I, grasping her hand. It trembled -and was hot, and she grasped mine again in an agitated, impetuous way. -Could this be Lady Isabella, who was always so calm and self-possessed? -I was rather afraid of her in general, for she had the name of being -satirical; and this was entirely a new light on her character. But just -then Mrs. Spencer came in, and scolded us for sitting in the dark, and -rang for lights; and then no more could be said. - -It was curious to look at the two when the lamp came. Mrs. Spencer -seated herself on her side of the fire, like the husband coming in from -his day’s work. She was a clever woman, but she was matter-of-fact, and -notwithstanding the long years they had lived together, was never quite -sure what was the meaning of her friend’s jibes and jests. It was this -as much as anything that gave a sort of conjugal character to their -relationship. Friends who were merely friends, and were so different, -would, one was inclined to suppose, have got rid of each other years -ago. But these two clung together in spite of all their differences, as -if there were some bond between them which they had to make the best of. -Mrs. Spencer began talking the moment she came in. - -‘I met Mrs. Damerel on the Green and she was asking for you, Isabella; -in short, she was quite surprised to see me out alone. “I thought Lady -Isabella always walked once a day at least,” she said. “And so she -pretends to do,” said I. And I told her what I said to you before I went -out about your health. Depend upon it your health will suffer. A young -woman at your age getting into these chimney-corner ways! Mrs. Mulgrave, -don’t you agree with me that it is very wrong?’ - -‘Don’t scold me, please,’ said Lady Isabella, out of her corner; ‘if you -both fall upon me, I am rather nervous to-night, and I know I shall -cry.’ - -At this Mrs. Spencer laughed; just as a husband would have done, taking -it for the merest nonsense; yet somehow propitiated, for there was an -inference of superior wisdom, importance, goodness on his--I mean -her--part, such as mollifies the marital mind. No one could have been -more utterly bewildered than she, had she known that what her friend -said was literally true. Lady Isabella had drawn a little screen between -her and the fire, which sheltered her also from the modest light of the -lamp; and I felt by the sound of her voice, that though, no doubt, she -could restrain herself, it would have been a relief to her to have shed -the tears which made her eyes hot and painful. She would have laughed, -probably, while she was shedding them, but that makes no difference. - -‘You don’t do enough, and Lady Denzil does too much,’ said Mrs. Spencer. -‘She surprises _me_, and I think I am as active as most people. I can’t -tell why she does it, I am sure. She is an old woman; it can’t be any -pleasure to her. There is a dinner-party there to-night, and another on -Saturday; and on Monday the dance for those young Fieldings that are -staying there--enough to kill a stronger woman. But these little, -fragile beings get through so much. She keeps up through it all and -never looks a pin the worse.’ - -‘Are you going there to-night?’ said I. I had scarcely said it when I -saw a little flutter behind the screen, and felt it was a foolish -question. But it was too late. - -‘No,’ said Mrs. Spencer, pointedly; and she looked straight at Lady -Isabella’s screen with a distinctness of intimation that this abstinence -was on her account, which would have puzzled me much but for the -previous explanation I had had. Words would have been much less -emphatic. She nodded her head a great many times, and she gave me a look -which promised further information. She was fond of her companion, and I -am sure would have sheltered her from pain at almost any cost to -herself; but yet she enjoyed the mystery, and the story which lay below. -‘All the officers from the barracks will be there,’ she added, after a -pause. ‘There is a Captain Fielding, an empty-headed--but they are all -empty-headed. I don’t care much about soldiers in an ordinary way, and I -dislike guardsmen. So does Isabella.’ - -And then there followed one of those embarrassing pauses which come -against one’s will when there is any secret undercurrent which everybody -knows and nobody mentions. Lady Isabella sat perfectly silent, and I, -who ought to have come to the rescue,--I, after running wildly in my -mind over every topic of conversation possible,--at last rose to take my -leave, not finding anything to say. - -‘Are you going, Mrs. Mulgrave?’ said Lady Isabella. ‘I will go to the -door with you. I must show you the new flowers in the hall.’ - -‘Good gracious, something must be going to happen,’ said Mrs. Spencer, -‘when Isabella volunteers to show you flowers. Don’t catch cold in the -draught; but it is too dark: you can’t possibly see any colour in them -now.’ - -‘Never mind,’ said Lady Isabella in an undertone; and she hurried out -leading the way,--a thing I had never seen her do before. She made no -pretence about the flowers when we got out to the hall. It was quite -dark, and of course I could see nothing. She grasped my hand in a -nervous, agitated way. She was trembling,--she, who was always so steady -and calm. It was partly from cold, to be sure, but then the cold was -caused by emotion. ‘His name is Colonel Brentford,’ she whispered in my -ear; and then ran up-stairs suddenly, leaving me to open the door for -myself. I have received a great many confidences in my life, but seldom -any so strange as this. I did not know whether to laugh or to be sorry, -as I walked home thinking over it. Lady Isabella was the last person in -the world to be involved in any romance; and yet this was romantic -enough. And it was so difficult to make out how I could perform my part -in it. Ask a guardsman, a strange colonel, a _man_, to tea! I could not -but reflect how foolish I was, always undertaking things that were so -difficult to perform. But I was pledged to do it, and I could not go -back. - - - - -CHAPTER II - - -I was to dine at Sir Thomas Denzil’s that same evening, and so no doubt -would Mrs. Spencer and Lady Isabella have done, but for that obstacle -which the elder lady had set up and in which the younger seemed -determined to foil her. I dressed to go out, with my heart beating a -little quicker than usual. For myself, as may be supposed, the officers -from the barracks were not very much to me; but the undertaking with -which I suddenly found myself burdened was very serious, and made me -nervous in spite of myself; and then the man’s very name was strange to -me. I thought over all my acquaintances, and everybody I had ever known; -but I could not remember any one of the name of Brentford. There were -the Brentwoods of Northam, and the Bentleys, and a great many names came -up to my mind which sounded like it at the first glance; but I could not -recollect a single Brentford among all my acquaintance. ‘I wonder who -his mother was?’ I said to myself; for, to be sure, there might be a -means of getting at him in that way; but it was impossible to find out -at so short a notice. I almost felt as if I were a designing woman when -I went into Lady Denzil’s drawing-room--and so I was, though I did not -want to marry any of those unconscious warriors either personally or by -proxy. Little did Lady Denzil suspect, as I went up to her--trying to -look as innocent as possible--and little did the men of war think, of my -evil projects, as they looked blandly at me, and set me down as that -harmless and uninteresting being--an old lady. The one who took me in to -dinner was an elderly, sober-looking, quiet gentleman. He was a Major -Somebody, and I don’t think he was so fine as the others. I drew breath -when I had seated myself under his wing. It was a comfort to me to have -escaped the young ones, who never forgive you, when they have to take -you in to dinner, for not being young and pretty. This was a man who had -no pretensions above me--a man, probably, with a wife of his own and a -large family, whom one could speak to freely and ask questions of. But -before I would go so far, I made what private inspection I could. It was -quite evident to me where the gap was which Mrs. Spencer and Lady -Isabella ought to have filled. It had been hastily filled up by Lottie -and Lucy Stoke, who were very much more to the taste of the guardsmen, I -don’t doubt, than if they had been their own grandmothers, ladies of -county influence and majesty. Lucy, whose blue eyes were dancing in her -head with mingled fright and delight to find herself in such a grand -party, sat by a handsome dark man, to whom my eyes returned a great many -times. He looked the kind of man whom a woman might be faithful to for -years. Could it be _him?_ He was amused with Lucy’s excitement and her -fright; perhaps he was flattered by it as men so often are. After a -little while, I could see he took great pains to make himself agreeable; -and I felt quite angry and jealous, though I am sure I could not have -told why. - -‘Perhaps you recognize him?’ my companion said to me, as he caught me -watching this pair across the table. ‘He is one of the Elliots. His -father had a place once in this neighbourhood. I am sure you must -recollect his face.’ - -‘No, indeed,’ said I, denying by instinct. ‘That gentleman opposite--is -his name Elliot? I was looking at the young lady by him. She is a little -friend of mine, and I am petrified to find her here. I did not think she -was out.’ - -‘That is why she likes it so well, I suppose,’ said the Major with a -little sigh. - -‘I am afraid you don’t enjoy it much,’ said I. ‘Pray forgive me for -being so very stupid. I should like to know which of these gentlemen is -Colonel Brentford. I have heard his name--I should like to know which is -he.’ - -‘He is sitting beside Lady Denzil,’ said my companion shortly; and he -said no more. His brevity startled me. I think Colonel Brentford from -that moment began to lose in my opinion. I grew more and more frightened -by the thought of what I had undertaken to do. I began to think it was a -great pity Lady Isabella, a sensible woman, should waste a thought upon -this soldier--and all for no reason in the world but that my Major -announced curtly, ‘He is sitting beside Lady Denzil,’ without adding a -word to say, ‘I like him,’ or ‘He is a very nice fellow,’ or anything -agreeable. I concluded he must be a bear or a brute, or something -utterly frivolous and uninteresting. It never occurred to me that it -might be my Major and not the unknown Colonel who was to blame. And I -had pledged myself to ask such a man as this to tea! - -We had gone back to the drawing-room before I got what I could call a -good look at him; and then I was even more disappointed to find that he -was as far from looking a brute or a bear as he was from looking a hero. -There was nothing remarkable about him; he was neither handsome nor -ugly; he was neither young nor old. He stood and talked a long time to -Lady Denzil, and his voice was pleasant, but the talk was about -nothing--it was neither stupid nor clever. He was a man of negatives it -seemed. I was dreadfully disappointed for Lady Isabella’s sake. I could -not help figuring to myself what her feelings would be. No doubt he had -been young when they had known each other, and youth has often a -deceiving glitter about it, which never comes to anything. Chance threw -my Major in my way again at that advanced period of the evening. He said -to me, ‘We have a long drive and the night is chilly, and I wish I could -get my young fellows into motion. These proceedings don’t always agree -with the taste of a man at my time of life; and my wife is always -fidgety when I am out late--it is her way.’ - -‘Mrs. Bellinger is not here to-night?’ I said. - -‘No, we are quite new to the place, and Lady Denzil has not had time to -call yet: my wife, I am sure, would be delighted if you would go and see -her. She is rather delicate, and far from her friends. Colonel Brentford -is the only one----’ And here he stopped short with an abruptness that -made me hate Colonel Brentford and repent my temerity more and more. - -‘I am so sorry you don’t seem to have a favourable opinion of him,’ I -said; ‘not that I know him, but I have heard some friends of mine---- -Oh, I am sure you did not mean to say a word against him----’ - -‘Against him!’ said the Major, stammering; ‘why, he is my best friend! -He is the kindest fellow I know! He goes and sits with my wife when -nobody else thinks of her. I don’t want to find fault with any one; but -Brentford--he is the man I am most grateful to in all the world!’ - -‘Oh, I beg your pardon!’ I cried. Good heavens! what a very bad manner -the man must have had to give one such a false idea. ‘I shall do myself -the pleasure of calling on Mrs. Bellinger early next week,’ I said; -after all, it did not seem so insane to ask a man who was in the habit -of going to sit with an invalid lady. And then a kind of inspiration -stole into my mind. Afternoon tea! that was the thing; not an evening -party, with all its horrors--which every man hates. - -I don’t know what Lady Denzil could think of me that evening; but I -stayed until everybody had gone, with a determination to hear something -more about him. I think she was surprised; but then she is one of those -women who understand you, even when they don’t in the least know what -you mean. That seems foolish, but it is quite true. She saw I had a -motive, and she forgave me, though she was tired, and Sir Thomas looked -surprised. - -‘The fly has never come back for me,’ I said. ‘I must ask you to let -George walk across the Green with me. I have got my big shawl, and I -don’t mind the cold.’ - -‘Wait a little now they have all gone, and let us have a talk,’ said -Lady Denzil. What a blessing it is to have to do with a woman who -understands! - -‘Our new friends are very much like all the others, I think,’ said I. -‘Captain Fielding seems nice. Is he brother or cousin to those pretty -girls?’ - -‘Brother, or I should not have him here,’ said Lady Denzil; ‘I have no -confidence in cousins. Colonel Brentford looks sensible. I should not -have thought him likely to do anything so foolish as that business you -know. I suppose Mrs. Spencer must have told you.’ - -‘No,’ I said, with a little thrill running through me; for, of course, -it was something about Lady Isabella that was meant--and I was actually -an agent employed in the matter, and knew, and yet did not know. - -‘Lady Isabella and he were once engaged to be married,’ said Lady -Denzil, speaking low. ‘Don’t mention this, unless Mrs. Spencer tells -you; but she is sure to tell you. And they quarrelled about some silly -trifle. Mrs. Spencer says he flew into a passion, and that Lady Isabella -had to give him up on account of his temper. He does not look like it, -does he? Mrs. Spencer is most anxious that they should not meet.’ - -‘Do you think it is right to prevent people meeting, if they wish it?’ -said I; ‘perhaps Lady Isabella might think differently.’ - -‘It is best never to interfere,’ said Lady Denzil; ‘that is my -principle--unless I am sure I can be of real use. Are you going now? You -must wrap up well, for the night is rather cold.’ - -‘So my Major thought,’ I said to myself, as I went across the Green; and -I could not but smile at the thought of the poor gentleman buttoning up -his great-coat as he drove with all those wild young fellows on their -drag. Very likely he felt they might upset him at any moment driving -through the dark--and it was a very dark night. My sympathies were much -attracted by this good man. He had to give in to them a great deal, and -put up with their foolish ways. I could not help wondering whether he -had ever had such a commission given to him as mine; and then I -reflected that Lady Isabella was not even young to be humoured and have -her fancies given in to. The Colonel looked a sensible, commonplace sort -of man, with whom nobody had any right to quarrel. And perhaps Mrs. -Spencer was right in doing her utmost to keep them apart. Perhaps Mrs. -Spencer was right; but then, on the other hand, Lady Isabella was old -enough to know her own mind and decide for herself. Such were the -various thoughts that passed through my mind as I took that little walk -through the dark with George behind me. It was a perplexing business -altogether. But that I should be mixed up in it! I could not but take -myself to task, and ask myself what call had I to be thus mixed up with -every sort of foolish business--a woman of my age? - -I saw Lady Isabella two days after. She came running in quite early, -before luncheon, to my extreme surprise, and gave me a wistful look of -inquiry which went to my very heart. She could not say anything however, -for the Fielding girls were with me, talking of nothing but the dance -which Lady Denzil was going to give for them. They assailed Lady -Isabella directly, the moment she entered. - -‘Oh, why are not you coming on Monday? Oh, Lady Isabella, do change your -mind and come. It will be such a pretty dance. And all the officers are -coming, so that there will be no want of partners. Lady Denzil says she -always asks more men than ladies. Oh, Lady Isabella, do come!’ - -‘That is very wise of Lady Denzil,’ said Lady Isabella; ‘but I wonder -how the extra men like it. No; I don’t think I shall go. I shall see -all the officers, perhaps, another time.’ And with that she gave me -another look which made me tremble, holding me to my word. - -‘Perhaps you don’t dance,’ said Emma Fielding. ‘Oh, it is such a pity -you won’t come.’ - -‘My husband won’t let me,’ said Lady Isabella; ‘and, by the by, she will -be waiting for me now. I had something to ask, but never mind, another -time will do.’ - -She asked the question all the same with her eyes. She looked at me -almost sternly, inquiring, as plainly as words, ‘Have you done it? Is my -commission fulfilled?’ which I could only answer by a deprecating, -humble look, begging her as it were to have patience with me. She shook -her head slightly as she shook hands with me, and smiled, and then she -sighed. That was the worst of all. I read a reproach in the sound of -that sigh. - -‘What does she mean by her husband?’ said Edith Fielding. ‘Is she -married, and does she call her husband “she”? Isn’t she very queer? That -sort of person always bewilders me.’ - -I could not help saying, ‘I dare say she does,’ with a certain -irritation. As if it were within the bounds of possibility that -creatures like these should understand Lady Isabella. And yet, alas! if -she were entering into the lists with them, how could she ever stand -against them? She, five-and-thirty, and a little stout; they, eighteen -and nineteen. Is there a man in the world that would not turn to the -young ones, and leave the mature woman? That was the question I asked -myself. I don’t think I am cynical; I have not a bad opinion of my -fellow-creatures in general; but still there are some matters which one -knows beforehand. The first thing to be done however was to make -acquaintance with Colonel Brentford as soon as possible. I had promised -to go to the dance, to take Lottie and Lucy Stoke; but then he would be -dancing; he would not want to stand in a corner and talk to an old woman -like me. Lady Isabella, at five-and-thirty, had given up dancing; but -this man, though he was nearly five years older, of course did not think -of giving it up. Most likely he felt himself on the level of the -Fieldings and Stokes and the other girls, not on that of his old love. -Men and women are so different. But, at all events, I would do nothing -before Monday: and in the meantime, I had promised to go and call on -Major Bellinger’s invalid wife. There had been something about him that -pleased me. Not that he was attractive; but he had the look of a man who -was not always at his ease, who had cares and perplexities in his life, -and perhaps could not always make both ends meet. I always recognize -that look. I am not very rich now, and never will be; but I once was -poor, quite poor, and I know the look of it, and it goes to my heart. - -Accordingly, the first day I was at liberty I drove into Royalborough to -see Mrs. Bellinger. They were in a little house--one of the houses which -people take for the purpose of letting them to the officers. It was -opposite to a tall church, a three-storied house, with two rooms on each -floor all the way up. There was a little oblong strip of garden in front -and another oblong strip behind; and everything about it gave evidence -that it was let furnished. But the little garden was rather pretty, and -there was a virginian creeper hanging in rich red wreaths upon the -walls. The drawing-room was the front room on the ground-floor. When I -was shown in, it seemed to me that I interrupted the prettiest domestic -scene. A lady, who looked very fragile and weak, though not ill, lay on -a sofa in the room. Of course, she was Mrs. Bellinger. She was about -forty, perhaps,--not much older than Lady Isabella. She had a lovely -invalid complexion, a soft, delicate flush which came and went with -every movement; her hair was beginning to get gray, and was partially -covered by a cap. She looked very weak, very worn, very sweet and -smiling, and cheerful. Near her, on a low chair, sat a gentleman with a -book in his hand. He had been reading aloud, and had just stopped when I -came to the door; and in front of him, at a little distance, seated on a -stool, just by her mother’s feet, sat a girl of seventeen or so, with -her head bent over her work. This was Edith, the Major’s favourite -child, the only one at home. And the gentleman who had been reading -aloud was Colonel Brentford, the man about whom my mind had been busy -night and day. - -I took the chair that was given me, and I began to talk, but all the -freedom and ease were taken out of me. I felt as if I had received a -blow. Poor Lady Isabella! I had already perceived that to put herself in -competition with the young girls would be a hopeless notion indeed; but -it was no longer the girls in general, some of whom were empty-headed -enough, but Edith Bellinger in particular. Poor Lady Isabella! If she -saw him once like this, I said to myself, she would not wish to see him -again! - -‘My husband told me you were going to be so good,’ said the invalid. ‘He -told me how kind you had been, asking for me. I am really quite well for -me, and I am sure I could do a great deal more if they would but let me. -Hush, Edie! I am dreadfully petted and spoiled, Mrs. Mulgrave. They make -a baby of me, and Colonel Brentford is so kind as to come and read----’ - -‘It is very good of him, I am sure,’ I said mechanically; and then, -without knowing what I was doing, I looked at Edith. She was quite -unconscious of any meaning in my look. She smiled at me in return with -all the sweet composure yet shyness of a child. Would he be equally -unconscious? I raised my eyes and looked steadily at him. He bore my -scrutiny very well indeed. I knew there was an angry flush on my face -which I could not quite conceal, and an eager look of inquiry. It -puzzled him, there was no doubt. A vague sort of wonder came into his -eyes, and he smiled too. What could the old woman mean? I am sure he was -thinking. Edith was very pretty, but then a great many girls are -pretty. What was particular about her was her sweet look, which moved me -even though I was so hostile to her. One saw she was ready to run -anywhere, to do anything, at the least little glance from her mother. -She was mending stockings--the homeliest work--and she looked such a -serviceable, useful creature--so different from those Fielding girls, -who thought of nothing but the dance. To be sure, the stockings and the -useful look were much more likely to please me than to attract a -guardsman; but I did not think of that in my sudden jealousy of her. -Poor, poor Lady Isabella! - -And he did not go away, as he would have done had this been a chance -visit. He kept his place, and joined in the conversation as if he -belonged to the house. When I asked Mrs. Bellinger to come and see me, -he seconded me quite eagerly. He was sure she was able, he said; while -Edith put her pretty head on one side, and looked very wise and very -doubtful. - -‘Oh, Colonel Brentford, please don’t be so rash--please don’t!’ said -Edith. ‘It is very, very kind of Mrs. Mulgrave, but we must think it -over first--we must indeed.’ - -‘I will send my pony,’ said I; ‘he is the steadiest little fellow, and -it is such a pretty drive. The weather is so mild that I am sure it -would do you good.’ - -‘Now, Edith, please let me go,’ said the invalid. ‘Do not be such a -little hard-hearted inexorable--Colonel Brentford is the kindest of you -all. He is ready to let me have a little indulgence, and so is the -Major, Mrs. Mulgrave; but Edith is the most odious little tyrant----’ - -‘Mamma dear, it is for your good,’ said Edith with the deepest gravity; -and the mother and the friend looked at each other and laughed. How -pretty it was to see her shaking her young head, looking so serious, so -judicious, so full of care! ‘No wonder if he is fond of her,’ I said to -myself. I felt my own heart melting; but, all the same, I steeled it -against her, feeling that I was on the other side. - -‘And I am sure,’ I said with an effort--for it seemed almost like -encouraging him--‘I shall be very glad to see Colonel Brentford too; if -you will take the trouble to come so far for a cup of tea?’ - -He said it would give him the greatest pleasure, with a cordiality that -made me cross, and got up and took his leave, shaking hands with me in -his friendliness. Why was he so friendly, I wonder? When he was gone, -Mrs. Bellinger launched into his praises. - -‘You must not think it is only me he is good to,’ she said; ‘he is kind -to everybody. People laugh at the guardsmen, and make fun of them; but -if they only knew George Brentford! Because they see him everywhere in -society, they think he is just as frivolous as the rest. But if they -knew what kind of places he goes to when nobody sees him--as we do, -Edith?’ - -‘Yes, mamma,’ said Edith, as calm as any cabbage. The mother was quite -moved by her gratitude and enthusiasm, but the daughter took it all very -quietly. ‘He means to be very kind, but he is rash,’ said the little -wise woman; ‘he gives the boys knives and things, though he knows they -always cut themselves. He thinks so much more of pleasing people than of -what is right. If Mrs. Mulgrave would leave it open, mamma dear, and -then we could see how you are.’ - -This was how it was finally decided; indeed, before I left, even after -that first visit, I could see that things were generally decided as -Edith thought best. They were to come on Saturday--the Saturday before -the ball--if Mrs. Bellinger was well enough; and Colonel Brentford was -to come too. I asked myself all the way back what Lady Isabella would -think of the arrangement. That was not how she expected to meet him. She -had wanted to see her old love--a man whom (I could not but feel) she -had never quite put out of her heart--perhaps only to prove herself, -perhaps to try if any lingerings of the old tenderness remained in him. -And now that it was arranged, and she was really to see him, it was in -company of a young bright creature who, there could be little doubt, was -all to him that Lady Isabella had ever been. What a shock and bitter -dispelling of all dreams for her! but yet, perhaps, to do that at once -and at a blow was kindest after all. - - - - -CHAPTER III - - -As I drove home, strangely enough, I met the ladies on their afternoon -walk. Mrs. Spencer was in advance as usual, talking rapidly and with -animation, while Lady Isabella lagged a step behind, pausing to look at -the ripe brambles and the beautiful ruddy autumn leaves. - -‘Just look what a bit of colour,’ she was saying when I came up; but -Mrs. Spencer’s mind, it was evident, was full of other things. - -‘I wonder how you can care for such nonsense,’ she said; ‘I never saw -any one so unexcitable. After me fussing myself into a fever, to -preserve you from this annoyance! and I knew it would be too much for -you----’ - -‘Hush!’ said Lady Isabella, emphatically, and then Mrs. Spencer -perceived the pony carriage for the first time, and restrained herself. -She changed her tone in a moment, and came up to me with her alert step -when I drew the pony up. - -‘What a nice afternoon for a drive,’ she said; ‘have you been at -Royalborough?--is there anything going on? I have dragged Isabella out -for a walk, as usual much against her will.’ - -‘I have been to make a call,’ I said, ‘on a poor invalid, the wife of -Major Bellinger.’ - -‘Oh, yes! I know, I know,’ said Mrs. Spencer; ‘he is to be the -barrack-master. He rose from the ranks, I think, or something--very -poor, and a large family. I know quite what sort of person she would be. -The kind of woman that has been pretty, and has quite broken down with -children and trouble--I know. It was very good of you; quite like -yourself.’ - -‘If it was very good of me, I have met with a speedy reward,’ said I, -‘for I have quite fallen in love with her--and her daughter. They are -coming to me on Saturday--if Mrs. Bellinger is able--for afternoon tea.’ - -‘I know exactly the kind of person,’ said Mrs. Spencer, nodding her -head. ‘Ah, my dear Mrs. Mulgrave, you are always so good, and so----’ - -‘Easily taken in,’ she was going to say, but I suppose I looked very -grave, for she stopped. - -‘Is the daughter pretty, too?’ said Lady Isabella: a flush had come upon -her face, and she looked at me intently, waiting, I could see, for a -sign. She understood that this had something to do with the commission -she had given me. And I was so foolish as to think she had divined my -thoughts, and had fixed upon Edith, by instinct, as an obstacle in her -way. - -‘Never mind the daughter,’ I said hastily, ‘but do come on Saturday -afternoon, and see if I am not justified in liking the mother. I dare -say they are not very rich, but they are not unpleasantly poor, or, if -they are, they don’t make a show of it; and a little society, I am sure, -would do her all the good in the world.’ - -This time Lady Isabella looked so intently at me, that I ventured to -give the smallest little nod just to show her that I meant her to come. -She took it up in a moment. Her face brightened all over. She made me a -little gesture of thanks and satisfaction. And she put on instantly her -old laughing, lively, satirical air. - -‘Of course we shall come,’ she said, ‘even if this lady were not sick -and poor. These qualities are great temptations to us, you are aware; -but even if she were just like other people we should come.’ - -‘Well, Isabella!’ said Mrs. Spencer, ‘you who are so unwilling to go -anywhere!’ but of course she could not help adding a civil acceptance of -my invitation; and so that matter was settled more easily than I could -have hoped. - -I saw them the next day--once more by accident. We were both calling at -the same house, and Lady Isabella seized the opportunity to speak to me. -She drew me apart into a corner, on pretence of showing me something. -‘Look here,’ she said, with a flush on her face, ‘tell me, do you think -me a fool--or worse? That is about my own opinion of myself.’ - -‘No,’ I said, ‘indeed I don’t. I think you are doing what is quite -right. This is not a matter which concerns other people, that you should -be guided by them, but yourself.’ - -‘Oh, it does not concern any one very much,’ she said, with a forced -laugh. ‘I am not so foolish as to think _that_. It is a mere piece of -curiosity--folly. The fact is, one does not grow wise as one grows old, -though of course one ought. And--he is--really to be there on Saturday? -Despise me, laugh at me, make fun of me!--I deserve it, I know.’ - -‘He is really to come--I hope.’ I said it faltering, with a sense of -fright at my own temerity: and Lady Isabella gave me a doubtful, -half-suspicious look as she left me. Now that it had come so near I grew -alarmed, and doubted much whether I should have meddled. It is very -troublesome having to do with other people’s affairs. It spoiled my rest -that night, and my comfort all day. I almost prayed that Saturday might -be wet, that Mrs. Bellinger might not be able to come. But, alas! -Saturday morning was the brightest, loveliest autumn morning, all -wrapped in a lovely golden haze, warm and soft as summer, yet subdued -and chastened and sweet as summer in its heyday never is: and the first -post brought me a note from Edith, saying that her mamma felt so well, -and was so anxious to come. Accordingly, I had to make up my mind to it. -I sent the pony carriage off by twelve o’clock, that the pony might have -a rest before he came back, and I got out my best china, and had my -little lawn carefully swept clean of faded leaves, and my flower-beds -trimmed a little. They were rather untidy with the mignonette, which had -begun to grow bushy, but then it was very sweet; and the asters and red -geraniums looked quite gay and bright. My monthly rose, too, was covered -with flowers. I am very fond of monthly roses; they are so sweet and so -pathetic in autumn, remonstrating always, and wondering why summer -should be past; or at least that is the impression they convey to me. I -know some women who are just like them, women who have a great deal to -bear, and cannot help feeling surprised that so much should be laid upon -them; yet who keep on flowering and blossoming in spite of all, -brightening the world and keeping the air sweet, not for any reason, but -because they can’t help it. My visitor who was coming was, I think, -something of that kind. - -The first of the party to arrive were Major Bellinger and Colonel -Brentford; they had walked over, and the Major was very eloquent about -my kindness to his wife. ‘Nothing could possibly do her so much good,’ -he said. ‘I don’t know how to thank you, Mrs. Mulgrave. Brentford says -he made up his mind she must go the very first minute, whether she could -or not--he said he was so sure you would do her good.’ - -‘I am very glad Colonel Brentford had such a favourable opinion of me,’ -I said. - -Then I stopped short, feeling very much embarrassed. If Lady Isabella -had only come in _then_, before the ladies arrived--but, of course, she -did not. She came only after Mrs. Bellinger was established on the sofa, -and Edith had taken off her hat. They looked quite a family party, I -could not but feel. Colonel Brentford, probably, was very nearly as old -as the Major himself, and quite as old as the Major’s wife; but then he -had the unmarried look which of itself seems a kind of guarantee of -youth, and his face was quite free of that cloud of care which was more -or less upon both their faces. He was standing outside the open window -with Edith when Mrs. Spencer and Lady Isabella came in. He did not see -them. He was getting some of the monthly roses for her, which were high -up upon the verandah. It was so high that it was very seldom we were -able to get the flowers; but he was a tall man, and he managed it. Lady -Isabella perceived him at once, and I saw a little shiver run over her. -She gave Mrs. Bellinger, poor soul, but a very stiff salutation, and sat -down on a chair near the window. She did not notice the girl. She had -not thought of Edith, and no sort of suspicion as yet had been roused in -her. She sat down quietly, and waited until he should come in. - -How strange it was!--all bright full sunshine, no shadow or mystery to -favour the romance; the Bellingers and Mrs. Spencer talking in the most -ordinary way; the Colonel outside, pulling down the branch of pale -roses; and Edith smiling, shaking off some dewdrops that had fallen from -them upon her pretty hair. All so ordinary, so calm, so peaceable--but -Lady Isabella seated there, silent, waiting--and I looking on with a -chill at my very heart. He was a long time before he came in--talking to -Edith was pleasant out in that verandah, with all the brilliant sunshine -about, and the russet trees so sweet in the afternoon haze. - -‘You shall have some,’ he said; ‘but we must give some to your mother -first.’ - -And then he came in with the branch in his hand. I don’t know whether -some sense of suppressed excitement in the air struck him as he paused -in the window, but he did stand still there, and looked round him with -an inquiring look. He had not left so many people in the room as were in -it now, and he was surprised. He looked at me, and then I suppose my -agitated glance directed him, in spite of myself, to Lady Isabella. He -gave a perceptible start when he saw her, and smothered an exclamation. -He recognized her instantly. His face flushed, and the branch of roses -in his hand trembled. All this took place quite unobserved by anybody -but me, and, perhaps, Edith, outside the window, who was coming in after -him, and now stood on tiptoe, trying to see what was going on and -wondering. Lady Isabella looked up at him with a face so uncertain in -its expression that my terror was great. Was she angry? Was she going to -betray herself, and show the nervous irritability which possessed her? -She was very pale--white to her lips; and he so flushed and startled. -She looked up at him, and then her lips parted and she smiled. - -‘I think _I_ should like one of the roses,’ she said. - -Colonel Brentford did not say a word. He made her a bow, and with a -trembling hand (how it did tremble!--it made me shake with sympathy to -see it) he detached a spray from the great branch, which was all pink -with roses, and gave it to her; and then he went away into the furthest -corner, throwing down his roses on a table as he passed, and stared out -of the window. To him the meeting was quite unexpected, I -suppose--something utterly startling and sudden. The talk went on all -the same. Edith, surprised, came in, and stood with her back to the open -window, looking after him in a state of bewilderment. He had gone in -smiling, to give her mother the flowers; and now he was standing with -his back to us, the flowers cast down anywhere. As for Lady Isabella, -she had buried her face in her roses, and sat quite silent, taking no -notice of any one. Such was this meeting, which I had brought about. And -all the time I had to talk to Major Bellinger, and look as if I were -attending to what he said. - -‘Does Edith sing?’ I asked in desperation. ‘I am so glad! Do sing us -something, my dear--oh, anything--and the simpler the better. How nice -it is of you not to want your music! My piano is not in very good order, -I play so seldom now; but it will not matter much to your young fresh -voice.’ - -I said this, not knowing what I was saying, and hurried her to the -piano, thinking, if she sang ever so badly, it still would be a blessed -relief amid all this agitation and excitement. - -‘I only sing to mamma,’ said Edith. ‘I will try if you wish it; but papa -does not care for my singing--and Colonel Brentford hates it,’ she -added, raising her voice. - -There was a little spite, a little pique, in what Edith said. She was -confounded by his sudden withdrawal, and anxious to call him back and -punish him. This however was not the effect her words produced. Colonel -Brentford took no notice, and kept his back towards us; but on another -member of our little company the effect was startling enough. - -‘Colonel Brentford!’ said Mrs. Spencer with a little shriek; and her -nice comfortable commonplace talk with Mrs. Bellinger came to an end at -once. She got up and came to me, and drew me into another corner. ‘For -Heaven’s sake,’ she said, ‘tell me, what did the girl mean? Colonel -Brentford! He is the one man in all the world whom we must not meet. -That is not him surely at the window? Oh, good heavens! what is to be -done? I wanted to tell you, but I never had an opportunity. Mrs. -Mulgrave, he was once engaged to Isabella. They had a quarrel, and it -nearly cost her her life. I think I would almost have given mine to -preserve her from this trial. Has she seen him?--Oh, my poor dear! my -poor dear!’ - -Let anybody imagine what was the scene presented in my drawing-room now. -Colonel Brentford at the other end, with his back to us all, gazing out -at the window: Major Bellinger at one side of the room, and his wife at -the other, suddenly deserted by the people they had been respectively -talking to, looking across at each other with raised eyebrows and -questioning looks. Edith, confused and half-offended, stood before the -closed piano, where I had led her; and Mrs. Spencer holding me by the -arm in the opposite corner to that occupied by Colonel Brentford, was -discoursing close to my ear with excited looks and voluble utterance. -And these people were strangers to me, not like familiar friends, who -could wait for an explanation. I could only whisper in Mrs. Spencer’s -ear, ‘For heaven’s sake, do not let us make a scene now--let us keep -everything as quiet as possible now!’ - -Just then Lady Isabella suddenly rose from her seat, and sat down beside -Mrs. Bellinger, and began to talk to her. I could not quite hear how she -began, but I made out by instinct, I suppose, what she was saying: - -‘I cannot ask Mrs. Mulgrave to introduce me, for I see she is occupied; -but I know who you are, and you must let me introduce myself. I am Lady -Isabella Morton, and I live here with a great friend of mine. Colonel -Brentford and I used to know each other long ago----’ - -‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Bellinger, drawing her breath quickly; ‘I think I have -heard----’ - -‘He was startled to see me,’ said Lady Isabella. ‘Of course, he did not -expect--but we are always meeting people we don’t expect. Your daughter -is going to sing. Hush! please hush! I want to hear it,’ she cried, -raising her hand with a little sign to the Major, who looked as though -he might be going to talk. Every word she said was audible through the -room, her voice was so clear and full. - -Colonel Brentford turned round slowly. He turned almost as if he were a -man upon a pedestal, which some pivot had the power to move. Either it -was her voice which attracted him, or he had heard what she said, or -perhaps he was recovering from the shock of the first meeting. - -It was at this moment that Edith began to sing. I do not know what her -feelings were, or if she cared anything about it; but certainly all the -rest of the party, with the exception of her father and mother, were -excited to such a strange degree, that I felt as if some positive -explosion must occur. How is it that fire and air, and all sorts of -senseless things, cause explosions, and that human feeling does not? -Edith’s girlish, fresh voice, rising out of the midst of all this -electrified one. It was a pretty voice singing one of the ordinary -foolish songs, which are all alike--a voice without the least passion or -even sentiment in it, sweet, fresh, guiltless of any feeling. Lady -Isabella leaned back in her chair, and listened with a faint smile upon -her face; Colonel Brentford stood undecided between her and the piano, -sometimes making a half-movement towards the singer, but turning his -eyes the other way; while Mrs. Spencer, on the other side of the room, -sat with her hands clasped, and gazed at her friend. The two Bellingers -listened as people listen to the singing of their child; a soft little -complacent smile was on the mother’s face. When Edith approached a -false note, or when she was a little out in her time, Mrs. Bellinger -gave a quick glance round to see if anybody noticed it, and blushed, as -it were, under her breath. The Major kept time softly with his finger; -and we--listened with our hearts thumping in our ears, bewildered by the -pleasant little song in its inconceivable calm, and yet glad of the -moment’s breathing time. - -‘Thank you, my dear,’ said I, when the song was done; and we all said -‘Thanks’ with more or less fervour, while the parents, innocent people, -looked on well pleased. - -And then I went to Edith at the piano, and asked all about her music, -what masters she had had, and a thousand other trifles, not hearing what -she answered me. But I did hear something else. I heard Colonel -Brentford speak to Lady Isabella, and took in every word. There was -nothing remarkable about it; but he spoke low, as if his words meant -more than met the ear. - -‘I knew you were living here,’ was all he said. - -‘Oh, I suppose so,’ said Lady Isabella. She had been quite calm before, -but I knew by her voice she was flurried now. And then there followed -that little agitated laugh, which in the last few days I had learnt to -know. ‘Most people know where everybody lives,’ she added, with an -attempt at indifference. ‘I too knew that your regiment was here.’ - -‘But I did not expect to see you just then,’ he went on. ‘And that -rose---- Pardon me if I was rude. I was taken altogether by surprise.’ - -‘That I should ask you for a rose?’ she said, holding it up. ‘It is but -a poor little thing, as these late flowers always are. Not much scent, -and less colour, but sweet, because it is over--almost a thing of the -past.’ - -‘I was taken altogether by surprise,’ said Colonel Brentford. - -He did not make any reply to her. He was not clever, as she was. He -repeated his little phrase of confused no-meaning, and his voice -trembled. And while he was saying all this, Edith was telling me that -she had had a few--only a very few--lessons from Herrmannstadt, but her -mamma hoped that if they stayed at Royalborough, she might be able to -have some from Dr. Delvey or Miss de la Pluie. - -‘If, my dear?’ said I. ‘I thought it was quite settled that you were to -stay!’ And then her answer became unintelligible to me; for my ears were -intent upon what was going on behind us, and instead of listening to -Edith, I heard only Colonel Brentford’s feet shuffling uneasily upon the -carpet, and Mrs. Spencer asking Lady Isabella if she did not think it -was time to go. - -‘But you have not had any tea,’ said I, rushing to the front: though, -indeed, I was not at all sure that I wished them to stay. - -‘We never take any tea,’ said Mrs. Spencer, unblushingly; though she -knew that I knew she was the greatest afternoon tea-drinker in all -Dinglefield; ‘and we have to call upon old Mrs. Lloyd, who is quite ill. -Did you know she was ill? We must not neglect the sick and the old, you -know, even for the pleasantest society. Isabella, my dear!’ - -Colonel Brentford went after us to the door. He looked at them -wistfully, watching their movements, until he saw that Mrs. Spencer had -a cloak over her arm. Then he came forward with a certain heavy -alacrity. - -‘Let me carry it for you,’ he said. - -‘Oh, thanks! We are not going far; don’t take the trouble. I would not -for the world take you from your friends,’ cried Mrs. Spencer wildly. - -‘It is no trouble, if you will let me,’ he said. - -He had taken the cloak out of her astonished hand, and Lady Isabella, in -the meantime, with a smile on her face, had walked on in advance. Even -I, though I felt so much agitated that I could have cried, could not but -laugh to see Mrs. Spencer’s look of utter discomfiture as she turned -from my door, attended by this man whom she so feared. I stood and -watched them as they went away, with a mingled feeling of relief and -anxiety and wonder. Thus it was over. Was it over? Could this be a -beginning or an end? - -When I went back to the Bellingers they were consulting together, and I -fear were not quite well pleased. The Major and his daughter drew back -as I entered, but I saw it on their faces. - -‘I hope you will pardon me,’ I said, ‘for leaving you alone. My friends -are gone, and Colonel Brentford has kindly walked with them to carry -something. Now I know you must want some tea.’ - -‘Indeed, mamma is a great deal too tired,’ said Edith, who naturally was -most nettled, ‘I am sure we ought to go home.’ - -‘I think she is over-tired,’ said the Major doubtfully. - -He did not want to be dragged away so suddenly; but yet he was a little -surprised. Mrs. Bellinger, for her part, did not say anything, but she -looked pale, and my heart smote me. And then there appeared a line of -anxiety, which I had not noticed before, between her eyes. - -‘It is only that she wants some tea,’ said I; and the Stokes coming in -at the moment, to my infinite satisfaction, made a diversion, and -brought things back to the ordinary channel of talk. And then they -challenged the Major and Edith to croquet, for which all the hoops and -things were set out on the lawn. Mrs. Bellinger and I began to talk when -they went away: and presently Colonel Brentford came back and sat -silently by us for five minutes--then went out to the croquet-players. A -little silence fell upon us, as the sound of the voices grew merrier -outside. It may be thought a stupid game now-a-days, but it is pretty to -look at, when one is safe and out of it; and we two ladies sat in the -cool room and watched the players, no doubt with grave thoughts enough. -Colonel Brentford took Edith in hand at once. He showed her how to -play, advised her, followed her, was always by her side. What did it -mean? Was he glad that his old love had passed away like a dream, and -left him free to indulge in this new one--to throw himself into this -younger, brighter existence? Neither of us spoke, and I wondered whether -we were both busy with the same thought. - -At length Mrs. Bellinger broke the silence. - -‘I feel so anxious about our Colonel,’ she said; ‘he is so good and so -nice. And your friends came by chance, quite by chance, Mrs. Mulgrave? -How strange it is? Do you know that there was once---- But of course you -know. Oh, I hope this meeting will be for good, and not for harm.’ - -‘For harm!’ I said, with words that did not quite express my thoughts. -‘They are both staid, sober people, not likely to go back to any -youthful nonsense. How could it do harm?’ - -Mrs. Bellinger shook her head. There was a cloud upon her face. - -‘We shall see in time,’ she said, in a melancholy, prophetic way, and -sighed again. - -To whom could it be that she apprehended harm? Not to Lady Isabella, -whom she did not know. Was it to the child then, or to _him_? - - - - -CHAPTER IV - - -Next day I had a number of visitors. Mrs. Spencer had made it so well -known in Dinglefield that nobody was to invite Lady Isabella to meet the -new officers, that my unexampled temerity startled the whole -neighbourhood. ‘Of course they have met, notwithstanding all our -precautions--and fancy, at Mrs. Mulgrave’s! She was almost the only -person Mrs. Spencer had not told,’ my neighbours said; for the place is -so small, that of course everybody knows what everybody else is doing on -the Green. The Stokes were the first to call, and they were full of it. - -‘Fancy not telling us that Lady Isabella had been here?’ cried Lottie. -‘You must have known there was something, or you would have told us. And -what did you mean by it? Did you think they ought to have another -chance; or did you think----? Oh, I do so wish you would tell me what -you meant!’ - -‘Another chance, indeed!’ said Lucy. ‘As if Colonel Brentford--a -handsome man, and just a nice age--would look twice at that old thing!’ - -‘He is a good deal older than the old thing,’ said I; ‘and it is a poor -account of both men and women, Lucy, if everything is to give way to -mere youth. You yourself will not be seventeen always. You should -remember that.’ - -‘Well, but then I shall be married,’ said Lucy; ‘and I sha’n’t mind if -nobody pays me any attention. I shall have my husband and my children of -course; but an old maid----’ - -‘Be quiet, Lucy,’ said her sister angrily. ‘If you girls only knew how -to hold your tongues, then you might have a chance; but please tell me, -Mrs. Mulgrave--you won’t say you did not mean anything, for of course -you knew----?’ - -‘I don’t intend to say anything about it, my dear; and here is Mrs. -Spencer coming, if you would like to make any further inquiries,’ I -said. I was quite glad to see her, to get rid of their questionings. -Mrs. Spencer was very much flurried and disturbed, out of breath both of -mind and body. - -‘Oh, my dear Mrs. Mulgrave, what an unfortunate business!’ she said, the -moment the girls were gone. ‘I have nobody but myself to blame, for I -never told you. I thought as you did not give many parties--and then I -know you don’t care much for those dancing sort of men: and how was I to -suppose he would be thrown upon your hands like this? It has upset me -so,’ she said, turning to me, with her eyes full of tears; ‘I have not -slept all night.’ - -Her distress was a great deal too genuine to be smiled at. ‘I am so -sorry,’ I said; ‘but, after all, I do not think it is serious. It did -not seem to disturb her much.’ - -‘Ah, that is because she does not show it,’ said Mrs. Spencer. ‘She is -so unselfish. You might stab her to the heart and she would never say a -word, if there was any one near who could be made unhappy by it. She -would not let _me_ see, for she knows it would make me wretched. And I -_am_ quite wretched about her. If this were to bring up old feelings! -And you know she nearly died of it--at the time.’ - -The tears came dropping down on poor Mrs. Spencer’s thin nose. It was -too thin, almost sharp in outline, but such tears softened all its -asperity away. I could not help thinking of those dreadful French -proverbs, which are so remorseless and yet so true; about ‘_l’un qui -aime, et l’autre qui se laisse aimer_;’ about ‘_l’un qui baise et -l’autre qui tend la joue_.’ Is it always so in this world? I could have -beaten myself for having interfered at all in the matter. Why should -anybody ever interfere? Life is hard enough without any assistance to -make it worse. - -Lady Isabella herself came in late, when, fortunately, I was alone; and -she was in a very different mood. She came in, and gave a curious, -humorous glance round the room, and then sat down in the chair by the -window, where she had sat the day before, and asked Colonel Brentford -for that rose. - -‘Is it possible it has been and is over,’ she said, in her mocking way; -‘that great, wonderful event, to which I looked forward so much? It -happened just here: and yet the place is exactly the same. How funny it -is when one remembers that it has happened, and yet feels one’s self -exactly like what one was before----’ - -‘You are not sorry, then?’ I cried, not knowing what to say. - -‘Sorry? oh, no,’ she said with momentary fervour: and then blushed -scarlet. ‘On the contrary, I am very glad. It proved to me---- I got -all I wanted. I am quite pleased with myself. I can’t have been such a -fool after all; for--he is not clever, you know--but he is a man a woman -need not be ashamed to have been in love with: and that is saying a -great deal.’ - -‘And is it only a “have been?”’ said I; for after all when one had taken -so much trouble it was hard that nothing should come of it. I felt as if -I had taken a great deal of trouble, and all in vain. - -‘Indeed, I should hope so!’ cried Lady Isabella, getting up and drawing -her shawl round her hastily. ‘You surely did not think that I meant -anything more. I am in a great hurry, I have only a few minutes to -spare; and thanks to you, good friend, I have had my whim, and I am -satisfied. I don’t feel at all ashamed of having been fond of -him--once.’ - -And with these words she ran away, silencing all questions. Was this -indeed all? Was it a mere whim? To tell the truth, when I tried to put -myself in her position, it seemed to me much wiser of Lady Isabella to -let it end so. She was very well off and comfortable: she had come to an -age when one likes to have one’s own way, and does not care to adopt the -habits of others; and what an immense _bouleversement_ it would make if -she should marry and break up that pleasant house, and throw herself -upon the chances of married life, abandoning Mrs. Spencer, who was as -good as married to her, and who, no doubt, calculated on her society all -her life. I said to myself--if I were Lady Isabella! And then there was -the great chance, the almost certainty that he would never attempt to -carry it any farther. He was a young-looking man, and no doubt (though -it is very odd to me how they can do it) he felt himself rather on the -level of a girl of twenty than of a woman of thirty-five. He had been a -good deal startled and touched by the meeting, which was not wonderful: -but he had returned to Edith’s side all the same; and, no doubt, that -was where he would stay. Edith was very young, and her parents were -poor, and the best thing for her would be to marry a man who was able to -take care of her, and make her very comfortable, and to whom, in return, -she would be entirely devoted. Edith could consent to be swallowed up in -him altogether, and to have no life but that of her husband; and except -by means of a husband who was well off the poor child never was likely -to do anything for herself or her family, but would have to live a life -of hard struggling with poverty and premature acquaintance with care. -This was of course the point of view from which the matter should be -regarded. To Lady Isabella Colonel Brentford’s means or position were -unnecessary. She was very well off, very fully established in the world -without him. And she could not be swallowed up in him, and renounce -everything that was her own to become his wife. She was an independent -being, with a great many independent ways and habits. It was better for -him, better for her, better for Edith that nothing should come of this -meeting; and yet--how foolish one is about such matters: what vain -fancies come into one’s head! - -Everything sank into its ordinary calm however from that day. I did not -see Mrs. Spencer and Lady Isabella for a week after, and then they were -exactly as they had always been. Lady Isabella made no remark to me of -any kind on the subject, but Mrs. Spencer took me aside to give me her -opinion. ‘I am so glad to tell you,’ she said, ‘that your little -inadvertence has done no harm. Oh, I forgot: it was not an inadvertence -on your part, but my own fault for not telling you. It has done no harm, -I am so glad to say. Isabella seems to have quite settled down again. I -don’t believe she has given him another thought. Of course it was a -shock just at the moment. But you must not blame yourself, indeed you -must not. Probably she would have met him somewhere sooner or later. I -really feel quite glad that it is over; and it has done her no harm.’ - -This was all I gained by my exertions; and I made a resolution that I -would certainly never be persuaded to do anything of the kind again. -For, indeed, it had complicated my relations with various people. What -could I do, for instance, about the Bellingers? In the meantime I simply -dropped them, after having rushed into such an appearance of intimacy. -If anybody else had done it, I should have been indignant; but how could -I help myself? I could not have Edith in my house and see him wooing -her, after having taken such an interest in the other side. I could not -insult Lady Isabella by letting that go on under her very eyes. And -though I wondered sometimes what the respectable Major would think, and -whether poor dear Mrs. Bellinger would be wounded, I had not the -fortitude to continue the acquaintance. I simply dropped them: it was -the only thing I could do. - -And then the winter came on all at once, which was a sort of excuse. -There was a week or two of very bad weather and I caught cold, and was -very glad of it, for, of course, nobody could expect me to drive to -Royalborough in my little open carriage with a bad cold, through the -rain and wind. A very dreary interval of dead quiet to me, and miserable -weather, followed this little burst of excitement. I felt sore about it -altogether, as a matter in which I had somehow been to blame, and which -was a complete failure--to say the least. One day when I had been out -for half an hour’s walk in the middle of the day, Colonel Brentford -called; but the card which I found on my table was the only -enlightenment this brought me, and my cold kept me away from all the -society on the Green for six weeks, during which time I had no -information on the subject. Sometimes, as usual, I saw Lady Isabella, -but there was no change in her. She had quite settled down again, was -the same as ever, and Mrs. Spencer had ceased to keep any watch upon -her. And so it was all over, as a tale that is told. - -The first time I was out after my influenza was at Lady Denzil’s, -where, to my surprise, I found Edith Bellinger. She scarcely looked at -me, and it was with some difficulty I got our slender thread of -acquaintance renewed. Her mother, she thanked me, was better; her father -was quite well; they had been sorry to hear of my cold; yes, of course -it was a long way to drive. Such was the fashion of Edith’s talk; and I -acknowledged to myself that it was perfectly just. - -‘Your mamma must think it very strange that I have never gone to see her -again,’ I was beginning to say, feeling uncomfortable and guilty. - -‘I don’t suppose she has thought about it,’ Edith said hastily; and then -she stopped short and blushed. ‘I beg your pardon, I did not mean to be -rude.’ - -‘You are quite right,’ I said--‘not in being rude, but in feeling as you -do. I seem to have been very capricious and unfriendly; but I have been -ill; and you do not look quite so well yourself as when I saw you last.’ - -‘Oh, I am well enough,’ said the girl; and then those quick youthful -tears of self-compassion which lie so near the surface came rushing to -her eyes. ‘It is nothing, I--I am not very strong; and Lady Denzil, who -is always kind, has asked me here for change of air.’ - -‘Poor child,’ I said, ‘tell me what is the matter?’ But I was not to -learn at this moment at least. Colonel Brentford, whom I had not seen -till now, came forward and bent over her. - -‘They are going to sing something, and they want you to take a part. I -have come for you,’ he said. - -He looked down upon her quite tenderly, and held out his hand to help -her to rise. Yes, of course, that was how it must have ended. It was all -settled, of that I could have no doubt. I looked at them with, I fear, a -look that had some pain and some pity in it, as they left me; and when I -withdrew my eyes from them, my look met Lady Isabella’s, who was seated -at the other side of the room. She had her usual half-mocking, -half-kindly smile on her lips, but it looked to me set and immovable, as -if she had been painted so and could not change; and she was -pale--surely she was pale. It troubled me sadly, and all the more that I -dared not say a word to any one, dared not even make any manifestation -of sympathy to herself. She had chosen to renew her old acquaintance -with him, had chosen to break down the barrier which sympathizing -friends had raised round her, and to meet him with all freedom as if he -were totally indifferent to her. This had been her own choice; and now, -to be sure, she had to look on, and see all there might be to be seen. - -But he was very civil to me when he chanced to be thrown near me. He -said, in a much more friendly tone than poor Edith’s, that Mrs. -Bellinger had been sorry to hear of my cold; that he hoped I should soon -be able to go and see her; and when I said that Edith did not look -strong, he shook his head. ‘She is rather wilful, and does not know her -own mind,’ he said, and I thought he sighed. Was it that she could not -make up her mind to accept him? Was it---- But speculation was quite -useless, and there was no information to be got out of his face. - -A little after this I went to see Mrs. Bellinger, but was coldly -received. Edith was not quite well, she said; she had been doing too -much, and had gone away for a thorough change. Colonel Brentford? Oh, he -had gone to visit his brother Sir Charles Brentford, in Devonshire. -Edith was in Devonshire, too--at Torquay. - -‘They are a little afraid of her lungs,’ Mrs. Bellinger said. ‘Oh, not -I; I don’t think there is very much the matter; but still they are -afraid--and of course it is better to prevent than to cure.’ - -It seemed to me a heartless way for a mother to speak, and I was -discouraged by my reception. When I came away I made up my mind not to -take any further trouble about the matter. Perhaps I had been mistaken -in them at first, or perhaps---- but then, to be sure, I had another -motive, and that existed no longer. It was my fault more than theirs. - -I heard no more of the Bellingers nor much more of Colonel Brentford for -a long time after this. He, to be sure, went and came, as the other -officers did, to one house and another, and I met him from time to time, -and exchanged three words with him, but no more. And Lady Isabella made -no reference whatever to that agitating moment when I, too, had a share -in her personal history. Even Mrs. Spencer seemed to have forgotten all -about it. Their house was more exquisite than ever that winter. They had -built a new conservatory, which opened from the ante-room, and was full -of the most bright, beautiful flowers--forced, artificial things to be -sure they were, blooming long before their season, but still very lovely -to look at in those winter days. The large drawing-room and the -ante-room, and the conservatory at the end of all, were as warm and -fragrant and soft and delicious as if they had been fairy-land--the -temperature so equable, everything so soft to tread on, to sit on, to -look at. It was a little drawing-room paradise--an Eden, with Turkey -carpets instead of turf, and the flowers all in pots instead of growing -free. And here Lady Isabella would sit, with that touch of mockery in -her laugh, with little gibes at most people and most things, not quite -so friendly or gentle as they once were. Now and then, I have thought, -she cast a wistful glance at the door; now and then her spirits were -fitful, her face paler than usual--but she had never been more lively or -more bright. - -It was past Christmas, and already a pale glimmer of spring was in the -air, when this little episode showed signs of coming to its conclusion. -I remember the day quite distinctly--a pale day in the beginning of -February, when everything was quite destitute of colour. The sky was -gray and so was the grass, and the skeletons of the trees stood bleak -against the dulness. It was the kind of afternoon when one is glad to -hear any news, good or bad--anything that will quicken the blood a -little, and restore to the nervous system something like its usual tone. - -This stimulus was supplied by the entrance to the house of our two -neighbours Lucy Stoke--very important, and bursting with the dignity of -a secret. She kept it in painfully for the first two minutes, moved -chiefly by her reverential admiration for the fine furniture, the -beautiful room, the atmosphere of splendour about her. But I was there, -unfortunately, of whom Lucy was not afraid. It was to me, accordingly, -that the revelation burst forth. - -‘Oh, Mrs. Mulgrave,’ she said, ‘you know her! Who do you think I met -going down to Lady Denzil’s, in a white bonnet,--though it’s such a -dismal day--and a blue dress--quite light blue--the dress she went away -in, I should think?’ - -‘A bride, I suppose,’ I said; ‘but whom?--I don’t remember any recent -bride.’ - -‘Oh, yes, I _know_ you know her! Young Mrs. Brentford--Edith Bellinger -that was.’ - -‘Edith Bellinger!’ I cried, with a sudden pang. It was nothing to me. I -had no reason to suppose it was anything to anybody, but yet---- - -‘It must have been the dress she went away in,’ said Lucy: ‘blue trimmed -with bands of satin and fringe, and a white bonnet with blue flowers. It -was very becoming. But fancy, only three weeks married, and coming to -see Lady Denzil alone!’ - -‘And so she is Mrs. Brentford,’ said Mrs. Spencer, in a tone of genuine -satisfaction. She would have suffered herself to be cut in little pieces -for Lady Isabella, she would have done anything for her--but she was -glad, unfeignedly thankful and relieved, to feel that this danger was -past. - -And Lucy, well pleased, ran on for ten minutes or more. It felt like ten -hours. When she went away at last, Mrs. Spencer went with her to the -door, to hear further particulars. All this time Lady Isabella had never -said a word. She was in the shade, and her face was not very distinctly -visible. When they left the room, she rose all at once, pulling herself -up by the arms of her chair. Such a change had come upon her face that I -was frightened. Every vestige of colour had left her cheek; her lip was -parched, and tightly drawn across her teeth. She laughed as she got up -from the chair. - -‘We were all wishing for something to stir us up,’ she said; ‘but I -never hoped for anything so exciting as Mrs. Brentford’s blue dress.’ - -‘Where are you going?’ I said, in sudden terror. - -‘Up-stairs--only up-stairs. Where should I go?’ she said, with that -short hard laugh. ‘Tell Mrs. Spencer--something. I have gone to -fetch--Mrs. Brentford’s blue dress.’ - -Oh, how that laugh pained me! I would rather, a thousand times rather, -have heard her cry. She went away like a ghost, without any noise; and -Mrs. Spencer, full of thanksgiving, came back. - -‘Where is Isabella? Oh, Mrs. Mulgrave, I can’t tell you what a relief -this news is,’ she said. ‘I have always been so dreadfully afraid. Of -course, anything that was for her happiness I would have put up with; -but this would not have been for her happiness. She is no longer young, -you know--her habits are all formed--and, even though she was fond of -him once, how could she have taken up a man’s ways, and adapted herself? -It would never have done--it would never have done! I am so thankful he -is married, and that danger past.’ - -For my part, I could not make any answer. Perhaps Mrs. Spencer was -right--perhaps, in the long run, it would be better so; but, in the -meantime, I could not forget Lady Isabella’s face. I went home, feeling -I cannot tell how sad. It was all so perfectly natural and to be -expected. The hardest things in this world are the things that are to be -expected. Of course, I had felt sure when I saw them together that it -was the little girl who would be the victor in any such struggle. And -Lady Isabella had not attempted any struggle. She had stood aside and -looked on; though, perhaps, she had hoped that the old love would have -counted for something in the man’s heart. But I said to myself that I -had always known better. What was old love, with all its associations, -in comparison with the little peachy cheek and childish ways of a girl -of seventeen? I despised the man for it, of course; but I thought it -natural all the same. - - - - -CHAPTER V - - -I was sitting next day by myself, with my mind full of these thoughts, -when I was suddenly roused by a shadow which flitted across the light, -and then by the sound of some one knocking at the window which opened -into my garden. I looked up hurriedly, and saw Lady Isabella. She was -very pale, yet looked breathless, as if she had been running. She made -me a hasty, imperative gesture to open, and when I had done so, came in -without suffering me to shut the window. ‘Mrs. Mulgrave,’ she said, -panting between the words, ‘I have a very strange--request--to make. I -want to speak with--some one--for ten minutes--alone. May -we--come--here? I have nothing to conceal--from you. It is _him_;--he -has something--to say to me--for the last time.’ - -‘Lady Isabella----’ I said. - -‘Don’t--say anything. It is strange--I know--but it must be; for the -last time.’ - -She did not seem able to stand for another moment. She sank down into -the nearest chair, making a great effort to command herself. ‘Dear Mrs. -Mulgrave--please call him,’ she cried faintly: ‘he is there. It will -only be for ten minutes--there is something to explain.’ - -I went out into the garden, and called him. He looked as much agitated -as she did, and I went round the house, and through the kitchen-door -with a sense of bewilderment which I could not put into words. Edith -Bellinger’s bridegroom! What could he have to explain? What right had he -to seek her, to make any private communication? I felt indignant with -him, and impatient with her. Then I went into the dining-room and -waited. My dining-room windows command the road, and along this I could -see Mrs. Spencer walking in her quick, alert way. She was coming towards -my house, in search, probably, of her companion. There was something -absurd in the whole business, and yet the faces of the two I had just -left were too tragical to allow any flippancy on the part of the -spectator. Mrs. Spencer came direct to my door as I supposed, and I had -to step out and stop the maid, who was about to usher her into the -drawing-room where those two were. Mrs. Spencer was a little excited -too. - -‘Have you seen Isabella?’ she said. ‘She was only about half-a-dozen -yards behind me, round the corner at the Lodge; and when I turned to -look for her she was gone. She could not have dropped into the earth you -know, and I know she would never have gone to the Lodge. Is she here? It -has given me quite a turn, as the maids say. She cannot have vanished -altogether, like a fairy. She was too substantial for that.’ - -‘She will be here directly,’ said I; ‘she is speaking to some one in the -other room.’ - -‘Speaking--to some one! You look very strange, Mrs. Mulgrave, and -Isabella has been looking very strange. Who is she speaking to? I am her -nearest friend and I ought to know.’ - -‘Yes,’ I said, ‘you ought to know, that is certain--but wait, only wait, -ten minutes--that was the time she said.’ - -And then we two sat and looked at each other, not knowing what to think. -I knew scarcely more than she did, but the little that I knew made me -only the more anxious. If his wife should hear of it--if Lady Isabella -were to betray herself, compromise herself! And then what was the good -of it all? No explanation could annul a fact, and the less explanation -the better between a married man and his former love. This feeling made -me wretched as the time went on. Time seems so doubly long when one is -waiting, and especially when one is waiting for the result of some -private, secret, mysterious interview. The house was so quiet, the maids -moving about the kitchen, the chirp of the sparrows outside, the -drip--drip of a shower, which was just over, from the leaves. All these -sounds made the silence deeper, especially as there was no sound from -that mysterious room. - -‘The ten minutes are long past,’ said Mrs. Spencer. ‘I don’t understand -what all this mystery can mean. It is more like an hour, I think.’ - -‘Oh, do you think so?’ said I, though I fully agreed with her. ‘When one -is waiting time looks so long. She will be here directly. I hear her -now--that was her voice.’ - -And so it certainly was. But everything became silent again the next -instant. It was a sharp exclamation, sudden and high; and then we heard -no more. - -‘I cannot wait any longer,’ said Mrs. Spencer. ‘I don’t know what this -can mean; I must have an explanation. Mrs. Mulgrave, if you will not -come with me, I will go myself to Isabella. I don’t understand what she -can mean.’ - -‘I will go,’ said I; and we rose at the same moment and hurried to the -door. But we had not time to open it when a sudden sound was audible, -which arrested us both. The door of the other room was opened, voices -came towards us--two voices, and then a laugh. Was it Lady Isabella’s -laugh? Mrs. Spencer drew near me and pinched my arm violently. ‘Is it -Isabella? What, oh, what can it mean?’ she said with a look of terror. -And then the door was thrown suddenly open, driving us back as we stood -in our consternation within. - -It was Lady Isabella who stood before us, and yet it was not the Lady -Isabella I had ever known. When Mrs. Spencer saw her she gave a -suppressed groan and sat down suddenly on the nearest chair. This Lady -Isabella was leaning on Colonel Brentford’s arm. Her face was flushed -and rosy; her eyes shining like stars, yet full of tears; dimples I had -never seen before were in her cheeks and about her mouth. She was -radiant, she was young, she was running over with joy and happiness. In -her joy and triumph she did not notice, I suppose, the sudden despair of -her friend. ‘I have come to tell you,’ she said hastily, ‘he never meant -it. It is all over. Oh, do you understand? All this cloud that has -lasted for ten years, that has come between us and the skies--it is all -over, all over. He never meant it. Do you understand?’ - -Mrs. Spencer stood up tottering, looking like a ghost. ‘Isabella! I -thought you had forgotten him. I thought it was this that was all over. -I thought you were content.’ - -Lady Isabella gave her a look of that supreme happiness which is not -considerate of other people’s feelings. ‘I am content now,’ she said, -clasping her hands upon Colonel Brentford’s arm, ‘more than content.’ - -Mrs. Spencer answered with a bitter cry. ‘Then I am nothing to her, -nothing to her!’ she said. - -It was at this moment that I interfered. I could keep silence no longer. -I put myself between the two who were so happy and the one who was so -miserable. ‘Before another word is said I must have this explained to -me,’ I said. ‘He is Edith Bellinger’s husband. And this is my house----’ - -He interrupted me hurriedly: ‘I am no one’s husband but hers,’ he said. -‘You have been mistaken. Edith Bellinger has married my brother. There -is no woman to me in the world but Isabella--never has been--never could -be, though I lived a hundred years.’ - -‘And it is you who have brought us together,’ cried Lady Isabella, -suddenly throwing her arms round me. ‘God bless you for it! I should -never have known, it would never have been possible but for you.’ - -And he came to me and took both my hands. ‘God bless you for it, I say -too! We might have been two forlorn creatures all our lives but for -you.’ - -I was overwhelmed with their thanks, with the surprise, and the shock. -If I had done anything to bring this about I had done it in ignorance; -but they surrounded me so with their joy and their gratitude, and the -excitement of the revolution which had happened in them, that it was -some minutes before I could think of anything else. And there was so -much to be explained. But when I recovered myself so far as to look -round and think of the other who did not share in their joy, I found she -was gone. She had disappeared while they were thanking me, while I was -expressing my wonder and my good wishes. None of us had either heard or -seen her departure, but she was gone. - -‘Was Mrs. Spencer to blame?’ I asked with some anxiety when the tumult -had subsided a little, and they had seated themselves like ordinary -mortals and begun to accustom themselves to their delight. ‘Had she -anything to do with the quarrel between you?’ - -‘Nothing at all,’ said Lady Isabella. ‘She never saw George till she saw -him in your house.’ - -‘When you asked me for that rose--’ said he. ‘The rose you used to be so -fond of; and I felt as if the skies had opened----’ - -‘You turned your back upon me all the same,’ she said with the laugh -that had suddenly become so joyous. They had forgotten everything but -themselves and the new story of their reconciliation: which I suppose -the old story of their estrangement thus recalled and reconsidered made -doubly sweet. - -‘But about Mrs. Spencer?’ I said. - -‘Poor Mrs. Spen! She had got to be fond of me. She thought we were to -spend all our lives together,’ said Lady Isabella with momentary -gravity; and then the smile crept once more about the corners of her -mouth, and the dimples which had been hidden all these years disclosed -themselves, and her face warmed into sunshine as she turned to him. This -was my fate whenever I tried to bring back the conversation to Mrs. -Spencer, who, poor soul, had disappeared like a shadow before that -sunshine. I was glad for their sakes to see them so happy; but still I -could not but feel that it was hard to have given your life and love for -years and to be rewarded at the end by that ‘poor Mrs. Spen.’ - -The news made a great commotion through all Dinglefield, and Mrs. -Spencer did not make so much difficulty about it as I fancied she would. -The marriage was from her house, and she took a great deal of trouble, -and no mother could have been more careful and tender about a bride. But -she made no fuss, poor soul--she had not the heart; and though I don’t -like fuss, I missed it in this case, and felt that it was a sign how -deep the blow had gone. Even Lady Isabella, pre-occupied as she was, -felt it. She had not realized it perhaps--few people do. We are all in -the habit of laughing at the idea of friendships so close and exacting, -especially when they exist between women. But to Mrs. Spencer it was as -if life itself had gone from her. Her companion had gone from her, the -creature she loved best. Next to a man’s wife deserting him, or a -woman’s husband, I know nothing more hard. Her pretty house, her -flowers, her perfect comfort and grace of life palled upon her. She had -kept them up chiefly, I think, for the young woman who, she had thought, -poor soul, was wedded to her for life. Perhaps it was a foolish thought, -perhaps it might be a little selfish to try to keep Colonel Brentford -away. I suppose to be married is the happiest; but still I was very, -very sorry, grieved more than I can say, for the woman who was forsaken; -though she was only forsaken by another woman and not by a man. - -However that, I fear, is a sentiment in which I should find few -sympathizers. The Brentfords took a place in the neighbourhood, and I -believe Lady Isabella was a very happy wife. As for poor little Edith -Bellinger, she had married the Colonel’s elder brother, Sir Charles, and -was Lady Brentford, to her great astonishment and that of everybody -about. It had been her doubt and reluctance, poor child, to marry a man -older than her father, which had made her ill. I think her mother missed -her almost as much as Mrs. Spencer missed Lady Isabella. For every new -tie that is made in this world some old ties must be broken. But what -does that matter? Is it not the course of nature and the way of the -world? - - - - -AN ELDERLY ROMANCE - - - - -CHAPTER I - - -There is a house in Dinglefield, standing withdrawn in a mass of -shrubbery, and overshadowed by some fine trees, which has been called by -the name of Brothers-and-Sisters for a longer time than any one in the -village can recollect. It presents to the outside world who peep at it -over the palings, between the openings which have been carefully cut to -afford to its inmates pleasant glimpses of the lower part of the Green, -on which the cricket matches are played, the aspect of a somewhat low -white house, with no apparent entrance, and a great number of chimneys -of different heights, chimneys which I suppose suggested to some wag the -unequal stature of a family of children, and thus procured the house its -popular name. In the map or the estate on which Dinglefield stands it is -called Bonport House, and this is how the General’s letters, I need not -say, are addressed. But yet the common name sticks, all the more because -of the character of the family which now inhabits that hospitable place. -It is literally a house of brothers and sisters. General Stamford, the -head of the family, is a hale and ruddy old warrior of sixty, who has -seen a great deal of service, and who has been knocked about, battered, -and beaten from the age of sixteen until now: sent to every unfavourable -place where a soldier without money or influence has to go, and engaged -in every fierce little war in which it has been the pleasure of England -to indulge, without any consideration for the feelings of her fighting -men. He has been at Bermuda; he has been on the Gold Coast; he has -braved all the fevers and fought all the savages within our ken; and -outliving all this, has settled down with his sisters and brother in our -village, one of the most peaceable yet the most active of men. It is for -this last reason that General George (as we have all got to call him, -partly because there are other generals about, and to say General -Stamford every time you mention a man in a neighbourhood like ours is -fatiguing--and partly for kindness) has so many things on his hands. He -is one of the directors of our railway; he is on several boards in town, -where he goes almost every day punctual as clockwork, brushed to -perfection, and driven to the station by Miss Stamford in the -pony-carriage, which always takes him there, and always meets him when -he comes back. Miss Stamford is the eldest sister of all. She is very -like her brother, and there never was such a tender brotherly sisterly -union as between these two old people. They have known each other so -long, longer than any husband and wife. They have the recollections of -the nursery quite fresh in their minds, as if it were yesterday--when it -was always Ursula who found George’s books for him, and gave him good -advice, and most of her pocket-money, and looked after his linen when he -was at home, and his pets when he went away. Miss Stamford knows all the -occurrences of her brother’s chequered life better than he does himself, -and recollects everything, and knows all his friends, even if she never -saw them, and can recall to him the exact relationship between the young -man who comes to him with an introduction, and old Burton who was killed -by his side among the Maoris; or Percival who died of the yellow fever -at Barbadoes. She is his remembrancer, his counsellor, half his heart, -and a good part of his mind; and indeed there is nobody among us who -ever thinks of the one without thinking of the other. What she was doing -with herself all those years when George was fighting on the outskirts -of civilization, or sweltering in the tropics, none of us know, but some -of us wonder now and then. Did nothing ever happen to Miss Stamford on -her own account? Has all her life been only a reflection of her -brother’s? But this is what nobody can tell. - -The next member of the family in due succession is Mrs. St. Clair, who -is the second sister, and who has been so long a widow that she has -forgotten that this is not the normal condition of women. I don’t think, -for my part, that she remembers much about her husband, though he did -exist, I have every reason to believe. Her married life was a little -episode, but the family is all her idea of ordinary existence. That -little sip of matrimony however has made her different from the rest. I -cannot quite tell how. There is a tone that is more mellow; she is a -little more--stout, if I may use such a word: her outlines are a little -fuller, both of mind and body. Miss Stamford takes care of the house and -the General, but Mrs. St. Clair takes care of the parish. She is the -Rector’s lay curate, and a most efficient one. It is she who watches -over, not only the poor, but the district visitors, and even the -curates, whose juvenile importance she makes very light of, keeping down -all rampant sacerdotalism. When a young man comes into a parish full of -very fine ideas of priestly state and dignity, and fortified besides by -all the talk in the newspapers about adoring ladies and worked slippers, -it is hard for him to find himself confronted by a lively middle-aged -woman who has no particular respect for him, and knows all his kind, and -all their little ways. Mrs. St. Clair was of the greatest use to us all -in this particular. She kept us from innovations. Our excellent Rector -has not a very strong will, and how far he might have been induced to -go in respect to vestments, or candles, or even Gregorians, it would be -hard to say, but for Mrs. St. Clair, who kept the young men down. -Everybody who has ever been at Dinglefield has met her about the roads, -with her gray hair neatly braided, and her soft brown eyes smiling, yet -seeing everything, and a basket in her hand. She always had the basket; -and the basket, if it had been examined, would have been found always to -contain something which was to do somebody good. - -Miss Sophy, the third sister, was much younger than the others, and she -was one of those who are always young. Nothing had changed much with her -since she was eighteen. She lived quite the same sort of life as she had -done then, and wore the same kind of dresses; and felt, I believe, very -much the same. Life had never progressed into a second chapter with her, -and she felt no need of a second chapter. She did little commissions for -everybody, and carried little messages, and played croquet, and went out -to tea, and performed her little pieces on the piano with undiminished -and undiminishing satisfaction. She was as kind, as sweet, and as -innocent as any girl need be; and, in short, she was a girl--but of -forty-five. The reader may think this is a sneer; but nobody ever -thought of sneering at Miss Sophy; that malign amusement found no -encouragement in her simplicity. You smiled at her, perhaps, then -blushed for yourself, abashed at your own heartlessness in finding -anything absurd in a creature so guileless and true. She had no -particular _rôle_ of her own in the family, except to be kind to -everybody, and to do what everybody wished, as far as a merely mortal -sister could. If there was one thing that she thought especially her -duty and privilege, it was to look after the faith and morals of the -other brother, who occasionally formed part of the household. He was a -barrister, an old bachelor like the rest, who had chambers in town and -came when he pleased to Brothers-and-Sisters. He spent the Sundays -there, and Miss Sophy took him to church. She would have made him say -the Collect if she could; and, indeed, always questioned him about his -opinions, and argued with him on the Sunday afternoons upon the points -on which he was astray. And when I add that Mr. Charles was a clever -lawyer and a man of the world, and astray upon a great many points, it -will be seen that Sophy had her hands full. She argued herself into -palpitations and headaches, but I fear her arguments were less potent -than her intention. This energetic effort to keep Charles right in -theology was, so far as any one knew, the only duty exclusively hers. - -These delightful people were only a small part of the family to which -they belonged. Behind them was a bodyguard of married brothers and -sisters, a sort of milky way of family plenitude, from which arose an -army of nephews and nieces who were always looming about, sure to come -down upon us in force when anything was going on. There were always men -to be had for a dance, and actors for theatricals on application to the -Stamfords. ‘Tell me how many you want and give me two or three days’ -notice,’ Mrs. St. Clair would say, and then Sophy would write the -letters, and after a while the air of Dinglefield would be thick with -nephews. There was room for an untold number of them in the old, -many-chimneyed house. When it was the time for garden parties, or when -there was a bazaar for some charity, it was the turn of the nieces, who -came like the swallows, with a skimming of wings, and a chirping and -chattering of pleasant voices. It was astonishing how soon we got to -know them all, discriminating Sophy Humphreys from Sophy Thistlethwaite, -and both from Sophy Stamford number one, called Soff, or Henry’s Sophy, -to distinguish her from Sophy Stamford number two, who was called Fia, -or William’s Sophy. Sophy was the pet name of the race; the mother’s -name from whom they all sprang. - -And it would be difficult to give any stranger an idea of the addition -they were to our limited society at Dinglefield. Go when you would the -genial house was always open, a pleasant party always to be found on the -lawn in summer, by the drawing-room fire in winter. They had their -anxieties and sorrows like other people, no doubt; but not so many as -other people: for the time was over with them for personal pangs and -trouble; and when one nephew out of twenty goes a little wrong, or one -niece (also out of twenty) makes a bad marriage, the pang is not so keen -or so lasting as when it is a son or a daughter who has broken down. And -this was the worst that could now befall the house. It was a house made -for the comfort and succour of every aching heart or troubled mind -within its range. There was nothing they would not do for their -neighbours and friends; how much more for their relations. General -George lent his kindly ear, a little, just a little, hard of hearing -(but no, not hard of anything, the word is unworthy to be used in his -connection), to every request. He would do his best to place your son, -or invest your money; or order early salmon or turbot for you when you -were going to have a dinner-party. I should not have liked to ask Mr. -Charles Stamford to order my fish, but I have no doubt he too would have -done it, had he been asked; and as for the sisters, they would, as the -poor people said, put their hand to anything. - -One day Sophy came into my cottage with an air of some excitement to -tell me that George had sent a telegram, and was bringing down a large -party of his fellow-directors to dinner. ‘Will you come, dear Mrs. -Mulgrave? Fancy! how shall we ever entertain these twelve business -gentlemen?’ said Sophy in a flutter. ‘If only some of the girls had been -here. Not that the girls would have cared for these old creatures. But -the worst is that Ursula herself is away. She went up to town this -morning to see her great friend, Mrs. Biddulph. And though she will be -back for dinner, all the responsibility will be upon Frances and me. I -must run away now this moment to James the gardener, to see how many -strawberries he can give us. Don’t you think it was tiresome of George -to bring down so many upon us without warning? It is just like him: no, -he is not tiresome--never! he is a darling! But sometimes he does a -tiresome thing.’ - -And Sophy tripped away, light-footed, light-hearted, with no greater -thought than the strawberries. She was still as slim as a girl, and -there was about her all the eagerness and breathless mixture of fright -and pleasure which are natural at eighteen. She _was_ eighteen, -spiritually speaking. I watched her tripping along in her light summer -dress, and smiled; I could not help it. I saw her again three times that -day, and, indeed, I saw Mrs. St. Clair too, who was equally full of -business. ‘Twelve men!’ Mrs. St. Clair cried. ‘Is it not a nuisance? I -can’t think how George could do it. They have a nice bit of villainy in -hand; they are going to cut up all our pretty view, and take away the -poor people’s gardens; and then they expect us to give them dinner!’ - -‘Did Sophy get the strawberries?’ I asked. - -‘Oh, yes; more than they deserve. But you are coming, and you shall -see.’ She went on, waving her hand, too busy to talk. A dinner of twelve -gentlemen, when you have made no arrangements, and provided nothing but -what was needed for the family, is a serious matter in a country place, -especially when the real housekeeper is out of the way. - - - - -CHAPTER II - - -All this time Miss Stamford knew nothing of what was going on. She had -gone up to town early in the morning, and she had spent the day with her -friend, who was ailing; and in the afternoon she had missed the usual -dinner train by which General George always travelled, coming by the -next one, which was about half an hour later. She came down in the same -carriage with a gentleman who, she afterwards admitted, attracted her -attention at once. He was a tall man--well, not young, -certainly--oldish, elderly, ‘about the same age as other people’--with a -long face, like Don Quixote. She remarked him; and he remarked her, -apparently, showing her several little politenesses: opening and -shutting the window, &c. He was very like Don Quixote. This was the -chief remark Miss Stamford made. - -She was a little late for dinner, having been taken entirely by surprise -by the great preparations she found on her return. She had left -everything in the ordinary quiet, no company expected, and had ordered -the usual dinner for the family before she went away; and the sight of -Williams the greengrocer, and Jones the verger, both in grand official -costume, on duty in her own hall when she got back, astonished her. - -‘Company, ma’am, as the General has brought home from town, unexpected,’ -Williams said, as he opened the door. Their own homely butler, Simms, -had been promoted to the rank of major-domo for the moment, and was a -very great personage with two men under him. Miss Stamford changed her -dress as quickly as possible, but dinner had begun before she got -down-stairs. Mrs. St. Clair had taken the head of the table, and Ursula -slid quietly into the vacant place which had been left for her. She -nodded to me across the table as she sat down. She had not even put on -her best cap, and her gown was anything but new. And it did not seem to -me that Ursula Stamford was by any means looking her best. She was a -little prim in appearance, though so liberal and generous in heart; and -she looked sixty, while to my knowledge she was only fifty-seven. You -will say that was not a difference which mattered much; but I assure you -we think a great deal of a year or two up here among the snows of life. -She sat down so quietly that the gentleman on one side did not at first -notice that the place was taken by his side, and she occupied herself -with the other, whom she happened to know. There was a great deal of -talk going on at the table. Mrs. St. Clair had picked up a few ladies in -haste to make the balance a little more even. Mrs. Stokes had sent Lucy, -who was going to be married, and Miss Woodroff had come from the -Rectory, and Mrs. Sommerville, the young widow who was living with her -brother, the curate. There were seven of us altogether to thirteen -gentlemen, for, by way of making the table a little more crowded, -Charles Stamford had thought proper to come, though it was not his day. -And we all talked as if our lives were at stake. The younger ones were -much amused to be on duty thus, to be called upon to take care of the -old gentlemen, and the rest of us understood the obligation we were -under to talk, and worked resolutely at the conversation. For my part, I -did very well, I had quite a pleasant neighbour; and, indeed, I have -found that a great many of the City gentlemen are very pleasant to talk -to. He told me all about the new railway it was intended to make, and -scarcely laughed at all when I declared myself an enemy to new -railroads, in our neighbourhood, at least. - -‘Why should you cut up our pleasant, smiling country?’ I said. ‘We have -all the railways we want, and more. I do not say anything against what -is necessary; but why make gashes across the country when it is not -wanted----’ - -‘Gashes--I don’t think they are gashes,’ said my neighbour. ‘When I saw -the white steam flying along the valley just now, I thought it very -picturesque. I allow I do not like it too near; but Dinglefield is as -safe as if it were in Paradise. No railway will climb your peaceable -heights. If there was question however of a railway into Paradise -itself, there is the man who would do it,’ he said, looking across the -table. ‘I am a mere innocent myself. I do what other people tell me: but -there is the dangerous man. I hope, for your sake, that he will give his -word against this, for he would survey the moon if he thought it likely -to answer.’ - -I peeped between the little thickets of flowers with which Sophy had -covered the table, and looked at the man thus pointed out to me. He was -sitting by Ursula Stamford, but he was not talking to her--she, as I -have said, was occupied by her other neighbour at her right hand. He was -an old man, not far from seventy, according to appearance, with -snow-white hair, but a beard still almost black, a combination which is -always striking. His features were fine, his dark eyes deeply sunk under -eyebrows still dark like his beard. There was a gentleman on the other -side of him whom he did not seem to care to talk to, and he was sitting, -scarcely speaking, his face in repose. - -‘Do you mean that handsome old man?’ I said. - -‘Old,’ said my companion, slightly startled; he was about the same age -himself if I had thought of it. ‘Well, I suppose he is old,’ he added, -with a little laugh. ‘You should talk to him. I don’t know a more -interesting man; and, as I tell you, he is the man to whom, if there was -a railway to be made to the moon, everybody would turn. If he took the -Channel tunnel in hand he would carry it through.’ - -‘But that must be impossible,’ said I. ‘I hate the crossing; but I would -not trust myself in a tunnel under the sea, not for---- But you are -laughing--it is impossible----’ - -‘Impossible!--not in the very least--ask _him_. I think myself he’s too -speculative. But there is one thing certain. If Oakley took it up, it -would go through. He’d do it. He is a man who does not believe in -difficulties. There might be a great catastrophe next day, but one way -or other he’d drive it through.’ - -I am a very quiet person myself, therefore it stands to reason that I -should like a man who drives things through. Besides, he was a handsome -old man. I looked at him again behind the flowers, while my companion -went on talking, and I saw something which interested me. Miss Stamford -came to a pause in her conversation with the man at her right hand, and -she seized the opportunity to turn to the man on her left. At the first -sound of her voice his abstract countenance lighted up. He turned -hastily round with a look of recognition. How could he know Ursula -Stamford, I said to myself? His face lighted up with a gleam of -intelligence and pleasure, and something which, not knowing any other -word, I can only call sweetness. He turned quite round to her, and began -to talk with an interest and warmth which roused my immediate sympathy. -I seemed to be looking on at an interesting scene in the theatre, seen -from so great a distance that it was only the dumb-show which made it -intelligible. And my neighbour carried on his discourse all the time. - -‘He has sprung from nothing,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if he ever had a -father. He began in the humblest way. The first time I heard of him was -about thirty years ago, when he was struggling into business. He was not -what you would call a young man then. (You ladies are hard upon age--you -don’t like it talked about when it concerns yourselves, but you stamp us -down as old men without a bit of fellow-feeling----)’ - -Here I interrupted my instructor. ‘I thought it was a weakness of ours -only to dislike to be called old. I thought men were superior to such a -little vanity--as to so many others.’ - -‘You are satirical now. You think we are not superior to any vanity, and -I shouldn’t wonder if you were right. I was saying old Oakley was not a -young man to start with. He was a sort of an engineer, self-taught, all -self-taught, and he was trying to get into business as a contractor. -Mrs. Mulgrave,’ said my companion solemnly, ‘have you any idea what that -man is worth now? I thought so, as you didn’t seem impressed. He is -worth more than a million, that is the fact--he is made of money; losses -don’t seem to touch him. I do not suppose,’ my friend added, with awe in -his voice, ‘that he knows how much he has.’ - -This information did not excite me as he expected, but I looked again -between the geraniums at Mr. Oakley. I am afraid his handsome head -interested me more than his fortune. ‘And there are so many people who -have nothing at all!’ I said; ‘but to look at him he might be a -philosopher without a penny.’ - -‘That is just like you ladies--you would think more of him if he were a -philosopher without a penny. What an extraordinary mistake!’ cried my -companion, ‘as if money were not a power, quite as interesting and a -great deal more tangible than philosophy.’ - -His countenance flushed and changed. He was an enthusiast for money. I -have met many such among General George’s City friends: not in the -sordid way we think of, but really as a great power. - -When Mrs. St. Clair gave the sign to go away, I was quite sorry to break -off this conversation, which was so much more interesting than the -ordinary kind of talk. It was a beautiful June evening, and, instead of -going into the drawing-room, we all went out upon the lawn where Simms -had laid down the great lion-skin, of which they are all so proud, and -some rugs which the General brought from India; for it is unnecessary to -say that we elder people were a little afraid of the dew on the grass. -But nobody could have taken cold on such a night. The borders were all -red and white with roses standing out against the deep green of the -shrubberies behind, and the colours seemed to repeat themselves in the -sky, which was all one flush of rose above the blue, deepening into -crimson as it descended, and burning like fire between the trees on the -horizon line. Dinglefield stands high, with the broad Thames valley -lying at its feet, of which you could get glimpses through the cuttings -on the western side, if your eyes were not dazzled with all that blaze -of gold. Miss Stamford was tired with her day in town, and established -herself at once in her favourite basket-chair on the lawn. She sat there -tranquil and happy while the rest walked about; her presence, her smile, -the rest that seemed to breathe about her, gave stability and meaning to -the whole place. She was only an old maid according to the vulgar, but -you could not look at her without feeling sure that where she was, there -was a home. I don’t know that it had ever occurred to me to think so -much about Ursula Stamford before. There was something in the air which -affected me, though I did not know how. We could see the lighted windows -of the dining-room, and hear the sound of the voices and laughter, -though at a distance; and we all laughed too in sympathy, though we did -not know what the jokes were. It was very pleasant and friendly, and -rather droll. None of us had any particular desire to be joined by the -gentlemen. We had done our duty by them, talked our very best to them, -and flattered ourselves that it had all gone off very well; but though -we were glad they were enjoying themselves, now that our part of the -entertainment was over, we were not very sorry to think that they must -all go away shortly by the last train. And no heart among us, I am safe -to say, beat one pulsation the quicker when they came out upon the lawn, -some of them slightly flushed with the laughter and the good cheer, to -take their coffee, and their leave. It had grown almost dark by that -time, and the white waistcoats (for they were in their morning dress, -and most of them wore white waistcoats) made a great show in the half -light. The greater part of them thanked us all for the delightful -evening, not being quite clear which were, and which were not, the -ladies of the house, but determined to fulfil all the duties of -politeness. We walked with them to the gate to see them go, and shook -hands with them all, though we did not know their names. I recollect the -whole scene as clearly as a picture, though I knew at the time no reason -why I should remember it: the dining-room brightly lighted, the table -with all its fruit and flowers, and the vacant chairs pushed away, -standing in all manner of groups: the drawing-room much more dim, just -showing a glimmer of newly-lighted candles: the table on the lawn with -Miss Stamford’s white cap and half visible figure close to it: and all -the rest of us standing about telling each other how well it had gone -off, and listening to the voices of the gentlemen getting fainter and -fainter as they streamed off behind the shrubberies along the road to -the station. If any one had told us what changes would come from that -visit! But how could any one have guessed the changes that were to come? - -It was not the next day, but the day after that I met General George in -the afternoon coming from the station. It was at least two hours before -his usual time, and he was walking. The sight of him gave me a little -shock. Something, I thought, must have happened. I ran over in my mind, -as one naturally does, as I went up to him, the things that were most -possible. There were nephews scattered about over all the world. Could -it be that there was bad news of George Thistlethwaite in Ceylon, or -Bertie Stamford at the Cape? or was it pleasanter intelligence from -young Mrs. Thurston (_née_ Ursula Humphreys) or Lucy Thistlethwaite, or -one of the Lincolnshire girls? but that (I said to myself) would not be -enough to bring the General home so much sooner than usual. When he came -nearer however my mind became easier. He did not look unhappy, he looked -puzzled, and now and then a gleam like laughter came over his face. When -he saw me he came forward with an air of pleasure. - -‘You are the very person I wanted to see--if you will let me, I will -walk home with you; but let us go the back way,’ said General George to -my intense surprise, ‘for I don’t want to see my sisters till I have -taken your advice.’ - -‘My advice! before you see your sisters, before you tell _Ursula_!’ I -cried, and then the General laughed and frowned, and looked angry and -amused all in one. ‘That is just where my difficulty lies,’ he said. A -difficulty about Ursula! it took away my breath. - -‘You will not believe it,’ he said, ‘but it is quite true. Charles came -to me this morning with the absurdest question. He came to ask me who it -was that sat next Mr. Oakley at dinner at Bonport on Tuesday--eh? what, -did you notice anything?’ he asked abruptly, for I had not been able to -restrain a little exclamation. I have never boasted of my penetration, -but from that moment I seemed to know exactly what he was going to say. - -‘I know who sat next Mr. Oakley at dinner,’ I said. - -‘Ursula, wasn’t it? we laid our heads together, and from all we could -make out--he went to Charles first to find out who it was, and Charles, -of course, made up his mind that it must have been one of the young -ladies that had made such an impression. He proposed first Miss Woodroff -and then the young widow: but no, no. Oakley said it was not a young -lady. It was a lady whose hair was turning gray, who wore a cap, and -used a double eye-glass. At last the conviction forced itself upon me. -By Jove! it was Ursula--_Ursula_ the man was thinking of! We both burst -out laughing in his face---- But afterwards,’ the General added gloomily -with a flush of displeasure, ‘afterwards--I feel furious, Mrs. Mulgrave, -though I may not show it; and that is why I have come first to you. - -‘What did he want?’ I said, though I allow there was some hypocrisy in -my question. - -‘What did he want?--you may well ask. He is a man of sixty-five, older -than I am. He wants--to marry my sister,’ said the General, with a half -suppressed outcry of rage--‘a man who has risen from the ranks--a -stranger--a--a confounded---- I beg you ten thousand pardons, Mrs. -Mulgrave; he wants to pay his addresses, if you please, to Ursula! God -bless us all--did you ever hear such a thing? I feel much more like -cursing than blessing, to tell the truth.’ - -‘But, General, he is very rich--richer than any one ever was before.’ - -‘Ah, you have got bitten too,’ he said, with a tone almost of disgust. -‘That is what Charles says; but what is his money to me? What is it to -any of us, Mrs. Mulgrave? You would not upset all the order of your life -and change your habits, and give up your own ways for a million of -money, would you? After all, when you have enough to be comfortable, -what does money matter? Even the most extravagant of women can’t put -more than a certain number of yards of stuff into her dress. When you -have enough, what does it matter whether the over-plus is counted by -hundreds or by thousands?’ said the General, with magnanimous but -new-born indifference. If he cared so little about it, why should he go -to the City every day, I could not help saying to myself; and, indeed, -it came to my lips before I knew. - -‘If we all thought that,’ I said, ‘it would save a great deal of -trouble. Perhaps you would not then have had these twelve gentlemen down -to dinner and made all the mischief, General.’ - -General George laughed. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t,’ he said, ‘but that is -different. It is not for the money, but the occupation, Mrs. Mulgrave; -and of course when one has money invested one wants to make something by -it. However my opinion is that it would be much better to say nothing -about this folly to Ursula. To be sure,’ he added with a look of -half-defiant assurance which he belied by a suspicious glance of inquiry -at me,’ it might amuse her; but it could have no other effect. I don’t -see why I should take any notice to Ursula.’ - -‘But Mr. Oakley--will he be satisfied?’ - -‘Old Oakley? Upon my word, I don’t see why I should consider him or what -will satisfy him,’ said the General, growing red; but he was uneasy. He -paused, then turned to me again. ‘If you were in my position, what -should you do?’ - -‘I should tell her, and let her judge; after all, it is she who must -decide.’ - -‘Decide--judge! you speak,’ cried General George, ‘as if it were -possible--as if it might be within the bounds of---- Bah! do you suppose -that Ursula--_Ursula!_ my sister--would, could hesitate one moment?’ - -‘No.’ I said ‘no,’ half because I really thought so, but half because he -was so much excited, and it was necessary to calm him. ‘I do not suppose -she would; but still, a woman should be told when a man---- It is the -greatest compliment he can pay her, and it is always flattering even -when it is impossible!’ - -‘Flattering--a compliment! What can you be thinking of?’ the General -cried in high disdain; ‘that an old fellow like that should propose to -appropriate and take possession of--a lady! I don’t say my sister, which -of course is the sting of it,’ he said with a laugh, calming down again, -‘but any lady----’ - -‘Dear General, forgive me,’ I said; ‘you always talk, you gentlemen, of -marriage as the end of every woman’s ambition, and you are always ready -to jibe at those who have not attained that great end. Then how, when -this elevation is in her power, do you venture to think of keeping her -in ignorance of it?’ - -He turned round upon me almost with violence. ‘Elevation!’ he cried; -then perceiving, I suppose, by something in my eyes what I meant, -laughed more uneasily than ever. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘we may say silly -things, I allow we all say silly things; but when you come to that--to -speak of elevation for my sister from any offer, or that she should -think it a compliment!--God bless us all!--there are a great many -foolish things that one says, but you know better than to take it all -for gospel. Of course when one speaks of women one does not think of---- -By Jove, I am only getting deeper. Don’t hit a man when he is down, but -be serious, and give me your advice.’ - -‘One does not think of one’s own sisters,’ said I, for I did not mean to -spare him, ‘only of other people’s sisters, or of those who have nobody -to stand up for them; but I will not be ungenerous, General I will give -you my advice. Tell Ursula, and let her judge for herself.’ - -‘Judge!--she can have but one opinion. But that is what Charlie says. I -suppose the two of you must be right,’ said the General grudgingly. He -walked on by my side in silence, cutting down the weeds by the roadside -ferociously with his stick; then repeated with a still more churlish -assent, ‘I suppose what you two people of the world say must be right.’ - -I smiled within myself to be called a woman of the world; but one must -not take the words of an angry man to heart. When he came to the turn of -the road which led to Brothers-and-Sisters he muttered something about -getting it over, and took off his hat and left me without another word. -Poor General George! Under all his pretences at anger he was in a great -fright. Either he believed his own careless talk, and thought that a -husband was too fine a thing for any woman to refuse, or else---- But I -need not discuss the vague feeling of insecurity which had begun to -creep over him. For my part, I did not feel alarmed. I had more -confidence in Ursula’s faithfulness than he had. At the same time, the -crisis was exciting, and I thought the time very long until the evening -began to darken, and I felt myself at liberty--dinner being over--to run -over the corner of the Green which lay between us, as I often did in the -evening, and see what Ursula said. - - - - -CHAPTER III - - -The family party was on the lawn as usual; Miss Stamford seated in her -own chair with her knitting and her feet upon the lion-skin; while Mrs. -St. Clair beside her, with a basket full of bright scraps, had been -dressing dolls for a bazaar. Sophy was cutting off the withered roses -with a large pair of garden scissors; all their occupations were quite -as usual. But there was an aspect about the family which was not usual. -In the distance the General’s step was audible pacing about; and there -was an odour of his cigar in the air; all as peaceful, as homelike as it -always was; but yet a something in the atmosphere which had not been -there yesterday. As I came up with my shawl over my head, the General -tossed his cigar away and came nearer, and Sophia put down the basket -with the dead roses, and Mrs. St. Clair got up to get me a chair. The -only one that had not changed in the least was Ursula, who raised her -head and her eyes and gave me a friendly nod as she always did. She went -on with her knitting without any intermission. It is work which does not -demand attention, nor so much light as doll-dressing. They were all very -glad to see me--more glad even than on ordinary occasions: for it was -clear that the situation was highly _tendu_, as the French say, and that -a new-comer was a relief. - -‘What a beautiful evening!’ we all said together, and then stopped -abashed, as people do who have rushed into the same commonplace speech. - -Then Ursula added, ‘Of course, that is the first thing we must say to -each other. I think there never was such a summer--so bright, so steady, -one fine day after another. Here is a fortnight, or nearly so, that we -have not had one drop of rain.’ - -‘Quite wonderful,’ said I. ‘The hay, I hear, is a sight to see. A day or -two more, and we shall all begin to pray for rain. We are never content -whatever we have.’ - -‘A little variety is always pleasant,’ Mrs. St. Clair said. Meanwhile, -while we talked about the weather, the General hung about over our -little group like a storm-cloud. He did not say anything, but he looked -tempestuous; he, who was always so calm. Presently he turned away, and -went off to say something to Simms, who appeared just then with a note -or a message. - -‘I suppose,’ said Mrs. St. Clair, turning to me, ‘_you_ know all about -it. George told us that he had met you, and told you----’ - -‘Yes, he told me;’ but I did not know what to say; they all wore a look -of agitation, except Ursula, who was as calm as usual--more calm than -usual, I should have said; but, no doubt, that was only in comparison -with the agitation of the rest. - -‘And I suppose you think like the rest, that I will jump at a husband -the moment one is offered to me,’ said Miss Stamford with a smile. - -‘We don’t think so, Ursula. We know it is not the first time. It is only -George that is so frightened, poor fellow.’ - -‘Why should he be so frightened?’ Miss Stamford cried. ‘No; it is not -the first time. I may take that little credit to myself. I might have my -head turned, perhaps, if it had been the first time. But, after all, it -is not so much to brag of. I suppose he wants somebody to take care of -him when he gets old and feeble; but he ought to have somebody younger -than me.’ - -Sixty-five is not what you would call young; but it was odd how we all -were of opinion that Mr. Oakley’s time for being old and feeble was -still a good way off, a thing to come. I acknowledged that I shared this -weakness. We were all about the same age, and it did not occur to us -that we were already old. - -‘He shows his sense,’ said I, taking the part of the absent to whom -nobody did any justice, ‘as well as his good taste. Poor man, though he -is so rich, I am very sorry for him. I wish Ursula had met him twenty -years ago when there would have been no harm----’ - -‘No harm! do you know that he is a nobody--a man self-made?’ said Mrs. -St. Clair; ‘not a match for Ursula Stamford if he had been ever so -young!’ - -‘But you did not think of that in Fia’s case,’ said Sophy; ‘he was rich -and you never said a word. You thought it quite reasonable. ‘What do his -grandfathers matter to us?’ you said. I am not sure myself whether it -does or not; but you said so, you know; and George proposed the bride -and bridegroom at the wedding, and everybody was pleased. Now this Mr. -Oakley is a very nice man, whatever you say, for I had a good deal of -talk with him myself; and if Ursula chose----’ - -‘You should not interfere,’ said Mrs. St. Clair; ‘you are always -sentimental. Of course, if there is so much as a thought of a marriage, -Sophy is always in favour of it; but to think of Ursula at her time of -life!’ - -‘You all talk very much at your ease about Ursula,’ said Miss Stamford. -‘I suppose Ursula may have a word, a little share in it, for herself. -The way my family consult over me’--she said, turning to me with a -slight blush and laugh. ‘I think George might have held his tongue; that -would have been the more satisfactory way.’ - -‘It was my fault,’ I cried hurriedly: ‘he told me that he thought it -would be best not to tell you. You must forgive me, Ursula, if I gave -him bad advice; I thought you ought to know.’ - -Before I had half said this, I saw I had made a mistake; but one must -finish one’s sentence, however foolish it may be. Ursula suspended her -knitting for a moment and looked at me with calm amazement. - -‘Not tell _me_!’ she said. ‘Why should he have kept it from _me_?’ - -The emphasis was very slight, but it meant a great deal. It never -occurred to her that a thing which concerned her so closely should have -been kept from herself; the question was why should we know; and I -confess I felt very much ashamed of having any say in it, when I met the -calm, astonished look of her eyes. - -‘It is getting a little chilly,’ she said, rising up. ‘I think it is -time to go indoors.’ - -We all followed her quite humbly, and the General came stalking after -us, more like a thunder-cloud than ever. He had been talking to poor -Simms in a voice which was not pleasant, and he appeared at the -drawings-room window by which we all entered with the large lion-skin in -his arms. - -‘I can’t have this left out all night in those heavy dews,’ he said. I -do not think I ever saw those signs of suppressed irritation, which are -too common in families, among the Stamfords before. - -Next morning General George came in for a moment before I had -breakfasted, to tell me for my satisfaction that all was right. His face -was quite clear again. ‘I was a little cross last night. I fear you may -have supposed that I for a moment doubted my sister. Not a moment, Mrs. -Mulgrave. I have got to give him his answer, poor old fellow. I can’t -help feeling a little sorry for him all the same. What bad luck for the -poor old beggar! Of all the women there to hit upon the one who was -simply hopeless! Some men always have that sort of fate.’ - -‘He showed his taste,’ said I; ‘but I heard he was the luckiest man in -the world, General; that he always succeeded in everything; that however -wild the project was, he was the man to carry it through.’ - -I said this partly in malice, I am bound to admit, and I was very -successful. The General’s face clouded over again: he set his teeth. ‘He -shall not succeed this time;’ and he said something more in his -moustache, some stronger words which I was not intended to hear. It was -all over then, this odd little episode. I stood and watched him from my -door half relieved, half wondering. Was it all over? I did not feel so -satisfied or so certain as General George. - -A few days of perfect quiet ensued. When a week passed we all felt -really satisfied. It was over then? Mr. Oakley had accepted his refusal. -To be sure one did not see what else he could have done, though I -confess that I had not expected it for my part. However, on the Sunday -morning the moment I looked across to the Stamfords’ pew after getting -settled in my own, it seemed to me that I could see indications of a new -event. Both Mrs. St. Clair and Sophy were looking at me when I raised my -head; they could not restrain themselves. They gave me anxious, -significant glances with little hardly perceptible signs of the head and -hand. When the service was over, and we were going out, Sophy was at my -side in a moment. We were not actually out of church when I felt her arm -slide into mine and a whisper in my ear. ‘She has got a letter!’ Sophy -said, all in a tremble of eagerness. Mrs. St. Clair came up on the other -side as soon as we were clear of the stream of people. ‘It is getting -really serious,’ she said; ‘he will not take a refusal. It is quite -absurd, and George is dreadfully angry. _He_ is just as absurd on the -other side.’ - -‘And what does Ursula say?’ - -‘Oh, Ursula does not say anything. Of course we could not help knowing -about the letter. It was very long and very much in earnest----’ - -‘Oh, quite impassioned!’ cried Sophy. She had not encountered anything -so exciting for years. She was pale with interest and emotion, shaking -her head in intense seriousness. ‘He says that he appeals to her sense -of justice not to condemn him without a hearing. It is quite beautiful. -I am sure he is a nice man.’ - -‘And then, you know, there is the other side of the question,’ said Mrs. -St. Clair seriously. ‘I did not quite understand when we spoke of it -last. Charlie says he is immensely rich--not just ordinarily comfortable -like so many people, but a true millionnaire. That changes the aspect of -the matter a little, don’t you think? Not that I am a mercenary person, -still less Ursula; but when you come to think of it, wealth to that -extent is something to be considered. Just fancy the good she might do,’ -cried the sensible sister, ‘and the number of young people we have -looking to us! I do think it is not exactly right to ignore that side of -the question.’ - -‘Charlie thinks it is quite wrong,’ said Sophy, shaking her head. - -The General had not even stopped to say ‘Good morning’ outside the -church door as he usually did. It was his brother Charles who was with -Ursula. The General walked straight home, without looking to the right -hand or the left. I felt a great sympathy for him. It was he that would -feel it most _if anything happened_; and he was the only one of the -family who had that fantastic delicacy of sentiment which some of us -feel for those we love, so that the merest touch of anything that could -be called ridicule, seemed sacrilege and desecration to him. - -I must not attempt to go in detail into all that followed. Miss Stamford -wrote a very beautiful letter (they all told me) to her antiquated -lover, telling him how sorry she was to be the cause of any annoyance to -him, and hoping that the vexation would be but temporary, as indeed she -felt sure it must be--but that his proposals were quite out of the -question. This, of course, was what every woman would have said in the -circumstances. But neither did Mr. Oakley take this for an answer. There -was another letter by return of post in which they said he implored her -to believe that nothing about the matter was temporary--that it was a -question of life and death to him; that now was his only chance of -happiness. Happiness! for a man of sixty-five! For my part I could not -help laughing, but it was no laughing matter for the household at -Brothers-and-Sisters. A few days after this I met Mr. Oakley himself on -his way to the house. He recognized me at once, but naturally he did not -know who I was. He took me for one of the family, and came up to me -carrying his hat in his hand. He was a very handsome old man. His hair -was snow-white, a mass of it rising up in waves from his forehead, with -eyebrows still black and strongly marked, and the finest brilliant dark -eyes. I said to myself mentally: ‘If it had been I, I should have given -in at once.’ And his manners were beautiful--not the manners of -society--the deferential respect of a man who knows women chiefly -through books, and does not understand the free and easy modern way of -treating us. He kept his hat in his hand as he stood and spoke. ‘I do -not know,’ he said, ‘if I have the honour of speaking to a sister of -Miss Stamford’s, but I know I met you there.’ - -‘Not a sister, but a very affectionate friend,’ I said. His face lighted -up instantly; he almost loved me for saying so. ‘Then if that is the -case we ought to be friends too,’ he said. I was so much interested that -I turned and walked with him, regardless of prudence. What would the -Stamfords say if they saw me thus identifying myself with the cause of -their assailant? but the interest of this strange little romance carried -me away. - -‘I must see her,’ he said. ‘Don’t you think I have a right to see her? -They need not surely grudge me one opportunity of pleading my own cause. -No, indeed, I don’t blame them. If I had such a treasure--nay,’ he went -on with a smile, ‘_when_ I have that treasure, I will guard it from -every wind that blows. I don’t wonder at their precautions. But Stamford -does not treat me with generosity; he does not trust to my honour: that -is why I adopt his own tactics. I must try to effect an entrance while -he is away.’ - -‘I don’t think Ursula will have you, Mr. Oakley,’ I said. - -‘Perhaps not; but that remains to be seen. She has never seen me--that -is, she has never seen the real John Oakley, only a director of her -brother’s company, two different persons, Mrs. Mulgrave, if you will -allow me to say so.’ - -‘But she saw you before she knew you were a director. She travelled with -you. You were the gentleman like Don Quixote----’ - -How foolish I was! Of course I ought not to have said it. I felt that -before the words were out of my mouth. Such encouragement as this was -enough to counterbalance any number of severities. ‘Ah! I am like Don -Quixote, am I?’ he said; and once more, and more brightly than ever, his -handsome old face blazed into the brightest expression. Poor Mr. Oakley! -I threw myself heart and soul into his faction after this; for indeed, -as I afterwards heard, he had not at all a pleasant ‘time,’ as the -Americans say, that afternoon. When he sent in his name at -Brothers-and-Sisters he was told that the ladies were out, and, though -he waited, all that he managed to obtain was a hurried interview with -Mrs. St. Clair, who conveyed to him Ursula’s entreaty that he would -accept her answer as final, and not ask to see her. Sophy told me after -(she must have hidden herself somewhere, for nobody but Frances was -supposed to be present) that his behaviour was beautiful. He bowed to -the ground, she said, and declared that no one could be so much -interested as he was in observing Miss Stamford’s slightest wish; that -he would not for the world intrude upon her, but wait her pleasure -another time. Mrs. St. Clair’s heart softened too, and she did not -protest, as perhaps she ought to have done, against this ‘other time.’ -He passed by my cottage as he went away, and I do not deny that I was in -my little garden looking out, ‘I have had no luck,’ he said, shaking his -head, but still with a smile, ‘no luck to-day; but another time I shall -succeed better.’ - -I ran to the gate, I felt so much interested. ‘Do you really think, Mr. -Oakley,’ I said, ‘that it is worth your while to persevere?’ - -‘Worth my while?’ he said; ‘certainly it is worth my while: for I am in -no hurry. I can bide my time.’ - -Bide his time at sixty-five! I stood and looked at him as long as he was -in sight. There is nothing like courage for securing the sympathy of the -bystanders. - -After this the excitement ran very high both in the house of the -Stamfords and in the community in general. We all took sides: and while -General George made himself more and more disagreeable, and we all -watched and spied her every action, Ursula was subjected all the time to -a ceaseless assault from the other side. Letters poured upon her; -beautiful baskets of flowers arrived suddenly, secretly, so that no one -knew how they came. After a while, when the autumn commenced, there came -hampers of game and of fruit, all in the same anonymous, magnificent -way. And then the clever old man found out a still more effectual way of -siege. The Stamfords had always nephews who wanted appointments or who -required to be pushed. For instance, there was young Charley, of the -Inner Temple, sadly in want of a brief: when lo! all at once, briefs -began to tumble down from heaven upon the young man. In a week he had -more business than he knew what to do with. And Willie Thistlethwaite -had a living offered to him; and Cecil, whom they were so anxious to -place with an engineer, though the premium was so serious a matter, -suddenly found a place open to him with no premium at all. I believe in -my heart that it was Mr. Charles Stamford who helped the old lover to -recommend himself in this effectual, quiet way; for how should he have -found out all the nephews without help? But as one of these mysterious -benefits after another happened to the distant members of the family, -the feeling rose stronger and stronger among all their friends. We set -down everything, from the flowers to the living, unhesitatingly to Mr. -Oakley; and at last public sentiment on the Green got to such a pitch -that whereas people had laughed at the whole matter at first as little -more than a joke, everybody now grew indignant, and protested that -Ursula Stamford ought to be cut and sent to Coventry if she did not -marry Don Quixote. I don’t know who had betrayed this description which -she had herself given of him. But everybody now called him Don Quixote, -and the whole community took his cause to heart. While this feeling rose -outside, a wave of the same sentiment, but still more powerful, got up -within. Mr. Charles spoke out and declared (as, indeed, he had done from -the first) that to neglect such an opportunity of strengthening the -family influence would be a mere flying in the face of Providence; and -then something still more extraordinary happened. Frances herself--who -looked upon all married ladies in the light of prospective widows, and -regarded the one state only as a preparation for the other--Frances -herself suddenly threw off her allegiance to the General and went over -boldly to the other side. Sophy had been Mr. Oakley’s champion all -along. They began to turn upon Ursula, to accuse her of behaving badly -to her unwearied suitor--they accused her of playing fast and loose, of -amusing herself with his devotion. They raised a family outcry against -her, and brought down all the married sisters and the distant brothers -upon her, with a storm of disapproving letters. ‘The man that has -provided for my Cecil,’ one indignant lady wrote, ‘surely, _surely_, -deserves better at _my_ sister’s hands;’ and ‘I really think, my dear -Ursula, that any petty objections of your own should yield before the -evident advantage to the family,’ was what the eldest brother of all, -the father of the young barrister, said. On the other side, with gloom -on his face, and a sneer upon his lip (where it was so completely out of -place), and a bitter jibe now and then about the falsity and weakness of -women, General George stood all alone, and kept a jealous watch upon -her. His love for his favourite sister seemed to have turned to gall. He -would have none of her usual services; he no longer consulted her about -anything--no longer told her what he was going to do. It is to be -supposed that by this cruel method the General intended to prove to his -sister how much kinder and better a master he was than any other she -could aspire to; but if this was the case, he took a very curious way of -showing his superiority. And Ursula stood between these two parties, her -home and her life becoming more and more unbearable every day. - -At last she took a sudden resolution. Sophy ran over to tell me of it -late one September evening. There were tears in Sophy’s eyes, and she -was full of awe. ‘Ursula has made up her mind, she said, almost below -her breath. ‘It is all over, Mrs. Mulgrave. She has written him a -_terrible_ letter--it is quite beautiful, but it is something terrible -at the same time; and she is going off _abroad_ to-morrow. She says she -cannot bear it any longer; she says we are killing her. She says she -must make an end of it, and that she will go away. Poor Mr. Oakley!’ -Sophy said, and cried. As for me, I also felt deeply impressed and a -little awe-stricken, but I had a lingering faith in Don Quixote -notwithstanding all. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - - -There had been very little time left for preparations, and hardly any -one, Sophy told me, was aware they were going away. Except myself, no -one of the neighbours knew. All the arrangements were hastily made. -Ursula wanted to be gone if possible before Mr. Oakley could take any -further step. I went over early next morning to see if I could be of any -use. Ursula was in her room, doing her packing. To see her in her old -black silk with her simple little cap covering her gray hair, and to -think she was being driven from her home by the importunities of a -too-ardent lover, struck me as more ridiculous than it had ever done -before. She saw it herself, and laughed as she stood for a moment before -the long glass, in which she had caught a glimpse of herself. - -‘I am a pretty sort of figure for all this nonsense,’ she said, -permitting herself for the first time an honest laugh on the subject; -but then her face clouded once more. ‘The truth is,’ she said, ‘it would -all be mere nonsense, but for George. It is he that takes it so much to -heart.’ - -‘Indeed,’ said I. ‘I think it is not at all nice of the General; and I -don’t think it would be nonsense in any case. There is some one else I -acknowledge, Ursula, that I think of more than the General.’ - -She did not say anything more. Her face paled, then grew red again, and -she went on with her packing. It is needless to say that I was of no -manner of use. I got rid of a little of my own excitement by going, that -was all. I went again in the evening to see the last of them. It was a -lovely September evening. There had been a wonderfully fine sunset, and -the whole horizon was still flaming, the trees standing out almost black -in their deep greenness, though touched with points of yellow, against -the broad lines of crimson and wide openings of wistful green blueness -in the sky. The days were already growing short. There is no time of the -year at which one gets so much good of the sunset. As I went across the -corner of the Green the gables and irregular chimneys of the old house -stood up among the heavy foliage against the lower band of colour where -the green and blue died into yellow the ‘daffodil sky’ of the poet. They -too looked black against that light, and there was a wistful look, I -thought, about the whole place, protesting dumbly against its -abandonment. Why should people go away from such a pleasant and peaceful -place to wander over the world? There was a solitary blackbird singing -clear and loud, filling the whole air with his song. I wonder if that -song is really much less beautiful than the nightingale’s. I was -thinking how blank and cold the house would be when they were all gone. -The chimneys and gables already looked so cold, smokeless, fireless, -appealing against the glare of the summer, which carried away the -dwellers inside, and extinguished the cheerful fire of home. As I went -in I saw the fly from the ‘Barleymow’ creeping along towards the house -to carry the luggage to the station. The old white horse came along -quite reluctantly, as if he did not like the errand. I suppose all that -his slow pace meant was that he had gone through a long day’s work, and -was tired; but it is so natural to convey a little of one’s own feelings -to everything, even the chimneys of the old house. There was nobody -down-stairs when I went in. Simms told me in a dolorous tone that Miss -Stamford was putting on her bonnet. - -‘And I don’t like it, ma’am--I don’t like it--going away like this, just -when the country’s at its nicest. If it was the General for his bit of -sport, his shooting, or that, I wouldn’t mind,’ said Simms; ‘but what -call have the ladies got away from home? They’ll go a-catching fevers or -something, see if they don’t. It’s tempting Providence.’ - -‘I hope not, Simms,’ said I; but Simms took no comfort from my hoping. -He shook his head and he uttered a groan as he set a chair for me in the -centre of the drawing-room. No more cosy corners, the man seemed to -say--no more low seats and pleasant talk--an uncompromising chair in the -middle of the room, and a business object. These were all of which the -old drawing-room would be capable when the ladies were away. I set down -Simms along with the house itself, protesting with all its chimneys, and -the old white horse lumbering reluctantly along to fetch the luggage, -and the blackbird remonstrating loudly among the trees. They were all -opposed to Ursula’s departure, and so was I. - -The door opened, and Sophy came in more despondent than all of these -sundry personages and things put together. ‘They are rather late--the -boxes are just being put on to the fly. Will you come out here and bid -her good-bye?’ said Sophy, who was limp with crying. I never could tell -whether it was imagination or a real quickening of my senses, but at -that moment, as I rose to follow Sophy, I heard as clearly as I ever -heard it in my life the galloping of horses on the dry, dusty summer -road. I heard it as distinctly as I hear now the soft dropping of the -rain, a sound as different as possible from all the other sounds I had -been hearing--horses galloping at their very best, a whip cracking, the -sound of a frantic energy of haste. Then I went out into the hall, -following Sophy. It must have been imagination, for with all these lawns -and shrubberies round, one could not, you may well believe, hear passing -carriages like that. Ursula was standing at the foot of the stairs in -her travelling dress. It was a large, long hall, more oblong than -square, into which all the rooms opened; the drawing-room was opposite -the outer door, and the General’s room (the library as it was called) -was further back nearer the stairs. He was inside, but the door was -open. Ursula stood outside talking to the cook, who was to be a kind of -housekeeper while they were away. ‘Don’t trouble Miss Sophy except when -you are perplexed yourself. On ordinary occasions you will do quite -nicely, I am sure; you will do everything that is wanted,’ she was -saying in her kind, cheerful voice, for Ursula did not show any -appearance of regret, though all of us who were staying behind were -melancholy. The men were hoisting up the trunks with which the hall was -encumbered on the top of the fly, which was visible with its old white -horse standing tired and pensive at the open door. And Mrs. St. Clair -appeared behind her sister, slowly coming down-stairs with a cloak over -her arm and a bag in her hand. There was nothing left but to say -good-bye and wish them a good journey and a speedy return. - -But all at once in a moment there was a change. The horses I had been -dreaming of, or had heard in a dream, drew up with a whirlwind of sound -at the gate. Then something darted across the unencumbered light beyond -the fly and came between the old white horse and the door. I think -he--for to use any neutral expressions about _him_ from the first moment -at which he showed himself would be impossible--I think he lifted his -hand to the men who were putting up the trunks to arrest them; at all -events they stopped and scratched their heads and opened their mouths, -and stood staring at him, as did Sophy and I, altogether confounded, yet -with sudden elation in our hearts. He stepped past us all as lightly as -any young paladin of twenty, taking off his hat. His white hair seemed -all in a moment to light up everything, to quicken the place. Ursula was -the last to see him. She was still talking quite calmly to the cook, -though even Mrs. St. Clair on the stairs had seen the new incident, and -had dropped her cloak in amazement. He went straight up to her, without -a pause, without drawing breath. I am sure we all held ours in -spellbound anxiety and attention. When Ursula saw him standing by her -side she started as if she had been shot--she made a hasty step back and -looked at him, catching her breath too with sudden alarm. But he had the -air of perfect self-command. - -‘Miss Stamford,’ he said, ‘will you grant me half an hour’s interview -before you go?’ - -For the first time Ursula lost her self-possession; she fluttered and -trembled like a girl, and could not speak for a moment. Then she -stammered out, ‘I hope you will excuse me. We shall be--late for the -train.’ - -‘Half an hour?’ he said; ‘I only ask half an hour--only hear me, Miss -Stamford, hear what I have got to say. I will not detain you more than -half an hour.’ - -Ursula looked round her helplessly. Whether she saw us standing gazing -at her I cannot tell, or if she was conscious that the General behind -her had come out to the door, and was standing there petrified, staring -like the rest of us. She looked round vaguely, as if asking aid from the -world in general. And whether her impetuous old lover took her hand and -drew it within his arm, or if she accepted his arm, I cannot say. But -the next thing of which we were aware was that they passed us, the two -together, arm in arm, into the drawing-room. He had noted the open door -with his quick eye, and there he led her trembling past us. Next moment -it closed upon the momentous interview, and the chief actors in this -strange scene disappeared. We were left all gazing at each other--Sophy -and I at one side of the hall, Mrs. St. Clair on the stairs, where she -stood as if turned to stone, her cloak fallen from her arm; and the -General at the door of his room with a face like a thunder-cloud, black -and terrible. We stared at each other speechless, the central object at -which we had all been gazing withdrawn suddenly from us. There were some -servants also of the party, Simms standing over Miss Stamford’s box, the -address of which he affected to be scanning, and the cabman scratching -his head. We all looked at each other with ludicrous, blank faces. It -was the General who was the first to speak. He took no notice of us. He -stepped out from his door into the middle of the hall, and pointed -imperiously to the box. ‘Take all that folly away,’ he said harshly, and -with another long step strode out of the house and disappeared. - -He did not come back till late that night, when all thoughts of the -train had long departed from everybody’s head. Before that time need I -say it was all settled? I had always been doubtful myself about Ursula. -She had been afraid of making a joke of herself by a late marriage. She -had shrunk, perhaps, too, at her time of life, from all the novelty and -the change; but even at fifty-seven a woman retains her imagination, and -it had been captivated in spite of herself by the bit of strange romance -thus oddly introduced into her life. Is any one ever old enough to be -insensible to the pleasure of being singled out and pursued with -something that looked like real passion? I do not suppose so; Ursula had -been alarmed by the softening of her own feelings; she had been -remorseful and conscience-stricken about her secret treachery to her -brother. In short, I had felt all along that she must have had very -little confidence in herself when she was driven to the expedient of -running away. - -They would not let me go, though I felt myself out of place at such a -moment, so that I had my share in the excitement as I had in the -suspense. And after all the struggle and the suspense it is -inconceivable how easy and natural the settlement of the matter seemed, -and what a relief it was that it should be decided. - -As soon as the first commotion was over Mrs. Douglas came to me, took -my hands in hers, and led me out by the open window. ‘George!’ she said -to me with a little gasp. ‘What shall we do about George? How will _he_ -take it? And if he comes in upon us all without any preparation, what -will happen? I don’t know what to do.’ - -‘He must know what has happened,’ said I; ‘he saw there was only one -thing that could happen. He must know what he has to expect.’ - -Mrs. St. Clair clasped her hands together. What with the excitement and -the pleasure and the pain the tears stood in her eyes. ‘Ursula was -always his favourite sister,’ she said; ‘how will he take it? and where -is he?--wandering about, making himself wretched this melancholy night.’ - -It was not in reality a melancholy night. It was dark, and the colour -had gone out of the sky, which looked of a deep wintry blue between the -black tree-tops which swayed in the wind. Mrs. St. Clair shivered a -little, partly from the contrast with the bright room inside, partly -from anxiety. ‘Where can he be?--where can he be wandering?’ she said. -We had both the same idea--that he must have gone into the woods and be -wandering about there in wild resentment and distress. ‘And we must not -stay out here or Mr. Oakley will think something is wrong, and Ursula -will be unhappy,’ she said with a sigh. - -It was then I proposed that I should stay outside to break the news to -the General when he appeared--a proposal which, after a while, Mrs. -Douglas was compelled to accept, though she protested--for after all, my -absence would not be remarked, and it was easy to say that I had gone -home, as I meant to do. But I cannot say that the post was a pleasant -one. I walked about for some time in front of the house, and then I came -and sat down in the porch ‘for company.’ There was nothing, as I have -said, specially melancholy about the night, but the contrast of the -scene within and this without struck the imagination. When a door opened -the voices within came with a kind of triumph into the darkness where -the disappointed and solitary brother was wandering: and so absorbed was -I in thoughts of General George and his downfall that I almost missed -the subject of them, who came suddenly round the corner of the house -when I was not looking for him. It was he who perceived me, rather than -I who was on the watch for him. ‘You here, Mrs. Mulgrave!’ he said in -amazement. I believe he thought, as I started to my feet, that I had -been asleep. - -‘General!’ I cried then in my confusion. ‘Stop here a moment, do not go -in. I have something to say to you.’ - -He laughed--which was a sound so unexpected that it bewildered me. ‘My -kind friend,’ he said, ‘have you stayed here to break the news to me? -But it is unnecessary--from the moment I saw Oakley arrive I knew how it -must be. Ursula has been going--she has been going. I have seen it for -three or four weeks past.’ - -‘And, General! thank Heaven you are not angry, you are taking it in a -Christian way.’ - -He laughed again--a sort of angry laugh. ‘Am I taking it in a Christian -way? I am glad you think so, Mrs. Mulgrave. When a thing cannot be cured -it must be endured, you know. I am out of court-- I have no ground to -stand upon, and he is master of the field. I don’t mean to make her -unhappy whatever happens. Is he here still?’ - -‘Yes,’ I said trembling. He offered me his arm precisely as Mr. Oakley -had offered his to Ursula. ‘Then we’ll go and join them,’ he said. - -This was how it all ended. There was not a speck on his boots or the -least trace of disorder. Instead of roaming the woods in despair, as we -thought, he had been quietly drinking Lady Denzil’s delightful tea and -playing chess with Sir Thomas. They had seen nothing unusual about him, -we heard afterwards, and never knew that he ought to have been starting -for the Continent when he walked in that evening, warmly welcomed to -tea--which shows what sentimental estimates we women form about the -feelings of men. - -The marriage took place very soon after. Mr. Oakley bought Hillhead, the -finest place in the neighbourhood, very soon after; he was so rich that -he bought a house whenever he found one that pleased him, as I might buy -an old blue china pot. The one was a much greater extravagance to me -than the other was to him. And they lived very happy ever after, and -nobody, so far as I know, has ever had occasion to regret this love at -first sight at sixty--this elderly romance. - - - - -MRS. MERRIDEW’S FORTUNE - - - - -CHAPTER I - - -There are two houses in my neighbourhood which illustrate so curiously -two phases of life, that everybody on the Green, as well as myself, has -been led into the habit of classing them together. The first reason of -this of course is, that they stand together; the second, that they are -as unlike in every way as it is possible to conceive. They are about the -same size, with the same aspect, the same green circle of garden -surrounding them; and yet as dissimilar as if they had been brought out -of two different worlds. They are not on the Green, though they are -undeniably a part of Dinglefield, but stand on the Mercot Road, a broad -country road with a verdant border of turf and fine trees shadowing over -the hedgerows. The Merridews live in the one, and in the other are Mrs. -Spencer and Lady Isabella. The house of the two ladies, which has been -already described, is as perfect in all its arrangements as if it were a -palace: a silent, soft, fragrant, dainty place, surrounded by lawns like -velvet; full of flowers in perfect bloom, the finest kinds, succeeding -each other as the seasons change. Even in autumn, when the winds are -blowing, you never see a fallen leaf about, or the least symptom of -untidiness. They have enough servants for everything that is wanted, and -the servants are as perfect as the flowers--noiseless maids and -soft-voiced men. Everything goes like machinery, with an infallible -regularity; but like machinery oiled and deadened, which emits no creak -nor groan. This is one of the things upon which Mrs. Spencer specially -prides herself. - -And just across two green luxuriant hedges, over a lawn which is not -like velvet, you come to the Merridews’. It is possible if you passed it -on a summer day that, notwithstanding the amazing superiority of the -other, you would pause longer, and be more amused with a glance into the -enclosure of the latter house. The lawn is not the least like velvet; -probably it has not been mown for three weeks at least, and the daisies -are irrepressible. But there, tumbled down in the midst of it, are a -bunch of little children in pinafores--‘_all_ the little ones,’ as Janet -Merridew, the eldest daughter, expresses herself, with a certain soft -exasperation. I would rather not undertake to number them or record -their names, but there they are, a knot of rosy, round-limbed, -bright-eyed, living things, some dark and some fair, with an amazing -impartiality; but all chattering as best they can in nursery language, -with rings of baby laughter, and baby quarrels, and musings of infinite -solemnity. Once tumbled out here, where no harm can come to them, nobody -takes any notice of the little ones. Nurse, sitting by serenely under a -tree, works all the morning through, and there is so much going on -indoors to occupy the rest. - -Mr. and Mrs. Merridew, I need not add, had a large family--so large that -their house overflowed, and when the big boys were at home from school, -was scarcely habitable. Janet, indeed, did not hesitate to express her -sentiments very plainly on the subject. She was just sixteen, and a good -child, but full of the restless longing for something, she did not know -what, and visionary discontent with her surroundings, which is not -uncommon at her age. She had a way of paying me visits, especially -during the holidays, and speaking more frankly on domestic subjects than -was at all expedient. She would come in, in summer, with a tap on the -glass which always startled me, through the open window, and sink down -on a sofa and utter a long sigh of relief. ‘Oh, Mrs. Mulgrave!’ she -would say, ‘what a good thing you never had any children!’ taking off, -as she spoke, the large hat which it was one of her grievances to be -compelled to wear. - -‘Is that because you have too many at home?’ I said. - -‘Oh, yes, far too many; fancy, ten! Why should poor papa be burdened -with ten of us? and so little money to keep us all on. And then a house -gets so untidy with so many about. Mamma does all she can, and I do all -I can; but how is it possible to keep it in order? When I look across -the hedges to Mrs. Spencer and Lady Isabella’s and see everything so -nice and so neat I could die of envy. And you are always so shady, and -so cool, and so pleasant here.’ - -‘It is easy to be neat and nice when there is nobody to put things out -of order,’ said I; ‘but when you are as old as I am, Janet, you will get -to think that one may buy one’s neatness too dear.’ - -‘Oh, I delight in it!’ cried the girl. ‘I should like to have everything -nice, like you; all the books and papers just where one wants them, and -paper-knives on every table, and ink in the ink-bottles, and no dust -anywhere. You are not so dreadfully particular as Mrs. Spencer and Lady -Isabella. I think I should like to see some litter on the carpet or on -the lawn now and then for a change. But oh, if you could only see our -house! And then our things are so shabby: the drawing-room carpet is all -faded with the sun, and mamma will never have the blinds properly -pulled down. And Selina, the housemaid, has so much to do. When I scold -her, mamma always stops me, and bids me recollect we can’t be as nice as -you other people, were we to try ever so much. There is so much to do in -our house. And then those dreadful big boys!’ - -‘My dear,’ said I, ‘ring the bell, and we will have some tea; and you -can tell Jane to bring you some of that strawberry jam you are so fond -of--and forget the boys.’ - -‘As if one could!’ said Janet, ‘when they are all over the place--into -one’s very room, if one did not mind; their boots always either dusty or -muddy, and oh, the noise they make! Mamma won’t make them dress in the -evenings, as I am sure she should. How are they ever to learn to behave -like Christians, Mrs. Mulgrave, if they are not obliged to dress and -come into the drawing-room at night?’ - -‘I dare say they would run out again and spoil their evening clothes, my -dear,’ I said. - -‘That is just what mamma says,’ cried Janet; ‘but isn’t it dreadful to -have always to consider everything like that? Poor mamma, too--often I -am quite angry, and then I think--perhaps she would like a house like -Mrs. Spencer and Lady Isabella’s as well as I should, if we had money -enough. I suppose in a nice big house with heaps of maids and heaps of -money, and everything kept tidy for you, one would not mind even the big -boys.’ - -‘I think under those circumstances most people would be glad to have -them,’ said I. - -‘I don’t understand how anybody can like boys,’ said Janet, with -reflective yet contemptuous emphasis. ‘A baby-boy is different. When -they are just the age of little Harry, I adore them; but those great -long-legged creatures, in their big boots! And yet, when they’re nicely -dressed in their evening things,’ she went on, suddenly changing her -tone, ‘and with a flower in their coats--Jack has actually got an -evening coat, Mrs. Mulgrave, he is so tall for his age--they look quite -nice; they look such gentlemen,’ Janet concluded, with a little sisterly -enthusiasm. ‘Oh, how dreadful it is to be so poor!’ - -‘I am sure you are very fond of them all the same,’ said I, ‘and would -break your heart if anything should happen to them.’ - -‘Oh, well, of course, now they are there one would not wish anything to -happen,’ said Janet. ‘What did you say I was to tell Jane, Mrs. -Mulgrave, about the tea? There now! Selina has never the time to be as -nice as that--and Richards, you know, our man---- Don’t you think, -really, it would be better to have a nice clean parlour-maid than a man -that looks like a cobbler? Mrs. Spencer and Lady Isabella are always -going on about servants,--that you should send them away directly when -they do anything wrong. But, you know, it makes a great difference -having a separate servant for everything. Mamma always says, “They are -good to the children, Janet,” or, “They are so useful and don’t mind -what they do.” We put up with Selina because, though she’s not a good -housemaid, she is quite willing to help in the nursery; and we put up -with nurse because she gets through so much sewing; and even the -cook---- Oh, dear, dear! it is so disagreeable. I wish I were--anybody -but myself.’ - -Just at this moment my maid ushered in Mrs. Merridew, hastily attired in -a hat she wore in the garden, and a light shawl wrapped round her. There -was an anxious look in her face, which indeed was not very unusual -there. She was a little flushed, either by walking in the sunshine or by -something on her mind. - -‘You here, Janet,’ she said, when she had shaken hands with me, ‘when -you promised me to practise an hour after luncheon? Go, my dear, and do -it now.’ - -‘It is so hot. I never can play in the middle of the day; and oh, mamma, -please it is so pleasant here,’ pleaded Janet, nestling herself close -into the corner of the sofa. - -‘Let her stay till we have had some tea,’ I said. ‘I know she likes my -strawberry jam.’ - -Mrs. Merridew consented, but with a sigh; and then it was that I saw -clearly she must have something on her mind. She did not smile, as -usual, with the indulgent mother’s smile, half disapproving, yet -unwilling to thwart the child. On the contrary, there was a little -constraint in her air as she sat down, and Janet’s enjoyment of the jam -vexed her, and brought a little wrinkle to her brow. ‘One would think -you had not eaten anything all day,’ she said with a vexed tone, and -evidently was impatient of her daughter’s presence, and wished her away. - -‘Nothing so nice as this,’ said Janet, with the frank satisfaction of -her age; and she went on eating her bread and jam quite composedly, -until Mrs. Merridew’s patience was exhausted. - -‘I cannot have you stay any longer,’ she said at length. ‘Go and -practise now, while there is no one in the house.’ - -‘Oh, mamma!’ said Janet, beginning to expostulate; but was stopped short -by a look in her mother’s eye. Then she gathered herself up reluctantly, -and left the paradise of my little tea-table with the jam. She went out -pouting, trailing her great hat after her; and had to be stopped as she -stepped into the blazing sunshine, and commanded to put it on. ‘It is -only a step,’ said the provoking girl, pouting more and more. And poor -Mrs. Merridew looked so worried, and heated, and uncomfortable as she -went out and said a few energetic words to her naughty child. Poor soul! -Ten different wills to manage and keep in subjection to her own, besides -all the other cares she had upon her shoulders. And that big girl who -should have been a help to her, standing pouting and disobedient between -the piano she did not care for, and the jam she loved.-- Sometimes such a -little altercation gives one a glimpse into an entire life. - -‘She is such a child,’ Mrs. Merridew said, coming in with an apologetic, -anxious smile on her face. She had been fretted and vexed, and yet she -would not show it to lessen my opinion of her girl. Then she sank down -wearily into that corner of the sofa from which Janet had been so -unwillingly expelled. ‘The truth is, I wanted to speak to you,’ she -said, ‘and could not while she was here. Poor Janet! I am afraid I was -cross, but I could not help it. Something has occurred to-day which has -put me out.’ - -‘I hope it is something I can help you in,’ I said. - -‘That is why I have come: you are always so kind; but it is a strange -thing I am going to ask you this time,’ she said, with a wistful glance -at me. ‘I want to go to town for a day on business of my own; and I want -it to be supposed that it is business of yours.’ - -The fact was, it did startle me for the moment--and then I reflected -like lightning, so quick was the process (I say this that nobody may -think my first feeling hard), what kind of woman she was, and how -impossible that she should want to do anything that one need be ashamed -of. ‘That is very simple,’ I said. - -Then she rose hastily, and came up to me and gave me a sudden kiss, -though she was not a demonstrative woman. ‘You are always so -understanding,’ she said, with the tears in her eyes; and thus I was -committed to stand by her, whatever her difficulty might be. - -‘But you sha’n’t do it in the dark,’ she went on; ‘I am going to tell -you all about it. I don’t want Mr. Merridew to know, and in our house it -is quite impossible to keep anything secret. He is on circuit now; but -he would hear of “the day mamma went to town” before he had been five -minutes in the house. And so I want you to go with me, you dear soul, -and to let me say I went with you.’ - -‘That is quite simple,’ I said again; but I did feel that I should like -to know what the object of the expedition was. - -‘It is a long story,’ she said, ‘and I must go back and tell you ever so -much about myself before you will understand. I have had the most -dreadful temptation put before me to-day. Oh, such a temptation! -resisting it is like tearing one’s heart in two; and yet I know I ought -to resist. Think of our large family, and poor Charles’s many -disappointments, and then, dear Mrs. Mulgrave, read that.’ - -It was a letter written on a large square sheet of thin paper which she -thrust into my hand: one of those letters one knows a mile off, and -recognizes as lawyers’ letters, painful or pleasant, as the case may be; -but more painful than pleasant generally. I read it, and you may judge -of my astonishment to find that it ran thus:-- - - ‘DEAR MADAM,--We have the pleasure to inform you that our late - client, Mr. John Babington, deceased on the 10th of May last, has - appointed you by his will his residuary legatee. After all his - special bequests are paid, including an annuity of a hundred a year - to his mother, with remainder to Miss Babington, his only surviving - sister, there will remain a sum of about £10,000, at present - excellently invested on landed security, and bearing interest at - four and a half per cent. By Mr. Babington’s desire, precautions - have been taken to bind it strictly to your separate use, so that - you may dispose of it by will or otherwise, according to your - pleasure, for which purpose we have accepted the office of your - trustees, and will be happy to enter fully into the subject, and - put you in possession of all details, as soon as you can favour us - with a private interview. - -‘We are, madam, - -‘Your obedient servants, - -‘FOGEY, FEATHERHEAD & DOWN.’ - - - -‘A temptation!’ I cried; ‘but, my dear, it is a fortune; and it is -delightful: it will make you quite comfortable. Why, it will be nearly -five hundred a year.’ - -I feel always safe in the way of calculating interest when it is -anything approaching five per cent.; five per cent. is so easily -counted. This great news took away my breath. - -But Mrs. Merridew shook her head. ‘It looks so at the first glance,’ she -said; ‘but when you hear my story you will think differently.’ And then -she made a little uncomfortable pause. ‘I don’t know whether you ever -guessed it,’ she added, looking down, and doubling a new hem upon her -handkerchief, ‘but I was not Charles’s equal when we married: perhaps -you may have heard----? - -Of course I had heard: but the expression of her countenance was such -that I put on a look of great amazement, and pretended to be much -astonished, which I could see was a comfort to her mind. - -‘I am glad of that,’ she said, ‘for you know--I could not speak so -plainly to you if I did not feel that, though you are so quiet now, you -must have seen a great deal of the world--you know what a man is. He may -be capable of marrying you, if he loves you, whatever your condition -is--but afterwards he does not like people to know. I don’t mean I was -his inferior in education, or anything of that sort,’ she added, looking -up at me with a sudden uneasy blush. - -‘You need not tell me that,’ I said; and then another uneasiness took -possession of her, lest I should think less highly than was right of her -husband. - -‘Poor Charles!’ she said; ‘it is scarcely fair to judge him as he is -now. We have had so many cares and disappointments, and he has had to -deny himself so many things--and you may say, Here is his wife, whom he -has been so good to, plotting to take away from him what might give him -a little ease. But oh, dear Mrs. Mulgrave, you must hear before you -judge!’ - -‘I do not judge,’ I said; ‘I am sure you must have some very good -reason; tell me what it is.’ - -Then she paused, and gave a long sigh. She must have been about forty, I -think, a comely, simple woman, not in any way a heroine of romance; and -yet she was as interesting to me as if she had been only half the age, -and deep in some pretty crisis of romantic distress. I don’t object to -the love stories either: but middle age has its romances too. - -‘When I was a girl,’ said Mrs. Merridew, ‘I went to the Babingtons as -Ellen’s governess. She was about fifteen and I was not more than twenty, -and I believe people thought me pretty. You will laugh at me, but I -declare I have always been so busy all my life, that I have never had -any time to think whether it was true: but one thing I know, that I was -a very good governess. I often wish,’ she added, pausing, with a half -comic look amid her trouble, ‘that I could find as good a governess as I -was for the girls. There was one brother, John, and one other sister, -Matilda; and Mr. Merridew was one of the visitors at the house, and was -supposed to be paying _her_ attention. I never could see it, for my -part, and Charles declares he never had any such idea; but _they_ -thought so, I know. It is quite a long story. John had just come home -from the University, and was pretending to read for the bar, and was -always about the house; and the end was that he fell in love with me.’ - -‘Of course,’ said I. - -‘I don’t know that it was of course. I was so very shy, and dreaded the -sound of my own voice; but he used to come after us everywhere by way of -talking to Ellen, and so got to know me. Poor John! he was the nicest, -faithful fellow--the sort of man one would trust everything to, and -believe in and respect, and be fond of--but not love. Of course Charles -was there too. It went on for about a year, such a curious, confused, -pleasant, painful---- I cannot describe it to you--but you know what I -mean. The Babingtons had always been kind to me; of course they were -angry when they found out about John, but then when they knew I would -not marry him, they were kinder than ever, and said I had behaved so -very well about it. I was a very lonely poor girl; my mother was dead, -and I had nowhere to go; and instead of sending me away, Mrs. Babington -sent _him_ away--her own son, which was very good of her you know. To be -sure I was a good governess, and they never suspected Charles of coming -for me, nor did I. Suddenly, all at once, without the least warning, he -found me by myself one day, and told me. I was a little shocked, -thinking of Matilda Babington! but then he declared he had meant -nothing. And so---- When the Babingtons heard of it, they were all -furious; even Ellen, my pupil, turned against me. They sent me away as -if I had done something wicked. It was very, very hard upon me; but yet -I scarcely wonder, now I think of it. That was why we married so early -and so imprudently. Mrs. Mulgrave, I dare say you have often wondered -why it was?’ - -I had to put on such looks of wonder and satisfied curiosity as I could; -for the truth was, I had known the outlines of the story for years, just -as every one knows the outlines of every one else’s story; especially -such parts of it as people might like to be concealed. I cannot -understand how anybody, at least in society, or on the verge of society, -can for a moment hope to have any secrets. Charles Merridew was a cousin -of Mr. Justice Merridew, and very well connected, and of course it was -known that he married a governess; which was one reason why people were -so shy of them at first when they came to the Green. - -‘I begin to perceive now why this letter should be a temptation to you,’ -I said; ‘you think Mr. Merridew would not like----’ - -‘Oh, it is not that,’ she said. ‘Poor Charles! I don’t think he would -mind. The world is so hard, and one makes so little head against it. No, -it is because of Mrs. Babington. I heard she lost all her money some -years ago, and was dependent on her son. And what can she do on a -hundred a year? A hundred a year! Only think of it, for an old lady -always accustomed to have her own way. It is horribly unjust, you know, -to take it from her, his mother, who was always so good to him; and to -give it to me, whom he has not seen for nearly twenty years, and who -gave him a sore heart when he did know me. I could not take advantage of -it. It is a great temptation, but it would be a great sin. And that is -why,’ she added, with a sudden flush on her face, looking at me, ‘I -should rather--manage it myself--under cover of you--and--not let -Charles know.’ - -She looked at me, and held me with her eye, demanding of me that I -should understand her, and yet defying me to think any the worse of -Charles. She was afraid of her husband--afraid that he would clutch at -the money without any consideration of the wrong--afraid to trust him -with the decision. She would have me understand her without words, and -yet she would not have me blame Mr. Merridew. She insisted on the one -and defied me to the other; an inconsistent, unreasonable woman! But I -did my best to look as if I saw, and yet did not see. - -‘Then you want to see the lawyers?’ I said. - -‘I want to see Mrs. Babington,’ was her answer. ‘I must go to them and -explain. They are proud people, and probably would resist--or they may -be otherwise provided for. If that was the case I should not hesitate to -take it. Oh, Mrs. Mulgrave, when I look at all the children, and Janet -there murmuring and grumbling, don’t you think it wrings my heart to put -away this chance of comfort? And poor Charles working himself out. But -it could not bring a blessing. It would bring a curse; I cannot take the -bread out of the mouth of the old woman who was good to me, even to put -it into that of my own child.’ - -And here two tears fell out of Mrs. Merridew’s eyes. At her age people -do not weep abundantly. She gave a little start as they fell, and -brushed them off her dress, with, I don’t doubt, a sensation of shame. -She to cry like a baby, who had so much to do! She left shortly after, -with an engagement to meet me at the station for the twelve o’clock -train next day. I was going to town on business, and had asked her to go -with me--this was what was to be said to all the world. I explained -myself elaborately that very evening to Mrs. Spencer and Lady Isabella, -when I met them taking their walk after dinner. - -‘Mrs. Merridew is so kind as to go with me,’ I said; ‘she knows so much -more about business than I do.’ And I made up my mind that I would go to -the Bank and leave my book to be made up, that it might not be quite -untrue. - -‘Fancy Mrs. Mulgrave having any business!’ said Lady Isabella. ‘Why -don’t you write to some man, and make him do it, instead of all the -trouble of going to town?’ - -‘But Mrs. Merridew is going with me, my dear,’ I said; and nobody -doubted that the barrister’s wife, with so much experience as she had, -and so many things to do, would be an efficient help to me in my little -affairs. - - - - -CHAPTER II - - -The house we went to was a house in St. John’s Wood. Everybody knows the -kind of place. A garden wall, with lilacs and laburnums, all out of -blossom by this time, and beginning to look brown and dusty, waving over -it; inside, a little bright suburban garden, full of scarlet geraniums, -divided by a white line of pavement, dazzlingly clean, from the door in -the wall to the door of the house; and a stand full of more scarlet -geraniums in the little square hall. Mrs. Merridew became very much -agitated as we approached. It was all that I could do to keep her up -when we had rung the bell at the door. I think she would have turned and -gone back even then had it been possible, but, fortunately, we were -admitted without delay. - -We were shown into a pretty shady drawing-room, full of old furniture, -which looked like the remnants of something greater, and at which she -gazed with eyes of almost wild recognition, unconsciously pressing my -arm, which she still held. Everything surrounding her woke afresh the -tumult of recollections. She was not able to speak when the maid asked -our names, and I was about to give them simply, and had already named my -own, when she pressed my arm closer to her, and interposed all at once-- - -‘Say two ladies from the country anxious to speak with her about -business. She might not--know--our names.’ - -‘Is it business about the house, ma’am?’ said the maid with some -eagerness. - -‘Yes, yes; it is about the house,’ said Mrs. Merridew, hastily. And then -the door closed, and we sat waiting, listening to the soft, subdued -sounds in the quiet house, and the rustle of the leaves in the garden. -‘She must be going to let it,’ my companion said hoarsely; and then rose -from the chair on which she had placed herself, and began to move about -the room with agitation, looking at everything, touching the things with -her hands, with now and then a stifled exclamation. ‘There is where we -used to sit, Ellen and I,’ she said, standing by a sofa, before which a -small table was placed, ‘when there was company in the evenings. And -there Matilda--oh, what ghosts there are about! Matilda is married, -thank Heaven! but if Ellen comes, I shall never be able to face her. Oh, -Mrs. Mulgrave, if you would but speak for me!’ - -At this moment the door was opened. Mrs. Merridew shrank back -instinctively, and sat down, resting her hand on the table she had just -pointed out to me. The new-comer was a tall, full figure, in deep -mourning, a handsome woman of five-and-thirty, or thereabouts, with -bright hair, which looked all the brighter from comparison with the -black depths of her dress, and a colourless, clear complexion. All the -colour about her was in her hair. Though she had no appearance of -unhealthiness, her very lips were pale, and she came in with a noiseless -quiet dignity, and the air of one who felt she had pain to encounter, -yet felt able to bear it. - -‘Pardon me for keeping you waiting,’ she said; and then, with a somewhat -startled glance, ‘I understood you wanted to see--the house.’ - -My companion was trembling violently; and I cleared my throat, and tried -to clear up my ideas (which was less easy) to say something in reply. -But before I had stammered out half-a-dozen words Mrs. Merridew rose, -and made one or two unsteady steps towards the stranger. - -‘Ellen,’ she cried, ‘don’t you know me?’ and stopped there, standing in -the centre of the room, holding out appealing hands. - -Miss Babington’s face changed in the strangest way. I could see that she -recognized her in a moment, and then that she pretended to herself not -to recognize her. There was the first startled, vivid, indignant glance, -and then a voluntary mist came over her eyes. She gazed at the agitated -woman with an obstinately blank gaze, and then turned to me with a -little bow. - -‘Your friend has the advantage of me,’ she said; ‘but you were saying -something? I should be glad, if that was what you wanted, to show you -over the house.’ - -It would be hard to imagine a more difficult position than that in which -I found myself; seated between two people who were thus strangely -connected with each other by bonds of mutual injury, and appealed to for -something meaningless and tranquillizing, to make the intercourse -possible. I did the best I could on the spur of the moment. - -‘It is not so much the house,’ I said, ‘though, if you wish to let it, I -have a friend who is looking for a house; but I think there was some -other business Mrs. Merridew had; something to say----’ - -‘Mrs. Merridew!’ said Miss Babington, suffering the light once more to -come into her eyes; and then she gave her an indignant look. ‘I think -this might have been spared us at least.’ - -‘Ellen,’ said Mrs. Merridew, speaking very low and humbly--‘Ellen, I -have never done anything to you to make you so hard against me. If I -injured your sister, it was unwittingly. She is better off than I am -now. You were once fond of me, as I was of you. Why should you have -turned so completely against me? I have come in desperation to ask a -hearing from you, and from your mother, Ellen. God knows I mean nothing -but good. And oh, what have I ever done?--what harm?’ - -Miss Babington had seated herself, still preserving her air of dignity, -but without an invitation by look or gesture to her visitor to be -seated; and in the silent room, all so dainty and so sweet with flowers, -with the old furniture in it, which reminded her of the past, the -culprit of twenty years ago stood pleading between one of those whom she -was supposed to have wronged and myself, a most ignorant and uneasy -spectator. Twenty years ago! In the meantime youth had passed, and the -hard burdens of middle age had come doubled and manifold upon her -shoulders. Had she done nothing in the meantime that would tell more -heavily against her than that girlish inadvertence of the past? Yet here -she stood--not knowing, I believe, for the moment, whether she was the -young governess in her first trouble, or the mother of all those -children, acquainted with troubles so much more bitter--among the ghosts -of the past. - -‘I would much rather not discuss the question,’ said Miss Babington, -still seated, and struggling hard to preserve her calm. ‘All the grief -and vexation we have owed to you in this house cannot be summed up in a -moment. The only policy, I think, is to be silent. Your very presence -here is an offence to us. What else could it be?’ - -‘I should never have come,’ said Mrs. Merridew, moved by a natural prick -of resentment, ‘but for what I have just heard---- I should never have -returned to ask for pardon where I had done no wrong--had it not been -for this--this that I feel to be unjust. Your poor brother John----’ - -‘Stop!’ cried the other, her reserve failing. ‘Stop, oh! stop, you cruel -woman! He was nothing to you but a toy to be played with--but he was my -brother, my only brother; and you have made him an undutiful son in his -very grave.’ - -The tears were in her eyes, her colourless face had flushed, her soft -voice was raised; and Mrs. Merridew, still standing, listened to her -with looks as agitated--when all at once the door was again opened -softly. The aspect of affairs changed in a moment. To my utter -amazement, Mrs. Merridew, who was standing with her face to the door, -made a quick, imperative, familiar gesture to her antagonist, and -looked towards an easy-chair which stood near the open window. Miss -Babington rose quickly to her feet, and composed herself into a sudden -appearance of calm. - -‘Mamma,’ she said, going forward to meet the old lady, who came slowly -in; ‘here are some ladies come upon business. This is--Mrs. Merridew.’ -She said the name very low, as Mrs. Babington made her way to her chair, -and Mrs. Merridew sank trembling into her seat, unable, I think, to bear -up longer. The old lady seated herself before she spoke. She was a -little old woman, with a pretty, softly-coloured old face, and had the -air of having been petted and cared for all her life. The sudden change -of her daughter’s manner; the accumulation of every kind of convenience -and prettiness, as I now remarked, round that chair; the careful way in -which it had been placed out of the sun and the draught, yet in the air -and in sight of the garden, told a whole history of themselves. And now -Mrs. Merridew’s passionate sense that the alienation of the son’s -fortune from the mother was a thing impossible, was made clear to me at -once. - -‘Whom did you say, Ellen?’ said the old lady, when she was comfortably -settled in her chair. ‘Mrs.----? I never catch names. I hope you have -explained to the ladies that I am rather infirm, and can’t stand. What -did you say was your friend’s name, my dear?’ - -Her friend’s name! Ellen Babington’s face lightened all over as with a -pale light of indignation. - -‘I said--Mrs. Merridew,’ she repeated, with a little emphasis on the -name. Then there was a pause; and the culprit who was at the bar -trembled visibly, and hid her face in her hands. - -‘Mrs. Merridew!---- Do you mean----? Turn me round, Ellen, and let me -look at her,’ said the old lady with a curious catching of her breath. - -It was a change which could not be done in a moment. While the daughter -turned the mother’s chair, poor Mrs. Merridew must have gone through the -torture of an age; her hands trembled, in which she had hidden herself. -But as the chair creaked and turned slowly round, and all was silent -again, she raised her white face, and uncovered herself, as it were, to -meet the inquisitor’s eye. It might have been a different woman, so -changed was she: her eyes withdrawn into caves, the lines of her mouth -drawn down, two hollows clearly marked in her cheeks, and every particle -of her usual colour gone. She looked up appalled and overcome, -confronting, but not meeting, the keen, critical look which old Mrs. -Babington fixed upon her; and then there was again a pause; and the -leaves fluttered outside, and the white curtains within, and a gay -child’s voice, passing in the road without, suddenly fell among us like -a bird. - -‘Ah!’ said the old lady, ‘that creature! Do you mean to tell me, Ellen, -that she has had the assurance to come here? Now look at her and tell -me what a man’s sense is worth. That woman’s face turned my poor boy’s -head, and drove Charles Merridew out of his wits. Only look at her: is -there anything there to turn anybody’s head now? She has lost her figure -too; to be sure that is not so wonderful, for she is forty if she is a -day. But there are you, my dear, as straight as a rush, and your sister -Matilda as well. So that is Janet Singleton, our governess: I wonder -what Charles thinks of his bargain now? I never saw a woman so gone off. -Oh, Ellen, Ellen, why didn’t she come and show herself, such a figure as -she is, before my poor dear boy was taken from us? My poor boy! And to -think he should have gone to his grave in such a delusion! Ellen, I -would rather now that you sent her away.’ - -‘Oh, mamma, don’t speak like this,’ cried Ellen, red with shame and -distress; ‘what does it matter about her figure? if that were all!--but -she is going away.’ - -‘Yes, yes, send her away,’ said the old lady. ‘You liked her once, but I -don’t suppose even you can think there could be any intercourse now. My -son left all his money to her,’ she added, turning to me--past his -mother and his sister. You will admit that was a strange thing to do. I -don’t know who the other lady is, Ellen, but I conclude she is a friend -of yours. He left everything past us, everything but some poor pittance. -Perhaps you may know some one who wants a house in this neighbourhood? -It is a very nice little house, and much better furnished than most. I -should be very glad to let it, now that I can’t afford to occupy it -myself, by the year.’ - -‘Mamma, the other lady is with Mrs. Merridew,’ said Ellen; ‘I do not -know her----’ and she cast a glance at me, almost appealing to my pity. -I rose up, not knowing what to do. - -‘Perhaps, my dear,’ I said, I confess with timidity, ‘we had better go -away.’ - -‘Unless you will stay to luncheon,’ said the old lady. ‘But I forgot--I -don’t want to look at that woman any more, Ellen. She has done us enough -of harm to satisfy any one. Turn me round again to my usual place, and -send her away.’ - -Mrs. Merridew had risen to her feet too. She had regained her senses -after the first frightful shock. She was still ghastly pale, but she was -herself. She went up firmly and swiftly to the old lady, put Ellen aside -by a movement which she was unconscious of in her agitation, and -replaced the chair in its former place with the air of one to whom such -an office was habitual. ‘You used to say I always did it best,’ she -said. ‘Oh, is it possible you can have forgotten everything! Did not I -give him up when you asked me, and do you think I will take his money -now? Oh, never, never! It ought to be yours, and it shall be. Oh, take -it back, and forgive me, and say, “God bless you” once again.’ - -‘Eh, what was that you said? Ellen, what does she say?’ said the old -woman. ‘I have always heard the Merridews were very poor. Poor John’s -fortune will be a godsend to them. Go away! I suppose you mean to mock -me after all the rest you have done. I don’t understand what you say.’ - -Yet she looked up with a certain eagerness on her pretty old face--a -certain sharp look of greed and longing came into the blue eyes, which -retained their colour as pure as that of youth. Her daughter towered -above her, pale with emotion, but still indignant, yielding not a jot. - -‘Mamma, pay no attention,’ she said; ‘Mrs. Merridew may pity us, but -what is that? surely we can take back nothing from her hands.’ - -‘Pity! I don’t see how Janet Merridew can pity _me_. But I should like,’ -Mrs. Babington went on, with a little tremble of eagerness, ‘to know at -least what she means.’ - -‘This is what I mean,’ said Mrs. Merridew, sinking on her knees by the -old lady’s chair: ‘that I will not take your money. It _is_ your money. -We are poor, as you say; but we can struggle on as we have done for -twenty years; and poor John’s money is yours, and not mine. It is not -mine. I will not take it. It must have been some mistake. If he had -known what he was doing he never would have left it to any one but you.’ - -‘So I think myself,’ said the old lady, musing; and then was silent, -taking no notice of any one--looking into the air. - -‘Mamma,’ said Ellen, behind her chair, ‘I can work for you, and Matilda -will help us. It cannot be. It may be kind of--her--but it cannot, -cannot be. Are we to take charity?--to live on charity? Mamma, she has -no right to disturb you.’ - -‘She is not disturbing me, my dear,’ said the old lady; ‘on the -contrary. Whatever I might think of her, she used to be a girl of sense. -And Matilda always carried things with a very high hand, and I never was -fond of her husband. But I am very fond of my house,’ she added, after a -pause; ‘it is such a nice house, Ellen. I think I should die if we were -to leave it. I shall die very soon, most likely, and be a burden on -nobody; but still, Ellen, if she meant it, you know----’ - -‘Mamma, what does it matter what she means? you never can think of -accepting charity. It will break my heart.’ - -‘That is all very well to say,’ said Mrs. Babington. ‘But I have lived a -great deal longer than you have done, my dear, and I know that hearts -are not broken so easily. It would break my heart to leave my nice -house. Janet, come here, and look me in the face. I don’t think you were -true to us in the old times. Matilda did carry things with a very high -hand. I told her so at the time, and I have often told her so since; but -I don’t think you were true to us, all the same.’ - -‘I did not know--I did not mean----’ faltered Mrs. Merridew, leaning -her head on the arm of the old lady’s chair. - -It was clear to me that the story had two sides, and that my friend was -perhaps not so innocent as she had made herself out to be. But there was -something very pitiful in the comparison between the passion of anxiety -in her half-hidden face, and the calm of the old woman who was thus -deciding on her fate. - -‘My dear, I am afraid you knew,’ said Mrs. Babington. ‘You accepted my -poor boy, and then, when I spoke to you, you gave him up, and took -Charles Merridew instead. If I had not interfered, perhaps it would have -been better; though, to be sure, I don’t know what we should have done -with a heap of children. And as for poor John’s money, you know you have -no more real right to it, no more than that other lady, who never saw -him in her life.’ - -‘She has the best possible right to it, mamma--he left it to her,’ said -Ellen anxiously, over her shoulder. ‘Oh, why did you come here to vex -us, when we were not interfering with you? I beg of you not to trouble -my mother any more, but go away.’ - -Then there was a moment of hesitation. Mrs. Merridew rose slowly from -her knees. She turned round to me, not looking me in the face. She said, -in a hoarse voice, ‘Let us go,’ and made a step towards the door. She -was shaking as if she had a fever; but she was glad. Was that possible? -She had delivered her conscience--and now might not she go and keep the -money which would make her children happy? But she could not look me in -the face. She moved as slowly as a funeral. And yet she would have -flown, if she could, to get safely away. - -‘Janet, my dear,’ said the old lady, ‘come back, and let us end our -talk.’ - -Mrs. Merridew stopped short, with a start, as if a shot had arrested -her. This time she looked me full in the face. Her momentary hope was -over, and now she felt for the first time the poignancy of the sacrifice -which it had been her own will to make. - -‘Come back, Janet,’ said Mrs. Babington. ‘As you say, it is not your -money. Nothing could make it your money. You were always right-feeling -when you were not aggravated. I am much obliged to you, my dear. Come -and sit down here, and tell me all about yourself. Now poor John is -dead,’ she went on, falling suddenly into soft weeping, like a child, -‘we ought to be friends. To think he should die before me, and I should -be heir to my own boy--isn’t it sad? And such a fine young fellow as he -was! You remember when he came back from the University? What a nice -colour he had! And always so straight and slim, like a rush. All my -children have a good carriage. You have lost your figure, Janet; and you -used to have a nice little figure. When a girl is so round and plump, -she is apt to get stout as she gets older. Look at Ellen, how nice she -is. But then, to be sure, children make a difference. Sit down by me -here, and tell me how many you have. And, Ellen, send word to the -house-agent, and tell him we don’t want now to let the house; and tell -Parker to get luncheon ready a little earlier. You must want something, -if you have come from the country. Where are you living now? and how is -Charles Merridew? Dear, dear, to think I should not have seen either of -you for nearly twenty years!’ - -‘But, mamma, surely, surely,’ cried Ellen Babington, ‘you don’t think -things can be settled like this?’ - -‘Don’t speak nonsense, Ellen; everything _is_ settled,’ said the old -lady. ‘You know I always had the greatest confidence in Janet’s good -sense. Now, my dear, hold your tongue. A girl like you has no right to -meddle. I always manage my own business. Go and look after -luncheon--that is your affair.’ - -I do not remember ever to have seen a more curious group in my life. -There was the old lady in the centre, quite calm, and sweet, and -pleasant. A tear was still lingering on her eyelash; but it represented -nothing more than a child’s transitory grief, and underneath there was -nothing but smiles, and satisfaction, and content. She looked so pretty, -so pleased, so glad to find that her comforts were not to be impaired, -and yet took it all so lightly, as a matter of course, as completely -unconscious of the struggle going on in the mind of her benefactress as -if she had been a creature from a different world. As for Mrs. Merridew, -she stood speechless, choked by feelings that were too bitter and -conflicting for words. I am sure that all the advantages this money -could have procured for her children were surging up before her as she -stood and listened. She held her hands helplessly half stretched out, as -if something had been taken out of them. Her eyes were blank with -thinking, seeing nothing that we saw, but a whole world of the -invisible. Her breast heaved with a breath half drawn, which seemed -suspended half way, as if dismay and disappointment hindered its -completion. It was all over then--her sacrifice made and accepted, and -no more about it; and herself sent back to the monotonous struggle of -life. On the other side of the pretty old lady stood Ellen Babington, -pale and miserable, struggling with shame and pride, casting sudden -glances at Mrs. Merridew, and then appealing looks at me, who had -nothing to do with it. - -‘Tell her, oh, tell her it can’t be!’ she cried at last, coming to me. -‘Tell her the lawyers will not permit it. It cannot be.’ - -And Mrs. Merridew, too, gave me one pitiful look--not repenting, but -yet---- Then she went forward, and laid her hand upon the old lady’s -hand, which was like ivory, with all the veins delicately carved upon -it. - -‘Say, God bless us, at least. Say, “God bless you and your children,” -once before I go.’ - -‘To be sure,’ said the old lady cheerfully. ‘God bless you, my dear, and -all the children. Matilda has no children, you know. I should like to -see them, if you think it would not be too much for me. But you are not -going, Janet, when it is the first time we have met for nearly twenty -years?’ - -‘I must go,’ said Mrs. Merridew. - -She could not trust herself to speak, I could see. She put down her face -and kissed the ivory hand, and then she turned and went past me to the -door, without another word. I think she had forgotten my very existence. -When she had reached the door she turned round suddenly, and fixed her -eyes upon Ellen. She was going away, having given them back their -living, without so much acknowledgment as if she had brought a nosegay. -There was in her look a mute remonstrance and appeal and protest. Ellen -Babington trembled all over; her lips quivered as if with words which -pride or pain would not permit her to say; but she held, with both hands -immovable, to the back of her mother’s chair, who, for her part, was -kissing her hand to the departing visitor. ‘Good-bye; come and see us -soon again,’ the old lady was saying cheerfully. And Ellen gazed, and -trembled, and said nothing. Thus this strangest of visits came to an -end. - -She had forgotten me, as I thought; but when I came to her side and my -arm was within her reach, she clutched at it and tottered so that it was -all I could do to support her. I was very thankful to get her into the -cab, for I thought she would have fainted on the way. But yet she roused -herself when I told the man to drive back to the station. - -‘We must go to the lawyer’s first,’ she said; and then we turned and -drove through the busy London streets, towards the City. The clerks -looked nearly baked in the office when we reached it, and the crowd -crowded on, indiscriminate and monotonous. One feels one has no right to -go to such a place and take any of the air away, of which they have so -little. And to think of the sweet air blowing over our lawns and lanes, -and all the unoccupied, silent, shady places we had left behind us! Such -vain thoughts were not in Mrs. Merridew’s head. She was turning over and -over instead a very different kind of vision. She was counting up all -she had sacrificed, and how little she had got by it; and yet was going -to complete the sacrifice, unmoved even by her thoughts. - -I confess I was surprised at the tone she took with the lawyer. She said -‘Mr. Merridew and myself’ with a composure which made me, who knew Mr. -Merridew had no hand in it, absolutely speechless. The lawyer -remonstrated as he was in duty bound, and spoke about his client’s will; -but Mrs. Merridew made very little account of the will. She quoted her -husband with a confidence so assured that even I, though I knew better, -began to be persuaded that she had communicated with him. And thus the -business was finally settled. She had recovered herself by the time we -got into the cab again. It is true that her face was worn and livid with -the exertions of the day, but still, pale and weary as she was, she was -herself. - -‘But, my dear,’ I said, ‘you quoted Mr. Merridew, as if he knew all -about it; and what if he should not approve?’ - -‘You must not think I have no confidence in my husband,’ she said -quickly; ‘far from that. Perhaps he would not see as I do now. He would -think of our own wants first. But if it comes to his ears afterwards, -Charles is not the man to disown his wife’s actions. Oh, no, no; we have -gone through a great deal together, and he would no more bring shame -upon me, as if I acted when I had no right to act--than--I would bring -shame upon him; and I think that is as much as could be said.’ - -And then we made our way back to the station; but she said nothing more -till we got into the railway-carriage, which was not quite so noisy as -our cab. - -‘It would have been such a thing for us,’ she said then, half to -herself. ‘Poor Charles! Oh, if I could but have said to him, “Don’t be -so anxious; here is so much a year for the children.” And Jack should -have gone to the University. And there would have been Will’s premium at -once’ (_i.e._, to Mr. Willoughby, the engineer). ‘The only thing that I -am glad of is that they don’t know. And then Janet; she breaks my heart -when she talks. It is so bad for her, knowing the Fortises and all those -girls who have everything that heart can desire. I never had that to -worry me when I was young. I was only the governess. Janet’s talk will -be the worst of all. I could have made the house so nice too, and -everything. Well!--but then I never should have had a moment’s peace.’ - -‘You don’t regret?’ I said. - -‘No,’ said Mrs. Merridew with a long sigh. And then, ‘Do you think I -have been a traitor to the children?’ she cried suddenly, ‘taking away -their money from them in the dark? Would Charles think me a traitor, as -_they_ do? Is it always to be my part?--always to be my part?’ - -‘No, no,’ I said, soothing her as best I could; but I was very glad to -find my pony-carriage at the station, and to drive her home to my house -and give her some tea, and strengthen her for her duties. Thus poor John -Babington’s fortune was disposed of, and no one was the wiser, except, -indeed, the old lady and her daughter, who were not likely to talk much -on the subject. And Mrs. Merridew walked calmly across to her house in -the dusk as if this strange episode of agitation and passion had been -nothing more solid than a dream. - - - - -CHAPTER III - - -We did not meet again for some days after this, and next time I saw her, -which was on Sunday at church with her children, it seemed impossible to -me to believe in the reality of the strange scene we had so recently -passed through together. The calm curtain of ordinary decorums and -ordinary friendliness had risen for a moment from Mrs. Merridew’s -unexcited existence, revealing a woman distracted by a primitive sense -of justice, rending her own soul, as it were, in sunder, and doing, in -spite of herself and all her best instincts, what she felt was right. -That she should have any existence separate from her children had never -occurred to anybody before. Yet, for one day, I had seen her resist and -ignore the claims of her children, and act like an independent being. -When I saw her again she was once more the mother and nothing more, -casting her eyes over her little flock, cognizant, one could see, of the -perfection or imperfection of every fold and line in their dresses, -keeping her attention upon each, from little Matty, who was restless and -could not be kept quiet, up to Janet, who sat demure, and already caught -the eye of visitors as one of the prettiest girls of Dinglefield. Mrs. -Merridew remarked all with a vigilant mother’s eye, and as I gazed -across at her in her pew, it was all but impossible for me to believe -that this was the same woman who had clung so convulsively to my arm, -whose face had been so worn and hollowed out with suffering. How could -it be the same woman? She who had suffered poor John Babington to love -her--and then had cast him off, and married her friend’s lover instead; -who had established so firm an empire over a man’s heart, that, after -twenty years, he had remembered her still with such intensity of -feeling. How Janet would have opened her big eyes had it been suggested -to her that her mother could have any power over men’s hearts; or, -indeed, could be occupied with anything more touching or important than -her children’s frocks or her butcher’s bills! I fear I did not pay much -attention to the service that morning. I could not but gaze at them, and -wonder whether, for instance, Mr. Merridew himself, who had come back -from circuit, and was seated respectably with his family in church, -yawning discreetly over Mr. Damerel’s sermon, remembered anything at -all, for his part, of Matilda Babington or her brother. Probably he -preferred to ignore the subject altogether--or, perhaps, would laugh -with a sense of gratified vanity that there had been ‘a row,’ when the -transference of his affections was discovered. And there she sat by his -side, who had--had she betrayed his confidence? was she untrue to him in -being this time true to her friends? The question bewildered me so that -my mind went groping about it and about it. Once, I fear, she had been -false to those whose bread she ate, and chosen love instead of -friendship. Now was she false to the nearest of ties, the closest of all -relationships, sitting calmly there beside him with a secret in her mind -of which he knew nothing? ‘Falsely true!’--was that what the woman was -who looked to the outside world a mere pattern of all domestic virtues, -without any special interest about her, a wife devoted to her husband’s -interest, a mother wrapped up, as people say, in her children? I could -not make up my mind what to think. - -‘I hope you got through your business comfortably,’ Mrs. Spencer said to -me as we walked home from church. - -‘With Mrs. Merridew’s assistance,’ said Lady Isabella, who was rather -satirical. And the Merridews heard their own name, and stopped to join -in the conversation. - -‘What is that about my wife?’ he said. ‘Did Mrs. Mulgrave have Mrs. -Merridew’s assistance about something? I hope it was only shopping. When -you have business you should consult me. She is a goose, and knows -nothing about it.’ - -‘I don’t think she is a goose,’ said I. - -‘No, perhaps not in her own way,’ said the serene husband, laughing; -‘but every woman is a goose about business--I beg your pardon, ladies, -but I assure you I mean it as a compliment. I hate a woman of business. -Shopping is quite a different matter,’ he added, and laughed. Good -heavens! if he had only known what a fool he looked, beside the silent -woman, who gave me a little warning glance and coloured a little, and -turned away her head to speak to little Matty, who was clinging to her -skirts. A perfect mother! thinking more (you would have said) of Matty’s -little frills and Janet’s bonnet-strings than of anything else in life. - -And that was all about it. The summer went on and turned to autumn and -to winter and to spring again, with that serene progression of nature -which nothing obstructs; and the children grew, and the Merridews were -as poor as ever, managing more or less to make both ends meet, but -always just a little short somewhere, with their servants chosen on the -same principle of supplementing each other’s imperfect service as that -which Janet had announced to me. For one thing, they kept their servants -a long time, which I have noticed is characteristic of households not -very rich nor very ‘particular.’ When you allow such pleas to tell in -favour of an imperfect housemaid as that she is good to the children, or -does not mind helping the cook, there is no reason why Mary, if she does -not marry in the meantime, should not stay with you a hundred years. And -the Merridews’ servants accordingly stayed, and looked very friendly at -you when you went to call, and did their work not very well, with much -supervision and exasperation (respectively) on the part of the mother -and daughter. But the family was no poorer, though it was no richer. The -only evidence of our expedition to town which I could note was, that it -had produced a new pucker on Mrs. Merridew’s brow. She had looked -sufficiently anxious by times before, but the new pucker had something -more than anxiety in it. There was a sense of something better that -might have been; a sense of something lost--a suspicion of bitterness. -How all this could be expressed by one line on a smooth white forehead I -cannot explain; but to me it was so. - -Now and then, too, a chance allusion would be made which recalled what -had happened still more plainly. For instance, I chanced to be calling -one afternoon, when Mr. Merridew came home earlier than usual from town. -We were sitting over our five-o’clock tea, with a few of the children -scrambling about the floor and Janet working in the corner. He took up -the ordinary position of a man who has just come home, with his back to -the fire, and regarded us with that benevolent contempt which men -generally think it right to exhibit for women over their tea; and -everything was so ordinary and pleasant, that I for one was taken -entirely by surprise, and nearly let fall the cup in my hand when he -spoke. - -‘I don’t know whether you saw John Babington’s death in the _Times_ -three or four months ago, Janet,’ he said, ‘did you? Why did you never -mention it? It is odd that I should not have heard. I met Ellen to-day -coming out of the Amyotts, where I lunched, in such prodigious mourning -that I was quite startled. All the world might have been dead to look at -her. And do you know she gave me a look as if she would have spoken. All -that is so long past that it’s ridiculous keeping up malice. I wish you -would call next time you are in town to ask for the old lady. Poor -John’s death must have been a sad loss to them. I hear there was some -fear that he had left his property away from his mother and sister. But -it turned out a false report.’ - -I did not dare to look at Mrs. Merridew to see how she bore it; but her -voice replied quite calmly without any break, as if the conversation was -on the most ordinary subject-- - -‘Where did you manage to get so much news?’ - -‘Oh, from the Amyotts,’ he said, ‘who knew all about it. Matilda, you -know, poor girl’ (with that half laugh of odious masculine vanity which -I knew in my heart he would be guilty of), ‘married a cousin of -Amyott’s, and is getting on very well, they say. But think over my -suggestion, Janet. I think at this distance of time it would be graceful -on your part to go and call.’ - -‘I cannot think they would like to see me now,’ she said in a low voice. -Then I ventured to look at her. She was seated in an angular, rigid way, -with her shoulders and elbows squared to her work, and the corners of -her mouth pursed up, which would have given to any cursory observer the -same impression it did to her husband. - -‘How hard you women are!’ he said. ‘Trust you for never forgiving or -forgetting. Poor old lady, I should have thought anybody would have -pitied her. But however it is none of my business. As for Ellen, she is -a very handsome woman, though she is not so young as she once was. I -should not wonder if she were to make a good marriage even now. Is it -possible, Janet, after being so fond of her--or pretending to be, how -can I tell?--that you would not like to say a kind word to Ellen now?’ - -‘She would not think it kind from me,’ said Mrs. Merridew, still rigid, -never raising her eyes from her work. - -‘I think she would: but at all events you might try,’ he said. All her -answer was to shake her head, and he went away to his dressing-room -shrugging his shoulders and nodding his head in bewildered comments to -himself on what he considered the hard-heartedness of woman. As for me, -I kept looking at her with sympathetic eyes, thinking that at least she -would give herself the comfort of a confidential glance. But she did -not. It seemed that she was determined to ignore the whole matter, even -to me. - -‘I wish papa would take as much interest in us poor girls at home as he -does in people that don’t belong to him,’ said Janet. ‘Mamma, I never -can piece this to make it long enough. It may do for Marian’ (who was -her next sister), ‘but it will never do for me.’ - -‘You are so easily discouraged,’ said Mrs. Merridew. ‘Let me look at it. -You girls are always making difficulties. Under the flounce your -piecing, as you call it, will never be seen. Those flounces,’ she added, -with a little laugh, which I knew was hysterical, ‘are blessings to poor -folks.’ - -‘I am sure I don’t think there is anything to laugh at,’ said poor -Janet, almost crying: ‘when you think of Nelly Fortis and all the other -girls, with their nice dresses all new and fresh from the dressmaker’s, -and no trouble; while I have only mamma’s old gown, that she wore when -she was twenty, to turn, and patch, and piece--and not long enough after -all!’ - -‘Then you should not grow so,’ said her mother, ‘and you ought to be -thankful that the old fashion has come in again, and my old gown can be -of use.’ But as she spoke she turned round and gave me a look. The tears -were in her eyes, and that pucker, oh, so deeply marked, in her -forehead. I felt she would have sobbed had she dared. And then before my -eyes, as, I am sure, before hers, there glided a vision of Ellen -Babington in her profound mourning, rustling past Mr. Merridew on the -stairs, with heaps of costly crape, no doubt, and that rich black silk -with which people console themselves in their first mourning. How could -they take it all without a word? The after-pang that comes almost -inevitably at the back of a sacrifice, was tearing Mrs. Merridew’s -heart. I felt it go through my own, and so I knew. She had done it -nobly, but she could not forget that she had done it. Does one ever -forget? - -And then as I went home I fell into a maze again. Had she a right to do -it? To sit at table with that unsuspicious man, and put her arm in his, -and be at his side continually, and all the time be false to him? -Falsely true! I could not get the words out of my mind. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - - -I do not now remember how long it was before I saw in the _Times_ the -intimation of old Mrs. Babington’s death. I think it must have been -about two years: for Janet was eighteen, and less discontented with -things in general, besides being a great deal more contented than either -her friends or his desired, with the civilities of young Bischam from -the Priory, who was always coming over to see his aunt, and always -throwing himself in the girl’s way. He had nothing except his commission -and a hundred and fifty a year which his father allowed him, and she had -nothing at all; and, naturally, they took to each other. It is this that -makes me recollect what year it was. We had never referred to the matter -in our frequent talks, Mrs. Merridew and I. But after the intimation in -the _Times_, she herself broke the silence. She came to me the very next -day. ‘Did you see it in the papers?’ she asked, plunging without preface -into the heart of the subject: and I could not pretend not to -understand. - -‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I saw it;’ and then stopped short, not knowing what to -say. - -She had got a worn-out look in these two years, such as all the previous -years in which I had known her had not given. The pucker was more -developed on her forehead; she was less patient and more easily fretted. -She had grown thin, and something of a sharp tone had come into her -soft, motherly voice. By times she would be almost querulous; and nobody -but myself knew in the least whence the drop of gall came that had so -suddenly shown itself in her nature. She had fretted under her secret, -and over her sacrifice--the sacrifice which had never been taken any -notice of, but had been calmly accepted as a right. Now she came to me -half wild, with the look of a creature driven to bay. - -‘It was for her I did it,’ she said; ‘she had always been so petted and -cared for all her life. She did not know how to deny herself; I did it -for her, not for Ellen. Oh, Mrs. Mulgrave, I cannot tell you how fond I -was of that girl! And you saw how she looked at me. Never one word, -never even a glance of response: and I suppose now----’ - -‘My dear,’ I said, ‘you cannot tell yet; let us wait and see; now that -her mother is gone her heart may be softened. Do not take any steps just -yet.’ - -‘Steps!’ she cried. ‘What steps can I take now? I have thrown altogether -away from me what might have been of such use to the children. I have -been false to my own children. Poor John meant it to be of use to us----’ - -And then she turned away, wrought to such a point that nothing but tears -could relieve her. When she had cried she was better; and went home to -all her little monotonous cares again, to think and think, and mingle -that drop of gall more and more in the family cup. Mr. Merridew was -again absent on circuit at this time, which was at once a relief and a -trouble to his wife. And everybody remarked the change in her. - -‘She is going to have a bad illness,’ Mrs. Spencer said. ‘Poor thing, I -don’t wonder, with all those children, and inferior servants, and so -much to do. I have seen it coming on for a long time. A serious illness -is a dangerous thing at her age. All her strength has been drained out -of her; and whether she will be able to resist----’ - -‘Don’t be so funereal,’ said Lady Isabella; ‘she has something on her -mind.’ - -‘I think it is her health’ said Mrs. Spencer; and we all shook our heads -over her altered looks. - -I had a further fright, too, some days after, when Janet came to me, -looking very pale. She crept in with an air of secrecy which was very -strange to the girl. She looked scared, and her hair was pushed up -wildly from her forehead, and her light summer dress all dusty and -dragging, which was unlike Janet, for she had begun by this time to be -tidy, and feel herself a woman. She came in by the window as usual, but -closed it after her, though it was very hot. ‘May I come and speak to -you?’ she said in a whisper, creeping quite close to my side. - -‘Of course, my dear; but why do you shut the window?’ said I; ‘we shall -be suffocated if you shut out the air.’ - -‘It is because it is a secret,’ she said. ‘Mrs. Mulgrave, tell me, is -there anything wrong with mamma?’ - -‘Wrong?’ I said, turning upon her in dismay. - -‘I can’t help it,’ cried Janet, bursting into tears. ‘I don’t believe -mamma ever did anything wrong. I can’t believe it: but there has been a -woman questioning me so, I don’t know what to think.’ - -‘A woman questioning you?’ - -‘Listen,’ said Janet hastily. ‘This is how it was: I was walking down to -the Dingle across the fields--oh! Mrs. Mulgrave, dear, don’t say -anything; it was only poor Willie Bischam, who wanted to say good-bye to -me--and all at once I saw a tall lady in mourning looking at us as we -passed. She came up to us just at the stile at Goodman’s farm, and I -thought she wanted to ask the way; but instead of that, she stopped me -and looked at me. “I heard you called Janet,” she said; “I had once a -friend who was called Janet, and it is not a common name. Do you live -here? is your mother living? and well? and how many children are there? -I should like to know if you belong to my old friend.”’ - -‘And what did you say?’ - -‘What could I say, Mrs. Mulgrave? She did not look cross or -disagreeable, and she was a lady. I said who I was, and that mamma was -not quite well, and that there were ten of us; and then she began to -question me about mamma. Did she go out a great deal? and was she tall -or short? and had she pretty eyes “like mine?” she said; and was her -name Janet like mine? and then, when I had answered her as well as I -could, she said, I was not to say a word to mamma; “perhaps it is not -the Janet I once knew,” she said; “don’t say anything to her;” and then -she went away. I was so frightened, I ran home directly all the way. I -knew I might tell you, Mrs. Mulgrave; it is like something in a book, is -it not, when people are trying to find out---- oh, you don’t think I can -have done any harm to mamma?’ - -Janet was so much agitated that it was all I could do to quiet her down. -‘And I never said good-bye to poor Willie, after all,’ she said, with -more tears when she had rallied a little. I thought it better she should -not tell her mother, though one is very reluctant to say so to a girl; -for Willie Bischam was a secret too. But he was going away, poor fellow, -and probably nothing would ever come of it. I made a little compromise -with my own sense of right. - -‘Forget it, Janet, and say nothing about it; perhaps it was some one -else after all; and if you will promise not to meet Mr. Bischam -again----’ - -‘He goes to-night,’ said Janet, with a rueful look; and thus it was -evident that on that point there was nothing more to be said. - -This was in the middle of the week, and on Saturday Mr. Merridew was -expected home. His wife was ill, though she never had been ill before in -her life; she had headaches, which were things unknown to her; she was -out of temper, and irritable, and wretched. I think she had made certain -that Ellen would write, and make some proposal to her; and as the days -went on one by one, and no letter came---- Besides, it was just the -moment when they had decided against sending Jack to Oxford. To pay -Willie’s premium and do that at the same time was impossible. Mrs. -Merridew had struggled long, but at last she was obliged to give in; and -Jack was going to his father’s chambers to read law with a heavy heart, -poor boy; and his mother was half distracted. All might have been so -different; and she had sacrificed her boys’ interests, and her girls’ -interests, and her own happiness, all for the selfish comfort of Ellen -Babington, who took no notice of her: I began to think she would have a -brain fever if this went on. - -She was not at church on Sunday morning, and I went with the children, -as soon as service was over, to ask for her. She was lying on the sofa -when I went in, and Mr. Merridew, who had arrived late on Saturday, was -in his dressing-gown, walking about the room. He was tired and irritable -with his journey, and his work, and perennial cares. And she, with her -sacrifice, and her secret, and perennial cares, was like tinder, ready -in a moment to catch fire. I know nothing more disagreeable than to go -in upon married people when they are in this state of mind, which can -neither be ignored nor concealed. - -‘I don’t understand you, Janet,’ he was saying, as I entered; ‘women -are vindictive, I know; but at least you may be sorry, as I am, that the -poor old lady has died without a word of kindness passing between us: -after all, we might be to blame. One changes one’s opinions as one gets -on in life. With our children growing up round us, I don’t feel quite so -sure that we were not to blame.’ - -‘_I_ have not been to blame,’ she said, with an emphasis which sounded -sullen, and which only I could understand. - -‘Oh no, of course; you never are,’ he said, with masculine disdain. -‘Catch a woman acknowledging herself to be in fault! The sun may go -wrong in his course sooner than she. Mrs. Mulgrave, pray don’t go away; -you have seen my wife in an unreasonable mood before.’ - -‘I am in no unreasonable mood,’ she cried. ‘Mrs. Mulgrave, stay. You -know--oh, how am I to go on bearing this, and never answer a word?’ - -‘My dear, don’t deceive yourself,’ he said, with a man’s provoking calm, -‘you answer a great many words. I don’t call you at all a meek sufferer. -Fortunately the children are out of the way. Confound it, Janet, what do -you mean by talking of what you have to bear? I have not been such a -harsh husband to you as all that; and when all I asked was that you -should make the most innocent advances to a poor old woman who was once -very kind to us both----’ - -‘Charles!’ said Mrs. Merridew, rising suddenly from her sofa, I can’t -bear it any longer. You think me hard, and vindictive, and I don’t know -what. You, who ought to know me. Look here! I got that letter, you will -see by the date, more than two years ago; you were absent, and I went -and saw her: there--there! now I have confessed it; Mrs. Mulgrave -knows---- I have had a secret from you for two years.’ - -It was not a moment for me to interfere. She sat, holding herself -hysterically rigid and upright on the sofa. Whether she had intended to -betray herself or not, I cannot tell. She had taken the letter out of -her writing-desk, which stood close by; but I don’t know whether she had -resolved on this step or whether it was the impulse of the moment. Now -that she had done it a dreadful calm of expectation took possession of -her. She was afraid. He might turn upon her furious. He might upbraid -her with despoiling her family, deceiving himself, being false, as she -had been before. Such a thing was possible. Two souls may live side by -side for years, and be as one, and yet have no notion how each will act -in any sudden or unusual emergency. He was her husband, and they had no -interest, scarcely any thought, that one did not share with the other; -and yet she sat gazing at him rigid with terror, not knowing what he -might do or say. - -He read the letter without a word; then he tossed it upon the table; -then he walked all the length of the room, up and down, with his hands -thrust very deeply into his pockets; then he took up the letter again. -He had a struggle with himself. If he was angry, if he was touched, I -cannot tell. His first emotions, whatever they were, he gulped down -without a word. Of all sounds to strike into the silence of such a -moment, the first thing we heard in our intense listening was the abrupt -ring of a short excited laugh. - -‘How did you venture to take any steps in it without consulting me?’ he -said. - -‘I thought--I thought----’ she stammered under her breath. - -‘You thought I might have been tempted by the money,’ he said, taking -another walk through the room, while she sat erect in her terror, afraid -of him. It was some time before he spoke again. No doubt he was vexed by -her want of trust, and wounded by the long silence. But I have no clue -to the thoughts that were passing through his mind. At last he came to a -sudden pause before her. ‘And perhaps you were right, Janet,’ he said, -drawing a long breath. ‘I am glad now to have been free of the -temptation. It was wrong not to tell me--and yet I think you did well.’ - -Mrs. Merridew gave a little choked cry, and then she fell back on the -sofa--fell into my arms. I had felt she might do it, so strange was her -look, and had placed myself there on purpose. But she had not fainted, -as I expected. She lay silent for a moment, with her eyes closed, and -then she burst into tears. - -I had no right to be there; but they both detained me, both the husband -and wife, and I could not get away until she had recovered herself, and -it was evident that what had been a tragical barrier between them was -now become a matter of business, to be discussed as affecting them both. - -‘It was quite right the old lady should have it,’ Mr. Merridew said, as -he went with me to the door, ‘quite right. Janet did only what was -right; but now I must take it into my own hands.’ - -‘And annul what she has done?’ I asked. - -‘We must consult over that,’ he said. ‘Ellen Babington, who has been so -ungrateful to my wife, is quite a different person from her mother. But -I will do nothing against Mrs. Merridew’s will.’ - -And so I left them to consult over their own affairs. I had been thrust -into it against my own will; but still it was entirely their affair, and -no business of mine. - -Mrs. Spencer and Lady Isabella called to me from their lawn as I went -out to ask how Mrs. Merridew was, and shook their heads over her. - -‘She should have the doctor,’ said Mrs. Spencer. - -‘But the doctor would not pay her bills for her,’ said Lady Isabella. - -And I had to answer meekly, as if I knew nothing about it, ‘I don’t -think it is her bills.’ - -This conversation detained me some time from my own house; and when I -reached my cottage, my maid stood by the gate, looking out for me, -shading her eyes with her hands. It was to tell me there was a lady -waiting for me in the drawing-room: ‘A tall lady in mourning.’ And in a -moment my heart smote me for some hard thoughts, and I knew who my -visitor was. - -I found her seated by my table, very pale, but quite self-possessed. She -rose when I went in, and began to explain. - -‘You don’t know me,’ she said. ‘I have no right to come to you; but once -you came to--us--with Mrs. Merridew. Perhaps you remember me now? I am -Ellen Babington. I want to speak to you about--my brother’s will. You -may have heard that I have just lost----’ - -‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I am very sorry. If there is anything I can do----’ - -‘You can do all that I want from any one,’ she said. ‘Janet will never -believe that I wanted to keep the money--now. I have seen all her -children to-day at church; and I think, if she had been there, I should -perhaps have been able--but never mind. Tell her I should like--if she -would give her daughter Janet something out of the money--from me. She -is a little like what her mother was. I am sure you are kind to them. I -don’t even know your name.’ - -‘Mrs. Mulgrave,’ I said; and she gave a little bow. She was very -composed, very well-bred, terribly sad; with a look of a woman who had -no more to do in the world, and who yet was, Heaven help her! in the -middle of her life, full of vigour, and capability, and strength. - -‘Will you tell Janet, please, that it is all settled?’ she said. ‘I -mean, not the girl Janet, but her mother. Tell her I have settled -everything. I believe she will hear from the lawyers to-morrow; but I -could not let it come only from the lawyers. I cannot forgive her, even -now. She thinks it is Matilda she has wronged; but it is me she has -wronged, taking my brother from me, my only brother, after all these -years. But never mind. I kissed the little child instead to-day--the -quiet little one, with the gold hair. I suppose she is the youngest. -Tell her I came on purpose to see them before I went away.’ - -‘But why send this message through me?’ I said; ‘come and see _her_. I -will take you; it is close by. And the sight of you will do her more -good--than the money. Come, and let her explain.’ - -I thought she hesitated for a moment, but her only answer was a shake of -her head. - -‘What could she explain?’ she cried, with strange impetuosity. ‘He and I -had been together all our lives, and yet all the while he cared nothing -for his sister and everything for her. Do you think I can ever forgive -her? but I never forgot her. I don’t think I ever loved any one so well -in my life.’ - -‘Oh, come and tell her so,’ said I. - -Again she shook her head. ‘I loved her as well as I loved him; and yet I -hate her,’ she said. ‘But tell her I spoke to her Janet, and I kissed -her baby; and that I have arranged everything with the lawyers about -poor John’s will. I am sure you are a good woman. Will you shake hands -with me for the children’s sake before I go?’ - -Her voice went to my heart. I had only seen her once in my life before, -but I could not help it. I went up to her and took her two hands, and -kissed her; and then she, the stranger, broke down, and put her head on -my shoulder and wept. It was only for a moment, but it bound us as if -for our lives. - -‘Where are you going?’ I asked, when she went away. - -‘I am going abroad with some friends,’ she said hurriedly. - -‘But you will come to us, my dear, when you come back?’ - -‘Most likely I shall never come back,’ she said hastily; and then went -away alone out of my door, alone across the Green, with her veil over -her face, and her black dress repulsing the sunshine. One’s sympathies -move and change about like the winds. I had been so sorry for Mrs. -Merridew an hour ago; but it was not for her I was most sorry now. - -And this was how it all ended. I was always glad that Mrs. Merridew had -told her husband before the letter came next morning. And they got the -money; and John went to the University, and Janet had new dresses and -new pleasures, and a ring, of which she was intensely proud, according -to Ellen’s desire. I dare say Ellen’s intention was that something much -more important should have been given to the child in her name; but then -Ellen Babington, being an unmarried woman, did not know how much a large -family costs, nor what urgent occasion there is for every farthing, even -with an addition so great as five hundred a year. - -I am afraid it did not make Mrs. Merridew much happier just at first. -She wrote letters wildly, far and near, to everybody who could be -supposed to know anything about Ellen; and wanted to have her to live -with them, and to share the money with her, and I don’t know how many -other wild fancies. But all that could be found out was that Ellen had -gone abroad. And by degrees the signs of this strange tempest began to -disappear--smoothed out and filled up as Nature smooths all traces of -combat. The scars heal, new verdure covers the sudden precipice--the old -gets assimilated with the new. By degrees an air of superior comfort -stole over the house, which was very consolatory. Selina, the housemaid, -married, and Richards retired to the inevitable greengrocery. And with a -new man and new maids, and so much less difficulty about the bills, it -is astonishing how the puckers died away from Mrs. Merridew’s -forehead--first one line went, and then another, and she grew younger in -spite of herself. And with everything thus conspiring in her favour, and -habit calmly settling to confirm all, is it wonderful if by and by she -forgot that any accident had ever happened, and that all had not come -in the most natural way, and with the most pleasant consequences in the -world? - -The other day I saw in a chance copy of _Galignani_, which came to me in -a parcel from Paris, the marriage of Ellen Babington to a Frenchman -there; but that is all we have ever heard of her. Whether it is a good -marriage or a bad one I don’t know; but I hope, at least, it is better -for her than being all alone, as she was when she left my house that day -in June, having made her sacrifice in her turn. If things had but taken -their natural course, how much unnecessary suffering would have been -spared: Mrs. Merridew is, perhaps, happier now than she would have been -without that five hundred a year--but for two years she was wretched, -sacrificing and grudging the sacrifice, and making herself very unhappy. -And though I don’t believe Ellen Babington cared for the money, her -heart will never be healed of that pang of bitterness which her -brother’s desertion gave her. His companion for twenty years! and to -think his best thoughts should have been given all that time to a woman -who had only slighted him, and refused his love. Mrs. Merridew does not -see the sting of this herself--she thinks it natural. And so I dare say -would half the world beside. - - - - -THE BARLEY MOW - - - - -CHAPTER I - - -There was but one little harmless house of public entertainment at -Dinglefield, a place not without its importance among us, with its -little farm, and the fly with the old white horse which was an -institution on the Green, and very serviceable when there was luggage to -be carried to the railway, or any party going on in bad weather when our -pony carriages could not be used. - -This was the Barley Mow, a favourite and picturesque little village -public-house, the most inoffensive article of the kind, perhaps, which -was to be found for miles and miles around. The Green itself was not -like the trim and daintily-kept greensward, with orderly posts and -railings, which is to be seen in many suburban hamlets. It was long, -irregular, and just wild enough to be thoroughly natural. The lower end, -near the Barley Mow, was smooth and neat, the best cricket ground that -you could find in the neighbourhood. But the upper part was still wild -with gorse bushes, and bordered by a little thicket of rhododendrons, -which had strayed thither from the adjacent park. Many a cricket match -was played upon the lower Green, and on the bright summer Saturdays, -when the cricket parties came, there was often quite a pretty little -company from the surrounding houses to watch them, and a great traffic -went on at the Barley Mow. It was an irregular old house, partly red -brick, partly whitewashed, with a luxuriant old garden warm and sunny, -opening through a green wicket set in a great hedge on the right hand. A -signpost stood in the open space in front, where the road widened out, -and by the open door you could see through a clean, red-tiled passage -into the garden at the back, where the turf was like velvet, and the -borders full of all kinds of bright and sweet old-fashioned flowers. -There were neither standard rose-bushes nor red geraniums to be seen -there, not that Widow Aikin, good woman, had any whim of taste that -prompted her to despise these conventional inmates of the modern garden, -but that the pinks and gilliflowers, the rockets and larkspurs, and -great straggling rose-bushes were cheaper and gave less trouble, having -established themselves there, and requiring no bedding out. The room -which looked out upon this garden was where the strangers and -gentlefolks who came from far were entertained, and there was a parlour, -with a bow window in front, for humbler persons. But the favourite place -in summer for that kind of ‘company’ was the bench outside the door, -looking out upon the Green. There was little traffic of any kind in -winter, but the summer aspect of the Barley Mow was a pleasant one. It -had no air of stale dissipation about it, no heavy odour of spilt beer -or coarse tobacco, but looked wholesome and sweet-smelling, a place of -refreshment, not of indulgence. Anyhow, it was the fashion about the -Green to think and say this of Widow Aikin’s clean, honest, respectable -house. She was a favourite with all the ‘families.’ She served them with -milk as well as beer, and fresh eggs, and sometimes fruit. She had all -sorts of little agencies in hand, found servants for the ladies on the -Green, and executed little commissions of many kinds. She was a -personage, privileged and petted: everybody had a smile and a kind word -for her, and she for everybody. She was always about, never standing -still, glancing in and out of the red-tiled passage, the bow-windowed -parlour, the sunny garden, the noisy stable-yard. You saw her -everywhere--now this side, now that--an ubiquitous being, so -quick-footed that she was almost capable of being in two places at once. - -It was a favourite subject with Mrs. Aikin to talk of her own -loneliness, and incapacity to manage ‘such a house as this.’ She liked -to dwell upon the responsibilities of the position and the likelihood -that a lone woman would be imposed upon; and the Green generally -considered this a very proper strain of observation, and felt it to be -respectable that a widow should so feel and so express herself. But it -was very well known that things had gone much better at the Barley Mow -since Will Aikin managed very opportunely to be carried off by that -vulgar gout which springs from beer, and has all the disadvantages with -none of the distinctions belonging to its kindred ailment. There was no -saying what might not have happened had he lived a year longer, for the -creditors were urgent and the business paralyzed. It was this which made -his death opportune, for the brewers were merciful to the widow, and -gave her time to redeem herself; and when she was relieved from the -necessity of nursing him and studying his ‘ways,’ which were as -difficult as if the landlord of the Barley Mow had been a prince of the -blood, the widow blossomed out into another woman. It is but a poor -compliment to the lamented husband, but widows continually do this, it -must be allowed, giving the lie practically to their own tears. Happily -however Mrs. Aikin, like many others in her position, took her own -desolation for granted, and attributed her increase of prosperity to -luck or the blessing of God, which is the better way of stating it. ‘Oh! -that poor Will had but lived to see it!’ she would say with kindly -tears in her eyes, and never whispered even to herself that had poor -Will lived it would never have been. She never missed an opportunity, -good soul, of bringing him into her conversation, telling stories of his -excellence, his good looks (he was one of the plainest men in the -county), his good jokes (he was as dull as ditch-water) and his -readiness in all encounters. She would stand in the doorway, with her -apron lifted in her hand, ready to dry the tear which out of grief for -his loss, or tremulous traditionary laughter over one of his -pleasantries, was always ready to spring up in the corner of her eye. -What did it matter to her that the poor old jokes were pointless? She -never inquired into their claims, but accepted them as laughter-worthy -by divine right. - -Mrs. Aikin had but one child, Jane, a modest, dark-eyed girl, with -pretty fair curling hair, which gave her a certain distinction among the -rustic prettinesses about. Her mother professed to be annoyed by the -mingling of two complexions, protesting that Jane was always -‘contrairy,’ that such light hair should have gone with blue eyes, and -that she was neither one sort nor another; but in her heart she was -proud enough of her daughter’s uncommon looks--and Jane was an uncommon -girl. Next to the Barley Mow stood the smallest house on the Green, a -little place half wooden, half brick, which would have been tumbledown -and disreputable had it not been so exquisitely neat and well cared for. -This was the poorest little place of all the gentry’s houses, but it was -not by any means the humblest of the inhabitants of the Green who lived -at the Thatched Cottage. Old Mrs. Mowbray was a very great person, -though she was a very small person. She was the tiniest woman on the -Green, and she had the tiniest income, but she was related to half the -peerage, and considered herself as great a lady as if she had been a -grand duchess. Nor did any one dispute her claim. The greatest people in -the county yielded the _pas_ to old Mrs. Mowbray, partly no doubt because -she was very old and her magnificent pretensions were amusing, but -partly also because they were well founded. There was not one house on -the Green that had such visitors as she had. She was grand-aunt to a -duke, and nobody would have been surprised to hear that in her own -person she had a far-away right to the Crown--a right, let us say, -coming by some side-wind from the Plantagenets, leaping over the other -families who are of yesterday. Many people at Dinglefield called her the -fairy queen. She had the easy familiarity of royalty with all her -surroundings. What could it matter to her what were the small gradations -of social importance among her neighbours and friends? She could afford -to be indifferent to such trifling distinctions of society. Widow Aikin -was not appreciably further out of the reach of this splendid little old -poor patrician than Lady Denzil. Education was in favour of the latter, -it is true, but there was this against her, that it was possible for -her to entertain some delusive idea of equality, of which Mrs. Aikin was -guiltless. Mrs. Mowbray accordingly made no secret of the fact that she -entertained a great friendship for the landlady of the Barley Mow, and -was very fond of Jane. She had the girl with her a great deal, and -taught her those pretty manners which were so unlike others of her -class. When Jane was a growing girl of twelve or thirteen she used to -wait upon the old lady’s guests at tea as a maid of honour might have -waited. It was done for love for one thing, which always confers a -certain grace; and it was not possible to move awkwardly or act -ungracefully under the eye of such a keen critic. - -It was the general opinion of the ladies on the Green that this -patronage might not be an advantage to Jane as she grew older, and it -became necessary to choose what was to be her occupation in the world; -but in this respect Mrs. Mowbray behaved with great wisdom. It was, -indeed, against not only all her traditions, but all the habits of her -mind to ‘put nonsense in the girl’s head,’ and disgust her with her -natural position, which was what the other ladies feared. It mattered -nothing to Mrs. Mowbray whether the girl became a pupil-teacher; or -pushed upward in the small scale of rank, as understood at the Barley -Mow, to be a nursery governess and call herself a lady; or remained what -she was by nature, her mother’s right hand and chief assistant? Parties -ran very high on the Green on this subject. It was fought over in many a -drawing-room as hotly as if it had been a branch of the Eastern -Question. Ought Jane Aikin to stay at the parish school with Mrs. -Peters, whose favourite pupil she was, and become her aid and probable -successor? Ought she, being so refined in her manners, and altogether -such a nice-looking girl, to learn a little music and French, and become -a governess? The ladies who were liberal, who believed in education, and -that everybody should do their best to improve their position and better -themselves, upheld the latter idea; but the strongest party was in -favour of the pupil-teacher notion, which was considered a means of -utilizing Jane’s good manners and excellent qualities, without moving -her out of ‘her own sphere of life’--and this set was headed, by the -Rector, who was very hot and decided on the subject. A third party, to -which nobody paid much attention, and which consisted chiefly of Mrs. -Aikin herself, the only real authority, intended Jane to remain where -she was, head-waiter and superintendent at the Barley Mow. The question -between the two first projects had already been warmly discussed in the -drawing-rooms before it occurred to anybody that it could be Mrs. -Aikin’s intention to do such injustice to her daughter, or indeed that -the good landlady had any particular say in the matter. What! make a -barmaid of Jane! The Rector was, it is to be feared, very injudicious in -his treatment of the question. He attempted to carry matters with a very -high hand, and went so far as to say that no modest girl could be -brought up in ‘an alehouse,’ as he was so foolish as to call it, an -opprobrious epithet which Mrs. Aikin did not forgive for years. She was -so desperately offended, indeed, that she went to chapel for four -Sundays after she heard of it, walking straight past the church doors, -and proclaiming her defection to the whole world. Mrs. Mowbray was the -person who was employed to set this matter right. She was waited upon by -representatives of the two different parties, both of them feeling -secure of her sympathy, but both anxious at all events to bring that -foolish woman, Jane’s mother, to her senses. Mrs. Stoke was at the head -of the governess set, and good Mr. Wigmore, our excellent church-warden, -represented the Rector’s views. They met at the gate of the Thatched -Cottage upon this mission. ‘I have not spoken to dear Mrs. Mowbray on -the subject, because I feel so sure that she will be on our side--so -fond as she is of Jane,’ said Mrs. Stoke. ‘Mrs. Mowbray is not the -person to advocate any breaking up of the divisions which mark society,’ -said Mr. Wigmore. ‘_She_ knows the evil of all such revolutionary -measures.’ And thus they went in, each confident in his and her own -cause. - -Mrs. Mowbray sat by the fire in the big old carved ebony chair, which -made her look more than ever a fairy queen. She had a handsome old ivory -face, with a tinge of colour on the cheeks, which looked as if it might -once have been rouge. Strangers considered that this peculiarity of -complexion gave an artificial and even improper look to the old lady, -but on the Green it was considered one of the evidences of that supreme -aristocratism which would not take the trouble to disguise anything it -pleased to do, but would rouge, if rouge was necessary, in a masterful -and magnificent way, making no secret of it. However, as a matter of -fact it was not rouge, but perfectly real, as was the fine ivory yellow -of her old nose, a stately and prominent feature, evidently belonging to -the highest rank. She would not have budged from her ebony chair to -receive any one less than the Queen; but she permitted Mrs. Stoke to -kiss her, and Mr. Wigmore to shake her hand, with serene graciousness. -When they had both seated themselves she looked at them across her -knitting with a smile. ‘This looks likes a deputation,’ she said. ‘What -do you want, good people? If it is to settle about my funeral there is -no hurry--for my cold is much better, and I have a good many things to -see after before I can think of such luxuries.’ This distressed both her -visitors, who did not like to hear an old lady speak of such serious -matters in this light-minded way. - -‘Indeed, indeed, dear Mrs. Mowbray, it was nothing of the kind. When -such a dreadful event occurs there will be weeping and wailing on the -Green; and we all know very well that though you always talk so -cheerfully, and so amusingly----’ - -‘You regard such subjects with the melancholy which becomes -right-thinking people,’ said Mr. Wigmore; ‘but we came--or to speak for -myself, I came----’ - -‘To speak of Jane Aikin,’ cried Mrs. Stoke, feeling the importance of -having the first word, ‘and her mother’s inconceivable foolishness in -keeping her at home; and the still more foolish step she has taken in -separating herself from all her true friends.’ - -‘Frequenting the Dissenters’ services,’ said Mr. Wigmore. ‘Few things -more sad have come under my observation in this very distressing -parish--which is really such a mixture of everything that is -unsatisfactory----’ - -‘The parish is just like other parishes,’ said Mrs. Stoke, ‘only much -better, I should say--so many educated people in it, and so few poor -comparatively. But I am sure our dear old friend will agree with me that -Jane is quite out of place----’ - -‘Now, my good people,’ said the old lady, ‘think a moment--what do you -mean by out of place?--Everybody is out of place now-a-days. I see -people in this room calmly sitting down by me whose fathers and mothers -would have come to the kitchen door fifty years ago; but if I made a -fuss what would any one say?’ - -This made Mr. Wigmore very uncomfortable, whose father had been a -cheesemonger in a good way of business; but as for Mrs. Stoke she did -not care, being very well born, as she supposed. Mrs. Mowbray, however, -took them both in quite impartially. ‘Unless people really belong to the -old nobility,’ she continued, ‘I don’t see that it matters about their -place. It does not mean anything. Even in what we call the old nobility, -you know, there’s not above half-a-dozen families that are anything like -_pur sang_. I know dukes that are just as much out of place as Jane -Aikin would be at Windsor Castle. The only place any one has a right to -is where their ancestors are born and bred--if they have any. And when -you have not rank,’ said the old lady, looking keenly at Mr. Wigmore, -‘you had much better be _peuple_, as the French say. We haven’t got an -English word for it. No, it doesn’t mean lower classes--it means -_peuple_, neither less nor more. And Jane Aikin is pure _peuple_. She -can’t be out of place where she is.’ - -‘But you forget her education, dear Mrs. Mowbray--and you yourself that -have given her such a taste for beautiful manners, and spoiled her for -her own common class.’ - -Mrs. Mowbray did not say anything, but she put on her spectacles and -stared at her reprover. ‘I never spoil any one,’ she said; ‘out of my -own condition--I make no secret of it--one girl is very much like -another to me. They should all be pretty-mannered--I never knew _that_ -to spoil any one, small or great.’ - -‘Dear Mrs. Mowbray, no; but if we could raise her to a position in which -she would be appreciated. She has taken such a step out of her own class -in associating with you.’ - -‘Associating--with me!’ Mrs. Mowbray took off her spectacles again -after she had gazed mildly with a wonder beyond speech in the speaker’s -face. Then she shrugged her shoulders slightly and shook her head. ‘I -can’t recall at this moment any one in this neighbourhood who does that. -I have a great many friends, if that is what you mean, and I am not so -particular as most people about the little subdivisions--but associates! -I don’t know any. Yes, Mr. Wigmore? you were going to speak.’ - -‘I am one of those who agree with you that the poor should be kept in -their own place,’ said Mr. Wigmore. As he spoke the old lady took up her -spectacles again, and deliberately put them on, looking at him as if -(Mrs. Stoke said) he was a natural curiosity, which somewhat discomfited -the excellent man--‘but, as our friend says, her manners and breeding -are quite above her station.’ - -‘Jane Aikin has no station,’ said Mrs. Mowbray promptly. ‘She is -_peuple_, as I told you. I know nothing of your aboves and belows. Let -her stay where she is, in her natural place, and do her duty. Do your -duty in that condition to which God has called you: that’s what the -Catechism says. There’s nothing about being above or below. Very lucky -for her she’s got a natural place and her duty plain before her. If one -had not one’s own rank, which of course one does not choose, that’s what -I should prefer for myself: a distinct place and a clear duty--and -that’s what Jane Aikin has.’ - -‘In a public-house!’ cried Mr. Wigmore, aghast. - -‘In her mother’s house, sir,’ said old Mrs. Mowbray. - -Thus the Green was routed horse and foot; but the old lady on further -talk accepted the position of mediatrix to bring back the Widow Aikin to -her allegiance, and to show her her duty as a churchwoman. She sallied -forth for that purpose the very next morning in her old quilted white -satin bonnet and great furred cloak. She never changed the fashion of -her garments, having had abundant time to discover what was most -becoming to her, as she frankly said. Mrs. Aikin was standing at her -front door, looking out upon the bright morning, when the old lady -appeared. There was very little doing at the Barley Mow. The parlour -with the bow window was full of a dazzling stock of household linen, -which Jane and a maid were looking over, and putting in order. Jane -herself had the task of darning the thin places, which she did so as to -make darning into a fine art. This had been taught her by Mrs. Peters at -the parish school. Perhaps it was not, after all, such a valuable -accomplishment as it looked, but certainly Jane’s darning had a -beautiful appearance on the tablecloths, after they had passed their -first perfection of being, at the Barley Mow. - -‘The sunshine’s a pleasure,’ said Mrs. Aikin, making her best curtsey, -‘and I hope I see you well, ma’am, this bright morning. It shows us as -how spring’s coming. Might I be so bold as to ask you to step in and -take a chair?’ - -‘Not this morning,’ said Mrs. Mowbray in her frank voice, not unduly -subdued in tone, ‘though I’ve come to scold you. They tell me you’ve -gone off from your church, you that were born and bred in it, and Jane, -though I taught her her Catechism myself. Do you mean to tell me you’ve -got opinions--you?--with a nice child like Jane to thank God for, and -everything going well----’ - -‘Well, ma’am,’ said Mrs. Aikin, growing red and smoothing her apron, ‘I -don’t say as I’m one for opinions--more than doing your duty, and -getting a bit of good out of a sermon when you can.’ - -‘That’s very pious and right,’ said the old lady, ‘but your church that -you were christened in is more than a sermon. I don’t pretend to get -much good of them myself: but you’ll not tell me that you have left your -church for that.’ - -‘Well, ma’am!’ said Mrs. Aikin, reluctant to commit herself. She put out -her foot, and began to trace patterns with her shoe in the sand on the -doorstep, and fixed her eyes upon the process. She could not meet the -little old lady’s decided gaze. ‘Mr. Short at the chapel do preach -beautiful, he do. You should just hear him for yourself. He’ll make you -come all over in a tremble, when you’re sitting quite quiet like, -thinking of nothing; and then he’s real comforting to poor folks and -them as is put upon. It’s almost a pleasure to feel as you’ve had your -troubles with the quality too.’ - -‘Quality! Where do you find any quality to have troubles with?’ said -Mrs. Mowbray. ‘You and I have always been good friends. You don’t -consider that you’re put upon, as you call it, because the Duke sent me -my Christmas turkey. That was no offence to you.’ - -‘No, ma’am, never--not you. There is them that shall be nameless--not -but what _they_ call names a plenty.’ - -‘The woman’s thinking of the Rector, I declare. Quality!’ said Mrs. -Mowbray with an accent of mingled amazement and amusement. ‘No, my dear -woman, he’s not quality. But he meant no harm. He was thinking of the -girl and her good. They think they know, these men; and we must submit, -you know, to our clergy. It was because of his interest in Jane.’ - -‘Interest in Jane!’ said Widow Aikin (she pronounced the name something -like _Jeyeyn_; but the peculiarities of Berkshire are too much for even -phonetic spelling), ‘if that shows an interest! telling her mother to -her face as she wasn’t fit to bring her up decent and respectable, and -showing no more confidence than that in the girl herself.’ - -‘It was his mistake,’ said Mrs. Mowbray, ‘he wants tact, that is what it -is. He hasn’t the right way of doing a thing, my dear woman. That is how -these middling sort of people always break down. My nephew, the Duke, if -he had to send you to prison, would do it as if it were the greatest -kindness in the world. But the middling classes have no grace about -them. That’s not to say that you’re to give up your church that you -were christened in and married in. Who’s to bury you, woman? Do you -never think of that? Not your Mr. Short at the chapel, I hope. At least -I know he would never do for me. There ought to be more in your church -than a sermon, or even than a pleasant word.’ - -‘Well, ma’am, I don’t say but what that’s true; and I never thought of -the burying,’ said the widow, hanging her head. She was subdued and -awe-stricken at the turn which the discussion had taken, and, indeed, -had never intended to forsake ‘her church,’ but only to make a -demonstration of her independence. Jane had come out from the parlour, -leaving her work to listen to this argument, with great anxiety and -interest, for her heart was in it. She was hovering in the passage -behind her mother, now and then giving her a little touch or pull to -enforce something the old lady said. During the pause that followed she -came forward very anxiously, and put forward a plea of her own, in which -there did not seem much point or applicability. - -‘Oh, mother,’ she said softly, pulling her sleeve, ‘and Johnny in the -choir!’ - -‘Oh, go along with your Johnnys,’ said the landlady of the Barley Mow. -But it was clear enough that the victory was won. - - - - -CHAPTER II - - -It is full time that John should be spoken of, who was the other member -of the family, and a very important one. He was Mrs. Aikin’s nephew, the -son of a brother who was very poorly off and had been taken in by his -good aunt as a miserable stunted child when he was but six or seven. The -brother was a soldier, who had been discharged, and whose character it -is to be supposed did not recommend him sufficiently to get any interest -made for him, or to establish him anywhere in one of the occupations -which seem made for old soldiers. Instead of this he had fallen into a -kind of vagabondism, wandering from place to place, and as his wife was -dead this only child had been miserably neglected, and was in a bad way -when Mrs. Aikin took him to her kindly care. He had never been a -prepossessing boy, and he did not at all share with Jane in the interest -of the Green. He was heavy and lowering in his looks, quiet to outward -appearance, though tales were told of him which were not consistent with -this subdued aspect. Both the women however were devoted to John, either -because they had no one else to be fond of, or because he possessed some -qualities at bottom which made up for his faults of exterior. He -certainly did not seem at any time to give himself much trouble to -secure their affections. All that he did seemed to be done -unwillingly--the very sound of his voice was churlish--and except Mrs. -Aikin and her daughter nobody cared for the boy. From his very first -coming he had showed himself in an unfavourable light. He was then a boy -of about eight years old, and little Jane, a delightful child, -everybody’s favourite, was a year younger. One summer evening he was -standing with his hands in his pockets staring at the waggons with their -big horses, when she came running up to him. - -‘Come and play, Johnny,’ she said in her soft little voice. - -‘I won’t,’ he said, pushing her out of his way with his shoulder. - -‘Oh, Johnny, come and have tea in the garden,’ said little Jane, ‘mother -says we may. I’ve got some cake and some gooseberries, and my own little -tea-things, and all the best shall be for you. Oh, Johnny, come!’ - -‘I won’t,’ he said again, though he faltered when he heard of the cake. - -‘Oh, Johnny, come to please me,’ cried the poor little woman, already as -foolish in her expectations as if she had been twenty years older. - -‘To please you! I’d a deal rather please myself,’ cried the boy, once -more thrusting her aside with a push of his shoulder. Little Jane was -ready to cry, but the mother coming out full of business called to the -children in her hasty way to go at once to the garden, and get out of -her road. Upon which the boy shrugged his shoulders, and obeyed with -brutish unwillingness and display of yielding to superior force. This -was how he had been ever since. The little girl would coax and entreat, -the kind mother give cheerful orders, never so much as seeing the -lowering looks of rebellion. - -‘Poor boy!’ Mrs. Aikin would say, ‘he ain’t got no mother, and I can see -by his solemn face many a day as he’s thinking and thinking of his poor -father, which was never one as would settle down to anything. We has to -do all we can to keep him cheerful, Jane and me.’ - -Thus from the very first they made up their minds to spoil the loutish, -unpleasant boy. The widow was continually praising him, and holding him -up to the admiration of her neighbours. When it was found that he had a -good voice, this gave them as much delight and triumph as if they had -inherited a fortune, and when he made his appearance for the first time -with the choir in his white surplice, the faces of the two were a sight -to see, so glowing were they with satisfaction and delight. In this way -the two cousins had grown up--the boy always sullen and downlooking, -resisting rather than responding to the kindnesses heaped upon him, the -girl always ready to smooth away every cloud, to say the best for him, -to explain his moodiness and backwardness. - -‘It is only his way,’ Jane would say in her soft voice, and _her_ way -was so ingratiating and conciliatory that no one could stand against it. -His aunt, too, was foolish in her affection for this unattractive hero. -He was the son of the house, the young master, though he had not a -penny. His opinion was always asked about everything, and his judgment -constantly relied upon. It was true that the advice he gave was not -always taken, for Mrs. Aikin was very active, and liked to manage -everything her own way; but when it happened that he agreed with her, -she would trumpet forth his praises and give him all the credit. - -‘I should never have thought of that but for Johnny. There’s no telling -the sense of him,’ the good woman would say admiringly. All this special -pleading however could not give the Green any interest in John. Nobody -cared for him except the two who cared so much for him, and nobody -believed in him, notwithstanding his imposing appearance in the choir -and his beautiful voice. As he grew up this voice changed from its -angelical soprano to a big melodious baritone. He was the chief singer -at Dinglefield, and kept up the character of the place, which had always -been noted for its choir, and indeed he was the only man in it to whom a -solo could be entrusted. This made the Rector and Mr. Wigmore tolerant -of the alehouse so far as he was concerned. - -Thus the little family at the Barley Mow were happy enough when the -difficulty was got over about Jane. Of course Mrs. Aikin had the best -right to settle what her daughter was to do, and whatever they might -advise, neither the clergy nor the ladies could interfere on their own -account in the matter. So that when Mrs. Aikin gave up chapel and came -back to her own pew all was forgiven and forgotten, and Jane, though the -maid of the inn, became a greater favourite than ever. She was liked as -much as her cousin was disliked. Even the contact which she could not be -altogether saved from, in her position, with the roughest and coarsest -class did not seem to affect her. She went about and served the beer, -and waited on the summer visitors as softly and as neatly as she used to -serve the ladies at tea in old Mrs. Mowbray’s tiny drawing-room. She -never took any notice of foolish things that might be said to her, and -did not even seem to hear or see the squabbles and noisy talk that must -always go on more or less about such places. In the cricketing time they -were always very busy, and Jane no doubt had the additional temptation -of the gentlemen who would have talked and flirted had she allowed them -to do so: but she passed through everything like a humble Una, with a -smile for everybody, but not a word that could have been objected to, -had all the ladies in the Green sat in committee on her. Perhaps however -her lout of a cousin did more for Jane than the ladies could have done. -She was very modest and shy, and did not betray herself except to the -keenest observation; but it was apparent enough to those who were -chiefly interested that all her thoughts were for John. She was -constantly doing his work for him in her quiet way, undertaking this and -that to let him have a holiday, or go to a choral meeting, or have his -innings at cricket. - -‘Girls don’t want so much play as boys,’ she would say with a smile. And -he took her at her word, and accepted everything she did for him as if -it had been the most natural thing in the world. Strangely enough, her -mother did not object to this. She spoiled and petted the clumsy fellow -just as much as Jane did, and took it for granted that he should have -all kinds of indulgences as if he had been a favourite son. The great -terror of both of them was his vagabond father, who appeared now and -then, a scandal to their respectability, and a standing danger to John. -The two women were always in a fright lest this undesirable relative -should lead their darling astray. - -‘He is such a good boy now--he has always been such a good boy,’ Mrs. -Aikin said, with an uncomfortable sense that nobody accepted this -statement as gospel, which made her more and more hot in giving it -forth. And when old Mrs. Mowbray stopped in her walk to inquire after -Jane and the poultry, the widow fairly wept over this one danger which -threatened the family peace. - -‘Why do you let him come at all?’ the old lady asked peremptorily. ‘If I -were in your place, I would order him off the premises. You have done -too much for him already, my dear woman. When a man becomes a vagabond -he has no more claim on his friends.’ - -This did not at all please the landlady of the Barley Mow. Her honest -face flushed, and she dried her eyes indignantly. - -‘Nature is nature, ma’am,’ she said; ‘good or bad, you can’t deny your -own flesh and blood.’ - -‘But I could keep my own flesh and blood at a distance,’ said the old -lady, ‘especially if it has got more harm in it, and could do me an -injury still.’ - -‘That is all that troubles me,’ said Mrs. Aikin. ‘I’d be as happy a -woman as steps the Green, but for that. Nature is nature, and a father’s -a father. And if so be as he was to put wild thoughts in our Johnny’s -head--what would me and Jane do? La, bless you, it would break that -girl’s heart.’ - -‘And that is just what I am thinking of,’ said Mrs. Mowbray briskly. -‘You are a silly woman. What has Jane’s heart got to do with it? You -keep this boy by her side year after year. And now they’re growing man -and woman, and what’s to come of it? What do you mean by it? That’s what -I say!’ - -‘La, ma’am, what could come of it? They’ve been brought up like brother -and sister,’ the widow said with a laugh, and she went about with a -smile on her face for the rest of the day. The other ladies made -remonstrances of the same kind with equally little use. Of course it was -very clear that this was what she had made up her mind to--that the two -should marry and succeed her when she grew old, and carry on the -business. It was all suitable enough and natural enough. And, of course, -the fact that Jane was above her position made no difference. When a -woman is above her position the best thing for her to do is to conceal -it carefully, and make the best of the circumstances. And she herself -was not conscious of the fact of her superiority. Whether Mrs. Aikin had -been so foolish as to communicate her ideas to Jane no one knew, but -there could be little doubt that the poor girl took the arrangement for -granted as much as her mother did. It was so natural! She had been fond -of her cousin all her life, loving him with that most powerful of all -kinds of love, the close tie of tender habit, the affection one has for -the being whom one has protected, excused, and been good to all one’s -life. If she had not pushed him softly through his work, coaxed him -through his lessons, made the best of him to everybody, how could poor -Johnny ever have got on at all? He wanted her backing up so perpetually, -that it might be permitted to Jane to believe that he could not have got -on without her. It is common to say that the love of a woman for a man -has often a great deal that is motherly in it, and certainly this was -the case here. It had been her duty to be kind to him, to make him feel -himself at home, he who had no other home. All her own little pleasures, -almost ever since she could remember, had been made secondary to -Johnny--and what so natural as that this should go on? She took it for -granted, poor girl. She scarcely expected to be courted as other girls -were who ‘fall in love’ with strangers. It had not been necessary for -her to fall in love. She had always been fond of her cousin. She had -never thought of any other man. - -And poor Jane was as delicate in her love as any lady of romance. She -had none of the romping ways of country girls of her class. Neither was -she sentimentally disposed. Her modest look dwelt upon him now and then -with a tender pleasure, especially when he was singing, which was the -only thing about him which seemed to justify that delusion. But even -this look was so modest and so momentary that only careful observation -surprised it now and then. She held her somewhat embarrassing position -with a serious grace which was almost dignity--making no advances on her -part, though she was the crown princess, and had everything to bestow, -yet never doubting, I think, poor girl, what the course of affairs was -to be. Was it not natural that he should love her best as she loved him -best? and that their life should go on as it had always done, with -something added but nothing taken away? Such was the simple, happy tenor -of Jane’s maiden thoughts. - -Whether John divined what the women took for granted it would be -difficult to say. Perhaps he saw the advantages of being master at the -Barley Mow, and the homage he received no doubt increased his natural -loutish self-complacency--that stolid vanity which so often dwells in -the minds of those who have nothing in the world to be vain of. He took -it for granted on his side that he was the sun of this little world, and -accepted everything as a natural homage to his fine deservings. He -thought the more of himself for all they did for him, not of them. As -for Jane, her pretty looks, her superiority, her grace and good breeding -were nothing to the lout. He would have liked her a great deal better -had she been a noisy, laughing, romping girl. He accepted all the little -sacrifices she made, and allowed her to do his work, with that satisfied -consciousness that she liked it, which gave him the feeling of doing -rather than receiving a favour. And very likely he might go on, and -carry out the programme, and marry her in the same lordly way. For there -could be no doubt that it was very much to his advantage, and that his -position as Jane’s husband would be much more assured than that of Mrs. -Aikin’s nephew. So things went on, day gliding into day, and summer into -winter. They were both young--there was no hurry; and to quicken the -settlement or alter anything from the pleasant footing on which it at -present stood was not at all the widow’s wish. - -The picture would have been incomplete however had there not been -something on the other side. When one man is indifferent to the goods -the gods provide him it is almost certain there is another somewhere to -whom these gifts would seem divine. Jane had always kept up her -friendship with Mrs. Peters, the schoolmistress, who had trained her, -and whose assistant the ladies on the Green had wished her to be. She -was fond of going to see her in the winter afternoons when there was not -much doing, and always found something to do among the girls, work to -set right, or a class to look after which had wearied the -schoolmistress: and she got on so well with them that it was clear the -ladies on the Green had not been wrong in their idea of her powers. But -while she thus came and went about the good schoolmistress whom she -loved, another person had come into the little circle, of whom Jane took -little notice. This was a brother-in-law of Mrs. Peters, who had been -lately appointed schoolmaster, and was very highly thought of in the -parish. He was ten years at least older than Jane, and appeared to her a -middle-aged man, though he was scarcely over thirty. He was a good -schoolmaster and a good man, a little precise in speech perhaps, and -rigid in his ways, but true and honest and kind, anxious to be of real -service to his pupils and everybody round him. It was not wonderful that -his serious eye should be caught by the serious, gentle girl who was so -sweet and so kind to his sister-in-law, so much at home in the school, -so helpful, and so understanding. After he had taken tea half a dozen -times in her company the good young man’s head became full of Jane. And -he was not so instructed in the ways of the place as to be aware of Mrs. -Aikin’s understood plans, or the kind of tacit arrangement by which -everything seemed settled. He did not even know of John’s existence at -first--and when he did become aware of him there seemed nothing alarming -in the loutish lad, whose appearance and manners were not attractive to -the outward eye. Mr. Peters, though the very name of a public-house was -obnoxious to him, began to come out in the evenings, when that first -winter was over, and would sit down in the shade on a bench outside the -door of the Barley Mow, sometimes for hours together, within reach of -all the noises, and of the smoking and beer-drinking, which were a -horror to him, and not respectable even, or becoming in his position. To -see him seated there in his black coat, with that air of respectability -half ashamed of itself, was both comical and touching. It was said that -the Rector spoke to him about it, pointing out that the Barley Mow, -however respectable in itself, was not a place where an instructor of -youth ought to spend his evenings, a reproach which cut to the -schoolmaster’s very heart. But he was so far gone that he stood up in -defence of the place where his beloved spent her life. - -‘Sir,’ he stammered, reddening and faltering, ‘I see a--person there: -who is an example to--every one round.’ - -‘You mean Mrs. Aikin,’ the Rector said. ‘Yes, yes, Peters, she is very -respectable, I don’t say anything against her; but it is not a place for -you to be seen at, you know.’ - -And this was true, there could be no doubt. The schoolmaster after this -would come late. He would be seen going out for a walk, passing the -Barley Mow with wistful looks after his tea-time, casting glances aside -at the cheerful bustle; and when the darkness was falling, and -everything had grown indistinct in the twilight, some keen eye would see -him steal to his accustomed seat and stay there, neither drinking nor -talking, except to Jane when she passed him. He watched her taking the -tray from her cousin’s hand, letting him go free for his cricket or his -practice, sometimes even sending him indoors to take a hand at whist, -and had begun to be angry with the young man for letting her do his work -for him before he surprised the gleam of soft love and kindness in -Jane’s pretty eyes which revealed the whole story. Was that what it -meant? It was such a shock to him that the schoolmaster fell ill, and -was not about the place for weeks. But at last he came back again, as -people constantly do, to gaze at sights that break their hearts. The -front of the Barley Mow was a cheerful place in these summer evenings. -Mrs. Aikin allowed no rioting or excess of drinking on her benches, and -she was as imperative as a little queen. And all the travellers who -passed stopped there to get water for their horses and beverages not -quite so innocent for themselves. The horses alone were a sight to see. -The whole hierarchy of rank on four legs might be seen at the door. The -beautiful riding-horses, slim and dainty, with their shy, supercilious -looks; the carriage horses just a trifle less fine--the large, florid, -highly-fed brutes in the drays, that made no stand on their quality, but -looked calmly conscious of unlimited corn at home--the saucy little -pony, ready for any impertinence--the shabby, poor gentleman in the fly -who had seen better days, meek beast, broken-spirited, and -unfortunate--the donkey, meeker still, but with a whole red revolution, -if he could only but once get the upper hand, in his eye. It was -curious to sit there in the darkening of the soft summer night, and see -the indistinct vehicles gliding past, and all the dim figures of men, -while the stars came out overhead, and the heat of the day sank into -grateful coolness. And what a dramatic completeness the humble, bustling -scene took, when one perceived the little human drama, tragedy or -comedy, who could tell which, that was going on in the midst, Jane -regarding the loutish cousin who was not her lover with those soft eyes -of tenderness as the stars regarded the earth: he altogether -indifferent, caring nothing, taking a vulgar advantage of her weakness -to save himself trouble; and the spectator in the corner, hidden in the -shadows, who did not lose a look or a word, whose very heart was burning -to see the wasted affection, and made furious by the indifference. Mr. -Peters would have given all he had in the world could he have purchased -that soft look from Jane; but the lout thought nothing of it, except so -far as it ministered to his own rude self-satisfaction. Perhaps he had -his grievance too. He would have liked to escape from this propriety and -quiet to the noisy revels on the other side of the Green, where there -was always some nonsense going on at the Load-o’-Hay, a kind of rival, -but much inferior place, which was the one place in the world which Mrs. -Aikin regarded with feelings of hatred, and which moved even Jane to -something like anger. He would have liked to have had ‘a bit of fun’ -there, and left the steady business of the Barley Mow to take care of -itself. How it was that neither Jane nor her mother perceived or guessed -the discrepancy between his thoughts and theirs is past divining. The -girl, at least, one would have thought, must have had some moments of -distrust, some wondering doubts: but if so she never showed them, and as -for Mrs. Aikin, she was too busy a woman to think of anything that did -not come immediately under her eyes. - - - - -CHAPTER III - - -This state of calm, so full of explosive elements, could scarcely go on -without some revelation, sooner or later, of the dangers below; and, -again, the little old fairy queen, Mrs. Mowbray, had a hand in the -revelation. Though she was so old, there was no more clear-sighted or -keen observer in all the county; and, as her interest in Jane was great, -it cannot be supposed that she had not seen through the complications -about her. But as yet there had been no opening--nothing which could -justify her in speaking particularly on this subject; and all that could -be said in a general way had been already said. Her mind however was -very much set upon it; and she had taken in with an eager ear all the -gossip of her old maid about Mr. Peters, whose visits to the Barley Mow -had been naturally much commented upon. Mrs. Mowbray, as has been -already said, had a royal indifference to the particular grade of the -people about her. They were all her inferiors; and, whether the -difference seemed small or great to the common eye, it was one of kind, -and therefore unalterable, in her impartial judgment. Acting on this -principle, the loves of Jane and John at the Barley Mow were just as -interesting as the loves of the young ladies and gentlemen on the Green, -who thought much more highly of themselves. - -This being the case, it will be less surprising to the reader to hear -that, when Mrs. Mowbray in her walks encountered the schoolmaster, she -managed to strike up an acquaintance with him; and ere long had so -worked upon him with artful talk of Jane, that poor Mr. Peters opened -his heart to the kind old lady, though he had never ventured to do so to -the object of his love. The way in which this happened was as follows. -It was summer--a lovely evening, such as tempted everybody out of doors. -The schoolmaster, poor man, had gone out to walk the hour’s walk which -he imposed upon himself as a necessary preface to his foolish vigil in -front of the Barley Mow, which had settled down into a regular routine. -He made believe to himself, or tried to make believe, that when he sat -down on that bench at the door it was only because he was tired after -his long walk; it was not as if he went on purpose--to do that would be -foolishness indeed. But he was no moth, scorching his wings in the -flame--he was an honest, manly pedestrian, taking needful rest in the -cool of the evening. This was the little delusion he had wrapped himself -in. When he was setting out for his walk, he met Mrs. Mowbray, and took -off his hat with that mixture of conscious respect and stiff propriety -which became his somewhat doubtful position--that position which made -him feel that more was expected from him than would be expected from the -common people round. He was in his way a personage, a representative of -education and civilization; but yet he did not belong to the sphere -occupied by the ladies and gentlemen. This made poor Mr. Peters doubly -precise. But as the old lady--whose lively mind was full of Jane, and of -a little plan she had in her head--turned to look at him instead of -looking where she stepped, she suddenly knocked her foot against a -projecting root, and would have fallen had not the schoolmaster, almost -too shy to touch her, and wondering much in his own mind what a -gentleman would do in such an emergency, rushed forward to give his -assistance. Mrs. Mowbray laid hold of him with a very decided clutch. -She was not shy--she threw her whole weight (it was not much) upon his -arm, which she grasped to save herself. ‘I was nearly over,’ she said, -panting a little for breath, with a pretty flush rising into her pale -old delicate cheeks. The shock stirred her old blood and made her heart -beat, and brought a spark to her eyes. It did not frighten and trouble, -but excited her not unpleasantly, so thorough-bred was this old woman. -‘No, I am not hurt, not a bit hurt: it was nothing. I ought to look -where I am going, at my age,’ she said; and held Mr. Peters fast by the -arm, and panted, and laughed. But even after she had recovered herself -she still leant upon him. ‘You must give me your arm to my house,’ she -said; ‘there’s the drawback of being old. I can’t help trembling, as if -I had been frightened or hurt. You must give me your arm to my house.’ - -‘Certainly, madam,’ said Mr. Peters. He did not like to dispense with -any title of civility, though (oddly enough, and in England alone) the -superior classes do so; but he would not say ‘Ma’am,’ like a servant. It -seemed to him that ‘Madam’ was a kind of stately compromise; and he -walked on, himself somewhat tremulous with embarrassment, supporting -with the greatest care his unexpected companion; and though she -trembled, the courageous old lady laughed and chattered. - -‘You were going the other way?’ she said. ‘I am wasting your time, I -fear, and stopping your walk.’ - -‘Oh, no, madam, not at all,’ said Mr. Peters; ‘I am very glad to be of -use. I am very happy that I was there just at the moment--just at the -fortunate moment----’ - -‘Do you call it a fortunate moment when I hurt my foot--not that I have -really hurt my foot--and got myself shaken and upset like this--an old -woman at my age?’ - -‘I meant--the unfortunate moment, madam,’ said Mr. Peters, colouring -high, and feeling that he had said something wrong, though what he -scarcely knew. - -‘Oh, fie! that looks as if you were sorry that you have been compelled -to help me,’ said the old lady, laughing. - -Poor Mr. Peters had not the least idea how to take this banter. He -thought he had done or said something wrong. He coloured up to the -respectable tall hat that shaded his sober brows; but she stopped his -troubled explanations summarily. - -‘Where were you going? It does not matter? Well, you shall come in with -me, and Morris will give you some tea. You can tell me about your -school--I am always interested in my neighbours’ concerns. You pass this -way most evenings, don’t you? I see you passing. You always take a walk -after your day’s work--a very wholesome custom. And then your -evenings--where do you spend your evenings? Are there any nice people -who give you a cup of tea? Do you go and see your friends? Yes, I am -interested, always interested, to learn how my fellow-creatures get -through their life; I don’t do much myself but look on, now-a-days. And -you know life’s a strange sort of thing,’ said the old lady. ‘Nothing -interests me so much. It isn’t a line of great events, as we think in -our youth--the intervals are more important than the events. Are you -dull, eh? You are a stranger in this place. How do you spend your -evenings after you go in?’ - -‘Madam, there is always plenty to do,’ said Mr. Peters; ‘a master can -never be said to have much leisure.’ And then he unbent from that high -seriousness and said, with a mixture of confused grandeur and -wistfulness, ‘In the circles to which I have admission there is not much -that can be called society. I have to spend my evenings at home, or----’ - -‘Or----?’ said Mrs. Mowbray. ‘Just so, that is the whole business; -alone, or---- But where is the ‘or’? So am I. I am alone (which I -generally like best), or--I have friends with me. Friends--I call them -friends for want of a better word--the people on the Green. They bore -me, but I like them sometimes. Now, you are a young man. Tell me what -‘or’ commends itself to you.’ - -Thus exhorted, Mr. Peters hung down his head; he stammered in his reply. -‘I am afraid, madam, you would think but badly of me if you knew: -without knowing why. I go and sit down there--in front of Mrs. Aikin’s -house.’ - -‘In front of the Barley Mow! Dear me!’ she said, with well-acted -surprise; ‘that is not the thing for a schoolmaster to do!’ - -‘I know it, madam,’ said Mr. Peters with a sigh. - -‘Ah!’ said Mrs. Mowbray, with the air of one who is making an important -discovery; ‘ah! I divine you at last. It is a girl that beguiles you to -the Barley Mow! Then it must be a good girl, for they allow no one else -there. Bless me! I wonder if it should be Jane!’ - -‘You know her, madam?’ - -‘Ah, it is Jane then? Mr. Schoolmaster--I forget your name--you are a -man of penetration and sense; I honour you. A man who chooses the best -woman within his knowledge--that’s the sort of man I approve of. It -happens so seldom. Men are all such fools on that point. So it is Jane!’ - -Mr. Peters breathed a long sigh. ‘She never looks at me, madam--she -never knows I am there. You must not think she has anything to do with -it.’ - -‘Ay, ay, that’s always the way. When the men show some sense the women -are fools; or else it’s the other thing. Now, listen to me. You say, Do -I know Jane? Yes, I know her from her cradle. Why, I brought her up! -Can’t you see the girl has the manners of a lady? I gave them to her. -There is nothing Jane will not do for me. And I like the looks of you. -You’re stiff, but you’re a man. Do you think I should have come out of -my way, and hurt my foot (oh, it is quite well now!) to speak to you, if -I hadn’t heard all about this? I want to help you to marry Jane.’ - -‘Oh, madam, what can I say to you?’ cried Mr. Peters, not knowing in his -bewilderment what might be going to happen. He was shocked in his sense -of propriety by being told that he was stiff, and by the old lady’s -frank avowal that she knew all about him after she had wormed his secret -out of him; and he was excited by this promise of aid, and by the bold -jump of his patroness to the last crown of success. To _marry_ Jane! To -get a word from her, or a kind look, seemed enough in the meantime; and -he did not know on the spot whether he was ready to marry any one, even -this queen of his affections. - -He led Mrs. Mowbray to her door, and listened to her talk, divided -between alarm and eagerness. She made everything so easy! She was -willing to be his plenipotentiary--to explain everything. She would see -no obstacle in the way--all he had to do was to put himself in her -hands. The old lady herself got very much excited over it. She said more -than she meant, as people have a way of doing when they are excited, and -sent Mr. Peters away in the most curious muddle of hope and fear--hope -that the way might be opened for him to Jane, fear lest he might be -driven along that path at a pace much more rapid and urgent than he had -meant to go. - -Next morning Mrs. Mowbray had made up her mind to send for Jane and open -the subject at once--merely to represent to her how much more -satisfactory this man was than such a lout as John. What a suitable -union it would be! just her own quiet tastes and ways. And a man able to -sustain and help her, instead of a lad of her own age, whom she would -have to carry on her shoulders, instead of being guided by. The pleas in -his favour were so strong, that the old lady could not see what pretence -Jane could find for declining to listen to the schoolmaster. But she was -not so certain about it next morning--and she neither went to the Barley -Mow nor sent for Jane--but gave herself, as she said, time to think. And -but for an accident that happened that very evening, prudence might have -overcome the livelier impulse in her mind. - -That evening however Mrs. Mowbray went out again to see the sunset, -taking a short turn down the lane from her house. The lane ran between -her house and the Barley Mow, and a back door from Mrs. Aikin’s garden -opened into it. It was a very green, very flowery bit of road, leading -nowhere in particular except due west; and as the ground was high -here--for Dinglefield stood on a gentle eminence raised above the rest -of the valley--this lane of an evening, when the sun was setting, seemed -to lead straight through into the sunset. It was an exceptional evening: -the sunset glowed with all the colour that could be found in a tropical -sky, and the whole world was glorified. It drew Mrs. Mowbray out in -spite of herself; she had thrown a scarf over her cap and about her -shoulders, being so near home, and was ‘stepping westward,’ like the -poet, but with the meditative step of age which signifies leisure from -everything urgent, and time to bestow upon this great pageant of Nature. -To be so at leisure from everything in thought as well as in life is a -privilege of the aged and solitary. And there is nobody who enjoys the -beauty of such a scene or dwells upon it with the same delight. But the -privilege has its drawbacks, like most human things. Those busy folks -who give but a glance, and are gone, have perhaps a warmer, because -accidental pleasure: the more deliberate enjoyment is a little sad. Mrs. -Mowbray however was one to feel this as little as could well be. She -walked briskly, and her mind, even in the midst of this spectacle, was -full of her plans. She was half-way down the lane, with all the light in -her face, when she suddenly perceived two figures black against the -light in front of her, standing out like black _silhouettes_ on the glow -of lovely colour. She saw them dimly; but they, having their backs to -the dazzling light, and being totally unmindful of the sunset, saw her -very clearly, and were much alarmed by her appearance. They had been so -much occupied with each other that the sound of the old lady’s step upon -some gravel was the first thing that roused them. The girl gave a -frightened exclamation, and sprang apart from her companion, who for his -part backed into the hedge, as if with the hope of concealing himself -there. Though Mrs. Mowbray’s attention and curiosity were immediately -roused, she did not even then recognize them, and they might have -escaped her if they had not been so consciously guilty. The girl was the -first to be detected. She ran off after that startled look, with a -half-laughing cry, leaving the other to bear the consequences. - -‘Bless me! Ellen Turner. The little flirt! She is after some mischief,’ -Mrs. Mowbray said to herself; and even then she thought nothing of the -young man. But he was not aware of this. He did not know that her eyes, -which had been fixed on the glow in the sky, were dazzled by it, and -unable to see him; and feeling himself detected, it seemed to John safer -to take the matter into his own hands. He made a step into the middle of -the road, in front of her. He could not have done anything less wise. -Mrs. Mowbray was thinking only of Ellen, and nothing at all of the man -she was fooling. This was the way she put it to herself: What did it -matter who the silly fellow was? If he put any dependence on such a -little coquette as that, he was to be pitied, poor fellow. The old lady -had half a mind to warn him. But she was much surprised to find him -confront her like this, and even a little frightened. And it was only -now that she recognized who he was. - -He had forgotten what little manners he had, and all his awe of ‘the -quality’ in the excitement of the moment. ‘You’ll go telling of us!’ he -cried, in sudden excitement, almost with a threat of his clenched hand. - -A thrill of apprehension ran through the old lady’s frame, but she stood -still suddenly, confronting him with the courage of her nature. ‘How -dare you speak to me so, with your cap on your head?’ she said. - -John’s hand stole to his hat in spite of himself. He fell back a step. -‘I beg your pardon, my lady; but I was a-going to say--You won’t say -nothing to _them_?--It was a--accident--it wasn’t done a-purpose. You -won’t tell--about _her_ and me?’ - -‘Whom am I to tell?’ The old lady had seized the position already, and -it made her herself again. She perceived in a moment the value of the -incident. And he had taken his hat off by this time, and stood crushing -it in his hands. ‘I don’t mean nothing,’ he said. ‘It’s only a lark. I -don’t care nothing for her, nor I don’t suppose she do for me.’ - -‘That I’ll answer for,’ said Mrs. Mowbray briskly; ‘neither for you nor -any one else, you vain blockhead! But if it’s only a lark, as you say, -what are you frightened for? And what do you want of me?’ - -He stared at her for a moment with his mouth open, and then he said, -‘Haunt and Jeyeyne thinks a deal of you.’ - -‘I dare say they do,’ said the old lady; ‘but what of that? And they -think a deal of you, you booby--more’s the pity. If you have a fancy for -Ellen Turner, why don’t you let them know? Why don’t you marry her, or -some one like her, and have done with it? I don’t say she’s much of a -girl, but she’s good enough for you.’ - -His hand gripped his hat with rising fury; the very dullest of natures -feels the keen edge of contempt. And then he laughed; he had a sharp -point at his own command, and could make reprisals. - -‘They’d kill her,’ he said, ‘if they knew it. They’re too sweet upon me -to put up with it. They think as I don’t see what they’re after; but I -see it fast enough.’ - -‘And what are they after, if you are so clear-sighted?’ - -‘They mean as I’m to settle down and marry Jeyeyne--that’s what they -mean. They think, ‘cos I’m a quiet one, that I can’t see an inch from my -nose. They think a fellow is to be caught like that afore he’s had his -fling, and seen a bit of the world.’ - -‘Oh,’ said the old lady; ‘so you want to have your fling, and see the -world?’ - -‘That is just about it, my lady,’ said the lout, taking courage. ‘I -talks to _her_ just to pass the time; but what I wants is to see the -world. I won’t say as I mightn’t come back after, and settle down. -Jeyeyne’s a good sort of girl enough--I’ve nothing to say against her; -and she knows my ways--but a man isn’t like a set of women. I must have -my fling--I must--afore I settle down.’ - -‘And who is to do your work, Mr. John, while you have your fling? Or are -you clever enough to see that you are not of the least use at the Barley -Mow?’ - -‘Oh, ain’t I of use! See what a fuss there will be when they think I’m -going! But Haunt can afford a good wage, and there’s lots of fellows to -be had.’ - -‘You ungrateful cub!’ cried the old lady; ‘is this all your thanks for -their kindness, taking you in, and making a man of you! You were glad -enough to find a home here when you were a wretched, hungry little boy.’ - -‘Begging your pardon, my lady, I never was,’ said John, with a gleam of -courage. ‘I’d have been a deal better with father if they’d let me -alone. He’d a got me into the regiment as a drummer, and I’d have been -in the band afore this. And that’s the sort of life to suit me. I ain’t -one of your dull sort--I likes life. This kind of a dismal old country -place never was the place for me.’ - -‘You ungrateful, unkind, impertinent’!-- - -Mrs. Mowbray stopped short. She could not get out all the words that -poured from her lips, and the sight of him there opposite silenced her -after all. Mrs. Aikin’s goodness to this boy had been the wonder and -admiration of everybody round. They had considered her foolishly -generous--Quixotic, almost absurd, in her kindness; and now to hear his -opinion of it! This bold ingratitude closes the spectator’s mouth. -Perhaps, after all, it is better to leave the bramble wild, and the -street boy in the gutter, and give up all attempts to improve the one or -the other. But there is nothing which so silences natural human -sentiment and approval of charity and kindness. Mrs. Mowbray was struck -dumb. Who could tell that he had not even some show of justice in his -wrong--something that excused his doubt, if nothing to excuse his -unkindness? This strange suggestion took away her breath. - -‘They’ve had their own way,’ said John; ‘they did it to please -themselves; and that’s what they’d like to do again--marry me right -off--a fellow at my age, and stop my fun! But I’m not the sort to have a -girl thrust down my throat. I’ll have my fling first, or else I’ll have -nothing to say to it. Now, my lady,’ he added, lowering his voice, and -coming a step nearer,’ if you’ll stand my friend! There’s nobody as -Haunt and Jeyeyne thinks so much of as you. If you says it they won’t -oppose. I don’t want to quarrel with nobody; but I _will_ have my fling, -and see the world!’ - -‘And so you shall!’ cried Mrs. Mowbray; ‘if I can manage it. So you -shall, my man! Get out of Jane’s way--that’s all I want of you. And I -think better of you since you proposed it! Yes, yes! I’ll take it all -upon me! There’s nothing I wish for more than that you should take -yourself out of this. Have your fling! And I hope you’ll fling yourself -a hundred miles out of reach of the Barley Mow!’ - -John looked at her with dull amazement. What did she mean? His thanks -were stopped upon his lips. For, after all, this was not a pleasant way -of backing up. ‘Get out of Jane’s way!’ His heavy self-complacency was -ruffled for the moment. ‘I don’t mind how far I go,’ he said, with a -suspicious look. - -‘Nor I, I assure you,’ cried Mrs. Mowbray briskly; ‘I’ll plead your -cause;’ and with that she turned round and went back again, forgetting -all about the sunset. Nature is hardly treated by the best of us; we let -her come in when we have nothing else in hand, but forget her as soon as -a livelier human interest claims our attention. This was how even the -old lady, who had been so meditatively occupied by Nature, treated the -patient mother now. - -Next day was Sunday, and of course Mrs. Mowbray could not enter upon the -business which she had undertaken then. But when there is any -undercurrent of feeling or complication of rival wishes in a family, -Sunday is a very dangerous day, especially when the family belongs to -the lower regions of society, and the Sunday quiet affords means of -communication not always to be had on other days. This, of course, was -scarcely the case among the household at the Barley Mow, but the habit -of their class was upon them, and the natural fitness of Sunday for an -important announcement, joined, it is to be supposed, with the fact that -he had already unbosomed himself to one person, drew John’s project out. -When Mrs. Mowbray accordingly took her way to Mrs. Aikin’s on the Monday -morning, more and more pleased as she thought of it, with the idea of -getting John out of the way, she saw at once by the aspect of both -mother, and daughter that her news was no news. The two women had a look -of agitation and seriousness which on Mrs. Aikin’s part was mingled with -resentment. She was discoursing upon her chickens when Mrs. Mowbray -found her way into the barn-yard. ‘They don’t care what troubles folks -has with them, not they,’ she was saying with a flush on her cheek. ‘The -poor hen, as has sat on her nest all day, and never got off to pick a -bit o’ food. What’s that to them, the little yellow senseless things? -And them as we’ve brought up and cared for all our lives, and should -know better, is just as bad.’ Jane was putting up a setting of -Brahmapootra eggs for somebody. She was very pale, and made no reply to -her mother, but her hand trembled a little as she put them into the -packet. ‘What is the matter?’ said the old lady as she came in. Jane -gave her a silent look and said nothing. ‘La, bless us, ma’am, what -should be the matter?’ said Mrs. Aikin. They were so disturbed that Mrs. -Mowbray did a thing which she was not at all in the habit of doing. She -departed from her original intention, and said nothing at all of her -mission, concluding, as was the fact, that John himself had spoken. No -later than that afternoon however her self-denial was rewarded, for Mrs. -Aikin came to the Thatched Cottage, curtseying and apologetic. ‘I saw as -you didn’t believe me, ma’am,’ she said. ‘There is nobody like you for -seeing how things is. A deal has happened, and I don’t know whether I’m -most pleased or unhappy. For one thing it’s all settled between Johnny -and Jane.’ - -‘All settled!’ the old lady was so much surprised that she could -scarcely speak. - -‘Yes, ma’am, thank you, the poor dears! I always said that as soon as he -knew his own mind--There ain’t a many lads as one can see through like -our John.’ - -‘You didn’t wish it then?’ said Mrs. Mowbray. ‘I should have thought -this morning that something bad had happened. You didn’t wish it! Then -we’ve all been doing you injustice, my dear woman, for I thought you had -set your heart on this all along.’ - -‘And so I have; and I’m as happy--_that_ happy I don’t know what to do -with myself,’ said Mrs. Aikin, putting her apron to her eyes. - -‘Happy! nobody would think it to look at you--nor Jane. I thought I knew -you like my A, B, C, but now I can’t tell a bit what you mean.’ - -‘Jane, she’s all of a flutter still, and she’s that humble-minded, all -her thought is, will she make him happy? But you don’t suppose, ma’am, -as I think any such nonsense--lucky to get her, I say, and so does -everybody. It ain’t that. But he’s been seeing his father, and his -father’s put nonsense in the lad’s head. I always said as he’d do it. -Johnny’s the best of boys; he’d never have thought of such a thing if it -hadn’t been put in his head. He says he wants to go out into the world -and see a bit of life afore he settles down.’ - -‘And that is what troubles you? If I were you I should let him go,’ said -the old lady. ‘Lucky! I should think he was lucky. A young fellow like -that! He is not half good enough for Jane.’ - -‘Well, ma’am,’ said Mrs. Aikin, half ruffled, half pleased, ‘it is well -known who was always your pet, and a great honour for her and me -too--and I don’t know how it is as folks do such injustice to our John. -It’s all the father, well I know; leave him to himself and a better boy -couldn’t be. But I’ve written him a letter and given him a piece of my -mind. It’s him as always puts fancies in the boy’s head. See the world! -Where could he see the world better than at the Barley Mow! Why there’s -a bit of everything at our place. There’s them gentlemen cricketers in -the summer, and the best quality in the kingdom coming and going at -Ascot time, and London company in the best parlours most every Sunday -through the season. All sorts there is. There was never a week, summer -or winter, so long as I can remember, but something was going on at the -Barley Mow. Summer, it’s nothing but taking money from morning to night. -I don’t mean to say,’ said Mrs. Aikin, suddenly recollecting that this -sounded like a confession of large profits such as no woman in trade -willingly acknowledges--‘I don’t mean to say as the expenses ain’t -great, or as it’s all profit, far from it. But what I says to Johnny I -don’t deny anywhere--it’s a living--and it’s the amusingest living and -the most variety of any I know.’ - -‘And yet he wants to see the world; there’s no accounting for men’s -depravity. Do you mean to let him go?’ - -Mrs. Aikin laughed. ‘I ain’t a good one to deceive,’ she said; ‘this -morning I was all in a way, but now I’ve had time to think. You know -yourself, ma’am, that to say “No” is the way to make a boy more -determined than ever. Seemingly I’m a giving in, but I don’t mean to -take no steps one way or other. I’ll let things take their course. And -now that Jane and him understands one another, and the summer trade’s so -brisk, who can say? Maybe it’ll go out of his head if he ain’t opposed. -I’ve give my consent--so far as words goes--but I tell him as there’s no -hurry. We can wait.’ - -She laughed again in thorough satisfaction with her own tactics. And -Mrs. Mowbray, with a different sentiment, echoed the laugh. ‘Yes, we can -wait,’ the old lady said; ‘my poor little Jane!’ That was all, but it -made Mrs. Aikin angry, she could not tell why. - -Mr. Peters at this period kept putting himself perpetually in Mrs. -Mowbray’s way. He went past her house for his walk, he came back again -past the Thatched Cottage. She could scarcely go out in the evening that -he did not turn up in her path: and for some days the old lady was cruel -enough to say nothing to him. At last one evening she called the poor -schoolmaster to her. ‘You must make up your mind to it like a man,’ she -said, ‘Jane is going to marry her cousin. It is all settled. The mother -told me, like a fool.’ - -‘All settled!’ Poor Mr. Peters grew so pale that she thought he was -going to faint. ‘I saw him,’ he gasped, ‘only yesterday, with----’ - -‘Never mind, yes; that’s quite true,’ said the old lady. ‘That woman has -settled it like a fool. They are going to throw the girl away among -them. But we cannot do anything. You must make up your mind to it like a -man.’ - -The schoolmaster’s stiffness and embarrassment all melted away under the -influence of strong feeling. He took off his hat unconsciously, showing -a face that was like ashes. ‘Then God bless her,’ he said, ‘and turn -away the evil. If she is happy, what does it matter about me!’ - -‘She will never be happy,’ said the old lady, ‘never, with that lout; -and the thing for us to do is to wait. I tell you, what you’ve got to do -is to wait. After all, the devil seldom gets things all his own way.’ - -Mr. Peters put on his hat again, and went away with a heavy heart. He -did not go near the Barley Mow. He went home to his room, and sat there -very desolate, reading poetry. He could bear it, he thought; but how -could she bear it when she came to hear of Ellen Turner and those -meetings in the lane? - -At present however nothing was known of Ellen Turner at the Barley Mow. -The very next Sunday after that the women had forgotten all the dangers -of John’s perversity, and remembered only the fact of the engagement, -and that all doubt was over on the point which they thought so essential -to their happiness. Mrs. Aikin had a new bonnet on, resplendent in red -ribbons, and the happiness in Jane’s face was better than any new -bonnet. As it happened, there was a solo in the anthem that day which -John sang standing up in his white surplice, and rolling out Handel’s -great notes so that they filled the church. He had a beautiful voice, -and while he sang poor Jane’s face was a sight to see: her countenance -glowed with a kind of soft rapture. She clasped her hands unawares with -the prayer-book held open in them, her eyes were raised, her lips apart, -her nostrils slightly dilated. She had the look of a votary making a -special offering. Poor simple Jane! There was no consciousness in her -mind of any elevation above the rest, as she lifted that ineffable look, -and praised God in a subdued ecstasy, offering to Him the voice of her -beloved. For the moment Jane was as the prophets, as the poets, raised -up above everything surrounding her, triumphing even over the doubt that -was too ready to invade her mind at other times. She was but a country -girl, the maid of the inn, occupying the most unelevated and most -unelevating of positions, but yet no lady of romance could have stood on -a higher altitude, for the time. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - - -This however was the last time that Jane’s look of modest, silent -happiness could touch any heart. Whether she caught sight of some -private telegraphing which passed between her newly-betrothed and Ellen -Turner in the very church that very day, is not known, but other people -saw it with wonder and forebodings. Mr. Peters, who had seen the rapture -in Jane’s upturned face with a mingled pity and sympathy and pain which -made him, too, heroic for the moment, perceived the nod and look of -intelligence which passed between the baritone in the surplice and the -little dressmaker in the free seats with an impulse of suppressed wrath -which it took all the moral force he could command to resist. It was the -first time the betrothed pair had appeared, as it were, in public, since -it was known that ‘all was settled.’ And was it for this, for a vulgar -reprobate who betrayed her at the moment of union, while the first -happiness ought still to have been in delicate blossom, that she had -overlooked altogether the far more worthy love of the other? He could -not help wondering over that any more than Jane herself, a little while -later, could help wondering. The best thrown aside, the worst chosen--is -not this a far more poignant and wonderful evil than the tyrannies of -parents or hindrances of fate which keep lovers apart? But no more from -that day did Jane’s celestial content wound any sufferer. She grew -grave, pale, almost visibly older from that moment. She withdrew herself -from everybody. Even the old lady at the Thatched Cottage, who depended -upon her for so many things, did not see her for weeks together. And -their next meeting was a chance one, and took place on an August -evening, about a month after these events. How Jane could have kept out -of sight for so long was a mystery which nobody could have explained; -but she had managed it somehow, sending respectful messages of regret by -her mother. This time they met face to face without warning, as Mrs. -Mowbray was returning in the cool of the evening from Sir Thomas -Denzil’s, where she had been dining. The old lady sent her maid away -instantly, so anxious was she to have a conversation with her favourite. -Jane for her part would fain have escaped, but she could not be rude to -her kind old patroness, and Mrs. Mowbray took her arm quite eagerly. -‘You may go home, Morris,’ she said; and almost without waiting till the -maid was gone, ‘What has become of you, Jane? Where have you been -hiding? Is it because you are so happy, my dear, or for some other -reason, that you run away from me?’ A nervous quiver went over poor -Jane; she said with a trembling voice, ‘For another reason.’ She did not -even look her old friend in the face. - -‘Then what is it, my dear? Come, tell me. Don’t you know, whatever it -is, you can’t hide it from me?’ - -To this Jane made answer by drooping her head and turning away her face; -and then she pressed the old lady’s hand, which was on her arm, to her -side, and said hastily, ‘I was coming--I wanted you to speak for me--oh! -ma’am, if you would speak to mother! about--about----’ - -‘What! my poor little Jane! What, dear? Tell me, tell me freely,’ said -the old lady, almost crying. There could be but one subject that could -excite the poor girl so. - -‘About John’s going away. Oh, he’s sick of this quiet place! I can see -it--and mother takes no notice. Men are not like us women. He’s dying to -get away, and mother she can’t see it. She humours him in words, but she -will not do anything. Oh, ma’am, speak for us! He’s had all we have to -give him, and he’s tired of it, and he will never be happy till he gets -away.’ - -‘Do you wish him to go?--You, Jane?’ - -‘Yes,’ she cried passionately, ‘I wish it too!--it will make me happier. -I mean not so--miserable. Oh, ma’am, that’s not what I mean. I am all -confused like. I know--I know it’s for his good to go away----’ - -‘But it’s your good I think of--and your mother, too,’ said Mrs. -Mowbray. ‘We care for you, and not for him. You’ve avoided me, Jane, and -never told me if you were happy--now that you’re engaged, you and he.’ - -‘It was a mistake,’ she said, ‘all a mistake! We didn’t know our own -minds. Don’t you know, ma’am, that happens sometimes? I always felt it -was a mistake: but mother deceived herself. It’s so easy to believe what -you wish. And he deceived himself. But now that he’s done it it drives -him wild---- Oh, he must go--that’s the only thing that will do any -good. If she would only see it, and let him go!’ - -‘Do you want to break it off, Jane?’ - -‘Oh,’ she cried, with a moan, ‘break it off! Am I one to break it off? -But he can’t abide the place, and he wants to go.---- If he has any -true--respect--for me--he’ll feel it when he’s gone. That’s what I -think. Oh! ma’am, speak a word to mother, and tell her to let him go.’ - -‘There is more in your mind,’ said the old lady: ‘but if it is as -serious as this--I’ll go there straight, my dear. I’ll go straight and -speak to your mother. I know you’ve got more in your mind.’ - -Jane did not make any reply, but quickened her steps to keep up with the -active old woman as she hurried on. Poor Jane was past all make-believe. -‘Think!’ she said, almost under her breath, ‘what it is when he comes -and pretends to be fond of me---- Oh, ma’am! pretends as if he loved -me--after all I know!’ She wrung her hands, and there was a suppressed -anguish in her voice, such as only a tender creature outraged could have -been driven to. Then Mrs. Mowbray, who knew all the gossip of the place, -remembered to have heard that Ellen Turner, who was a dressmaker, had -been working at Mrs. Aikin’s--no doubt that was the cause. She went -along quickly, almost dragging the girl with her. It was a beautiful -evening, soft and cool after a hot day. The lights were beginning to -twinkle about the Barley Mow. There were people sitting out on the -bench, and people visible at the open windows with the lights behind -them, and a murmur of cheerful voices. The scene was very homely, but -the night was so soft, the shadows so grateful upon the refreshed earth, -the dews so sweet, and nothing but rest and refreshment in the air. -Overhead the sky was veiled, a few modest stars peeping from the edges -of the clouds, nothing bright to jar upon the subdued quiet. All this -went to Jane’s heart. She began to cry softly, as she looked with -wistful eyes at her home. The sensation subdued her. So peaceful and -quiet, with the vague, half-dim figures about, the cheerful lights in -the windows, was it possible that there could be such trouble there? - -But all at once there came a jarring note into this tranquillity--the -sound of a woman’s voice raised in anger. They were going towards the -garden door, but before they reached it somebody was pushed out -violently, and, half falling forward, came stumbling against Jane, who -was straight in the way. ‘Get out of my sight, you little baggage, you -treacherous, wicked, lying creature, you bad girl!’ cried Mrs. Aikin in -a furious voice. Jane clutched at Mrs. Mowbray’s arm, and shrank back, -while the girl who had stumbled against her gave a sudden scream of -dismay. It was Ellen Turner, her cheeks blazing red with anger, though -the sight of Jane cowed her. ‘What have you been doing, you little -flirt?’ cried old Mrs. Mowbray. ‘If a man speaks to me, ain’t I to give -him a civil answer?’ cried the girl, standing still, and preparing to -give battle. Jane did not say a word. She shook herself free of the old -lady without knowing what she did, and went in to her mother, without as -much as a look at the other. As soon as she had disappeared John showed -himself out of the darkness like a spectre. ‘Run, Nell, run,’ he said. -‘She’s to-morrow. She’s in Jane’s hands, I’ll see you safe now. Run. -Nell, run.’ And he darted back again among the guests, and threw himself -into his work with devotion. Never before had John been seen so busy and -so civil. Who could interfere with him in the middle of his work? He was -as safe as if he had been at church. - -What had happened was that Mrs. Aikin had found her nephew and the -little dressmaker together, on very affectionate terms, and her outburst -of sudden wrath was very hot and violent. But after the first moment it -was entirely against Ellen that her anger was directed, and she was as -little willing as before to listen to Mrs. Mowbray’s suggestion that he -should be sent away. She was, like most women of her class, perhaps like -most women of all classes, furious against the girl, half sorry for, -half contemptuous of, the man. ‘Lord, what could Johnny do against one -of them artful things?’ she said, when she had calmed down. ‘It’s Jane’s -fault, as don’t talk to him enough, nor keep him going. That minx shall -never set foot in my house again.’ Jane said very little while her -mother talked thus. She was very pale, and her breath came quickly, but -she betrayed no emotion either of grief or anger. She stood still by her -mother’s side while Mrs. Aikin cried and sobbed. Jane was past all that. -She said, ‘He don’t know his own mind, mother. Let him go as he wishes.’ -They were both made incapable of work by this sudden incident. But -John--John had turned into a model of industry and carefulness. While -the two women retired into their little parlour with the door shut, he, -safe from all interference, kept everything going. He ran about here and -there, attending to everybody, civil and thoughtful. When he was asked -what was the matter, he answered carelessly, ‘Some row among the women,’ -as if that was too trifling and too everyday a matter for his notice. He -had never shown so much cleverness in all his life before. - -Even after this however the widow still temporized. Yes, she said in -words, she would let him go, but after the bustle was over--after the -summer work was done with. She gave a hundred excuses, and invented new -reasons constantly for her delay. Jane said little, having said all she -could. A new reserve crept over her, she talked to nobody--went no more -to talk to Mrs. Peters, and never saw her old friend at the Thatched -Cottage when she could help it. She was sick of her false position, as -well as of those pangs which she told to nobody, which were all shut up -in her own heart. No more in church or otherwise did the look of -happiness come back to her face. When John sang she would stand with her -eyes fixed on her book, or else would cover her face with her hand. The -beautiful song was no longer hers to be offered up to God’s praise. But -sometimes during the sermon her eyes would turn unconsciously to that -foolish pretty face in the free seats--the pink and white countenance of -Ellen Turner, inferior in beauty as in everything else to herself. ‘What -is there in her that is better than me? Why should she be preferred to -me?’ was what Jane was asking herself, with a wondering pain that was -half self-abasement and half indignation. Just so good Mr. Peters, in -the school pew, gazed from her to the loutish baritone in his surplice -and back again. Why should fate be so contradictory and hearts so -bitterly deceived? - -This state of affairs however could not go on very long--and it came to -a conclusion quite suddenly at last. There was an agricultural show in -the neighbourhood some twenty miles off from Dinglefield, to which all -the rural people of the neighbourhood, and John among them, went at the -end of August. In other circumstances Jane would have gone with her -cousin; but she had no heart for shows of any kind. In the evening most -of the Dinglefield people came home, but not John. Mrs. Aikin was -evidently frightened by his non-appearance, but she made the best of it. -‘He had gone off with some of his friends,’ she said, ‘and of course he -had missed his train. He was always missing trains. He was the -carelessest lad!’ But when next day came, and the next, with no news of -John, the mother and daughter could no longer disguise their alarm. The -widow ‘was in such a way’ that her friends gathered round her full of -condolence and encouragements; and Mrs. Mowbray herself put on her -bonnet, and went to tell her not to be a fool, and to bid her remember -that young men cannot be held in like girls. ‘I know that, ma’am, I know -that,’ said Mrs. Aikin, soothed. The rest of her consolers had -encouraged her by telling her they had always foreseen it, and that this -was what over-indulgence always came to at last. The widow turned her -back upon these Job’s comforters, and clutched at Mrs. Mowbray’s shawl. -‘I’ve held him too tight, ma’am, and I should have taken your advice,’ -she said. They had sent expresses in all directions in search of him, -and that very evening they had information that he had enlisted in the -regiment to which his father had formerly belonged, and which was at the -time quartered in the town where the show had been held. This is always, -though it is hard to say why, terrible news for a decent family. -‘’Listed!’ do not all the vagabonds, the good-for-nothings, ’list? It -was Mr. Peters who brought this news to the two anxious women. He had -been in Castleville ‘by accident,’ he said; the truth being that he had -given the children a holiday on purpose to offer this humble service to -the woman who had his heart. It was good news, though it was such bad -news, for the widow’s imagination had begun to jump at all sorts of -fatal accidents, and he was made kindly welcome, and allowed to remain -with them until Mrs. Aikin’s first fit of distress and relief, and shame -and vexation, and content was over. ‘It’s his father, it’s all his -father,’ she said. ‘Such a thought would never, never have come into our -Johnny’s head.’ Mr. Peters, with trembling anxiety, observed that Jane -did not say a word. She was moving about with her usual quickness, -preparing tea, that the kind visitor who had taken so much trouble -should have some refreshment after his long walk. She was full of -suppressed excitement, her cheek less pale than usual, her eyes shining. -But she said nothing till her mother’s outburst was over. Mrs. Aikin was -a foolish, softhearted, sanguine woman. As soon as she knew the worst -her mind leapt at a universal mending and making up. She had no sooner -dried her eyes and swallowed a cup of tea, after protesting that she -‘could not touch it,’ than she began with a certain timidity in another -tone. - -‘It’s well known what most families do when such a thing happens,’ she -said with a sigh, ‘folks as has more money than we have. And I’ve heard -say as it was a foolish thing; but when you consider all things---- lads -is so silly, they never see what they’re doing till after it’s done, and -past changing--past their changing I mean.’ - -Jane did not say anything, but she stood still suddenly in the middle of -the room to listen, with a startled look. - -‘I dare to say he’s repented long before this,’ said the widow, ‘him as -never was put to hard work nor ordered about, him as had most things his -own way, though he mightn’t know it. It might have been better for -Johnny if you and me hadn’t been so fond of him, Jane--and it will all -tell upon him now. We’ve spoiled him, and we’re leaving him to bear it -by himself! Oh! Jane! Jane!’ - -‘What is it, mother? You are thinking of something,’ said Jane with a -harsh tone, quite unusual to her, in her voice. - -‘Oh, Jane, you’re hard-hearted, you ain’t forgiving, you’re not like -me,’ cried the widow. ‘If you were the girl folks think you, you would -come to me on your knees, that’s what you would do, to get me to buy him -off.’ - -‘Oh, mother, mother, I knew that was what you were coming to. Don’t do -it! I cannot bear it. I cannot go on with it. You may save him, but -you’ll kill me.’ - -‘Kill you!--what has it got to do with you?’ said Mrs. Aikin, drying her -eyes. ‘Thank the Lord, it ain’t so bad but what it can be mended--when -one comes to think of it! I’ll write to the lawyer this very night.’ - -‘If I can be of any use--’ said Mr. Peters, faltering. The more he felt -it was against himself, the more he was anxious to do it to show, if -only to himself, that it was Jane and not his own interest that was -nearest to his thoughts. But the poor man felt chilled to the heart as -he made his offer. He did not understand Jane. It was only an impulse of -anger, he thought, against the lover for whom, no doubt, she was longing -in her heart. - -‘You’re very kind, Mr. Peters--very kind. I’ll never forget it--and you -think it’s the right thing, don’t you now? He ain’t fit for the army, -isn’t Johnny. He was always delicate in the chest, and needs to be taken -a deal of notice of. And to give him up all for one thing--all for a -minute’s foolishness.’ - -‘Mother!’ said Jane, with a shrill tone of passion in her voice, ‘he is -not to come back here again; let him be!’ - -‘No--no--no. You’ll be the first to thank me, though you’ve lost your -temper now. The fright will do him a deal of good,’ Mrs. Aikin said, -getting up with all her cheerfulness restored. ‘We’ll leave him a week -or so just to see the error of his ways, and then we’ll buy him off, and -have him back, and settle everything. Poor lad! You may take my word -he’s miserable enough, thinking of you and me, and wondering what we are -thinking of him. Poor John! We won’t go on shilly-shallying any longer, -but we’ll have it all settled when he comes home.’ - -She was still speaking with the smile on her face which these pleasant -anticipations had brought there when a sudden commotion got up -outside--loud voices, and something like a scuffle. Sounds of this kind -are not so rare or so alarming even at the best regulated of taverns as -they are in a private house, and the widow paid but little attention. -She went across the room and opened her big, old-fashioned chest. Her -heart was warmed and her face brightened by her resolution. Jane gave a -glance of despair at Mr. Peters (which he no more understood than if he -had not seen it). She went across the room after her mother, and laid -her hand on her shoulder. ‘Mother,’ she said, ‘don’t do it--don’t do it; -let him have his choice.’ - -‘Ah! what was that?’ cried Mrs. Aikin with a start. - -The disturbance outside continued, and just at this moment the words -became audible, along with the sound of steps rushing to the door. ‘My -‘usband, my ‘usband!’ cried the voice; ‘what have you done with my -‘usband?’ The mother and daughter turned round by a common impulse, and -looked at each other--then stood as if stiffened into stone, with their -faces to the door. Without another word said they knew what it meant. -They needed no further explanation, nor the sight of Ellen Turner, all -in disorder, with her hair hanging about her neck, and her face swollen -with tears, who suddenly dashed the door open and came wildly in. ‘John, -John! I want my ‘usband!’ the poor creature cried, half demented. Jane -shrank back against her mother, leaning on her heavily, then cast a -wondering gaze around, appealing, as it were, to earth and heaven. Could -it be true? She put out one hand to the girl to silence her, and turned -round and leant against the wall, with a gasp for breath and a low moan. -This was all the demonstration she made. She was not even conscious of -the altercation that followed, the crying, and questioning, and denying. -Jane turned her face to the wall. People have died and broken their -hearts with less pain. The world seemed to go round with her, and all -truth and sense to fail. - -When she was seen again, which indeed was next day, moving about her -work as if nothing had happened, Jane was like a ghost in the first -morning light. All the blood seemed to have been drained out of her. She -was like a marble woman, moving unconsciously, not touched by anything -she did. ‘I am quite well,’ she said when people asked, ‘quite well, and -quite right, there is nothing the matter.’ As for the poor -schoolmaster, he went home that night sobbing in the great pity of his -heart. Though he loved her so, the good fellow felt that if anything -could have brought back to her the wretched lout whom she had loved he -would have done it had it cost him his life: but Mr. Peters had to go -away helpless, unable to save her a single pang, as most of us one time -or other have to do. - -When and how John had found means and ways to make himself Ellen -Turner’s husband, or whether he had really done so at all, remained -always a mystery to the Green. But she went off to him, and became a -wretched hanger-on of the regiment, from which Mrs. Aikin no longer -thought of buying him off. Nothing else could have settled the question -so summarily, and but for Jane’s stony face all the neighbourhood would -have been glad. Her misery, which was so patient and sweet, and of which -she talked to no one, lasted a great deal longer than it ought to have -done, everybody felt. But it could not last for ever. Bad enough that -such a girl should waste the first sweetness of her life on such a -delusion, but the delusion must come to an end some time. After a longer -interval than pleased the Green, an interval of which old Mrs. Mowbray -was very impatient, declaring pettishly a hundred times that she would -marry off the faithful Peters to some one if Jane did not mind, Jane -came to herself. She is now the mistress of the school-room, if not the -schoolmistress, with too many children of her own to be able to take -charge of those of the parish, but so ‘comfortable,’ with what the -Barley Mow affords, that the schoolmaster’s income requires no eking out -from her work. She is far better off, and in circumstances much more -congenial to her than if she had been able to carry out the plan which -had been her early dream, and which she and her mother had so -passionately wished. And Jane is happy: but the scar of the old wound -has never departed, and never will depart. It is unforgettable for the -sake of the pain, more than for the sake of the love. As for the -faithful Peters, he is as happy as ever schoolmaster was, and very -proper and mindful of his position, and would not sit on a bench outside -a village inn now-a-days night after night, as he once did, not for any -inducement in the world. - -Mrs. Aikin held out, and kept her place after Jane was married as long -as that was practicable, but has sold the business now (and it brought -in a pretty penny), and lives very happily with a cow of her own and a -poultry yard, and half-a-dozen grandchildren. Happy woman! She has no -scar upon her comfortable soul, and knows of no mistake she ever made: -but she feeds the hungry mouths of her wretched nephew and his wretched -family, and does not grumble, for, after all, she says, ‘Nature is -Nature, and it was all his father’s fault.’ - - THE END. - - * * * * * - - - - - MY FAITHFUL JOHNNY - - DEDICATED TO F. W. C. AND B. C. - - - - -My Faithful Johnny - - - - -CHAPTER I - - -Everybody knows the charming song which is called by this name. I hear -it sometimes in a young household full of life and kindness and music, -where it is sung to me, with a tender indulgence for my weakness and -limited apprehension of higher efforts, by the most sympathetic and -softest of voices. A kind half-smile mingles in the music on these -occasions. Those dear people think I like it because the translated -‘words’ have a semblance of being Scotch, and I am a Scot. But the words -are not Scotch, nor is this their charm. I don’t even know what they -are. ‘I will come again, my sweet and bonnie.’ That, or indeed the name -even is enough for me. I confess that I am not musical. When I hear -anything that I like much, at least from an instrument, I instantly -conceive a contempt for it, feeling that it must be inferior somehow to -have commended itself to me. I wander vainly seeking an idea through -fields and plains of sonatas. So do a great many other lowly people, -like me, not gifted with taste or (fit) hearing; but, if you will only -suggest an idea to me, I will thankfully accept that clue. I don’t -understand anything about dominant sevenths or any mathematical -quantity. ‘How much?’ I feel inclined to say with the most vulgar. -Therefore ‘My Faithful Johnny’ charms me because this is a suggestion of -which my fancy is capable. I don’t know who the faithful Johnny was, -except that he is to come again, and that somebody, presumably, is -looking for him; and, with this guide, the song takes a hundred tones, -sorrowful, wistful and penetrating. I see the patient waiting, the doubt -which is faith, the long vigil--and hear the soft cadence of sighs, and -with them, through the distance, the far-off notes of the promise--never -realized, always expected--‘I will come again.’ This is how I like to -have my music. I am an ignorant person. They smile and humour me with -just a tender touch of the faintest, kindest contempt. Stay--not -contempt; the word is far too harsh; let us say indulgence--the meaning -is very much the same. - -I do not think I had ever heard the song when I first became acquainted -with the appearance of a man with whom, later, this title became -completely identified. He was young--under thirty--when I saw him first, -passing my house every morning as regular as the clock on his way to his -work, and coming home in the evening swinging his cane, with a book -under his arm, his coat just a little rusty, his trousers clinging to -his knees more closely than well-bred trousers cling, his hat pushed -back a little from his forehead. It was unnecessary to ask what he was. -He was a clerk in an office. This may be anything, the reader knows, -from a lofty functionary managing public business, to numberless -nobodies who toil in dusty offices and are in no way better than their -fate. It was to this order that my clerk belonged. Every day of his -life, except that blessed Sunday which sets such toilers free, he walked -along the irregular pavement of the long suburban road in which I lived -at nine o’clock in the morning were it wet or dry; and between five and -six he would come back. After all, though it was monotonous, it was not -a hard life, for he had the leisure of the whole long evening to make up -for the bondage of the day. He was a pale man with light hair, and a -face more worn than either his years or his labours warranted. But his -air of physical weakness must have been due to his colourless -complexion, or some other superficial cause, for his extreme and -unbroken regularity was inconsistent with anything less than thoroughly -good health. He carried his head slightly thrown back, and his step had -a kind of irregularity in it which made it familiar to me among many -others; at each half dozen steps or so his foot would drag upon the -pavement, giving a kind of rhythm to his progress. All these particulars -I became aware of, not suddenly, but by dint of long unconscious -observation, day after day, day after day, for so many years. Never was -there a clerk more respectable, more regular. I found out after a while -that he lodged about half a mile further on in one of the little houses -into which the road dwindled as it streamed out towards the chaos which -on all sides surrounds London--and that when he passed my house he was -on his way to or from the omnibus which started from a much-frequented -corner about a quarter of a mile nearer town. All the far-off ends of -the ways that lead into town and its bustle have interests of this kind. -I am one of the people, I fear somewhat vulgar-minded, who love my -window and to see people pass. I do not care for the dignity of -seclusion. I would rather not, unless I were sure of being always a -happy member of a large cheerful household, be divided from the common -earth even by the trees and glades of the most beautiful park. I like to -see the men go to their work, and the women to their marketing. But no; -the latter occupation is out of date--the women go to their work too; -slim, young daily governesses, hard-worked music-mistresses, with the -invariable roll of music. How soon one gets to know them all, and have a -glimmering perception of their individualities--though you may see them -every day for years before you know their names! - -After I had been acquainted (at a distance) with him for some time, and -had got to know exactly what o’clock it was when he passed, a change -came upon my clerk. One summer evening I saw him very much smartened up, -his coat brushed, a pair of trousers on with which I was not familiar, -and a rosebud in his button-hole, _coming back_. I was thunderstruck. It -was a step so contrary to all traditions that my heart stopped beating -while I looked at him. It was all I could do not to run down and ask -what was the matter. Had something gone wrong in the City? Was there a -panic, or a crisis, or something in the money-market? But no; that could -not be. The spruceness of the man, the rose in his coat, contradicted -this alarm; and as I watched disquieted, lo! he crossed the road before -my eyes, and turning down Pleasant Place, which was opposite, -disappeared, as I could faintly perceive in the distance, into one of -the houses. This was the first of a long series of visits. And after a -while I saw _her_, the object of these visits, the heroine of the -romance. She also was one of those with whom I had made acquaintance at -my window--a trim little figure in black, with a roll of music, going -out and in two or three times a day, giving music lessons. I was quite -glad to think that she had been one of my favourites too. My clerk went -modestly at long intervals at first, then began to come oftener, and -finally settled down as a nightly visitor. But this was a long and slow -process, and I think it had lasted for years before I came into actual -contact with the personages of this tranquil drama. It was only during -the summer that I could see them from my window and observe what was -going on. When at the end of a long winter I first became aware that he -went to see her every evening, I confess to feeling a little excitement -at the idea of a marriage shortly to follow; but that was altogether -premature. It went on summer after summer, winter after winter, -disappearing by intervals from my eyes, coming fresh with the spring -flowers and the long evenings. Once passing down Pleasant Place towards -some scorched fields that lay beyond--fields that began to be invaded by -new houses and cut up by foundation digging, and roadmaking, and -bricklaying, but where there was still room for the boys, and my boys, -among others, to play cricket--I had a glimpse of a little interior -which quickened my interest more and more. The houses in Pleasant Place -were small and rather shabby, standing on one side only of the street. -The other was formed by the high brick wall of the garden of a big -old-fashioned house, still standing amid all the new invasions which had -gradually changed the character of the district. There were trees -visible over the top of this wall, and it was believed in the -neighbourhood that the upper windows of the houses in Pleasant Place -looked over it into the garden. In fact, I had myself not long before -condoled with the proprietor of the said garden upon the inconvenience -of being thus overlooked. For this hypocrisy my heart smote me when I -went along the little street, and saw the little houses all gasping with -open windows for a breath of the air which the high wall intercepted. -They had little front gardens scorched with the fervid heat. At the open -window of No. 7 sat my clerk with his colourless head standing out -against the dark unknown of the room. His face was in profile. It was -turned towards some one who was singing softly the song of which I have -placed the name at the head of this story. The soft, pensive music came -tender and low out of the unseen room. The musician evidently needed no -light, for it was almost twilight, and the room was dark. The -accompaniment was played in the truest taste, soft as the summer air -that earned the sound to our ears. ‘I know!’ I cried to my companion -with some excitement, ‘that is what he is. I have always felt that was -the name for him.’ ‘The name for whom?’ she asked bewildered. ‘My -faithful Johnny,’ I replied; which filled her with greater bewilderment -still. - -And all that summer long the faithful Johnny went and came as usual. -Often he and she would take little walks in the evening, always at that -same twilight hour. It seemed the moment of leisure, as if she had -duties at home from which she was free just then. When we went away in -August they were taking their modest little promenades together in the -cool of the evening; and when we came back in October, as long as the -daylight served to see them by, the same thing went on. As the days -shortened he changed his habits so far as to go to Pleasant Place at -once before going home, that there might still be light enough (I felt -sure) for her walk. But by and by the advancing winter shut out this -possibility: or rather, I could not see any longer what happened about -six o’clock. One evening however, coming home to dinner from a late -visit, I met them suddenly, walking along the lighted street. For the -first time they were arm-in-arm, perhaps because it was night, though no -later than usual. She was talking to him with a certain familiar ease of -use and wont as if they had been married for years, smiling and -chattering and lighting up his mild somewhat weary countenance with -responsive smiles. ‘I will come again, my sweet and bonnie----’ I -smiled at myself as these words came into my head, I could not tell why. -How could he come again when, it was evident, no will of his would ever -take him away? Was she fair enough to be the ‘sweet and bonnie’ of a -man’s heart? She was not a beauty; nobody would have distinguished her -even as the prettiest girl in Pleasant Place. But her soft, bright face -as she looked up to him: a smile on it of the sunniest kind; a little -humorous twist about the corners of the mouth; a pair of clear, honest -brown eyes; a round cheek with a dimple in it--caught my heart at once -as they must have caught his. I could understand (I thought) what it -must have been to the dry existence of the respectable clerk, the -old-young and prematurely faded, to have this fresh spring of life, and -talk, and smiles, and song welling up into it, transforming everything. -He smiled back upon her as they walked along in the intermittent light -of the shop windows. I could almost believe that I saw his lips forming -the words as he looked at her, ‘My sweet and bonnie.’ Yes; she was good -enough and fair enough to merit the description. ‘But I wish they would -marry,’ I said to myself. Why did not they marry? He looked patient -enough for anything; but even patience ought to come to an end. I chafed -at the delay, though I had nothing to do with it. What was the meaning -of it? I felt that it ought to come to an end. - - - - -CHAPTER II - - -It was some months after this, when I took the bold step of making -acquaintance on my own account with this pair; not exactly with the -pair, but with the one who was most accessible. It happened that a -sudden need for music lessons arose in the family. One of the children, -who had hitherto regarded that study with repugnance, and who had been -accordingly left out in all the musical arrangements of her brothers and -sisters, suddenly turned round by some freak of nature and demanded the -instruction which she had previously resisted. How could we expect -Fräulein Stimme, whose ministrations she had scorned, to descend to the -beggarly elements, and take up again one who was so far behind the -others? ‘I cannot ask her,’ I said; ‘you may do it yourself, Chatty, if -you are so much in earnest, but I cannot take it upon me;’ and it was -not until Chatty had declared with tears that to approach Fräulein -Stimme on her own account was impossible, that a brilliant idea struck -me. ‘Ten o’clock!’ I cried; which was an exclamation which would have -gone far to prove me out of my senses had any severe critic been -listening. This was the title which had been given to the little -music-mistress in Pleasant Place, before she had become associated in -our minds with the faithful clerk. And I confess that, without waiting -to think, without more ado, I ran to get my hat, and was out of doors in -a moment. It was very desirable, no doubt, that Chatty should make up -lost ground and begin her lessons at once, but that was not my sole -motive. When I found myself out of doors in a damp and foggy November -morning, crossing the muddy road in the first impulse of eagerness, it -suddenly dawned upon me that there were several obstacles in my way. In -the first place I did not even know her name. I knew the house, having -seen her, and especially him, enter it so often; but what to call her, -who to ask for, I did not know. She might, I reflected, be only a -lodger, not living with her parents, which up to this time I had taken -for granted; or she might be too accomplished in her profession to teach -Chatty the rudiments--a thing which, when I reflected upon the song I -had heard, and other scraps of music which had dropped upon my ears in -passing, seemed very likely. However I was launched, and could not go -back. I felt very small, humble, and blamably impulsive however when I -had knocked at the door of No. 7, and stood somewhat alarmed waiting a -reply. The door was opened by a small maid-servant, with a very long -dress and her apron folded over one arm, who stared, yet evidently -recognized me, not without respect, as belonging to one of the great -houses in the road. This is a kind of aristocratical position in the -suburbs. One is raised to a kind of personage by all the denizens of the -little streets and terraces. She made me a clumsy little curtsey, and -grinned amicably. And I was encouraged by the little maid. She was about -fifteen, rather grimy, in a gown much too long for her; but yet her foot -was upon her native heath, and I was an intruder. She knew all about the -family, no doubt, and who they were, and the name of my clerk, and the -relations in which he stood to her young mistress, while I was only a -stranger feebly guessing, and impertinently spying upon all these -things. - -‘Is the young lady at home?’ I asked, with much humility. - -The girl stared at me with wide-open eyes; then she said with a broad -smile, ‘You mean Miss Ellen, don’t ye, miss?’ In these regions it is -supposed to be complimentary to say ‘Miss,’ as creating a pleasant -fiction of perpetual youth. - -‘To tell the truth,’ I said, with a consciousness of doing my best to -conciliate this creature, ‘I don’t know her name. It was about some -music lessons.’ - -‘Miss Ellen isn’t in,’ said the girl, ‘but missus is sure to see you if -you will step into the parlour, miss;’ and she opened to me the door of -the room in which I had seen my faithful Johnny at the window, and heard -her singing to him, in the twilight, her soft song. It was a commonplace -little parlour, with a faded carpet and those appalling mahogany and -hair-cloth chairs which no decorative genius, however brilliant, could -make anything of. What so easy as to say that good taste and care can -make any house pretty? This little room was very neat, and I don’t doubt -that Miss Ellen’s faithful lover found a little paradise in it; but it -made my heart sink foolishly to see how commonplace it all was; a -greenish-whitish woollen cover on the table, a few old photographic -albums, terrible antimacassars in crochet work upon the backs of the -chairs. I sat down and contemplated the little mirror on the mantelpiece -and the cheap little vases with dismay. We are all prejudiced now-a-days -on this question of furniture. My poor little music-mistress! how was -she to change the chairs and tables she had been born to? But, to tell -the truth, I wavered and doubted whether she was worthy of him when I -looked round upon all the antimacassars, and the dried grasses in the -green vase. - -While I was struggling against this first impression the door opened, -and the mistress of the house came in. She was a little woman, stout and -roundabout, with a black cap decorated with flowers, but a fresh little -cheerful face under this tremendous head-dress which neutralized it. She -came up to me with a smile and would have shaken hands, had I been at -all prepared for such a warmth of salutation, and then she began to -apologize for keeping me waiting. ‘When my daughter is out I have to do -all the waiting upon him myself. He doesn’t like to be left alone, and -he can’t bear anybody but me or Ellen in the room with him,’ she said. -Perhaps she had explained beforehand who he was, but in the confusion of -the first greeting I had not made it out. Then I stated my business, and -she brightened up still more. - -‘Oh, yes; I am sure Ellen will undertake it with great pleasure. In the -Road at No. 16? Oh, it is no distance; it will be no trouble; and she is -so glad to extend her connection. With private teaching it is such a -great matter to extend your connection. It is very kind of you to have -taken the trouble to come yourself. Perhaps one of Ellen’s ladies, who -are all so kind to her, mentioned our name?’ - -‘That is just where I am at a loss,’ I said uneasily. ‘No; but I have -seen her passing all these years, always so punctual, with her bright -face. She has been a great favourite of mine for a long time, though I -don’t know her name.’ - -The mother’s countenance brightened after a moment’s doubt. ‘Yes,’ she -said, ‘she is a good girl--always a bright face. She is the life of the -house.’ - -‘And I have seen,’ said I, hesitating more and more, ‘a gentleman. I -presume there is to be a marriage by and by. You must pardon my -curiosity, I have taken so much interest in them.’ - -A good many changes passed over the mother’s face. Evidently she was not -at all sure about my curiosity, whether perhaps it might not be -impertinent. - -‘Ah!’ she said, with a little nod, ‘you have remarked John. Yes, of -course, it was sure to be remarked, so constantly as he comes. I need -not make any secret of it. In one way I would rather he did not come so -often; but it is a pleasure to Ellen. Yes; I may say they are engaged.’ - -Engaged? After all these years! But I remembered that I had no right, -being an intruder, to say anything. ‘I have seen them in the summer -evenings----’ - -‘Yes, yes,’ she said; ‘yes,’ with again a nod of her head. ‘Perhaps it -was imprudent, for you never can tell whether these things will come to -anything; but it was her only time for a little pleasure. Poor child, I -always see that she gets that hour. They go out still, though you would -not say it would do her much good in the dark; out there is nothing she -enjoys so much. She is the best girl that ever was. I don’t know what I -should do without her;’ and there was a glimmer of moisture in the -mother’s eyes. - -‘But,’ I said, ‘surely after a while they are going to be married?’ - -‘I don’t know. I don’t see how her father can spare her.’ The cheerful -face lost all its brightness as she spoke, and she shook her head. ‘He -is so fond of Ellen, the only girl we have left now; he can’t bear her -out of his sight. She is such a good girl, and so devoted.’ The mother -faltered a little--perhaps my question made her think--at all events, it -was apparent that everything was not so simple and straightforward for -the young pair as I in my ignorance had thought. - -But I had no excuse to say any more. It was no business of mine, as -people say. I settled that Ellen was to come at a certain hour next day, -which was all that remained to be done. When I glanced round the room -again as I left, it had changed its aspect to me, and looked like a -prison. Was the poor girl bound there, and unable to get free? As the -mother opened the door for me, the sound of an imperious voice calling -her came down-stairs. She called back, ‘I am coming, James, I am -coming;’ then let me out hurriedly. And I went home feeling as if I had -torn the covering from a mystery, and as if the house in Pleasant Place, -so tranquil, so commonplace, was the scene of some tragic story, to end -one could not tell how. But there was no mystery at all about it: When -‘Miss Harwood’ was announced to me next day, I was quite startled by the -name, not associating it with any one; but the moment the little -music-mistress appeared, with her little roll in her hand, her trim -figure, her smiling face, and fresh look of health and happiness, my -suspicions disappeared like the groundless fancies they were. She was -delighted to have a new pupil, and one so near, whom it would be ‘no -trouble’ to attend; and so pleased when I (with much timidity, I -confess) ventured to tell her how long I had known her, and how I had -watched for her at my window, and all the observations I had made. She -brightened, and laughed and blushed, and declared it was very kind of me -to take such an interest; then hung her head for a moment, and laughed -and blushed still more, when my confessions went the length of the -faithful lover. But this was nothing but a becoming girlish shyness, for -next minute she looked me frankly in the face, with the prettiest colour -dyeing her round cheek. ‘I think he knows you too,’ she said. ‘We met -you once out walking, and he told me, “There is the lady who lives in -the Road, whom I always see at the window.” We hoped you were better to -see you out.’ And then it was my turn to feel gratified, which I did -unfeignedly. I had gone through a great deal of trouble, cheered by my -spectatorship of life-out-of-doors from that window. And I was pleased -that they had taken some friendly notice of me too. - -‘And I suppose,’ I said, returning to my theme, ‘that it will not be -long now before you reward his faithfulness. Must Chatty leave you then? -or will you go on, do you think, taking pupils after--?’ - -She gave me a little bewildered look. ‘I don’t think I know what you -mean.’ - -‘After you are married,’ I said plumply. ‘That must be coming soon now.’ - -Then she burst out with a genial, pretty laugh, blushing and shaking her -head. ‘Oh, no; we do not think of such a thing! Not yet. They couldn’t -spare me at home. John--I mean, Mr. Ridgway--knows that. My father has -been ill so long; he wants attendance night and day, and I don’t know -what mother would do without me. Oh dear no; we are very happy as we -are. We don’t even think of that.’ - -‘But you must think of it some time, surely, in justice to him,’ I said, -half indignant for my faithful Johnny’s sake. - -‘Yes, I suppose so, some time,’ she said, with a momentary gravity -stealing over her face--gravity and perplexity too: and a little pucker -came into her forehead. How to do it? A doubt, a question, seemed to -enter her mind for a moment. Then she gave her head a shake, dismissing -the clouds from her cheerful firmament, and with a smiling decision set -down Chatty to the piano. Chatty had fallen in love with Miss Harwood, -her own particular music-mistress, in whom no one else had any share, on -the spot. - -And after a while we all fell in love, one after another, with Miss -Ellen. She was one of those cheerful people who never make a fuss about -anything, never are put out, or make small troubles into great ones. We -tried her in every way, as is not unusual with a large, somewhat -careless, family, in whose minds it was a settled principle that, so -long as you did a thing some time or other, it did not at all matter -when you did it--and that times and seasons were of no particular -importance to any one but Fräulein Stimme. _She_, of course--our natural -disorderliness had to give way to her; but I am afraid it very soon came -to be said in the house, ‘Ellen will not mind.’ And Ellen did not mind; -if twelve o’clock proved inconvenient for the lesson, she only smiled -and said, ‘It is no matter; I will come in at three.’ And if at three -Fräulein Stimme’s clutches upon Chatty were still unclosed, she would do -anything that happened to be needed--gather the little ones round the -piano and teach them songs, or go out with my eldest daughter for her -walk, or talk to me. How many talks we had upon every subject -imaginable! Ellen was not what is called clever. She had read very few -books. My eldest daughter aforesaid despised her somewhat on this -account, and spoke condescendingly of this or that as ‘what Ellen says.’ -But it was astonishing, after all, how often ‘what Ellen says’ was -quoted. There were many things which Ellen had not thought anything -about; and on these points she was quite ignorant; for she had not read -what other people had thought about them, and was unprepared with an -opinion; but whenever the subject had touched her own intelligence, she -knew very well what she thought. And by dint of being a little lower -down in the social order than we were, she knew familiarly a great many -things which we knew only theoretically and did not understand. For -instance, that fine shade of difference which separates people with a -hundred and fifty pounds a year from people with weekly wages was a -thing which had always altogether eluded me. I had divined that a -workman with three pounds a week was well off, and a clerk with the -same, paid quarterly, was poor; but wherein lay the difference, and how -it was that the latter occupied a superior position to the former, I -have never been able to fathom. Ellen belonged, herself, to this class. -Her father had been in one of the lower departments of a public office, -and had retired with a pension of exactly this amount after some thirty -years’ service. There was a time in his life, to which she regretfully -yet proudly referred as ‘the time when we were well off,’ in which his -salary had risen to two hundred and fifty pounds a year. That was the -time when she got her education and developed the taste for music which -was now supplying her with work which she liked, and a little provision -for herself. There was no scorn or _hauteur_ in Ellen; but she talked of -the working classes with as distinct a consciousness of being apart from -and superior to them as if she had been a duchess. It was no virtue of -hers; but still Providence had placed her on a different level, and she -behaved herself accordingly. Servants and shopkeepers, of the minor kind -at least, were within the same category to her--people to be perfectly -civil to, and kind to, but, as a matter of course, not the kind of -people whom in her position it would become her to associate with. When -I asked myself why I should smile at this, or wherein it was more -unreasonable than other traditions of social superiority, I could not -give any answer. We are not ourselves, so far as I know, sons of the -Crusaders, and it is very difficult to say what is the social figment of -rank by which we hold so dearly. Ellen Harwood exhibited to us the -instinct of aristocracy on one of its lower levels; and one learned a -lesson while one smiled in one’s sleeve. Never was anything more -certain, more serious, than her sense of class distinctions, and the -difference between one degree and another; and nobody, not a prince of -the blood, would have less understood being laughed at. This serene -consciousness of her position and its inherent right divine was a -possession inalienable to our music-mistress. She would have -comprehended or endured no trifling or jesting with it. One blushed -while one laughed in an undertone. She was holding the mirror up to -nature without being aware of it. And there were various fanciful -particulars also in her code. The people next door who let lodgings were -beneath her as much as the working people--all to be very nicely behaved -to, need I say, and treated with the greatest politeness and civility, -but not as if they were on the level of ‘people like ourselves.’ Lady -Clara Vere de Vere could not have been more serenely unconscious of any -possible equality between herself and her village surroundings than -Ellen Harwood. Fortunately, Mr. John Ridgway was ‘in our own position in -life.’ - -These and many other vagaries of human sentiment I learned to see -through Ellen’s eyes with more edification and amusement, and also with -more confusion and abashed consciousness, than had ever occurred to me -before. These were precisely my own sentiments, you know, towards the -rich linendraper next door; and no doubt my aristocratical repugnance to -acknowledge myself the neighbour of that worthy person would have seemed -just as funny to the Duke of Bayswater as Ellen’s pretensions did to me. -It must not be supposed however that Ellen Harwood was in a state of -chronic resistance to the claims of her humbler neighbours. She was an -active, bright, cheerful creature, full of interest in everything. Her -father had been ill for years; and she had grown accustomed to his -illness, as young people do to anything they have been acquainted with -all their lives, and was not alarmed by it, nor oppressed, so far as we -could tell, by the constant claims made upon her. She allowed that now -and then he was cross--‘which of us would not be cross, shut up in one -room for ever and ever?’ But she had not the least fear that he would -ever die, or that she would grow tired of taking care of him. All the -rest of her time after lessons she was in attendance upon him, excepting -only that hour in the evening when John’s visit was paid. She always -looked forward to that, she confessed. ‘To think of it makes everything -smooth. He is so good. Though I say it that shouldn’t,’ she cried, -laughing and blushing, ‘you can’t think how nice he is. And he knows so -much; before he knew us he had nothing to do but read all the -evenings--fancy! And I never met any one who had read so much; he knows -simply everything. Ah!’ with a little sigh, ‘it makes such a difference -to have him coming every night; it spirits one up for the whole day.’ - -‘But, Ellen, I can’t think how it is that he doesn’t get tired----’ - -‘Tired!’ She reddened up to her very hair. ‘Why should he get tired? If -he is tired, he has my full permission to go when he likes,’ she said, -throwing back her proud little head. ‘But nobody shall put such an idea -into my mind. You don’t know John. If you knew John that would be quite -enough; such a thing would never come into your mind.’ - -‘You should hear me out before you blame me. I was going to say, tired -of waiting, which is a very different sentiment.’ - -Ellen laughed, and threw aside her little offence in a moment. ‘I -thought you could not mean that. Tired of waiting! But he has not waited -so very long. We have not been years and years like some people--No; -only eighteen months since it was all settled. We are not rich people -like you, to do a thing the moment we have begun to think about it: and -everything so dear!’ she cried, half merry, half serious. ‘Oh, no; he is -not the least tired. What could we want more than to be together in the -evening? All the day goes pleasantly for thinking of it,’ she said, with -a pretty blush. ‘And my mother always manages to let me have that hour. -She does not mind how tired she is. We are as happy as the day is long,’ -Ellen said. - -I have always heard that a long engagement is the most miserable and -wearing thing in the world. I have never believed it, it is true; but -that does not matter. Here however was a witness against the popular -belief. Ellen was not the victim of a long engagement, nor of a peevish -invalid, though her days were spent in tendance upon one, and her youth -gliding away in the long patience of the other. She was as merry and -bright as if she were having everything her own way in life; and so I -believe she really thought she was, with a mother so kind as, always, -however tired she might be, to insist upon securing that evening hour -for her, and a John who was better than any other John had ever been -before him. The faithful Johnny! I wondered sometimes on his side what -he thought. - - - - -CHAPTER III - - -One day Ellen came to me, on her arrival, with an air of suppressed -excitement quite unusual to her. It was not, evidently, anything to be -alarmed about, for she looked half way between laughing and crying, but -not melancholy. ‘May I speak to you after Chatty has had her lesson?’ -she asked. I felt sure that some new incident had happened in her -courtship, about which I was so much more interested than about any -other courtship I was acquainted with. So I arranged with all speed--not -an easy thing when there are so many in a house, to be left alone, and -free to hear whatever she might have to say. She was a little hurried -with the lesson, almost losing patience over Chatty’s fumbling--and how -the child did fumble over the fingering, putting the third finger where -the first should be, and losing count altogether of the thumb, which is -too useful a member to be left without occupation! It appeared to me -half a dozen times that Ellen was on the eve of taking the music off the -piano, and garotting Chatty with the arm which rested nervously on the -back of the child’s chair. However she restrained these impulses, if she -had them, and got through the hour _tant bien que mal_. It was even with -an air of extreme deliberation, masking her excitement, that she stood -by and watched her pupil putting away the music and closing the piano. -Chatty, of course, took a longer time than usual to these little -arrangements, and then lingered in the room. Generally she was too glad -to hurry away. - -‘Go, Chatty, and see if the others are ready to go out for their walk.’ - -‘They have gone already, mamma. They said they would not wait for me. -They said I was always so long of getting my things on.’ - -‘But why are you so long of getting your things on? Run away and see -what nurse is about; or if Fräulein Stimme would like----’ - -‘Fräulein isn’t here to-day. How funny you are, mamma, not to remember -that it’s Saturday.’ - -‘Go this moment!’ I cried wildly, ‘and tell nurse that you must go out -for a walk. Do you think I will permit you to lose your walk, because -the others think you are long of putting your things on? Nothing of the -sort. Go at once, Chatty,’ I cried, clapping my hands, as I have a way -of doing, to rouse them when they are not paying attention, ‘without a -word!’ - -To see the child’s astonished face! She seemed to stumble over herself -in her haste to get out of the room. After the unusual force of this -adjuration I had myself become quite excited. I waved my hand to Ellen, -who had stood by listening, half frightened by my vehemence, pointing -her to a chair close to me. ‘Now, tell me all about it,’ I said. - -‘Is it really for me that you have sent Chatty away in such a hurry? How -good of you!’ said Ellen. And then she made a pause, as if to bring -herself into an appropriate frame of mind before making her -announcement. ‘I could not rest till I had told you. You have always -taken such an interest. John has got a rise of fifty pounds a year.’ - -‘I am very glad, very glad, Ellen.’ - -‘I knew you would be pleased. He has been expecting it for some time -back; but he would not say anything to me, in case I should be -disappointed if it did not come. So I should, most likely, for I think -he deserves a great deal more than that. But the best people never get -so much as they deserve. Fifty pounds a year is a great rise all at -once, don’t you think? and he got a hint that perhaps about Midsummer -there might be a better post offered to him. Isn’t it flattering? Of -course I know he deserves it; but sometimes those who deserve the most -don’t get what they ought. That makes two hundred and twenty; an -excellent income, don’t you think? He will have to pay income-tax,’ -Ellen said, with a flush of mingled pride and gratification and -grievance which it was amusing to see. - -‘I don’t know that I think much of the income-tax; but it is very -pleasant that he is so well thought of,’ I said. - -‘And another rise at Midsummer! It seems more than one had any right to -expect,’ said Ellen. Her hands were clasped in her lap, her fingers -twisting and untwisting unconsciously, her head raised, and her eyes -fixed, without seeing anything, upon the blue sky outside. She was rapt -in a pleasant dream of virtue rewarded and goodness triumphant. A smile -went and came upon her face like sunshine. ‘And yet,’ she cried, ‘to -hear people speak, you would think that it was never the right men that -got on. Even in sermons in church you always hear that it is rather a -disadvantage to you if you are nice and good. I wonder how people can -talk such nonsense; why, look at John!’ - -‘But even John has had a long time to wait for his promotion,’ said I, -feeling myself the devil’s advocate. I had just checked myself in time -not to say that two hundred and twenty pounds a year was not a very -gigantic promotion; which would have been both foolish and cruel. - -‘Oh, no, indeed!’ cried Ellen; ‘he looks a great deal older than he is. -He lived so much alone, you know, before he knew _us_; and that gives a -man an old look--but he is not a bit old. How much would you give him? -No, indeed, thirty; he is only just thirty! His birthday was last week.’ - -‘And you, Ellen?’ - -‘I am twenty-four--six years younger than he is. Just the right -difference, mother says. Of course I am really a dozen years older than -he is; I have far more sense. He has read books and books till he has -read all his brains away; but luckily as long as I am there to take care -of him----’ Then she made a pause, looked round the room with a half -frightened look, then, drawing closer to me, she said in a hurried -undertone, ‘He said something about that other subject to-day.’ - -‘Of course he did; how could he have done otherwise?’ I said with a -little momentary triumph. - -‘Please, _please_ don’t take his part, and make it all more difficult; -for you know it is impossible, impossible, quite impossible; nobody -could have two opinions. It was that, above all, that I wanted to tell -you about.’ - -‘Why is it impossible, Ellen?’ I said. ‘If you set up absurd obstacles, -and keep up an unnatural state of things, you will be very sorry for it -one day. He is quite right. I could not think how he consented to go on -like this, without a word.’ - -‘How strange that you should be so hot about it!’ said Ellen, with a -momentary smile; but at the bottom of her heart she was nervous and -alarmed, and did not laugh with her usual confidence. ‘He said -something, but he was not half so stern as you are. Why should it be so -dreadfully necessary to get married? I am quite happy as I am. I can do -all my duties, and take care of him too; and John is quite happy----’ - -‘There you falter,’ I said; ‘you dare not say that with the same -intrepidity, you little deceiver. Poor John! he ought to have his life -made comfortable and bright for him now. He ought to have his wife to be -proud of, to come home to. So faithful as he is, never thinking of any -other pleasure, of any amusement, but only you.’ - -Ellen blushed with pleasure, then grew pale with wonder and alarm. ‘That -is natural,’ she said, faltering. ‘What other amusement should he think -of? He is most happy with me.’ - -‘But very few men are like that,’ I said. ‘He is giving up everything -else for you; he is shutting himself out of the world for you; and -you--what are you giving up for him?’ - -Ellen grew paler and paler as I spoke. ‘Giving up?’ she said aghast. -‘I--I would give up anything. But I have got nothing, except John,’ she -added, with an uneasy little laugh. ‘And you say he is shutting himself -out of the world. Oh, I know what you are thinking of--the kind of world -one reads about in books, where gentlemen have clubs, and all that sort -of thing. But these are only for you rich people. He is not giving up -anything that I know of.’ - -‘What do the other young men do, Ellen? Every one has his own kind of -world.’ - -‘The other young men!’ she cried indignant. ‘Now I see indeed you don’t -know anything about him (how could you? you have never even seen him), -when you compare John to the other clerks. _John!_ Oh, yes, I suppose -they go and amuse themselves; they go to the theatres, and all those -wrong places. But you don’t suppose John would do that, even if I were -not in existence! Why _John_! the fact is, you don’t know him; that is -the whole affair.’ - -‘I humbly confess it,’ said I; ‘but it is not my fault. I should be very -glad to know him, if I might.’ - -Ellen looked at me with a dazzled look of sudden happiness, as if this -prospect of bliss was too much for her--which is always very flattering -to the superior in such intercourse as existed between her and me. ‘Oh! -would you?’ she said, with her heart in her mouth, and fixed her eyes -eagerly upon me, as if with some project she did not like to unfold. - -‘Certainly I should.’ Then, after a pause I said, ‘Could not you bring -him to-morrow to tea?’ - -Ellen’s eyes sparkled. She gave a glance round upon the room, which was -a great deal bigger and handsomer than the little parlour in Pleasant -Place, taking in the pictures and the piano and myself in so many -distinct perceptions, yet one look. Her face was so expressive that I -recognized all these different details of her pleasure with the -distinctest certainty. She wanted John to see it all, and to hear the -piano, which was much better than her little piano at home; and also to -behold how much at home she was, and how everybody liked her. Her eyes -shone out upon me like two stars. And her big English ‘Oh!’ of delight -had her whole breath in it, and left her speechless for the moment. -‘There is nothing in the world I would like so much,’ she cried at -last: then paused, and, with a sobered tone, added, ‘If mother can spare -me’--a little cloud coming over her face. - -‘I am sure your mother will spare you. You never have any parties or -amusements, my good little Ellen. You must tell her I will take no -denial. You never go anywhere.’ - -‘Where should I go?’ said Ellen. ‘I don’t want to go anywhere, there is -always so much to do at home. But for this once--And John would so like -to come. He would like to thank you. He says, if you will not think him -too bold, that you have been his friend for years.’ - -‘It is quite true,’ I said; ‘I have looked for him almost every day for -years. But it is not much of a friendship when one can do nothing for -the other----’ - -‘Oh, it is beautiful!’ cried Ellen. ‘He says always we are in such -different ranks of life. We could never expect to have any intercourse, -except to be sure by a kind of happy accident, like me. It would not do, -of course, visiting or anything of that sort; but just to be friends for -life, with a kind look, such as we might give to the angels if we could -see them. If there only could be a window in heaven, here and there!’ -and she laughed with moisture in her eyes. - -‘Ah!’ I said, ‘but windows in heaven would be so crowded with those that -are nearer to us than the angels.’ - -‘Do you think they would want that?’ said Ellen in a reverential low -tone; ‘don’t you think they must see somehow? they would not be happy if -they could not see. But the angels might come and sit down in an idle -hour, when they had nothing to do. Perhaps it would grieve them, but it -might amuse them too, to see all the crowds go by, and all the stories -going on, like a play, and know that, whatever happened, it would all -come right in the end. I should not wonder a bit if, afterwards, some -one were to say, as you did about John, “I have seen you passing for -years and years----”’ - -I need not repeat all the rest of our talk. When two women begin this -kind of conversation, there is no telling where it may end. The -conclusion however was that next evening John was to be brought to make -my acquaintance; and Ellen went away very happy, feeling, I think, that -a new chapter was about to begin in her life. And on our side we -indulged in a great many anticipations. The male part of the household -assured us that, ‘depend upon it,’ it would be a mistake; that John -would be a mere clerk, and no more; a man, perhaps, not very sure about -his _h’s_; perhaps over-familiar, perhaps frightened; that most likely -he would feel insulted by being asked to tea--and a great deal more, to -all of which we, of course, paid no attention. But it was not till -afterwards that even I realized the alarming business it must have been -to John to walk into a room full of unknown people--dreadful critical -children, girls and boys half grown up--and to put to the test a -friendship of years, which had gone on without a word spoken, and now -might turn out anything but what it had been expected to be. He was a -little fluttered and red when Ellen, herself very nervous, brought him -in, meeting all the expectant faces, which turned instinctively towards -the door. Ellen herself had never come in the evening before, and the -aspect of the house, with the lamps lighted, and the whole family -assembled, was new to her. She came in without saying a word, and led -her love, who for his part moved awkwardly and with shy hesitation, -through the unknown place, threading his way among the tables and -chairs, and the staring children, to where I sat. I have always said my -little Chatty was the best bred of all my children. There was no one so -much interested as she; but she kept her eyes upon her work, and never -looked up till they were seated comfortably and beginning to look at -their ease. John faltered forth what I felt sure was intended to be a -very pretty speech to me, probably conned beforehand, and worthy of the -occasion. But all that came forth was, ‘I have seen you often at the -window.’ ‘Yes, indeed,’ I said hurriedly, ‘for years; we are old -friends: we don’t require any introduction,’ and so got over it. I am -afraid he said ‘ma’am.’ I see no reason why he should not say ma’am; -people used to do it; and excepting us rude English, everybody in the -world does it. Why should not John have used that word of respect if he -chose? You say ma’am yourself to princesses when you speak to them, if -you ever have the honour of speaking to them; and he thought as much of -me, knowing no better, as if I had been a princess. He had a soft, -refined voice. I am sure I cannot tell whether his clothes were well -made or not--a woman does not look at a man’s clothes--but this I can -tell you, that his face was well made. There was not a fine feature in -it; but He who shaped them knew what He was about. Every line was -good--truth and patience and a gentle soul shone through them. In five -minutes he was at home, not saying much, but looking at us all with -benevolent, tender eyes. When Chatty brought him his tea and gave him -her small hand, he held it for a moment, saying, ‘This is Ellen’s -pupil,’ with a look which was a benediction. ‘I should have known her -anywhere,’ he said. ‘Ellen has a gift of description--and then, she is -like you.’ - -‘Ellen has a great many gifts, Mr. Ridgway--the house is sure to be a -bright one that has her for its mistress.’ - -He assented with a smile that lit up his face like sunshine; then shook -his head, and said, ‘I wish I could see any prospect of that. The house -has been built, and furnished, and set out ready for her so long. That -is, alas! only in our thoughts. It is a great pleasure to imagine it; -but it seems always to recede a little further--a little further. We -have need of patience.’ Then he paused, and added, brightening a little, -‘Fortunately we are not impatient people, either of us.’ - -‘Forgive me,’ I said. ‘It is a great deal to take upon me--a stranger as -I am.’ - -‘You forget,’ he said, with a bow that would not have misbecome a -courtier, ‘that you were so kind as to say that we were not strangers -but old friends.’ - -‘It is quite true. Then I will venture to speak as an old friend. I wish -you were not so patient. I wish you were a hot-headed person, and would -declare once for all that you would not put up with it.’ - -He reddened, and turned to me with a look half of alarm, half, perhaps, -of incipient, possible offence. ‘You think I am too tame, too easy--not -that I don’t desire with my whole heart--’ - -‘Not that you are not as true as the heavens themselves,’ I said, with -the enthusiasm of penitence. His face relaxed and shone again, though -once more he shook his head. - -‘I think--I am sure--you are quite right. If I could insist I might -carry my point, and it would be better. But what can I say? I understand -her, and sympathize with her, and respect her. I cannot oppose her -roughly, and set myself before everything. Who am I, that she should -desert what she thinks her duty for me?’ - -‘I feel like a prophet,’ I said. ‘In this case to be selfish is the -best.’ - -He shook his head again. ‘She could not be selfish if she tried,’ he -said. - -Did he mean the words for himself, too? They were neither of them -selfish. I don’t want to say a word that is wicked, that may discourage -the good--they were neither of them strong enough to be selfish. -Sometimes there is wisdom and help in that quality which is so common. I -will explain after what I mean. It does not sound true, I am well aware, -but I think it is true: however in the meantime there was nothing more -to be said. We began to talk of all sorts of things; of books, with -which John seemed to be very well acquainted, and of pictures, which he -knew too--as much, at least, as a man who had never been out of England, -nor seen anything but the National Gallery, could know. He was -acquainted with that by heart, knowing every picture and all that could -be known about it, making me ashamed, though I had seen a great deal -more than he had. I felt like one who knows other people’s possessions, -but not his own. He had never been, so to speak, out of his own house; -but he knew every picture on the walls there. And he made just as much -use of his _h’s_ as I do myself. If he was at first a little stiff in -his demeanour, that wore off as he talked. Ellen left him entirely to -me. She went off into the back drawing-room with the little ones, and -made them sing standing round the piano. There was not much light, -except the candles on the piano, which lighted up their small fresh -faces and her own bright countenance; and this made the prettiest -picture at the end of the room. While he was talking to me he looked -that way, and a smile came suddenly over his face--which drew my -attention also. ‘Could any painter paint that?’ he said softly, looking -at them. As the children were mine, you may believe I gazed with as much -admiration as he. The light seemed to come from those soft faces, not to -be thrown upon them, and the depth of the room was illuminated by the -rose-tints, and the whiteness, and the reflected light out of their -eyes. ‘Rembrandt, perhaps,’ I said; but he shook his head, for he did -not know much of Rembrandt. When they finished their little store of -songs I called to Ellen to sing us something by herself. The children -went away, for it was their bedtime; and all the time the good-nights -were being said she played a little soft trill of prelude, very sweet, -and low, and subdued. There was a harmonizing influence in her that made -everything appropriate. She did things as they ought to be done by -instinct, without knowing it; while he, with his gaze directed to her, -felt it all more than she did--felt the softening of that undertone of -harmonious accompaniment, the sweet filling up of the pause, the -background of sound upon which all the little voices babbled out like -the trickling of brooks. When this was over Ellen did not burst into her -song all at once, as if to show how we had kept her waiting; but went on -for a minute or two, hushing out the former little tumult. Then she -chose another strain, and, while we all sat silent, began to sing--the -song I had heard her sing to him when they were alone that summer -evening. Was there a little breath in it of consciousness, a something -shadowing from the life to come--‘I will come again?’ We all sat very -silent and listened: he with his face turned to her, a tender smile upon -it--a look of admiring pleasure. He beat time with his hand, without -knowing it, rapt in the wistful, tender music, the longing sentiment, -the pervading consciousness of her, in all. I believe they were both as -happy as could be while this was going on. She singing to him, and -knowing that she pleased him, while still conscious of the pleasure of -all the rest of us, and glad to please us too; and he so proud of her, -drinking it all in, and knowing it to be for him, yet feeling that he -was giving us this gratification, making an offering to us of the very -best that was his. Why was it, then, that we all, surrounding them, a -voiceless band of spectators, felt the hidden meaning in it, and were -sorry for them, with a strange impulse of pity--sorry for those two -happy people, those two inseparables who had no thought but to pass -their lives together? I cannot tell how it was; but so it was. We all -listened with a little thrill of sympathy, as we might have looked at -those whose doom we knew, but who themselves had not yet found out what -was coming upon them. And at the end, Ellen too was affected in a -curious sympathetic way by some mysterious invisible touch of our -sympathy for her. She came out of the half-lit room behind, with -trembling, hurried steps, and came close to my side, and took in both -hers the hand I held out to her. ‘How silly I am!’ she cried, with a -little laugh. ‘I could have thought that some message was coming to say -he must go and leave me. A kind of tremor came over me all at once.’ -‘You are tired,’ I said. And no doubt that had something to do with it; -but why should the same chill have crept over us all? - - - - -CHAPTER IV - - -The time passed on very quietly during these years. Nothing particular -happened; so that looking back now--now that once more things have begun -to happen, and all the peaceful children who cost me nothing but -pleasant cares have grown up and are setting forth, each with his and -her more serious complications, into individual life--it seems to me -like a long flowery plain of peace. I did not think so then, and no -doubt from time to time questions arose that were hard to answer and -difficulties that cost me painful thought. But now all seems to me a -sort of heavenly monotony and calm, turning years into days. In this -gentle domestic quiet six months went by like an afternoon; for it was, -I think, about six months after the first meeting I have just described -when Ellen Harwood rushed in one morning with a scared face, to tell me -of something which had occurred and which threatened to break up in a -moment the quiet of her life. Mr. Ridgway had come again various -times--we had daily intercourse at the window, where, when he passed, he -always looked up now, and where I seldom failed to see him and give him -a friendly greeting. This intercourse, though it was so slight, was also -so constant that it made us very fast friends; and when Ellen, as I have -said, rushed in very white and breathless one bright spring morning, -full of something to tell, my first feeling was alarm. Had anything -happened to John? - -‘Oh, no. Nothing has happened. At least, I don’t suppose you would say -anything had happened--that is, no harm--except to me,’ said Ellen, -wringing her hands, ‘except to me! Oh, do you recollect that first night -he came to see you, when you were so kind as to ask him, and I sang that -song he is so fond of? I took fright then; I never could tell how--and -now it looks as if it would all come true----’ - -‘As if what would come true?’ - -‘Somebody,’ said Ellen, sitting down abruptly in the weariness of her -dejection, ‘somebody from the office is to go out directly to the -Levant. Oh, Chatty, dear, you that are learning geography and -everything, tell me where is the Levant? It is where the currants and -raisins come from. The firm has got an establishment, and it is -likely--oh, it is very likely: they all think that John, whom they -trust so much--John--will be sent----’ - -She broke off with a sob--a gasp. She was too startled, too much excited -and frightened, to have the relief of tears. - -‘But that would be a very good thing, surely--it would be the very best -thing for him. I don’t see any cause for alarm. My dear Ellen, he would -do his work well; he would be promoted; he would be made a partner----’ - -‘Ah!’ She drew a long breath: a gleam of wavering light passed over her -face. ‘I said you would think it no harm,’ she said mournfully, ‘no -harm--except to me.’ - -‘It is on the Mediterranean Sea,’ said Chatty over her atlas, with a -great many big round ‘Oh’s’ of admiration and wonder, ‘where it is -always summer, always beautiful. Oh, Ellen, I wish I were you! but you -can send us some oranges,’ the child added philosophically. Ellen gave -her a rapid glance of mingled fondness and wrath. - -‘You think of nothing but oranges!’ she cried (quite unjustly, I must -say); then putting her hands together and fixing her wistful eyes upon -me, ‘I feel,’ she said in the same breath, ‘as if the world were coming -to an end.’ - -‘You mean it is just about beginning--for of course he will not go -without you--and that is the very best thing that could happen.’ - -‘Oh, how can you say so? it cannot happen; it is the end of everything,’ -Ellen cried, and I could not console her. She would do nothing but wring -her hands and repeat her plaint, ‘It is the end of everything.’ Poor -girl, apart from John her life was dreary enough, though she had never -felt it dreary. Music lessons in the morning, and after that continual -attendance upon an exacting fiery invalid. The only break in her round -of duty had been her evening hours, her little walk and talk with John. -No wonder that the thought of John’s departure filled her with a terror -for which she could scarcely find words. And she never took into account -the other side of the question, the solution which seemed to me so -certain, so inevitable. She knew better--that, at least, whatever other -way might be found out of it, could not be. - -Next day in the evening, when he was going home, John himself paused as -he was passing the window, and looked up with a sort of appeal. I -answered by beckoning to him to come in, and he obeyed the summons very -rapidly and eagerly. The spring days had drawn out, and it was now quite -light when John came home. He came in and sat down beside me, in the -large square projecting window, which was my favourite place. There was -a mingled air of eagerness and weariness about him, as if, though -excited by the new prospect which was opening before him, he was yet -alarmed by the obstacles in his way, and reluctant, as Ellen herself -was, to disturb the present peaceful conditions of their life. ‘I do not -believe,’ he said, ‘that they will ever consent. I don’t know how we -are to struggle against them. People of their age have so much stronger -wills than we have. They stand to what they want, and they have it, -reason or no reason.’ - -‘That is because you give in; you do not stand to what you want,’ I -said. He looked away beyond me into the evening light, over the heads of -all the people who were going and coming so briskly in the road, and -sighed. - -‘They have such strong wills. What can you say when people tell you that -it is impossible, that they never can consent? Ellen and I have never -said that, or even thought it. When we are opposed we try to think how -we can compromise, how we can do with as little as possible of what we -want, so as to satisfy the others. I always thought that was the good -way, the nobler way,’ he said with a flush coming over his pale face. -‘Have we been making a mistake?’ - -‘I fear so--I think so; yes, I am sure,’ I cried. ‘Yours would be the -nobler way if--if there was nobody but yourself to think of.’ - -He looked at me with a wondering air. ‘I think I must have expressed -myself wrongly,’ he said; ‘it was not ourselves at all that we were -thinking of.’ - -‘I know; but that is just what I object to,’ I said. ‘You sacrifice -yourselves, and you encourage the other people to be cruelly selfish, -perhaps without knowing it. All that is virtue in you is evil in them. -Don’t you see that to accept this giving up of your life is barbarous, -it is wicked, it is demoralizing to the others. Just in so much as -people think well of you they will be forced to think badly of them.’ - -He was a little startled by this view, which, I confess, I struck out on -the spur of the moment, not really seeing how much sense there was in -it. I justified myself afterwards to myself, and became rather proud of -my argument; but for a woman to argue, much less suggest, that -self-sacrifice is not the chief of all virtues, is terrible. I was half -frightened and disgusted with myself, as one is when one has brought -forward in the heat of partisanship a thoroughly bad, yet, for the -moment, effective argument. But he was staggered, and I felt the thrill -of success which stirs one to higher effort. - -‘I never thought of that; perhaps there is some truth in it,’ he said. -Then, after a pause, ‘I wonder if you, who have been so good to us all, -who are fond of Ellen--I am sure you are fond of Ellen--and the children -like her.’ - -‘Very fond of Ellen, and the children all adore her,’ I said with -perhaps unnecessary emphasis. - -‘To me that seems natural,’ he said, brightening. ‘But yet what right -have we to ask you to do more? You have been as kind as it is possible -to be.’ - -‘You want me to do something more? I will do whatever I can--only speak -out.’ - -‘It was this,’ he said, ‘if you would ask--you who are not an interested -party--if you would find out what our prospects are. Ellen does not want -to escape from her duty. There is nothing we are not capable of -sacrificing rather than that she should shrink from her duty. I need not -tell you how serious it is. If I don’t take this--in case it is offered -to me--I may never get another chance again; but, if I must part from -Ellen, I cannot accept it. I cannot; it would be like parting one’s soul -from one’s body. But I have no confidence in myself any more than Ellen -has. They have such strong wills. If they say it must not and cannot -be--what can I reply? I know myself. I will yield, and so will Ellen. -How can one look them in the face and say, ‘Though you are her father -and mother, we prefer our own comfort to yours?’ - -‘Do not say another word. I will do it,’ I said, half exasperated, half -sympathetic--oh, yes! more than half sympathetic. They were fools; but I -understood it, and was not surprised, though I was exasperated. ‘I will -go and beard the lion in his den,’ I said. ‘Perhaps they will not let me -see the lion, only his attendant. But remember this,’ I said -vindictively, ‘if Ellen and you allow yourselves to be conquered, if you -are weak and throw away all your hopes, never come to me again. I have -made up my mind. You must give up me as well as all the rest. I will not -put up with such weakness.’ John stared at me with alarm in his eyes; he -was not quite comfortable even when I laughed at my own little bit of -tragedy. He shook his head with a melancholy perplexity. - -‘I don’t see clearly,’ he said; ‘I don’t seem able to judge. To give in -is folly; and yet, when you think--supposing it were duty--suppose her -father were to die when she was far away from him?’ - -‘If we were to consider all these possibilities there never would be a -marriage made--never an independent move in life,’ I cried. ‘Parents die -far from their children, and children, alas! from their parents. How -could it be otherwise? But God is near to us all. If we were each to -think ourselves so all-important, life would stand still; there would be -no more advance, no progress; everything would come to an end.’ - -John shook his head; partly it was in agreement with what I said, partly -in doubt for himself. ‘How am I to stand up to them and say, “Never mind -what you want--_we_ want something else?” There’s the rub,’ he said, -still slowly shaking his head. He had no confidence in his own power of -self-assertion. He had never, I believe, been able to answer -satisfactorily the question, why should he have any special thing which -some one else wished for? It was as natural to him to efface himself, to -resign his claims, as it was to other men to assert them. And yet in -this point he could not give up--he could not give Ellen up, come what -might; but neither could he demand that he and she should be permitted -to live their own life. - -After long deliberation I decided that it would not be expedient to rush -across to Pleasant Place at once and get it over while John and Ellen -were taking their usual evening walk, which was my first impulse; but to -wait till the morning, when all would be quiet, and the invalid and his -wife in their best humour. It was not a pleasant errand; the more I -thought of it, the less I liked it. If they were people who could demand -such a sacrifice from their daughter, was it likely that they would be -so far moved by my arguments as to change their nature? I went through -the little smoky garden plot, where the familiar London ‘blacks’ lay -thick on the grass, on the sweetest May morning, when it was a pleasure -to be alive. The windows were open, the little white muslin curtains -fluttering. Up-stairs I heard a gruff voice asking for something, and -another, with a querulous tone in it, giving a reply. My heart began to -beat louder at the sound. I tried to keep up my courage by all the -arguments I could think of. Nevertheless, my heart sank down into my -very shoes when the little maid, with her apron folded over her arm, and -as grimy as ever, opened to me--with a curtsey and a ‘La!’ of delighted -surprise--this door of fate. - - - - -CHAPTER V - - -I had a long time to wait before Mrs. Harwood came. The morning sun was -shining into the room, making everything more dingy. No doubt it had -been dusted that morning as well as the little maid could dust it; but -nothing looked pure or fresh in the brightness of the light, which was -full of motes, and seemed to find out dust in every corner. The dingy -cover on the table, the old-fashioned Books of Beauty, the black -horsehair chairs, stood out remorselessly shabby in the sunshine. I -wondered what kind of house Ellen would have when she furnished one for -herself. Would John and she show any ‘taste’ between them--would they -‘pick up’ pretty things at sales and old furniture shops, or would they -buy a drawing-room suite for twenty-five pounds, such as the cheap -upholsterers offer to the unwary? This question amused me while I -waited, and I was sorry to think that the new household was to be -planted in the Levant, and we should not see how it settled itself. -There was a good deal of commotion going on overhead, but I did not pay -any attention to it. I pleased myself arranging a little home for the -new pair--making it pretty for them. Of her own self Ellen would never, -I felt sure, choose the drawing-room suite in walnut and blue rep--not -now, at least, after she had been so much with us. As for John, he would -probably think any curtain tolerable so long as she sat under its -shadow. I had been somewhat afraid of confronting the mother, and -possibly the father; but these thoughts put my panic out of my head. -These horsehair chairs! was there ever such an invention of the evil -one? Ellen could not like them; it was impossible. When I had come this -length my attention was suddenly attracted by the sounds up-stairs; for -there came upon the floor over my head the sound of a foot stamped -violently in apparent fury. There were voices too; but I could not make -out what they said. As to this sound however it was easy enough to make -out what it meant: nothing could be more suggestive. I trembled and -listened, my thoughts taking an entirely new direction; a stamp of -anger, of rage, and partially of impotence too. Then there was a woman’s -voice rising loud in remonstrance. The man seemed to exclaim and -denounce violently; the woman protested, growing also louder and louder. -I listened with all my might. It was not eavesdropping; for she, at -least, knew that I was there; but, listen as I might, I could not make -out what they said. After a while there was silence, and I heard Mrs. -Harwood’s step coming down the stairs. She paused to do something, -perhaps to her cap or her eyes, before she opened the door. She was in a -flutter of agitation, the flowers in her black cap quivering through all -their wires, her eyes moist, though looking at me with a suspicious -gaze. She was very much on her guard, very well aware of my motive, -determined to give me no encouragement. All this I read in her vigilant -eyes. - -‘Mrs. Harwood, I came to speak to you--I promised to come and speak to -you--about Mr. Ridgway, who is a great friend of mine, as perhaps you -know.’ - -The poor woman was in great agitation and trouble; but this only -quickened her wits. ‘I see John Ridgway every day of my life,’ she said, -not without a little dignity. ‘He might say whatever he pleased to me -without asking anybody to speak for him.’ - -‘Won’t you give your consent to this marriage?’ I asked. It seemed -wisest to plunge into it at once. ‘It is my own anxiety that makes me -speak. I have always been anxious about it, almost before I knew them.’ - -‘There are other things in the world besides marriages,’ she said. ‘In -this house we have a great deal to think of. My husband--no doubt you -heard his voice just now--he is a great sufferer. For years he has been -confined to that little room up-stairs. That is not a very cheerful -life.’ - -Here she made a pause, which I did not attempt to interrupt; for she had -disarmed me by this half-appeal to my sympathy. Then suddenly, with her -voice a little shaken and unsteady, she burst forth: ‘The only company -he has is Ellen. What can I do to amuse him--to lead his thoughts off -himself? I have as much need of comfort as he has. The only bright thing -in the house is Ellen. What would become of us if we were left only the -two together all these long days? They are long enough as it is. He has -not a very good temper, and he is weary with trouble--who wouldn’t be -in his case? John Ridgway is a young man with all the world before him. -Why can’t he wait? Why should he want to take our only comfort away from -us?’ - -Her voice grew shrill and broken; she began to cry. Poor soul! I believe -she had been arguing with her husband on the other side; but it was a -little comfort to her to pour out her own grievances, her alarm and -distress, to me. I was silenced. How true it had been what John Ridgway -said: How could he, so gentle a man, assert himself in the face of this, -and claim Ellen as of chief importance to him? Had not they a prior -claim?--was not her duty first to her father and mother? I was put to -silence myself. I did not know what to say. - -‘The only thing is,’ I said timidly at last, ‘that I should think it -would be a comfort to you to feel that Ellen was settled, that she had a -home of her own, and a good husband who would take care of her when--She -ought to outlive us all,’ I added, not knowing how to put it. ‘And if it -were to be always as you say,’ I went on, getting a little courage, -‘there would be no marriages, no new homes. We have all had fathers and -mothers who had claims upon us. What can it be but a heartbreak to bring -up a girl for twenty years and more, and think everything of her, and -then see her go away and give her whole heart to some one else, and -leave us with a smile on her face?’ The idea carried me away--it filled -my own heart with a sort of sweet bitterness; for had not my own girl -just passed that age and crisis? ‘Oh! I understand you; I feel with you; -I am not unsympathetic. But when one thinks--they must live longer than -we; they must have children too, and love as we have loved. You would -not like, neither you nor I, if no one cared--if our girls were left out -when all the others are loved and courted. You like this good John to be -fond of her--to ask you for her. You would not have been pleased if -Ellen had just lived on and on here, your daughter and nothing more.’ - -This argument had some weight upon her. She felt the truth of what I -said. However hard the after consequences may be, we still must have our -‘bairn respectit like the lave.’ But on this point Mrs. Harwood -maintained her position on a height of superiority which few ordinary -mortals, even when the mothers of attractive girls, can attain. ‘I have -never made any objection,’ she said, ‘to his coming in the evening. -Sometimes it is rather inconvenient; but I do not oppose his being here -every night.’ - -‘And you expect him to be content with this all his life?’ - -‘It would be better to say all my life,’ she replied severely; ‘no, not -even that. As for me, it does not matter much. I am not one to put -myself in anybody’s way; but all her father’s life--which can’t be very -long now,’ she added, with a sudden gush of tears. They were so near the -surface that they flowed at the slightest touch, and besides, they were -a great help to her argument. ‘I don’t think it is too much,’ she cried, -‘that she should see her poor father out first. She has been the only -one that has cheered him up. She is company to him, which I am not. All -his troubles are mine, you see. I feel it when his rheumatism is bad; -but Ellen is outside: she can talk and be bright. What should I do -without her! What should I do without her! I should be nothing better -than a slave! I am afraid to think of it; and her father--her poor -father--it would break his heart; it would kill him. I know that it -would kill him,’ she said. - -Here I must acknowledge that I was very wicked. I could not but think in -my heart that it would not be at all a bad thing if Ellen’s marriage did -kill this unseen father of hers who had tired their patience so long, -and who stamped his foot with rage at the idea that the poor girl might -get out of his clutches. He was an old man, and he was a great sufferer. -Why should he be so anxious to live? And if a sacrifice was necessary, -old Mr. Harwood might just as well be the one to make it as those two -good young people from whom he was willing to take all the pleasure of -their lives. But this of course was a sentiment to which I dared not -give utterance. We stood and looked at each other while these thoughts -were going through my mind. She felt that she had produced an -impression, and was too wise to say anything more to diminish it--while -I, for my part, was silenced, and did not know what to say. - -‘Then they must give in again,’ I said at last. ‘They must part; and if -she has to spend the rest of her life in giving music lessons, and he to -go away, to lose heart and forget her, and be married by any one who -will have him in his despair and loneliness--I hope you will think that -a satisfactory conclusion--but I do not. I do not!’ - -Mrs. Harwood trembled as she looked at me. Was I hard upon her? She -shrank aside as if I had given her a blow. ‘It is not me that will part -them,’ she said. ‘I have never objected. Often it is very -inconvenient--you would not like it yourself if every evening, good or -bad, there was a strange man in your house. But I never made any -objection. He is welcome to come as long as he likes. It is not me that -says a word----’ - -‘Do you want him to throw up his appointment?’ I cried, ‘his means of -life.’ - -She looked at me with her face set. I might have noticed, had I chosen, -that all the flowers in her cap were shaking and quivering in the shadow -cast upon the further wall by the sunshine, but did not care to remark, -being angry, this sign of emotion. ‘If he is so fond of Ellen, he will -not mind giving up a chance,’ she said; ‘if some one must give in, why -should it be Harwood and me?’ - -After this I left Pleasant Place hurriedly, with a great deal of -indignation in my mind. Even then I was not quite sure of my right to be -indignant; but I was so. ‘If some one must give in, why should it be -Harwood and me?’ I said to myself that John had known what he would -encounter, that he had been right in distrusting himself; but he had not -been right in trusting me. I had made no stand against the other side. -When you come to haggle about it, and to be uncertain which should give -in, how painful the complications of life become! To be perfect, -renunciation must be without a word; it must be done as if it were the -most natural thing in the world. The moment it is discussed and shifted -from one to another, it becomes vulgar, like most things in this -universe. This was what I said to myself as I came out into the fresh -air and sunshine, out of the little stuffy house. I began to hate it -with its dingy carpets and curtains, its horsehair chairs, that shabby, -shabby little parlour--how could anybody think of it as home? I can -understand a bright little kitchen, with white hearth and floor, with -the firelight shining in all the pans and dishes. But this dusty place -with its antimacassars! These thoughts were in my mind when, turning the -corner, I met Ellen full in the face, and felt like a traitor, as if I -had been speaking ill of her. She looked at me, too, with some surprise. -To see me there, coming out of Pleasant Place, startled her. She did not -ask me, Where have you been? but her eyes did, with a bewildered gleam. - -‘Yes; I have been to see your mother,’ I said; ‘you are quite right, -Ellen. And why? Because I am so much interested; and I wanted to see -what mind she was in about your marriage.’ - -‘My--marriage! there never was any question of that,’ she said quickly, -with a sudden flush. - -‘You are just as bad as the others,’ said I, moved by this new -contradiction. ‘What! after taking that poor young man’s devotion for so -long, you will let him go away--go alone, break off everything.’ - -Ellen had grown pale as suddenly as she had blushed. ‘Is that -necessary?’ she said, alarmed. ‘Break off everything? I never thought of -that. But, indeed, I think you are making a mistake. If he goes, we -shall have to part, but only--only for a time.’ - -‘How can you tell,’ I cried, being highly excited, ‘how long he may be -there? He may linger out his life there, always thinking about you, and -longing for you--unless he gets weary and disgusted, and asks himself -what is the use, at the last. Such things have been; and you on your -side will linger here, running out and in to your lessons with no longer -any heart for them; unable to keep yourself from thinking that everybody -is cruel, that life itself is cruel--all because you have not the -courage, the spirit----’ - -She put her hand on mine and squeezed it suddenly, so that she hurt me. -‘Don’t!’ she cried; ‘you don’t know; there is nothing, not a word to be -said. It is you who are cruel--you who are so kind; so much as to speak -of it, when it cannot be! It cannot be--that is the whole matter. It is -out of the question. Supposing even that I get to think life cruel, and -supposing he should get weary and disgusted. Oh! it was you that said -it, you that are so kind. Supposing all that, yet it is impossible; it -cannot be; there is nothing more to be said.’ - -‘You will see him go away calmly, notwithstanding all?’ - -‘Calmly,’ she said, with a little laugh, ‘calmly--yes, I suppose that is -the word. I will see him go calmly. I shall not make any fuss if that is -what you mean.’ - -‘Ellen, I do not understand. I never heard you speak like this before.’ - -‘You never saw me like this before,’ she said with a gasp. She was -breathless with a restrained excitement which looked like despair. But -when I spoke further, when I would have discussed the matter, she put up -her hand and stopped me. There was something in her face, in its fixed -expression, which was like the countenance with which her mother had -replied to me. It was a startling thought to me that Ellen’s soft fresh -face, with its pretty bloom, could ever be like that other face -surmounted by the black cap and crown of shabby flowers. She turned and -walked with me along the road to my own door, but nothing further was -said. We went along side by side silent till we reached my house, when -she put out her hand and touched mine suddenly, and said that she was in -a hurry and must run away. I went in more disturbed than I can say. She -had always been so ready to yield, so cheerful, so soft, independent -indeed, but never harsh in her independence. What did this change mean? -I felt as if some one to whom I had turned in kindness had met me with a -blow. But by and by, when I thought better of it, I began to understand -Ellen. Had not I said to myself, a few minutes before, that -self-renunciation, when it had to be, must be done silently without a -word? better perhaps that it should be done angrily than with -self-demonstration, self-assertion. Ellen had comprehended this; she had -perceived that it must not be asked or speculated upon, which was to -yield. She had chosen her part, and she would not have it discussed or -even remarked. I sat in my window pondering while the bright afternoon -went by, looking out upon the distant depths of the blue spring -atmosphere, just touched by haze, as the air, however bright, always is -in London, seeing the people go by in an endless stream without noticing -them, without thinking of them. How rare it is in human affairs that -there is not some one who must give up to the others, some one who must -sacrifice himself or be sacrificed! And the one to whom this lot falls -is always the one who will do it; that is the rule so far as my -observation goes. There are some whom nature moves that way, who cannot -stand upon their rights, who are touched by the claims of others and can -make no resistance on their own account. The tools are to him that can -handle them, as our philosopher says; and likewise the sacrifices of -life to him who will bear them. Refuse them, that is the only way; but -if it is not in your nature to refuse them, what can you do? Alas! for -sacrifice is seldom blessed. I am saying something which will sound -almost impious to many. Human life is built upon it, and social order; -yet personally in itself it is seldom blessed; it debases those who -accept it; it harms even those who, without wilfully accepting it, have -a dim perception that something is being done for them which has no -right to be done. It may, perhaps--I cannot tell--bear fruit of -happiness in the hearts of those who practise it. I cannot tell. -Sacrifices are as often mistaken as other things. Their divineness does -not make them wise. Sometimes, looking back, even the celebrant will -perceive that his offering had better not have been made. - -All this was going sadly through my mind when I perceived that some one -was passing slowly, endeavouring to attract my attention. By this time -it was getting towards evening--and as soon as I was fully roused I saw -that it was John Ridgway. If I could have avoided him I should have done -so, but now it was not possible; I made him a sign to come up-stairs. He -came into the drawing-room slowly, with none of the eagerness that there -had been in his air on the previous day, and it may easily be believed -that on my side I was not eager to see him to tell him my story. He came -and sat down by me, swinging his stick in his usual absent way, and for -a minute neither of us spoke. - -‘You do not ask me if I have any news for you; you have seen Ellen!’ - -‘No; it is only because I have news on my side. I am not going after -all.’ - -‘You are not going!’ - -‘You are disappointed,’ he said, looking at me with a face which was -full of interest and sympathy. These are the only words I can use. The -disappointment was his, not mine; yet he was more sympathetic with my -feeling about it than impressed by his own. ‘As for me, I don’t seem to -care. It is better in one way, if it is worse in another. It stops any -rise in life; but what do I care for a rise in life? they would never -have let me take Ellen. I knew that even before I saw it in your eyes.’ - -‘Ellen ought to judge for herself,’ I said, ‘and you ought to judge for -yourself; you are of full age; you are not boy and girl. No parents have -a right to separate you now. And that old man may go on just the same -for the next dozen years.’ - -‘Did you see him?’ John asked. He had a languid, wearied look, scarcely -lifting his eyes. - -‘I saw only her; but I know perfectly well what kind of man he is. He -may live for the next twenty years. There is no end to these tyrannical, -ill-tempered people; they live for ever. You ought to judge for -yourselves. If they had their daughter settled near, coming to them from -her own pleasant little home, they would be a great deal happier. You -may believe me or not, but I know it. Her visits would be events; they -would be proud of her, and tell everybody about her family, and what a -good husband she had got, and how he gave her everything she could -desire.’ - -‘Please God,’ said John, devoutly; his countenance had brightened in -spite of himself. But then he shook his head. ‘If we had but got as far -as that,’ he said. - -‘You ought to take it into your own hands,’ cried I in all the fervour -of a revolutionary. ‘If you sacrifice your happiness to them, it will -not do them any good; it will rather do them harm. Are you going now to -tell your news?’ - -He had got up on his feet, and stood vaguely hovering over me with a -faint smile upon his face. ‘She will be pleased,’ he said; ‘no -advancement, but no separation. I have not much ambition; I think I am -happy too.’ - -‘Then, if you are all pleased,’ I cried, with annoyance which I could -not restrain, ‘why did you send me on such an errand? I am the only one -that seems to be impatient of the present state of affairs, and it is -none of my business. Another time you need not say anything about it to -me.’ - -‘There will never be a time when we shall not be grateful to you,’ said -John; but even his mild look of appealing reproach did not move me. It -is hard to interest yourself in people and find after all that they like -their own way best. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - - -He was quite right in thinking Ellen would be pleased. And yet, after it -was all over, she was a little wounded and disappointed, which was very -natural. She did not want him to go away, but she wanted him to get the -advancement all the same. This was foolish, but still it was natural, -and just what a woman would feel. She took great pains to explain to us -that it was not hesitation about John, nor even any hesitation on the -part of John in going--for Ellen had a quick sense of what was desirable -and heroic, and would not have wished her lover to appear indifferent -about his own advancement, even though she was very thankful and happy -that in reality he was so. The reason of the failure was that the firm -had sent out a nephew, who was in the office, and had a prior claim. ‘Of -course he had the first chance,’ Ellen said, with a countenance of great -seriousness; ‘what would be the good of being a relation if he did not -have the first chance?’ And I assented with all the gravity in the -world. But she was disappointed, though she was so glad. There ought not -to have been any one in the world who had the preference over John! She -carried herself with great dignity for some time afterwards, and with -the air of a person superior to the foolish and partial judgments of the -world; and yet in her heart how thankful she was! from what an abyss of -blank loneliness and weary exertion was her life saved! For now that I -knew it a little better I could see how little that was happy was in her -home. Her mother insisted that she should have that hour’s leisure in -the evening. That was all that any one thought of doing for her. It was -enough to keep her happy, to keep her hopeful. But without that, how -long would Ellen’s brave spirit have kept up? Perhaps had she never -known John, and that life of infinite tender communion, her natural -happy temperament would have struggled on for a long time against all -the depressing effects of circumstances, unaided. But to lose is worse -than never to have had. If it is - - Better to have loved and lost, - Than never to have loved at all, - -yet it is at the same time harder to lose that bloom of existence out of -your lot, than to have struggled on by mere help of nature without it. -She had been so happy--making so little go such a long way!--that the -loss of her little happiness would have been appalling to her. And yet -she was dissatisfied that this heartbreak did not come. She had strung -herself up to it. It would have been advancement, progress, all that a -woman desires for those belonging to her, for John. Sacrificing him for -the others, she was half angry not to have it in her power to sacrifice -herself to his ‘rise in life.’ I think I understood her, though we never -talked on the subject. She was dissatisfied, although she was relieved. -We have all known these mingled feelings. - -This happened at the beginning of summer; but all its agitations were -over before the long sweet days and endless twilights of the happy -season had fully expanded upon us. It seems to me as I grow older that a -great deal of the comfort of our lives depends upon summer--upon the -weather, let us say, taking it in its most prosaic form. Sometimes -indeed to the sorrowful the brightness is oppressive; but to all the -masses of ordinary mortals who are neither glad nor sad, it is a -wonderful matter not to be chilled to the bone; to be able to do their -work without thinking of a fire; without having a sensation of cold -always in their lives never to be got rid of. Ellen and her lover -enjoyed that summer as people who have been under sentence of banishment -enjoy their native country and their home. - -You may think there is not much beauty in a London suburb to tempt any -one: and there is not for those who can retire to the beautiful fresh -country when they will, and surround themselves with waving woods and -green lawns, or taste the freshness of the mountains or the saltness of -the sea. We, who go away every year in July, pined and longed for the -moment of our removal; and my neighbour in the great house which shut -out the air from Pleasant Place, panted in her great garden (which she -was proud to think was almost unparalleled for growth and shade in -London), and declared herself incapable of breathing any longer in such -a close and shut up locality. But the dwellers in Pleasant Place were -less exacting. They thought the long suburban road very pleasant. Where -it streamed off into little dusty houses covered with brown ivy and -dismal trellis work, and where every unfortunate flower was thick with -dust, they gazed with a touch of envy at the ‘gardens,’ and felt it to -be rural. When my pair of lovers went out for their walk they had not -time to go further than to the ‘Green Man,’ a little tavern upon the -roadside, where one big old elm tree, which had braved the dust and the -frost for more years than any one could recollect, stood out at a corner -at the junction of two roads, with a bench round it, where the passing -carters and cabmen drank their beer, and a trough for the horses, which -made it look ‘quite in the country’ to all the inhabitants of our -district. Generally they got as far as that, passing the dusty cottages -and the little terrace of new houses. A great and prolonged and most -entertaining controversy went on between them as they walked, as to the -kind of house in which they should eventually settle down. Ellen, who -was not without a bit of romance in her, of the only kind practicable -with her upbringing, entertained a longing for one of the dusty little -cottages. She thought, like all inexperienced persons, that in her hands -it would not be dusty. She would find means of keeping the ivy green. -She would see that the flowers grew sweet and clean, and set blacks and -dust alike at defiance. John, for his part, whose lodging was in one of -those little houses, preferred the new terrace. It was very new--very -like a row of ginger-bread houses--but it was very clean, and for the -moment bright, not as yet penetrated by the dust. Sometimes I was made -the confidante of these interminable, always renewed, always delightful -discussions. ‘They are not dusty yet,’ Ellen would say, ‘but how long -will it be before they are dusty? whereas with the villas’ (they had a -great variety of names--Montpellier Villas, Funchal Villas, Mentone -Mansions--for the district was supposed to be very mild) ‘one knows what -one has to expect; and if one could not keep the dust and the blacks out -with the help of brushes and dusters, what would be the good of one? I -should sow mignonette and Virginia stock,’ she cried with a firm faith; -‘low-growing flowers would be sure to thrive. It is only roses (poor -roses!) and tall plants that come to harm.’ John, for his part, dwelt -much upon the fact that in the little front parlours of the terrace -houses there were shelves for books fitted into a recess. This weighed -quite as much with him as the cleanness of the new places. ‘The villas -are too dingy for her,’ he said, looking admiringly at her fresh face. -‘She could never endure the little gray, grimy rooms.’ That was his -romance, to think that everything should be shining and bright about -her. He was unconscious of the dinginess of the parlour in Ellen’s home. -It was all irradiated with her presence to him. These discussions -however all ended in a sigh and a laugh from Ellen herself. ‘It is all -very fine talking,’ she would say. - -And so the summer went on. Alas! and other summers after it. My eldest -girl married. My boys went out into the world. Many changes came upon -our house. The children began to think it a very undesirable locality. -Even Chatty, always the sweetest, sighed for South Kensington, if not -for a house in the country and a month in London in the season, which -was what the other girls wished for. This common suburban road, far from -fashion, far from society--what but their mother’s inveterate -old-fashionedness and indifference to appearances could have kept them -there so long? The great house opposite with the garden had ceased to -be. The high wall was gone from Pleasant Place, and instead of it stood -a fresh row of little villakins like the terrace which had once been -John Ridgway’s admiration. Alas! Ellen’s forebodings had been fully -realized, and the terrace was as dingy as Montpellier Villas by this -time. The whole neighbourhood was changing. Half the good houses in the -road--the houses, so to speak, of the aristocracy, which to name was to -command respect from all the neighbourhood--had been built out and -adorned with large fronts of plate glass and made into shops. Omnibuses -now rolled along the dusty way. The station where they used to stop had -been pushed out beyond the ‘Green Man,’ which once we had felt to be -‘quite in the country.’ Everything was changing; but my pair of lovers -did not change. Ellen got other pupils instead of Chatty and her -contemporaries who were growing up and beyond her skill, and came out at -ten o’clock every morning with as fresh a face as ever, and her little -roll of music always in her hand. And every evening, though now he was -set down at his lodgings from the omnibus, and no longer passed my -window on his way home, John made his pilgrimage of love to Pleasant -Place. She kept her youth--the sweet complexion, the dew in her eyes, -and the bloom upon her cheek--in a way I could not understand. The long -waiting did not seem to try her. She had always his evening visit to -look for, and her days were full of occupation. But John, who had -naturally a worn look, did not bear the probation so well as Ellen. He -grew bald; a general rustiness came over him. He had looked older than -he was to begin with: his light locks, his colourless countenance, faded -into a look of age. He was very patient--almost more patient than Ellen, -who, being of a more vivacious temper, had occasioned little outbursts -of petulant despair, of which she was greatly ashamed afterwards; but at -the same time this prolonged and hopeless waiting had more effect upon -him than upon her. Sometimes he would come to see me by himself for the -mere pleasure, it seemed to me, though we rarely spoke on the subject, -of being understood. - -‘Is this to go on for ever?’ I said. ‘Is it never to come to an end?’ - -‘It looks like it,’ said John, somewhat drearily. ‘We always talk about -our little house. I have got three rises since then. I doubt if I shall -ever have any more; but we don’t seem a bit nearer----’ and he ended -with a sigh--not of impatience, like those quick sighs mixed up with -indignant, abrupt little laughs in which Ellen often gave vent to her -feelings--but of weariness and despondency much more hard to bear. - -‘And the father,’ I said, ‘seems not a day nearer the end of his -trouble. Poor man, I don’t wish him any harm.’ - -This, I fear, was a hypocritical speech, for in my heart I should not -have been at all sorry to hear that his ‘trouble’ was coming to an end. - -Then for the first time a gleam of humour lighted in John’s eye. ‘I am -beginning to suspect that he is--better,’ he said; ‘stronger at least. I -am pretty sure he has no thought of coming to an end.’ - -‘All the better,’ I said; ‘if he gets well, Ellen will be free.’ - -‘He will never get well,’ said John, falling back into his dejection, -‘and he will never die.’ - -‘Then it will never come to anything. Can you consent to that?’ I said. - -He made me no reply. He shook his head; whether in dismal acceptance of -the situation, whether in protest against it, I cannot tell. This -interview filled me with dismay. I spent hours pondering whether, and -how, I could interfere. My interference had not been of much use before. -And my children began to laugh when this lingering, commonplace little -romance was talked of. ‘My mother’s lovers,’ the boys called them--‘My -mother’s turtle-doves.’ - -The time had almost run on to the length of Jacob’s wooing when one day -Ellen came to me, not running in, eager and troubled with her secret as -of old, but so much more quietly than usual, with such a still and fixed -composure about her, that I knew something serious had happened. I sent -away as quickly as I could the other people who were in the room, for I -need not say that to find me alone was all but an impossibility. I gave -Chatty, now a fine, tall girl of twenty, a look, which was enough for -her; she always understood better than any one. And when at last we were -free I turned to my visitor anxiously. ‘What is it?’ I said. It did not -excite her so much as it did me. - -She gave a little abstracted smile. ‘You always see through me,’ she -said. ‘I thought there was no meaning in my face. It has come at last. -He is really going this time, directly, to the Levant. Oh, what a little -thing Chatty was when I asked her to look in the atlas for the Levant; -and now she is going to be married! What will you do,’ she asked -abruptly, stopping short to look at me, ‘when they are all married and -you are left alone?’ - -I had asked myself this question sometimes, and it was not one I liked. -‘“Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,”’ I said; ‘the two little -ones of all have not so much as thought of marrying yet.’ - -Ellen answered me with a sigh, a quickly drawn impatient breath. ‘He is -to sail in a fortnight,’ she said. ‘Things have gone wrong with the -nephew. I knew he never could be so good as John; and now John must go -in a hurry to set things right. What a good thing that it is all in a -hurry! We shall not have time to think.’ - -‘You must go with him--you must go with him, Ellen!’ I cried. - -She turned upon me almost with severity in her tone. ‘I thought you knew -better. I--go with him! Look here,’ she cried very hurriedly, ‘don’t -think I don’t face the full consequences--the whole matter. He is tired, -tired to death. He will be glad to go--and after--after! If he should -find some one else there, I shall never be the one to blame him.’ - -‘Ellen! you ought to ask his pardon on your knees--he find some one -else! What wrong you do to the faithfullest--the truest----’ - -‘He is the faithfullest,’ she said; then, after a moment, ‘but I will -never blame him. I tell you beforehand. He has been more patient than -ever man was.’ - -Did she believe what she was saying? It was very hard to know. The -fortnight flew by like a day. The days had been very long before in -their monotony, but now these two weeks were like two hours. I never -quite knew what passed. John had taken his courage in both hands, and -had bearded the father himself in his den: but, so far as I could make -out, it was not the father but the mother with her tears who vanquished -him. ‘When I saw what her life was,’ he said to me when he took leave of -me, ‘such a life! my mouth was closed. Who am I that I should take away -her only comfort from her? We love each other very dearly, it is our -happiness, it is the one thing which makes everything else sweet: but -perhaps, as Ellen says, there is no duty in it. It is all enjoyment. Her -duty is to them; it is her pleasure, she says, her happiness to be with -me.’ - -‘But--but you have been engaged for years. No doubt it is your -happiness--but surely there is duty too.’ - -‘She says not. My mind is rather confused. I don’t seem to know. Duty, -you know, duty is a thing that it is rather hard to do; something one -has to raise one’s self up to, and carry through with it, whether we -like it or whether we don’t like it. That’s her definition; and it seems -right--don’t you think it is right? But to say that of us would be -absurd. It is all pleasure--all delight,’ his tired eyelids rose a -little to show a gleam of emotion, then dropped again with a sigh; ‘that -is her argument; I suppose it is true.’ - -‘Then, do you mean to say----’ I cried, and stopped short in sheer -bewilderment of mind, not knowing what words to use. - -‘I don’t think I mean to say anything. My head is all confused. I don’t -seem to know. Our feeling is all one wish to be together; only to see -one another makes us happy. Can there be duty in that? she says. It -seems right, yet sometimes I think it is wrong, though I can’t tell -how.’ - -I was confused too and silenced. I did not know what to say. ‘It -depends,’ I said faltering, ‘upon what you consider the object of life.’ - -‘Some people say happiness; but that would not suit Ellen’s theory,’ he -said. ‘Duty--I had an idea myself that duty was easily defined; but it -seems it is as difficult as everything is. So far as I can make out,’ he -added with a faint smile, ‘I have got no duties at all.’ - -‘To be faithful to her,’ I said, recollecting the strange speech she had -made to me. - -He almost laughed outright. ‘Faithful! that is no duty; it is my -existence. Do you think I could be unfaithful if I were to try?’ - -These were almost the last words he said to me. I suppose he satisfied -himself that his duty to his employer required him to go away. And Ellen -had a feverish desire that he should go away, now that the matter had -been broached a second time. I am not sure that when the possibility of -sacrifice on his part dawned upon her, the chance that he might -relinquish for her this renewed chance of rising in the world, there did -not arise in her mind a hasty impatient wish that he might be -unfaithful, and give her up altogether. Sometimes the impatience of a -tired spirit will take this form. Ellen was very proud; by dint of -having made sacrifices all her life, she had an impetuous terror of -being in her turn the object for which sacrifices should be made. To -accept them was bitterness to her. She was eager to hurry all his -preparations, to get him despatched, if possible, a little earlier than -the necessary time. She kept a cheerful face, making little jokes about -the Levant and the people he would meet there, which surprised -everybody. ‘Is she glad that he is going? Chatty asked me, with eyes -like two round lamps of alarmed surprise. The last night of all they -spent with us--and it seemed a relief to Ellen that it should be thus -spent, and not _tête-à-tête_ as so many other evenings had been. It was -the very height and flush of summer, an evening which would not sink -into darkness and night as other evenings do. The moon was up long -before the sun had gone reluctantly away. We sat without the lamp in the -soft twilight, with the stream of wayfarers going past the windows, and -all the familiar sounds, which were not vulgar to us, we were so used to -them. They were both glad of the half light. When I told Ellen to go and -sing to us, she refused at first with a look of reproach; then, with a -little shake of her head, as if to throw off all weakness, changed her -mind and went to the piano. It was Chatty who insisted upon Mr. -Ridgway’s favourite song, perhaps out of heedlessness, perhaps with that -curious propensity the young often have to probe wounds and investigate -how deep a sentiment may go. We sat in the larger room, John and myself, -while behind, in the dim evening, in the distance, scarcely visible, -Ellen sat at the piano and sang. What the effort cost her I would not -venture to inquire. As for him, he sat with melancholy composure -listening to every tone of her voice. She had a very sweet refined -voice--not powerful, but tender, what people call sympathetic. I could -not distinguish his face, but I saw his hand beat the measure -accompanying every line, and when she came to the burden of the song he -said it over softly to himself. Broken by all the babble outside, and by -the music in the background, I yet heard him, all tuneless and low, -murmuring this to himself: ‘I will come again, I will come again, my -sweet and bonnie.’ Whether his eyes were dry I cannot tell, but mine -were wet. He said them with no excitement, as if they were the words -most simple, most natural--the very breathing of his heart. How often, I -wonder, would he think of that dim room, the half-seen companions, the -sweet and tender voice rising out of the twilight? I said to myself, -‘Whoever may mistrust you, I will never mistrust you,’ with fervour. But -just as the words passed through my mind, as if Ellen had heard them, -her song broke off all in a moment, died away in the last line, ‘I will -come a----’ There was a sudden break, a jar on the piano--and she -sprang up and came towards us, stumbling, with her hands put out, as it -she could not see. The next sound I heard was an unsteady little laugh, -as she threw herself down on a sofa in the corner where Chatty was -sitting. ‘I wonder why you are all so fond of that old-fashioned -nonsense,’ she said. - -And next day the last farewells were said, and John went away. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - - -We left town directly after this for the autumn holidays. The holidays -had not very much meaning now that all the boys had left school, and we -might have gone away when we pleased. But the two youngest girls were -still in the remorseless hands of Fräulein Stimme, and the habit of -emancipation in the regular holiday season had clung to me. I tried very -hard to get Ellen to go with us, for at least a day or two, but she -resisted with a kind of passion. Her mother, I am sure, would have been -glad had she gone; but Ellen would not. There was in her face a secret -protestation, of which she was perhaps not even herself aware, that if -her duty bound life itself from all expansion, it must also bind her in -every day of her life. She would not accept the small alleviation, -having, with her eyes open and with a full sense of what she was about, -resigned everything else. She would have been more perfect, and her -sacrifice more sweet, had she taken sweetly the little consolations of -every day; but nobody is perfect, and Ellen would not come. I had gone -to Pleasant Place to ask her, and the scene was a curious one. The -mother and daughter both came to the parlour to receive me, and I saw -them together for the first time. It was about a fortnight after John -went away. Ellen had not been ill, though I had feared she would; but -she was pale, with dark lines under her eyes, and a worn and nervous -look. She was bearing her burden very bravely, but it was all the harder -upon her that she was evidently determined not to complain. When I told -my errand, Mrs. Harwood replied eagerly. ‘You must go, Ellen. Oh, yes! I -can do; I can do very well. It will only be for a week, and it will do -you so much good; you must go.’ Ellen took scarcely any notice of this -address. She thanked me with her usual smile. ‘It is very, very good of -you--you are always good--but it is impossible.’ ‘Why impossible, why -impossible?’ cried her mother. ‘When I tell you I can do very well--I -can manage. Your father will not mind, when it is to do you good.’ I saw -that Ellen required a moment’s interval of preparation before she looked -round. - -‘Dear mother,’ she said, ‘we have not any make-believes between us, have -we? How is it possible that I can go? Every moment is mapped out. No, -no; I cannot do it. Thank you all the same. My mother wants to give me a -pleasure, but it cannot be. Go away for a week! I have never done that -in all my life.’ - -‘But you think she can, you think she ought,’ I said, turning to her -mother. The poor woman looked at her child with a piteous look. I think -it dawned upon her, then and there, for the first time, that perhaps she -had made a mistake about Ellen. It had not occurred to her that there -had been any selfishness in her tearful sense of the impossibility of -parting with her daughter. All at once, in a moment, with a sudden gleam -of that enlightenment which so often comes too late, she saw it. She saw -it, and it went through her like an arrow. She turned to me with another -piteous glance. What have I done? what have I done? her looks seemed to -say. - -‘Two or three days,’ the poor woman said, with a melancholy attempt at -playfulness. ‘Nothing can happen to us in that time. Her father is ill,’ -she said, turning to me as if I knew nothing, ‘and we are always -anxious, he thinks it will be too much for me by myself. But what does -it matter for a few days? If I am overdone, I can rest when she comes -back.’ - -Was it possible she could suppose that this was all I knew? I was afraid -to catch Ellen’s eye. I did not know what might come after such a -speech. She might break forth with some sudden revelation of all that I -felt sure must be in her heart. I closed my eyes instinctively, sick -with terror. Next moment I heard Ellen’s clear, agreeable voice. - -‘I don’t want you to be overdone, mother. What is the use of all that is -past and gone if I am to take holidays and run away when I like for two -or three days? No, no; my place is here, and here I must stay. I don’t -want you to be overdone.’ - -And looking at her, I saw that she smiled. But her mother’s face was -full of trouble. She looked from Ellen to me, and from me to Ellen. For -everything there is a beginning. Did she only then for the first time -perceive what had been done? - -However, after this there was nothing more to say. We did not see Ellen -again till the days were short and the brilliant weather over. She -changed very much during that winter. Her youth, which had bloomed on so -long unaltered, seemed to leave her in a day. When we came back, from -looking twenty she suddenly looked thirty-five. The bloom went from her -cheeks. She was as trim as ever, and as lightfooted, going out alert and -bright every morning to her lessons; but her pretty little figure had -shrunk, and her very step on the pavement sounded different. Life and -all its hopes and anticipations seemed to have ebbed away from her. I -don’t doubt that many of her neighbours had been going on in their dull -routine of life without knowing even such hopes or prospects as hers, -all this time by Ellen’s side, fulfilling their round of duty without -any diversions. Oh, the mystery of these myriads of humble lives, which -are never enlivened even by a romance manqué, a story that might have -been; that steal away from dull youth to dull age, never knowing -anything but the day’s work, never coming to anything! But Ellen had -known a something different, a life that was her own; and now she had -lost it. The effect was great: how could it be otherwise? She lost -herself altogether for a little while, and when she came to again, as -all worthy souls must come, she was another Ellen; older than her age as -the other had been younger, and prepared for everything. No longer -trying to evade suffering; rather desirous, if that might be, to -forestall it, to discount it--if I may use the word--before it was due, -and know the worst. She never told me this in words, but I felt that it -was so. It is not only in a shipwreck that the unfortunate on the verge -of death plunge in to get it over a few hours, a few minutes, sooner. In -life there are many shipwrecks which we would forestall, if we could, in -the same way, by a plunge--by a voluntary putting on of the decisive -moment. Some, I suppose, will always put it off by every expedient that -despair can suggest; but there are also those who can bear anything but -to wait, until slowly, surely, the catastrophe comes. Ellen wanted to -make the plunge, to get it over, partly for John’s sake, whose -infidelity she began to calculate upon--to (she believed) wish for. ‘He -will never be able to live without a home to go to, without a woman to -speak to, now,’ she said once, in a moment of incaution--for she was -very guarded, very reticent, about all this part of her mind, and rarely -betrayed herself. It is curious how little faith women in general, even -the most tender, have in a man’s constancy. Either it is because of an -inherent want of trust in their own power to secure affection, which -might be called humility; or else it is quite the reverse--a pride of -sex too subtle to show, in any conscious way--overweening confidence in -the power over a man of any other woman who happens to be near him, and -want of confidence in any power on his part to resist these -fascinations. Ellen had made up her mind that her lover when he was -absent from her would be, as she would have said, ‘like all the rest.’ -Perhaps, in a kind of wild generosity, she wished it, feeling that she -herself never might be free to make him happy; but, anyhow, she was -persuaded that this was how it would be. She looked out for signs of it -in his very first letter. She wanted to have it over--to cut off -remorselessly out of her altered being all the agitations of hope. - -But I need not say that John’s letters were everything a lover’s, or -rather a husband’s letters should be. They were more like a husband’s -letters, with very few protestations in them, but a gentle continued -reference to her, and to their past life together, which was more -touching than any rhapsodies. She brought them to me often, folding -down, with a blush which made her look like the blooming Ellen of old, -some corner of especial tenderness, something that was too sacred for a -stranger’s eye, but always putting them back in her pocket with a word -which sounded almost like a grudge, as who should say, ‘For this once -all is well, but next time you shall see.’ Thus she held on to her -happiness as by a strained thread, expecting every moment when it would -snap, and defying it to do so, yet throbbing all the time with a passion -of anxiety, as day after day it held out, proving her foreboding vain. -That winter, though I constantly saw her, my mind was taken up by other -things than Ellen. It was then that the children finally prevailed upon -me to leave the Road. A row of cheap advertising shops had sprung up -facing us where had been the great garden I have so often mentioned, and -the noise and flaring lights were more than I could put up with, after -all my resistance to their wishes. So that at last, to my great regret, -but the exultation of the young ones, it was decided that we must go -away. - -The removal, and the bustle there was, the change of furniture--for our -old things would not do for the new house, and Chatty, Heaven save us! -had grown artistic, and even the little ones and Fräulein Stimme knew a -great deal better than I did--occupied my mind and my time; and it took -a still longer time to settle down than it did to tear up our old roots. -So that there was a long interval during which we saw little of Ellen; -and though we never forgot her, or ceased to take an interest in -everything that concerned her, the distance of itself threw us apart. -Now and then she paid us a visit, always with John’s letter in her -pocket, but her time was so limited that she never could stay long. And -sometimes I, and sometimes Chatty, made a pilgrimage to the old district -to see her. But we never could have an uninterrupted long talk in -Pleasant Place. Either Ellen was called away, or Mrs. Harwood would come -in and sit down with her work, always anxiously watching her daughter. -This separation from the only people to whom she could talk of her own -private and intimate concerns was a further narrowing and limitation of -poor Ellen’s life. But what could I do? I could not vex my children for -her sake. She told us that she went and looked at the old house almost -every day, and at the square window in which I used to sit and see John -pass. John passed no longer, nor was I there to see. But Ellen remained -bound in the same spot, seeing everything desert her--love, and -friendship, and sympathy, and all her youth and her hope. Can you not -fancy with what thoughts this poor girl (though she was a girl no -longer) would pause, as she passed, to look at the abandoned place so -woven in with the brightest episode of her life, feeling herself -stranded there, impotent, unable to make a step--her breast still -heaving with all the vigour of existence, yet her life bound down in the -narrowest contracted circle? Her mother, who had got to watch her -narrowly, told me afterwards that she always knew when Ellen had passed -No. 16; and indeed I myself was rather glad to hear that at length No. -16 had shared the general fate, that my window existed no longer, and -that a great shop with plate-glass windows was bulging out where our -house had been. Better when a place is desecrated that it should be -desecrated wholly, and leave no vestige of its old self at all. - -Thus more than a year glided away, spring and winter, summer and autumn, -and then winter again. Chatty came in one November morning, when London -was half invisible, wrapped in mist and fog, with a very grave face, to -tell me that she had met Ellen, and Ellen had told her there was bad -news from John. ‘I can’t understand her,’ Chatty said. ‘I couldn’t make -out what it was; that business had been bad, and things had gone wrong; -and then something with a sort of laugh that he had got other thoughts -in his mind at last, as she knew all along he would, and that she was -glad. What could she mean?’ I did not know what she could mean, but I -resolved to go and see Ellen to ascertain what the change was. It is -easier however to say than to do when one is full of one’s own affairs, -and so it happened that for a full week, though intending to go every -day, I never did so. It was partly my fault. The family affairs were -many, and the family interests engrossing. It was not that I cared for -Ellen less, but my own claimed me on every hand. When one afternoon, -about a fortnight after, I was told that Miss Harwood was in the -drawing-room and wished to speak to me, my heart upbraided me with my -neglect. I hurried to her and led her away from that public place where -everybody came and went, to my own little sitting-room, where we might -be alone. Ellen was very pale; her eyes looked very dry and bright, not -dewy and soft as they used to be. There was a feverish look of unrest -and excitement about her. ‘There is something wrong,’ I cried. ‘What is -it? Chatty told me--something about John.’ - -‘I don’t know that it is anything wrong,’ she said. The smile that had -frightened Chatty came over her face--a smile that made one unhappy, the -lip drawn tightly over the teeth in the most ghastly mockery of -amusement. ‘No; I don’t know that it is anything wrong. You know I -always expected--always from the moment he went away--that between him -and me things would soon be at an end. Oh, yes, I expected it, and I did -not wish it otherwise; for what good is it to me that a man should be -engaged to me, and waste his life for me, when I never could do anything -for him?’ - -Here she made a little breathless pause, and laughed. ‘Oh, don’t, Ellen, -don’t!’ I cried. I could not bear the laugh; the smile was bad enough. - -‘Why not?’ she said with a little defiance; ‘would you have me cry? I -expected it long ago. The wonder is that it should have been so long -coming. That is,’ she cried suddenly after a pause, ‘that is if this is -really what it means. I took it for granted at first; but I cannot be -certain. I cannot be certain! Read it, you who know him, and tell me, -tell me! Oh, I can bear it quite well. I should be rather glad if this -is what it means.’ - -She thrust a letter into my hand, and going away with a rapid step to -the window, stood there with her back to me, looking out. I saw her -standing against the light, playing restlessly with the tassel of the -blind. In her desire to seem composed, or else in the mere excitement -which boiled in her veins, she began to hum a tune. I don’t think she -knew herself what it was. - -The letter which she professed to have taken so easily was worn with -much reading, and it had been carried about, folded and refolded a -hundred times. There was no sign of indifference in all that--and this -is what it said:-- - - ‘I got your last letter, dear Ellen, on Tuesday. I think you must - have written in low spirits. Perhaps you had a feeling, such as we - used to talk about, of what was happening here. As for me, nobody - could be in lower spirits than this leaves me. I have lost heart - altogether. Everything has gone wrong; the business is at an end: I - shut up the office to-day. If it is in any way my fault, God - forgive me! But the conflict in my heart has been so great that I - sometimes fear it must be my fault. I had been low enough before, - thinking and thinking how the end was to come between you and me. - Everything has gone wrong inside and out. I had such confidence, - and now it is all going. What I had most faith in has deceived me. - I thought I never was the man to change or to fail, and that I - could have trusted myself in any circumstances; but it does not - seem so. And why should I keep you hanging on when all’s wrong with - me? I always thought I could redeem it; but it hasn’t proved so. - You must just give me up, Ellen, as a bad job. Sometimes I have - thought you wished it. Where I am to drift to, I can’t tell; but - there’s no prospect of drifting back, or, what I hoped for, sailing - back in prosperity to you. You have seen it coming, I can see by - your letters, and I think, perhaps, though it seems strange to say - so, that you won’t mind. I shall not stay here; but I have not made - up my mind where to go. Forget a poor fellow that was never worthy - to be yours.--JOHN RIDGWAY.’ - -My hands dropped with the letter in them. The rustle it made was the -only sign she could have had that I had read it, or else instinct or -inward vision. That instant she turned upon me from the window with a -cry of wild suspense: ‘Well?’ - -‘I am confounded. I don’t know what to think. Ellen, it looks more like -guilt to the office than falsehood to you.’ - -‘Guilt--to the office!’ Her face blazed up at once in scorching colour. -She looked at me in fierce resentment and excitement, stamping her foot. -‘Guilt--to the office! How dare you? How dare you?’ she cried like a -fury. She clenched her hands at me, and looked as if she could have torn -me in pieces. ‘Whatever he has done,’ she cried, ‘he has done nothing he -had not a right to do. Do you know who you are speaking of? John! You -might as well tell me I had broken into your house at night and robbed -you. _He_ have anything to blame himself for with the office?--never! -nor with any one. What he has done is what he had a right to do--I am -the first to say so. He has been wearied out. You said it once yourself, -long, long before my eyes were opened; and at last he has done it--and -he had a good right!’ She stood for one moment before me in the fervour -of this fiery address; then, suddenly, she sank and dropped on her knees -by my side. ‘You think it means that? You see it--don’t you see it? He -has grown weary, as was so natural. He thought he could trust himself; -but it proved different; and then he thought he could redeem it. What -can that mean but one thing?--he has got some one else to care for him. -There is nothing wrong in that. It is not I that will ever blame him. -The only thing was that a horrible doubt came over me this morning--if -it should not mean what I thought it did! That is folly, I know; but -you, who know him--put away all that about wrong to the office, which is -out of the question, and you will see it cannot be anything but one -thing.’ - -‘It is not that,’ I said. - -She clasped her hands, kneeling by my side. ‘You always took his part,’ -she said in a low voice. ‘You will not see it.’ Why did she tremble so? -Did she want to believe it, or not to believe it? I could not understand -Ellen. Just then, from the room below, there came a voice singing. It -was Chatty’s voice, the child whom she had taught, who had been the -witness of their wooing. She knew nothing about all this; she did not -even know that Ellen was in the house. What so natural as that she -should sing the song her mistress had taught her? It was that which -Ellen herself had been humming as she stood at the window. - -‘Listen!’ I said. ‘You are answered in his own words--“I will come -again.”’ - -This was more than Ellen could bear. She made one effort to rise to her -feet, to regain her composure; but the music was too much. At that -moment I myself felt it to be too much. She fell down at my feet in a -passion of sobs and tears. - -Afterwards I knew the meaning of Ellen’s passionate determination to -admit no meaning but one to the letter. She had taken him at his word. -In her certainty that this was to happen, she had seen no other -interpretation to it, until it was too late. She had never sent any -reply; and he had not written again. It was now a month since the letter -had been received, and this sudden breaking off of the correspondence -had been so far final on both sides. To satisfy myself, I sent to -inquire at the office, and found that no blame was attached to John; but -that he had been much depressed, unduly depressed, by his failure to -remedy the faults of his predecessor, and had left as soon as his -accounts were forwarded and all the business details carefully wound up: -and had not been heard of more. I compelled, I may say, Ellen to write, -now that it was too late; but her letter was returned to her some time -after. He had left the place, and nothing was known of him there; nor -could we discover where he had gone. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - - -This little tragedy, as it appeared to me at the time, made a great -impression on my mind. It did not make me ill; that would have been -absurd. But still it helped, I suppose, to depress me generally and -enhance the effect of the cold that had hung about me so long, and for -which the elder ones, taking counsel together, decided that the desire -of the younger ones should be gratified, and I should be made to go to -Italy for the spring. The girls were wild to go, and my long-continued -lingering cold was such a good excuse. For my own part, I was not -willing at all; but what can one woman, especially when she is their -mother, do against so many? I had to give in and go. I went to see Ellen -before we started, and it was a very painful visit. She was still -keeping up with a certain defiance of everybody. But in the last two -months she had changed wonderfully. For one thing, she had shrank into -half her size. She was never anything but a little woman; but now she -seemed to me no bigger than a child. And those cheerful, happy brown -eyes, which had so triumphed over and smiled at all the privations of -life, looked out from two hollow caverns, twice as large as they had -ever been before, and with a woeful look that broke one’s heart. It was -not always that they had this woeful look. When she was conscious of -inspection she played them about with an artificial activity as if they -had been lanterns, forcing a smile into them which sometimes looked -almost like a sneer; but when she forgot that any one was looking at -her, then both smile and light went out, and there was in them a woeful -doubt and question which nothing could solve. Had she been wrong? Had -she misjudged him whom her heart could not forget or relinquish? Was it -likely that she could give him up lightly even had he been proved -unworthy? And oh, Heaven! was he proved unworthy, or had she done him -wrong? This was what Ellen was asking herself, without intermission, for -ever and ever; and her mother, on her side, watched Ellen piteously with -much the same question in her eyes. Had she, too, made a mistake? Was it -possible that she had exacted a sacrifice which she had no right to -exact, and in mere cowardice, and fear of loneliness, and desire for -love and succour on her own part, spoiled two lives? This question, -which was almost identical in both, made the mother and daughter -singularly like each other; except that Ellen kept asking her question -of the air, which is so full of human sighs, and the sky, whither so -many ungranted wishes go up, and the darkness of space, in which is no -reply--and the mother asked hers of Ellen, interrogating her countenance -mutely all day long, and of every friend of Ellen’s who could throw any -light upon the question. She stole into the room when Ellen left me for -a moment, and whispered, coming close to me, lest the very walls should -hear-- - -‘How do you think she is looking? She will not say a word to me about -him--not a word. Don’t you think she has been too hasty? Oh! I would -give everything I have if she would only go with you and look for John, -and make it up with him again.’ - -‘I thought you could not spare her,’ I said with perhaps some cruelty in -my intention. She wrung her hands, and looked piteously in my face. - -‘You think it is all my fault! I never thought it would come to this; I -never thought he would go away. Oh, if I had only let them marry at -first! I often think if she had been happy in her own home, coming to -see her father every day, it would have been more of a change for him, -more company than having her always. Oh! if one could only tell what is -going to happen. She might have had a nice family by this time, and the -eldest little girl big enough to run in and play at his feet and amuse -her grandpa. He always was fond of children. But we’ll never see Ellen’s -children now!’ cried the poor woman. ‘And you think it is my fault!’ - -I could not reproach her; her black cap with the flowers, her little -woollen shawl about her shoulders, grew tragic as she poured forth her -trouble. It was not so dignified as the poet’s picture, but yet, like -him, she - - Saw the unborn faces shine - Beside the never lighted fire; - -and with a groan of misery felt herself the slayer of those innocents -that had never been. The tragic and the comic mingled in the vision of -that ‘eldest little girl,’ the child who would have amused her grandpa -had she been permitted to come into being; but it was all tragic to poor -Mrs. Harwood. She saw no laugh, no smile, in the situation anywhere. - -We went to Mentone, and stayed there till the bitterness of the winter -was over, then moved along that delightful coast, and were in Genoa in -April. To speak of that stately city as a commercial town seems -insulting--and yet so it is now-a-days. I recognized at once the type I -had known in other days when I sat at the window of the hotel and -watched the people coming and going. It reminded me of my window in the -Road, where, looking out, I saw the respectable City people--clerks like -John Ridgway, and merchants of the same cut though of more substantial -comfort--wending their way to their business in the morning, and to -their suburban homes in the evening. I do not know that I love the -commercial world; but I like to see that natural order of life--the man -‘going forth unto his work and to his labour until the evening.’ The -fashion of it is different in a foreign town, but still the life is the -same. We changed our quarters however after we had been for some time in -that city, so-called of palaces, and were lodged in a suite of rooms -very hard to get up to (though the staircase was marble), but very -delightful when one was there; rooms which overlooked the high terrace -which runs round a portion of the bay between the inns and the quays. I -forget what it is called. It is a beautiful promenade, commanding the -loveliest view of that most beautiful bay and all that is going on in -it. At night, with all its twinkling semicircle of lights, it was a -continual enchantment to me; but this or any of my private admirations -are not much to the purpose of my story. Sitting at the window, always -my favourite post, I became acquainted with various individual figures -among those who haunted this terrace. Old gentlemen going out to sun -themselves in the morning before the heat was too great; children and -nursemaids, Genoese women with their pretty veils, invalids who had got -up the stairs, I cannot tell now, and sat panting on the benches, -enjoying the sea air and the sunshine. There was one however among this -panorama of passing figures, which gave me a startled sense of -familiarity. It was too far off to see the man’s face. He was not an -invalid; but he was bent, either with past sickness or with present -care, and walked with a dropping head and a languid step. After watching -him for a time, I concluded (having always a great weakness for making -out other people’s lives, how they flow) that he had some occupation in -the town from which he escaped, whenever he had leisure, to rest a -little and refresh himself upon the terrace. He came very regularly, -just at the time when Italian shops and offices have a way of shutting -up, in the middle of the day--very regularly, always, or almost always, -at the same hour. He came up the steps slowly and languidly, stopped a -little to take breath, and then walked half way round the terrace to a -certain bench upon which he always seated himself. Sometimes he brought -his luncheon with him and ate it there. At other times, having once -gained that place, he sat quite still in a corner of it, not reading, -nor taking any notice of the other passers-by. No one was with him, no -one ever spoke to him. When I noticed him first he startled me. Who was -he like? His bent figure, his languid step, resembled no one I could -think of; but yet I said to myself, He is like somebody. I established a -little friendship with him, though it was a friendship without any -return; for though I could see him he could not see me, nor could I -distinguish his face; and we never saw him anywhere else, neither at -church, nor in the streets, not even on the _festas_ when everybody was -about; but always just there on that one spot. I looked for him as -regularly as the day came. ‘My mother’s old gentleman,’ Chatty called -him. Everybody is old who is not young to these children; but though he -was not young he did not seem to me to be old. And he puzzled as much as -he interested me. Who was he like? I never even asked myself, Who was -he? It would be no one I had any chance of acquaintance with. Some poor -_employé_ in a Genoa office; how should I know him? I could not feel at -all sure, when I was cross-examined on the subject, whether I really -remembered any one whom he was like; but yet he had startled me more -than I can say. - -Genoa, where we had friends and family reasons for staying, became very -hot as the spring advanced into early summer, and we removed to one of -the lovely little towns on the coast at a little distance, Santa -Margherita. When we had been settled there for a few days, Chatty came -in to me one evening with a pale face. ‘I have just seen your old -gentleman,’ she said. ‘I think he must live out here; but I saw by the -expression of her eyes that there was more to say. She added after a -moment, ‘And I know who he is like.’ - -‘Ah! you have seen his face,’ I said; and then, before she had spoken, -it suddenly flashed on myself in a moment, ‘John Ridgway!’ I cried. - -‘Mother,’ said Chatty, quite pale, ‘I think it is his ghost.’ - -I went out with her instantly to where she had seen him, and we made -some inquiries, but with no success. When I began to think it over, he -was not like John Ridgway. He was bent and stooping, whereas John was -erect; his head drooped, whereas how well I recollected poor John’s head -thrown back a little, his hat upon the back of it, his visionary outlook -rather to the skies than to the ground. No, no, not like him a bit; but -yet it might be his ghost, as Chatty said. We made a great many -inquiries, but for the moment with no success, and you may suppose that -I watched the passers-by from my window with more devotion than ever. -One evening in the sudden nightfall of the Italian skies, when darkness -comes all at once, I was seated in my usual place, scarcely seeing -however the moving figures outside, though all the population of the -place seemed to be out, sitting round the doors, and strolling leisurely -along enjoying the heavenly coolness and the breeze from the sea. At the -further end of the room Chatty was at the piano, playing to me softly in -the dark which she knows is what I like, and now and then striking into -some old song such as I love. She was sure to arrive sooner or later at -that one with which we now had so many associations; but I was not -thinking of the song, nor for the moment of Ellen or her faithful (as I -was sure he was still) lover at all. A woman with so many children has -always plenty to think of. My mind was busy with my own affairs. The -windows were open, and the babble of the voices outside--high pitched, -resounding Italian voices, not like the murmur of English--came in to us -as the music floated out. All at once, I suddenly woke up from my -thinking and my family concerns. In the dusk one figure detached itself -from among the others with a start, and came forward slowly with bent -head and languid step. Had he never heard that song since he heard Ellen -break off, choked with tears unshed, and a despair which had never been -revealed? He came quite close under the window where I could see him no -longer. I could not see him at all; it was too dark. I divined him. Who -could it be but he? Not like John Ridgway, and yet John; his ghost, as -Chatty had said. - -I did not stop to think what I was to do, but rose up in the dark room -where the child was singing, only a voice, herself invisible in the -gloom. I don’t know whether Chatty saw me go; but, if so, she was -inspired unawares by the occasion, and went on with her song. I ran -down-stairs and went out softly to the open door of the inn, where there -were other people standing about. Then I saw him quite plainly by the -light from a lower window. His head was slightly raised towards the -place from which the song came. He was very pale in that pale, doubtful -light, worn and old and sad; but as he looked up, a strange illumination -was on his face. His hand beat the air softly, keeping time. As she came -to the refrain his lips began to move as if he were repeating after his -old habit those words, ‘I will come again.’ Then a sudden cloud of pain -seemed to come over his face--he shook his head faintly, then bowed it -upon his breast. - -In a moment I had him by the arm. ‘John,’ I said in my excitement; ‘John -Ridgway! we have found you.’ For the moment, I believe, he thought it -was Ellen who had touched him; his white face seemed to leap into light; -then paled again. He took off his hat with his old formal, somewhat shy -politeness--‘I thought it must be you, madame,’ he said. He said -‘madame’ instead of the old English madam, which he had always used: -this little concession to the changed scene was all the difference. He -made no mystery about himself, and showed no reluctance to come in with -me, to talk as of old. He told me he had a situation in an office in -Genoa, and that his health was bad. ‘After that _fiasco_ in the Levant, -I had not much heart for anything. I took the first thing that was -offered,’ he said, with his old vague smile; ‘for a man must live--till -he dies.’ ‘There must be no question of dying--at your age,’ I cried. -This time his smile almost came the length of a momentary laugh. He -shook his head, but he did not continue the subject He was very silent -for some time after. Indeed, he said nothing, except in reply to my -questions, till Chatty left, the room and we were alone. Then all at -once, in the middle of something I was saying--‘Is she--married again?’ -he said. - -‘Married--again!’ - -‘It is a foolish question. She was not married to me; but it felt much -the same: we had been as one for so long. There must have been -some--strong inducement--to make her cast me off so at the end.’ - -This he said in a musing tone, as if the fact were so certain, and had -been turned over in his mind so often that all excitement was gone from -it. But after it was said, a gleam of anxiety came into his half-veiled -eyes. He raised his heavy, tired eyelids and looked at me. Though he -seemed to know all about it, and to be resigned to it when he began to -speak, yet it seemed to flash across him, before he ended, that there -was an uncertainty--an answer to come from me which would settle it, -after all. Then he leaned forward a little, in this sudden sense of -suspense, and put his hand to his ear as if he had been deaf, and said -‘What?’ in an altered tone. - -‘There is some terrible mistake,’ I said. ‘I have felt there was a -mistake all along. She has lost her hold on life altogether because she -believes you to be changed.’ - -‘Changed!’ His voice was quite sharp and keen, and had lost its languid -tone. ‘In what way--in what way? how could I be changed?’ - -‘In the only way that could matter between her and you. She thought, -before you left the Levant, that you had got to care for some one -else--that you had ceased to care for her. Your letter,’ I said, ‘your -letter!’--half frightened by the way in which he rose, and his -threatening, angry aspect--‘would bear that interpretation.’ - -‘My letter!’ He stood before me for a moment with a sort of feverish, -fierce energy; then he began to laugh, low and bitterly, and walk about -as if unable to keep still. ‘My letter!’ The room was scarcely -lighted--one lamp upon the table, and no more; and the half-darkness, as -he paced about, made his appearance more threatening still. Then he -suddenly came and stood before me as if it had been I that had wronged -him. ‘I am a likely man to be a gay Lothario,’ he cried, with that laugh -of mingled mockery and despair which was far more tragical than weeping. -It was the only expression that such an extreme of feeling could find. -He might have cried out to heaven and earth, and groaned and wept; but -it would not have expressed to me the wild confusion, the overturn of -everything, the despair of being so misunderstood, the miserable sum of -suffering endured and life wasted for nothing, like this laugh. Then he -dropped again into the chair opposite me, as if with the consciousness -that even this excitement was vain. - -‘What can I say? What can I do? Has she never known me all -along?--Ellen!’ He had not named her till now. Was it a renewal of life -in his heart that made him capable of uttering her name? - -‘Do not blame her,’ I cried. ‘She had made up her mind that nothing -could ever come of it, and that you ought to be set free. She thought of -nothing else but this; that for her all change was hopeless--that she -was bound for life; and that you should be free. It became a fixed idea -with her; and when your letter came, which was capable of being -misread----’ - -‘Then the wish was father to the thought,’ he said, still bitterly. ‘Did -she show it to you? did you misread it also? Poor cheat of a letter! My -heart had failed me altogether. Between my failure and her slavery---- -But I never thought she would take me at my word,’ he went on piteously, -‘never! I wrote, don’t you know, as one writes longing to be comforted, -to be told it did not matter so long as we loved each other, to be -bidden come home. And there never came a word--not a word.’ - -‘She wrote afterwards, but you were gone; and her letter was returned to -her.’ - -‘Ah!’ he said, in a sort of desolate assent. ‘Ah! was it so? then that -was how it had to be, I suppose; things were so settled before ever we -met each other. Can you understand that?--all settled that it was to end -just so in misery, and confusion, and folly, before ever we met.’ - -‘I do not believe it,’ I cried. ‘There is no need that it should end so, -even now; if--if you are unchanged still.’ - -‘I--changed?’ He laughed at this once more, but not so tragically, with -sham ridicule of the foolishness of the doubt. And then all of a sudden -he began to sing--oh, it was not a beautiful performance! he had no -voice, and not much ear; but never has the loveliest of music moved me -more--‘I will come again, my sweet and bonnie: I will come----’ Here he -broke down as Ellen had done, and said, with a hysterical sob, ‘I’m ill; -I think I’m dying. How am I, a broken man, without a penny, to come -again?’ - -Chatty and I walked with him to his room through the soft darkness of -the Italian night. I found he had fever--the wasting, exhausting ague -fever--which haunts the most beautiful coasts in the world. I did my -best to reassure him, telling him that it was not deadly, and that at -home he would soon be well; but I cannot say that I felt so cheerfully -as I spoke, and all that John did was to shake his head. As we turned -home again through all the groups of cheerful people, Chatty with her -arm clasped in mine, we talked, it is needless to say, of nothing else. -But not even to my child did I say what I meant to do. I am not rich, -but still I can afford myself a luxury now and then. When the children -were in bed I wrote a short letter, and put a cheque in it for twenty -pounds. This was what I said. I was too much excited to write just in -the ordinary way:-- - -‘Ellen, I have found John, ill, heart-broken, but as faithful and -unchanged as I always knew he was. If you have the heart of a mouse in -you come out instantly--don’t lose a day--and save him. It may be time -yet. If he can be got home to English air and to happiness it will still -be time. - -‘I have written to your mother. She will not oppose you, or I am much -mistaken. Take my word for all the details. I will expect you by the -earliest possibility. Don’t write, but come.’ - -In less than a week after I went to Genoa, and met in the steamboat from -Marseilles, which was the quickest way of travelling then, a trembling, -large-eyed, worn-out creature, not knowing if she were dead or alive, -confused with the strangeness of everything, and the wonderful change in -her own life. It was one of John’s bad days, and nobody who was not -acquainted with the disease would have believed him other than dying. He -was lying in a kind of half-conscious state when I took Ellen into his -room. She stood behind me clinging to me, undistinguishable in the -darkened place. The flush of the fever was going off; the paleness as of -death and utter exhaustion stealing over him. His feeble fingers were -moving faintly upon the white covering of his bed; his eyelids half -shut, with the veins showing blue in them and under his eyes. But there -was a faint smile on his face. Wherever he was wandering in those -confused fever dreams, he was not unhappy. Ellen held by my arm to keep -herself from falling. ‘Hope! you said there was hope,’ she moaned in my -ear, with a reproach that was heart-rending. Then he began to murmur -with his almost colourless yet smiling lips, ‘I will come again, my -sweet and bonnie; I will come--again.’ And then the fingers faintly -beating time were still. - -But no, no! Do not take up a mistaken idea. He was not dead; and he did -not die. We got him home after a while. In Switzerland, on our way to -England, I had them married safe and fast under my own eye. I would -allow no more shilly-shally. And, indeed, it appeared that Mrs. Harwood, -frightened by all the results of her totally unconscious domestic -despotism, was eager in hurrying Ellen off, and anxious that John should -come home. He never quite regained his former health, but he got -sufficiently well to take another situation, his former employers -anxiously aiding him to recover his lost ground. And they took -Montpellier Villa after all, to be near Pleasant Place, where Ellen goes -every day, and is, Mrs. Harwood allows, far better company for her -father, and a greater relief to the tedium of his life, than when she -was more constantly his nurse and attendant. I am obliged to say however -that the mother has had a price to pay for the emancipation of the -daughter. There is nothing to be got for nought in this life. And -sometimes Ellen has a compunction, and sometimes there is an unspoken -reproach in the poor old lady’s tired eyes. I hope for my own part that -when that ‘eldest little girl’ is a little older Mrs. Harwood’s life -will be greatly sweetened and brightened. But yet it is she that has to -pay the price; for no argument, not even the last severe winter, and -many renewed ‘attacks,’ will persuade that old tyrant, invisible in his -upper chamber, to die. - -A song needs no story perhaps; but a story is always the better for a -song: so that after all I need not perhaps apologize to Beethoven and -his interpreters as I meant to do for taking their lovely music as a -suggestion of the still greater harmonies of life. - - THE END - - RICHARD CLAY AND SONS, LIMITED, - - LONDON AND BUNGAY. - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Neighbours on the Green; My Faithful -Johnny, by Mrs. Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NEIGHBOURS ON THE GREEN *** - -***** This file should be named 54106-0.txt or 54106-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/4/1/0/54106/ - -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: Neighbours on the Green; My Faithful Johnny - -Author: Mrs. Oliphant - -Release Date: February 3, 2017 [EBook #54106] -[Last updated: October 14, 2017] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NEIGHBOURS ON THE GREEN *** - - - - -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="324" height="500" alt="" title="" /> -</div> - -<p class="c">NEIGHBOURS<br /> -ON THE GREEN</p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/colophon.png" width="120" alt="colophon" title="" /> -</div> - -<h1> -NEIGHBOURS<br /> -ON THE GREEN</h1> - -<p class="c">MRS. OLIPHANT<br /> -<br /> -<small>‘Old wives’ tales.’</small><br /> -<br /> -<span class="eng">London</span><br /> -MACMILLAN AND CO.<br /> -<small>AND NEW YORK<br /> -<br /> -1889<br /> -<br /> -<i>All Rights Reserved.</i><br /> -<br /> -<span class="smcap">Richard Clay and Sons, Limited</span>,<br /> -LONDON AND BUNGAY.</small> -<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> -<span class="eng">Inscribed</span><br /> -<br /> -<small>TO SEVERAL OLD FRIENDS,<br /> -<br /> -AND ESPECIALLY TO THE GALLANT SOLDIER AND WRITER,</small><br /> -<br /> -<span class="eng">General George Chesney,</span><br /> -<br /> -<small>AND THE DISTINGUISHED CRITIC AND PHILOSOPHER,</small><br /> -<br /> -<span class="eng">Mr. R. H. Hutton,</span><br /> -<br /> -<small>WHO AT THE TIME THESE STORIES WERE<br /> -<br /> -WRITTEN GAVE DISTINCTION TO</small><br /> -<br /> -THE GREEN.<br /> -</p> - -<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS</h2> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary=""> - -<tr><td> </td><td class="rt"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> - -<tr><td><a href="#MY_NEIGHBOUR_NELLY"><span class="smcap">My Neighbour Nelly</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_1">1</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><a href="#LADY_DENZIL"><span class="smcap">Lady Denzil</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_31">31</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><a href="#THE_STOCKBROKER_AT_DINGLEWOOD"><span class="smcap">The Stockbroker at Dinglewood</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_65">65</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><a href="#THE_SCIENTIFIC_GENTLEMAN"><span class="smcap">The Scientific Gentleman</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_99">99</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><a href="#LADY_ISABELLA"><span class="smcap">Lady Isabella</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_148">148</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><a href="#AN_ELDERLY_ROMANCE"><span class="smcap">An Elderly Romance</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_182">182</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><a href="#MRS_MERRIDEWS_FORTUNE"><span class="smcap">Mrs. Merridew’s Fortune</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_207">207</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><a href="#THE_BARLEY_MOW"><span class="smcap">The Barley Mow</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_237">237</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td><a href="#MY_FAITHFUL_JOHNNY"><span class="smcap">My Faithful Johnny</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_271">271</a></td></tr> -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_1" id="page_1"></a>{1}</span></p> - -<h1><span class="eng">Neighbours on the Green</span></h1> - -<h2><a name="MY_NEIGHBOUR_NELLY" id="MY_NEIGHBOUR_NELLY"></a>MY NEIGHBOUR NELLY</h2> - -<h3>CHAPTER I</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">They</span> were both my neighbours, of course: but to apportion one’s heart’s -love in equal shares according to the claims of justice is a very -different matter. I saw as much of one sister as the other. And Martha -was an excellent girl, quite honest and friendly and good; but as for -Ellen, there never could be any question about her. One did not even -think of discriminating which were her special good qualities. She was -Ellen, that was enough; or Nelly, which I prefer, for my part. We all -lived at Dinglefield Green in these old days. It is a model of a -village, in one sense of the word; not the kind of place, it is true, to -which the name is generally applied, but a village <i>orné</i>, as there are -cottages <i>ornés</i>. The real little hamlet, where the poor people lived, -was at a little distance, and gave us plenty of occupation and trouble. -But for Dinglefield Green proper, it was such a village as exists -chiefly in novels. The Green was the central point, a great triangular -breadth of soft grass, more like a small common than a village green, -with the prettiest houses round—houses inclosed in their own -grounds,—houses at the very least embosomed in pretty gardens, peeping -out from among the trees. None of us were very rich; nor was there -anything that could be called a ‘place’ in the circle of dwellings. But -I believe there was as much good blood and good connection among us as -are rarely to be found even in a much larger community. The great house -opposite, which was separated from the green by a ha-ha, and opened to -us only a pretty sweep of lawn, looking almost like a park, belonged to -Sir Thomas Denzil, whose pedigree, as everybody knows, is longer than -the Queen’s. Next to him was Mrs. Stoke’s pretty cottage who was—one of -the Stokes who have given their name<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_2" id="page_2"></a>{2}</span> to places all over the country: -the son is now General Stoke, a C.B., and I don’t know what besides: and -her daughter married Lord Leamington. Next to that—but it is needless -to give a directory of the place: probably our neighbours, in their -different habitations, may appear in their proper persons before my -story is done.</p> - -<p>The sisters lived next to me; my house lay, as their father said, -athwart their bows. The Admiral was too much a gentleman to talk ship, -or shop, as the gentlemen call it, in ordinary conversation; but he did -say that my cottage lay athwart his bows; and the girls admitted that it -would have been unpleasant had it been anybody but me. I was then a -rather young widow, and having no children, did not want much of a -house. My cottage was very pretty. I think myself that there was not so -pretty a room in all the green as my drawing-room; but it was small. My -house stood with its gable-end to the green, and fronted the hedge which -was the boundary of Admiral Fortis’ grounds. His big gate and my small -one were close together. If the hedge had been cut down, I should have -commanded a full view of the lawn before his house, and the door; and -nobody could have gone out or come in without my inspection. They were -so friendly, that it was once proposed to cut it down, and give me and -my flowers more air; but we both reflected that we were mortal; -circumstances might change with both of us; I might die, and some one -else come to the cottage whose inspection might not be desirable; or the -Admiral might die, and his girls marry, and strangers come. In short, -the end of it was that the hedge remained; but instead of being a thick -holly wall, like the rest of my inclosure, it was a picturesque hedge of -hawthorn, which was very sweet in spring and a perfect mass of -convolvulus in autumn; and it had gaps in it and openings. Nelly herself -made a round cutting just opposite my window, and twined the honeysuckle -into a frame for it. I could see them through it as I sat at work. I -could see them at their croquet, and mounting their horses at the door, -and going out for their walks, and doing their capricious gardening. -Indeed it was Nelly only who ever attempted to work in the garden; the -other was afraid of her hands and her complexion, and a hundred things. -Nelly was not afraid of anything—not even of Mr. Nicholson, the -gardener, who filled me with awe and trembling. Perhaps you may say that -there was not much fear of her complexion. She was brown, to begin with; -but the prettiest brown—clear, with crimson flushes that went and came, -and changed her aspect every moment. Her eyes were the softest dark eyes -I ever saw; they did not penetrate or flash or sparkle, but glowed on -you with a warm lambent light. In winter, with her red cloak on, she was -the prettiest little figure; and the cold suited her, and made her glow -and bound about like a creature of air. As for Martha, she was a great -deal larger and whiter than her sister. I suppose, on the whole, she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_3" id="page_3"></a>{3}</span> -was the prettier of the two, though she did not please me so well. They -were their father’s only children, and he was very fond of them. Their -mother had been dead so long that they had no recollection of her; and -the girls were not without those defects which girls brought up by a man -are so apt to have. They were rather disposed to think that anything -could be had for a little coaxing. Perhaps they had more confidence in -their own blandishments than is common with girls, and were more ready -to use them, knowing how powerless papa was against their arts. They -were badly educated, for the same reason. The Admiral was too fond of -them to part with them; and he was one of the men who fear reports and -rumours, and would not have a lady, not even a middle-aged governess, in -his house. He had expensive masters for his girls, and the girls did -what they pleased with those excellent gentlemen, and grew up with the -very smallest amount of education compatible with civilization. I rather -liked it, I confess, in Nelly, who was very bright, and asked about -everything, and jumped at an understanding of most things she heard of. -But it did not answer in Martha’s case, who was not bright, and was the -sort of girl who wanted to be taught music, for instance, properly, and -to practise six hours a day. Without being taught, and without -practising, the good girl (for Nelly, as she explained, had no taste for -music) thought it her duty to play to amuse her friends; and the result -was a trial to the temper of Dinglefield Green. We had some very good -musicians among us, and Martha heard them continually, but never was -enlightened as to the nature of her own performance; whereas Nelly knew -and grew crimson every time her sister approached the piano. But Nelly -was my favourite, as everybody knew; and perhaps, as a natural -consequence, I did her sister less than justice.</p> - -<p>We led a very pleasant, neighbourly life in those days. Some of us were -richer, and some poorer; but we all visited each other. The bigger -houses asked the smaller ones to dinner, and did not disdain to pay a -return visit to tea. In the summer afternoons, if you crossed the Green -(and could hear anything for the noise the cricketers made) you would be -sure to hear, in one quarter or another, the click of the croquet balls, -and find all the young people of the place assembled over their game, -not without groups of the elder ones sitting round on the edge of the -well-mown lawns. When I settled there first, I was neither young nor -old, and there was a difficulty which party to class me with; but by -degrees I found my place among the mothers, or aunts, or general -guardians of the society; and by degrees my young neighbours came to be -appropriated to me as my particular charge. We walked home together, and -we went to parties together; and, of course, a little gossip got up -about the Admiral—gossip which was entirely without foundation, for I -detest second marriages, and indeed have had quite enough of it for my -part. But Nelly took a clinging to me—I don’t say a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_4" id="page_4"></a>{4}</span> fancy, which would -be too light a word. She had never known a woman intimately -before—never one older than herself, to whom she was half a child and -half a companion. And she liked it, and so did I.</p> - -<p>There was one absurd peculiarity about the two girls, which I shall -always think was the foundation of all the mischief. They never called -each other, nor were called, by their names. They were ‘the Sisters’ to -everybody. I suppose it was a fancy of their father’s—he called them -‘the Sisters’ always. They called each other Sister when they spoke to -or of each other. It annoyed me at first, and I made an attempt to -change the custom. But Martha disliked her name. She had been called -after her grandmother, and she thought it was a shame. ‘Martha and -Ellen!’ she said indignantly. ‘What could papa be thinking of? It sounds -like two old women in the alms-houses. And other girls have such pretty -names. If you call me Martha, Mrs. Mulgrave, I will never speak to you -again.’ When one thought of it, it was a hard case. I felt for her, for -my own name is Sarah, and I remember the trouble it was to me when I was -a girl; and the general use and wont of course overcame me at last. They -were called ‘the Sisters’ everywhere on the Green. I believe some of us -did not even know their proper names. I said mischief might come of it, -and they laughed at me; but there came a time when Nelly, at least, -laughed at me no more.</p> - -<p>It was in the early summer that young Llewellyn came to stay with the -Denzils at their great house opposite. He was a distant cousin of -theirs, which was a warrant that his family was all that could be -desired. And he had a nice little property in Wales, which had come to -him unexpectedly on the death of an elder brother. And, to crown all, he -was a sailor, having gone into the navy when he was a second son. Of -course, being a naval man, it was but natural that he should be brought -to the Admiral first of all. And he very soon got to be very intimate in -the house; and indeed, for that matter, in every house on the Green. I -believe it is natural to sailors to have that hearty, cordial way. He -came to see me, though I had no particular attraction for him, as -cheerfully as if I had been a girl, or alas! had girls of my own. -Perhaps it was the opening in the hedge that pleased him. He would sit -and look—but he did not speak to me of the sisters, more’s the pity. He -was shy of that subject. I could see he was in real earnest, as the -children say, by his shyness about the girls. He would begin to say -something, and then rush on to another subject, and come back again half -an hour after to the identical point he had started from. But I suppose -it never occurred to him that I had any skill to fathom that. He went -with them on all their picnics, and was at all their parties; and he -rode with them, riding very well for a sailor. The rides are beautiful -round Dinglefield. There is a royal park close at hand, where you can -lose yourself<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5" id="page_5"></a>{5}</span> in grassy glades and alleys without number. I had even -been tempted to put myself on my old pony, and wander about with them on -the springy turf under the trees; though, as for their canterings and -gallopings, and the way in which Nelly’s horse kicked its heels about -when it got excited, they were always alarming to me. But it was a -pleasant life. There is something in that moment of existence when the -two who are to go together through life see each other first, and are -mysteriously attracted towards each other, and forswear their own ideal -and all their dreams, and mate themselves, under some secret compulsion -which they do not understand—I say there is something in such a moment -which throws a charm over life to all their surroundings. Though it be -all over for us; though perhaps we may have been in our own persons -thoroughly disenchanted, or may even have grown bitter in our sense of -the difference between reality and romance, still the progress of an -incipient wooing gives a zest to our pleasure. There is something in the -air, some magical influence, some glamour, radiating from the hero and -the heroine. When everything is settled, and the wedding looms in sight, -fairyland melts away, and the lovers are no more interesting than any -other pair. It is perhaps the uncertainty, the chance of disaster; the -sense that one may take flight or offence, or that some rival may come -in, or a hundred things happen to dissipate the rising tenderness. There -is the excitement of a drama about it—a drama subject to the curious -contradictions of actual existence, and utterly regardless of all the -unities. I thought I could see the little sister, who was my pet and -favourite, gradually grouping thus with young Llewellyn. They got -together somehow, whatever the arrangements of the party might be. They -might drive to the Dingle, which was our favourite spot, in different -carriages, with different parties, and at different times; but they were -always to be found together under the trees when everybody had arrived. -Perhaps they did not yet know it themselves; but other people began to -smile, and Lady Denzil, I could see, was watching Nelly. She had other -views, I imagine, for her young cousin since he came to the estate. -Nelly, too, once had very different views. I knew what her ideal was. -It, or rather he, was a blonde young giant, six feet tall at least, with -blue eyes, and curling golden hair. He was to farm his own land, and -live a country life, and be of no profession; and he was to be pure -Saxon, to counterbalance a little defect in Nelly’s race, or rather, as -she supposed, in her complexion, occasioned by the fact that her mother -was of Spanish blood. Such was her ideal, as she had often confided to -me. It was funny to see how this gigantic and glorious vision melted out -of her mind. Llewellyn was not very tall; he was almost as dark as -Nelly; he was a sailor, and he was a Welshman. What did it matter? One -can change one’s ideal so easily when one is under twenty. Perhaps in -his imagination he had loved a milk-white maiden too.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6" id="page_6"></a>{6}</span></p> - -<p>Lady Denzil however watched, having, as I shall always believe, other -intentions in her mind for Llewellyn, though she had no daughter of her -own; and I am sure it was her influence which hurried him away the last -day, without taking leave of any of us. She kept back the telegram which -summoned him to join his ship, until there was just time to get the -train. And so he had to rush away, taking off his hat to us, and almost -getting out of the window of the carriage in his eagerness, when he saw -us at the Admiral’s door, as he dashed past to the station.</p> - -<p>‘Good-bye, for the moment,’ he shouted; ‘I hope I am coming back.’ And I -could see, by the colour in Nelly’s cheek, that their eyes had met, and -understood each other. Her sister bowed and smiled very graciously, and -chattered about a hundred things.</p> - -<p>‘I wonder why he is going in such a hurry? I wonder what he means about -coming back?’ said Martha. ‘I am sure I am very sorry he is gone. He was -very nice, and always ready for anything. What a bore a ship is! I -remember when papa was like that—always rushing away. Don’t you, -Sister?—but you were too young.’</p> - -<p>‘I remember hearing people talk of it,’ said Nelly with a sigh.</p> - -<p>She was <i>rêveuse</i>, clouded over, everything that it was natural to be -under the circumstances. She would not trust herself to say he was nice. -It was I who had to answer, and keep up the conversation for her. For my -own part, I confess I was vexed that he had gone so soon—that he had -gone without an explanation. These things are far better to be settled -out of hand. A man has to go away when his duty calls; but nobody can -make sure when he may come back, or what he may find when he comes back. -I was sorry, for I knew a hundred things might happen to detain, or keep -him silent; and Nelly’s heart was caught, I could see. She had been -quite unsuspecting, unfearing; and it was gone ere she understood what -she was doing. My heart quaked a little for her; not with any fear of -the result, but only with a certain throbbing of experience and anxiety -that springs therefrom. Experience does not produce hope in the things -of this world. It lays one’s heart open to suspicions and fears which -never trouble the innocent. It was not because of anything I had seen in -Llewellyn; but because I had seen a great deal of the world, and things -in general. This was why I kissed her with a little extra meaning, and -told her to lie down on the sofa when she got home.</p> - -<p>‘You have not been looking your best for some days,’ I said. ‘You are -not a giantess, nor so robust as you pretend to be. You must take care -of yourself.’ And Nelly, though she made no reply, kissed me in her -clinging way in return.</p> - -<p>Some weeks passed after that without any particular incident. Things -went on in their usual way, and though we were all sorry that Llewellyn -was gone, we made no particular moan over him after the first. It was -very rarely that a day passed on which I did not see the sisters; but -the weather was beginning<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_7" id="page_7"></a>{7}</span> to get cold, and one Friday there was a fog -which prevented me from going out. Ours is a low country, with a great -many trees, and the river is not far off; and when there is a fog, it is -very dreary and overwhelming. It closes in over the Green, so that you -cannot see an inch before you; and the damp creeps into your very bones: -though it was only the end of October, the trees hung invisible over our -heads in heavy masses, now and then dropping a faded leaf out of the fog -in a ghostly, silent way: and the chill went to one’s heart. I had a new -book, for which I was very thankful, and my fire burned brightly, and I -did not stir out of doors all day. I confess it surprised me a little -that the girls did not come in to me in the evening, as they had a way -of doing, with their red cloaks round them, and the hoods over their -heads, like Red Riding Hood. But I took it for granted they had some -friends from town, or something pleasant on hand; though I had not heard -any carriage driving up. As for seeing, that was impossible. Next -morning, by a pleasant change, was bright, sunny, and frosty. For the -first time that season, the hedges and gardens, and even the Green -itself, was crisp and white with hoar-frost, which, of course, did not -last, but gave us warning of winter. When I went out, I met Nelly just -leaving her own door. She was in her red cloak, with her dress tucked -up, and the little black hat with the red feather, which was always so -becoming to her. But either it was not becoming that day, or there was -something the matter with the child. I don’t remember whether I have -said that she had large eyes—eyes that, when she was thinner than -usual, or ill, looked out of proportion to the size of her face. They -had this effect upon me that day. One did not seem to see Nelly at all; -but only a big pair of wistful, soft eyes looking at one, with shadowy -lines round them. I was alarmed, to tell the truth, whenever I saw her. -Either something had happened, or the child was ill.</p> - -<p>‘Good morning, my dear,’ I said, ‘I did not see you all yesterday, and -it feels like a year. Were you coming to me now?’</p> - -<p>‘No,’ said Nelly—and even in the sound of her voice there was something -changed—‘it is so long since I have been in the village. I had settled -to go down there this morning, and take poor Mary Jackson some warm -socks we have been knitting for the babies. It is so cold to-day.’</p> - -<p>‘I thought you never felt the cold,’ said I, as one does without -thinking. ‘You are always as merry as a cricket in the winter weather, -when we are all shivering. You know you never feel the cold.’</p> - -<p>‘No,’ said Nelly again. ‘I suppose it is only the first chill’—and she -gave me a strange little sick smile, and suddenly looked down and -stooped to pick up something. I saw in a moment there was nothing to -pick up. Could it be that there were tears in her eyes, which she wanted -to hide? ‘But I must go now,’ she went on hurriedly. ‘Oh, no, don’t -think of coming<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_8" id="page_8"></a>{8}</span> with me; it is too cold, and I shall have to walk fast, -I am in such a hurry. Good-bye.’</p> - -<p>I could do nothing but stand and stare after her when she had gone on. -What did it mean? Nelly was not given to taking fancies, or losing her -temper—at least not in this way. She walked away so rapidly that she -seemed to vanish out of my sight, and never once looked round or turned -aside for anything. The surprise was so great that I actually forgot -where I was going. It could not be for nothing that she had changed like -this. I went back to my own door, and then I came out again and opened -the Admiral’s gate. Probably Martha was at home, and would know what was -the matter. As I was going in, Martha met me coming out. She was in her -red cloak, like Nelly, and she had a letter in her hand. When she saw me -she laughed, and blushed a little. ‘Will you come with me to the post, -Mrs. Mulgrave?’ she said. ‘Sister would not wait for me; and when one -has an important letter to post——’ Martha went on, holding it up to -me, and laughing and blushing again.</p> - -<p>‘What makes it so very important?’ said I; and I confess that I tried -very hard to make out the address.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, didn’t she tell you?’ said Martha. ‘What a funny girl she is! If it -had been me I should have rushed all over the Green, and told everybody. -It is—can’t you guess?’</p> - -<p>And she held out to me the letter in her hand. It was addressed to -‘Captain Llewellyn, H.M.S. <i>Spitfire</i>, Portsmouth.’ I looked at it, and -I looked at her, and wonder took possession of me. The address was in -Martha’s handwriting. It was she who was going to post it; it was she -who, conscious and triumphant, giggling a little and blushing a little, -stood waiting for my congratulations. I looked at her aghast, and my -tongue failed me. ‘I don’t know what it means,’ I said, gasping. ‘I -can’t guess. Is it you who have been writing to Captain Llewellyn, or is -it Nelly, or who is it? Can there have been any mistake?’</p> - -<p>Martha was offended, as indeed she had reason to be. ‘There is no -mistake,’ she said indignantly. ‘It is a very strange sort of thing to -say, when any friend, any acquaintance even, would have congratulated -me. And you who know us so well! Captain Llewellyn has asked me to marry -him—that is all. I thought you might have found out what was coming. -But you have no eyes for anybody but Sister. You never think of me.’</p> - -<p>‘I beg your pardon,’ said I, faltering; ‘I was so much taken by -surprise. I am sure I wish you every happiness, Martha. Nobody can be -more anxious for your welfare than I am—’ and here I stopped short in -my confusion, choked by the words, and not knowing what to say.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, I am sure of that,’ said Martha affectionately, stopping at the -gate to give me a kiss. ‘I said so to Sister this morning. I said I am -sure Mrs. Mulgrave will be pleased. But are you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_9" id="page_9"></a>{9}</span> <i>really</i> so much -surprised? Did you never think this was how it was to be?’</p> - -<p>‘No,’ I said, trembling in spite of myself; ‘I never thought of it. I -thought indeed—but that makes no difference now.’</p> - -<p>‘What did you think?’ said Martha; and then her private sense of pride -and pleasure surmounted everything else. ‘Well, you see it is so,’ she -said, with a beaming smile. ‘He kept his own counsel, you see. I should -not have thought he was so sly—should you? I dare say he thinks he -showed it more than he did; for he says I must have seen how it was from -the first day.’</p> - -<p>And she stood before me so beaming, so dimpling over with smiles and -pleasure, that my heart sank within me. Could it be a mistake, or was it -I—ah! how little it mattered for me—was it my poor Nelly who had been -deceived?</p> - -<p>‘And did you?’ I said, looking into her face, ‘did you see it from the -first day?’</p> - -<p>‘Well, n-no,’ said Martha, hesitating; and then she resumed with a -laugh, ‘That shows you how sly he must have been. I don’t think I ever -suspected such a thing; but then, to be sure, I never thought much about -him, you know.’</p> - -<p>A little gleam of comfort came into my heart as she spoke. ‘Oh, then,’ I -said, relieved, ‘there is no occasion for congratulations after all.’</p> - -<p>‘Why is there no occasion for congratulations?’ said Martha. ‘Of course -there is occasion. I wanted Sister to run in and tell you last night, -but she wouldn’t; and I rather wanted you to tell me what I should say, -or, rather, how I should say it; but I managed it after all by myself. I -suppose one always can if one tries. It comes by nature, people say.’ -And Martha laughed again, and blushed, and cast a proud glance on the -letter she held in her hand.</p> - -<p>‘But if you never had thought of him yesterday,’ said I, ‘you can’t have -accepted him to-day.’</p> - -<p>‘Why not?’ said Martha, with a toss of her pretty head—and she was -pretty, especially in that moment of excitement. I could not refuse to -see it. It was a mere piece of pink-and-white prettiness, instead of my -little nut-brown maid, with her soft eyes, and her bright varied gleams -of feeling and intelligence. But then you can never calculate on what a -man may think in respect to a girl. Men are such fools; I mean where -women are concerned.</p> - -<p>‘Why not?’ said Martha, with a laugh. ‘I don’t mean I am frantically in -love with him, you know. How could I be, when I never knew he cared for -me? But I always said he was very nice; and then it is so suitable. And -I don’t care for anybody else. It would be very foolish of me to refuse -him without any reason. Of course,’ said Martha, looking down upon her -letter, ‘I shall think of him very differently now.’</p> - -<p>What could I say? I was at my wits’ end. I walked on by her side to the -post-office in a maze of confusion and doubt. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_10" id="page_10"></a>{10}</span> could have snatched the -letter out of her hand, and torn it into a hundred pieces; but that -would have done little good; and how could I tell if it was a mistake -after all? He might have sought Nelly for her sister’s sake. He might -have been such a fool, such a dolt, as to prefer Martha. All this time -he might but have been making his advances to her covertly—under shield -as it were of the gay bright creature who was too young and too -simple-hearted to understand such devices. Oh, my little nut-brown maid! -no wonder her eyes were so large and shadowy, her pretty cheeks so -colourless! I could have cried with vexation and despair as I went along -step for step with the other on the quiet country road. Though she was -so far from being bright, Martha at last was struck by my silence. It -took her a considerable time to find it out, for naturally her own -thoughts were many, and her mind was fully pre-occupied; but she did -perceive it at last.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t think you seem to like it, Mrs. Mulgrave,’ she said; ‘not so -much as I thought you would. You were the very first person I thought -of; I was coming to tell you when I met you. And I thought you would -sympathize with me and be so pleased to hear——’</p> - -<p>‘My dear,’ said I, ‘I am pleased to hear—anything that is for your -happiness; but then I am so much surprised. It was not what I looked -for. And then, good heavens! if it should turn out to be some -mistake——’</p> - -<p>‘Mrs. Mulgrave,’ said Martha angrily, ‘I don’t know what you can mean. -This is the second time you have talked of a mistake. What mistake could -there be? I suppose Captain Llewellyn knows what he is doing: unless you -want to be unkind and cross. And what have I done that you should be so -disagreeable to me?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, my dear child!’ I cried in despair, ‘I don’t know what I mean; I -thought once—there was Major Frost, you know——’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, is it that?’ said Martha, restored to perfect good-humour; ‘poor -Major Frost! But of course if he did not choose to come forward in time, -he could not expect me to wait for him. You may make your mind quite -easy if that is all.’</p> - -<p>‘And then,’ I said, taking a little courage, ‘Captain Llewellyn paid -Nelly a good deal of attention. He might have thought——’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ said Martha, ‘to be sure; and I never once suspected that he -meant it for me all the time.’</p> - -<p>I ask anybody who is competent to judge, could I have said any more? I -walked to the post-office with her, and I saw the letter put in. And an -hour afterwards I saw the mail-cart rattling past with the bags, and -knew it had set out to its destination. He would get it next morning, -and the two lives would be bound for ever and ever. The wrong two?—or -was it only we, Nelly and I, who had made the mistake? Had it been -Martha he sought all the time?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_11" id="page_11"></a>{11}</span></p> - -<h3>CHAPTER II</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> news soon became known to everybody on the Green, and great surprise -was excited by it. Everybody, I think, spoke to me on the subject. They -said, ‘If it had been the other sister!’ Even Lady Denzil went so far as -to say this, when, after having called at the Admiral’s to offer her -congratulations, she came in to see me. ‘I do not pretend that I like -the marriage,’ she said, with a little solemnity. ‘There were claims -upon him nearer home. It is not every man that is at liberty to choose -for himself; but if it had been the little one I could have understood -it.’ I hope nobody spoke like this to Nelly; she kept up a great deal -too well to satisfy me. She was in the very centre of all the flutter -that such an event makes in a small society like ours, and she knew -people were watching her; but she never betrayed herself. She had lost -her colour somehow—everybody remarked that; and the proud little girl -got up a succession of maladies, and said she had influenza and -indigestion, and I know not what, that nobody might suspect any other -cause. Sometimes I caught her for one instant off her guard, but it was -a thing that happened very rarely. Two or three times I met her going -off by herself for a long walk, and she would not have my company when I -offered to go with her. ‘I walk so fast,’ she said, ‘and then it is too -far for you.’ Once I even saw her in the spot to which all our walks -tended—the Dingle, which was our favourite haunt. It was a glorious -autumn, and the fine weather lasted long—much longer than usual. Up to -the middle of November there were still masses of gorgeous foliage on -the trees, and the sky was as blue—not as Italy, for Italy is soft and -languorous and melting—but as an English sky without clouds, full of -sunshine, yet clear, with a premonitory touch of frost, can be. The -trees in the Dingle are no common trees; they are giant beeches, -big-boled, heavily-clothed giants, that redden and crisp and hold their -own until the latest moment; and that mount up upon heights, and descend -into hollows, and open up here and there into gleams of the fair plain -around, growing misty in the distance as if it were sea. The great point -in the landscape is a royal castle, the noblest dwelling-place I ever -saw. We who live so near are learned in the different points of view; we -know where to catch it shining like a fairy stronghold in the white hazy -country, or stretching out in gray profile upon its height, or setting -itself—here the great donjon, there a flanking tower—in frames of -leafy branches. I had left my little carriage and my stout old pony on -the road, and had wandered up alone to have my last peep before winter -set in, when suddenly I saw Nelly before me. She was walking up and down -on the soft yielding mossy grass, carpeted with beech-mast and -pine-needles;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_12" id="page_12"></a>{12}</span> sometimes stopping to gaze blankly at the view—at the -great plain whitening off to the horizon, and the castle rising in the -midst. I knew what the view was, but I saw also that she did not see it. -Her face was all drawn together, small and shrunken up. There were deep -shadowy lines round her eyes; and as for the eyes themselves, it was -them and not Nelly that I saw. They were dilated, almost exaggerated, -unlike anything I ever saw before. She had come out here to be alone, -poor child! I crept away as best I could through the brown crackling -ferns. If she heard anything probably she thought it was some woodland -creature that could not spy upon her. But I don’t believe she heard -anything, nor saw anything; and I was no spy upon her, dear heart!</p> - -<p>The nearest we ever came to conversation on the subject was once when I -was telling her about a girl I once knew, whose story had been a very -sad one. She had pledged her heart and her life to a foolish young -fellow, who was very fond of her, and then was very fond of somebody -else; and would have been fond of her again, periodically, to any number -of times. She had borne it as long as she could, and then she had broken -down; and it had been a relief to her, poor girl, to come and cry her -heart out to me.</p> - -<p>‘It has never been my way, Nelly,’ I said, ‘but it seems to ease the -heart when it can speak. I don’t think that I could have spoken to any -one, had it been me.’</p> - -<p>‘And as for me,’ cried Nelly, ‘if I should ever be like that—and if any -one, even you, were so much as to look at me as if you knew, I think I -should die!’</p> - -<p>This was before the lamp was lighted; and in the dark, I think she put -up a hand to wipe off something from her eyelash. But you may be sure I -took care not to look. I tried to put all speculation out of my eyes -whenever I looked at her afterwards. My poor Nelly! in the very -extravagance of her pride was there not an appeal, and piteous throwing -of herself upon my forbearance? I thought there was, and it went to my -heart.</p> - -<p>The next thing, of course, was that Llewellyn announced himself as -coming to visit his betrothed. He was to come at Christmas, not being -able to leave his ship before. And then it was to be settled when the -marriage should take place. I confess that I listened to all this with a -very bad grace. Any reference to the marriage put me out of temper. He -wrote to her regularly and very often, and Martha used to read his -letters complacently before us all, and communicate little bits out of -them, and spend half her mornings writing her replies. She was not a -ready writer, and it really was hard work to her, and improved her -education—at least in the mechanical matters of writing and spelling. -But I wonder what sort of rubbish it was she wrote to him, and what he -thought of it. Was it possible he could suppose it was my Nelly who -wrote all those commonplaces, or was the mistake on my part, not on his? -As time<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_13" id="page_13"></a>{13}</span> went on, I came to think, more and more, that the latter was -the case. We had been deceived, Nelly and I. And Martha and Llewellyn -were two lovers worthy of each other. I fear I was not very charitable -to him in my thoughts.</p> - -<p>But I could not help being very nervous the day of his arrival. It was a -bleak wintry day, Christmas Eve, but not what people call Christmas -weather. It rarely is Christmas weather at Christmas. The sky hung low -and leaden over our bare trees, and of course there were no cricketers -now on the Green, nor sound of croquet balls, to enliven the stillness. -I could not rest at home. We had not been informed what train Captain -Llewellyn was to come by, and my mind was in such a disturbed state, -that I kept coming and going, all day long, on one errand or another, -lingering about the road. I don’t myself know what I meant by it; nor -could I have explained it to anybody. Sometimes I thought, if I should -meet him first, I would speak and make sure. Sometimes I fancied that I -could read in his face, at the first look, what it all meant. But, -anyhow, I did not meet him. I thought all the trains were in when I went -to the Admiral’s in the afternoon, at five o’clock—that is, all the -trains that could arrive before dinner, for we were two miles from the -station. Martha and her father were in the drawing-room when I entered. -There was a bright fire, but the candles were not lighted; I suppose, -out of reluctance to shut up the house, and close all the windows, -before the visitor came. Martha was sitting by the fire looking very gay -and bright, and a little excited. She told me Nelly had been all day in -the church, helping with the decorations, and that she was to stay at -the rectory to dinner, as there was a Christmas-tree for the -school-children to be got ready. ‘I dare say she thought we should not -want her this first evening,’ Martha said with a little laugh; and such -was the bitterness and unreasonableness of my heart that I was -speechless with exasperation; which was nonsense, for of course she had -a right to the society of her betrothed. While we were sitting thus over -the fire, all at once there came a sound of wheels, and the dog-cart -from the little inn at Dinglefield Station came rattling up. Martha gave -a little cry, and ran to the drawing-room door. I know I should have -gone away, but I did not. I stood behind in the ruddy gloom, and saw her -rush into Llewellyn’s arms. And he kissed her. And the next moment they -were back in the room beside us, she chatting about his journey, and -looking up in his face, and showing her satisfaction and delight, as it -was quite natural she should do. It seemed to me that he did not make -very much reply; but the room was dark, and his arrival was sudden, and -there was a certain confusion about everything. The Admiral came -forward, and shook hands with him, and so did I; and instead of looking -as if he wished us a hundred miles off, Llewellyn kept peering into the -corners, as if he wanted another greeting. Then he came to the fire, and -stood before it, making<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_14" id="page_14"></a>{14}</span> the room all the darker with his shadow; and -after we had all asked him if he had felt the cold on his journey, there -did not seem very much to say. I don’t know how the others felt, but I -know my heart began to beat wildly. Martha was in an unnatural state of -excitement. She drew a great comfortable easy-chair to the fire for him. -‘Dear Ellis, sit down,’ she said, laying her hand softly on his arm. The -touch seemed to wake him up out of a kind of reverie. He took her hand, -and held it for a moment, and then let it fall.</p> - -<p>‘You are far too kind,’ he said, ‘to take so much trouble for me. A -thousand thanks. Where is—your sister? She knew I was to come by this -train.’</p> - -<p>‘No, I don’t think Sister knew,’ said Martha; ‘that was my little -secret. I would not tell them what train you were coming by. She is -helping with the church decorations. She will see you to-morrow, you -know. I wish they would bring the tea: papa, will you ring?—Oh, papa -has gone away. Wait a minute, Ellis dear, and I will run and make them -bring it immediately. It will warm you better than anything else. I -sha’n’t be a moment gone.’</p> - -<p>The moment she had left us poor Llewellyn turned to me. Notwithstanding -the ruddy firelight, I could see he was quite haggard with the awful -suspicion that must have flashed upon him. ‘Mrs. Mulgrave!’ he cried -hurriedly, holding out his hands, ‘for God’s sake, tell me, what does -this mean?’</p> - -<p>‘It means that you have come to see your betrothed, Captain Llewellyn,’ -said I; ‘she has just gone out of the room. You made your choice, and I -hope you did not expect to have both the sisters. Martha stayed to -receive you, as was right and natural. You could not expect the same -from Nelly. She thought neither of you would want a third to-night.’</p> - -<p>I was so angry that I said all this in a breath. I know I ought to be -ashamed of myself, but I did it; I don’t think however that he heard -half. He covered his face with his hands and gave a groan, which seemed -to me to echo all through the house; and I had to add on to what I was -saying, ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, restrain yourself,’ I cried, without -even taking breath; ‘now it is too late!’</p> - -<p>And then Martha came in, excited and joyous, half dancing with high -spirits. I could have groaned too and hid my face from the light as he -did, poor fellow! but she went up to him and drew down his hands -playfully and said, ‘I am here, Ellis, you needn’t cover your eyes.’ He -did not answer her with a compliment or a caress, as perhaps she -expected; and Martha looked at me where I was standing by the side of -the fire. I knew she thought I was the restraining influence that closed -his mouth and subdued his joy—and what could I do?—I went away: I -could be of no use to him, poor boy! He must face it now as best he -could. I went away, and as soon as I got safely into my own house sat -down and cried. Not that crying would do<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_15" id="page_15"></a>{15}</span> any good; but when everything -is going wrong, and everybody is on the way to ruin and you see how it -is, and know how to mend it, and yet cannot, dare not, put forth a hand, -what can any one do but sit down and cry?</p> - -<p>But I could not rest in my quiet, comfortable, lonely house, and know -that those poor young hearts were being wrung, and keep still and take -no notice. I had my cup of tea, and I put on my warm cloak and hood and -went across the Green, though it was wet and slippery, to the -school-room, where I knew Nelly would be. She was in the midst of a heap -of toys and paper-flags and little tapers, dressing up the -Christmas-tree. There were three or four girls altogether, and Nelly was -the busiest of all. Her little hands were pricked and scratched with the -points of the holly and the sharp needles of the little fir-tree on -which she was working. Poor child! I wish it had been her hands only -that were wounded. The others had gloves on, but Nelly had taken hers -off, either because she found the pain of the pricks good for her, or -because of some emblematical meaning in it. ‘I can’t work in gloves,’ -she said carelessly, ‘and it doesn’t hurt so much when you are used to -it.’ When I saw her I could not but think of the pictures of Indians -tied to the stake, with arrows flying at them from all quarters. I am -aware St. Sebastian was killed in the same way—but I did not think of -him.</p> - -<p>‘I wish you would come with me, Nelly,’ I said; ‘you know Christmas Eve -is never very merry to me. There is no dinner, but you shall have -something with your tea.’</p> - -<p>‘I am going to the rectory,’ said Nelly. She did not venture to look at -me, and she spoke very quick, with a kind of catch in her breath. ‘I -promised—and there is a great deal to do yet. When Christmas is not -merry it is best to try and forget it is Christmas. If I were to go with -you, you would talk to me, and that would make you feel everything the -more.’</p> - -<p>‘I would not talk—you may trust me, Nelly,’ I said eagerly. In my -excitement I was for one minute off my guard.</p> - -<p>She gave me one look and then turned away, and began arranging the flags -and pricking her poor little soft fingers. ‘Talking does not matter to -me,’ she said in her careless way. Her pride was something that filled -me with consternation. She would not yield, not if she had been cut in -little pieces. Her heart was being torn out of her very breast, and she -was ready to look her executioners in the face and cheer them on.</p> - -<p>I don’t know how they all got through that evening. Nelly, I know, went -home late and went to her own room at once, as being tired. It was poor -Llewellyn that was the most to be pitied. I could not get him out of my -mind. I sat and thought and thought over it till I could scarcely rest. -Would he have the courage to emancipate himself and tell the truth? Or -would the dreadful coil of circumstances in which he had got involved -overcome him and subdue his spirit? I asked myself this question till it -made me sick and faint. How was he to turn upon the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_16" id="page_16"></a>{16}</span> girl who was -hanging on him so proud and pleased and confident, and say that he had -never cared for her and never sought her? There are men who would have -the nerve to do that; but my poor simple, tender-hearted sailor—who -would not hurt a fly, and who had no warning nor preparation for the -fate that was coming on him—I could not hope that he would be so brave.</p> - -<p>I saw by my first glance next morning at church that he had not been -brave. He was seated by Martha’s side, looking pale and haggard and -stern; such a contrast to her lively and demonstrative happiness. Nelly -was at the other end of the pew under her father’s shadow. I don’t know -what she had done to herself—either it was excitement, or in her pride -she had had recourse to artificial aids. She had recovered her colour as -if by a miracle. I am afraid that I did not pay so much attention to the -service as I ought to have done. My whole thoughts were bent upon the -Admiral’s seat, where there were two people quite serene and -comfortable, and two in the depths of misery and despair. There were -moments when I felt as if I could have got up in church and protested -against it in the sight of God. One feels as if one could do that: but -one keeps still and does nothing all the same.</p> - -<p>In the afternoon Llewellyn came to see me. He would have done it anyhow, -I feel sure, for he had a good heart. But there was a stronger reason -still that Christmas Day. He did not say much to me when he came. He -walked about my drawing-room and looked at all the ornaments on the -tables, and opened the books, and examined my Christmas presents. Then -he came and sat down beside me before the fire. He tried to talk, and -then he broke off and leant his face between his hands. It was again a -gray, dark, sunless day; and it was all the darker in my room because of -the verandah over the windows, which makes it so pleasant in summer. I -could see his profile darkly before me as he made an attempt at -conversation, not looking at me, but staring into the fire; and then, -all at once, his shoulders went up, and his face disappeared in the -shadow of his hands. He stared into the fire still, under that shelter; -but he felt himself safe from my inspection, poor fellow!</p> - -<p>‘I ought to beg your pardon,’ he said, suddenly, concentrating all his -attention upon the glowing embers, ‘for speaking as I did—last -night——’</p> - -<p>‘There was nothing to pardon,’ said I. And then we came to an -embarrassed pause, for I did not know which was best—to speak, or to be -silent.</p> - -<p>‘I know I was very abrupt,’ he said, ‘I was rude. I hope you will -forgive me. It was the surprise.’ And then he gave vent to something -between a cry and a groan. ‘What is to become of us all, good God!’ he -muttered. It was all I could do to hear him, and the exclamation did not -sound to me profane.</p> - -<p>‘Captain Llewellyn,’ I said, ‘I don’t know whether I ought<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_17" id="page_17"></a>{17}</span> to say -anything, or whether I should hold my tongue. I understand it all; and I -feel for you with all my heart.’</p> - -<p>‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said; ‘it doesn’t matter. Feeling is of no use. -But there is one thing you could tell me. She—you know—I can’t call -her by any name—I don’t seem to know her name—Just tell me one thing, -and I’ll try and bear it. Did she mind? Does she think me——? Good -heavens! what does it matter what any one thinks? If you are sure it did -not hurt her, I—don’t mind.’</p> - -<p>‘N—no,’ said I; but I don’t think he got any comfort from my tone. ‘You -may be sure it will not hurt her,’ I went on, summoning up all my pride. -‘She is not the sort of girl to let it hurt her.’ I spoke indignantly, -for I did not know what was coming. He seized my hand, poor boy, and -wrung it till I could have screamed; and then he broke down, as a man -does when he has come to the last point of wretchedness: two or three -hoarse sobs burst from him. ‘God bless her!’ he cried.</p> - -<p>I was wound up to such a pitch that I could not sit still. I got up and -grasped his shoulder. In my excitement I did not know what I was doing.</p> - -<p>‘Are you going to bear it?’ I said. ‘Do you mean to let it go on? It is -a lie; and are you going to set it up for the truth? Oh, Captain -Llewellyn! is it possible that you mean to let it go on?’</p> - -<p>Then he gave me one sorrowful look, and shook his head. ‘I have accepted -it,’ he said. ‘It is too late. You said so last night.’</p> - -<p>I knew I had said so; but things somehow looked different now. ‘I would -speak to Martha herself,’ said I. And I saw he shuddered at her name. ‘I -would speak to her father. The Admiral is sensible and kind. He will -know what to do.’</p> - -<p>‘He will think I mean to insult them,’ said Llewellyn, shaking his head. -‘I have done harm enough. How was I to know? But never mind—never mind. -It is my own doing, and I must bear it.’ Then he rose up suddenly, and -turned to me with a wan kind of smile. ‘I cannot afford to indulge -myself with talk,’ he said. ‘Good-bye, and thanks. I don’t feel as if I -cared much now what happened. The only thing is, I can’t stay here.’</p> - -<p>‘But you must stay a week—you must stay over Christmas,’ I cried, as he -stood holding my hand.</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ he said with a sigh. ‘I must get through to-night. If you’d keep -her out of the way, Mrs. Mulgrave, it would be the kindest thing you -could do. I can’t look at her. It kills me. But I’ll be summoned by -telegram to-morrow,’ he added, with a kind of desperate satisfaction. ‘I -wrote this morning.’ And then he shook hands with me hurriedly, and went -away.</p> - -<p>I had very little trouble to keep Nelly—poor Nelly!—out of his way. -She made me go up-stairs with her after dinner (I always dined there on -Christmas) to show me the presents she had got, and the things she had -prepared for her pensioners in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_18" id="page_18"></a>{18}</span> the village. We made a great pet of the -village, we people who lived on the Green, and, I fear, rather spoiled -it. There were things for the babies, and things for the old women, -which were to be bestowed next day when they all came to the school-room -for the Christmas-tree. She never mentioned Llewellyn to me, nor Martha, -nor referred to the domestic event which, in other circumstances, would -have occupied her mind above all. I almost wonder it did not occur to -her that to speak of, and show an interest in, her sister’s engagement -was quite a necessary part of her own self-defence. Either it was too -much, and she could not, or it did not enter into her mind. She never -took any notice of it, at least to me. She never so much as mentioned -his name. They never looked at each other, nor addressed each other, -though I could see that every look and movement of one was visible to -the other. Nelly kept me up-stairs until it was time for me to go home. -She came running out with me, with her red cloak round her, when the -Admiral marched to the gate to see me home, as he made a rule of doing. -She stood at the gate, in the foggy, wintry darkness, to wait for him -until he came back from my door. And I waited on my own threshold, and -saw them going back—Nelly, poor child, clinging fast to her father’s -arm. My heart ached; and yet not so much even for her as for the other. -What was he doing indoors, left alone with the girl he was engaged to, -and did not love?</p> - -<p>Next morning, to the astonishment and dismay of everybody but myself, -Captain Llewellyn was summoned back to his ship by telegraph. Martha was -more excited about it than I should have supposed possible. It was so -hard upon poor dear Ellis, she said, before they had been able to -arrange anything, or even to talk of anything. She had not the slightest -doubt of him. His wretched looks, and his hesitation and coldness, had -taught nothing to Martha. If she was perhaps disappointed at first by -his want of ardour, the disappointment had soon passed. It was his way; -he was not the sort of man to make a fuss. By this means she quite -accounted for it to herself. For my own part, I cannot say that I was -satisfied with his conduct. If he had put a stop to it boldly—if he had -said at once it was all a mistake—then, whatever had come of it, I -could have supported and sympathized with him; but it made an end of -Captain Llewellyn, as a man, in my estimation, when he thus ran away. I -was vexed, and I was sorry; and yet I cannot say I was surprised.</p> - -<p>He wrote afterwards to say it was important business, and that he had no -hope of being able to come back. And then he wrote that he had been -transferred to another ship just put into commission, and had to sail at -once. He could not even come to wish his betrothed good-bye. He assured -her it could not be for long, as their orders were only for the -Mediterranean; but it was a curious reversal of all their former ideas. -‘He<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_19" id="page_19"></a>{19}</span> must retire,’ Martha said, when she had told me this news with -tears. ‘The idea of a man with a good property of his own being ordered -about like that! Papa says things have changed since his days; he never -heard of anything so arbitrary. After all he said about our marriage -taking place first, to think that he should have to go away now, without -a moment to say good-bye!’</p> - -<p>And she cried and dried her eyes, while I sat by and felt myself a -conspirator, and was very uncomfortable. Nelly was present too. She sat -working in the window, with her head turned away from us, and took no -part in the conversation. Perhaps it was a relief; perhaps—and this was -what she herself thought—it would have been better to have got it over -at once. Anyhow, at this present juncture, she sat apart, and took no -apparent notice of what we said.</p> - -<p>‘And Nelly never says a word,’ sobbed Martha. ‘She has no sympathy. I -think she hates poor dear Ellis. She scarcely looked at him when he was -here. And she won’t say she is sorry now.’</p> - -<p>‘When everybody is sorry what does it matter if I say it or not?’ said -Nelly, casting one rapid glance from her work. She never was so fond of -her work before. Now she had become all at once a model girl: she never -was idle for a moment; one kind of occupation or another was constantly -in her hands. She sat at her knitting, while Martha, disappointed and -vexed, cried and folded up her letter. I don’t know whether an inkling -of the truth had come to Nelly’s mind. Sometimes I thought so. When the -time approached which Llewellyn had indicated as the probable period of -his return, she herself proposed that she should go on a visit to her -godmother in Devonshire. It was spring then, and she had a cough; and -there were very good reasons why she should go. The only one that -opposed it was Martha. ‘It will look so unkind to dear Ellis,’ she said; -‘as if you would rather not meet him. At Christmas you were out all the -time. And if she dislikes him, Mrs. Mulgrave, she ought to try to get -over it. Don’t you think so? It is unkind to go away.’</p> - -<p>‘She does not dislike him,’ said I. ‘But she wants a change, my dear.’ -And so we all said. The Admiral, good man, did not understand it at all. -He saw that something was wrong. ‘There is something on the little one’s -mind,’ he said to me. ‘I hoped she would have taken you into her -confidence. I can’t tell what is wrong with her, for my part.’</p> - -<p>‘She wants a change,’ said I. ‘She has never said anything to me.’</p> - -<p>It was quite true; she had never said a word to me. I might have -betrayed Llewellyn, but I could not betray Nelly. She had kept her own -counsel. While the Admiral was talking to me, I cannot describe how -strong the temptation was upon me to tell him all the story. But I dared -not. It was a thing from which the boldest might have shrunk. And though -everybody<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_20" id="page_20"></a>{20}</span> on the Green had begun to wonder vaguely, and the Admiral -himself was a little uneasy, Martha never suspected anything amiss. She -cried a little when ‘poor Ellis’ wrote to say his return was again -postponed; but it was for his disappointment she cried. Half an hour -after she was quite serene and cheerful again, looking forward to the -time when he should arrive eventually. ‘For he must come some time, you -know; they can’t keep him away for ever,’ she said; until one did not -know whether to be impatient with her serenity, or touched by it, and -could not make up one’s mind whether it was stupidity or faith.</p> - -<h3>CHAPTER III</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Nelly</span> paid her visit to her godmother, and came back; and spring wore -into summer, and the trees were all in full foliage again in the Dingle, -and the cricketers had returned to the Green; but still Captain -Llewellyn was unaccountably detained. Nelly had come home looking much -better than when she went away. His name still disturbed her composure I -could see; though I don’t suppose a stranger who knew nothing of the -circumstances would have found it out. And when Martha threatened us -with a visit from him, her sister shrank up into herself; but otherwise -Nelly was much improved. She recovered her cheerful ways; she became the -soul of all our friendly parties again. I said to myself that I had been -a truer prophet than I had the least hope of; and that she was not the -sort of girl to let herself be crushed in any such way. But she never -spoke to me of her sister’s marriage, nor of her sister’s betrothed. I -mentioned the matter one day when we were alone, cruelly and of set -purpose to see what she would say. ‘When your sister is married, and -when you are married,’ I said, ‘it will be very dull both for the -Admiral and me.’</p> - -<p>‘I shall never marry,’ said Nelly, with a sudden closing up and veiling -of all her brightness which was more expressive than words. ‘I don’t -know about Sister; but you need not weave any such visions for me.’</p> - -<p>‘All girls say so till their time comes,’ said I, with an attempt to be -playful; ‘but why do you say you don’t know about Martha? she must be -married before long, of course?’</p> - -<p>‘I suppose so,’ said Nelly, and then she stopped short; she would not -add another word; but afterwards, when we were all together, she broke -out suddenly—Martha’s conversation at this period was very much -occupied with her marriage. I suppose it was quite natural. In my young -days girls were shy of talking much on that subject, but things are -changed now. Martha talked of it continually: of when dear Ellis would -come; of his probable desire that the wedding should take place at once; -of her determination to have two months at least to prepare her -trousseau; of where they should go after the marriage. She<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_21" id="page_21"></a>{21}</span> discussed -everything, without the smallest idea, poor girl, of what was passing in -the minds of the listeners. At last, after hearing a great deal of this -for a long time, Nelly suddenly burst forth—</p> - -<p>‘How strange it would be after all, if we were to turn out a couple of -old maids,’ she cried, ‘and never to marry at all. The two old sisters! -with chairs on each side of the fire, and great authorities in the -village. How droll it would be!—and not so very unlikely after all.’</p> - -<p>‘Speak for yourself,’ cried Martha indignantly. ‘It is very unlikely so -far as I am concerned. I am as good as married already. As for you, you -can do what you please——’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, I can do what I please,’ said Nelly, with a curious ring in her -voice; and then she added, ‘But I should not wonder if we were both old -maids after all.’</p> - -<p>‘She is very queer,’ Martha said to me when her sister had left the -room, in an aggrieved tone. ‘She does not mean it, of course; but I -don’t like it, Mrs. Mulgrave. It does not seem lucky. Why should she -take it into her head about our being old maids? I am as good as married -now.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ I said vaguely. I could not give any assent more cordial. And -then she resumed her anticipations. But I saw in a moment what Nelly -meant. This was how she thought it was to end. It was a romantic girl’s -notion, but happily she was too young to think how unlikely it was. No -doubt she saw a vision of the two maiden sisters, and of one who would -be their devoted friend, but who could never marry either. That was the -explanation she had put in her heart upon his abrupt departure and his -many delays. He had made a fatal mistake, and its consequences were to -last all his life. They were all three, all their lives long, to -continue in the same mind. He could never marry either of them; and -neither of them, none of the three, were ever to be tempted to marry -another. And thus, in a pathetic climax of faithfulness and delicate -self-sacrifice, they were to grow old and die. Nelly was no longer -miserable when she had framed this ideal in her mind. It seemed to her -the most natural solution of the difficulty. The romance, instead of -ending in a prosaic marriage, was to last all their lives. And the -eldest of them, Llewellyn himself, was but seven-and-twenty! Poor Nelly -thought it the most likely thing in the world.</p> - -<p>If she had consulted me, I could have told her of something much more -likely—something which very soon dawned upon the minds of most people -at Dinglefield Green. It was that a certain regiment had come back to -the barracks which were not very far from our neighbourhood. Before -Captain Llewellyn made his appearance among us, there had been a Major -Frost who had ‘paid attention’ to Martha; and he did not seem at all -disinclined to pay attention to her now that he had come back. Though he -was told of her engagement, the information seemed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_22" id="page_22"></a>{22}</span> to have very little -effect upon him. He came over perpetually, and was always at hand to -ride, or walk, or drive, or flirt, as the young ladies felt disposed. -Before he had been back a fortnight it seemed to me that Martha had -begun to talk less about dear Ellis. By degrees she came the length of -confessing that dear Ellis wrote very seldom. I had found out that fact -for myself, but she had never made any reference to it before. I watched -her with an interest which surpassed every other interest in my life at -that moment. I forgot even Nelly, and took no notice of her in -comparison. The elder sister absorbed me altogether. By degrees she gave -up talking of her marriage, and of her wedding-dress, and where they -were to live; and she began to talk of Major Frost. He seemed always to -be telling her something which she had to repeat; and he told her very -private details, with which she could have nothing to do. He told her -that he was much better off than when he was last at the Green. Somebody -had died and had left him a great deal of money. He was thinking of -leaving the army, and buying a place in our county, if possible. He -asked Martha’s advice where he should go. ‘It is odd that he should tell -you all this,’ I said to her one day, when she was re-confiding to me a -great many of Major Frost’s personal affairs; and though she was not -usually very quick of apprehension, something called upon Martha’s cheek -the shadow of a blush.</p> - -<p>‘I think it is quite natural,’ she said; ‘we are such old friends; and -then he knows I am engaged. I always thought he was very nice—didn’t -you? I don’t think he will ever marry,’ Martha added, with a certain -pathos. ‘He says he could never have married but one woman; and he can’t -have her now. He was poor when he was last here you know.’</p> - -<p>‘And who was the woman he could have married?’ said I.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, of course I did not ask him,’ said Martha with modest -consciousness. ‘Poor fellow! it would have been cruel to ask him. It is -hard that he should have got his money just after I—— I mean after she -was engaged.’</p> - -<p>‘It is hard that money should always be at the bottom of everything,’ -said I. And though it was the wish nearest to my heart that Martha -should forget and give up Llewellyn, still I was angry with her for what -she said. But that made no difference. She was not bright enough to know -that her faith was wavering. She went on walking and talking with Major -Frost, and boring us all with him and his confidences, till I, for one, -was sick of his very name. But she meant no treachery; she never even -thought of deserting her betrothed. Had any accident happened to bring -him uppermost, she would have gone back to dear Ellis all the same. She -was not faithless nor fickle, nor anything that was wicked: she was -chiefly stupid, or, rather, I stolid. And to think the two were sisters! -The Admiral was not very quick-sighted, but evidently he had begun to -notice how things were going. He came to me one afternoon to consult<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_23" id="page_23"></a>{23}</span> me -when both the girls were out. I suppose they were at croquet somewhere. -We elders found that afternoon hour, when they were busy with the balls -and mallets, a very handy time for consulting about anything which they -were not intended to know.</p> - -<p>‘I think I ought to write to Llewellyn,’ he said. ‘Things are in a very -unsatisfactory state. I am not satisfied that he was obliged to go away -as he said. I think he might have come to see her had he tried. I have -been consulting the little one about it, and she thinks with me.’</p> - -<p>‘What does she think?’ I asked with breathless interest, to the -Admiral’s surprise.</p> - -<p>‘She thinks with me that things are in an unsatisfactory state,’ he said -calmly; ‘that it would be far better to have it settled and over, one -way or another. She is a very sensible little woman. I was just about to -write to Llewellyn, but I thought it best to ask you first what your -opinion was.’</p> - -<p>Should I speak and tell him all? Had I any right to tell him? The -thought passed through my mind quick as lightning. I made a longer pause -than I ought to have done; and then all I could find to say was:</p> - -<p>‘I think I should let things take their course if I were you.’</p> - -<p>‘What does that mean?’ said the Admiral quickly. ‘Take their course! I -think it is my duty to write to him and let things be settled out of -hand.’</p> - -<p>It was with this intention he left me. But he did not write, for the -very next morning there came a letter from Llewellyn, not to Martha, but -to her father, telling him that he was coming home. The ship had been -paid off quite unexpectedly I heard afterwards. And I suppose that -unless he had been courageous enough to give the true explanation of his -conduct he had no resource but to come back. It was a curious, abrupt -sort of letter. The young man’s conscience, I think, had pricked him for -his cowardice in running away; and either he had wound himself up to the -point of carrying out his engagement in desperation, or else he was -coming to tell his story and ask for his release. I heard of it -immediately from the Admiral himself, who was evidently not quite at -ease in his mind on the subject. And a short time afterwards Martha came -in, dragging her sister with her, full of the news.</p> - -<p>‘I could scarcely get her to come,’ Martha said. ‘I can’t think what she -always wants running after those village people. And when we have just -got the news that Ellis is coming home!’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, I heard,’ said I. ‘I suppose I ought to congratulate you. Do you -expect him soon? Does he say anything about——?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, his letter was to papa,’ said Martha, interrupting my very -hesitating and embarrassed speech; for my eyes were on Nelly, and I saw -in a moment that her whole expression had changed. ‘He could not be -expected to say anything particular to papa, but I suppose it must be -very soon. I don’t think he will want to wait now he is free.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_24" id="page_24"></a>{24}</span></p> - -<p>‘I shall be very glad when it is all over,’ said Nelly, to my great -surprise. It was the first time I had heard her make any comment on the -subject. ‘It will make so much fuss and worry. It is very entertaining -to them, I suppose, but it is rather tiresome to us. Mrs. Mulgrave, I am -going to see Molly Jackson; I can hear all about the <i>trousseau</i> at -home, you know.’</p> - -<p>‘Nelly!’ said I, as I kissed her; and I could not restrain a warning -look. She flushed up, poor child, to her hair, but turned away with a -sick impatience that went to my heart.</p> - -<p>‘If you had the worry of it night and day as I shall have!’ she said -under her breath, with an impatient sigh. And then she went away.</p> - -<p>I knew all that was in her heart as well as if she had told me. She had -lost her temper and patience as well as her peace of mind. It is hard to -keep serene under a repeated pressure. She did it the first time, but -she was not equal to it the second. She had no excuse to go away now. -She had to look forward to everything, and hear it all discussed, and go -through it in anticipation. She had to receive him as his future sister; -to be the witness of everything, always on the spot; a part of the -bridal pageant, the first and closest spectator. And it was very hard to -bear. As for Martha, she sat serene in a chair which she had herself -worked for me, turning her fair countenance to the light. She saw -nothing strange in Nelly’s temper, nor in anything that happened to her. -She sat waiting till I had taken my seat again, quite ready to go into -the question of the <i>trousseau</i>. The sight of her placidity made me -desperate. Suddenly there came before me the haggard looks of poor -Llewellyn, and the pale exasperation and heart-sickness of my bright -little Nelly’s face. And then I looked at Martha, who was sitting, -serene and cheerful, just in the same spot and the same attitude in -which, a few days before, she had told me of Major Frost. She had left -off Major Frost now and come back to her trousseau. What did it matter -to her which of them it was? As for giving her pain or humiliating her, -how much or how long would she feel it? I became desperate. I fastened -the door when I closed it after Nelly that nobody might interrupt us, -and then I came and sat down opposite to my victim. Martha was utterly -unconscious still. It never occurred to her to notice how people were -looking, nor to guess what was in anybody’s mind.</p> - -<p>‘You are quite pleased,’ said I, making my first assault very gently, -‘that Captain Llewellyn is coming home?’</p> - -<p>‘Pleased!’ said Martha. ‘Of course I am pleased. What odd people you all -are! Anybody might see that it is pleasanter to be settled and know what -one is doing. I wish you would come up to town with me some day, Mrs. -Mulgrave, and help me with my things.’</p> - -<p>‘My dear,’ said I, ‘in the first place, there is something more -important than your things; there is Major Frost. What do you mean to do -with him?’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_25" id="page_25"></a>{25}</span></p> - -<p>‘I—with him?’ said Martha, opening her eyes. ‘He always knew I was -engaged. Of course I am very sorry for him; but if he did not choose to -come forward in time, he could not expect that one was to wait.’</p> - -<p>‘And is that how you mean to leave him,’ said I severely, ‘after all the -encouragement you have given him? Every day, for a month past, I have -expected to hear you say that you had made a mistake about Captain -Llewellyn, and that it was the Major you liked best.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, fancy <i>me</i> doing such a thing!’ cried Martha, really roused, ‘after -being engaged to Ellis a whole year. If he had come forward at the -proper time perhaps—— But to make a change when everything was -settled! You never could have believed it of <i>me</i>!’</p> - -<p>‘If you like the other better, it is never too late to make a change,’ -said I, carried away by my motive, which was good, and justified a -little stretch of ethics. ‘You will be doing a dreadful injury to poor -Captain Llewellyn if you marry him and like another man best.’</p> - -<p>Martha looked at me with a little simper of self-satisfaction. ‘I think -I know my duty,’ she said. ‘I am engaged. I don’t see that anything else -is of any consequence. Of course the gentleman I am engaged to is the -one I shall like best.’</p> - -<p>‘Do you mean that you are engaged to him because you like him best?’ -said I. ‘Martha, take care. You may be preparing great bitterness for -yourself. I have no motive but your good.’ This was not true, but still -it is a thing that everybody says; and I was so much excited that I had -to stop to take breath. ‘You may never have it in your power to make a -choice again,’ I said with solemnity. ‘You ought to pause and think -seriously which of the two you love. You cannot love them both. It is -the most serious question you will ever have to settle in your life.’</p> - -<p>Martha looked at me with a calm surprise which drove me wild. ‘Dear Mrs. -Mulgrave,’ she said, ‘I don’t know what you mean. I am engaged to -Ellis—and Major Frost has never proposed even. He may have been only -flirting, for anything I can tell; and how foolish it would be to give -up the one without any real hold on the other! but of course it is -nonsense altogether. Why, Ellis is coming back on purpose; and as Major -Frost did not come forward in time, I don’t see how he can complain.’</p> - -<p>All this she said with the most perfect placidity, sitting opposite the -window, lifting her serene countenance to the light. It was a practical -concern to Martha. It did not so much matter which it was; but to -interfere with a thing fully arranged and settled, because of any mere -question of liking! I was not by a very long way so cool as she was. -Everything seemed to me to depend upon this last throw, and I felt -myself suddenly bold to put it to the touch. It was not my business, to -be sure; but to think of those two young creatures torn asunder and made -miserable! It was not even Nelly I was thinking of. Nelly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_26" id="page_26"></a>{26}</span> would be -free; she was young; she would not have her heartbreak always kept -before her, and time would heal her wounds. But poor Llewellyn was bound -and fettered. He could not escape nor forget. It was for him I made my -last attempt.</p> - -<p>‘Martha, I have something still more serious to say to you,’ I said. ‘Do -you remember, when you told me of Captain Llewellyn’s proposal first, I -asked you if it was not a mistake?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, I remember very well,’ said Martha. ‘It was just like you. I never -knew any one who asked such odd questions. I should have been angry had -it been any one but you.’</p> - -<p>‘Perhaps you will be angry now,’ I said. ‘I know you will be vexed, but -I can’t help it. Oh, my dear, you must listen to me! It is not only your -happiness that is concerned, but that of others. Martha, I have every -reason to think that it was a mistake. Don’t smile; I am in earnest. It -was a mistake. Can’t you see yourself how little heart he puts into it? -Martha, my dear, it is no slight to you. You told me you had never -thought of him before he wrote to you. And it was not you he meant to -write to. What can I say to convince you? It is true; it is not merely -my idea. It was all a mistake.’</p> - -<p>‘Mrs. Mulgrave,’ said Martha, a little moved out of her composure, ‘I am -not angry. I might be; but I am sure you don’t mean it. It is one of the -fancies you take into your head. How could it be a mistake? It was me he -wrote to, not anybody else. Of course I was not fond of him before; but -when a man asks you to marry him, how is it possible there can be any -mistake?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Martha,’ I said, wringing my hands, ‘let me tell you all; only hear -me, and don’t be vexed. Did you never notice all that summer how he -followed Nelly about? Try and remember. He was always by her side; -wherever we went those two were together. Ask anybody; ask Lady Denzil; -ask your father. Oh, my dear child, I don’t want to hurt your feelings! -I want to save you from something you will be very sorry for. I want you -to be happy. Can’t you see what I mean without any more explanations -from me?’</p> - -<p>Martha had, notwithstanding her composure, grown pale. Her placid looks -had changed a little. ‘I see it is something about Sister,’ she said. -‘Because you like her best, you think everybody else must like her best -too. I wonder why it is that you are so unkind to me!’</p> - -<p>As she spoke she cried a little, and turned her shoulder towards me, -instead of her face.</p> - -<p>‘Not unkind,’ I said, ‘oh, not unkind; I am speaking only because I love -you all.’</p> - -<p>‘You have never loved <i>me</i>,’ said Martha, weeping freely; ‘never, though -I have been so fond of you. And now you want to make me ridiculous and -miserable. How can I tell what you mean? What has Sister to do with it? -Ellis was civil to her for—for my sake. It was me he proposed to. How -can I tell what you are all plotting in your hearts? When people write<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_27" id="page_27"></a>{27}</span> -letters to me, and ask me to marry them, am I not to believe what they -say?’</p> - -<p>‘When he wrote, he thought Nelly was the eldest,’ I said. ‘You know what -I have always told you about your names. He wrote to her, and it came to -you. Martha, believe me, it is not one of my fancies; it is true.’</p> - -<p>‘How do you know it is true?’ she cried, with a natural outburst of -anger and indignation. ‘How do you dare to come and say all this now? -Insulting Ellis, and Sister, and me! Oh, I wish I had never known you! I -wish I had never, never come into this house! I wish——’</p> - -<p>Her voice died away in a storm of sobs and tears. She cried like a -child—as a baby cries, violently, with temper, and not with grief. She -was not capable of Nelly’s suppressed passion and misery; neither did -the blow strike deep enough for that; and she had no pride to restrain -her. She cried noisily, turning her shoulder to me, making her eyes red -and her cheeks blurred. When I got up and went to her, she repulsed me; -I had nothing to do but sit down again, and wait till the passion had -worn itself out. And there she sat sobbing, crushing her pretty hat, and -disfiguring her pretty face, with the bright light falling upon her, and -revealing every heave of her shoulders. By degrees the paroxysm -subsided; she dried her eyes, poor child, and put up her hair, which had -got into disorder, with hasty and agitated hands. Then she turned her -flushed, tear-stained face upon me. It was almost prettier than usual in -this childish passion.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t believe you!’ she cried. ‘I don’t believe it one bit! You only -want to vex me. Oh, I wish I had never known you. I wish I might never -see you again—you, and—all the rest! I wish I were dead! But I shall -tell papa, Mrs. Mulgrave, and I know what he will think of you.’</p> - -<p>‘Martha, I am very sorry——’ I began, but Martha had rushed to the -door.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t want to hear any more!’ she said. ‘I know everything you can -say. You are fond of Sister, and want her to have everything. And you -always hated me!’</p> - -<p>With these words she rushed out, shutting not only the door of the room -behind her in her wrath, but the door of the house, which stood always -open. She left me, I avow, in a state of very great agitation. I had not -expected her to take it in this way. And it had been a great strain upon -my nerves to speak at all. I trembled all over, and as soon as she was -gone I cried too, from mere nervousness and agitation, not to speak of -the terrible thought that weighed on my mind—had I done harm or good? -What would the others say if they knew? Would they bless or curse me? -Had I interfered out of season? Had I been officious? Heaven knows! The -result only could show.</p> - -<p>Most people know what a strange feeling it is when one has thus -estranged, or parted in anger from, a daily and intimate companion; how -one sits in a vague fever of excitement,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_28" id="page_28"></a>{28}</span> thinking it over—wondering -what else one could have said; wondering if the offended friend will -come or send, or give any sign of reconciliation; wondering what one -ought to do. I was so shaken by it altogether that I was good for -nothing but lying down on the sofa. When my maid came to look for me, -she was utterly dismayed by my appearance. ‘Them young ladies are too -much for you, ma’am,’ she said indignantly. ‘It’s as bad as daughters of -your own.’ I think that little speech was the last touch that was wanted -to make me break down. As bad as daughters of my own! but not as good; -very different. When I thought how those girls would cling round their -father, it was more than I could bear. Not that I envied him. But I was -ready to do more for them than he was; to risk their very love in order -to serve them; and how different was their affection for me!</p> - -<p>All day long I stayed indoors, recovering slowly, but feeling very -miserable. Nobody came near me. The girls, who were generally flitting -out and in twenty times in a day, never appeared again. The very door -which Martha shut in her passion remained closed all day. When it came -to be evening, I could bear it no longer; I could not let the sun go -down upon such a quarrel; I was so lonely I could not afford to be -proud. I drew my shawl round me, though I was still trembling, and went -softly in at the Admiral’s gate. It was dusk, and everything was very -sweet. It had been a lovely autumn day, very warm for the season, and -the twilight lingered as if it were loth to make an end. I thought the -girls would probably be in the drawing-room by themselves, and that I -might invent some excuse for sending Nelly away, and try to make my -peace with her sister. I did not love Martha as I loved Nelly, but I was -fond of her all the same, as one is fond of a girl one has seen grow up, -and watched over from day to day; and I could not bear that she should -be estranged from me. When I went in however Nelly was all alone. She -was sitting in a low chair by the fire, for they always had a fire -earlier than other people. She was sitting over it with her face resting -in her hands, almost crouching towards the friendly blaze. And yet it -was a warm evening, very warm for the time of the year. She started when -she heard my step, and turned round and for the moment I saw that I was -not welcome to Nelly either. Her thoughts had been better company: or -was it possible that Martha could have told her? I did not think however -that this could be the case, when she drew forward my favourite chair -for me, and we began to talk. Nelly had not passed through any crisis -such as that which Martha and I had made for ourselves. She told me her -sister had a headache, and had been lying down before dinner, but that -now she had gone out for a little air.</p> - -<p>‘Only in the garden,’ Nelly said. And then she added, ‘Major Frost is -here. He is with her—and I don’t think he ought to come so -often—now——’</p> - -<p>‘Major Frost!’ I said, and my heart began to beat; I don’t<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_29" id="page_29"></a>{29}</span> know what I -feared or hoped, for at this moment the Admiral came in from the -dining-room, and joined us, and we got into ordinary conversation. What -a strange thing ordinary conversation is! We sat in the dark, with only -the firelight making rosy gleams about the room, and wavering in the -great mirror over the mantelpiece, where we were all dimly -reflected—and talked about every sort of indifferent subject. But I -wonder if Nelly was thinking of what she was saying? or if her heart was -away, like mine, hovering over the heads of these two in the garden, or -with poor Llewellyn, who was creeping home an unwilling bridegroom? Even -the Admiral, I believe, had something on his mind different from all our -chit-chat. For my own part I sat well back in my corner, with my heart -thumping so against my breast that it affected my breathing. I had to -speak in gasps, making up the shortest sentences I could think of. And -we talked about public affairs, and what was likely to be the result of -the new measures; and the Admiral, who was a man of the old school, -shook his head, and declared I was a great deal too much of an optimist, -and thought more hopefully than reasonably of the national affairs. -Heaven help me! I was thinking of nothing at that moment but of Martha -and Major Frost.</p> - -<p>Then there was a little stir outside in the hall. The firelight, and the -darkness, and the suspense, and my own feelings generally, recalled to -my mind so strongly the evening on which Llewellyn arrived, that I -should not have been surprised had he walked in, when the door opened. -But it was only Martha who came in. The firelight caught her as she -entered, and showed me for one brief moment a different creature from -the Martha I had parted with that morning in sobs and storms. I don’t -know what she wore; but I know that she was more elaborately dressed -than usual, and had sparkling ornaments about her, which caught the -light. I almost think, though I never could be sure, that it was her -poor mother’s diamond brooch which she had put on, though they were -alone. She came in lightly, with something of the triumphant air I had -noticed in her a year ago, before Captain Llewellyn’s Christmas visit. -It was evident at all events that my remonstrance had not broken her -spirit. I could see her give a little glance to my corner, and I know -that she saw I was there.</p> - -<p>‘Are you here, papa?’ she said. ‘You always sit, like crows, in the -dark, and nobody can see you.’ Then she drew a chair into the circle. -She took no notice of me or any one, but placed herself directly in the -light of the fire.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, my dear,’ said her father. ‘I am glad you have come in. It begins -to get cold.’</p> - -<p>‘We did not feel it cold,’ said Martha, and then she laughed—a short -little disconnected laugh, which indicated some disturbance of her calm; -then she went on, with a tendency to short and broken sentences, like -myself—‘Papa,’ she said, ‘I may as well tell you at once. When the -Major was here last he was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_30" id="page_30"></a>{30}</span> poor, and could not speak—now he’s well -off. And he wants me to marry him. I like him better than—Ellis -Llewellyn. I always—liked him better—and he loves <i>me</i>!’</p> - -<p>Upon which Martha burst into tears.</p> - -<p>If I were to try to describe the consternation produced by this -unlooked-for speech, I should only prolong my story without making it -more clear. The want of light heightened it, and confused us all doubly. -If a bomb had burst in the peaceful place I don’t think it could have -produced a greater commotion. It was only the Admiral however who could -say a word, and of course he was the proper person. Martha very soon -came out of her tears to reply to him. He was angry, he was bewildered, -he was wild for the moment. What was he to say to Llewellyn? What did -she mean? How did Major Frost dare——? I confess that I was crying in -my corner—I could not help it. When the Admiral began to storm, I put -my hand on his arm, and made him come to me, and whispered a word in his -ear. Then the good man subsided into a bewildered silence. And after a -while he went to the library, where Major Frost was waiting to know his -fate.</p> - -<p>It is unnecessary to follow out the story further. Llewellyn, poor -fellow, had to wait a long time after all before Nelly would look at -him. I never knew such a proud little creature. And she never would own -to me that any spark of human feeling had been in her during that -painful year. They were a proud family altogether. Martha met me ever -after with her old affectionateness and composure—never asked pardon, -nor said I was right, but at the same time never resented nor betrayed -my interference. I believe she forgot it even, with the happy facility -that belonged to her nature, and has not an idea now that it was -anything but the influence of love and preference which made her cast -off Llewellyn and choose Major Frost.</p> - -<p>Sometimes however in the gray of the summer evenings, or the long, long -winter nights, I think I might just as well have let things alone. There -are two bright households the more in the world, no doubt. But the -Admiral and I are both dull enough sometimes, now the girls are gone. He -comes, and sits with me, which is always company, and it is not his -fault I have not changed my residence and my lonely condition. But I say -to him, why should we change, and give the world occasion to laugh, and -make a talk of us at our age? Things are very well as they are. I -believe we are better company to each other living next door, than if we -were more closely allied; and our neighbours know us too well to make -any talk about our friendship. But still it often happens, even when we -are together,—in the still evenings, and in the firelight, and when all -the world is abroad of summer nights—that we both of us lament a little -in the silence, and feel that it is very dull without the girls.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_31" id="page_31"></a>{31}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="LADY_DENZIL" id="LADY_DENZIL"></a>LADY DENZIL</h2> - -<h3>CHAPTER I</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> Denzils were the chief people at Dinglefield Green. Their house was -by much the most considerable-looking house, and the grounds were -beautiful. I say the most considerable-looking, for my own impression is -that Dinglewood, which was afterwards bought by the stockbroker whose -coming convulsed the whole Green, was in reality larger than the Lodge; -but the Lodge, when Sir Thomas Denzil was in it, was all the same the -centre of everything. It was like Windsor Castle to us neighbours, or -perhaps in reality it was more what her Majesty’s actual royal -habitation is to the dwellers within her castle gates. We were the poor -knights, the canons, the musical and ecclesiastical people who cluster -about that mingled stronghold of the State and Church—but to the Lodge -was it given to bestow distinction upon us. Those of us who visited Lady -Denzil entered into all the privileges of rank; those who did not -receive that honour fell into the cold shade—and a very uncomfortable -shade it must have been. I speak, you will say, at my ease; for my -people had known the Denzils ages before, and Sir Thomas most kindly -sent his wife to call, almost before I had settled down into my cottage; -but I remember how very sore Mrs. Wood felt about it, though it -surprised me at the time. ‘I have been here five years, and have met -them everywhere, but she has never found the way to my door. Not that I -care in the least,’ she said, with a flush on her cheek. She was a -clergyman’s widow, and very sensitive about her ‘position,’ poor -thing—and almost found fault with me, as if I was to blame for having -known the Denzils in my youth.</p> - -<p>Lady Denzil, who had so much weight among us, was a very small -personage. She would have been tiny and insignificant had she not been -so stately and imposing. I don’t know how she did it. She was some way -over sixty at the time I speak of. Whatever the fashion was, she always -wore long flowing dresses which swept the ground for a yard behind her, -and cloaks ample and graceful: always large, always full, and always -made of black silk. Even in winter, though her carriage would be piled -with heaps of furs, she wore upon her little majestic person<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_32" id="page_32"></a>{32}</span> nothing -but silk. Such silk!—you should have touched it to know what it was. -The very sound of it, as it rustled softly after her over the summer -lawn or the winter carpet, was totally different from the <i>frôlement</i> of -ordinary robes. Some people said she had it made for herself expressly -at Lyons. I don’t know how that might be, but I know I never saw -anything like it. I believe she had every variety in her wardrobe that -heart of woman could desire: Indian shawls worth a fortune I <i>know</i> were -among her possessions; but she never wore anything but that matchless -silk—long dresses of it, and long, large, ample cloaks to correspond. -Her hair was quite white, like silver. She had the brightest dark eyes, -shining out from under brows which were curved and lined as finely as -when she was eighteen. Her colour was as fresh as a rose. I think there -never was a more lovely old lady. Eighteen, indeed! It has its charms, -that pleasant age. It is sweet to the eye, especially of man. Perhaps a -woman, who has oftenest to lecture the creature, instead of falling down -to worship, may not see so well the witchery which lies in the period; -but find me any face of eighteen that could match Lady Denzil’s. It had -wrinkles, yes; but these were crossed by lines of thought, and lighted -up by that soft breath of experience and forbearance which comes only -with the years. Lady Denzil’s eyes saw things that other eyes could not -see. She knew by instinct when things were amiss. You could tell it by -the charitable absence of all questioning, by a calm taking for granted -the most unlikely explanations. Some people supposed they deceived her, -but they never deceived her. And some people spoke of her extraordinary -insight, and eyes that could see through a millstone. I believe her eyes -were clear; but it was experience, only experience—long knowledge of -the world, acquaintance with herself and human nature, and all the -chances that befall us on our way through this life. That it was, and -not any mere intuition or sharpness that put insight into Lady Denzil’s -eyes.</p> - -<p>The curious thing however was that she had never had any troubles of her -own. She had lived with Sir Thomas in the Lodge since a period dating -far beyond my knowledge. It was a thing which was never mentioned among -us, chiefly, I have no doubt, because of her beautiful manners and -stately look, though it came to be spoken of afterwards, as such things -will; but the truth is, that nobody knew very clearly who Lady Denzil -was. Sir Thomas’s first wife was from Lancashire, of one of the best old -families in the county, and it was not an unusual thing for new comers -to get confused about this, and identify the present Lady Denzil with -her predecessor; but I am not aware that any one really knew the rights -of it or could tell who she was. I have heard the mistake made, and I -remember distinctly the gracious and unsatisfactory way with which she -put it aside. ‘The first Lady Denzil was a Lancashire woman,’ she said; -‘she was one of the Tunstalls of Abbotts<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_33" id="page_33"></a>{33}</span> Tunstall, and a very beautiful -and charming person.’ This was all; she did not add, as anybody else -would have done, Loamshire or Blankshire is my county. It was very -unsatisfactory, but it was fine all the same—and closed everybody’s -mouth. There were always some connections on the Denzil side staying at -the Lodge at the end of the year. No one could be kinder than she was to -all Sir Thomas’s young connections. But nobody belonging to Lady Denzil -was ever seen among us. I don’t think it was remarked at the time, but -it came to be noted afterwards, and it certainly was very strange.</p> - -<p>I never saw more perfect devotion than that which old Sir Thomas showed -to his wife. He was about ten years older than she—a hale, handsome old -man, nearly seventy. Had he been twenty-five and she eighteen he could -not have been more tender, more careful of her. Often have I looked at -her and wondered, with the peaceful life she led, with the love and -reverence and tender care which surrounded her, how she had ever come to -know the darker side of life, and understand other people’s feelings. No -trouble seemed ever to have come near her. She put down her dainty -little foot only to walk over soft carpets or through bright gardens; -she never went anywhere where those long silken robes might not sweep, -safe even from the summer dust, which all the rest of us have to brave -by times. Lady Denzil never braved it. I have seen her sometimes—very -seldom—with her dress gathered up in her arms in great billows, on the -sheltered sunny lime-walk which was at one side of the Lodge, taking a -little gentle exercise; but this was quite an unusual circumstance, and -meant that the roads were too heavy or too slippery for her horses. On -these rare occasions Sir Thomas would be at her side, like a courtly old -gallant as he was. He was as deferential to his wife as if she had been -a princess and he dependent on her favour: and at the same time there -was a grace of old love in his reverence which was like a poem. It was a -curious little paradise that one looked into over the ha-ha across the -verdant lawns that encircled the Lodge. The two were old and childless, -and sometimes solitary; but I don’t think, though they opened their -house liberally to kith, kin, and connections, that they ever felt less -lonely than when they were alone. Two, where the two are one, is enough. -To be sure the two in Eden were young. Yet it does but confer a certain -tender pathos upon that companionship when they are old. I thought of -the purest romance I knew, of the softest creations of poetry, when I -used to see old Sir Thomas in the lime-walk with his old wife.</p> - -<p>But I was sorry she had not called on poor Mrs. Wood. It would have been -of real consequence to that good woman if Lady Denzil had called. She -was only a clergyman’s widow, and a clergyman’s widow may be anything, -as everybody knows: she may be such a person as will be an acquisition -anywhere, or she may be quite the reverse. It was because<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_34" id="page_34"></a>{34}</span> Mrs. Wood -belonged to this indefinite class that Lady Denzil’s visit would have -been of such use. Her position was doubtful, poor soul! She was very -respectable and very good in her way, and her daughters were nice girls; -but there was nothing in themselves individually to raise them out of -mediocrity. I took the liberty to say so one day when I was at the -Lodge: but Lady Denzil did not see it somehow; and what could I do? And -on the other hand it was gall and wormwood to poor Mrs. Wood every time -she saw the carriage with the two bays stop at my door.</p> - -<p>‘I saw Lady Denzil here to-day,’ she would say. ‘You ought to feel -yourself honoured. I must say I don’t see why people should give in to -her so. In my poor husband’s time the duchess never came into the parish -without calling. It need not be any object to me to be noticed by a bit -of a baronet’s wife.’</p> - -<p>‘No, indeed!’ said I, being a coward and afraid to stand to my guns; ‘I -am sure you need not mind. And she is old, poor lady—and I am an old -friend—and indeed I don’t know that Lady Denzil professes to visit,’ I -went on faltering, with a sense of getting deeper and deeper into the -mud.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, pray don’t say so to spare my feelings,’ said Mrs. Wood with -asperity. ‘It is nothing to me whether she calls or not, but you must -know, Mrs. Mulgrave, that Lady Denzil does make a point of calling on -every one she thinks worth her while. I am sure she is quite at liberty -to do as she pleases so far as I am concerned.’ Here she stopped and -relieved herself, drawing a long breath and fanning with her -handkerchief her cheeks, which were crimson. ‘But if I were to say I was -connected with the peerage, or to talk about the titled people I do -know,’ she added with a look of spite, ‘she would very soon find out -where I lived: oh, trust her for that!’</p> - -<p>‘I think you must have taken up a mistaken idea,’ I said, meekly. I had -not courage enough to stand up in my friend’s defence. Not that I am -exactly a coward by nature, but Mrs. Wood was rather a difficult person -to deal with; and I was sorry in the present instance, and felt that the -grievance was a real one. ‘I don’t think Lady Denzil cares very much -about the peerage. She is an old woman and has her fancies, I suppose.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, you are a favourite!’ said Mrs. Wood, tossing her head, as if it -were my fault. ‘You have the <i>entrées</i>, and we are spiteful who are left -out, you know,’ she added with pretended playfulness. It was a very -affected little laugh however to which she gave utterance, and her -cheeks flamed crimson. I was very sorry—I did not know what to say to -make things smooth again. If I had been Lady Denzil’s keeper, I should -have taken her to call at Rose Cottage next day. But I was not Lady -Denzil’s keeper. It was great kindness of her to visit me: how could I -force her against her will to visit other people? A woman of Mrs. Wood’s -age, who surely could not have got so far through the world without a -little understanding of how<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_35" id="page_35"></a>{35}</span> things are managed, ought to have known -that it could do her very little good to quarrel with me.</p> - -<p>And then the girls would come to me when there was anything going on at -the Lodge. ‘We met the Miss Llewellyns the other day,’ Adelaide said on -one occasion. ‘We thought them very nice. They are staying with Lady -Denzil, you know. I wish you would make Lady Denzil call on mamma, Mrs. -Mulgrave. It is so hard to come and settle in a place and be shut out -from all the best parties. Until you have been at the Lodge you are -considered nobody on the Green.’</p> - -<p>‘The Lodge can’t make us different from what we are,’ said Nora, the -other sister, who was of a different temper. ‘I should be ashamed to -think it mattered whether Lady Denzil called or not.’</p> - -<p>‘But it does matter a great deal when they are going to give a ball,’ -said Adelaide very solemnly. ‘The best balls going, some of the officers -told me; and everybody will be there—except Nora and me,’ said the poor -girl. ‘Oh, Mrs. Mulgrave, I wish you would make Lady Denzil call!’</p> - -<p>‘But, my dear, I can’t make Lady Denzil do anything,’ I said; ‘I have no -power over her. She comes to see me sometimes, but we are not intimate, -and I have no influence. She comes because my people knew the Denzils -long ago. She has her own ways. I could not make her do one thing or -another. It is wrong to speak so to me.’</p> - -<p>‘But you could if you would try,’ said Adelaide; as she spoke, we could -hear the sound of the croquet balls from the Lodge, and voices and -laughter. We were all three walking along the road, under shelter of the -trees. She gave such a wistful look when she heard them, that it went to -my heart. It was not a very serious trouble, it is true. But still to -feel one’s self shut out from anything, is hard when one is twenty. I -had to hurry past the gate, to restrain the inclination I had to brave -everything, and take them in with me, as my friends, to join the croquet -party. I know very well what would have happened had I done so. Lady -Denzil would have been perfectly sweet and gracious, and sent them away -delighted with her; but she would never have crossed my threshold again. -And what good would that have done them? The fact was, they had nothing -particular to recommend them; no special qualities of their own to make -up for their want of birth and connection; and this being the case what -could any one say?</p> - -<p>It gave one a very different impression of Lady Denzil, to see how she -behaved when poor Mrs. Stoke was in such trouble about her youngest boy. -I had been with her calling, and Mrs. Stoke had told us a whole long -story about him; how good-hearted he was, and how generous, spending his -money upon everybody. It was a very hard matter for me to keep my -countenance, for of course I knew Everard Stoke, and what kind of boy he -was. But Lady Denzil took it all with the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_36" id="page_36"></a>{36}</span> greatest attention and -sympathy. I could not but speak of it when we came out. ‘Poor Mrs. -Stoke!’ said I, ‘it is strange how she can deceive herself so—and she -must have known we knew better. You who have seen poor Everard grow up, -Lady Denzil——’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, my dear,’ she said, ‘you are right; and yet, do you know, I think -you are wrong too? She is not deceived. She knows a great deal better -than we do. But then she is on the other side of the scene, and she sees -into the boy’s heart a little. I hope she sees into his heart.’</p> - -<p>‘I fear it is a very bad heart; I should not think it was any pleasure -to look into it,’ said I in my haste. Lady Denzil gave me a soft, -half-reproachful look. ‘Well,’ she said, and gave a sigh, ‘it has always -been one of my great fancies, that God was more merciful than man, -because He saw fully what was in all our hearts—what we meant, poor -creatures that we are, not what we did. We so seldom have any confidence -in Him for that. We think He will forgive and save, but we don’t think -He understands, and sees everything, and knows that nothing is so bad as -it seems. Perhaps it is dangerous doctrine; at least the vicar would -think so, I fear.’</p> - -<p>‘In the case of Everard Stoke,’ said I stupidly, coming back to the -starting point.</p> - -<p>‘My dear,’ said Lady Denzil with a little impatience, ‘the older one -grows, the less one feels inclined to judge any one. Indeed when one -grows quite old,’ she went on after a pause, smiling a little, as if it -were at the thought that she, whom no doubt she could remember so -thoughtless and young, <i>was</i> quite old, ‘one comes to judge not at all. -Poor Everard, he never was a good boy—but I dare say his mother knows -him best, and he is better than is thought.’</p> - -<p>‘At least it was a comfort to her to see you look as if you believed -her,’ said I, not quite entering into the argument. Lady Denzil took no -notice of this speech. It was a beautiful bright day, and it was but a -step from Mrs. Stoke’s cottage to the Lodge gates, which we were just -about entering. But at that moment there was a little party of soldiers -marching along the high-road, at right angles from where we stood. It is -not far from the Green to the barracks, and their red coats were not -uncommon features in the landscape. These men however were marching in a -business-like way, not lingering on the road: and among them was a man -in a shooting-coat, handcuffed, poor fellow! It was a deserter they were -taking back to the punishment that awaited him. I made some meaningless -exclamation or other, and stood still, looking after them for a moment. -Then I suppose my interest failed as they went on, at their rapid, -steady pace, turning their backs upon us. I came back to Lady Denzil, my -passing distraction over; but when I looked at her, there was something -in her face that struck me with the deepest wonder. She had not come -back to me. She was standing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_37" id="page_37"></a>{37}</span> absorbed, watching them; the colour all -gone out of her soft old cheeks, and the saddest, wistful, longing gaze -in her eyes. It was not pity—it was something mightier, more intense. -She did not breathe or move, but stood gazing, gazing after them. When -they had disappeared, she came to herself; her hands, which had been -clasped tightly, fell loose at her sides; she gave a long deep sigh, and -then she became conscious of my eyes upon her, and the colour came back -with a rush to her face.</p> - -<p>‘I am always interested about soldiers,’ she said faintly, turning as -she spoke to open the gate. That was all the notice she took of it. But -the incident struck me more than my account of it may seem to justify. -If such a thing had been possible as that the deserter might have been -her husband or her brother, one could have understood it. Had I seen -such a look on Mrs. Stoke’s face, I should have known it was Everard. -But here was Lady Denzil, a contented childless woman, without anybody -to disturb her peace. Sympathy must indeed have become perfect, before -such a wistfulness could come into any woman’s eyes.</p> - -<p>Often since I have recalled that scene to my mind, and wondered over it; -the quick march of the soldiers on the road; the man in the midst with -death environing him all round, and most likely despair in his heart; -and that one face looking on, wistful as love, sad as death—and yet -with no cause either for her sadness or her love. It did not last long, -it is true; but it was one of the strangest scenes I ever witnessed in -my life.</p> - -<p>It even appeared to me next day as if Lady Denzil had been a little -shaken, either by her visit to Mrs. Stoke, or by this strange little -episode which nobody knew of. She had taken to me, which I confess I -felt as a great compliment; and Sir Thomas came in to ask me to go to -her next afternoon. ‘My lady has a headache,’ he said in a quaint way he -had of speaking of her: I think he would have liked to call her my queen -or my princess. When he said ‘my lady’ there was something chivalric, -something romantic in his very tone. When I went into the drawing-room -at the Lodge the great green blind was drawn over the window on the west -side, and the trees gave the same green effect to the daylight, at the -other end. The east windows looked out upon the lime-walk, and the light -came in softly, green and shadowy, through the silken leaves. She was -lying on the sofa, which was not usual with her. As soon as I entered -the room she called me to come and sit by her—and of course she did not -say a word about yesterday. We went on talking for an hour and more, -about the trees, and the sunset; about what news there was; girls going -to be married, and babies coming, and other such domestic incidents. And -sometimes the conversation would languish for a moment, and I did think -once there was something strange in her eyes, when she looked at me, as -if she had something to tell and was looking into my face to see whether -she might or might not do it. But<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_38" id="page_38"></a>{38}</span> it never went any further; we began -to speak of Molly Jackson, and that was an interminable subject. Molly -was a widow in the village, and she gave us all a great deal of trouble. -She had a quantity of little children, to whom the people on the Green -were very kind, and she was a good-natured soft soul, always falling -into some scrape or other. This time was the worst of all; it was when -the talk got up about Thomas Short. People said that Molly was going to -marry him. It would have been very foolish for them both, of course. He -was poor and he was getting old, and would rather have hindered than -helped her with her children. We gentlefolks may, or may not, be -sentimental about our own concerns; but we see things in their true -light when they take place among our poor neighbours. As for the two -being a comfort to each other we never entered into that question; there -were more important matters concerned.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know what would become of the poor children,’ said I. ‘The man -would never put up with them, and indeed it could not be expected; and -they have no friends to go to. But I don’t think Molly would be so -wicked; she may be a fool but she has a mother’s heart.’</p> - -<p>Lady Denzil gave a faint smile and turned on her sofa as if something -hurt her; she did not answer me all at once—and as I sat for a minute -silent in that soft obscurity, Molly Jackson, I acknowledge, went out of -my head. Then all at once when I had gone on to something else, she -spoke; and her return to the subject startled me, I could not have told -how.</p> - -<p>‘There are different ways of touching a mother’s heart,’ she said; ‘she -might think it would be for their good; I don’t think it could be, for -my part; I don’t think it ever is; a woman is deceived, or she deceives -herself; and then when it is too late——’</p> - -<p>‘What is too late?’ said Sir Thomas behind us. He had come in at the -great window, and we had not noticed. I thought Lady Denzil gave a -little start, but there was no sign of it in her face.</p> - -<p>‘We were talking of Molly Jackson,’ she said. ‘Nothing is ever too late -here, thanks to your precise habits, you old soldier. Molly must be -talked to, Mrs. Mulgrave,’ she said, turning to me.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, yes, she will be talked to,’ said I; ‘I know the rector and his -wife have both called; and last time I saw her, Mrs. Wood——’</p> - -<p>‘You are not one of the universal advisers,’ said Lady Denzil, patting -my arm with her white hand. It was no virtue on my part, but she spoke -as if she meant it for a compliment. And then we had to tell the whole -story over again to Sir Thomas, who was very fond of a little gossip -like all the gentlemen, but had to have everything explained to him, and -never knew what was coming next. He chuckled and laughed as men do over -it. ‘Old fool!’ he said. ‘A woman with half-a-dozen children.’ It was -not Molly but Thomas Short that he thought would be a fool; and on our -side, it is true that we had not been thinking of him.</p> - -<p>Molly Jackson has not much to do with this story, but yet it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_39" id="page_39"></a>{39}</span> may be as -well to say that she listened to reason, and did not do anything so -absurd. It was a relief to all our minds when Thomas went to live in -Langham parish the spring after, and married somebody there. I believe -it was a girl out of the workhouse, who might have been his daughter, -and led him a very sad life. But still in respect to Molly it was a -relief to our minds. I hope she was of the same way of thinking. I know -for one thing that she lost her temper, the only time I ever saw her do -it—and was very indignant about the young wife. ‘Old fool!’ she said, -and again it was Thomas that was meant. We had a way of talking a good -deal about the village folks, and we all did a great deal for -them—perhaps, on the whole, we did too much. When anything happened to -be wanting among them, instead of making an effort to get it for -themselves, it was always the ladies on the Green they came to. And, of -course, we interfered in our turn.</p> - -<h3>CHAPTER II</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> was in the spring of the following year that little Mary first came -to the Lodge. Sir Thomas had been absent for some time, on business, -Lady Denzil said, and it was he who brought the child home. It is all -impressed on my mind by the fact that I was there when they arrived. He -was not expected until the evening, and I had gone to spend an hour with -Lady Denzil in the afternoon. It was a bright spring day, as warm as -summer; one of those sweet surprises that come upon us in England in -intervals between the gray east wind and the rain. The sunshine had -called out a perfect crowd of golden crocuses along the borders. They -had all blown out quite suddenly, as if it had been an actual voice that -called them, and God’s innocent creatures had rushed forth to answer to -their names. And there were heaps of violets about the Lodge which made -the air sweet. And there is something in that first exquisite touch of -spring which moves all hearts. Lady Denzil had come out with me to the -lawn. I thought she was quieter than usual, with the air of a woman -listening for something. Everything was very still, and yet in the -sunshine one felt as if one could hear the buds unfolding, the young -grass and leaflets thrilling with their new life. But it did not seem to -me that Lady Denzil was listening to these. I said, ‘Do you expect Sir -Thomas now?’ with a kind of vague curiosity; and she looked in my face -with a sudden quick glance of something like suspicion which I could not -understand.</p> - -<p>‘Do I look as if I expected something?’ she said. ‘Yes—I expect some -news that probably I shall not like. But it does not matter, my dear. It -is nothing that affects me.’</p> - -<p>She said these words with a smile that was rather dreary to see. It was -not like Lady Denzil. It was like saying, ‘So long as it does not affect -me you know I don’t care,’—which was so very, very far from my opinion -of her. I did not know what to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_40" id="page_40"></a>{40}</span> answer. Her tone somehow disturbed the -spring feeling, and the harmony of the flowers.</p> - -<p>‘I wish Sir Thomas had been here on such a lovely day,’ she said, after -a while; ‘he enjoys it so. Peace is very pleasant, my dear, when you are -old. You don’t quite appreciate it yet, as we do.’ And then she paused -again and seemed to listen, and permitted herself the faintest little -sigh.</p> - -<p>‘I think I am older than you are, Lady Denzil,’ I said.</p> - -<p>Then she laughed in her natural soft way. ‘I dare say you are,’ she -said. ‘That is the difference between your restless middle age and our -<i>oldness</i>. You feel old because you feel young. That’s how it is; -whereas, being really old, we can afford to be young again—sometimes,’ -she added softly. The last word was said under her breath. I don’t -suppose she thought I heard it; but I did, being very quick of hearing, -and very fond of her, and feeling there was something underneath which I -did not know.</p> - -<p>Just then there came the sound of wheels upon the road, and Lady Denzil -started slightly. ‘You have put it into my head that Sir Thomas might -come by the three o’clock train,’ she said. ‘It would be about time for -it now.’ She had scarcely stopped speaking and we had just turned -towards the gate, when a carriage entered. I saw at once it was one of -the common flys that are to be had at the station, and that it was Sir -Thomas who put his head out at the window. A moment after it stopped. He -had seen Lady Denzil on the lawn. He got out with that slight hesitation -which betrays an old man; and then he turned and lifted something out of -the carriage. For the first moment one could not tell what it was—he -made a long stride on to the soft greensward, with his eyes fixed upon -Lady Denzil, and then he put down the child on the lawn. ‘Go to that -lady,’ he said. For my part I stood and stared, knowing nothing of the -feelings that might lie underneath. The child stood still with her -little serious face and looked at us both for a moment, and then she -walked steadily up to Lady Denzil, who had not moved. I was quite -unprepared for what followed. Lady Denzil fell down on her knees on the -grass—she took the child to her, into her arms, close to her breast. -All at once she fell into a passion of tears. And yet that does not -express what I saw. It was silent; there were no cries nor sobs, such as -a young woman might have uttered. The tears fell as if they had been -pent up all her life, as if all her life she had been waiting for this -moment: while Sir Thomas stood looking on, half sad, half satisfied. It -seemed a revelation to him as it was to me. All this time when she had -looked so serene and had been so sweet, had she been carrying those -tears in her heart! I think that must have been what was passing through -Sir Thomas’s mind. I had stood and stared, as one does when one is -unexpectedly made the spectator of a crisis in another life. When I came -to myself I was ashamed of spying as it were upon Lady Denzil’s -feelings. I hastened away, shaking hands with Sir Thomas as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_41" id="page_41"></a>{41}</span> I passed -him. And so entirely was his mind absorbed in the scene before him, that -I scarcely think he knew who I was.</p> - -<p>After this it may be supposed I took a very great interest in little -Mary. At first I was embarrassed and did not quite know what to -do—whether I should go back next day and ask for the child, and give -Lady Denzil an opportunity of getting over any confusion she might feel -at the recollection that I had been present—or whether I should stay -away; but it turned out that Lady Denzil was not half so sensitive as I -was on the subject. I stayed away for one whole day thinking about -little else—and the next day I went, lest they should think it strange. -It seemed quite curious to me to be received as if nothing had happened. -There was no appearance of anything out of the ordinary course. When I -went in Lady Denzil held out her hand to me as usual without rising from -her chair. ‘What has become of you?’ she said, and made me sit down by -her, as she always did. After we had talked a while she rang the bell. -‘I have something to show you,’ she said smiling. And then little Mary -came in, in her little brown holland overall, as if it was the most -natural thing in the world. She was the most lovely child I ever saw. I -know when I say this that everybody will immediately think of a -golden-haired, blue-eyed darling. But she was not of that description. -Her hair was brown—not dark, but of the shade which grows dark with -years; and it was very fine silky hair, not frizzy and rough as is the -fashion now-a-days. Her eyes were brown too, of that tender wistful kind -which are out of fashion like the hair. Every look the child gave was an -appeal. There are some children’s eyes that look at you with perfect -trust, believing in everybody; and these are sweet eyes. But little -Mary’s were sweeter still, for they told you she believed in <i>you</i>. -‘Take care of me: be good to me—I trust you,’ was what they said; ‘not -everybody, but you.’ This was the expression in them; and I never knew -anybody who could resist that look. Then she had the true child’s beauty -of a lovely complexion, pure red and white. She came up to me and looked -at me with those tender serious eyes, and then slid her soft little hand -into mine. Even when I had ceased talking to her and petting her, she -never took her eyes away from my face. It was the creature’s way of -judging of the new people among whom she had been brought—for she was -only about six, too young to draw much insight from words. I was glad to -bend my head over her, to kiss her sweet little face and smooth her -pretty hair by way of hiding a certain embarrassment I felt. But I was -the only one of the three that was embarrassed. Lady Denzil sat and -looked at the child with eyes that seemed to run over with content. ‘She -is going to stay with me, and take care of me,’ she said, with a smile -of absolute happiness; ‘are not you, little Mary?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, my lady,’ said the little thing, turning, serious as a judge, to -the old lady. I could not help giving a little start as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_42" id="page_42"></a>{42}</span> I looked from -one to the other, and saw the two pair of eyes meet. Lady Denzil was -sixty, and little Mary was but six; but it was the same face; I felt -quite confused after I had made this discovery, and sat silent and heard -them talk to each other. Even in the little voice there was a certain -trill which was like Lady Denzil’s. Then the whole scene rushed before -me. Lady Denzil on her knees, her tears pouring forth and the child -clasped in her arms. What did it mean? My lady was childless—and even -had it been otherwise, that baby never could have been <i>her</i> child—who -was she? I was so bewildered and surprised that it took from me the very -power of speech.</p> - -<p>After this strange introduction the child settled down as an inmate of -the Lodge, and was seen and admired by everybody. And every one -discovered the resemblance. The neighbours on the Green all found it -out, and as there was no reason we knew of why she should not be Lady -Denzil’s relation, we all stated our opinion plainly—except perhaps -myself. I had seen more than the rest, though that was almost nothing. I -had a feeling that there was an unknown story beneath, and somehow I had -not the courage to say to Lady Denzil as I sat there alone with her, and -had her perhaps at a disadvantage. ‘How like the child is to you!’ But -other people were not so cowardly. Not long after, two or three of us -met at the Lodge, at the hour of afternoon tea, which was an invention -of the time which Lady Denzil had taken to very kindly. Among the rest -was young Mrs. Plymley, who was not precisely one of us. She was one of -the Herons of Marshfield, and she and her husband had taken Willowbrook -for the summer. She was a pleasant little woman, but she was fond of -talking—nobody could deny that. And she had children of her own, and -made a great fuss over little Mary the moment she saw her. The child was -too much a little lady to be disagreeable, but I could see she did not -like to be lifted up on a stranger’s knee, and admired and chattered -over. ‘I wish my Ada was half as pretty,’ Mrs. Plymley said; ‘but Ada is -so like her poor dear papa,’ and here she pretended to sigh. ‘I am so -fond of pretty children. It is hard upon me to have mine so plain. Oh, -you little darling! Mary what? you have only told me half your name. -Lady Denzil, one can see in a moment she belongs to you.’</p> - -<p>Lady Denzil at the moment was pouring out tea. All at once the silver -teapot in her hand seemed to give a jerk, as if it were a living -creature, and some great big boiling drops fell on her black dress. It -was only for a single second, and she had presence of mind to set it -down, and smile and say she was awkward, and it was nothing. ‘My arm is -always shaky when I hold anything heavy,’ she said; ‘ever since I had -the rheumatism in it. Then she turned to Mrs. Plymley, whose injudicious -suggestion we had all forgotten in our fright. Perhaps Lady Denzil had -lost her self-possession a little. Perhaps it was only that she thought -it best to reply at once, so that everybody<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_43" id="page_43"></a>{43}</span> might hear. ‘Belongs to -me?’ she said with her clear voice. And somehow we all felt immediately -that something silly and uncalled for had been said.</p> - -<p>‘I mean your side of the house,’ said poor Mrs. Plymley abashed. She was -young and nervous, and felt, like all the rest of us, that she was for -the moment the culprit at the bar.</p> - -<p>‘She belongs to neither side of the house,’ said Lady Denzil, with even -unnecessary distinctness. ‘Sir Thomas knows her people, and in his -kindness he thought a change would be good for her. She is -no—connection; nothing at all to us.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, I am sure I beg your pardon,’ said Mrs. Plymley; and she let little -Mary slide down from her lap, and looked very uncomfortable. None of us -indeed were at our ease, for we had all been saying it in private. Only -little Mary, standing in the middle, looked wistfully round upon us, -questioning, yet undisturbed. And Lady Denzil, too, stood and looked. At -that moment the likeness was stronger than ever.</p> - -<p>‘It is very droll,’ said Mrs. Damerel, the rector’s wife, whose eye was -caught by it, like mine. ‘She is very like you, Lady Denzil; I never saw -an incidental likeness so strong.’</p> - -<p>‘Poor little Mary! do you think she is like me?’ said Lady Denzil with a -curious quiver in her voice; and she bent over the child all at once and -kissed her. Sir Thomas had been at the other end of the room, quite out -of hearing. I don’t know by what magnetism he could have known that -something agitating was going on—I did not even see him approach or -look; but all at once, just as his wife betrayed that strange thrill of -feeling, Sir Thomas was at her elbow. He touched her arm quite lightly -as he stood by her side.</p> - -<p>‘I should like some tea,’ he said.</p> - -<p>She stood up and looked at him for a moment as if she did not -understand. And then she turned to the tea-table with something like a -blush of shame on her face. Then he drew forward a chair and sat down by -Mrs. Plymley and began to talk. He was a very good talker when he -pleased, and in two seconds we had all wandered away to our several -subjects, and were in full conversation again. But it was some time -before Lady Denzil took any part in it. She was a long while pouring out -those cups of tea. Little Mary, as if moved by some unconscious touch of -sympathy, stole away with her doll into a corner. It was as if the two -had been made out of the same material and thrilled to the same -touch—they both turned their backs upon us for the moment. I don’t -suppose anybody but myself noticed this; and to be sure it was simply -because I had seen the meeting between them, and knew there was -something in it more than the ordinary visit to the parents’ friends of -a little delicate child.</p> - -<p>Besides, the child never looked like a little visitor; she had brought -no maid with her, and she spoke very rarely of her home. I don’t know -how she might be dressed under those brown holland overalls, but these -were the only outside garb<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_44" id="page_44"></a>{44}</span> she ever wore. I don’t mean to say they were -ugly or wanting in neatness; they were such things as the children at -the Rectory wore in summer when they lived in the garden and the fields. -But they did not look suitable for the atmosphere of the Lodge. By and -by however these outer garments disappeared. The little creature -blossomed out as it were out of her brown husk, and put forth new -flowers. After the first few weeks she wore nothing but dainty white -frocks, rich with needlework. I recognized Lady Denzil’s taste in -everything she put on. It was clear that her little wardrobe was being -silently renewed, and every pretty thing which a child of her age could -fitly wear was being added to it. This could never have been done to a -little visitor who had come for change of air. Then a maid was got for -her, whom Lady Denzil was very particular about; and no one ever spoke -of the time when little Mary should be going away. By degrees she grew -to belong to the place, to be associated with everything in it. When you -approached the house, which had always been so silent, perhaps it was a -burst of sweet childish laughter that met your ears; perhaps a little -song, or the pleasant sound of her little feet on the gravel in the -sunny lime-walk. The servants were all utterly under her sway. They -spoke of little Miss Mary as they might have spoken of a little princess -whose word was law. As for Sir Thomas, I think he was the first subject -in her realm. She took to patronizing and ordering him about before she -had been a month at the Lodge. ‘Sir Thomas,’ she would say in her clear -little voice, ‘come and walk;’ and the old gentleman would get up and go -out with her, and hold wonderful conversations, as we could see, looking -after them from the window. Lady Denzil did not seem either to pet her, -or to devote herself to her, as all the rest of the house did. But there -was something in her face when she looked at the child which passes -description. It was a sort of ineffable content and satisfaction, as if -she had all that heart could desire and asked no more. Little Mary -watched her eye whenever they were together with a curious sympathy more -extraordinary still. She seemed to know by intuition when my lady wanted -her. ‘<span class="lftspc">’</span>Es, my lady,’ the child would say, watching with her sweet eyes. -It was the only little divergence she made from correctness of speech, -and somehow it pleased my ear. I suppose she said ‘My Lady’ because Sir -Thomas did, and that I liked too. To an old lady like Lady Denzil it is -such a pretty title; I fell into it myself without being aware.</p> - -<h3>CHAPTER III</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Thus</span> the world went softly on, till the roses of June had come instead -of the spring crocuses. Everything went on softly at the Green. True, -there was a tragedy now and then, even<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_45" id="page_45"></a>{45}</span> among us, like that sad affair -of Everard Stoke; and sometimes a very troublesome complication, going -near to break some hearts, like that of Nelly Fortis—but for the most -part we were quiet enough. And that was a very quiet time. Little Mary -had grown the pet of the Green before June. The little Damerels, who -were nice children enough, were not to be compared with her; and then -there were so many of them, whereas Mary was all alone like a little -star. We all petted her—but she was one of the children whom it is -impossible to spoil. She was never pert or disagreeable, like little -Agatha Damerel. She had her little childish fits of temper by times, but -was always sorry and always sweet, with her soft appealing eyes—a -little woman, but never knowing or forward, like so many children -now-a-days. She was still but a baby, poor darling, not more than seven -years old, when that dreadful scene broke in upon our quietness which I -have now to tell.</p> - -<p>It was June, and there was a large party on the lawn before the Lodge. -As long as the season lasted, while there were quantities of people in -town, Lady Denzil often had these parties. We were all there of course; -everybody on the Green whom she visited—(and I used to be very sorry -for Mrs. Wood and her daughters when one of them was going to take -place). We were in the habit of meeting continually in the same way, to -see the young people play croquet and amuse themselves; and there was -perhaps a little monotony in it. But Lady Denzil always took care to -have some variety. There would be a fine lady or two from town, bringing -with her a whiff of all the grandeurs and gaieties we had no particular -share in, and setting an example to the girls in their dress and -accessories. I never was extravagant in my dress, nor encouraged such a -thing—I think no true lady ever does—but a real fashionable perfect -toilette is generally so complete, and charming, and harmonious, that it -is good for one to see it now and then, especially for girls, though of -course ignorant persons and men don’t understand why. And then there -were a few gentlemen—with all the gossip of the clubs, and town talk, -which made a very pleasant change to us. It was an unusually brilliant -party that day. There was the young Countess of Berkhampstead, who was a -great beauty and had married so strangely; people said the Earl was not -very right in his head, and told the oddest stories about him. Poor -thing, I fear she could not help herself—but she was the loveliest -creature imaginable, and very nice then, though she went wrong -afterwards. She sat by Lady Denzil’s side on the sofa, which was placed -just before the great bank of roses. It was pretty to see them together: -the lovely young lady, with her fits of gaiety and pretty languid -stillnesses, letting us all admire her as if she felt what a pleasure it -was to us; and the lovely old lady, so serene, so fair, so kind. I don’t -know, for my part, which was the more beautiful. There were other fine -ladies besides Lady Berkhampstead, and, as I have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_46" id="page_46"></a>{46}</span> just said, it was a -very brilliant party. There never was a more glorious day; the sky was a -delight to look at, and the rich full foliage of the trees clustered out -against the blue, as if they leant caressingly upon the soft air around -them. The breath of the roses went everywhere, and behind Lady Denzil’s -sofa they threw themselves up into space—great globes of burning -crimson, and delicate blush, and creamy white. They were very rich in -roses at the Lodge—I remember one wall quite covered with the <i>Gloire -de Dijon</i>—but that is a digression. It was a broad lawn, and left room -for several sets of croquet players, besides all the other people. The -house was on a higher level at one side, the grounds and woods behind, -and in front over the ha-ha we had a pretty glimpse of the Green, where -cricket was being played, and the distant houses on the other side. It -was like fairy-land, with just a peep of the outer world, by which we -kept hold upon the fact that we were human, and must trudge away -presently to our little houses. On the grass before Lady Denzil little -Mary was sitting, a little white figure, with a brilliant picture-book -which somebody had brought her. She was seated sideways, half facing to -Lady Denzil, half to the house, and giving everybody from time to time a -look from her tender eyes. Her white frock which blazed in the sunshine -was the highest light in the picture, as a painter would have said, and -gave it a kind of centre. I was not playing croquet, and there came a -moment when I was doing nothing particular, and therefore had time to -remark upon the scene around me. As I raised my eyes, my attention was -all at once attracted by a strange figure, quite alien to the group -below, which stood on the approach to the house. The house, as I have -said, was on a higher level, and consequently the road which approached -it was higher too, on the summit of the bank which sloped down towards -the lawn. A woman stood above gazing at us. At first it seemed to me -that she was one of the servants: she had a cotton gown on, and a straw -bonnet, and a little black silk cloak. I could not say that she was -shabby or wretched-looking, but her appearance was a strange contrast to -the pretty crowd on the lawn. She seemed to have been arrested on her -way to the door by the sound of voices, and stood there looking down -upon us—a strange, tall, threatening figure, which awoke, I could not -tell how, a certain terror in my mind. By degrees it seemed to me that -her gaze fixed upon little Mary—and I felt more frightened still; -though what harm could any one do to the child with so many anxious -protectors looking on? However people were intent upon their games, or -their talks, or their companions, and nobody saw her but myself. At last -I got so much alarmed that I left my seat to tell Sir Thomas of her. I -had just made one step towards him, when all at once, with a strange -cry, the woman darted down the bank. It was at little Mary she flew: she -rushed down upon her like a tempest, and seized the child, crushing up -her pretty white frock and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_47" id="page_47"></a>{47}</span> her dear little figure violently in her -arms. I cried out too in my fright—for I thought she was mad—and -various people sprang from their chairs, one of the last to be roused -being Lady Denzil, who was talking very earnestly to Lady Berkhampstead. -The woman gave a great loud passionate outcry as she seized upon little -Mary. And the child cried out too, one single word which in a moment -transfixed me where I stood, and caught Lady Denzil’s ear like the sound -of a trumpet. It was a cry almost like a moan, full of terror and dismay -and repugnance; and yet it was one of the sweetest words that ever falls -on human ears. The sound stopped everything, even the croquet, and -called Sir Thomas forward from the other end of the lawn. The one word -that Mary uttered, that filled us all with such horror and -consternation, was ‘Mamma!’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, my darling,’ cried the woman, holding her close, crumpling, even -crushing her up in her arms. ‘They took you from me when I wasn’t -myself! Did I know where they were going to bring you? Here! Oh, yes, I -see it all now. Don’t touch my child! don’t interfere with my -child!—she sha’n’t stay here another day. Her father would curse her if -he knew she was here.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, please set me down,’ said little Mary. ‘Oh, mamma, please don’t -hurt me. Oh, my lady!’ cried the poor child, appealing to her -protectress. Lady Denzil got up tottering as she heard this cry. She -came forward with every particle of colour gone from her face. She was -so agitated her lips could scarcely form the words; but she had the -courage to lay her hand upon the woman’s arm,—</p> - -<p>‘Set her down,’ she said. ‘If you have any claim—set her down—it shall -be seen into. Sir Thomas——’</p> - -<p>The stranger turned upon her. She was a woman about five-and-thirty, -strong and bold and vigorous. I don’t deny she was a handsome woman. She -had big blazing black eyes, and a complexion perhaps a little heightened -by her walk in the heat. She turned upon Lady Denzil, shaking off her -hand, crushing little Mary still closer in one arm, and raising the -other with a wild theatrical gesture.</p> - -<p>‘You!’ she cried; ‘if I were to tell her father she was with you, he -would curse her. How dare you look me in the face—a woman that’s come -after her child! you that gave up your own flesh and blood. Ay! You may -stare at her, all you fine folks. There’s the woman that sold her son to -marry her master. She’s got her grandeur, and all she bid for; and she -left her boy to be brought up in the streets, and go for a common -soldier. And she’s never set eyes on him, never since he was two years -old; and now she’s come and stole my little Mary from me!’</p> - -<p>Before this speech was half spoken every soul in the place had crowded -round to hear. No one thought how rude it was. Utter consternation was -in everybody’s look. As for Lady Denzil, she stood like a statue, as -white as marble, in the same<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_48" id="page_48"></a>{48}</span> spot, hearing it all. She did not move. -She was like an image set down there, capable of no individual action. -She stood and gazed, and heard it all, and saw us all listening. I -cannot tell what dreadful pangs were rending her heart; but she stood -like a dead woman in the sunshine, neither contradicting her accuser nor -making even one gesture in her own defence.</p> - -<p>Then Sir Thomas, on whom there had surely been some spell, came forward, -dividing the crowd, and took the stranger by the arm. ‘Set down the -child,’ he said in a shaking voice. ‘Set her down. How dare <i>you</i> speak -of a mother’s rights? Did you ever do anything for her? Set down the -child, woman! You have no business here.’</p> - -<p>‘I never forsook my own flesh and blood,’ cried the enraged creature, -letting poor little Mary almost fall down out of her arms, but keeping -fast hold of her. ‘I’ve a better right here than any of these strangers. -I’m her son’s wife. She’s little Mary’s grandmother, though she’ll deny -it. She’s that kind of woman that would deny to her last breath. I know -she would. She’s the child’s grandmother. She’s my mother-in-law. She’s -never seen her son since he was two years old. If he hears the very name -of mother he curses and swears. Let me alone, I have come for my child! -And I’ve come to give that woman her due!’</p> - -<p>‘Go!’ cried Sir Thomas. His voice was awful. He would not touch her, for -he was a gentleman; but the sound of his voice made my very knees bend -and tremble. ‘Go!’ he said—‘not a word more.’ He was so overcome at -last that he put his hand on her shoulder and pushed her away, and -wildly beckoned to the servants, who were standing listening too. The -woman grasped little Mary by her dress. She crushed up the child’s -pretty white cape in her hot hand and dragged her along with her. But -she obeyed. She dared not resist his voice; and she had done all the -harm it was possible to do.</p> - -<p>‘I’ll go,’ she said. ‘None of you had better touch me. I’m twice as -strong as you, though you’re a man. But I’ll go. She knows what I think -of her now; and you all know what she is!’ she cried, raising her voice. -‘To marry that old man, she deserted her child at two years old, and -never set eyes on him more. That’s Lady Denzil. Now you all know, ladies -and gentlemen; and I’ll go.’</p> - -<p>All this time Lady Denzil never stirred; but when the woman moved away, -dragging little Mary with her, all at once my lady stretched out her -hands and gave a wild cry. ‘The child!’ she cried; ‘the child!’ And then -the little thing turned to her with that strange sympathy we had all -noticed. I don’t know how she twitched herself out of her mother’s -excited, passionate grasp, but she rushed back and threw herself at Lady -Denzil’s feet, and clutched hold of her dress. My lady, who had not -moved nor spoken except those two words—who was old and capable of no -such exertion, stooped over her and lifted her up.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_49" id="page_49"></a>{49}</span> I never saw such a -sight. She was as pale as if she had been dead. She had received such a -shock as might well have killed her. Notwithstanding, this is what she -did. She lifted up the child in her arms, broke away from us who were -surrounding her, mounted the steep bank like a girl, with her treasure -clasped close to her bosom, and before any one knew, before there was -time to speak, or even almost think, had disappeared with her into the -house. The woman would have rushed at her, sprung upon her, if she had -not been held fast. It may easily be imagined what a scene it was when -the mistress of the feast disappeared, and a family secret so -extraordinary was thus tossed to public discussion. The house door rang -after Lady Denzil, as she rushed in, with a sound like a cannon shot. -The stranger stood struggling in the midst of a group of men, visitors -and servants, some of whom were trying to persuade, some to force her -away. Sir Thomas stood by himself, with his old pale hands piteously -clasped together, and his head bent. He was overwhelmed by shame and -trouble, and the shock of this frightful scene. He did not seem able for -the first moment to face any one, to lift his eyes to the disturbed and -fluttering crowd, who were so strangely in the way. And we all stood -about thunderstruck, staring in each other’s faces, not knowing what to -do or to say. Lady Berkhampstead, with the instinct of a great lady, was -the first to recover herself. She turned to me, I scarcely know why, nor -could she have told why. ‘I know my carriage is waiting,’ she said, ‘and -I could not think of disturbing dear Lady Denzil to say good-bye. Will -you tell her how sorry I am to go away without seeing her?’ They all -came crowding round me with almost the same words, as soon as she had -set the example. And presently Sir Thomas roused up as it were from his -stupor. And for the next few minutes there was nothing but shaking of -hands, and the rolling up of carriages, and an attempt on the part of -everybody to smile and look as if nothing had happened. ‘So long as it -does not make dear Lady Denzil ill,’ one of the ladies said. ‘This is -one of the dangers of living so close upon the road. It might have -happened to any of us,’ said another. ‘Of course the creature is mad; -she should be shut up somewhere.’ They said such words with the natural -impulse of saying anything to break the terrible impression of the -scene; but they were all almost as much shocked and shaken as the -principals in it. I never saw such a collection of pale faces as those -that went from the Lodge that afternoon. I was left last of all. Somehow -the woman who had made so dreadful a disturbance had disappeared without -anybody knowing where. Sir Thomas and I were left alone on the lawn, -which ten minutes ago—I don’t think it was longer—had been so gay and -so crowded. So far as I was myself concerned, that was the most trying -moment of all. Everybody had spoken to me as if I belonged to the house, -but in reality I did not belong to the house; and I felt like a spy as I -stood<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_50" id="page_50"></a>{50}</span> with Sir Thomas all alone. And what was worse, he felt it too, -and looked at me with the forced painful smile he had put on for the -others, as if he felt I was just like them, and it was also needful for -me.</p> - -<p>‘I beg your pardon for staying,’ I said, ‘don’t you think I could be of -any use? Lady Denzil perhaps——’</p> - -<p>Sir Thomas took my hand and shook it in an imperative way. ‘No, no,’ he -said with his set smile. He even turned me towards the gate and touched -my shoulder with his agitated hand—half no doubt, because he knew I -meant kindly—but half to send me away.</p> - -<p>‘She might like me to do something,’ I said piteously. But all that Sir -Thomas did was to wring my hand and pat my shoulder, and say, ‘No, no.’ -I was obliged to follow the rest with an aching heart. As I went out one -of the servants came after me. It was a man who had been long in the -family, and knew a great deal about the Denzils. He came to tell me he -was very much frightened about the woman, who had disappeared nobody -could tell how. ‘I’m afraid she’s hiding about somewhere,’ he said, ‘to -come again.’ And then he glanced round to see that nobody was by, and -looked into my face. ‘All that about my lady is true,’ he said—‘true as -gospel. I’ve knowed it this forty years.’</p> - -<p>‘They’ve been very kind to you, Wellman,’ I said indignantly—‘for -shame! to think you should turn upon your good mistress now.’</p> - -<p>‘Turn upon her!’ said Wellman; ‘not if I was to be torn in little bits; -but being such a friend of the family, I thought it might be a -satisfaction to you, ma’am, to know as it was true.’</p> - -<p>If anything could have made my heart more heavy I think it would have -been that. He thought it would be a satisfaction to me to know! And -after the first moment of pity was past, were there not some people to -whom it would be a satisfaction to know? who would tell it all over and -gloat upon it, and say to each other that pride went before a fall? My -heart was almost bursting as I crossed the Green in the blazing -afternoon sunshine, and saw the cricketers still playing as if nothing -had happened. Ah me! was this what brought such sad indulgent experience -to Lady Denzil’s eyes?—was this what made her know by instinct when -anything was wrong in a house? I could not think at first what a -terrible accusation it was that had been brought against her. I thought -only of her look, of her desperate snatch at the child, of her rush up -the steep bank with little Mary in her arms. She could scarcely have -lifted the child under ordinary circumstances—what wild despair, what -longing must have stimulated her to such an effort! I put down my veil -to cover my tears. Dear Lady Denzil! how sweet she was, how tender, how -considerate of everybody. Blame never crossed her lips. I cannot -describe the poignant aching sense of her suffering that grew upon me -till I reached<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_51" id="page_51"></a>{51}</span> my own house. When I was there, out of sight of -everybody, I sat down and cried bitterly. And then gradually, by degrees -it broke upon me what it was that had happened—what the misery was, and -the shame.</p> - -<p>She must have done it forty years ago, as Wellman said, when she was -quite young, and no doubt ignorant of the awful thing she was doing. She -had done it, and she had held by it ever since—had given her child up -at two years old, and had never seen him again. Good Lord! could any -woman do that and live? Her child, two years old. My mind seemed to grow -bewildered going over and over that fact: for evidently it was a fact. -Her child—her own son.</p> - -<p>And for forty years! To keep it all up and stand by it, and never to -flinch or falter. If it is difficult to keep to a good purpose for so -long, what can it be to keep by an evil one? How could she do it? Then a -hundred little words she had said came rushing into my mind. And that -look—the look she cast after the deserter on the road! I understood it -all now. Her heart had been longing for him all the time. She had loved -her child more than other mothers love, every day of all that time.</p> - -<p>Poor Lady Denzil! dear Lady Denzil! this was the end of all my -reasonings on the matter. I went over it again and again, but I never -came to any ending but this:—The thing was dreadful; but she was not -dreadful. There was no change in her. I did not realize any guilt on her -part. My heart only bled for the long anguish she had suffered, and for -the shock she was suffering from now.</p> - -<p>But before evening on this very same day my house was filled with people -discussing the whole story. No one had heard any more than I had heard: -but by this time a thousand versions of the story were afloat. Some -people said she had gone astray when she was young, and had been cast -off by her family, and that Sir Thomas had rescued her; and there were -whispers that such stories were not so rare, if we knew all: a vile echo -that always breathes after a real tragedy. And some said she was of no -family, but had been the former Lady Denzil’s maid; some thought it was -Sir Thomas’s own son that had been thus cast away; some said he had been -left on the streets and no provision made for him. My neighbours went -into a hundred details. Old Mr. Clifford thought it was a bad story -indeed; and the rector shook his head, and said that for a person in -Lady Denzil’s position such a scandal was dreadful; it was such an -example to the lower classes. Mrs. Damerel was still more depressed. She -said she would not be surprised at anything Molly Jackson could do after -this. As for Mrs. Wood, who came late in the evening, all agape to -inquire into the news, there was something like a malicious satisfaction -in her face, I lost all patience when she appeared. I had compelled -myself to bear what the others said, but I would not put up with her.</p> - -<p>‘Lady Denzil is my dear friend,’ I broke out, not without<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_52" id="page_52"></a>{52}</span> tears; ‘a -great trouble has come upon her. A madwoman has been brought against her -with an incredible story; and when a story is incredible people always -believe it. If you want to hear any more, go to other people who were -present. I can’t tell you anything, and if I must say so, I won’t.’</p> - -<p>‘Good gracious, Mrs. Mulgrave, don’t go out of your senses!’ said my -visitor. ‘If Lady Denzil has done something dreadful, that does not -affect you!’</p> - -<p>‘But it does affect me,’ I said, ‘infinitely; it clouds over heaven and -earth; it changes—Never mind, I cannot tell you anything about it. If -you are anxious to hear, you must go to some one else than me.’</p> - -<p>‘Well, I am very glad I was not there,’ said Mrs. Wood, ‘with my -innocent girls. I am very glad now I never made any attempt to make -friends with her, though you know how often you urged me to do it. I am -quite happy to think I did not yield to you now.’</p> - -<p>I had no spirit to contradict this monstrous piece of pretence. I was -glad to get rid of her anyhow; for though I might feel myself for an -instant supported by my indignation, the blow had gone to my heart, and -I had no strength to struggle against it. The thought of all that Lady -Denzil might be suffering confused me with a dull sense of pain. And yet -things were not then at their worst with my lady. Next morning it was -found that little Mary had been stolen away.</p> - -<h3>CHAPTER IV</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">That</span> was a dreadful morning on the Green. After the lovely weather we -had been having, all the winds and all the fiends seemed to have been -unchained. It blew a hurricane during the night, and next day the Green -was covered with great branches of trees which had been torn off and -scattered about like wreck on a seashore. After this came rain; it -poured as if the windows of heaven were opened, when Sir Thomas himself -stepped in upon me like a ghost, as I sat at my solitary breakfast. -These twenty-four hours had passed over him like so many years. He was -haggard and ashy pale, and feeble. His very mind seemed to be confused. -‘We have lost the child,’ he said to me, with a voice from which all -modulation and softness had gone. ‘Will you come and see my wife?’</p> - -<p>‘Lost! little Mary?’ I cried.</p> - -<p>And then all his courage gave way; he sat down speechless, with his lips -quivering, and bitter tears in his worn old eyes. Then he got up -restless and shaking. ‘Come to my wife,’ he said. There was not another -word exchanged between us. I put on my cloak with the hood over my head, -and went with him on the moment. As we crossed the Green a sort of -procession arrived, two or three great vans packed with people, with -music<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_53" id="page_53"></a>{53}</span> and flags, which proceeded to discharge their contents at the -‘Barley-Mow’ under the soaking rain. They had come for a day’s pleasure, -poor creatures, and this was the sort of day they got. The sight of them -is so associated in my mind with that miserable moment, that I don’t -think I could forget it were I to live a hundred years. It seemed to -join on somehow to the tragical breaking-up of the party on the day -before. There was nothing wrong now but in the elements; yet it chimed -in with its little sermon on the vanity of all things. My lady was in -her own room when I entered the Lodge. The shock had struck her down, -but she was not calm enough, or weak enough to go to bed. She lay on a -sofa in her dressing-gown; she was utterly pale, not a touch of her -sweet colour left, and her hands shook as she held them out to me. She -held them out, and looked up in my face with appealing eyes, which put -me in mind of little Mary’s. And then, when I stooped down over her in -the impulse of the moment to kiss her, she pressed my hands so in hers, -that frail and thin as her fingers were, I almost cried out with pain. -Mrs. Florentine, her old maid, stood close by the head of her mistress’s -sofa. She stood looking on very grave and steady, without any surprise, -as if she knew it all.</p> - -<p>For a few minutes Lady Denzil could not speak. And when she did, her -words came out with a burst, all at once. ‘Did he tell you?’ she said. -‘I thought you would help me. You have nobody to keep you back; neither -husband nor—— I said I was sure of you.’</p> - -<p>‘Dear Lady Denzil,’ I said, ‘if I can do anything—to the utmost of my -strength——’</p> - -<p>She held my hand fast, and looked at me as if she would look me through -and through. ‘That was what I said—that was what I said!’ she cried; -‘you <i>can</i> do what your heart says; you can bring her back to me; my -child, my little child! I never had but a little child—never that I -knew!’</p> - -<p>‘I will do whatever you tell me,’ I said, trying to soothe her; ‘but oh! -don’t wear yourself out. You will be ill if you give way.’</p> - -<p>I said this, I suppose, because everybody says it when any one is in -trouble. I don’t know any better reason. ‘That’s what I’m always telling -my lady, ma’am,’ said Mrs. Florentine; ‘but she pays no heed to me.’</p> - -<p>Lady Denzil gave us both a faint little smile. She knew too much not to -know how entirely a matter of conventional routine it was that we should -say this to her. She made a pause, and then she took my hand once more.</p> - -<p>‘I ought to tell you,’ she said—‘it is all true—every word. Florentine -knows everything, from the first to the last. I was a poor soldier’s -widow, and I was destitute. I was too young to know what I was doing, -and I was pretty, they said, and there were men that would have taken -advantage of my simplicity. But Sir Thomas was never like that. I -married him<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_54" id="page_54"></a>{54}</span> to buy a livelihood for my child; and he was very good to -me. When he married me, I was a forlorn young creature, with nothing to -give my helpless baby. I gave up my child, Florentine knows; and yet -every day, every year of his life, I’ve followed him in my heart. If he -had been living in my sight, I could not have known more of him. What I -say is every word true, Florentine will tell you. I want you,’ grasping -my hand tightly, ‘to tell everything to <i>him</i>.’</p> - -<p>‘To him!’ said I, with a gasp of astonishment, not knowing what she -meant.</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ said Lady Denzil, holding my hand fast, ‘to my boy—I want you to -see my boy. Tell him there has never been a day I have not followed him -in my heart. All his wilfulness I have felt was my fault. I have prayed -God on my knees to lay the blame on me. That day when I saw the -deserter—I want you to tell him everything. I want you to ask him to -give me back the child.’</p> - -<p>I gave a cry of astonishment; an exclamation which I could not restrain. -‘Can you expect it?’ I said.</p> - -<p>‘Ah, yes, I expect it,’ said Lady Denzil; ‘not that I have any right—I -expect it from his heart. Florentine will tell you everything. It is she -who has watched over him. We never talked of anything else, she and I; -never a day all these forty years but I have figured to myself what my -darling was doing; I say my darling,’ she cried as with a sharp pang, -with a sudden gush of tears, ‘and he is a man and a soldier, and in -prison. Think of that, and think of all I have had to bear!’</p> - -<p>I could not make any answer. I could only press her hand with a dumb -sympathy. As for Mrs. Florentine, she stood with her eyes cast down, and -smoothed the chintz cover with her hand, taking no part by look or word. -The story was no surprise to her. She knew everything about it; she was -a chief actor in it; she had no need to show any sympathy. The union -between her mistress and herself was deeper than that.</p> - -<p>‘When he married this woman, I was ready to believe it would be for his -good,’ said my lady, when she had recovered herself. ‘I thought it was -somehow giving him back what I had taken from him. I sent her presents -secretly. He has been very, very wilful; and Sir Thomas was so good to -him! He took his mother from him; but he gave him money, education, -everything a young man wants. There are many young men,’ said Lady -Denzil pathetically, ‘who think but little of their mothers—’ and then -she made a pause. ‘There was young Clifford, for example,’ she added, -‘and the rector’s brother who ran away—their mothers broke their -hearts, but the boys did not care much. I have suffered in everything he -suffered by; but yet if he had been here, perhaps he would not have -cared for me.’</p> - -<p>‘That is not possible,’ I said, not seeing what she meant.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, it is possible, very possible,’ she said. ‘I have seen it times -without number. I have tried to take a little comfort<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_55" id="page_55"></a>{55}</span> from it. If it -had been a girl, I would never, never have given her up; but a boy—— -That was what I thought. I don’t defend myself. Let him be the judge—I -want him to be the judge. That woman is a wicked woman; she has -disgraced him and left him; she will bring my child up to ruin. Ask him -to give me back my poor little child.’</p> - -<p>‘I will do what I can,’ I said, faltering. I was pledged; yet how was I -to do it? My courage failed me as I sat by her dismayed and received my -commission. When she heard the tremulous sound of my voice, she turned -round to me and held my hand close in hers once more.</p> - -<p>‘You can do everything,’ she said. Her voice had suddenly grown hoarse. -She was at such a supreme height of emotion, that the sight of her -frightened me. I kissed her; I soothed her; I promised to do whatever -she would. And then she became impatient that I should set out. She was -not aware of the rain or the storm. She was too much absorbed in her -trouble even to hear the furious wail of the wind and the blast of rain -against the windows: but had I been in her case she would have done as -much for me. Before Florentine followed me with my cloak, I had made up -my mind not to lose any more time. It was from her I got all the -details: the poor fellow’s name, and where he was, and all about him. He -had been very wild, Florentine said. Sir Thomas had done everything for -him; but he had not been grateful, and had behaved very badly. His wife -was an abandoned woman, wicked and shameless; and he too had taken to -evil courses. He had strained Sir Thomas’s patience to the utmost time -after time. And then he had enlisted. His regiment was in the Tower, and -he was under confinement there for insubordination. Such was the brief -story. ‘Many a time I’ve thought, ma’am,’ said Mrs. Florentine, ‘if my -lady did but know him as she was a-breaking of her heart for! If he’d -been at home he’d have killed her. But all she knows is that he’s her -child—to love, and nothing more.’</p> - -<p>‘The Tower is a long way from our railway,’ I said; ‘but it does not -much matter in a cab.’</p> - -<p>‘Law, ma’am, you’re never going to-day?’ said Florentine. But I had no -intention of arguing the question with her. I went into the library to -Sir Thomas to bid him good-bye. And he too was amazed when I told him. -He took my hand as his wife had done, and shook it, and looked pitifully -into my face. ‘It is I who ought to go,’ he said. But he knew as well as -I did that it was impossible for him to go. He ordered the carriage to -come round for me, and brought me wine—some wonderful old wine he had -in his cellar, which I knew no difference in from the commonest sherry. -But it pleased him, I suppose, to think he had given me his best. And -before I went away, he gave me much more information about the -unfortunate man I was going to see. ‘He is not bad at heart,’ said Sir -Thomas; ‘I don’t think he is bad at heart; but his wife is a wicked -woman.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_56" id="page_56"></a>{56}</span> And when I was going away, he stooped his gray aged countenance -over me, and kissed me solemnly on the forehead. When I found myself -driving along the wet roads, with the rain sweeping so in the horses’ -faces that it was all the half-blinded coachman could do to keep them -going against the wind, I was so bewildered by my own position that I -felt stupid for the moment. I was going to the Tower to see Sergeant -Gray, in confinement for disrespect to his superior officer—going to -persuade him to exert himself to take his child from his wife’s custody, -and give her to his mother, whom he did not know! I had not even heard -how it was that little Mary had been stolen away. I had taken that for -granted, in face of the immediate call upon me. I had indeed been swept -up as it were by the strong wind of emotion, and carried away and thrust -forward into a position I could not understand. Then I recognized the -truth of Lady Denzil’s words. I had nobody to restrain me: no husband at -home to find fault with anything I might do; nobody to wonder, or fret, -or be annoyed by the burden I had taken upon me. The recollection made -my heart swell a little, not with pleasure. And yet it was very true. -Poor Mr. Mulgrave, had he been living, was a man who would have been -sure to find fault. It is dreary to think of one’s self as of so little -importance to any one; but perhaps one ought to think more than one -does, that if the position is a dreary one, it has its benefits too. One -is free to do what one pleases. I could answer to myself; I had no one -else to answer to. At such a moment there was an advantage in that.</p> - -<p>At the station I met the rector, who was going to town by the same -train. ‘Bless my soul, Mrs. Mulgrave,’ he said, ‘what a dreadful day you -have chosen for travelling. I thought there was no one afloat on the -world but me.’</p> - -<p>‘There was no choice, Mr. Damerel,’ I said. ‘I am going about business -which cannot be put off.’</p> - -<p>He was very kind: he got my ticket for me, and put me into a carriage, -and did not insist that I should talk to him on the way up. He talked -enough himself it is true, but he was satisfied when I said yes and no. -Just before we got to town however he returned to my errand. ‘If your -business is anything I can do for you,’ he said, ‘if there is anything -that a man could look after better than a lady—you know how glad I -should be to be of any use.’</p> - -<p>‘Thank you,’ I said. My feelings were not mirthful, but yet I could have -burst out laughing. I wonder if there is really any business that a man -can do better than a lady, when it happens to be <i>her</i> business and not -his? I have never got much help in that way from the men that have -belonged to me. And to think of putting my delicate, desperate business -into Mr. Damerel’s soft, clerical hands, that had no bone in them! He -got me a cab, which was something—though to be sure a porter would have -done it quite as well—and opened his eyes to their utmost<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_57" id="page_57"></a>{57}</span> width when -he heard me tell the coachman to go to the Tower.</p> - -<p>What a drive it was! our thirty miles of railway was nothing to it: -through all those damp, dreary, glistening London streets—streets -narrow and drearily vicious; streets still more drearily respectable; -desert lines of warehouses and offices; crowded thoroughfares with -dreary vehicles in a lock, and dreary people crowding about surmounted -with umbrellas—miles upon miles, streets upon streets, from Paddington -to the Tower. I think it was the first drive of the kind I ever took, -and if you can suppose me wrapped up in my waterproof cloak, a little -excited about the unknown man I was going to see; trying to form my -sentences, what I was to say; pondering how I should bring in my -arguments best; wondering where I should have to go to find the mother -and the child. Poor little Mary! after the little gleam of love and of -luxury that had opened upon her, to be snatched off into the dreary -world of poverty, with a violent mother whom it was evident she feared! -And poor mother too! She might be violent and yet might love her child; -she might be wicked and yet might love her child. To go and snatch the -little creature back, at all hazards, was an act which to the popular -mind would always look like a much higher strain of virtue than dear -Lady Denzil’s abandonment. I could not defend Lady Denzil, even to -myself; and what could I say for her to her son, who knew her not?</p> - -<p>At least an hour was lost before I got admittance to Sergeant Gray. As -it happened, by a fortunate chance, Robert Seymour was colonel of the -regiment, and came to my assistance. But for that I might have failed -altogether. Robert was greatly amazed by the request I made him, but of -course he did what I wanted. He told me Sergeant Gray was not in prison, -but simply confined to his quarters, and that he was a very strange sort -of man. ‘I should like to know what you can want with him,’ he said. -‘Yes, of course, I am dreadfully curious—men are—you know it is our -weakness. You may as well tell me what you want with Gray.’</p> - -<p>‘It is nothing to laugh about,’ said I; ‘it is more tragic than comical. -I have a message to him from his mother. And there is not a moment to -lose.’</p> - -<p>‘I understand,’ said Robert, ‘I am to take myself off. Here is the door; -but you must tell me anything you know about him when you have seen him. -He is the strangest fellow in the regiment. I never can make him out.’</p> - -<p>And in two minutes more I was face to face with Sergeant Gray.</p> - -<p>He must have been like his father. There was not a feature in his face -which recalled Lady Denzil’s. He was an immensely tall, powerful man, -with strong chestnut brown hair, and vigour and life in every line of -his great frame. I expected to find a prisoner partially sentimental; -and I found a big man in undress<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_58" id="page_58"></a>{58}</span> marching freely about his room, with a -long pipe by the fire, and his beer and glasses on the table. I had -expected a refined man, bearing traces of gentleman written on him, and -the fine tastes that became Lady Denzil’s son. There <i>was</i> something -about him, when one came to look at him a second time—but what was it? -Traces of dissipation, a look of bravado, an instant standing to his -arms in self-defence, whatever I might have come to accuse him of; and -the insufferable coxcomb air which comes naturally to the meanest member -of the household troops. Such was the rapid impression I formed as I -went in. He took off his cap with an air of amazement yet assurance, but -put it on again immediately. I stood trembling before this big, -irreverent, unknown man. If the door had been open I think I should have -run away. But as it was I had no resource.</p> - -<p>‘Mr. Gray,’ I said all at once, half from cowardice, half to get it -over, ‘I have come to you—from your mother.’</p> - -<p>The man actually staggered as he stood before me—he fell back and gazed -at me as if I had been a ghost. ‘From my—mother?’ he said, and his lips -seemed to refuse articulation. His surprise vanquished him; which was -more than with my individual forces I could have hoped to do.</p> - -<p>‘From your mother,’ I repeated. ‘I have come direct from her, where she -is lying ill and much shaken. She has told me all her story—and I love -her dearly—that is why she sent me to you.’</p> - -<p>All the time I was speaking he stood still and stared at me; but when I -stopped, he appeared gradually to come to himself. He brought forward, -from where it stood against the wall, very deliberately, another chair, -and sitting down looked at me intently. ‘If she has told you all her -story,’ he said, ‘you will know how little inducement I have to listen -to anything she may say.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ said I, feeling not a fictitious but a real passion swelling up -into my throat, ‘she has told me everything, more than you can know. She -has told me how for forty years—is it forty years?—she has watched -over you in secret, spent her days in thinking of you, and her nights in -praying for you. Ah, don’t smile! if you had seen her pale and broken in -all her pride, lying trembling and telling me this, it would have -touched your heart.’</p> - -<p>And I could see that it did touch his heart, being so new and unusual to -him. He was not a cynical, over-educated man, accustomed to such -appeals, and to believe them nonsense. And it touched him, being so -unexpected. Then he made a little effort to recover himself, and the -natural bravado of his character and profession. ‘In all her pride!’ he -said bitterly. ‘Yes, that’s very well said; she liked her pride better -than me.’</p> - -<p>‘She liked your life better than you,’ said I—and heaven forgive me if -I spoke like a sophist—‘and your comfort. To secure bread to you and -education she made that vow. When she had once made it, she had to keep -it. But I tell you what she told<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_59" id="page_59"></a>{59}</span> me not three hours ago. “There has -never been a day I have not followed him in my heart.” That is what she -said. She and her old maid who used to see you and watch over you talked -of nothing else. Fancy! you a young man growing up, taking your own way, -going against the wishes of your best friends; and your mother, who -dared not go to you, watching you from far off, weeping over you, -praying on her knees, thinking of nothing else, talking of nothing else -when she was alone and dared do it. At other times she had to go into -the world to please her husband, to act as if you had no existence. And -all the time she was thinking of nothing but you in her heart.’</p> - -<p>He had got up before I came so far. He was unquestionably moved; his -step got quicker and quicker. He made impatient gestures with his hands -as if to put my voice away. But all the same he listened to me greedily. -When I had done—and I got so excited that I was compelled to be done, -for tears came into my throat and choked me—he turned to me with his -face strongly swept by winds of feeling. ‘Who told you?’ he cried -abruptly. ‘Why do you come to disturb me? I was thinking nothing about -my circumstances. I was thinking how I could best be jolly in such a -position. What do I know about anybody who may choose to call herself my -mother? Probably I never had a mother. I can do nothing for her, and she -can do nothing for me.’</p> - -<p>‘You can do something for her,’ I cried. ‘She sent me to you to beg it -of you. Sir Thomas saw how your wife was living. He saw she should not -have a little girl to ruin. He brought away the child. I was there when -he came home. Your mother knew in a moment who it was, though he never -said a word. She rushed to her, and fell on her knees, and cried as if -her heart would break. She thought God had sent the child. Little Mary -is so like her, so like her! You cannot think how beautiful it was to -see them together. Look! if you don’t know what your mother is, look at -that face.’</p> - -<p>He had stood as if stupefied, staring at me. When I mentioned his wife -he had made an angry gesture; but his heart melted altogether when I -came to little Mary. I had brought Lady Denzil’s photograph with me, -thinking it might touch his heart, and now I thrust it into his hand -before he knew what I meant. He gave one glance at it, and then he fell -back into his chair, and gazed and gazed, as if he had lost himself. He -was not prepared. He had been wilful—perhaps wicked—but his heart had -not got hardened like that of a man of the world. It had been outside -evils he had done, outside influences that had moved him. When anything -struck deep at his heart he had no armour to resist the blow. He went -back upon his chair with a stride, hiding from me, or trying to hide, -that he was obliged to do it to keep himself steady; he knitted his -brows over the little picture as if it was hard to see it. But he might -have spared himself the trouble. I saw how it was. One does<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_60" id="page_60"></a>{60}</span> not live in -the world and learn men’s ways for nought: I knew his eyes were filling -with tears; I knew that sob was climbing up into his throat; and I did -not say a word more. It was a lovely little photograph. The sun is often -so kind to old women. It was my lady with all the softness of her white -hair, with her gracious looks, her indulgent, benign eyes. And those -eyes were little Mary’s eyes. They went straight into the poor fellow’s -heart. After he had struggled as long as he could, the sob actually -broke out. Then he straightened himself up all at once, and looked at me -fiercely; but I knew better than to pretend to hear him.</p> - -<p>‘This is nothing to the purpose,’ he said; and then he stopped, and -nature burst forth. ‘Why did she cast me upon the world? Why did she -give me up? You are a good woman, and you are her friend. Why did she -cast me away?’</p> - -<p>I shook my head, it was all I could do. I was crying, and I could not -articulate. ‘God knows!’ I gasped through my tears. And he got up and -went to the window, and turning his back on me, held up the little -picture to the light. I watched no longer what he was doing. Nature was -working her own way in his heart.</p> - -<p>When he turned round at last, he came up to me and held out his hand. -‘Thank you,’ he said, in a way that, for the first time, reminded me of -Lady Denzil. ‘You have made me think less harshly about my mother. What -is it she wants me to do?’</p> - -<p>He did not put down the photograph, or give it back to me, but held it -closely in his hand, which gave me courage. And then I entered upon my -story. When I told him how his wife had insulted his mother, his face -grew purple. I gave him every detail: how little Mary clung to my lady; -how frightened she was of the passionate claimant who seized her. When I -repeated her little cry, ‘My lady!’ a curious gleam passed over his -face. He interrupted me at that point. ‘Who is my lady?’ he said, with a -strange consciousness. The only answer I made was to point at the -photograph. It made the most curious impression on him. Evidently he had -not even known his mother’s name. Almost, I think, the title threw a new -light for him upon all the circumstances. There are people who will say -that this was from a mean feeling; but it was from no mean feeling. He -saw by this fact what a gulf she had put between herself and him. He saw -a certain reason in the separation which, if she had been a woman of -different position, could not have existed. And there is no man living -who is not susceptible to the world’s opinion of the people he is -interested in. He changed almost imperceptibly—unawares. He heard all -the rest of my story in grave silence. I told him what my lady had -said—that he was to be the judge; and henceforward it was with the -seriousness of a judge that he sat and listened. He heard me out every -word, and then he sat and seemed to turn it over in his mind. So far as -I was concerned, that was the hardest moment of all. His face was stern -in its composure. He was reflecting, putting this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_61" id="page_61"></a>{61}</span> and that together. -His mother was standing at the bar before him. And what should I do, did -he decide against her? Thus I sat waiting and trembling. When he opened -his lips my heart jumped to my mouth. How foolish it was! That was not -what he had been thinking of. Instead of his mother at the bar, it was -his own life he had been turning over in his mind. It all came forth -with a burst when he began to speak: the chances he had lost; the misery -that had come upon him; the shame of the woman who bore his name; and -his poor little desolate child. Then the man forgot himself, and swore a -great oath. ‘As soon as I am free I will go and get her, and send her -to—— my lady!’ he said, with abrupt, half-hysterical vehemence. And -then he rose suddenly and went to the window, and turned his back on me -again.</p> - -<p>I was overcome. I did not expect it so soon, or so fully. I could have -thrown myself upon his neck, poor fellow, and wept. Was he the one to -bear the penalties of all? sinned against by his mother in his -childhood, and more dreadfully by his wife in his maturity. What had he -done that the closest of earthly ties should thus be made a torment to -him? When I had come to myself I rose and went after him, trembling. -‘Mr. Gray,’ I said, ‘is there nothing that can be done for you?’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t want anything to be done for me,’ he cried abruptly. The -question piqued his pride. ‘Tell her she shall see yet that I understand -the sacrifice she has made,’ he said. If he spoke ironically or in -honesty I cannot tell; when his mouth had once been opened the stream -came so fast. ‘I want to go away, that is all,’ he said, with a certain -heat, almost anger; ‘anywhere—I don’t care where—to the Mauritius, if -they like, where that fever is. No fear that I should die. I have been -brought up like a gentleman—it is quite true. And yet I am here. What -was the use? My father was a common soldier. She—— but it’s no good -talking; I am no credit to anybody now. If I could get drafted into -another regiment, and go—to India or anywhere—you should see a -difference. I swear you should see a difference!’ his voice rose high in -these last words, then he paused. ‘But she is old,’ he said, sinking his -voice; ‘ten years—I couldn’t <i>do</i> in less than ten years. She’ll never -be living then, to see what a man can do.’</p> - -<p>‘She is a woman that would make shift to live, somehow, to see her son -come back,’ I cried. ‘Give her little Mary, and try.’</p> - -<p>‘She shall have little Mary, by God!’ cried the excited man; and then he -broke down, and wept. I cannot describe this scene any more. I grasped -his hand when I left him, feeling as if he were my brother; he had his -mother’s picture held fast and hidden in his other hand. If that dear -touch of natural love had come to him before! But God knows! perhaps he -was only ready and open to it then.</p> - -<p>But he could not tell me where to find the child. I had to be content -with his promise that when he was free he would restore<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_62" id="page_62"></a>{62}</span> her to us. I -went out from him as much shaken as if I had gone through an illness, -and stole out, not to see Robert Seymour, whom I was not equal to -meeting just at that moment. But the end of my mission was nearer than I -thought. When I got outside there was a group of excited people about -the gateway, close to which my cab was waiting me. They were discussing -something which had just happened, and which evidently had left a great -commotion behind. Among the crowd was a group of soldiers’ wives, who -shook their heads, and talked it over to each other with lowered voices. -‘It’s well for her she was took bad here, and never got nigh to him,’ -one of them said. ‘He’d have killed her, I know he would! It’s well for -her she never got in to tempt that man to her death.’</p> - -<p>‘It was brazen of her to come nigh him at all,’ said another, ‘and him -so proud. She always was a shameless one. What my heart bleeds for is -that poor little child.’</p> - -<p>‘Where is the child?’ asked a third. ‘It would be well for her, poor -innocent, if the Lord was to take her too.’</p> - -<p>I was standing stupefied, listening to them, when I heard a little cry, -and the grasp of something at my dress. The cry was so feeble, and the -grasp so light, that I might never have noticed it but for those women. -I turned round, and the whole world swam round me for a moment. I did -what Lady Denzil did—I staggered forward and fell on my knees, though -this was not the soft green grass, but a stony London pavement, and -clasped little Mary tight with a vehemence that would have frightened -any other child; but she was not frightened. The little creature was -drenched with the pitiless rain. She had been tied up in an old shawl, -to hide the miserable, pretty white frock, now clogged with mud and -soaked with water. Her little hat was glued to her head with the floods -to which she had been exposed. I lifted my treasure wildly in my arms, -as soon as I had any strength to do it, and rushed with her to my -carriage. I felt like a thief triumphant; and yet it was no theft. But -my eagerness aroused the suspicions of the soldiers’ wives who had been -standing by. They explained to me that the child was Sergeant Gray’s -child; that her mother had been took very bad in a fit, and had been -carried off to the hospital; and that I, a stranger, had no right to -interfere. I don’t know what hurried explanation I made to them; but I -know that at last I satisfied their fears, and with little Mary in my -arms actually drove away.</p> - -<p>It was true, though I never could believe it. I got her as easily as if -it had been the most natural thing in the world. I could not believe it, -even when I held her fast and drew from her her little story. She had -been taken away early, very early in the morning, when she had run to -the door as soon as she was up to satisfy herself that it rained. No -doubt the wretched mother had hung about the grounds all night in the -storm and rain to get at the child. She had snatched up little Mary in -her arms, and rushed out with her before any one was aware.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_63" id="page_63"></a>{63}</span> The child -had been dragged along the dreary roads in the rain. If the woman had -really loved her, if it had been the passion of a tender mother, and not -of a revengeful creature, she never would have subjected the child to -this. She was wet to the skin, with pools in her little boots, and the -water streaming from her dress. I took her to a friend’s house and got -dry clothes to put upon her. The unhappy mother had, no doubt, been out -all night exposed to the storm. She was mad with rage and misery and -fatigue, and probably did not feel her danger at the moment; but just as -she reached the Tower to claim, building upon a common opposition to one -object, her husband’s support, had fallen down senseless on his very -threshold as it were. Nothing indeed but madness could have led her to -the man whom she had disgraced. When the surrounding bystanders saw that -nothing was to be done for her, and that she would not come out of her -faint, they had her carried in alarm to the hospital. Such was the -abrupt conclusion of the tale. Had I known I need not have given myself -the trouble of seeing Sergeant Gray—but that, at least, was a thing -which I could not find in my heart to regret.</p> - -<p>When I took her back Lady Denzil held me in her arms, held me fast, and -looked into my face, even before she listened to little Mary’s call. She -wanted me to tell her of her child—her own child—and I was so weak -that I could not speak to her. I fell crying on her tender old bosom, -like a fool, and had to be comforted, as if it could be anything to -me—in comparison. I don’t know afterwards what I said to her, but she -understood all I meant. As for Sir Thomas he was too happy to ask any -questions. The child had wound herself into his very heart. He sat with -little Mary in his arms all that evening. He would scarcely allow her to -be taken to bed. He went up with his heavy old step to see her sleeping -safe once more under his roof, and made Wellman, with a pistol, sleep in -a little room below. But little Mary was safe enough now. Her father was -confined in his barrack room, with my lady’s photograph in his hands, -and a host of unknown softenings and compunctions in his heart. Her -mother was raving wildly in the hospital on the bed from which she was -never to rise. I don’t know that any one concerned, except myself, -thought of this strange cluster of divers fortunes, of tragic mystery -and suffering, all hanging about the little angel-vision of that child. -Sin, shame, misery, every kind of horror and distress, and little Mary -the centre of all; how strange it was!—how terrible and smiling and -wretched is life!</p> - -<p>It is not to be supposed that such a frightful convulsion and earthquake -could pass over and leave no sign. Little Mary was very ill after her -exposure, and the shadow of death fell on the Lodge. Perhaps that -circumstance softened a little the storm of animadversion that rose up -in the neighbourhood. For six months after, Lady Denzil, who had been -our centre of society,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_64" id="page_64"></a>{64}</span> was never seen out of her own gates. Then they -went away, and were absent a whole year. It was the most curious change -to everybody on the Green. For three months no one talked on any other -subject, and the wildest stories were told: stories with just so much -truth in them as to make them doubly wild. It was found out somehow that -that wretched woman had died, and then there were accounts current that -she had died in the grounds at the Lodge—on the road—in the -workhouse—everywhere but the real place, which was in the hospital, -where every indulgence and every comfort that she was capable of -receiving had been given to her, Sir Thomas himself going to town on -purpose to see that it was so. And then it was said that it was she who -was Lady Denzil’s child. It was a terrible moment, and one which left -its mark upon everybody concerned. Sergeant Gray lost his rank, but got -his wish and was drafted into another regiment going to India. I saw him -again, I and poor old Mrs. Florentine.</p> - -<p>But he did not see his mother. They were neither of them able for such a -trial. ‘I will come back in ten years,’ he said to me. I do not know if -he will. I don’t know if Lady Denzil will live so long. But I believe if -she does that then for the first time she will see her son.</p> - -<p>They returned to the Lodge two years ago, and the neighbourhood now, -instead of gossiping, is very curious to know whether Lady Denzil ever -means to go into society again. Everybody calls, and admires little -Mary—how she has grown, and what a charming little princess she is; and -they all remind my lady, with tender reproach, of those parties they -enjoyed so much. ‘Are we never to have any more, dear Lady Denzil?’ Lucy -Stoke asked the other day, kneeling at my lady’s side, and caressing her -soft old ivory-white hand. My lady—to whom her tender old beauty, her -understanding of everybody’s trouble, even the rose-tint in her cheek, -have come back again—made no answer, but only kissed pretty Lucy. I -don’t know if she will give any more parties; but she means to live the -ten years.</p> - -<p>As for Sir Thomas he was never so happy in his life before. He follows -little Mary about like an old gray tender knight worshipping the fairy -creature. Sometimes I look on and cannot believe my eyes. The wretched -guilty mother is dead long ago, and nobody remembers her very existence. -The poor soldier has worked himself up to a commission, and may be high -in rank before he comes back. If Lady Denzil had been the most tender -and devoted of mothers, could things have turned out better? Is this -world all a phantasmagoria and chaos of dreams and chances? One’s brain -reels when Providence thus contradicts all the laws of life. Is it -because God sees deeper and ‘understands,’ as my lady is so fond of -saying? It might well be that He had a different way of judging from -ours, seeing well and seeing always what we mean in our hearts.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_65" id="page_65"></a>{65}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_STOCKBROKER_AT_DINGLEWOOD" id="THE_STOCKBROKER_AT_DINGLEWOOD"></a>THE STOCKBROKER AT DINGLEWOOD</h2> - -<h3>CHAPTER I</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Those</span> who saw Dinglewood only after the improvements had been made could -scarcely be able to form to themselves any idea of what it was before -the Greshams came. I call them improvements because everybody used the -word; but I cannot say I thought the house improved. It was an -old-fashioned red-brick house, nothing to speak of architecturally—in -the style of Kensington Palace and Kew, and the rest of those old homely -royal houses. The drawing-room opened its tall narrow windows upon a -little terrace, which was very green and grassy, and pleasant. I should -be sorry to undertake to say why it was called Dinglewood. Mr. Coventry -made very merry over the name when he had it. He used to say it was -because there were no trees; but that was not strictly the case. It was -quite open and bare, it is true, towards the river, which we could not -see from the Green; but there was a little grove of trees which -interposed between us and the house, as if to shut out Dinglewood from -the vulgarity of neighbours. It was a popular house in a quiet way when -the Coventrys were there. They did not give parties, or pretend to take -much trouble in the way of society, for Lady Sarah was always delicate; -but when we were tired with our view on the Green, and our lawns and -trees, we were always welcome on the Dinglewood terrace, where the old -people were constantly to be found sitting out in the summer afternoons, -Lady Sarah on her sofa, and Mr. Coventry with the newspapers and his -great dog. The lawn went sloping down towards the river, which lay still -and white under the sunshine, with a little green island, and a little -gray house making a centre to the picture. As long as the sloping bank -was lawn it was closely cut and kept like velvet; but when it became -field these niceties stopped, and Lady Sarah’s pet Alderney stood up to -her knees in the cool clover. There was an old mulberry-tree close to -the wall of the house, which shaded the sofa; and a gloomy yew on the -other side did the same thing for Mr. Coventry, though he was an old -Indian and a salamander, and could bear any amount of sunshine. Lady -Sarah’s perpetual occupation was knitting. She knitted all sorts of -bright-coloured things in brilliant German<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_66" id="page_66"></a>{66}</span> wool with big ivory pins, -and her husband used to read the news to her. They read all the debates -together, stopping every now and then to exchange their sentiments. Lady -Sarah would say with her brisk little voice, ‘He might have made a -better point there. I don’t see that he proves his case. I don’t agree -with that;’ and Mr. Coventry would stop and lay down the paper on his -knees, and discuss it leisurely. There was no reason why they should not -do it at their leisure. The best part of the summer days were spent thus -by the old couple; and the sunshine lay warm and still round them, and -the leaves rustled softly, and the cool grass kept growing under their -peaceful old feet. These feet tread mortal soil no longer, and all this -has nothing in the world to do with my story. But it was a pretty sight -in its way. They were not rich, and the furniture and carpets were very -faded, and everything very different from what it came to be afterwards; -yet we were all very fond of Mr. Coventry and his old wife, and the -old-fashioned house was appropriate to them. I like to think of them -even now.</p> - -<p>We were all anxious, of course, after Mr. Coventry’s death, to know who -would buy the house (Lady Sarah could not bear it after he was gone, and -indeed lived only a year after him); and when it was known that young -Mr. Gresham was the purchaser, it made quite a sensation on the Green. -He was the son of old Gresham, who had bought Bishop’s Hope, a noble -place at Cookesley, about a dozen miles off, but had made all his -fortune as a stockbroker, and, they say, not even the best kind of that. -His son had succeeded him in business, and had lately married somebody -in his own class. He was a nice-looking young fellow enough, and had -been brought up at Eton, to be sure, like so many of those people’s -sons; but still one felt that it was bringing in a new element to the -Green. If his wife had been, as so often happens, a gentlewoman, it -would have made things comparatively easy. But she was only the daughter -of a mercantile man like himself, and there was great discussion among -us as to what we should do when they came. Some families made up their -minds at once not to call; and some, on the other hand, declared that -such rich people were sure to <i>fêter</i> the whole county, and that -everybody would go to them. ‘If they had only been a <i>little</i> rich, it -would never have answered; but they are frightfully rich, and, of -course, we must all go down on our knees,’ Lottie Stoke said. She was -the most eager of all to know them; for her youth was passing away, and -she was not likely to marry, and the Stokes were poor. I confess I was -curious myself to see how things would turn out.</p> - -<p>Their first step however was one which took us all by surprise. Young -Gresham dashed over in his Yankee waggon from Cookesley to go over the -house, and the same day a charming barouche made the tour of the Green, -with a very pretty young woman in it, and a lovely little girl, and a -matchless tiny Skye terrier—all going to inspect Dinglewood. The arms -on the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_67" id="page_67"></a>{67}</span> carriage were quartered to the last possibility of quartering, -as if they had come through generations of heiresses and gentlemen of -coat-armour, and the footman was powdered and dazzling to behold. -Altogether it was by far the finest equipage that had been seen in these -parts for a long time. Not to speak of Lady Denzil’s, or the other great -people about, her Majesty’s own carriage, that she drives about the -neighbourhood in, was not to be compared to it. Its emblazoned panels -brushed against the privet hedges in poor old Lady Sarah’s drive, which -was only wide enough for her little pony-carriage, and I have no doubt -were scratched and spoiled; but the next thing we heard about Dinglewood -was that a flood of workmen had come down upon it, and that everything -was to be changed. Young Mrs. Gresham liked the situation, but the house -was <i>far</i> too small for her. My maid told me a new dining-room and -drawing-room, with bed-rooms over, were to be added, and already the -people had set to work. We all looked on thunderstruck while these -‘improvements’ were going on: he had a right to do it, no doubt, as he -had bought it, but still it did seem a great piece of presumption. The -pretty terrace was all cut up, and the poor old mulberry-tree perished -in the changes, though it is true that they had the sense not to spoil -the view. They added two wings to the old house, with one sumptuous room -in each. Poor Lady Sarah’s drawing-room, which was good enough for her, -these millionaires made into a billiard-room, and put them all <i>en -suite</i>, making a passage thus between their two new wings. I don’t deny, -as I have already said, that they had a perfect right to do it; but all -the same it was very odd to us.</p> - -<p>And then heaps of new furniture came down from town; the waggons that -brought it made quite a procession along the road. All this grandeur and -display had a bad effect upon the neighbourhood. It really looked as if -these new people were already crowing over us, whose carpets and -hangings were a little faded and out of fashion. There was a general -movement of indignation on the Green. All this expense might be well -enough, for those who could afford it, in a town-house, people said, but -in the country it was vulgar and stupid. Everything was gilded and -ornamented and expensive in the new Dinglewood; Turkey carpets all over -the house, and rich silk curtains and immense mirrors. Then after a -while ‘the family’ arrived. They came with such a flutter of fine -carriages as had never been seen before among us. The drive had been -widened, down which Lady Sarah’s old gray pony used to jog so -comfortably, and there was nothing to be seen all day long but smooth, -shining panels and high-stepping horses whisking in and out. In the -first place there was Mr. Gresham’s Yankee waggon, with a wicked-looking -beast in it, which went like the wind. Then there would be a cosy -brougham carrying Mrs. Gresham to Shoreton shopping, or taking out the -nurse and baby for an airing; and after lunch came the pretty open -carriage with the armorial bearings and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_68" id="page_68"></a>{68}</span> men in powder. We were too -indignant to look round at first when these vehicles passed; but custom -does a great deal, and one’s feelings soften in spite of one’s self. Of -all the people on the Green, Lottie Stoke was the one who did most for -the new people. ‘I mean to make mamma call,’ she said: and she even made -a round of visits for the purpose of saying it. ‘Why shouldn’t we all -call on them? I think it is mean to object to them for being rich. It -looks as if we were ashamed of being poor; and they are sure to have -quantities of people from town, and to enjoy themselves—people as good -as we are, Mrs. Mulgrave: they are not so particular in London.’</p> - -<p>‘My dear Lottie,’ said I, ‘I have no doubt the Greshams themselves are -quite as good as we are. That is not the question. There are social -differences, you know.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, yes! I know,’ cried Lottie; ‘I have heard of them all my life, but -I don’t see what the better we are, for all our nicety; and I mean to -make mamma call.’</p> - -<p>She was not so good as her word however, for Mrs. Stoke was a timid -woman, and waited to see what the people would do. And in the meantime -the Greshams themselves, independent of their fine house and their showy -carriages, presented themselves as it were before us for approval. They -walked to church on Sunday without any show, which made quite a -revulsion in their favour; and she was very pretty and sweet-looking, -and he was so like a gentleman that you could never have told the -difference. And the end of it all was, that one fine morning Lady -Denzil, without saying a word to any one, called; and after that, -everybody on the Green.</p> - -<p>I do not pretend to say that there was not a little air of newness about -these young people. They were like their house, a little too bright, too -costly, too luxurious. Mrs. Gresham gave herself now and then pretty -little airs of wealth, which, to do her justice, were more in the way of -kindness to others than display for herself. There was a kind of -munificence about her which made one smile, and yet made one grow red -and hot and just a little angry. It might not have mattered if she had -been a princess, but it did not answer with a stockbroker’s wife. She -was so anxious to supply you with anything or everything you wanted. -‘Let me send it,’ she would say in a lavish way, whenever there was any -shortcoming, and opened her pretty mouth and stared with all her pretty -eyes when her offers were declined. She wanted that delicate sense of -other people’s pride, which a true great lady always has. She did not -understand why one would rather have one’s own homely maid to wait, than -borrow her powdered slave; and would rather walk than be taken up in her -fine carriage. This bewildered her, poor little woman. She thought it -was unkind of me in particular. ‘You can’t <i>really</i> prefer to drive -along in the dust in your little low carriage,’ she said, with a curious -want of perception that my pony carriage was my own. This was the only -defect I found in her,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_69" id="page_69"></a>{69}</span> and it was a failing which leant to virtue’s -side. Her husband was more a man of the world, but he too had money -written all over him. They were dreadfully rich, and even in their -freest moment they could not get rid of it—and they were young and -open-hearted, and anxious to make everybody happy. They had people down -from town as Lottie prophesied—fashionable people sometimes, and clever -people, and rich people. We met all kinds of radicals, and artists, and -authors, and great travellers at Dinglewood. The Greshams were rather -proud of their literary acquaintances indeed, which was surprising to -us. I have seen old Sir Thomas look very queer when he was told he was -going to meet So-and-So, who had written some famous book. ‘Who is the -fellow?’ he said privately to me with a comical look, for he was not -very literary in his tastes;—neither were the Greshams for that matter: -but then, having no real rank, they appreciated a little distinction, -howsoever it came; whereas the second cousin of any poor lord or good -old decayed family was more to the most of us than Shakespeare himself -or Raphael; though of course it would have been our duty to ourselves to -be very civil to either of those gentlemen had we met them at dinner -anywhere on the Green.</p> - -<p>But there was no doubt that this new lively household, all astir with -new interests, new faces, talk and movement, and pleasant extravagance, -woke us all up. They were so rich that they took the lead in many -things, in spite of all that could be done to the contrary. None of us -could afford so many parties. The Greshams had always something on hand. -Instead of our old routine of dinners and croquet-parties, and perhaps -two or three dances a year for the young people, there was an endless -variety now at Dinglewood; and even if we elders could have resisted -Mrs. Gresham’s pretty winning ways on her own account, it would have -been wicked to neglect the advantage for our children. Of course this -did not apply to me, who have no children; but I was never disposed to -stand very much on my dignity, and I liked the young couple. They were -so fond of each other, and so good-looking, and so happy, and so -ready—too ready—to share their advantages with everybody. Mrs. Gresham -sent her man over with I don’t know how much champagne the morning of -the day when they were all coming to play croquet on my little lawn, and -he wanted to know, with his mistress’s love, whether he should come to -help, or if there was anything else I wanted. I had entertained my -friends in my quiet way before she was born, and I did not like it. -Lottie Stoke happened to be with me when the message arrived, and took -the reasonable view, as she had got into the way of doing where the -Greshams were concerned.</p> - -<p>‘Why should not they send you champagne?’ she said. ‘They are as rich as -Crœsus, though I am sure I don’t know much about him; and you are a -lady living by yourself, and can’t be expected to think of all these -things.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_70" id="page_70"></a>{70}</span></p> - -<p>‘My dear Lottie,’ said I—and I confess I was angry—‘if you are not -content with what I can give you, you need not come to me. The Greshams -can stay away if they like. Champagne in the afternoon when you are -playing croquet! It is just like those <i>nouveaux riches</i>. They would -think it still finer, I have no doubt, if they could drink pearls, like -Cleopatra. Champagne!’</p> - -<p>‘They must have meant it for Cup, you know,’ said Lottie, a little -abashed.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t care what they meant it for,’ said I. ‘You shall have cups of -tea; and I am very angry and affronted. I wonder how they think we got -on before they came!’</p> - -<p>And then I sat down and wrote a little note, which I fear was terribly -polite, and sent it and the baskets back with John Thomas, while Lottie -went and looked at all the pictures as if she had never seen them -before, and hummed little airs under her breath. She had taken up these -Greshams in the most curious way. Not that she was an unreasonable -partisan; she could see their faults like the rest of us, but she was -always ready to make excuses for them. ‘They don’t know any better,’ she -would say softly when she was driven to the very extremity of her -special pleading. And she said this when I had finished my note and was -just sending it away.</p> - -<p>‘But why don’t they know better?’ said I; ‘they have had the same -education as other people. He was at Eton where a boy should learn how -to behave himself, even if he does not learn anything else. And she went -to one of the fashionable schools—as good a school as any of you ever -went to.’</p> - -<p>‘We were never at any school at all,’ said Lottie with a little -bitterness. ‘We were always much too poor. We have never learned -anything, we poor girls; whereas Ada Gresham has learned everything,’ -she added with a little laugh.</p> - -<p>It was quite true. Poor little Mrs. Gresham was overflowing with -accomplishments. There never was such an education as she had received. -She had gone to lectures, and studied thorough bass, and knew all about -chemistry, and could sympathize with her husband, as the newspapers say, -and enter into all his pursuits. How fine it sounds in the newspapers! -Though I was angry, I could not but laugh too—a young woman wanted an -elaborate education indeed to be fit to be young Gresham’s wife.</p> - -<p>‘Well,’ I said, ‘after all, I don’t suppose she means to be impertinent, -Lottie, and I like her. I don’t think her education has done her much -harm. Nobody could teach her to understand other people’s feelings; and -to be rich like that must be a temptation.’</p> - -<p>‘I should like to have such a temptation,’ said Lottie, with a sudden -sparkle in her eyes. ‘Fancy there are four Greshams, and they are all as -rich. The girl is married, you know, to a railway man; and, by the by,’ -she went on suddenly after a pause, ‘they tell me one of the brothers is -coming here to-day.’</p> - -<p>She said this in an accidental sort of way, but I could see<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_71" id="page_71"></a>{71}</span> there was -nothing accidental about it. She drew her breath hard, poor girl, and a -little feverish colour got up in her cheeks. It is common to talk of -girls looking out for husbands, and even hunting that important quarry. -But when now and then in desperate cases such a thing does actually come -before one’s eyes, it is anything but an amusing sight. The Stokes were -as poor as the Greshams were rich. Everard had ruined himself, and -half-killed everybody belonging to him only the year before; and now -poor Lottie saw a terrible chance before her, and rose to it with a kind -of tragic valour. I read her whole meaning and resolution in her face, -as she said, with an attempt at a smile, these simple-sounding words; -and an absolute pang of pity went through me. Poor Lottie!—it was a -chance, for her family and for herself—even for poor Everard, whom they -all clung to, though he had gone so far astray. What a change it would -make in their situation and prospects, and everything about them! You -may say it was an ignoble foundation to build family comfort upon. I do -not defend it in any way; but when I saw what Lottie meant, my heart -ached for her. It did not seem to me ridiculous or base, but tragic and -terrible; though to be sure in all likelihood there is nobody who will -think so but me.</p> - -<p>Before Lottie left me, Mrs. Gresham came rushing over in her pretty -summer dress, with her curls and ribbons fluttering in the breeze. She -came to ask me why I had been so unkind, and to plead and remonstrate. -‘We have so much, we don’t know what to do with it,’ she said; ‘Harry is -always finding out some new vintage or other, and the cellars are -overflowing. Why would not you use some of it? We have so much of -everything we don’t know what to do.’</p> - -<p>‘I would rather not, thanks,’ I said, feeling myself flush; ‘what a -lovely day it is. Where are you going for your drive? The woods will be -delicious to-day.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, I have so much of the woods,’ cried Mrs. Gresham. ‘I thought of -going towards Estcott to make some calls. But, dear Mrs. Mulgrave, about -the Champagne?’</p> - -<p>‘It is a little too early for the heath,’ said Lottie, steadily looking -our visitor in the face. ‘It is always cold there. What they call -bracing, you know; but I don’t care about being braced, the wind goes -through and through one, even on a sunny day.’</p> - -<p>‘It is because you are so thin,’ said Mrs. Gresham; ‘I never feel the -cold for my part; but I shall not drive at all to-day—I forgot—I shall -go and fetch Harry from the station, and come to you, Mrs. Mulgrave: and -you will not be cross, but let me send back John Thomas with—’</p> - -<p>‘My dear, I am going to give you some tea,’ said I, ‘and my maids can -manage beautifully; the sight of a gorgeous creature like John Thomas -distracts them; they can do nothing but stare at his plush and his -powder. We shall be very glad to have Mr. Gresham and you.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_72" id="page_72"></a>{72}</span></p> - -<p>‘But—’ she began eagerly. Then she caught Lottie’s look, who had made -some sign to her, and stopped short, staring at me with her blue eyes. -She could not make it out, and no hint short of positive demonstration -could have shown her that she had gone too far. She stopped in obedience -to Lottie’s sign, but stared at me all the same. Her prosperity, her -wealth, her habit of overcoming everything that looked in the least like -a difficulty, had taken even a woman’s instinct from her. She gazed at -me, and by degrees her cheeks grew red: she saw she had made a mistake -somehow, but even up to that moment could not tell what it was.</p> - -<p>‘Harry’s brother is coming with him,’ she said, a little subdued; ‘may I -bring him? He is the eldest, but he is not married yet. He is such a man -of the world. Of course he might have married when he liked, as early as -we did, there was nothing to prevent him: but he got into a fashionable -set first, and then he got among the artists. He is quite what they call -a Bohemian you know. He paints beautifully—Harry always consults Gerald -before buying any pictures; I don’t know what he does with all his -money, for he keeps up no establishment, and no horses nor anything. I -tell him sometimes he is an old miser, but I am sure I have no reason to -say so, for he gives me beautiful presents. I should so like to bring -him here.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, bring him by all means,’ said I; but I could not help giving a -little sigh as I looked at Lottie, who was listening eagerly. When she -saw me look at her, her face flamed scarlet, and she went in great haste -to the window to hide it from Mrs. Gresham. She saw I had found her out, -and did not know what compassion was in my heart. She gave a wistful -glance up into my face as she went away. ‘Don’t despise me!’ it said. -Poor Lottie! as if it ever could be lawful to do evil that good might -come! They went away together, the poor girl and the rich, happy young -wife. Lottie was a little the older of the two, and yet she was not old, -and they were both pretty young women. They laid their heads together -and talked earnestly as girls do, as they went out of my gate, and -nobody could have dreamed that their light feet were entangled in any -web of tragedy. The sight of the two who were so unlike, and the thought -of the future which might bring them into close connection made me -melancholy, I could not have told why.</p> - -<h3>CHAPTER II</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">We</span> did not miss the Champagne-cup that afternoon; indeed I do not -approve of such beverages for young people, and never sanction anything -but tea before dinner. The Dinglewood people were doing their best to -introduce these foolish extravagances among us, but I for one would not -give in. Young<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_73" id="page_73"></a>{73}</span> Gresham, though he took some tea, drew his wife aside -the moment after, and I heard him question her.</p> - -<p>‘It was not my fault, Harry,’ she cried, not knowing I was so near. ‘She -sent it all back, and Lottie said I had hurt her feelings. I did not -know what to do. She would not even have John Thomas to wait.’</p> - -<p>‘Nonsense!’ said Harry Gresham; ‘you should have insisted. We ought not -to let her go to any expense. I don’t suppose she has a shilling more -than she wants for her own affairs.’</p> - -<p>‘But I could not help it,’ said his wife.</p> - -<p>I don’t know what Lottie had said to her, but she was evidently a little -frightened. As for Harry, I think he would have liked to leave a -bank-note for me on one of the tables. People have told me since that it -was a very bad sign, and that it is only when people are getting -reckless about money that they think of throwing it away in presents; -but I cannot say I have had much experience of that weakness. The new -brother who had come with them was a very different kind of man. I -cannot say I took to him at first. He was not a wealthy, simple-minded, -lavish creature like his brother. He was more like other people. Harry -Gresham was red and white, like a girl, inclining to be stout, though he -was not above thirty, and with the manners which are, or were, supposed -to be specially English—downright and straightforward. Gerald was a few -years older, a little taller, bronzed with the sun, and bearing the -indescribable look of a man who has mixed much with the world. I looked -at Lottie Stoke when I made my first observations upon the stranger, and -saw that she too was looking at him with a strange expression, half of -repugnance, half of wistfulness in her eyes. Lottie had not done her -duty in the way of marrying, as she ought to have done, in her early -youth. She had refused very good offers, as her mother was too apt to -tell with a little bitterness. Now at last, when things were going so -badly with the family, she had made up her mind to try; but when she did -so she expected a second Harry Gresham, and not this man of the world. -She looked at him as a martyr might look standing on the edge of a -precipice, gathering up her strength for the plunge, shrinking yet -daring. My party was quite dull for the first hour because of this pause -which Lottie made on the brink, for she was always the soul of -everything. When I saw her all at once rise up from the chair where she -had been sitting obstinately beside old Mrs. Beresford, and go up to -Mrs. Gresham, who was standing aside with her brother-in-law looking on, -I knew she had made up her mind at last, and taken the plunge. An -experienced rich young man of the nineteenth century! I thought to -myself she might spare her pains.</p> - -<p>Just at that moment I saw the gorgeous figure of John Thomas appear at -the end of my lawn, and a sudden flush of anger came over me. I got up -to see what he wanted, thinking<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_74" id="page_74"></a>{74}</span> they had sent him back again -notwithstanding my refusal. But just before I reached him I perceived -that his errand was to his master, to whom he gave a telegram. Mr. -Gresham tore it open at my side. He ran his eye over the message, and -muttered something between his teeth, and grew red all over in -indignation or trouble. Then, seeing me, he turned round, with an -effort, with one of his broad smiles.</p> - -<p>‘Business even in the midst of pleasure,’ he said. ‘Is it not too bad?’</p> - -<p>‘If it is only business—’ said I. Whenever I see one of those telegraph -papers, it makes my heart beat. I always think somebody is ill or dead.</p> - -<p>‘<i>Only</i> business, by Jove!’ said Harry. His voice was quite subdued, but -he laughed—a laugh which sounded strange and not very natural. Then he -gave himself a sort of shake, and thrust the thing into his pocket, and -offered me his arm, to lead me back to my place. ‘By the by,’ he said, -‘I am going to quarrel with you, Mrs. Mulgrave. When we are so near why -don’t you let us be of some use to you? It would give the greatest -pleasure both to Ada and me.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, thanks; but indeed I don’t want any help,’ I cried, abruptly coming -to a sudden stop before Lady Denzil’s chair.</p> - -<p>‘You are so proud,’ he said with a smile, and so left me to plunge into -the midst of the game, where they were clamouring for him. He played all -the rest of the afternoon, entering into everything with the greatest -spirit; and yet I felt a little disturbed. Whether it was for Lottie, or -whether it was for Harry Gresham I could not well explain to myself; a -feeling came over me like the feeling with which one sometimes wakes in -the morning without any reason for it—an uneasy restless sense that -something somehow was going wrong.</p> - -<p>The Greshams were the last of my party to go away, and I went to the -gate with them, as I had a way of doing, and lingered there for a few -minutes in the slanting evening light. It was nearly seven o’clock, but -they did not dine till eight, and were in no hurry. She wore a very -pretty dress—one of those soft pale grays which soil if you look hard -at them—and had gathered the long train over her arm like a figure in a -picture; for though she was not very refined, Ada Gresham was not a -vulgar woman to trail her dress over a dusty road. She had taken her -husband’s arm as they went along the sandy brown pathway, and Gerald on -the other side carried her parasol and leant towards her to talk. As I -looked at them I could not but think of the strange differences of life: -how some people have to get through the world by themselves as best they -may, and some have care and love and protection on every side of them. -These two would have kept the very wind from blowing upon Ada; they were -ready to shield her from every pain, to carry her in their arms over any -thorns that might come in her way. The sunshine slanted sideways upon -them as they went<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_75" id="page_75"></a>{75}</span> along, throwing fantastic broken shadows of the three -figures on the hedgerow, and shining right into my eyes. I think I can -see her now leaning on her husband’s arm, looking up to his brother, -with the pretty sweep of the gray silk over her arm, the white -embroidered skirts beneath, and the soft rose-ribbons that caught the -light. Poor Ada! I have other pictures of her, beside this one, in my -memory now.</p> - -<p>Next day we had a little discussion upon the new brother, in the -afternoon when my visitors looked in upon me. We did not confine -ourselves to that one subject. We diverged, for instance, to Mrs. -Gresham’s toilette, which was so pretty. Lottie Stoke had got a new -bonnet for the occasion; but she had made it herself, and though she was -very clever, she was not equal to Elise.</p> - -<p>‘Fancy having all one’s things made by Elise!’ cried Lucy the little -sister, with a rapture of anticipation. ‘If ever I am married, nobody -else shall dress <i>me</i>.’</p> - -<p>‘Then you had better think no more of curates,’ said some malicious -critic, and Lucy blushed. It was not her fault if the curates amused -her. They were mice clearly intended by Providence for fun and torture. -She was but sixteen and meant no harm, and what else could the kitten -do?</p> - -<p>Then a great controversy arose among the girls as to the claims of the -new brother to be called handsome. The question was hotly discussed on -both sides, Lottie alone taking no part in the debate. She sat by very -quietly, with none of her usual animation. Nor did she interpose when -the Gresham lineage and connection—the little cockney papa who was like -a shabby little miser, the mother who was large and affable and -splendid, a kind of grand duchess in a mercantile way—were taken in -hand. Lottie could give little sketches of them all when she so pleased; -but she did not please that day.</p> - -<p>‘This new one does not look like a nobody,’ said one of my visitors. ‘He -might be the Honourable Gerald for his looks. He is fifty times better -than Mr. Gresham, though Mr. Gresham is very nice too.’</p> - -<p>‘And he has such a lovely name!’ cried Lucy. ‘Gerald Gresham! Any girl I -ever heard of would marry him just for his name.’</p> - -<p>‘They have all nice names,’ said the first speaker, who was young too, -and attached a certain weight to this particular. ‘They don’t sound like -mere rich people. They might be of a good old family to judge by their -names.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes; she is Ada,’ said Lucy, reflectively, ‘and he is Harry, and the -little boy’s name is Percy. But Gerald is the darling! Gerald is the one -for me!’</p> - -<p>The window was open at the time, and the child was talking incautiously -loud, so that I was not much surprised, for my part, when a peal of -laughter from outside followed this speech, and Ada, with her -brother-in-law in attendance, appeared under<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_76" id="page_76"></a>{76}</span> the veranda. Of course -Lucy was covered with confusion; but her blushes became the little -creature, and gave her a certain shy grace which was very pretty to -behold. As for Lottie, I think the contrast made her paler. Looking at -her beautiful refined head against the light, nobody could help admiring -it; but she was not round and dimpled and rosy like her little sister. -After a while Gerald Gresham managed to get into the corner where Lottie -was, to talk to her; but his eyes sought the younger creature all the -same. A man has it all his own way when there is but one in the room. He -was gracious to all the girls, like a civilized English sultan; but they -were used to that, poor things, and took it very good-naturedly.</p> - -<p>‘It is not his fault if he is the only man in the place,’ said Lucy; and -she was not displeased, though her cheeks burned more hotly than ever -when he took advantage of her incautious speech.</p> - -<p>‘I must not let you forget that it is Gerald who is the darling,’ he -said laughing. Of course it was quite natural, and meant nothing, and -perhaps no one there but Lottie and myself thought anything of this -talk; but it touched her, poor girl, with a certain mortification, and -had a curious effect upon me. I could not keep myself from thinking, -Would it be Lucy after all? After her sister had made up her mind in -desperation; after she had screwed her courage to the last fatal point; -after she had consciously committed herself and compromised her maiden -up-rightness, would it be Lucy who would win the prize without an -effort? I cannot describe the effect it had upon me. It made me burn -with indignation to think that Lottie Stoke was putting forth all her -powers to attract this stranger—this man who was rich, and could buy -her if he pleased; and, at the same time, his looks at Lucy filled me -with the strangest sense of disappointment. I ought to have been glad -that such humiliating efforts failed of success, and yet I was not. I -hated them, and yet I could not bear to think they would be in vain.</p> - -<p>‘And Harry has gone to town again to-day,’ said Ada, with a pout of her -pretty mouth, ‘though he promised to stay and take me up the river. They -make his life wretched with those telegrams and things. I ask him, What -is the good of going on like this, when we have plenty of money? And -then he tells me I am a little fool and don’t understand.’</p> - -<p>‘I always feel sure something dreadful has happened whenever I see a -telegram,’ said Mrs. Stoke.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, we are quite used to them: they are only about business,’ said Ada, -taking off her hat and smoothing back, along with a twist of her pretty -hair, the slightest half visible pucker of care from her smooth young -brow.</p> - -<p>‘Only business!’ said Gerald. They were the same words Harry had said -the day before, and they struck me somehow. When he caught my eye he -laughed, and added something about the strange ideas ladies had. ‘As if -any accident, or death, or<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_77" id="page_77"></a>{77}</span> burial could be half so important as -business,’ he said, with the half sneer which we all use as a disguise -to our thoughts. And some of the little party exclaimed, and some -laughed with him. To be sure, a man in business, like Harry Gresham, or -a man of the world, like his brother, must be less startled by such -communications than such quiet country people as we were. That was easy -enough to see.</p> - -<p>That same night, when I came across from the Lodge, where I had been -spending the evening, Dinglewood stood blazing out against the sky with -all its windows lighted up. Sir Thomas, who was walking across the Green -with me, as it was so fine a night, saw me turn my head that way and -looked too. The whole house had the air of being lighted up for an -illumination. It always had; it revealed itself, its different floors, -and even the use of its different rooms to all the world by its lights. -The Greshams were the kind of people who have every new improvement that -money can procure. They made gas for themselves, and lighted up the -entire house, in that curious mercantile, millionaire way which you -never see in a real great house. Sir Thomas’s look followed mine, and he -shook his gray head a little.</p> - -<p>‘I hope no harm will come of it,’ he said; ‘they are going very fast -over there, Mrs. Mulgrave. I hope they are able to keep it up.’</p> - -<p>‘Able!’ said I, ‘they are frightfully rich;’ and I felt half aggrieved -by the very supposition.</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ said Sir Thomas, ‘they would need to be rich. For a little while -that may do; but I don’t think any man in business can be rich enough to -stand that sort of thing for a long time together.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, they can bear it, no doubt,’ I said, impatient of Sir Thomas’s -old-fashioned ways. ‘Of course it was very different in the Coventrys’ -time.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah, in the Coventrys’ time,’ said Sir Thomas regretfully; ‘one does not -often get such neighbours as the Coventrys. Take care of that stone. And -now, here we are at your door.’</p> - -<p>‘Good-night!’ said I, ‘and many thanks;’ but I stood outside a little in -the balmy evening air, as Sir Thomas went home across the Green. I could -not see Dinglewood from my door, and the Lodge, which was opposite, -glimmered in a very different way, with faint candles in Lady Denzil’s -chamber, and some of the servants’ sleeping rooms, and the soft white -lamp-light in the windows below; domestic and necessary lights, not like -the blaze in the new house. Sir Thomas plodded quietly home, with his -gray head bent and his hands behind him under his coat, in the musing -tranquillity of old age; and a certain superstitious feeling came over -me. It was my gaze at the illuminated house which made him say those -uncomfortable words. I felt as if I had attracted to the Greshams, poor -children, in their gaiety and heedlessness, the eye of some sleeping -Fate.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_78" id="page_78"></a>{78}</span></p> - -<h3>CHAPTER III</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">I have</span> often been impatient in reading books, to find the story go on -from one party to another, from one ball to another, as if life had -nothing more important in it. But sometimes no doubt it does happen so. -The life of the Greshams was made up of balls and parties; they were -never alone; Dinglewood blazed out to the skies every evening, and the -carriages flashed out and in, and one kind of merry-making or another -went on all day. Lottie Stoke was there continually, and there grew up a -curious friendship, half strife, half accord, between Gerald and -herself. He had nothing to do with the business as it turned out, and -consequently was not half so rich as his brother. But still he was very -well off. I don’t know what it is about people in business which gives -them a kind of primitive character: they are less sophisticated than the -rest of us, though possibly not more simple. The Greshams took a simple -pleasure in pleasure for itself, without making it a mere medium for -other things, as most of us do. They were fond of company, fond of -dancing, delighted with picnics, and even with croquet, without any -ulterior motive, like children. They were fond even of their wealth, -which gave them so many pretty and so many pleasant things. They enjoyed -it with all their hearts, and took an innocent, foolish delight in it, -which spiteful people set down to purse-pride; but which in reality was -more like the open satisfaction of children in their dear possessions. -Gerald was a very different being: I never saw him without feeling that -his visit was not a mere visit, but had some motive in it. Before Lottie -roused him to talk and battle with her, he would look on at their great -parties with a curious, anxious, dissatisfied air, as if he suspected or -feared something. I think poor Lottie went further than she meant to go: -she grew interested herself, when she had meant only to interest him, -and was more excited by his presence than he was by hers. They carried -on a kind of perpetual duel, very amusing to the spectators: and there -was no doubt that he liked it. But he liked Lucy’s funny little shy -speeches too; and he had some interest more absorbing, more serious than -either, which made his face very grave when the two girls were not -there. Harry Gresham had sometimes the air of getting impatient of his -brother’s presence. Now and then they passed my house walking together, -and not enjoying their walk, according to appearances. Once as I stood -at my gate I heard Harry say sharply, ‘In any case Ada has her -settlement,’ with a defiant air. And Gerald’s face was full of -remonstrance and expostulation. I could not help taking a great interest -in these young people, and feeling a little anxious at the general -aspect of affairs.</p> - -<p>Things were in this state when the ball was given on Mrs.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_79" id="page_79"></a>{79}</span> Gresham’s -birthday. I had nobody to take charge of for a wonder, and nothing to do -but look on. The entire suite of rooms was thrown open, ablaze with -light and sweet with flowers. There were great banks of geraniums in -every corner where they could be piled, and the whole neighbourhood had -been ravaged for roses. The room in which I took refuge was the smallest -of all, which had been old Lady Sarah’s boudoir in old times, and was a -little removed from the dancing, and cooler than the rest. It had one -little projecting window, not large enough to be called a bay, which -looked out upon the terrace just above the spot where the old couple -used to sit in the summer days. It was open, and the moon streamed in, -making a curious contrast with the floods of artificial light. Looking -out from it, you could see the Thames, like a silver ribbon, at the -bottom or the slope, and the little island and the little house gleaming -out white, with intense black shadows. Lottie Stoke came up to me while -I stood at the window, and looked out over my shoulder. ‘It looks like -the ghost of the river and the ghost of the island,’ she said, putting -her pretty arm round my waist with an agitated grasp. ‘I almost think we -are all ghosts too.’</p> - -<p>‘A curious moment to think so,’ said Gerald Gresham. My back was turned -to them, so that I did not see him, but there sounded something like a -thrill of excitement in the half laugh of his voice.</p> - -<p>‘Not curious at all,’ said Lottie: ‘how many of us are really here do -you think? I know where Mrs. Mulgrave is. She is outside on the terrace -with old Lady Sarah, listening to the old people’s talk, though I am -holding her fast all the same. We are in all sorts of places the real -halves of us, but our doubles do the dancing and the laughing, and eat -the ices quite as well. It is chilly to be a ghost,’ said Lottie with a -laugh; ‘come in from the window, I am sure there is a draught there.’</p> - -<p>‘There is no draught,’ said Gerald; ‘you are afraid of being obliged to -go into particulars, that is all.’</p> - -<p>‘I am not in the least afraid,’ said Lottie. ‘There is Mrs. Damerel. She -is in the nursery at the rectory, though you think you have her here. -She is counting Agatha’s curl-papers to see if there is the right -number, for children are never properly attended to when the mother’s -eye is wanting. I don’t know where you are, Mr. Gerald Gresham; that -would be too delicate an inquiry. But look, your brother has gone upon -‘Change, though he is in the middle of his guests. He looks as like -business as if he had all the Reduced Consols on his mind; he looks as -if—— good heavens!’</p> - -<p>Lottie stopped, and her tone was so full of alarm and astonishment, that -I turned suddenly round to look too, in a fright. Harry Gresham was -standing at the door; he had a yellow envelope in his hand, another of -those terrible telegrams which are always bringing misery. He had turned -round unawares facing us, and facing the stream of people who were -always<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_80" id="page_80"></a>{80}</span> coming and going. I never saw in all my life so ghastly a face. -It showed the more that he was so ruddy and cheerful by nature. In a -moment every tinge of colour had disappeared from it. His mouth was -drawn down, his blue eyes looked awful, shrinking back as it were among -the haggard lines of the eyelids. The sight of him struck Lottie dumb, -and came upon me like a touch of horror. But Gerald, it was evident, was -not taken by surprise. Some crisis which he had been looking for had -come at last.</p> - -<p>‘He has had some bad news,’ he said; ‘excuse me, my mother is ill—it -must be that;’ and he went through the stream of guests, fording the -current as it were with noiseless rapidity. As for Lottie, she drew me -back into the recess of the window and clung to me and cried—but not -for Harry Gresham. Her nerves were at the highest strain, and broke down -under this last touch; that was all.</p> - -<p>‘I knew something was going to happen,’ she said. ‘I felt it in the air; -but I never thought it was coming upon <i>them</i>.’</p> - -<p>‘It must be his mother,’ I said, though I did not think so. ‘Hush, -Lottie! Don’t frighten <i>her</i>, poor child.’</p> - -<p>Lottie was used to restraining herself, and the tears relieved her. She -dried her eyes and gave me a nervous hug as she loosed her arm from my -waist.</p> - -<p>‘I cannot stand this any longer,’ she said; ‘I must go and dance, or -something. I know there is trouble coming, and if I sit quiet I shall -make a fool of myself. But you will help them if you can,’ she cried in -my ear. Alas! what could I do?</p> - -<p>By the time she left me the brothers had disappeared, and after half an -hour’s waiting, as nothing seemed to come of it, and as the heat -increased I went to the window again. The moon had gone off the house, -but still shone white and full on the lawn like a great sheet of silvery -gauze, bound and outlined by the blackest shadow. My mind had gone away -from that temporary interruption. I was not thinking about the Greshams -at all, when all at once I heard a rustle under the window. When I -looked down two figures were standing there in the shadow. I thought at -first they were robbers, perhaps murderers, waiting to waylay some one. -All my self-command could not restrain a faint exclamation. There seemed -a little struggle going on between the two. ‘You don’t know her,’ said -the one; ‘why should you trust her?’ ‘She is safer than the servants,’ -said the other, ‘and she is fond of poor Ada.’ If my senses had not been -quickened by excitement and alarm I should never have heard what they -said. Then something white was held up to me in a hand that trembled.</p> - -<p>‘Give it to Ada—when you can,’ said Harry Gresham in a quick, -breathless, imperative voice.</p> - -<p>I took the bit of paper and clutched it in my hand, not knowing what I -did, and then stood stupefied, and saw them glide down in the dark -shadow of the house towards the river. Where<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_81" id="page_81"></a>{81}</span> were they going? What had -happened? This could be no sudden summons to a mother’s death-bed. They -went cautiously in the darkness the two brothers, keeping among the -trees; leaning out of the window as far as I could, I saw Gerald’s -slighter figure and poor Harry’s portly one emerge into the moonlight -close to the river, just upon the public road. Then I felt some one pull -me on the other side. It was Lottie who had come back, excited, to ask -if I had found out anything.</p> - -<p>‘I thought you were going to stretch out of the window altogether,’ she -said, with a half-suspicious glance; and I held my bit of paper tight, -with my fan in my other hand.</p> - -<p>‘I was looking at the moon,’ I said. ‘It is a lovely night. I am sorry -it has gone off the house. And then the rooms are so hot inside.’</p> - -<p>‘I should like to walk on the terrace,’ said Lottie, ‘but my cavalier -has left me. I was engaged to him for this dance, and he has never come -to claim it. Where has he gone?’</p> - -<p>‘I suppose he must have left the room,’ I said. ‘I suppose it is their -mother who is ill; perhaps they have slipped out quietly not to disturb -the guests. If that is the case, you should go and stand by Mrs. -Gresham, Lottie. She will want your help.’</p> - -<p>‘But they never would be so unkind as to steal away like this and leave -everything to Ada!’ cried Lottie. ‘Never! Harry Gresham would not do it -for twenty mothers. As for Gerald, I dare say <i>any</i> excuse—’</p> - -<p>And here she stopped short, poor girl, with an air of exasperation, and -looked ready to cry again.</p> - -<p>‘Never mind,’ I said; ‘go to Mrs. Gresham. Don’t say anything, Lottie, -but stand by her. She may want it, for anything we know.’</p> - -<p>‘As you stood by us,’ said Lottie affectionately; and then she added -with a sigh and a faint little smile, ‘But it never could be so bad as -that with them.’</p> - -<p>I did not make her any reply. I was faint and giddy with fear and -excitement; and just then, of course, Admiral Fortis’s brother, a hazy -old gentleman, who was there on a visit, and <i>havered</i> for hours -together, whenever he could get a listener, hobbled up to me. He had got -me into a corner as it were, and built entrenchments round me before I -knew, and then he began his longest story of how his brother had been -appointed to the <i>Bellerophon</i>, and how it was his interest that did it. -The thing had happened half a century before, and the Admiral had not -been at sea at all for half that time, and here was a present tragedy -going on beside us, and the message of fate crushed up with my fan in my -hand. Lottie Stoke made her appearance in the doorway several times, -casting appealing looks at me. Once she beckoned, and pointed -energetically to the drawing-room in which poor little Mrs. Gresham was. -But when I got time to think, as I did while the old man was talking, I -thought it was best, on the whole, to defer giving my letter, whatever<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_82" id="page_82"></a>{82}</span> -it was. It could not be anything trifling or temporary which made the -master of the house steal away in the darkness. I have had a good many -things put into my hands to manage, but I don’t think I ever had -anything so difficult as this. For I did not know, and could not divine, -what the sudden misfortune was which I had to conceal from the world. -All this time Mr. Fortis went on complacently with his talk about the -old salt-water lords who were dead and gone. He stood over me, and was -very animated; and I had to look up to him, and nod and smile, and -pretend to listen. What ghosts we were, as Lottie said! My head began to -swim at last as Mr. Fortis’s words buzzed in my ear. ‘<span class="lftspc">“</span><i>My lord,” I -said, “my brother’s services—not to speak of my own family -influence—</i>”<span class="lftspc">’</span> This formed a kind of chorus to it, and came in again and -again. He was only in the middle of his narrative when Lottie came up, -making her way through all obstacles. She was trembling, too, with -excitement which had less foundation than mine.</p> - -<p>‘I can’t find Mr. Gresham anywhere,’ she whispered. ‘He is not in any of -the rooms; none of the servants have seen him, and it is time for -supper. What are we to do?’</p> - -<p>‘Is Ada alarmed?’ said I.</p> - -<p>‘No; she is such a child,’ said Lottie. ‘But she is beginning to wonder. -Come and say something to her. Come and do something. Don’t sit for ever -listening to that tiresome old man. I shall go crazy if you do not come; -and she dancing as if nothing had happened!’</p> - -<p>Mr. Fortis had waited patiently while this whispering went on. When I -turned to him again he went on the same as ever. ‘This was all to the -senior sea-lord, you understand, Mrs. Mulgrave. As for the other—’</p> - -<p>‘I hope you will tell me the rest another time,’ I said, like a -hypocrite. ‘I must go to Mrs. Gresham. Lottie has come to fetch me. I am -so sorry—’</p> - -<p>‘Don’t say anything about it,’ said Mr. Fortis. ‘I shall find an -opportunity,’ and he offered me his arm. I had to walk with him looking -quite at my ease through all those pretty groups, one and another -calling to me as I passed. ‘Oh, please tell me if my wreath is all -right,’ Nelly Fortis whispered, drawing me from her uncle. ‘Mrs. -Mulgrave, will you look if I am torn?’ cried another. Then pair after -pair of dancers came whirling along, making progress dangerous. Such a -sight at any time, when one is past the age at which one takes a -personal interest in it, is apt to suggest a variety of thoughts; but at -this moment! Lottie hovered about me, a kind of <i>avant-coureur</i>, -clearing the way for me. There was something amazing to me in her -excitement, especially as, just at the moment when she was labouring to -open a way for me, Ada Gresham went flying past, her blue eyes shining, -her cheeks more like roses than ever. She gave me a smiling little nod -as her white dress swept over my dark one, and was gone to the opposite -end of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_83" id="page_83"></a>{83}</span> the room before I could say a word. Lottie drew her breath hard -at the sight. Her sigh sounded shrill as it breathed past me. ‘Baby!’ -she whispered. ‘Doll!’ And then the tears came to her eyes. I was -startled beyond description by her looks. Had she come to <i>care for</i> -Gerald in the midst of that worldly dreadful scheme of hers? or what did -her agitation mean?</p> - -<p>It was time for supper however, and the elders of the party began to -look for it; and there were a good many people wondering and inquiring -where was Mr. Gresham? where were the brothers? Young ladies stood with -injured faces, who had been engaged to dance with Harry or Gerald; and -Ada herself, when her waltz was over, began to look about anxiously. By -this time I had got rid of Mr. Fortis, and made up my mind what to do. I -went up to her and stopped her just as she was asking one of the -gentlemen had he seen her husband?—where was Harry? I kept Harry’s bit -of paper fast in my hand. I felt by instinct that to give her that would -only make matters worse. I made up the best little story I could about -old Mrs. Gresham’s illness.</p> - -<p>‘They both went off quite quietly, not to disturb the party,’ I said. ‘I -was to put off telling you as long as I could, my dear, not to spoil -your pleasure. They could not help themselves. They were very much put -out at the thought of leaving you. But Sir Thomas will take Mr. -Gresham’s place; and you know they were obliged to go.’</p> - -<p>Tears sprang to poor Ada’s eyes. ‘Oh, how unkind of Harry,’ she cried, -‘to go without telling me. As if I should have kept on dancing had I -known. I don’t understand it at all—to tell you, and go without a word -to me!’</p> - -<p>‘My dear, he would not spoil your pleasure,’ I said; ‘and it would have -been so awkward to send all these people away. And you know she may get -better after all.’</p> - -<p>‘That is true,’ said easy-minded Ada. ‘It <i>would</i> have been awkward -breaking up the party. But it is odd about mamma. She was quite well -yesterday. She was to have been here to-night.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, it must have been something sudden,’ I cried, at the end of my -invention. ‘Shall I call Sir Thomas? What can I do to be a help to you? -You must be Mr. and Mrs. Gresham both in one for to-night.’</p> - -<p>Ada put her laced handkerchief up to her eyes and smiled a little faint -smile. ‘Will <i>you</i> tell Sir Thomas?’ she said. ‘I feel so bewildered I -don’t know what to do.’</p> - -<p>Then I commenced another progress in search of Sir Thomas, Lottie Stoke -still hovering about me as pale as a spirit. She took my arm as we went -on. ‘Was that all a story?’ she whispered in my ear, clasping my arm -tightly with her hands. I made her no answer; I dared not venture even -to let her see my face. I went and told the same story very -circumstantially over again to Sir Thomas. I hope it was not a great -sin;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_84" id="page_84"></a>{84}</span> indeed it might be quite true for anything I could tell. It was -the only natural way of accounting for their mysterious absence; and -everybody was extremely sorry, of course, and behaved as well as -possible. Old Mrs. Gresham was scarcely known at Dinglewood, and Ada, it -was evident, was not very profoundly affected after the first minute by -the news, so that, on the whole, the supper-table was lively enough, and -the very young people even strayed into the dancing-room after it. But -of course we knew better than that when trouble had come to the house. -It was not much above one o’clock in the morning when they were all -gone. I pretended to go too, shaking off Lottie Stoke as best I could, -and keeping out of sight in a corner while they all streamed away. On -the whole, I think public opinion was in favour of Harry Gresham’s quiet -departure without making any disturbance. ‘He was a very good son,’ -people said: and then some of them speculated if the poor lady died, how -Harry and his wife would manage to live in the quietness which family -affliction demanded. ‘They will bore each other to death,’ said a lively -young man. ‘Oh, they are devoted to each other!’ cried a young lady. Not -a suspicion entered any one’s mind. The explanation was quite -satisfactory to everybody but Lottie Stoke; but then she had seen Harry -Gresham’s face.</p> - -<p>When I had made quite sure that every one was gone, I stole back quietly -into the blazing deserted rooms. Had I ever been disposed to moralize -over the scene of a concluded feast, it certainly would not have been at -that moment. Yet there was something pathetic in the look of the -place—brilliant as day, with masses of flowers everywhere, and that air -of lavish wealth, prodigality, luxury—and to feel that one carried in -one’s hand something that might turn it into the scene of a tragedy, and -wind up its bright story with the darkest conclusion. My heart beat loud -as I went in. My poor little victim was still in the dancing-room—the -largest and brightest of all. She had thrown herself down on a sofa, -with her arms flung over her head like a tired child. Tears were -stealing down her pretty cheeks. Her mouth was pouting and melancholy. -When she saw me she rose with a sudden start, half annoyed, half -pleased, to have some one to pour out her troubles upon. ‘I can’t help -crying,’ she said. ‘I don’t mean to blame Harry; but it was unkind of -him to go away without saying a word to me. We never, never parted in -that way before;’ and from tears the poor little woman fell into -sobs—grievous, innocent sobs, all about nothing, that broke one’s -heart.</p> - -<p>‘I have come to tell you something,’ I said, ‘though I don’t know myself -what it is. I am afraid it is something worse than you think. I said -<i>that</i> because your brother-in-law said it; but I don’t believe it is -anything about Mrs. Gresham. Your husband put this into my hand through -the window as he went away. Take courage, dear. You want all your -courage—you must keep up for the sake of the children, Ada!’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_85" id="page_85"></a>{85}</span></p> - -<p>I babbled on, not knowing what words I used, and she stared at me with -bewildered eyes. ‘Into your hand through the window!’ she said. She -could not understand. She looked at the paper as if it were a charm. -Then she opened it slowly, half afraid, half stupefied. Its meaning did -not seem to penetrate her mind at first. After a while she gave a loud -sudden shriek, and turned her despairing eyes on me. Her cry was so -piercing and sudden that it rang through the house and startled every -one. She was on the verge of hysterics, and incapable of understanding -what was said to her, but the sight of the servants rushing to the door -to ask what was the matter brought her to herself. She made a brave -effort and recovered something like composure, while I sent them away; -and then she held out to me the letter which she had clutched in her -hand. It was written in pencil, and some words were illegible. This was -what Harry said:—</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>‘Something unexpected has happened to me, my darling. I am obliged -to leave you without time even to say good-bye. You will know all -about it only too soon. It is ruin, Ada—and it is my own -fault—but I never meant to defraud any man. God knows I never -meant it. Try and keep up your heart, dear; I believe it will blow -over, and you will be able to join me. I will write to you as soon -as I am safe. You have your settlement. Don’t let anybody persuade -you to tamper with your settlement. My father will take care of -that. Why should you and the children share my ruin? Forgive me, -dearest, for the trouble I have brought on you. I dare not pause to -think of it. Gerald is with me. If they come after me, say I have -gone to Bishop’s Hope.’</p></div> - -<p>‘What does it mean?’ cried poor Ada close to my ear. ‘Oh, tell me, you -are our friend! What does it mean?’</p> - -<p>‘God knows,’ I said. My own mind could not take it in, still less could -I express the vague horrors that floated across me. We sat together with -the lights blazing round us, the grand piano open, the musicians’ stands -still in their places. Ada was dressed like a queen of fairies, or of -flowers: her gown was white, covered with showers of rosebuds; and she -had a crown of natural roses in her bright hair. I don’t know how it was -that her dress and appearance suddenly impressed themselves on me at -that moment. It was the horror of the contrast, I suppose. She looked me -piteously in the face, giving up all attempt at thought for her own -part, seeking the explanation from me. ‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘Why has -he gone away? Who is coming after him? Oh, my Harry! my Harry!’ the poor -young creature moaned. What could I say? I took her in my arms and -kissed her. I could do no more.</p> - -<p>At this moment there came a loud knocking at the door. The house had -fallen into deadly stillness, and at that hour of the night, and in the -state we were, the sound was horrible. It<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_86" id="page_86"></a>{86}</span> rang through the place as if -it had been uninhabited, waking echoes everywhere. Ada’s very lips grew -white—she clasped her small hands over mine holding me fast. ‘It is -some one who has forgotten something,’ I said, but my agitation was so -great that I felt a difficulty in speaking. We sat and listened in -frightful suspense while the door was opened and the sound of voices -reached us. It was not Harry who had come back; it was not any one -belonging to the place. Suddenly Ada rushed to the door with a flash of -momentary petulance which simulated strength. ‘If it is any one for Mr. -Gresham, bring him in here,’ she cried imperiously. I hurried after her -and took her hand. It was like touching an electric machine. She was so -strung to the highest pitch that only to touch her made me thrill and -vibrate all over. And then the two men—two homely black -figures—startled even in spite of their acquaintance with strange -sights, came hesitatingly forward into the blazing light to confront the -flower-crowned, jewelled, dazzling creature, made up of rose and lily, -and diamond and pearl. They stood thunderstruck before her, -notwithstanding the assurance of their trade. Probably they had never in -their lives seen such an apparition before. The foremost of the two took -off his hat with a look of deprecation. I do not think Ada had the least -idea who they were. They were her husband’s enemies, endowed with a -certain dignity by that fact. But I knew in a moment, by instinct, that -they must be London detectives in search of him, and that the very worst -possibility of my fears had come true.</p> - -<p>I cannot tell what we said to these men or they to us; they were not -harsh nor unfeeling; they were even startled and awe-struck in their -rough way, and stepped across the room cautiously, as if afraid of -hurting something. We had to take them over all the house, through the -rooms in which not a single light had been extinguished. To see us in -our ball dresses, amid all that silent useless blaze of light, leading -these men about, must have been a dreadful sight. For my part, though my -share in it was nothing, I felt my limbs shake under me when we had gone -over all the rooms below. But Ada took them all over the house. They -asked her questions and she answered them in her simplicity. Crime might -have fled out of that honest, joyous home, but it was innocence, candid -and open, with nothing to conceal, which dwelt there. I had to interfere -at last and tell them we would answer no more questions; and then they -comforted and encouraged us in their way. ‘With this fine house and all -these pretty things you’ll have a good bit of money yet,’ said the -superior of the two; ‘and if Mr. Gresham was to pay up, they might come -to terms.’</p> - -<p>‘Then is it debt?’ cried I, with a sudden bound of hope.</p> - -<p>The man gave a short laugh. ‘It’s debt to the law,’ he said. ‘It’s -felony, and that’s bad; but if you could give us a bit of a clue to -where he is, and this young lady would see ’em and try, why it mightn’t -be so bad after all. Folks often lets a gentleman go when they won’t let -a common man.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_87" id="page_87"></a>{87}</span></p> - -<p>‘Would money do it?’ cried poor Ada; ‘and I have my settlement. Oh, I -will give you anything, everything I have, if you’ll let my poor Harry -go.’</p> - -<p>‘We haven’t got him yet, ma’am,’ said the man. ‘If you can find us any -clue——’</p> - -<p>And it was then I interfered; I could not permit them to go on with -their cunning questions to poor Ada. When they went away she sank down -on a sofa near that open window in the boudoir from which I had seen -Harry disappear. The window had grown by this time ‘a glimmering -square,’ full of the blue light of early dawn. The birds began to chirp -and stir in the trees; the air which had been so soft and refreshing -grew chill, and made us shiver in our light dresses; the roses in Ada’s -hair began to fade and shed their petals silently over her white -shoulders. As long as the men were present she had been perfectly -self-possessed; now suddenly she burst into a wild torrent of tears. -‘Oh, Harry, my Harry, where is he? Why did not he take me with him?’ she -cried. I cannot say any more, though I think every particular of that -dreadful night is burned in on my memory. Such a night had never -occurred in my recollection before.</p> - -<p>Then I got Ada to go to bed, and kept off from her the sleepy, insolent -man in powder who came to know if he was to sit up for master. ‘Your -master has gone to Bishop’s Hope,’ I said, ‘and will not return -to-night.’ The fellow received what I said with a sneer. He knew as -well, or perhaps better than we did, what had happened. Everybody would -know it next day. The happy house had toppled down like a house of -cards. Nothing was left but the helpless young wife, the unconscious -babies, to fight their battle with the world. There are moments when the -sense of a new day begun is positive pain. When poor Ada fell into a -troubled sleep, I wrapped myself up and opened the window and let in the -fresh morning air. Looking out over the country, I felt as if I could -see everything. There was no charitable shadow now to hide a flying -figure: every eye would be upon him, every creature spying his flight. -Where was Harry? When I looked at the girl asleep—she was but a girl, -notwithstanding her babies—and thought of the horror she would wake to, -it made my heart sick. And her mother was dead. There seemed no one to -stand by her in her trouble but a stranger like me.</p> - -<h3>CHAPTER IV</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">When</span> Ada woke however, instead of being, as I was, more hopeless, she -was almost sanguine. ‘There is my money, you know,’ she said. ‘After -all, so long as it is only money—I will go and see them, as the men -said, and they will come to terms. So long as we are together, what do I -mind whether we have a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_88" id="page_88"></a>{88}</span> large house or a little one? And Harry himself -speaks of my settlement. Don’t cry. I was frightened last night; but now -I see what to do. Will you come up to town with me by the twelve o’clock -train? And you shall see all will come right.’</p> - -<p>I had not the heart to say a word. I went home, and changed that -wretched evening dress which I had worn all through the night. It was a -comfort to throw it off and cast it away from me; and I never wore it -again; the very sight of it made me ill ever after. I found Ada almost -in high spirits with the strength of her determination and certainty -that she was going to redeem her husband and make all right, when I went -back. Just before noon however, when she was putting on her bonnet to -start, a carriage swept up to the door. I was at the window of the -dining-room when it came in sight, waiting for the brougham to convey us -to the station. And the rector and his wife were coming up the avenue -with ‘kind inquiries,’ in full belief that old Mrs. Gresham was dying, -and that the house was ‘in affliction.’ No wonder they started and -stared at the sight. It was old Mrs. Gresham herself, in her pink -ribbons, fresh and full and splendid, in robust health, and all the -colours of the rainbow, who came dashing up with her stately bays, to -the door.</p> - -<p>I had only time to realize that all our little attempts to keep up -appearances were destroyed for ever when the old people came in; for -Harry’s father had come too, though no one ever noticed him in presence -of his wife. Mrs. Gresham came in smiling and gracious, in her usual -affable and rather overwhelming way. She would have dismissed me -majestically before she went to her daughter-in-law, but I was in -reality too obtuse, by reason of fatigue and excitement, to understand -what she meant. When she went to Ada the old man remained with me. He -was not an attractive old man, and I had scarcely spoken to him before. -He walked about the room looking at everything, while I sat by the -window. If he had been an auctioneer valuing the furniture, he could not -have been more particular in his investigations. He examined the -handsome oak furniture, which was the envy of the Green, the immense -mirrors, the great china vases, the pictures on the walls, as if making -a mental calculation. Then he came and stood by me, and began to talk. -‘In my time young people were not so extravagant,’ he said. ‘There are -thousands of pounds, I believe, sunk in this house.’</p> - -<p>‘Mr. Gresham had a great deal of taste,’ I said faltering.</p> - -<p>‘Taste! Nonsense. You mean waste,’ said the old man, sitting down -astride on a carved chair, and looking at me across the back of it. ‘But -I admit the things have their value—they’ll sell. Of course you know -Harry has got into a mess?’ he went on. ‘Women think they can hush up -these things; but that’s impossible. He has behaved like an idiot, and -he must take the consequences. Fortunately the family is provided for. -Her friends need not be concerned in that respect.’</p> - -<p>‘I am very glad,’ said I, as it was necessary to say something.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_89" id="page_89"></a>{89}</span></p> - -<p>‘So am I,’ said old Mr. Gresham. ‘I suppose they would have come upon -<i>me</i> if that had not been the case. It’s a bad business; but it is not -so bad as it might have been. I can’t make out how a son of mine should -have been such an ass. But they all go so fast in these days. I suppose -you had a very grand ball last night? A ball!’ he repeated, with a sort -of snort. I don’t know if there was any fatherly feeling at all in the -man, but if there was he hid it under this mask of harshness and -contempt.</p> - -<p>‘Will not Mr. Gresham return?’ I asked foolishly; but my mind was too -much worn out to have full control of what I said.</p> - -<p>The old man gave a shrug, and glanced at me with a mixture of scorn and -suspicion. ‘I can’t say what may happen in the future,’ he said dryly. -‘I should advise him not. But Ada can live where she likes—and she will -not be badly off.’</p> - -<p>Old Mrs. Gresham stayed a long time up-stairs with her daughter-in-law; -so long that my patience almost deserted me. Mr. Gresham went off, after -sitting silent opposite to me for some time, to look over the house, -which was a relief; and no doubt I might have gone too, for we were far -too late for the train. But I was too anxious to go away. When the two -came down the old lady was just as cheerful and overwhelming as usual, -though poor Ada was deadly pale. Mrs. Gresham came in with her rich, -bustling, prosperous look, and shook hands with me over again. ‘I am -sure I beg your pardon,’ she said; ‘I had so much to say to Ada. We have -not met for a whole month; and poor child, they gave her such a fright -last night. My dear, don’t you mean to give us some luncheon? Grandpapa -never takes lunch; you need not wait for him, but I am quite hungry -after my long drive.’</p> - -<p>Then poor Ada rose and rang the bell; she was trembling so that she -tottered as she moved. I saw that her lips were dry, and she could -scarcely speak. She gave her orders so indistinctly that the man could -not hear her. ‘Luncheon!’ cried the old lady in her imperious way. -‘Can’t you hear what Mrs. Gresham says? Lunch directly—and tell my -people to be at the door in an hour. Ada, a man who stared in my face -like that, and pretended not to understand, should not stay another day -in my house; you are a great deal too easy. So your ball was interrupted -last night, Mrs. Mulgrave,’ she went on with a laugh, ‘and the blame -laid on me. Oh, those boys! I hope the good people hereabouts will not -take offence. I will never forgive them, though, for giving Ada such a -fright, poor child. She thought I was dying, I suppose; and it was only -one of Gerald’s sporting scrapes. Some horse was being tampered with, -and he would have lost thousands if they had not rushed off; so they -made out I was dying, the wretched boys. Ha, ha! I don’t look much like -dying to-day.’</p> - -<p>‘No, indeed,’ was all I could say. As for Ada she never opened her white -lips, except to breathe in little gasps like a woman in a fever. The old -lady had all the weight of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_90" id="page_90"></a>{90}</span> conversation to bear; and indeed she was -talking not for our benefit, but for that of the servants, who were -bringing the luncheon. She looked so rich and assured of herself that I -think they were staggered in their certainty of misfortune and believed -her for the moment. The young footman, who had just been asking me -privately to speak a word for him to secure him another place, gave me a -stealthy imploring look, begging me as it were not to betray him. The -old gentleman was out, going over the house and grounds, but Mrs. -Gresham ate a very good luncheon and continued her large and ample talk. -‘They sent me a message this morning,’ she said, as she ate, ‘and -ordered me to come over and make their excuses and set things right. -Just like boys! Give me some sherry, John Thomas. I shall scold them -well, I promise you, when they come back—upsetting poor Ada’s nerves, -and turning the house upside down like this. I don’t know what Ada would -have done without you, Mrs. Mulgrave; and I hear you had their -stable-men, trainers, or whatever they call them, to puzzle you too.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ I said, struck dumb with wonder. Was this all an invention, or -was she herself deceived? Poor Ada sat with her eyes cast down, and -never spoke except in monosyllables; she could scarcely raise to her -lips the wine which her mother-in-law made her swallow. I could not but -admire the energy and determination of the woman. But at the same time -she bewildered me, as she sat eating and drinking, with her elbow on the -table and her rich lace mantle sweeping over the white tablecloth, -conversing in this confident way. To meet her eyes, which had not a -shade of timidity or doubt about them, and see her evident comfort and -enjoyment, and believe she was telling a downright lie, was almost more -than was possible. ‘I did not know Mr. Gerald was a racing man,’ I -faltered, not knowing what to say.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, yes, he is on the turf,’ said Mrs. Gresham, shrugging her -shoulders; ‘he is on everything that don’t pay. That boy has been a -nuisance all his life. Not that there is anything bad about him; but -he’s fashionable, you know, and we are known to be rich, and everybody -gives him his own way; and Harry’s such a good brother——’ said the -rash woman all at once, to show how much at her ease she was. But this -was taking a step too much. Ada could bear it no longer. There was a -sudden sound of choking sobs, and then she sprang from the table. The -strain had gone too far.</p> - -<p>‘I hear baby crying; I must go to baby,’ she sobbed; and rushed from the -room without any regard to appearances. Even Mrs. Gresham, -self-possessed as she was, had gone too far for her own strength. Her -lip quivered in spite of herself. She looked steadily down, and crumbled -the bread before her in her strong agitated fingers. Then she gave a -little laugh, which was not much less significant than tears.</p> - -<p>‘Poor little Ada,’ she said, ‘she can’t bear to be crossed. She<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_91" id="page_91"></a>{91}</span> has had -such a happy life, when anything goes contrairy it puts her out.’ -Perhaps it was the quivering of her own lip that brought back her -vernacular. And then we began to discuss the ball as if nothing had -happened. Her husband came in while we were talking, and shrugged his -shoulders and muttered disapprobation, but she took no notice. She must -have been aware that I knew all; and yet she thought she could bewilder -me still.</p> - -<p>I went home shortly after, grieved and disgusted and sick at heart, -remembering all the wicked stories people tell of mercantile dishonesty, -of false bankruptcies, and downright robberies, and the culprits who -escape and live in wealth and comfort abroad. This was how it was to be -in the case of Harry Gresham. His wife had her settlement, and would go -to him, and they would be rich, and well off, though he had as good as -stolen his neighbour’s property and squandered it away. Of course I did -not know all the particulars then; and I had got to be fond of these -young people. I knew very well that Harry was not wicked, and that his -little wife was both innocent and good. When one reads such stories in -the papers, one says, ‘Wretches!’ and thinks no more of it. But these -two were not wretches, and I was fond of them, and it made me sick at -heart. I went up-stairs and shut myself into my own room, not being able -to see visitors or to hear all the comment that, without doubt, was -going on. But it did not mend matters when I saw from my window Mrs. -Gresham driving past, lying back in her carriage, sweeping along swift -as two superb horses could carry her, with her little old husband in the -corner by her side, and a smile on her face, ready to wave her hand in -gracious recognition of any one she knew. She was like a queen coming -among us, rather than the mother of a man who had fled in darkness and -shame. I never despised poor Mrs. Stoke or thought less of her for -Everard’s downfall, but I felt scorn and disgust rise in my heart when -these people passed my door; though Mrs. Gresham, too, was her son’s -champion in her own worldly way.</p> - -<p>Some hours later Ada sent me a few anxious pleading words, begging me to -go to her. I found her in the avenue, concealing herself among the -trees; though it was a warm summer day she was cold and shivering. I do -not know any word that can express her pallor. It was not the whiteness -of death, but of agonized and miserable life, palpitating in every nerve -and straining every faculty.</p> - -<p>‘Hush!’ she said. ‘Don’t go to the house—I can’t bear it—I am watching -for him—here!’</p> - -<p>‘Is he coming back?’ I cried in terror.</p> - -<p>‘I do not know; I can’t tell where he is, or where he is going!’ cried -poor Ada, grasping my arm; ‘but if he should come back he would be -taken. The house is watched. Did you not see that old man sitting under -the hedge? There are people<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_92" id="page_92"></a>{92}</span> everywhere about watching for my Harry; and -they tell me I am to stay quiet and take no notice. I think I will -die—I wish I could die!’</p> - -<p>‘No, my darling!’ I said, crying over her. ‘Tell me what it is? Did they -bring you no comfort? He will not come back to be taken. There is no -fear. Did they not tell you what it means?’</p> - -<p>‘They told me,’ cried Ada, with a violent colour flushing over her face, -‘that I was to keep my money to myself, and not to pay back -that—that—what he has taken! It is true; he has taken some money that -was not his, and lost it; but he meant to pay it back again, Mrs. -Mulgrave. We were so rich; he knew he could pay it all back. And now he -has lost everything and can’t pay it. And they will put him in prison. -Oh, I wish he had died! I wish we had all died!’ cried Ada, ‘rather than -this—rather than to feel what I do to-day!’</p> - -<p>‘My dear,’ I cried, ‘don’t say so; we cannot die when we please. It is a -terrible misfortune; but when he did not mean it—’</p> - -<p>Great tears rushed to Ada’s eyes. ‘He did not mean <i>that</i>,’ she said; -‘but I think he meant me to keep my money and live on it. Oh, what shall -I do! They say I will be wicked if I give it up. I will work for him -with all my heart. But I cannot go on living like this, and keep what is -not mine. If your husband had done it, Mrs. Mulgrave—don’t be angry -with me—would not you have sold the cottage and given up everything? -And what am I to do?’</p> - -<p>‘You must come in and rest,’ I said. ‘Never mind what they said to you. -You must do what is right, Ada, and Gerald will stand by you. He will -know how to do it. Come in now and rest.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah, Gerald!’ cried the poor child, and then she leant on my shoulder -and cried. The moment she heard even the name of one man whom she could -trust her strength broke down. ‘Gerald will know how to do it,’ she said -faintly, as I led her in, and tried to smile at me. It was a gleam of -comfort in the darkness.</p> - -<p>I cannot describe the period of terrible suspense that followed. I -stayed with her, making no pretence of going back to my own house; -though when the story came to be in the newspapers all my friends wrote -letters to me and disapproved of my conduct. I did not care; one knows -one’s own duties better than one’s friends do. The day after the ball -hosts of cards, and civil messages, and ‘kind inquiries’ had poured upon -Ada; but after that they totally stopped. Not a carriage nor a visitor -came near the house for the three last days. The world fell away from us -and left the poor young creature to bear her burden alone. In the midst -or all this real suffering there was one little incident which affected -my temper more than all the rest. Old Thomas Lee, an old man from the -village, who used to carry little wares about in a basket, and made his -living by it, had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_93" id="page_93"></a>{93}</span> taken his place under the hedge close to the gates of -Dinglewood, and sat there watching all day long. Of course he was paid -to do it, and he was very poor. But I don’t think the money he has -earned so has done him much good. I have never given a penny or a -penny’s worth to old Lee since that time. Many a sixpence poor Harry had -tossed at him as he passed in his Yankee waggon every morning to the -station. I had no patience with the wretched old spy. He had the -assurance to take off his hat to me when I went into the house he was -watching, and I confess that it was with a struggle, no later back than -last winter, when the season was at its coldest, that I consented to -give him a little help for his children’s sake.</p> - -<p>It was nearly a week before we got any letters, and all these long days -we watched and waited, glad when every night fell, trembling when every -morning rose; watching at the windows, at the gates, everywhere that a -peep could be had of the white, blinding, vacant road. Every time the -postman went round the Green our hearts grew faint with anxiety: once or -twice when the telegraph boy appeared, even I, though I was but a -spectator, felt the life die out of my heart. But at last this period of -dreadful uncertainty came to a close. It was in the morning by the first -post that the letters came. They were under cover to me, and I took them -to Ada’s room while she was still sleeping the restless sleep of -exhaustion. She sprang up in a moment and caught at her husband’s letter -as if it had been a revelation from heaven. The happiest news in the -world could not have been more eagerly received. He was safe. He had put -the Channel between him and his pursuers. There was no need for further -watching. The relief in itself was a positive happiness. Ten days ago it -would have been heart-rending to think of Harry Gresham as an escaped -criminal, as an exile, for whom return was impossible; disgraced, -nameless, and without hope. To-day the news was joyful news; he was -safe, if nothing more.</p> - -<p>Then for the first time Ada indulged in the luxury of tears—tears that -came in floods, like those thunder-showers which ease the hearts of the -young. She threw herself on my neck and kissed me again and again. ‘I -should have died but for you: I had no mamma of my own to go to,’ she -sobbed like a baby. Perhaps the thing that made these childish words go -so to my heart was that I had no child.</p> - -<p>Of course I expected, and everybody will expect, that after this -excitement she should have fallen ill. But she did not. On the contrary, -she came down-stairs with me and ate (almost for the first time) and -smiled, and played with her children, while I stood by with the feeling -that I ought to have a brain fever myself if Ada would not see what was -expected of her. But as the day ran on she became grave, and ever -graver. She said little, and it was mostly about Gerald; how he must -come home and manage everything; how she was determined to take<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_94" id="page_94"></a>{94}</span> no -rest, to listen to no argument, till the money was paid. I went home to -my own house that evening, and she made no opposition. I said good-night -to her in the nursery, where she was sitting close by her little girl’s -bed. She was crying, poor child, but I did not wonder at that; and nurse -was a kind woman, and very attentive to her little mistress. I went -round to the terrace and out by the garden, without having any -particular reason for it. But before I reached the gate some one came -tripping after me, and looking round I saw it was Ada, wrapped in a -great waterproof cloak. She was going to walk home with me, she said. I -resisted her coming, but it was in vain. It was a warm, balmy night, and -I could not understand why she should have put on her great cloak. But -as soon as she was safe in my little drawing-room, her secret came out. -Then she opened her mantle with a smile. On one of her arms hung a -bundle; on the other rested her sleeping baby. She laughed at my amaze, -and then she cried. ‘I am going to Harry,’ she said; and held her child -closer, and dried her eyes and sat immovable, ready to listen to -anything I chose to say. Heaven knows I said everything I could think -of—of the folly of it, of her foolhardiness; that she was totally -unable for the task she was putting on herself; that Harry had Gerald, -and could do without her. All which she listened to with a smile, -impenetrable, and not to be moved. When I had come to an end of my -arguments, she stretched out to me the arm on which the bundle hung, and -drew me close to her and kissed me again. ‘You are going to give me some -biscuits and a little flask of wine,’ she said, ‘to put in my pocket. I -have one of the housekeeper’s old-fashioned pockets, which is of some -use. And then you must say “God bless you,” and let me go.’</p> - -<p>‘God bless you, my poor child,’ I said, overcome; ‘but you must not go; -little Ada too—’</p> - -<p>Then her eyes filled with tears. ‘My pretty darling!’ she said; ‘but -grandmamma will take her to Bishop’s Hope. It is only baby that cannot -live without his mother. Baby and Harry. What is Gerald? I know he wants -<i>me</i>.’</p> - -<p>‘But he can wait,’ I cried; ‘and you so young, so delicate, so unused to -any trouble!’</p> - -<p>‘I can carry my child perfectly,’ said Ada. ‘I never was delicate. There -is a train at eleven down to Southampton, I found it out in the book: -and after that I know my way. I am a very good traveller,’ she said with -a smile, ‘and Gerald must come to settle everything. Give me the -biscuits, dear Mrs. Mulgrave, and kiss me and let me go.’</p> - -<p>And it had to be so, though I pleaded with her till I was hoarse. When -the moment came, I put on my cloak too and walked with her, late as it -was, a mile off to the new station, which both she and I had thought too -far for walking in the cheerful daylight. I carried the bundle, while -she carried the baby, and we looked like two homely country women -trudging<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_95" id="page_95"></a>{95}</span> home. She drew her hood over her head while she got her -ticket, and I waited outside. Then in the dark I kissed her for the last -time. I could not speak, nor did she. She took the bundle from me, -grasping my hand with her soft fingers almost as a man might have done; -and we kissed each other with anguish, like people who part for ever. -And I have never seen her again.</p> - -<p>As I came back, frightened and miserable, all by myself along the -moonlit road, I had to pass the Stokes’ cottage. Lottie was leaning out -of the window, though it was now nearly midnight, with her face, all -pallid in the moon, turned towards Dinglewood. I could scarcely keep -myself from calling to her. She did not know what we had been doing, yet -her heart had been with us that night.</p> - -<h3>CHAPTER V</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">I will</span> not describe the tumult that arose when it was discovered. The -servants rushed over to me in a body, and I suggested that they should -send for Mrs. Gresham, and that great lady came, in all her splendour, -and took little Ada away, and gave everybody ‘notice.’ Then great bills -of the auction covered the pillars at the gate, and strangers came in -heaps to see the place. In a month everything had melted away like a -tale that is told. The Greshams, and their wealth, and their liberality, -and their good-nature fell out of the very recollection of the people on -the Green, along with the damask and the gilding and the flowers, the -fine carriages and the powdered footmen. Everything connected with them -disappeared. The new tenant altered the house a second time, and -everything that could recall the handsome young couple and their lavish -ways was cleared away. Of course there was nothing else talked of for a -long time after. Everybody had his or her account of the whole business. -Some said poor Harry met his pursuers in the field close to the river, -and that Gerald and he fought with them, and left them all but dead in -the grass; some said that Ada and I defended the house, and would not -let them in; and there were countless romances about the escape and -Ada’s secret following after. The imagination of my neighbours made many -a fancy sketch of that last scene; but never hit upon anything so -touching as my last glimpse of her, with her baby under her cloak, going -into the train. I held my peace, and let them talk. She had been as my -own child for about a week, just a week of our lives; before that she -was a common acquaintance, after it a stranger; but I could not let any -vulgar tongues meddle with our relationship or her story in that sacred -time.</p> - -<p>And after a while the tale fell into oblivion, as every story does if we -can but wait long enough. People forgot about the Greshams; sometimes a -stranger would observe the name of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_96" id="page_96"></a>{96}</span> Mr. Gresham, of Bishop’s Hope, in -some list of county charities, and would ask if he was a Gresham of -Greshambury, or if he was any connection of the man who ran away. Of -course, at the time, it was in all the newspapers. He had taken money -that somebody had trusted him with and used it in his speculations. Of -course he meant to pay it back; but then a great crash came. The men say -there was no excuse for him, and I can see that there is no excuse; but -he never meant it, poor Harry! And then the papers were full of further -incidents, which were more unusual than Harry’s sin or his flight. The -<i>Times</i> devoted a leading article to it which everybody read, holding -Mrs. Gresham up to the applause of the world. Ada gave up her settlement -and all her own fortune, and ‘one of his brothers,’ the papers said, -came forward, too, and most of the money was paid back. But Harry, poor -fellow, disappeared. He was as if he had gone down at sea. His name and -every sign of his life went out of knowledge—waves of forgetfulness, -desertion, exile closed over them. And at Dinglewood they were never -either seen or heard of again.</p> - -<p>As long as it continued to be in the papers, Lottie Stoke kept in a very -excited state. She came to me for ever, finding out every word that was -printed about it, dwelling on everything. That evening when the article -appeared about Mrs. Gresham’s heroic abandonment of her fortune, and -about ‘one of his brothers,’ Lottie came with her eyes lighted up like -windows in an illumination, and her whole frame trembling with -excitement. She read it all to me, and listened to my comments, and -clasped my hand in hers when I cried out, ‘That must be Gerald!’ She sat -on the footstool, holding the paper, and gazed up into my face with her -eyes like lamps. ‘Then I do not mind!’ she cried, and buried her face in -her hands and sobbed aloud. And I did not ask her what she meant—I had -not the heart.</p> - -<p>It was quite years after before I heard anything more of the Greshams, -and then it was by way of Lottie Stoke that the news came. She had grown -thinner and more worn year by year. She had not had the spirits to go -out, and they were so poor that they could have no society at home. And -by degrees Lottie came to be considered a little old, which is a -dreadful business for an unmarried girl when her people are so poor. -Mrs. Stoke did not upbraid her; but still, it may be guessed what her -feelings were. But, fortunately, as Lottie sank into the background, -Lucy came to the front. She was pretty, and fresh, and gay, and more -popular than her sister had ever been. And, by and by, she did fulfil -the grand object of existence, and married well. When Lucy told me of -her engagement she was very angry with her sister.</p> - -<p>‘She says, how can I do it? She asks me if I have forgotten Gerald -Gresham?’ cried Lucy. ‘As if I ever cared for Gerald Gresham; or as if -anybody would marry him after—— I shall think she cared for him -herself if she keeps going on.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_97" id="page_97"></a>{97}</span></p> - -<p>‘Lucy!’ said Lottie, flushing crimson under her hollow eyes. Lucy, for -her part, was as bright as happiness, indignation, high health, and -undiminished spirits could make her. But, for my part, I liked her -sister best.</p> - -<p>‘Well!’ she said, ‘and I do think it. You <i>would</i> lecture me about him -when we were only having a little fun. As if I ever cared for him. And I -don’t believe,’ cried Lucy courageously, ‘that he ever cared for me.’</p> - -<p>Her sister kissed her, though she had been so angry. ‘Don’t let us -quarrel now when we are going to part,’ she said, with a strange quiver -in her voice. Perhaps the child was right; perhaps he had never cared -for her, though Lottie and I both thought he did. He cared for neither -of them, probably; and there was no chance that he would ever come back -to Dinglewood, or show himself where his family had been so disgraced. -But yet Lottie brightened up a little after that day, I can scarcely -tell why.</p> - -<p>Some time after she went on a visit to London in the season; and it was -very hard work for her, I know, to get some dresses to go in, for she -never would have any of Lucy’s presents. She was six weeks away, and she -came back looking a different creature. The very first morning after her -return she came over to me, glowing with something to tell. ‘Who do you -think I met?’ she said with a soft flush trembling over her face. Her -look brought one name irresistibly to my mind. But I would not re-open -that old business; I shook my head, and said I did not know.</p> - -<p>‘Why, Gerald Gresham!’ she cried. ‘It is true, Mrs. Mulgrave; he is -painting pictures now—painting, you understand, not for his pleasure, -but like a trade. And he told me about Ada and poor Harry. They have -gone to America. It has changed him very much, even his looks; and -instead of being rich, he is poor.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah,’ I said, ‘<span class="lftspc">“</span>one of his brothers.” You always said it was Gerald;’ -but I was not prepared for what was to come next.</p> - -<p>‘Did not I?’ cried Lottie, triumphant; ‘I knew it all the time.’ And -then she paused a little, and sat silent, in a happy brooding over -something that was to come. ‘And I think she was right,’ said Lottie -softly. ‘He had not been thinking of Lucy; it was not Lucy for whom he -cared.’</p> - -<p>I took her hands into my own, perceiving what she meant; and then all at -once Lottie fell a crying, but not for sorrow.</p> - -<p>‘That was how I always deceived myself,’ she said. ‘It was so base of me -at first; I wanted to marry him because he was rich. And then I thought -it was Lucy he liked; she was so young and so pretty—’ Then she made a -long pause, and put my hands upon her hot cheeks and covered herself -with them. ‘Your hands are so cool,’ she said, ‘and so soft and kind. I -am going to marry him now, Mrs. Mulgrave, and he is poor.’</p> - -<p>This is a kind of postscript to the story, but still it is so<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_98" id="page_98"></a>{98}</span> connected -with it that it is impossible to tell the one without the other. We were -much agitated about this marriage on the Green. If Gerald Gresham had -been rich, it would have been a different matter. But a stockbroker’s -son, with disgrace in the family, and poor. I don’t know any one who was -not sorry for Mrs. Stoke under this unexpected blow. But I was not sorry -for Lottie. Gerald, naturally, is not fond of coming to the Green, but I -see them sometimes in London, and I think they suit each other. He tells -me of poor Ada every time I see him. And I believe old Mr. Gresham is -very indignant at Harry’s want of spirit in not beginning again, and at -Ada for giving up her settlement, and at Gerald for expending his money -to help them—‘A pack of fools,’ says the old man. But of course they -will all, even the shipwrecked family in America, get something from him -when he dies. As for the mother, I met her once at Lottie’s door, -getting into her fine carriage with the bays, and she was very affable -to me. In her opinion it was all Ada’s fault. ‘What can a man do with an -extravagant wife who spends all his money before it is made?’ she said -as she got into her carriage; and I found it a little hard to keep my -temper. But the Greshams and their story, and all the brief splendours -of Dinglewood are almost forgotten by this time by everybody on the -Green.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_99" id="page_99"></a>{99}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_SCIENTIFIC_GENTLEMAN" id="THE_SCIENTIFIC_GENTLEMAN"></a>THE SCIENTIFIC GENTLEMAN</h2> - -<h3><a name="PART_I" id="PART_I"></a>PART I</h3> - -<h4>CHAPTER I</h4> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">There</span> were a great variety of houses on the Green; some of them handsome -and wealthy, some very old-fashioned, some even which might be called -tumbledown. The two worst and smallest of these were at the lower end of -the Green, not far from the ‘Barleymow.’ It must not be supposed however -that they were unpleasantly affected by the neighbourhood of the -‘Barleymow.’ They were withdrawn from contact with it quite as much as -we were, who lived at the other end; and though they were small and out -of repair, and might even look mouldy and damp to a careless passer-by, -they were still houses for gentlefolk, where nobody need have been -ashamed to live. They were built partly of wood and partly of -whitewashed brick, and each stood in the midst of a very luxuriant -garden. At the time Mr. Reinhardt, of whom I am going to speak, came to -East Cottage, as it was called, the place had been very much neglected; -the trees and bushes grew wildly all over the garden; the flower-beds -had gone to ruin; the kitchen-garden was a desert, with only a dreary -cabbage or great long straggling onion-plant run to seed showing among -the gooseberries and currants, which looked like the copsewood in a -forest. It is miserable to see a place go to destruction like this, and -I could not but reflect often how many poor people there were without a -roof to shelter them, while this house was going to ruin for want of an -inhabitant. ‘My dear lady, that is communism, rank communism,’ the -Admiral said to me when I ventured to express my sentiments aloud; but I -confess I never could see it.</p> - -<p>The house belonged to Mr. Falkland, who was a distant relation of Lord -Goodwin’s, and lived chiefly in London. He was a young man, and a -barrister, living, I suppose, in chambers, as most of them do; but I -wondered he did not furnish the place and keep it in order, if it had -been only for the pleasure of coming down with his friends from Saturday -to Monday, to spend Sunday in the country. When I suggested this, young -Robert Lloyd, Mrs. Damerel’s brother, took it upon him to laugh.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100"></a>{100}</span></p> - -<p>‘There is nothing to do here,’ he said. ‘If it were near the river, for -boating, it would be a different matter, or even if there was a stream -to fish in; but a fellow has nothing to do here, and why should Falkland -come to bore himself to death?’ Thus the young man ended with a sigh for -himself, though he had begun with a laugh at me.</p> - -<p>‘If he is so afraid to be bored himself,’ said I—for I was rather angry -to hear our pretty village so lightly spoken of—‘I am sure he must know -quantities of people who would not be bored. Young barristers marry -sometimes, I suppose, imprudently, like other young people——’</p> - -<p>‘Curates, for instance,’ said Robert, who was a saucy boy.</p> - -<p>‘Curates, and young officers, and all sorts of foolish people,’ said I; -‘and think what a comfort that little house would be to a poor young -couple with babies! Oh no, I do not like to see such a waste; a house -going to rack and ruin for want of some one to live in it, and so many -people famishing for want of fresh air, and the country. Don’t say any -more, for it hurts me to see it. I wish it were mine to do what I liked -with it only for a year.’</p> - -<p>‘Communism, rank communism,’ said the Admiral. But if that is communism, -then I am a communist, and I don’t deny it. I would not waste a -Christian dwelling-place any more than I would throw away good honest -wholesome bread.</p> - -<p>However this state of things came to an end one spring, a good many -years ago. Workmen came and began to put East Cottage in order. We all -took the greatest interest in the work. It was quite a place to go to -for our afternoon walks, and sometimes as many as three and four parties -would meet there among the shavings and the pails of plaster and -whitewash. It was being very thoroughly done up. We consulted each other -and gave our opinions about all the papers, as if it mattered whether we -liked them or not. The Green thought well of the new tenant’s taste on -the whole, though some of us had doubts about the decoration of the -drawing-room, which was rather a dark little room by nature. The paper -for it was terribly artistic. It was one of those new designs which I -always think are too mediæval for a private house—groups of five or six -daisies tied together, with long stalks detached and distinct, and all -the hair on their heads standing on end, so to speak; but we who -objected had a conviction that it was only our ignorance, and merely -whispered to each other in corners, that we were not quite sure—that -perhaps it was just a little—but the people who knew better thought -it showed very fine taste indeed.</p> - -<p>It was some time before we found out who the new tenant was. He did not -come down until after everything had been arranged and ready for some -weeks. Then we found out that he was a Mr. Reinhardt, a gentleman who -was well-known, people said, in scientific circles. He was of German -extraction, we supposed, by his name, and as for his connections, or -where<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101"></a>{101}</span> he came from, nobody knew anything about them. An old housekeeper -was the first person who made her appearance, and then came an old -man-servant; both of them looked the very models of respectability, but -I do not think, for my own part, that the sight of them gave me a very -pleasant feeling about their master. They chilled you only to look at -them. The woman had a suspicious, watchful look, her eyes seemed to be -always on the nearest corner looking for some one, and she had an air of -resolution which I should not have liked to struggle against. The man -was not quite so alarming, for he was older and rather feeble on his -legs. One felt that there must be some weakness in his character to -justify the little deviousness that would now and then appear in his -steps. These two people attracted our notice in the interval of waiting -for their master. The man’s name was White—an innocent, feeble sort of -name, but highly respectable—and he called the woman something which -sounded like Missis Sarah; but whether it was her Christian name or her -surname we never could make out.</p> - -<p>It was on a Monday evening, and I had gone to dine at the Lodge with Sir -Thomas and Lady Denzil, when the first certain news of the new tenant of -East Cottage reached us. The gentlemen, of course, had been the first to -hear it. Somehow, though it is taken for granted that women are the -great traffickers in gossip, it is the men who always start the subject. -When they came into the drawing-room after dinner they gave us the -information, which they had already been discussing among themselves -over their wine.</p> - -<p>‘Mr. Reinhardt has arrived,’ Sir Thomas said to Lady Denzil; and we all -asked, ‘When?’</p> - -<p>‘He came yesterday, I believe,’ said Sir Thomas.</p> - -<p>‘Yesterday! Why, yesterday was Sunday,’ cried some one; and though we -are, as a community, tolerably free from prejudice, we were all somewhat -shocked; and there was a pause.</p> - -<p>‘I believe Sunday is considered the most lucky day for everything -abroad,’ said Lady Denzil, after that interval; ‘for beginning a -journey, and no doubt for entering a house. And as he is of German -extraction——’</p> - -<p>‘He does not look like a German,’ said Robert Lloyd; ‘he is quite an old -fellow—about fifty, I should say—and dark, not fair.’</p> - -<p>At this speech the most of us laughed; for an old fellow of fifty seemed -absurd to us, who were that age, or more; but Robert, at twenty, had no -doubt on the subject.</p> - -<p>‘Well,’ he said, half offended, ‘I could not have said a young fellow, -could I? He stoops, he is awfully thin, like an old magician, and -shabbily dressed, and——’</p> - -<p>‘You must have examined him from head to foot, Robert.’</p> - -<p>‘A fellow can’t help seeing,’ said Robert, ‘when he looks; and I thought -you all wanted to know.’</p> - -<p>Then we had a discussion as to what notice should be taken of the new -comer. We did not know whether he was married<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102"></a>{102}</span> or not, and, -consequently, could not go fully into the question; but the aspect of -the house and the looks of the servants were much against it. For my own -part, I felt convinced he was not married; and, so far as we ladies were -concerned, the question was thus made sufficiently easy. But the -gentlemen felt the weight proportionably heavy on their shoulders.</p> - -<p>‘I never knew any one of the name of Reinhardt,’ Sir Thomas said with a -musing air.</p> - -<p>‘Probably he will have brought letters from somebody,’ the Admiral -suggested: and that was a wonderful comfort to all the men.</p> - -<p>Of course he must have letters from somebody; he must know some one who -knew Sir Thomas, or Mr. Damerel, or the Admiral, or General Perronet, or -the Lloyds. Surely the world was not so large as to make it possible -that the new comer did not know some one who knew one of the people on -the Green. As for being a scientific notability, or even a literary -character, I am afraid that would not have done much for him in -Dinglefield. If he had been cousin to poor Lord Glyndon, who was next to -an idiot, it would have been of a great deal more service to him. I do -not say that we were right; I think there are other things which ought -to be taken into consideration; but, without arguing about it, there is -no doubt that so it was.</p> - -<p>The Green generally kept a watchful eye for some time on the East -Cottage. There were no other servants except those two whom we had -already seen. Sometimes the gardener, who kept all the little gardens -about in order—‘doing for’ ladies like myself, for instance, who could -not afford to keep a gardener—was called in to assist at East Cottage; -and I believe (of course I could not question him on the subject; I -heard this through one of the maids) that he was very jocular about the -man-servant, who was a real man-of-all-work, doing everything you could -think of, from helping to cook, down to digging in the garden. Our -gardener opened his mouth and uttered a great laugh when he spoke of -him. He held the opinion common to a great many of his class, that to -undertake too much was a positive injury to others. A servant who kept -to his own work, and thought it was ‘not his place’ to interfere with -anything beyond it, or lend a helping hand in matters beyond his own -immediate calling, was Matthew’s model of what a servant ought to be, -and a man who pretended to be a butler, and was a Jack-of-all-trades, -was a contemptible object to our gardener: ‘taking the bread out o’ -other folks’s mouths,’ he said. He thought the man at the East Cottage -was a foreigner, and altogether had a very poor opinion of him. But -however what was a great deal worse was the fact that neither the -man-servant, nor the woman, nor the master, appeared to care for our -notice, or in any way took the place they ought to have done in our -little community. They had their things down from London; they either -did their washing ‘within themselves’ or sent it also away to a -distance;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103"></a>{103}</span> they made no friends, and sought none. Mr. Reinhardt brought -no letters of introduction. Sometimes—but rarely—he might be seen of -an evening walking towards the Dell, with an umbrella over his head to -shield him from the setting sun, but he never looked at anybody whom he -met, or showed the least inclination to cultivate acquaintance, even -with a child or a dog. And the worst of all was that he certainly never -went to church. We were very regular church-goers on the Green. Some of -us preferred sometimes to go to a little church in the woods, which was -intended for the scattered population of our forest district, and was -very pretty and sweet in the midst of the great trees, instead of to the -parish. But to one or other everybody went once every Sunday at least. -It was quite a pretty sight on Sunday morning to see everybody turning -out—families all together, and lonely folk like myself, who scarcely -could feel lonely when there was such a feeling of harmony and -friendliness about. The young people set off walking generally a little -while before us; but most of the elder people drove, for it was a good -long way. And though some rigid persons thought it was wrong on the -Sunday, yet the nice carriages and horses looked pleasant, and the -servants always had time to come to church; and an old lady like Lady -Denzil, for instance, must have stayed at home altogether if she had not -been allowed to drive. I think a distinction should be made in such -cases. But when all the houses thus opened their doors and poured forth -their inhabitants, it may be supposed how strange it looked that one -house should never open and no figure ever come from it to join the -Sunday stream. Even the housekeeper, so far as we could ascertain, never -had a Sunday out. They lived within those walls, within the trees that -were now so tidy and trim. One morning when I had a cold, and was -reading the service by myself in my own room, I had a glimpse of the -master of the house. It was a summer day, very soft and blue, and full -of sunshine. You know what I mean when I say blue—the sky seemed to -stoop nearer to the earth, the earth hushed itself and looked up all -still and gentle to the sky. There were no clouds above, and nobody -moving below; nothing but a little thrill and flicker of leaves, a faint -rustle of the grass, and the birds singing with a softer note, as if -they too knew it was Sunday. My room is in the front of the house, and -overlooks all the Green. The window was open, and the click of a latch -sounding in the stillness made me lift my head without thinking from the -lesson I was reading. It was Mr. Reinhardt, who had come out of his -cottage. He came to the garden gate and stood for a moment looking out. -I was not near enough to see his face, but in every line of his spare, -stooping figure there was suspicion and doubt. He looked to the right -and to the left with a curious prying eagerness, as if he expected to -see some one coming. And then he came out altogether, and began to walk -up and down, up and down. The stillness was so great that,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104"></a>{104}</span> though he -walked very softly, the sound of his steps on the gravel of the road -reached me from time to time. I stopped in my reading to watch him, in -spite of myself. Every time he turned he looked about him in the same -suspicious, curious way. Was he waiting for some one? Was he looking out -for a visitor? or was he (the thought sprang into my mind all at once) -insane perhaps, and had escaped from his keepers in the cottage? This -thought made my heart jump, but a little reflection calmed me, for he -had not the least appearance of insanity. The little jar now and then of -his foot when he turned kept me in excitement; I felt it impossible to -keep from watching him. When I found how abstracted my mind was getting, -I changed my place that I might not be tempted to look out any more, -feeling that it was wrong to yield to this curiosity; and when I had -finished my reading the first carriage—the Denzils’ carriage—was -coming gleaming along the distant road in the sunshine, coming back from -church, and the lonely figure was gone. I did not know whether he had -gone in again or had extended his walk. But I felt somehow all that day, -though you will say with very little reason, that I knew something more -about our strange neighbour than most people did on the Green.</p> - -<h4>CHAPTER II</h4> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">This</span> seclusion and isolation of East Cottage did not however last very -long. Before the summer was over Sir Thomas, who, though he stood on his -dignity sometimes, was very kind at bottom, began to feel compunctious -about his solitary neighbour: now and then he would say something which -betrayed this. ‘It worries me to think there is some one there who has -been taken no notice of by anybody,’ he would say. ‘Of course it is his -own fault—entirely his own fault.’ The next time one met him he would -return to the subject. ‘What a lovely day! Everybody seems to be -out-of-doors—except at East Cottage, where they have the blinds drawn -down.’ This would be said with a pucker of vexation and annoyance about -his mouth. He was angry with the stranger, and sorry, and did not know -what to do. And I for one knew what would follow. But we were all very -curious when we heard that Sir Thomas had actually called. The Stokes -came running in to tell me one afternoon. ‘Oh, fancy, Mrs. Mulgrave, Sir -Thomas has called!’ cried Lucy. ‘And he has been admitted, which is -still greater fun,’ said Robert Lloyd, who was with them. I may say in -passing that this was before Robert had passed his examination, when he -was an idle young man at home, trying hard to persuade Lucy Stoke that -he and she were in love with each other. Their parents, of course, would -never have permitted such a thing for a moment, and fortunately there -turned out to be nothing in it; but at present this was the chief -occupation of Robert’s life.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105"></a>{105}</span></p> - -<p>‘I am very glad,’ said I. ‘I knew Sir Thomas never would be happy till -he had done it.’</p> - -<p>‘And oh, you don’t know what funny stories there are about,’ said Lucy. -‘They say he killed his wife, and that he is always thinking he sees her -ghost. I wonder if it is true? They say he can never be left alone or in -the dark; he is so frightened. I met him yesterday, and it made me jump. -I never saw a man who killed his wife before.’</p> - -<p>‘But who says he killed his wife?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, everybody; we heard it from Matthew the gardener, and I think he -heard it at the “Barleymow,” and it is all over the place. Fancy Sir -Thomas calling on such a person! for I suppose,’ said Lucy, ‘though you -are so very superior, you men, and may beat us, and all that, it is not -made law yet that you may kill your wives.’</p> - -<p>‘It might just as well be the law: for I am sure there are many other -things quite as bad,’ said Lottie, while Robert, who had been appealed -to, whispered some answer which made Lucy laugh. ‘Poor man, I wonder if -she was a very bad woman, and if she haunts him. How disappointed he -must have been to find he could not get rid of her even that way!’</p> - -<p>‘Lottie, my dear, here is Sir Thomas coming; don’t talk so much -nonsense,’ said I hurriedly.</p> - -<p>I am afraid however that Sir Thomas rather liked the nonsense. He had -not the feeling of responsibility in encouraging girls to run on, that -most women have. He thought it was amusing, as men generally do, and -never paused to think how bad it was for the girls. But to-day he was -too full of his own story to care much for theirs. He came in with dusty -boots, which was quite against his principles, and stretched his long -spare limbs out on the beautiful rug which the Stokes had worked for me -in a way that went to my heart. That showed how very much pre-occupied -he was; for Sir Thomas was never inconsiderate about such matters.</p> - -<p>‘Well,’ he said, pushing his thin white hair off his forehead, and -stretching out his legs as if he were quite worn out, ‘there is one -piece of work well over. I have had a good many tough jobs in my life, -but I don’t know that I ever had a worse.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, tell us what happened. Is he mad? Has he shut himself in? Has he -hurt you?’ cried the Stokes.</p> - -<p>Sir Thomas smiled upon this nonsense as if it had been perfectly -reasonable, and the best sense in the world.</p> - -<p>‘Hurt me! well, not quite: he was not likely to try that. He is a little -mite of a man, who could not hurt a fly. And besides,’ added Sir Thomas, -correcting himself, ‘he is a gentleman. I have no reason to doubt he is -a perfect gentleman. He conducts himself quite as—as all the rest of us -do. No, it was the difficulty of getting in that bewildered me.’</p> - -<p>‘Was there a difficulty in getting in?’</p> - -<p>‘You shall hear. The servant looked as if he would faint<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106"></a>{106}</span> when he saw -me. “Mr. Reinhardt at home?” Oh! he could not quite say; if I would wait -he would go and ask. So I waited in the hall,’ said Sir Thomas with a -smile. ‘Well, yes, it was odd, of course; but such an experience now and -then is not bad for one. It shows you, you know, of how little -importance you are the moment you get beyond the circle of people who -know you. I think really it is salutary, you know, if you come to -that—and amusing,’ he added, this time with a little laugh.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, but what a shame: how shocking! how horrid! You, Sir Thomas, whom -everybody knows!’</p> - -<p>‘That is just what makes it so instructive,’ he said. ‘I must have stood -in the hall a quarter of an hour: allowing for the tediousness of -waiting, I should say certainly a quarter of an hour; and then the man -came back and asked me, what do you think? if I had come of my own -accord, or if some one had sent me! It was ludicrous,’ said Sir Thomas -with a half laugh; ‘but if you will think of it, it was rather -irritating. I am afraid I lost my temper a little. I said, “I am Sir -Thomas Denzil. I live at the Lodge, and I have come to call upon your -master,” in a tone which made the old fool of a man shake, and then some -one else appeared at the top of the stairs. It was Mr. Reinhardt, who -had heard my voice.’</p> - -<p>‘What did he say for himself?’ I asked.</p> - -<p>‘It was not his fault,’ said Sir Thomas; ‘he knew nothing of it. He is a -very well-informed man, Mrs. Mulgrave. He is quite able to enter into -conversation on any subject. He was very glad to see me. He is a sort of -recluse, it is easy to perceive, but quite a proper person; very -well-informed, one whom it was a pleasure to converse with, I assure -you. He made a thousand apologies. He said something about unfortunate -circumstances, and a disagreeable visitor, as an excuse for his man; but -whether the disagreeable visitor was some one who had been there or who -was expected——’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, I know,’ cried Lucy Stoke, with excitement. ‘It was his wife’s -ghost.’</p> - -<p>Sir Thomas stopped short aghast, and looked at me to ask if the child -had gone mad.</p> - -<p>‘How could they think Sir Thomas was the wife’s ghost?’ cried Lottie, -‘you little goose! and besides, most likely it is not true.’</p> - -<p>‘What is not true?’ asked Sir Thomas in dismay.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, they say he killed her,’ said Lucy, ‘and that she haunts him. They -say his man sleeps in his room, and the housekeeper just outside. He -cannot be left by himself for a moment: and I do not wonder he should be -frightened if he has killed his wife.’</p> - -<p>‘Nonsense, nonsense,’ said Sir Thomas, raising his voice. ‘Nonsense!’ he -was quite angry. He had taken up the man and felt responsible for him, -‘My dear child, I think you are going out of your little wits,’ he -cried. ‘Killed his wife! why,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107"></a>{107}</span> the man is a thorough gentleman. A most -well-informed man, and knows my friend Sir Septimus Dash, who is the -head of the British Association. Why, why, Lucy! you take away my -breath.’</p> - -<p>‘It was not I who said it,’ cried Lucy. ‘It is all over the -Green—everybody knows. They say she disappeared all at once, and never -was heard of more; and then there used to be sounds like somebody crying -and moaning; and then he got so frightened, he never would go anywhere, -nor look any one in the face. Oh! only suppose; how strange it would be -to have a haunted house on the Green. If I had anybody to go with me I -should like to walk down to East Cottage at midnight.’</p> - -<p>‘Let me go with you,’ whispered Robert; but fortunately I heard him, and -gave Lucy a look. She was a silly little girl certainly, but not so bad -as that.</p> - -<p>‘This is really very great nonsense,’ said Sir Thomas. ‘A haunted house -at this time of day! Mrs. Mulgrave, I hope you will use all your -influence to put down this story if it exists. I give you my word, Mr. -Reinhardt is quite an addition to our society, and knows Sir Septimus -Dash. A really well-bred, well-informed man. I am quite shocked, I -assure you. Lucy, I hope you will not spread this ridiculous story. I -shall ask your mother what she thinks. Poor man! no wonder he looked -uncomfortable, if there is already such a rumour abroad.’</p> - -<p>‘Then he did look uncomfortable?’ said Lottie.</p> - -<p>‘No, I can’t say he did. No; I don’t mean uncomfortable,’ said Sir -Thomas, seeing he had committed himself. ‘I mean—— it is absurd -altogether. A charming man; one whom you will all like immensely. I -think Lady Denzil must have returned from her drive. We are to see you -all to-morrow, I believe, in the afternoon? Now, Lucy, no more gossip; -leave that to the old women, my dear.’</p> - -<p>‘Sir Thomas does not know what to make of it,’ said Lottie, as we -watched him cross the Green. ‘He has gone to my lady to have his mind -made up whether he ought to pay any attention to it or not.’</p> - -<p>‘And my lady will say not,’ said I; ‘fortunately we are all sure of -that. Lady Denzil will not let anybody be condemned without a hearing. -And, Lucy, I think Sir Thomas gave you very good advice; when you are -old it will be time enough to amuse yourself with spreading stories, -especially such dreadful stories as this.’</p> - -<p>Lucy took offence at what I said, and went away pouting—comforted by -Robert Lloyd, and very indignant with me. Lottie stayed for a moment -behind her to tell me that it was really quite true, and that the report -had gone all over the Green, and everybody was talking of it. No one -knew quite where it had come from, but it was already known to all the -world at Dinglewood, and a very unpleasant report it was.</p> - -<p>However time went on, and no more was heard of this. In<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108"></a>{108}</span> a little place -like Dinglewood, as soon as everybody has heard a story, a pause ensues. -We cannot go on indefinitely propagating it, and renewing our own faith -in it. When we all know it, and nothing new can be said on the subject, -we are stopped short; and unless there are new facts to comment upon, or -some new light thrown upon the affair, it is almost sure to die away, as -a matter of course. This was the case in respect to the report about Mr. -Reinhardt. We got no more information, and we could not go on talking -about the old story for ever. We exhausted it, and grew tired of it, and -let it drop; and thus, by degrees, we got used to him, and became -acquainted with him, more or less.</p> - -<p>The other gentlemen called, one by one, after Sir Thomas. Mr. Reinhardt -was asked, timidly, to one or two dinner-parties, and declined, which we -thought at first showed, on the whole, good taste on his part. But he -became quite friendly when we met him on the road, and would stop to -talk, and showed no moroseness, nor fear of any one. He had what was -generally pronounced to be a refined face—the features high and clear, -with a kind of ivory paleness, and keen eyes, which were very sharp to -note everything. He was, as Sir Thomas said, very well-informed. There -seemed to be nothing that you could talk about that he did not know; and -in science, the gentlemen said he was a perfect mine of knowledge. I am -not sure however that they were very good judges, for I don’t think -either Sir Thomas or the Admiral knew much about science. One thing -however which made some of us still doubtful about him was the fact that -he never talked of <i>people</i>. When a name was mentioned in conversation -he never said, ‘Oh, I know him very well—I knew his father—a cousin of -his was a great friend of mine,’ as most people do. All the expression -went out of his face as soon as we came to this kind of talk; and it may -be supposed how very much at a loss most people were in consequence for -subjects to talk about. But this, though it was strange, was not any -sort of proof that he had done anything wicked. It might be—and the -most of us thought it was—an evidence that he had not lived in society. -‘He knows my friend, Sir Septimus Dash,’ Sir Thomas always said in his -favour; but then, of course, Sir Septimus was a public personage, and -Mr. Reinhardt might have made his acquaintance at some public place. But -still, a man may be of no family, and out of society, and yet not have -murdered his wife. After a while we began to think, indeed, that whether -he had killed her or not, it was just as well there was no wife in the -question—‘Just as well,’ Mrs. Perronet said, who was great in matters -of society. ‘A man whom nobody knows does not matter; but what should we -have done with a woman?’</p> - -<p>‘He must have killed her on purpose to save us the trouble,’ said -Lottie. But the General’s wife was quite in earnest, and did not see the -joke.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109"></a>{109}</span></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER III</h4> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> is a good thing, on the whole, to have a house with a mystery about -it in one’s immediate neighbourhood. Gradually we ceased to believe that -Mr. Reinhardt had anything criminal about him. But it was quite certain -that there was a mystery—that we knew nothing about him, neither where -he came from, nor what his family was. For one thing, he had certainly -no occupation: therefore, of course, he must be sufficiently well off to -do without that: and he had no relations—no one who ever came to see -him, nor of whom he talked; and though the men who called upon him had -been admitted, they were never asked to go back, nor had one of us -ladies ever crossed his threshold. It would seem indeed that he had made -a rule against admitting ladies, for when Mrs. Damerel herself called to -speak of the soup-kitchen, old White came and spoke to her at the gate, -and trembled very much, and begged her a hundred pardons, but -nevertheless would not let her in—a thing which made her very -indignant. Thus the house became to us all a mysterious house, and, on -the whole, I think we rather liked it. The mystery did no harm, and it -certainly amused us, and kept our interest alive.</p> - -<p>Thus the summer passed, and Dinglefield had got used to the Scientific -Gentleman. That was the name he generally went by. When strangers came -to the Green, and had it all described to them—Sir Thomas here, the -Admiral there, the General at the other side, and so on, we always gave -a little special description of Mr. Reinhardt.</p> - -<p>‘He is a Fellow of the Royal Society,’ one would say, not knowing much -what that meant. ‘He belongs to the British Association,’ said another. -‘He is a great scientific light.’ We began even to feel a little proud -of him. Even I myself, on the nights when I did not sleep well, used to -feel quite pleased, when I looked out, to see the Scientific Gentleman’s -light still burning. He was sitting up there, no doubt, pondering things -that were much beyond our comprehension—and it made us proud to think -that, on the Green, there was some one who was going over the abstrusest -questions in the dead of the night.</p> - -<p>It was about six months after his arrival when, one evening, for some -special reason, I forget what, I went to Mrs. Stoke’s to tea. She lives -a little way down the lane, on the other side of the ‘Barleymow.’ It is -not often that she asks any one even to tea. As a rule, people generally -ask her and her daughters, for we are all very well aware of her -circumstances; but on this particular night, I was there for some reason -or other. It was October, and the nights had begun to be cold; but there -was a full moon, and at ten o’clock it was as light as day. This was why -I would not let them send any one home with me. I must<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110"></a>{110}</span> say I have never -understood how middle-aged women like myself can have a pretty young -maid-servant sent for them, knowing very well that the girl must walk -one way alone, and that, if there is any danger at all, a young woman of -twenty is more in the way of it, than one who might be her mother. I -remember going to the door to look out, and protesting that I was not -the least nervous—nor was I. I knew all the roads as well as I knew my -own garden, and everybody round about knew me. The way was not at all -lonely. To be sure, there were not many people walking about; but then -there were houses all along—and lastly, it was light as day. The moon -was shining in that lavish sort of way which she only has when she is at -the full. The houses amid their trees stood whitened over, held fast by -the light as the wedding-guest was held by the eye of the Ancient -Mariner. The shadows were as black as the light was white. There was a -certain solemnity about it, so full of light, and yet so colourless. -After I had left the house, and had come out—I and my shadow—into the -full whiteness, it made an impression upon me which I could scarcely -resist. My first idea when I glanced back was that my own shadow was -some one stealing after me. That gave me a shake for a moment, though I -laughed at myself. The lights of the ‘Barleymow’ neutralized this solemn -feeling, and I went on, thinking to myself what a good story it would be -for my neighbours—my own shadow! I did not cross the Green, as I -generally did, partly from a vague feeling that, though it was so light -and so safe, there was a certain company in being close to the -houses—not that I was the least afraid, or that indeed there was any -occasion to fear, but just for company’s sake. By this time, I think it -must have been very nearly eleven o’clock, which is a late hour for -Dinglefield. All the houses seemed shut up for the night. Looking up the -Green, the effect of the sleeping place, with the moon shining on the -pale gables and ends of houses, and all the trees in black, and the -white stretch of space in the centre, looking as if it had been clean -swept by the moonlight of every obstacle, had the strangest effect. I -was not in the least afraid. What should I be afraid of, so close to my -own door? But still I felt a little shiver run over me—a something -involuntary, which I could not help, like that little thrill of the -nerves, which makes people say that some one is walking over your grave.</p> - -<p>And all at once in the great stillness and quiet I heard a sound quite -near. It was very soft at first, not much louder than a sigh. I hurried -on for a few steps frightened, I could not tell why, and then, disgusted -with myself, I stopped to listen. Yes, now it came again, louder this -time; and then I turned round to look where it came from. It was the -sound of some one moaning either in sorrow or in pain; a soft, -interrupted moan, now and then stopping short with a kind of sob. My -heart began to beat, but I said to myself, it is some one in trouble, -and I can’t run away. The sound came from the side of East Cottage,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111"></a>{111}</span> -just where the little railing in front ended; and, after a long look, I -began to see that there was some one there. What I made out was the -outline of a figure seated on the ground with knees drawn up, and -looking so thin that they almost came to a point. It was straight up -against the railing, and so overshadowed by the lilac-bushes that the -outline of the knees, black, but whitened over as it were with a -sprinkling of snow or silver, was all that could be made out. It was -like something dimly seen in a picture, not like flesh and blood. It -gave me the strangest sensation to see this something, this shrouded -semblance of a human figure, at Mr. Reinhardt’s door. All the stories -that had been told of him came back to my mind. His wife! I would have -kept the recollection out of my mind if I could, but it came without any -will of mine. I turned and went on as fast as ever I could. I should -have run like a frightened child had I followed my own instinctive -feeling. My heart beat, my feet rang upon the gravel; and then I stopped -short, hating myself. How silly and weak I was! It might be some poor -creature, some tramp or wandering wretch, who had sunk down there in -sickness or weariness, while I in my cowardice passed by on the other -side frightened lest it should be a ghost. I do not know to this day how -it was that I forced myself to turn and go back, but I did. Oh! what a -moaning, wailing sound it was; not loud, but the very cry of desolation. -I felt as I went, though my heart beat so, that such a moaning could -only come from a living creature, one who had a body full of weariness -and pain, as well as a suffering soul.</p> - -<p>I turned back and went up to the thing with those sharp-pointed knees; -then I saw the hands clasped round the knees, and the hopeless head -bowed down upon them, all black and silvered over like something cut out -of ebony. I even saw, or thought I saw, amid the flickering of the -heavens above and the shadows below, a faint rocking in the miserable -figure;—that mechanical, unconscious rocking which is one of the -primitive ways of showing pain. I went up, all trembling as I was, and -asked ‘What is the matter?’ with a voice as tremulous. There was no -answer; only the moaning went on, and the movement became more -perceptible. Fortunately, my terror died away when I saw this. The human -sound and action, that were like what everybody does, brought me back at -once out of all supernatural dread. It was a woman, and she was unhappy. -I dismissed the other thought—or rather, it left me unawares.</p> - -<p>This gave me a great deal of courage. I repeated my question; and then, -as there was no answer, went up and touched her softly. The figure rose -with a spring in a moment, before I could think what she was going to -do. She put out one of her hands, and pushed me off.</p> - -<p>‘Ah! have I brought you out at last?’ she cried wildly; and then stopped -short and stared at me; while I stared, too, feeling, whoever it might -be she had expected, that I was not the person.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112"></a>{112}</span> Her movement was so -sudden, that I shrank back in terror, fearing once more I could not tell -what. She was a very tall, slight woman, with a cloak tightly wrapped -about her. In the confusion of the moment I could remark nothing more.</p> - -<p>‘Are you ill?’ I said, faltering. ‘My good woman, I—I don’t want to -harm you; I heard you moaning, and I—thought you were ill——’</p> - -<p>She seized me by the arm, making my very teeth chatter. The grasp was -bony and hard like the hand of a skeleton.</p> - -<p>‘Are you from that house? Are you from him?’ she cried, pointing behind -her with her other hand. ‘Bid him come out to me himself; bid him come -out and go down on his knees before I’ll give in to enter his door. Oh! -I’ve not come here for nought—I’ve not come here for nought! I’ve come -with all my wrongs that he’s done me. Tell him to come out himself; it -is his part.’</p> - -<p>Her voice grew hoarse with the passion that was in it, and yet it was a -voice that had been sweet.</p> - -<p>I put up my hand, pleading with her, trying to get a hearing, but she -held me fast by the arm.</p> - -<p>‘I have not come from that house,’ I said. ‘You frighten me. I—I live -close by. I was passing and heard you moan. Is there anything the -matter? Can I be—of any use?’</p> - -<p>I said this very doubtfully, for I was afraid of the strange figure, and -the passionate speech.</p> - -<p>Then she let go her hold all at once. She looked at me and then all -round. There was not another creature visible except, behind me, I -suppose, the open door and lights of the ‘Barleymow.’ She might have -done almost what she would to me had she been disposed;—at least, at -the moment that was how I felt.</p> - -<p>‘You live close by?’ she said, putting her hand upon her heart, which -was panting and heaving with her passion.</p> - -<p>‘Yes. Are you—staying in the neighbourhood? Have you—lost your way?’</p> - -<p>I said this in my bewilderment, not knowing what the words were which -came from my lips. Then the poor creature leaned back upon the wall and -gasped and sobbed. I could not make out at first whether it was emotion -or want of breath.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, I’ve lost my way,’ she said; ‘not here, but in life; I’ve lost my -way in life, and I’ll never find it again. Oh! I’m ill—I’m very ill. If -you are a good Christian, as you seem, take me in somewhere and let me -lie down till the spasm’s past; I feel it coming on now.’</p> - -<p>‘What is it?’ I asked.</p> - -<p>She put her hand upon her heart and panted and gasped for breath. Poor -wretch! At that moment I heard behind me the locking of the door at the -‘Barleymow.’ I know I ought to have called out to them to wait, but I -had not my wits about me as one ought to have.</p> - -<p>‘Have you no home?’ I asked; ‘nowhere to go to? You<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113"></a>{113}</span> must live -somewhere. I will go with you and take you home.’</p> - -<p>‘Home!’ she cried. ‘It is here or in the churchyard, nowhere else—here -or in the churchyard. Take me to one or the other, good woman, for -Christ’s sake: I don’t care which—to my husband’s house or to the -churchyard—for Christ’s sake.’</p> - -<p>For Christ’s sake! You may blame me, but what could I do? Could any of -you refuse if you were asked in that name? You may say any one can use -such words—any vagabond, any wretch—and, of course, it is true; but -could you resist the plea—you who are neither a wretch nor a -vagabond?—I know you could not, any more than me.</p> - -<p>‘Lean upon me,’ I said; ‘take my arm; try if you can walk. Oh! I don’t -know who you are or what you are, but when you ask for Christ’s sake, -you know, He sees into your heart. If you have any place that I can take -you to, tell me; you must know it is difficult to take a stranger into -one’s house like this. Tell me if you have not some room—some place -where you can be taken care of; I will give you what you want all the -same.’</p> - -<p>We were going on all this time, walking slowly towards my house; she was -gasping, holding one hand to her heart and with the other leaning -heavily on me. When I made this appeal to her she stopped and turned -half round, waving her hand towards the house we were leaving behind us.</p> - -<p>‘If that is Mr. Reinhardt’s house,’ she said, ‘take me there if you -will. I am—his wife. He’ll leave me to die—on the doorstep—most -likely; and be glad. I haven’t strength—to—say any more.’</p> - -<p>‘His wife!’ I cried in my dismay.</p> - -<p>‘Lord have mercy upon us!’ cried the panting creature. ‘Ay! that’s the -truth.’</p> - -<p>What could I do? She was scarcely able to totter along, panting and -breathless. It was her heart. Poor soul! how could any one tell what she -might have had to suffer? I took her, though with trembling—what could -I do else?—to my own house.</p> - -<h4>CHAPTER IV</h4> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">I cannot</span> attempt to describe what my feelings were when I went into my -own house with that strange woman. Though it was a very short way, we -took a long time to get there. She had disease of the heart evidently, -and one of the paroxysms had come on.</p> - -<p>‘I shall be better by and by,’ she said to me, gasping as she leaned on -my arm.</p> - -<p>My mind was in such a confusion that I did not know what I was doing. -She might be only a tramp, a thief, a vagabond. As for what she had said -of being Mr. Reinhardt’s wife—my head<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114"></a>{114}</span> swam, I could neither understand -nor explain to myself how this had come about. But, whether she was good -or bad, I could not help myself; I was committed to it. Every house on -the Green was closed and silent. The shutters were all put up at the -‘Barleymow,’ and silence reigned. No, thank Heaven! in the Admiral’s -window there were still lights, so that if anything happened I could -call him to my aid. He was my nearest neighbour, and the sight of his -lighted window gave me confidence.</p> - -<p>My maid gave a little shriek when she opened the door, and this too -roused me. I said, ‘Mary, this—lady is ill; she will lie down on the -sofa in the drawing-room while we get ready the west room. You will not -mind the trouble, I am sure, when you see how ill she is.’</p> - -<p>This I said to smooth matters, for it is not to be supposed that Mary, -who was already yawning at my late return, should be quite pleased at -being sent off to make up a bed and prepare a room unexpectedly as it -were in the middle of the night. And I was glad also to send her away, -for I saw her give a wondering look at the poor creature’s clothes, -which were dusty and soiled. She had been sitting on the dusty earth by -Mr. Reinhardt’s cottage, and it was not wonderful if her clothes showed -marks of it. I made her lie down on the sofa, and got her some wine. -Poor forlorn creature! The rest seemed to be life however to her. She -sank back upon the soft cushions, and her heavy breathing softened -almost immediately. I left her there (though, I confess, not without a -slight sensation of fear), and went to the west room to help Mary. It -was a room we seldom used, at the end of a long passage, and therefore -the one best fitted to put a stranger, about whom I knew nothing, in. -Mary did not say anything, but I could feel that she disapproved of me -in every pat she gave to the fresh sheets and pillows. And I was -conciliatory, as one so often is to one’s servants. I drew a little -picture of how I had found the ‘poor lady’ panting for breath and unable -to walk—of how weak and how thin she was—and what a terrible thing to -have heart-disease, which came on with any exertion—and how anxious her -friends must be.</p> - -<p>All this Mary listened to in grim silence, patting now and then the -bedclothes with her hand, as if making a protest against all I said. At -length, when I had exhausted my eloquence, and began to grow a little -angry, Mary cleared her throat and replied,</p> - -<p>‘Please, ma’am, I know it ain’t my place to speak——’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! you can say what you please, Mary, so long as it is not unkind to -your neighbours,’ said I.</p> - -<p>‘I never set eyes on the—lady—before, so she can’t be a neighbour of -mine,’ said Mary; ‘but she’s been seen about the Green days and days. -I’ve seen her myself a-haunting East Cottage, where that poor gentleman -lives.’</p> - -<p>‘You said this moment that you never set eyes on her before.’</p> - -<p>‘Not to know her, ma’am,’ said Mary; ‘it’s different. I saw her to-day -walking up and down like a ghost, and I wouldn’t<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115"></a>{115}</span> have given sixpence -for all she had on her. It ain’t my place to speak, but one as you don’t -know, and as may have a gang ready to murder us all in our beds—— -Mother was in service in London when she was young, and oh! to hear the -tales she knows. Pretending to be ill is the commonest trick of all, -mother says, and then they get took in, and then, when all’s still——’</p> - -<p>‘It is very kind of you, I am sure, to instruct me by your mother’s -experiences,’ said I, feeling very angry. ‘Now you can go to bed if you -please, and lock your door, and then you will be safe. I shall not want -you any more to-night.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! but please, ma’am. I don’t want to leave you by yourself—please, I -don’t!’ cried Mary, with the ready tears coming to her eyes.</p> - -<p>However I sent her away. I was angry, and perhaps unreasonable, as -people generally are when they are angry; though, when Mary went to bed, -I confess it was not altogether with an easy mind that I found myself -alone with the stranger in the silent house. It is always a comfort to -know that there is some one within reach. I went back softly to the -drawing-room: she was still lying on the sofa, quite motionless and -quiet, no longer panting as she had done. When I looked at her closely I -saw that she had dropped asleep. The light of the lamp was full on her -face, and yet she had dropped asleep, being, as I suppose, completely -worn out. I saw her face then for the first time, and it startled me. It -was not a face which you could describe by any of the lighter words of -admiration as pretty or handsome. It was simply the most beautiful face -I ever saw in my life. It was pale and worn, and looked almost like -death lying back in that attitude of utter weakness on the velvet -cushions; and, though the eyes were closed, and the effect of them lost, -it was impossible to believe that the loveliest eyes in the world could -have made her more beautiful. She had dark hair, wavy and slightly -curling upon the forehead; her eyelashes were very long and dark, and -curled upwards; her features, I think, must have been perfect; and the -look of pain had gone from her face; she was as serene as if she had -been dead.</p> - -<p>I was very much startled by this: so much so that for the moment I sank -down upon a chair, overcome by confusion and surprise, and did not even -shade the lamp, as I had intended to do. You may wonder that I should be -so much surprised, but then you must remember that great beauty is not -common anywhere, and that to pick it out of the ditch as it were, and -find it thus in the person of one who might be a mere vagabond and -vagrant for aught you could tell, was very strange and startling. It -took away my breath; and then, the figure which belonged to this face -formed so strange a contrast with it. I know, as everybody else does, -that beauty is but skin-deep; that it is no sign of excellence, or of -mental or moral superiority in any way; that it is accidental and -independent of the character of its<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116"></a>{116}</span> possessor as money is, or anything -else you are born to: I know all this perfectly well; and yet I feel, as -I suppose everybody else does, that great beauty is out of place in -squalid surroundings. When I saw the worn and dusty dress, the cloak -tightly drawn across her breast, the worn shoes that peeped out from -below her skirt, I felt ashamed. It was absurd, but such was my feeling; -I felt ashamed of my good gown and lace, and fresh ribbons. To think -that I, and hundreds like me, should deck ourselves, and leave this -creature in her dusty gown! My suspicions went out of my mind in a -moment. Instead of the uneasy doubt whether perhaps she might have -accomplices (it made me blush to think I had dreamt of such a thing) -waiting outside, I began to feel indignant with everybody that she could -be in such a plight. Reinhardt’s wife! How did he dare, that mean, -insignificant man, to marry such a creature, and to be cruel to her -after he had married her! I started up and removed the lamp, shading her -face, and I took my shawl, which was my best shawl, an Indian one, and -really handsome, and covered her with it. I did it—I can’t tell -why—with a feeling that I was making her a little compensation. Then I -opened one of the windows to let in the air, for the night was sultry; -and then I put myself into my favourite chair, and leant back my head, -and made myself as comfortable as I could to watch her till she woke. I -should have thought this a great hardship a little while before, but I -did not think it a hardship now. I had become her partisan, her -protector, her servant, in a moment, and all for no reason except the -form of her features, the look of that sleeping face. I acknowledge that -it was absurd, but still I know you would have done the same had you -been in my place. I suspected her no more, had no doubts in my mind, and -was not the least annoyed that Mary had gone to bed. It seemed to me as -if her beauty established an immediate relationship between us, somehow, -and made it natural that I, or any one else who might happen to be in -the way, should give up our own convenience for her. It was her beauty -that did it, nothing else, not her great want and solitude, not even the -name by which she had adjured me;—her beauty, nothing more. I do not -defend myself for having fallen prostrate before this primitive power; I -could not help it, but I don’t attempt to excuse myself.</p> - -<p>I must have dozed in my chair, for I woke suddenly, dreaming that some -one was standing over me and staring at me—a kind of nightmare. I -started with a little cry, and for the first moment I was bewildered, -and could not think how I had got there. Then all at once I saw her, and -the mystery was solved. She had woke too, and lay on her side on the -sofa, looking intently at me with a gaze which renewed my first -impression of terror. She had not moved, she lay in the same attitude of -exhaustion and grateful repose, with her head thrown back upon the -cushions. There was only this difference—that whereas<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117"></a>{117}</span> she had then -been unconscious in sleep, she was now awake, and so vividly, intensely -conscious that her look seemed an active influence. I felt that she was -doing something to me by gazing at me so. She had woke me no doubt by -that look. She made me restless now, so that I could not keep still. I -rose up, and made a step or two towards her.</p> - -<p>‘Are you better? I hope you are better,’ I said.</p> - -<p>Still she did not move, but said calmly, without any attempt at -explanation: ‘Are you watching me from kindness or because you were -afraid I should do some harm?’</p> - -<p>She was not grateful: the sight of me woke no kindly feeling in her: and -I was wounded in spite of myself.</p> - -<p>‘Neither,’ said I; ‘you fell asleep, and I preferred staying here to -waking you; but it is almost morning and the oil is nearly burnt out in -the lamp. There is a room ready for you; will you come with me now?’</p> - -<p>‘I am very comfortable,’ she said; ‘I have not been so comfortable for a -very long time. I have not been well off. I have had to lie on hard beds -and eat poor fare, whilst all the time those who had a right to take -care of me——’</p> - -<p>‘Don’t think of that now,’ I said. ‘You will feel better if you are -undressed. Come now and go to bed.’</p> - -<p>She kept her position, without taking any notice of what I said.</p> - -<p>‘I have a long story to tell you—a long story,’ she went on. ‘When you -hear it you will change your mind about some things. Oh, how pleasant it -is to be in a nice handsome <i>lady’s</i> room again! How pleasant a carpet -is, and pictures on the walls! I have not been used to them for a long -time. I suppose he has every kind of thing, everything that is pleasant; -and, if he could, he would have liked to see me die at his door. That is -what he wants. It would be a pleasure to him to look out some morning -and see me lying like a piece of rubbish under the wall. He would have -me thrown upon the dust-heap, I believe, or taken off by the scavengers -as rubbish. Yes, that is what he would like, if he could.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, don’t think so,’ I cried. ‘He cannot be so cruel. He has not a -cruel face.’</p> - -<p>Upon this she sat up, with the passion rising in her eyes.</p> - -<p>‘How can you tell?—you were never married to him!’ she said. ‘He never -cast you off, never abandoned you, never——’ Her excitement grew so -great that she now rose up on her feet, and clenched her hand and shook -it as if at some one in the distance. ‘Oh, no!’ she cried; ‘no one knows -him but me!’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, if you would go to bed!’ I said. ‘Indeed I must insist: you will -tell me your story in the morning. Come, you must not talk any more -to-night.’</p> - -<p>I did not get her disposed of so easily as this, but after a while she -did allow herself to be persuaded. My mind had changed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118"></a>{118}</span> about her again, -but I was too tired now to be frightened. I put her into the west room. -And oh! how glad I was to lie down in my bed, though I had a stranger in -the house whom I knew nothing of, and though it only wanted about an -hour of day!</p> - -<h4>CHAPTER V</h4> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">When</span> I got up, about two hours after, I was in a very uncomfortable -state of mind, not knowing in the least what I ought to do. Daylight is -a great matter to be sure, and consoles one in one’s perplexity; but yet -daylight means the visits of one’s friends, and inquiries into all that -one has done and means to do. I could not have such an inmate in my -house without people knowing it. I was thrusting myself as it were into -a family quarrel which I knew nothing of—I, one of the most peaceable -people—!</p> - -<p>When I went down-stairs the drawing-room was still as I had left it, and -the sofa and its cushions were all marked with dust where my poor -visitor had lain down. I believe, though Mary is a good girl on the -whole, that there was a little spite in all this to show me my own -enormity. A decanter of wine was left on the table too, with the glass -which had been used last night. It gave the most miserable, squalid look -to the room, or at least I thought so. Then Mary appeared with her broom -and dustpan, severely disapproving, and I was swept away, like the dust, -and took refuge in the garden, which was hazy and dewy, and rather cold -on this October morning. The trees were all changing colour, the -mignonette stalks were long and straggling, there was nothing in the -beds but asters and dahlias and some other autumn flowers. And the -monthly rose on the porch looked pale, as if it felt the coming frost. I -went to the gate and looked out upon the Green with a pang of -discomfort. What would everybody think? There were not many people about -except the tradespeople going for orders and the servants at their work. -East Cottage looked more human than usual in the hazy autumn morning -sun. The windows were all open, and White was sweeping the fallen leaves -carefully away from the door. I even saw Mr. Reinhardt in his -dressing-gown come out to speak to him. My heart beat wildly and I drew -back at the sight. As if Mr. Reinhardt was anything to me! But I was -restless and uncomfortable and could not compose myself. When I went in -I could not sit down and breakfast by myself as I usually did. I wanted -to see how my lodger was, and yet I did not want to disturb her. At last -I went to the door of the west room and listened. When I heard signs of -movement inside I knocked and went in. She was still in bed; she was -lying half-smothered up in the fine linen and downy pillows. On the bed -there was an eiderdown coverlet covered with crimson<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119"></a>{119}</span> silk, and she had -stretched out her arm over it and was grasping it with her hand. She -greeted me with a smile which lighted up her beautiful face like -sunshine.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, yes, I am better—I am quite well,’ she said. ‘I am so happy to be -here.’</p> - -<p>She did not put out her hand, or offer any thanks or salutations, and it -seemed to me that this was good taste. I was pleased with her for not -being too grateful or affectionate. I believe if she had been very -grateful and affectionate I should have thought that was best. For again -the charm came over me—a charm doubled by her smile. How beautiful she -was! The warm nest she was lying in, and the pleasure and comfort she -evidently felt in being there, had brought a little colour to her -cheeks—just a very little—but that became her beauty best. She was -younger than I thought. I had supposed her to be over thirty last night, -now she looked five or six-and-twenty, in the very height and fulness of -her bloom.</p> - -<p>‘Shall I send you some breakfast?’ I said.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, please! I suppose you don’t know how nice it is to lie in a soft -bed like this, to feel the nice linen and the silk, and to be waited -upon? You have always been just so, and never known the difference? Ah! -what a difference it is.’</p> - -<p>‘I have been very poor in my time,’ said I.</p> - -<p>‘Have you? I should not have thought it. But never so poor as me. Let me -have my breakfast please—tea with cream in it. May I have some cream? -and—anything—whatever you please; for I am hungry; but tea with -cream.’</p> - -<p>‘Surely,’ I said; ‘it is being prepared for you now.’</p> - -<p>And then I stood looking at her, wondering. I knew nothing of her, not -even her name, and yet I stood in the most familiar relation to her, -like a mother to a child. Her smile quite warmed and brightened me, as -she lay there in such childish enjoyment. How strange it was. And it -seemed to me that everything had gone out of her mind except the -delightful novelty of her surroundings. She forgot that she was a -stranger in a strange house, and all the suspicious, unpleasant -circumstances. When Mary came in with the tray she positively laughed -with pleasure, and jumped up in bed, raising herself as lightly as a -child.</p> - -<p>‘You must have a shawl to put round your shoulders,’ I said.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, let me have the beautiful one you put over me last night. What a -beauty it was! Let me have that,’ she cried.</p> - -<p>Mary gave me a warning look. But I was indignant with Mary. I went and -fetched it almost with tears in my eyes. Poor soul! poor child! like a -baby admiring it because it was pretty. I put it round her, though it -was my best; and with my cashmere about her shoulders, and her beautiful -face all lighted up with pleasure, she was like a picture. I am sure the -Sleeping Beauty could not have been more lovely when she started from -her hundred years’ sleep.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120"></a>{120}</span></p> - -<p>I went back to the dining-room and took my own breakfast quite -exhilarated. My perplexities floated away. I too felt like a child with -a new toy. If I had but had a daughter like that, I said to myself—what -a sweet companion, what a delight in one’s life! But then daughters will -marry; and to think of such a one, bound to a cruel husband, who -quarrelled with her, deserted her—Oh, what cruel stuff men are made of! -What pretext could he have for conduct so monstrous? She was as sweet as -a flower, and more beautiful than any woman I ever saw; and to leave her -sitting in the dust at his closed door! I could scarcely keep still; my -indignation was so great. The bloodless wretch! without ruth, or heart, -or even common charity. One has heard such tales of men wrapped up in -some cold intellectual pursuit; how they get to forget everything, and -despise love and duty, and all that is worth living for, for their -miserable science. They would rather be fellows of a learned society -than heads of happy houses; rather make some foolish discovery to be -written down in the papers, than live a good life and look after their -own. I have even known cases—certainly nothing so bad as this—but -cases in which a man for his art, or his learning, or something, has -driven his wife into miserable solitude, or still more miserable -society. Yes, I have known such cases: and the curious thing is, that it -is always the weak men, whose researches can be of use to no mortal -being, who neglect everything for science. The great men are great -enough to be men and philosophers too. All this I said in my heart with -a contempt for our scientific gentleman which I did not disguise to -myself. I finished my breakfast quickly, longing to go back to my guest, -when all at once Martha and Nelly, the Admiral’s daughters, came running -in, as they had a way of doing. They were great favourites of mine, or, -at least, Nelly was—but I was annoyed more than I could tell to see -them now.</p> - -<p>‘We came in to ask if you were quite well,’ said Nelly. ‘Papa frightened -us all with the strangest story. He insists that you came home quite -late, leaning on Mary’s arm, and was sure you must have been ill. You -can’t think how positive he is, and what a story he made out. He saw you -from his window coming along the road, so he says; and now I look at -you, Mrs. Mulgrave, you are a little pale.’</p> - -<p>‘It was not I, you can tell the Admiral,’ I said. ‘I wonder his sharp -eyes were deceived. It was a—friend—I have staying with me.’</p> - -<p>‘A friend you have staying with you? Fancy, Nelly! and we not to know.’</p> - -<p>‘She came quite late—yesterday,’ said I. ‘She is in—very poor health. -She has come to be—quiet. Poor thing, I had to give her my arm.’</p> - -<p>‘But I thought you were at the Stokes’ last night?’ said Martha.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121"></a>{121}</span></p> - -<p>‘So I was; but when I came back it was such a lovely night; you should -have been out, Nelly, you who are so fond of moonlight. I never saw the -Green look more beautiful. I could hardly make up my mind to come in.’</p> - -<p>Dear, dear, dear! I wonder if all our fibs are really kept an account -of? As I went on romancing I felt a little shiver run over me. But what -could I do?</p> - -<p>Nelly gave me a look. She was wiser than her sister, who took everything -in a matter-of-fact way. She gave me a kiss, and said, ‘We had better go -and satisfy papa. He was quite anxious.’</p> - -<p>Nelly knew me best, and she did not believe me. But what story could I -make up to Lady Denzil, for instance, whose eyes went through and -through me, and saw everything I thought?</p> - -<p>Then I went back to my charge. She had finished her breakfast, but she -would not part with the shawl. She was sitting up in bed, stroking and -patting it with her hand.</p> - -<p>‘It is so lovely,’ she said, ‘I can’t give it up just yet. I like myself -so much better when I have it on. Oh! I should be so much more proud of -myself than I am if I lived like this. I should feel as if I were so -much better. And don’t ask me, please! I can’t—I can’t get up to put -myself in those dusty hideous clothes.’</p> - -<p>‘They are not dusty now,’ I said, and a faint little sense of difficulty -crossed my mind. She was taking everything for granted, as if she -belonged to me, and had come on a visit. I think if I had offered to -give her my Indian cashmere and all the best things I had she would not -have been surprised.</p> - -<p>She made no answer to this. She continued patting and caressing the -shawl, laying down her beautiful cheek on her shoulder for the pleasure -of feeling it. It was very senseless, very foolish, and yet it was such -pretty play that I was more pleased than vexed. I sat down by her, -watching her movements. They were so graceful always—nothing harsh, or -rough, or unpleasant to the eye, and all so natural—like the movements -of a child.</p> - -<p>I don’t know how long I sat and watched her—almost as pleased as she -was. It was only when time went on, and when I knew I was liable to -interruption, that I roused myself up. I tried to lead her into serious -conversation. ‘You look a great deal better,’ I said, ‘than I could have -hoped to see you last night.’</p> - -<p>‘Better than last night? Indeed, I should think so. Please, don’t speak -of it. Last night was darkness, and this is light.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, but—— I fear I must speak of it. I should like to know how you -got there, and if some one perhaps ought to be written to—some one who -may be anxious about you.’</p> - -<p>‘Nobody is anxious about me.’</p> - -<p>‘Indeed I am sure you must be mistaken,’ I said. ‘I am sure you have -friends, and then—— I don’t want to trouble you, but you must remember -I don’t know your name.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122"></a>{122}</span></p> - -<p>She threw back the shawl off her shoulders all at once, and sat up -erect.</p> - -<p>‘My name is Mrs. Reinhardt: I told you,’ she said, ‘and I hope you don’t -doubt my word.’</p> - -<p>It was impossible to look in her face, and say to her, ‘I don’t know -anything about you. How can I tell whether your word is to be trusted or -not?’ This was true, but I could not say it.</p> - -<p>I faltered, ‘You were ill last night, and we were both excited and -confused. I wish very much you would tell me now once again. I think you -said you would.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, I suppose I did,’ she said, throwing the shawl away, and nestling -down once more among the pillows. A look of irritation came over her -face. ‘It is so tiresome,’ she said, ‘always having to explain. I felt -so comfortable just now, as if I had got over that.’</p> - -<p>There was an aggrieved tone in her voice, and she looked as if, out of -her temporary pleasure and comfort, she had been brought back to painful -reality in an unkind and uncalled-for way. I felt guilty before her. Her -face said plainly, ‘I was at ease, and all for your satisfaction, for no -reason at all, you have driven me back again into trouble.’ I cannot -describe how uncomfortable I felt.</p> - -<p>‘If I am to be of any use to you,’ I said apologetically, ‘you must see -that I ought to know. It is not that I wish to disturb you.’</p> - -<p>‘Everybody says that,’ she murmured, with an angry pull at the -bedclothes; and then, all at once, in a moment, she brightened up, and -met my look with a smile. My relief was immense.</p> - -<p>‘I am a cross thing,’ she said; ‘don’t you think so? But it was so nice -to be comfortable. I felt as it I should like to forget it all, and be -happy. I felt good—— But never mind; you cannot help it. I must go -back to all the mud, and dirt, and misery, and tell you everything. -Don’t look distressed, for it is not your fault.’</p> - -<p>Every word she said seemed to convince me more and more that it was my -fault. I could scarcely keep from begging her pardon. How cruel I had -been! And yet, and yet—— My head swam, what with the dim consciousness -in my mind of the true state of affairs, and the sense of her view of -the question, which had impressed itself so strongly upon me since I -came into the room. Which was the right view I could not tell for the -moment, and bewilderment filled my mind. I could only stare at her, and -wait for what she pleased to say.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123"></a>{123}</span></p> - -<h3><a name="PART_II" id="PART_II"></a>PART II</h3> - -<h4>CHAPTER VI</h4> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">After</span> my visitor had got over her little fit of passion I took up my -shawl—my good shawl, which she had flung from her—and put it away; and -then I sat down by the bedside to hear her story. She had begun to -think; her face had changed again. Her bewildered sort of feeling (which -I could not understand, but yet which seemed so natural) that she had -got over all that was disagreeable, passed away, and her life came back -to her, as it were. She remembered herself, and her past, which I did -not know. She did not speak for some time, while I sat there waiting. -She kept twitching at the clothes, and moving about restlessly from side -to side. The look of content and comfort which had filled up the thin -outline of her beautiful face, and given it for the moment the roundness -of youth, disappeared. At last she looked up at me almost angrily as I -sat waiting.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, you are so calm,’ she said. ‘You take it all so quietly. You don’t -know what it is to have your heart broken, and your character destroyed, -and yourself driven mad. To see you so calm makes me wild. If I am to -tell you my story I must get up; I must be my own self again; I must put -on my filthy clothes.’</p> - -<p>‘They are not filthy now. There are some clean things, if you like to -use them,’ I said softly; but I was very glad she should get up. I left -her to do so with an easier mind, and had the fire made up in the -dining-room that she might not be in the way of visitors. It was a long -time before she came, and when she at last made her appearance I found -she had again wrapped herself in my Indian shawl. To tell the truth, I -did not like it. I gave a slight start when I saw her, but I could not -take it from her shoulders. She had put on her old black gown, which had -been carefully brushed and the clean cuffs and collar I had put out for -her, and had dressed her hair in a fashionable way. She was dressed as -poorly as a woman could be, and yet it appeared she had all the pads and -cushions, which young women were then so foolish as to wear, for her -hair. She was tall, and very slight, as I had remarked last night, but -my shawl about her shoulders took away the angularity from her figure, -and made it dignified and noble. To find fault with such a splendid -creature for borrowing a shawl! I could as soon have remonstrated with -the Queen herself.</p> - -<p>‘This is not the pretty room you brought me to last night,’ she said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124"></a>{124}</span></p> - -<p>‘No; this is the dining-room. I thought it would be quieter and -pleasanter for you, in case any one should call.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah! yes, that was very considerate for my feelings,’ she said, ‘but I -am used to it, I am always thrust into a corner now. It did not use to -be so before that man came and ruined me. Whereabouts is it that he -lives?’</p> - -<p>‘You can see the house from the window,’ said I.</p> - -<p>Then she went to the window and looked out. She shook her clenched fist -at the cottage; her face grew dark like a sky covered by a -thunder-cloud. She came back and seated herself in front of me, wrapping -herself close in my shawl.</p> - -<p>‘When I married him I was as beautiful as the day. That was what they -all said,’ she began. ‘I was nineteen, and the artists used to go on -their knees to me to sit to them. I might have married anybody. I don’t -know why it was that I took him, I must have been mad; twenty years -older than me at the least, and nothing to recommend him. Of course he -was rich. Ah! and I was so young, and thought money could buy -everything, and that it would last for ever. We had a house in town and -a house in the country, and he gave me a lovely phaeton for the park, -and we had a carriage and pair. It was very nice at first. He was always -a curious man, never satisfied, but we did very well at first. He was -not a man to make a woman happy, but still I got on well enough till he -sent me away.’</p> - -<p>‘He sent you away!’</p> - -<p>‘Yes. Oh! that was nothing; that got to be quite common. When he thought -I was enjoying myself, all at once he would say, “Pack up your things; -we shall go to the country to-morrow;” always when I was enjoying -myself.’</p> - -<p>‘But if he went with you, that was not sending you away.’</p> - -<p>‘Then it was taking me away—which is much the same—from all I cared -for; and he did not always go with me. The last two times I was sent by -myself as if I had been a prisoner. And then, at last, after years and -years of oppression, he turned me out of the house,’ she said—‘turned -me out! He dared to do it. Oh! only think how I hated him. He said every -insult to me a man could say, and he turned me out of his house, and -bade me never come back. One day I was there the mistress of all, with -everything heart could desire, and the next day I was turned out, -without a penny, without a home, still so pretty as I was, and at my -age!’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! that was terrible,’ I cried, moved more by her rising passion than -by her words—‘that was dreadful. How could he do it? But you went to -your friends—?’</p> - -<p>‘I had no friends. My people were all dead, and I did not know much -about them when they were living. He separated me from everybody, and he -told lies of me—lies right and left. He had made up his mind to destroy -me,’ she cried, bursting into sobs. ‘Oh! what a devil he is! Everything -I could desire one day, and the next turned out!’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125"></a>{125}</span></p> - -<p>Looking at her where she sat, something came into my throat which choked -me and kept me from speaking: and yet I felt that I must make an effort.</p> - -<p>‘Without any—cause?’ I faltered with a mixture of confusion and pain.</p> - -<p>‘Cause?’</p> - -<p>‘I mean, did not he allege something—say something? He must have given -some—excuse—for himself.’</p> - -<p>She looked at me very composedly, not angry, as I had feared.</p> - -<p>‘Cause? excuse?’ she repeated. ‘Of course he said it was my fault.’</p> - -<p>She kept her eyes on me when she said this; no guilty colour was on her -face, no flush even of shame at the thought of having been slandered. -She was a great deal calmer than I was; indeed I was not calm at all, -but disturbed beyond the power of expression, not knowing what to think.</p> - -<p>‘He is very clever,’ she went on. ‘I am clever myself, in a kind of a -way, but not a match for him. Men have education, you see. They are -trained what to do; but I was so handsome that nobody thought I required -any training. If I had been as clever as he is, ah! he would not have -found it so easy. He drove me into a trap, and then he shut me down -fast. That is four years ago. Fancy, four years without anything, -wandering about, none of the comforts I was used to! I wonder how I gave -in at the time: it was because he had broken my spirit. But I am -different now; I have made up my mind, until he behaves to me as he -ought, I will give him no peace, no grace!’</p> - -<p>‘But you must not be revengeful,’ I said, knowing less and less what to -say. ‘And if you were not happy together before, I am afraid you would -not be so now.’</p> - -<p>She did not make any answer; a vague sort of smile flitted over her -face, then she gave a little shiver as of cold, and wrapped the shawl -closer. ‘A shawl suits me,’ she said, ‘especially since I am so thin. Do -you think a woman loses as much as they say by being thin? It is my -heart-disease. When it comes on it is very bad, though afterwards I feel -just as well as usual. But it must tell on one’s looks. Could you tell -that I was thin by my face?’</p> - -<p>‘No,’ I said, and I did not add, though it was on my lips, ‘O woman, one -could not tell by your face that you were not an angel or a queen. And -what are you? What are you?’ Alas! she was not an angel, I feared.</p> - -<p>A little while longer she sat musing in silence. How little she had told -me after all. How much more she must know in that world within herself -to which she had now retired. At length she turned to me, her face -lighted up with the most radiant smile. ‘Shall I be a great trouble to -you?’ she asked. ‘Am I taking up anybody’s room?’</p> - -<p>She spoke as a favourite friend might speak who had arrived suddenly, -and did not quite know what your arrangements<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126"></a>{126}</span> were, though she was -confident nothing could make her coming a burden to you. She took away -my breath.</p> - -<p>‘N—no,’ I said; and then I took courage and added: ‘But your friends -will be expecting you—the people where you live: and you are better -now——’</p> - -<p>I could not, had my life depended on it, have said more.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, they will not mind much,’ she said. ‘I don’t live anywhere in -particular. When one thinks that one’s own husband, the man who is bound -to support one, has a home, and is close at hand, how do you think one -can stay in a miserable lodging! But he does not care: he will sit there -doing his horrible problems, and what is it to him if I were to die at -his door! He would be glad. Yes, he would be glad. He would have me -carted away as rubbish. He cares for nothing but his books and his -experiments. I have sat at his door a whole night begging him to take me -in, begging out of the cold and the snow, and his light has burnt -steady, and he has gone on with his work, and then he has gone to bed -and taken no notice. Oh, my God! I should have let him in had he been a -cat or a dog.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, surely, surely you must be mistaken,’ I cried.</p> - -<p>‘I am not mistaken. I heard the window open; he looked down at me, and -then he went away. I know he knew me: and so he did last night. He knew -I was there; and he had a fire lighted in the room where he works. So he -knew it was cold, too; and I his wife, his lawful wedded wife, sitting -out in the chill. Some time or other he thinks it will be too much for -me, and I shall die, and he will be free.’</p> - -<p>‘It is too dreadful to think of,’ said I. ‘I don’t think he could have -known that you were there.’</p> - -<p>She smiled without making any further reply. She held out her thin hands -to the fire with a little nervous shiver. They would have been beautiful -hands had they not been so thin, almost transparent. She wore but one -ring, her wedding-ring; and that was so wide that it was secured to her -finger with a silk thread. I suppose she perceived that I looked at it. -She held it up to me with a smile.</p> - -<p>‘See,’ she said, ‘how worn it is. But I have never put it off my finger; -never gone by another name, or done anything to forfeit my rights. -Whatever he may say against me, he cannot say that.’</p> - -<p>At this moment she espied a chair in a corner which looked more -comfortable than the one she was seated in, and rose and wheeled it to -the fire. She said no ‘By’r leave’ to me, but did it as if she had been -at home; there was something so natural and simple in this that I did -not know how to object to it, but yet—I have had many a troublesome -responsibility thrown upon me by strangers, but I was never so -embarrassed or perplexed in my life. She drew the easy chair to the -fire, she found a footstool and put her feet on it, basking in the -warmth. She had my velvet slippers on her feet, my Indian shawl round<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127"></a>{127}</span> -her shoulders, and here she was settled and comfortable—for how long? I -dared not even guess. A sick sort of consciousness came upon me that she -had established herself and meant to stay.</p> - -<p>After a while, during which I sat and watched, sitting bolt upright on -my chair and gazing with a consternation and bewilderment which I cannot -express upon her graceful attitude as she reclined back, wooing every -kind of comfort, she suddenly drew her chair a little nearer to me and -put her hand upon my knee.</p> - -<p>‘Look here,’ she said hurriedly, ‘you must see him for me. If any one -could move him to do his duty it would be you. You must see him, and -tell him I am—willing to go back. Perhaps he may not listen to you at -first, but if you keep your temper and persevere——’</p> - -<p>‘I?’ said I, dismayed.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, indeed, who else? only you could do it. And if you are patient -with him and keep your temper—the great thing with him is to keep your -temper—I never could do it, but you could. It would not be difficult to -you. You have not got that sort of a nature, one can see it in your -face.’</p> - -<p>‘But you mistake me, I—I could not take it upon myself,’ I gasped.</p> - -<p>‘Not when I ask you? You might feel you were not equal to it, I allow. -But when <i>I</i> ask you? Oh, yes, you can do it. It is not so very hard, -only to keep your temper, and to take no denial—no denial! Make him say -he will not be so unkind any more. Oh, how tired it makes me even to -think of it!’ she cried, suddenly putting up her hands to her face. -‘Please don’t ask me any more, but do it—do it! I know you can.’</p> - -<p>And then she sat and rocked herself gently with her hands clasped over -her face. This explanation had been too much for her, and somehow I felt -that I was blamable, that it was my fault. I sat by her in a kind of -dream, wondering what had happened to me. Was I under a spell? I did not -seem able to move a step or raise a hand to throw off this burden from -me. And the curious thing was that she never thanked me, never -expressed, nor apparently felt, any sort of gratitude to me, but simply -signified her will, and took my acquiescence as a right.</p> - -<h4>CHAPTER VII</h4> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">I cannot</span> tell how I got through that day: she got through it very -comfortably, I think. In the evening she asked me to go into the pretty -room she had been in last night.</p> - -<p>‘I am so fond of what is pretty,’ she said; ‘I like everything that is -nice and pleasant. I never would sit in any but the best rooms in the -house if I had a house like this.’</p> - -<p>‘But—someone might come in,’ I said. ‘To be sure the time<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128"></a>{128}</span> for callers -is over, but still my neighbours are very intimate with me, and some one -might come in.’</p> - -<p>‘Well?’ she said, looking up in my face. ‘If they do, I don’t mind. You -may have objections perhaps, but I have none. I don’t mind.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! if you don’t mind,’ I said in my consternation; and I took up the -cushion she had placed in her chair, and carried it humbly for her, -while she made her way to the drawing-room.</p> - -<p>I think I was scarcely in possession of my senses. I was dazed. The -whole position was so extraordinary. I was ashamed to think of any one -coming in and finding her there: not because I was ashamed of <i>her</i>, but -for my own sake. What was I to say to anybody? How was I to explain -myself? I had taken her in without knowing anything of her, and she had -taken possession of my house. Fortunately, no one came that night. She -placed herself on the sofa, where she had lain in her wretchedness the -night before. She stretched herself out upon it, lying back with an air -of absolute enjoyment. She had got a book—a novel—which she was -reading, not taking very much notice of me; but now and then she would -pause to say a word. I think had any one seen us seated together that -evening, without knowing anything of the circumstances, he would have -decided that she was the lady of the house and I her humble and rather -stupid companion. But I was more than rather stupid—I felt like a fool; -and that in nothing more than this—that I could not for my life tell -what to do.</p> - -<p>‘Nobody is coming to-night, I suppose?’ she said at last, putting down -her book.</p> - -<p>‘No, I suppose not.’</p> - -<p>‘I thought from what you said you had always some one coming; and I like -seeing people; I should like of all things to see some of the people -here. Do you think if they saw me it would make any difference——? Oh, -I can’t tell you exactly what I mean. I mean—but it is so very -unpleasant to be always obliged to explain;’ and then she yawned: and -then she said: ‘I am so tired; I think I shall go to bed. Hush! was not -that some one at the door?’</p> - -<p>‘It is my next neighbour going home,’ I said.</p> - -<p>‘Does Reinhardt know the people about here?’</p> - -<p>‘He has not gone into society at all; but many of them know him to speak -to,’ said I.</p> - -<p>‘Ah! that is always the way; you hide me out of sight, and you send word -to your people not to come; but everybody is quite ready to make friends -with him. Oh! I am so tired—I am tired of everything; life is so dull, -so monotonous, always the same thing over, no pleasure, no amusement.’</p> - -<p>‘I live a very dull, quiet life,’ I said, as firmly as I could; ‘I -cannot expect it to suit you; and perhaps to-morrow you will be able to -make arrangements to go to your own home.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah!’ she said, giving a curious little cry. She looked at me,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129"></a>{129}</span> catching -her breath; and then she cried, ‘My own home!—my own home! That is at -the cottage yonder; you will open the door for me, and take me back -there——’</p> - -<p>‘But how can I? Be reasonable,’ I said. ‘I scarcely know—your husband; -I don’t know—you; how can I mediate between you? I don’t know anything -of the circumstances. There must have been some cause for all this. -Indeed it will be a great deal better to go home and get some one to -interfere who knows all.’</p> - -<p>‘Don’t you believe in feelings?’ she said suddenly. ‘I do. The first -time I saw Reinhardt I had the feeling I ought not to have anything to -do with him, and I neglected it. When I saw you, it went through and -through me like an arrow: ‘This is the person to do it. And I always -trust my feelings. I am sure that you can do it, and no one else.’</p> - -<p>‘Indeed—indeed you are mistaken.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh! I am so tired,’ she cried again. ‘Let me go to bed. I can’t argue -to-night; I am so dreadfully tired.’</p> - -<p>This was her way of getting over a difficulty, and what could I do? I -could not stop her from going to bed; I could not turn her out of my -house. I went to the door of the west room with her, more embarrassed -and uncomfortable than could be described. She turned round and waved -her hand to me as she shut the door. The light of the candle which she -held shone upon her pale, beautiful face. She had my shawl still round -her. I, too, had a candle in my hand, and as I strayed back through the -long passage I am sure I looked like a ghost. Bewilderment was in my -soul. Had I taken a burden on my shoulders for life? Was I never to be -free again? Never alone as I used to be? It had only lasted one day; but -there seemed no reason why it should ever come to an end.</p> - -<p>Then I went back and sat over the fire in the drawing-room, till it died -away into white ashes, trying to decide what I should do. To consult -somebody was of course my first thought; but whom could I consult? There -was not one creature on the Green who would not blame me, who would not -be shocked at my foolishness. I did not dare even to confess it to Lady -Denzil. I must keep her concealed till I could persuade her to go away. -And to think she should have been disappointed that nobody came! Good -heavens! if anybody did come and see her, what should I do? Looming up -before my imagination, in spite of all my resistance to it, came a -picture of a possible interview with Mr. Reinhardt. It drove me half -wild with fear to think of such a thing, and yet I felt as one sometimes -does, that out of mere terror I should be driven to do it, if I could -not persuade her to go away. That was my only hope, and I felt already -what a forlorn hope it was.</p> - -<p>And thus another day passed, and another night. She was quite -well-behaved, and sometimes her beauty overwhelmed me so that I felt I -could do anything for her; and sometimes her strange calmness and -matter-of-course way of taking everything<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130"></a>{130}</span> filled me with irritation. -She never looked or spoke as if she were obliged to me, neither did she -ever imply, by anything she said or did, that she meant to go away. She -would stand for a long time by the window, gazing at the East Cottage; -she even stepped out into the garden through the drawing-room window, -and went and stood at the gate, looking out, though I called her back, -and trembled lest she should be seen (and, of course, she was seen); but -the answer she gave me when I objected put a stop to the controversy.</p> - -<p>‘You are afraid to let people see me,’ she said; ‘but I don’t mind. -There is nothing to be ashamed of in looking at Reinhardt’s house. If -any one calls, it is quite the same to me. Indeed I would rather be seen -than otherwise. I think it is right that people should see me.’</p> - -<p>To this I made no answer, for my heart was growing faint. And then she -turned, and seized my arm—it was in the garden.</p> - -<p>‘Oh!’ she said, ‘listen to me. When are you going to see him? Are you -going to-day?’</p> - -<p>As she spoke the sound of footsteps quite close to us made me start. I -had my back to the gate, and she was standing close to the verandah, so -that she saw who was coming though I could not. She dropped my arm -instantly; she subdued her voice; she put on a smile; and then she -half-turned, and began to gather some rosebuds from the great monthly -rose, with the air of one who is waiting to be called forward.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Mrs. Mulgrave! we have found you at last,’ said a voice in my ear, -and, turning round, I saw the Stokes—Lottie and Lucy, and their brother -Everard, a short way behind, following them on to the lawn.</p> - -<p>‘At last?’ I said.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, and I think we have a very good right to complain. Why, you have -shut yourself up for two whole days. The Green is in a commotion about -it,’ said Lottie, as she kissed me; and she threw a quick glance at the -stranger, whom she did not know, and asked me, ‘Who is that?’ with her -eyes.</p> - -<p>‘And somebody said you had visitors, but we would not believe it,’ Lucy -began, open-mouthed.</p> - -<p>‘And so she has—one visitor, at least,’ said my guest, turning round, -with her hand full of roses. Then she stopped short, and a look, which -was half alarm, crept over her face. Everard Stoke was coming up behind.</p> - -<p>‘How do you do, Mrs. Mulgrave?’ he said in his languid way. ‘It is not -my fault if I came in unceremoniously. It’s the girls who are to blame.’</p> - -<p>‘There is no one to blame,’ said I, turning round, and holding out my -hand to him.</p> - -<p>But even in the moment of my turning round a change had come over him. -He gave a slight start, and he looked straight over my shoulder at my -companion. I said to myself that perhaps they knew each other, and -forgave him his rudeness. But the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131"></a>{131}</span> next moment he went on hastily, ‘We -must not stay now. Lottie, I have just remembered something I promised -to do for my mother. I have just thought of it. Mrs. Mulgrave will -excuse me. Come away quick, please.’</p> - -<p>‘Why, we have but just arrived!’ said Lucy, full of a girl’s resistance.</p> - -<p>‘Come!’ her brother said; and before I could speak he had swept them -away again, leaving me in greater consternation than ever. My companion -had turned back, and was busy again among the roses, gathering them. I -had not even her to respond to my look of wonder. What was the meaning -of it? Could they have known each other, Everard and she?</p> - -<p>‘Your friends are gone very soon,’ she said without turning to me; ‘it -is rather strange; but I suppose they are strange people. Oh! how sweet -these roses are—I never thought such pale roses could be so sweet.’</p> - -<p>I made her no answer, and, what was strangest of all, she did not seem -to expect it, for immediately after she went back into the drawing-room, -and the next minute I heard her voice singing as if on the way to her -own room. The more I thought of it the more strange it seemed.</p> - -<p>That night she began to question me about my neighbours on the Green, -and somehow managed to bring the conversation to the people who had -called.</p> - -<p>‘I thought I knew the man’s face; I must have met him out,’ she said, -looking at me steadily.</p> - -<p>Everard Stoke did not bear a good character on the Green. To have known -him was no recommendation to any one; and this encounter did not -increase my happiness. But after that first evening it did not disturb -her. Next day went on like the previous one. I told the servants not to -admit any visitors, and I felt as if I must be going mad. I could think -only of one subject, my imagination could bring forward but one picture -before me, and that was of a meeting with Mr. Reinhardt, which I kept -going over in my mind. I said to myself, ‘I could not do it—I could not -do it,’ with an angry vehemence, and yet I seemed to see just how he -would look, and to hear what we were to say. It seemed to be the only -outlet out of this impossible position in which I stood.</p> - -<h4>CHAPTER VIII</h4> - -<p class="nind">‘<span class="smcap">Lady Denzil</span> says she must see you, please, ma’am,’ said Mary at my room -door.</p> - -<p>It had lasted for a week and I was downright ill. She would not go away; -when I represented to her that I could not go on keeping her, that she -must go to her own home, wherever that was, she either moaned that she -had no home, or that I must<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132"></a>{132}</span> open a way for her back to her husband. She -was quite unmoved by my attempts to dislodge her. I told her I had -people coming, and she assured me she did not mind, that there was -plenty of room in the house, and that, if I wished it, she would change -into a smaller chamber. This drove me almost out of my senses, I could -not turn her out by force. I dared not face the criticisms of my -neighbours: I shut myself up. I got a headache which never left me, and -the result was, that I was quite ill. I had been lying down in my own -room to try to get a little quiet and respite from the pain in my head; -and I was impatient in my trouble, and felt disposed to turn my back on -all the world.</p> - -<p>‘I cannot see her,’ I said impatiently. ‘I am not well enough to see any -one.’</p> - -<p>‘Please, ma’am, is that what I am to say?’ asked Mary.</p> - -<p>Then I recollected myself. Lady Denzil was my close friend and -counsellor. I had been admitted into the secret places of her life, and -she knew me in every aspect of mine. I would not send such a reply to my -old friend. I rose from my sofa and went stumbling to the door, feeling -more miserable than I can say. ‘Tell her I have a very bad headache, -Mary. I will try to see her to-morrow. Give her my love, and say that I -could not talk to-day, nor explain anything. If she will please leave it -till to-morrow!—’</p> - -<p>‘Please, ma’am,’ said Mary, earnestly, ‘I think it would be a deal -better if you could make up your mind to see my lady to-day.’</p> - -<p>‘I cannot do it—I cannot do it!’ I said. ‘If you but knew how my head -aches! Give her my dear love, but I must keep quiet. If you tell her -that, she will understand.’</p> - -<p>‘If you won’t give no other answer, ma’am—’ said Mary, disapprovingly; -and I had lost my wits so completely that I actually locked the door -when she went down-stairs, in case some one should force the way. I went -back to my sofa and lay down again. I had closed the shutters, I don’t -know why—not that the light hurt me, but because I did not feel able to -bear anything. I never lost my head in the same way before. I was -irritable to such a degree that I could not bear any one to speak to -me—this was, I suppose, because I felt that nobody would approve of me, -and was ashamed of myself and my weakness. While I lay thus, <i>she</i> began -to sing down-stairs; she had a pretty voice; there was a quaver in it, -which was in reality a defect, but did not appear so when she sang. Her -voice, I felt sure, could be heard half over the Green, and Lady Denzil -would be sure to hear it, and what would they think of me? They would -think she was a relation, somebody belonging to me, whom I had motive -for hiding. No one would believe that she was a mere stranger whom I -knew nothing of.</p> - -<p>I kept as much away from her as I could during the day, and in the -evening, when I came down-stairs, I managed to steal<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133"></a>{133}</span> out by myself for -a walk. I thought the fresh air would do me good, and, as all the people -were at dinner, I was not likely to meet any one. When I felt myself -outside and free, I stood still for a moment, and in my weakness three -or four different impulses came upon me. In the first place I had a -temptation to run away. It seems absurd to write it, but my feeling of -nervous irritation was so great that I actually entertained for a moment -the idea of abandoning my own house because this strange woman had taken -possession of it. And then I thought of rushing to Lady Denzil, whom I -had not long before sent away from my door, and entreating her to come -and save me. When I had made but a few steps from my own gate a nervous -terror made me pause again, and, turning round suddenly, I almost ran -against some one coming in the opposite direction. I made a -half-conscious clutch at him when I saw who it was, and then tried to -hurry past in the fluctuations of my despair. But he stopped, struck, I -suppose, by the strangeness of my looks.</p> - -<p>‘Can I do anything for you?’ he asked.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, yes—everything!’ I gasped forth, not knowing what I said.</p> - -<p>‘I! That is strange—that is very strange! but if it should be so!—Will -you lean upon my arm, Mrs. Mulgrave? you are very much agitated.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I am very much agitated, but I will not lean upon you, -for perhaps you will think I am your enemy—though I don’t mean to be -anybody’s enemy, Heaven knows.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah!’ he said. This little cry came from him unawares, and he fell back -a step, and his face, which was like ivory, took a yellower pale tint. I -do not mean that I observed this in my agitation at the moment, but I -felt it. His countenance changed. He already divined what it was.</p> - -<p>‘I am very sure of that—that you mean only to be kind to all the -world,’ he said. He had a slight foreign accent, a roll of the <i>r</i> which -is not in an English voice, and he spoke very deliberately, like one to -whom English was an acquired language. I think this struck me now for -the first time.</p> - -<p>Then we paused and looked at each other—he on his guard; I, trembling -in every limb trying to remember what I had said in my imaginary -interviews with him, and feeling as if my very mind had gone. I made a -despairing attempt to collect myself, to state her case in the best -possible way, but I might as well have tried any impossible feat of -athletics. I could not do it.</p> - -<p>‘There is a lady,’ I faltered, ‘in my house.’</p> - -<p>A kind of smile crossed his face at the first words. He gave a nod as if -to say, ‘I know it;’ but again a change came over him when I finished my -sentence.</p> - -<p>‘In your house!’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, in my house,’ I went on, finding myself at last wound up to -speech. ‘I found her on Friday last at your door—seated in the dust, -almost dying.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134"></a>{134}</span></p> - -<p>Here he stopped, making an incredulous movement—a shrug of the -shoulders, an elevation of the eyebrows.</p> - -<p>‘It is true,’ I said: ‘she has heart-disease: she could scarcely walk -the little distance to my house. Had you seen her, as I did, panting, -gasping for very breath——’</p> - -<p>‘I should have thought it a fiction,’ he said, bitterly, ‘and I know her -best.’</p> - -<p>‘It was no fiction. Oh, you may have had your wrongs. I say nothing to -the contrary,’ I cried: ‘for anything I can tell, you may have been -deeply wronged; but she is so beautiful, and so young, and loves -pleasure and luxury so——’</p> - -<p>I think he heard only the half of what I said, and that struck him like -an unexpected arrow. He turned from me and walked a few steps away, and -then came back again. ‘So beautiful and so young,’ he cried. ‘Who should -know that so well as I?—who should know that so well as I?’</p> - -<p>‘You know it, and still you let her sit at your door all through the -lonely night? I would not let a tramp shiver at mine if I could help it. -You let her perish within reach of you. You condemn her at her age, with -her lovely face, unheard——’</p> - -<p>He put out his hand to stop me. He was as much agitated as I was. ‘Her -lovely face,’ he said to himself,—‘oh, her lovely face!’ That was the -point at which I touched him. It woke recollections in him which were -more eloquent than anything I could say.</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ I said, ‘think of it.’ I do not know by what inspiration I laid -hold upon this feature of the story—her beauty; perhaps because it was -the real explanation of the power she had acquired over me.</p> - -<p>But in a minute more he had overcome his agitation; he came to a sudden -pause in front of me and looked at me in the face, though there were -signs of a conflict in his. ‘It is vain to attempt to move me,’ he said, -hoarsely. ‘I do not know why you should take it in hand, or why you -should try to attain your object in this way. I did not expect it from -such as you. Her lovely face—does that make her good or true or fit for -a man’s wife?’</p> - -<p>‘No doubt it was for that you married her,’ said I, with an impulse I -could not restrain.</p> - -<p>He turned away from me again; he made a few hasty steps and then he came -back. ‘I do not choose to discuss my own history with a stranger,’ he -said; and then softening into politeness: ‘You said I could do something -for you. What can I do?’</p> - -<p>This question suddenly brought me to a standstill, for even in my -perplexity and confusion, and the state of semi-despair I had been -thrown into by my visitor, a vestige of reason still remained in my -mind. After all he must know her and his own concerns better than I -could. His question seemed to stop my breath. ‘She is in my house,’ I -said.</p> - -<p>‘You are too charitable, Mrs. Mulgrave,’ he answered harshly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135"></a>{135}</span> His voice -sounded loud and sharp to me after the subdued tone in which we had been -speaking, for we were the only two living creatures visible on the -Green. Everything was quiet around us, and the night beginning to fall.</p> - -<p>‘I did not mean to be charitable,’ I said, feeling that there was, -without any consciousness of mine, a tone of apology in my voice. ‘I did -not expect—what has happened. I meant her to leave me—next day.’</p> - -<p>‘She will never leave you as long as you will keep her and give her all -she wants,’ he said, in the same sharp, harsh voice.</p> - -<p>‘Then Heaven help me!’ I cried, in my confusion, ‘what am I to do?’</p> - -<p>He seized my arm, so that he hurt me, in what seemed a sudden access of -passion. ‘It will teach you not to thrust yourself into other people’s -concerns, or meddle with what does not concern you,’ he said. He had -come quite close to me, and his face was flushed with passion. I think -it was the only time I was ever so spoken to in my life. The effect was -bewildering, but I was more surprised than afraid. In short, the curious -shock of this unexpected rage, the rude, sudden touch, the angry voice, -brought me to myself.</p> - -<p>‘I think you forget yourself, Mr. Reinhardt,’ I said.</p> - -<p>Then he dropped my arm as if the touch burned him, and turned away, and -shook, as I could see, with the effort to control himself. His passion -calmed me, but it swept over him like a storm. He muttered something at -length, hurriedly, in which there was the word ‘pardon,’ as if he were -forced most unwillingly to say it, and then he turned round upon me -again: ‘I may have forgotten myself, as you say; but you force me to -face a subject I would give the world to forget, and in the only way -that makes it unavoidable. Good heavens! your amiability, and your -Christianity, and all that, force me to take up again what I had put -from me for ever. And you look for politeness, too!’</p> - -<p>I did not make any answer: what was the use? At bottom, I did blame -myself; I should not have interfered; I should have been firm enough and -strong enough to take her to her home, wherever it was: I did not stand -upon my defence. I let him say what he would; and I cannot tell how long -this went on. I suppose the interval was not nearly so long as it seemed -to me. He stood before me, and he smiled and frowned, and ground his -teeth and discharged, as it were, bitter sentences at me. Englishmen can -be brutal enough, but no Englishman, I think, would have done it in this -way. He seemed to take a pleasure in saying everything that was most -disagreeable. When he scowled at me I could bear it, but when he smiled -and affected politeness I grew so angry that I could have struck him. -Poor wretch! perhaps there was some justification for him after all.</p> - -<p>‘Because you are a woman!’ he cried. ‘A woman!—what it is to be a -woman! It gives you a right to set every power of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136"></a>{136}</span> hell in motion, and -always to be spared the consequences; to upset every arrangement of the -world, and disturb the quiet, and put your fingers into every mess, and -always to be held blameless. That is your right. Oh, I like those -women’s rights! I should have knocked down the man who had interfered as -you have done; but, because you are a woman, I must come out of my -quiet, I must derange my life, to save you from your folly. God in -heaven! was that what those creatures, those slaves, those toys were -made for? To interfere—for ever to interfere—and to be spared the -consequences at any cost to us?’</p> - -<p>I don’t know how I bore it all. I got tired after a while of the mere -physical effort of standing to listen to him. I did not try to answer at -first, and after the torrent began I could not, he spoke so fast and so -vehemently. But at length I turned from him, and walked slowly, as well -as I was able, to my own door. He paused for a moment as if in surprise, -and then turned and walked on with me, talking and gesticulating. -‘Nothing else would have disturbed me,’ he said; ‘I had made my -arrangements. How was I to tell that a fool, a woman,—would thrust -herself into it, and put it on my honour as a gentleman to free her? -What has honour to do with it? Why should I trouble more for a woman—an -old woman—than for a man? Bah! Ah, I will be rude; yes, I am rude; it -is a pleasure—it is a compensation. You are plain; you are old. You -have lost what charms. Therefore, what right have you to be considered? -Why should you not bear your own folly? Why should I interfere?’</p> - -<p>‘Pray make yourself quite easy about me,’ I said, roused in my turn. ‘I -did not appeal to you on my account, and anything you can do for me -would be dearly purchased by submitting to this violence. Go your own -way, and leave me to manage my own concerns.’</p> - -<p>He stopped, bewildered; and then he asked with confusion, ‘What do you -call your own concerns?’</p> - -<p>‘Nothing that can any way affect you,’ I said, and in my passion I went -in at my own gate and closed it upon him. I stood on one side defying -him, and he stood on the other with confusion and amazement on his face.</p> - -<p>‘You do not wish my help any more?’</p> - -<p>‘No more. I shall act for myself, without thought of you,’ I said. He -stood and gazed at me for a moment, and then suddenly he turned round -and left me. I looked after him as he walked rapidly away, and I confess -that, notwithstanding my indignation and pride, my heart sank. He was -the only creature who could help me, and I had driven him away. I had -taken once more upon myself the task which it had made me half frantic -to think of. My heart fell. I looked back upon my house, which had been -such a haven of quietness and rest for so many years, and felt that the -Eden was spoiled—that it was no longer my paradise. And yet I had -rejected the only help! I was very forlorn, standing there with my hand -upon my gate<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137"></a>{137}</span> under the chilly October stars, having thrust all my -friends from me, and refused even the only possible deliverance. ‘I -cannot allow myself to be insulted,’ I said to myself, trying to get -some comfort from my pride, but that was cold consolation. I turned -round to go in, sighing and ready to sink with fatigue and trouble; and -then I suddenly heard moans coming from the house, and Mary calling and -beckoning from the open door.</p> - -<h4>CHAPTER IX</h4> - -<p class="nind">‘<span class="smcap">Oh</span>, ma’am, the poor lady’s took bad—the poor dear lady’s took very -bad!’ This was Mary’s cry as she hurried me in. The windows were all -wide open to give her air. She was lying on the sofa gasping for breath, -her mouth and her eyes open, two hectic circles of red upon her cheeks, -and that wildly anxious look upon her face which always accompanies a -struggle for breath. I did not feel at all sure that she was not dying. -I called out to my cook to run instantly for the doctor. Both the women -had been in the room running about as she gave them wild orders, opening -the windows one after another, fetching her fans, eau-de-cologne, water, -wine—as one thing after another occurred to her. She stretched out her -hands to me as I came in, and grasped and pulled me to her; she said -something which I could not make out in her gasping, broken voice, and I -nodded my head and pretended to understand, saying, ‘Yes, yes,’ to calm -her—‘Yes, yes.’ It did not seem to matter what one said or promised at -such a moment. For some time, every gasp looked to me as if it must be -her last. I bathed her forehead with eau-de-cologne, I wetted her lips -with wine; I had hard ado not to cry out, too, in sympathy with her -distress. I shut down now one window, now another, fearing the cold for -her, and then opening them again, in obedience to her gestures to give -her air. I seem to see and to feel now, as I recall it, the room so -unlike itself, with the cold night air blowing through and through it, -and the great squares of blackness and night, with a bit of sky in one, -which broke confusedly the familiar walls, and made it doubtful to my -bewildered and excited mind whether I was out of doors or in—whether -the chairs and sofa and the lamp on the table had been transported into -the garden, or the garden had invaded the house. The wind made me -shiver; the flame of the lamp wavered even within its protecting glass; -darkness and mystery breathed in; and, in the centre absorbing all -thoughts, was this struggle between, as I thought, death and life. I -cannot tell how time passed, or how long we were in this suspense; but -it seemed to me that half the night must have been over before the -doctor came, in evening dress, with huge white wristbands, as if he were -going to perform an operation. Notwithstanding the anxiety I was in, -this fantastic<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138"></a>{138}</span> idea flashed across my mind: for his cuffs were always -too long and white. But it was a relief beyond description when he came: -the responsibility, at least, seemed to be taken off my shoulders. I had -scarcely permitted myself to hope before that the paroxysm was already -beginning to subside; but now it became evident to me; and Dr. Houghton -gave her something, which at once relieved her. I sat down beside the -sofa, feeling half stupefied with the sensation of relief, and watched -her breathing gradually grow calmer, and the struggle abate. I think my -own brain had given way slightly under the tension. It seemed to me that -the room behind me was full of people whispering and flitting about, and -that all kinds of echoes and murmurs of voices were coming in at the -open windows. I suppose it was only my own maids, and Susan from the -Admiral’s next door who had come to see what was the matter; but the -strange sensation of being almost in the open air, and the worn-out -state in which I was, produced this effect. I could not move however to -put a stop to it. I could do nothing but sit still and watch. And thus -the scene of the first evening, when I brought this strange inmate home -to my house, reproduced itself, with another bewildering effect, before -my eyes. She was no longer dusty and miserable; her poor black dress was -neat and covered by my shawl; her hair had been elaborately dressed, -and, though a little disordered, still showed how carefully it had been -arranged; but otherwise, the attitude, the look, were exactly the same. -Her head was thrown back in utter exhaustion upon the dark velvet -pillow, which showed it in relief, like a white cameo on the dark -background of the <i>pietra dura</i>. Her eyes were softly closed, and her -lips. The doctor, who had gone away to write a prescription, was struck -by her wonderful beauty, as I had been that night. He started in his -surprise when he came back and saw how she had dropped asleep. He drew -me aside in his amazement; the discovery flashed upon him all in a -moment, as it had done on me. When a woman is very ill, when one’s mind -is full of anxiety for her, her beauty is the last thing one thinks of. -So that the sudden sight of her confounded him. ‘How beautiful she is!’ -he said in my ear with a certain agitation; and though I am only a -woman, I had been agitated, too, when I found it out.</p> - -<p>It was just when the doctor had said this that my eye was suddenly -caught by a strange figure at one of the open windows. It stepped on to -the sill, dark against the blackness without, and there paused a moment. -Had this occurred at any other time I should, no doubt, have been very -much frightened, I should have rushed to the window and demanded to know -what he wanted, with terror and indignation; but to-night I took it as a -matter of course. I did not even move, but kept still by the side of my -patient’s sofa and looked at him: and when he came in it seemed to me -the most natural thing in the world. He entered with a sudden, impetuous -movement as if something had pushed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139"></a>{139}</span> him forward. He advanced into the -middle of the room—into the little circle round the sofa. It was Mr. -Reinhardt. He had never been in my house before, or in any house on the -Green, and Dr. Houghton looked at him and looked at me with positive -consternation. For my part, I gave him no greeting. I did not say a -word. It seemed natural that he should come, that was all.</p> - -<p>There was a curious sort of smile upon his face; he was wound up to some -course of action or other. What he thought of doing I cannot tell. His -face looked as if he had come with the intention of taking her by the -shoulders and turning her out. I don’t know why I thought so, but there -was a certain mixture of fierceness, and contempt, and impatience in his -look which suggested the idea. ‘I have come to put a stop to all this. I -shall not put up with it for a moment longer.’ Though he did not speak a -word, this seemed to sound in my ears, somehow, as if he had said it in -his mind. But when he came to the sofa and saw her laid out in that dead -sleep, her face white as marble, the blue veins visible on her closed -eyelids, the breath faintly coming and going, he came to a sudden pause. -I think for the first moment he thought she was dead. He gave a short -cry, and then turned to me wildly, as if I were responsible. ‘You have -killed her,’ he said. He was in that state of suppressed passion in -which anything might happen. He would have railed at her had he found -her conscious, he would have railed at me if I would have let him: he -was half mad.</p> - -<p>‘Tell him,’ I said, turning to the doctor. Dr. Houghton was a man of the -world, and tried very hard not to look surprised. He put his hand upon -Mr. Reinhardt’s shoulder to draw him away: but he would not be drawn -away. He stood fast there, with his brows contracted and his eyes fixed -on the sleeping face: he listened to the doctor’s explanations without -moving or looking up. He said not a word further to any one, but drew a -chair in front of the sofa and sat down there with his eyes fixed upon -her. Oh, what thoughts must have been going through his mind. The woman -whom he had loved—I do not doubt passionately in his way—whom he had -married, whom he had cast away from him! And there she lay before him -unconscious, unaware of his presence, beautiful as when she had been -his, like a creature seen in a dream.</p> - -<p>‘He had better be got to go away before she wakes,’ Dr. Houghton said in -my ear. ‘Do you think you can make one more exertion, Mrs. Mulgrave, and -send him away? Can you hear what I am saying? She will be in a very weak -state, and any excitement might be dangerous. I don’t know what -connection there is between them, but can’t you send him away? Who is -this next?’</p> - -<p>This time it was a very timid figure at the window, a halting, furtive -old man peeping in. And somehow this, too, seemed quite natural to me. I -felt that I knew everything that happened as if I had planned it all -beforehand. ‘It is his servant<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140"></a>{140}</span> come to look for him,’ said I. And the -doctor went to the window with impatience and pulled poor old White in, -and shut it down.</p> - -<p>‘The draught goes through and through one,’ he said, with a shiver. It -was quite true; I was trembling with cold where I sat by the sleeping -woman’s side; but it had not occurred to me to shut the window; -everything seemed unchangeable, as if we had nothing to do with it -except to accept whatever happened. When White came in he looked round -him with great astonishment, and made me a very humble, frightened bow, -while he whispered and explained to the doctor how it was he had taken -the liberty. Then he gradually approached his master;—but when he saw -the figure on the sofa consternation swallowed up all his other -sentiments. He flung his arms above his head and uttered a stifled cry, -and then he rushed at his master with a sudden vehemence which showed -how deeply the sight had moved him. He put his hand upon Mr. Reinhardt’s -shoulder and shook him gently.</p> - -<p>‘Sir, sir!’ he cried; then stooped to his ear and whispered, ‘Master; -Mr. Reinhardt; master!’ Reinhardt took no notice of the old man, he sat -absorbed with his eyes fixed on that marble, beautiful face. ‘Oh, sir, -come with me! Oh! come with me, my dear master!’ said the old man. ‘You -know what I’m saying is for your good—you know it’s for your good. It’s -getting late, sir, time for the house to be shut up. Oh, Mr. -Reinhardt—sir, come away with me! come with me—do!’</p> - -<p>Mr. Reinhardt pushed him impatiently away, but did not answer a word; he -never removed his eyes from her for a moment. They seemed to me to grow -like Charon’s eyes, like circles of fire, while he gazed at her. Was it -in wrath—was it in love?</p> - -<p>‘Mrs. Mulgrave, ma’am,’ cried White, turning to me, but always in a -voice which was scarcely above a whisper, ‘Oh, speak to him! It ain’t -for his good to sit and stare at her like that. I know what comes of it. -If he sits like that and looks to her it’ll all begin over again. He -ain’t a man that can stand it, he ain’t indeed. Oh, my lady, if you’ll -be a friend to him, speak and make him go.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah!’ said a soft, sighing voice. ‘Ah! old White!’ We all started as if -a shell had fallen among us: and yet it was not wonderful that she -should wake with all this conversation going on by her bed—and besides -she had slept a long time, more than an hour. She had not changed her -position in the least, all she had done was to open her eyes. I don’t -know whether it was simply her supreme yet indolent self-estimation -which kept her from paying us the compliment of making any movement on -our account, or if it was from some consciousness that her beauty could -not be shown to greater advantage. But certainly she did not move. She -only opened her eyes, and said, ‘Ah, old White!’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141"></a>{141}</span></p> - -<p>But oh, to see how the man started, who was nearer to her than White! It -was as if a ball or a sword-stroke had gone through him. He sprang from -his chair, and then he checked himself and drew it close and sat down -again. He glanced round upon us all as if he would have cleared not only -the chamber but the world of us, had it been possible, and then he leant -over her and said sternly, ‘There are others here besides White.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah!’ Either she was afraid of him or pretended to be; she clutched at -my sleeve with her hand, she shrank back a little, but still did not -change her attitude nor raise herself so as to see his face.</p> - -<p>‘I am here,’ he went on, his voice trembling with passion. ‘I whom you -have hunted, whose life you have poisoned. Oh, woman! you dare not look -at me nor speak to me, but you wrong me behind my back. You whisper -tales of me wherever I go. Here I had a moment’s peace and you have -ruined it. Tell these people the truth once in your life. Is it I that -am in the wrong or you?’</p> - -<p>A frightened look had stolen over her face, her eyebrows contracted as -with fear. Her eyes became full of tears, and the corners of her -beautiful mouth quivered. Heaven forgive me! I asked myself was it all -feigning, or had she something kinder and better in her which I had -never seen till now? But those eyes, which were like great cups of light -filled with dew, once more turned to him. She remained immovable, -looking up to his face, when he repeated hoarsely, ‘You or I, which is -in the wrong?’</p> - -<p>She answered with a shiver which ran all over her, ‘I.’ Her voice was -like a sigh. I did not know what his wrongs might be, but whatever they -were, at that moment there could be no doubt about it. He, a hard, -unsympathetic, inhuman soul, it must be he that was in the wrong, not -she, though she confessed it so sweetly; and if this effect was produced -upon me, what should it be upon him?</p> - -<p>Mr. Reinhardt shook like a leaf in the wind. He had not expected this. -It was a surprise to him. He had expected to be blamed. It startled him -so, that for the moment he was silent, gazing at her. But old White was -not silent. ‘Oh! master, master, come away, come home,’ he pleaded, -wringing his hands; and then he came and touched my shoulder and cried -like a child. ‘Speak to him, send him away!’ he cried. ‘It is for his -own good. If she speaks to him like that, if she keeps her temper, it is -all over; it will have all to be begun again.’</p> - -<p>Reinhardt made a long pause. He looked as if he were gathering up his -strength to speak again, and when he did so, it was with the fictitious -heat of a man whose heart is melting. ‘How dare you say “I,”<span class="lftspc">’</span> he said, -‘when you do not mean it?—when all your life you have said otherwise? -You have reproached me, stirred up my friends against me, kept your own -sins in the background and published mine. You have done this for -years,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142"></a>{142}</span> and now is it a new art you are trying? Do not think you can -deceive me,’ he cried, getting up in his agitation; ‘it is impossible. I -am not such a credulous fool.’</p> - -<p>She kept her eyes on the ceiling, not looking at him; the moisture in -them seemed to swell, but did not overflow. ‘I may not change then?’ she -said, very low. ‘I may not see that I am wrong? I am not to be permitted -to repent?’</p> - -<p>He turned from her and began to pace up and down the room; he plucked at -his waistcoat and cravat as though they choked him. More than once he -returned to the sofa as if with something to say, but went away again. -When White approached, he was pushed away with impatience, and once with -such force that he span round as he was driven back. This last repulse -seemed to convince him. ‘Be a fool, then, if you will, sir,’ he said -sharply, and withdrew altogether into a corner, where he watched the -scene. I do not think Reinhardt even saw this or anything else. He was -walking up and down hastily like a man out of his mind, struggling, one -could not but see, with a hundred demons, and tempting his fate.</p> - -<p>He came back again however in his tumultuous uncertainty, and bent over -her once more. ‘Talk of repentance—talk of change,’ he cried bitterly. -‘How often have you pretended as much? Do you hear me, woman?’ (bending -down so close that his breath must have touched her)—‘how often have -you done it? how often have you pretended? Oh, false, false as death!’</p> - -<p>She put her hand upon his shoulder, almost on his neck. He broke away -from her with a hoarse cry; he made another wild march round the room. -Then he came back.</p> - -<p>‘Julia,’ he cried, ‘Julia, Julia, Julia! Mine!’</p> - -<p>She lay still as a tiger that is going to spring. He fell on his knees -beside her, weeping, storming in his passion. Good Lord! was it my -doing? was I responsible? White gave me a furious look, and rushed out -of the room. The husband and wife were reconciled.</p> - -<h4>CHAPTER X</h4> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">This</span> is about the end of the story so far as I am concerned. He spent -the night there by her sofa, kissing her dress and her hands, and -watching her in a transport of passion and perhaps delight. For the last -I would not answer. It must have been at best a troubled joy; and a -man’s infatuation for a beautiful face is not what I call love, though -it is often a very tragic and terrible passion. He took her away in the -morning, but not to his own house. They went straight from mine to -London, that great receptacle of everybody’s misery and happiness. I saw -them both before they left, though only for a moment. She was still -lying on the sofa as when I left her, and the half disorder<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143"></a>{143}</span> of her -hair, the exhaustion in her face, seemed rather to enhance her beauty. -Any one else would have looked jaded and worn out, but a faint flush of -triumph and satisfaction had stolen over her (partly perhaps produced by -her weakness) and woke the marble into life. She stretched out her hand -to me carelessly as I went in. She said with a smile, ‘You see my -feeling was right. I always trust my feelings. I knew you were the -person to do it, and you have done it. I felt it whenever I saw your -face.’</p> - -<p>‘I hope it will be lasting, and that you may be happy,’ I said, -faltering, not knowing what tone to take.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, yes, it is to be hoped so. He is going to take me to London,’ she -answered carelessly. ‘I am quite sorry to leave your nice house, -everything has been so comfortable. It is small and it is plain, but you -know how to make yourself comfortable. I suppose when one has lived so -long one naturally does.’</p> - -<p>This was all her thanks to me. The husband took the matter in a -different way. They had a fire lighted and coffee taken to them in the -drawing-room (which was left in the saddest confusion after all the -disturbance of the night); and it was when the carriage he had ordered -was at the door, and she had gone to make herself ready, that he came to -me. I was in the dining-room with my breakfast on the table, which I was -too much worn out to take. His face was very strange; it was full of -suppressed excitement, with a wild, strained look about the eyes, and a -certain air of heat and haste, though his colour was like ivory as -usual. ‘I have to thank you,’ he said to me, very stiffly, ‘and if I -said anything amiss in my surprise last night, I hope you will forgive -it. I can only thank you now; nothing else is possible. But I must add, -I hope we shall never meet again.’</p> - -<p>‘I assure you, if we do, it shall not be with my will,’ said I, feeling -very angry as I think I had a right to be.</p> - -<p>He bowed, but made no reply; not because words failed him. I felt that -he would have liked nothing better than to have fallen upon me and -metaphorically torn me to pieces. He had been overcome by his own heart -or passions, and had taken her back, but he hated me for having drawn -him to do so. He saw the tragic folly of the step he was taking. There -was a gloom in his excitement such as I cannot describe. He had no -strength to resist her, but she was hateful to him even while he adored -her. And doubly hateful, without any counter-balancing attraction, was -I, who had as it were betrayed him to his fate.</p> - -<p>‘I trust your wife and you will be happy—now,’ I said, trying to speak -firmly. He interrupted me with a hoarse laugh.</p> - -<p>‘My wife!’</p> - -<p>‘Is she not your wife?’ I said in alarm.</p> - -<p>He laughed again, even more hoarsely, with a sharp tone in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144"></a>{144}</span> the sound. -‘What do you call a woman who is taken back after—everything? Who is -taken back because—— What is she, do you suppose? What is he, the -everlasting dupe and fool! Don’t speak to me any more.’ He hurried away -from me, and then turned round again at the door. ‘I spoke a little -wildly perhaps,’ he said, with a smile, which was more disagreeable than -his rage, ‘without due thought for Mrs. Reinhardt’s reputation. Make -yourself quite easy—she is my wife.’</p> - -<p>That was the last I saw of them. I was too much offended to go to the -door to see them leave the house, but it is impossible to describe the -relief with which I listened to the wheels ringing along the road as -they went away. Was it really true?—was this nightmare removed from me, -and my house my own again? I did not know whether to laugh or to cry. I -fell down on my knees and made some sort of confused thanksgiving. It -seemed to me as if I had been in this horrible bondage half my life.</p> - -<p>Mary came in about half-an-hour after to take away the breakfast things. -I had swallowed a cup of tea, but I had not been able to eat. Mary was -still disapproving, but quieter than at first; she shook her head over -the untouched food. ‘We’ll be having you ill next, ma’am,’ she said, -with an evident feeling that cook and she would in that case have good -reason to complain; and then, after a pause, she added severely, ‘I -don’t know if you knew, ma’am, as the lady is gone off in your best -shawl?’</p> - -<p>‘My shawl!’ I had thought no more of it: but this sudden news took away -my breath.</p> - -<p>‘She was always fond of it,’ said Mary grimly. ‘She liked the best of -everything did that lady; and she couldn’t make up her mind to take it -off when she went away.’</p> - -<p>Though I was so confounded and confused, I made an effort to keep up -appearances still. ‘She will send it back, of course, as soon as she -gets—home,’ I said; ‘as soon as she gets—her own things.’</p> - -<p>‘I am sure I hope so, ma’am,’ said Mary, carrying off her tray. Her tone -was not one to inspire hope in the listener, and I confess that for the -rest of the morning my shawl held a very large place in my thoughts. It -was the most valuable piece of personal property I possessed. When I -used to take it out and wrap it round me, it was always with a certain -pride. It was the kind of wrap which dignifies any dress. ‘With that -handsome shawl, it does not matter what else you wear,’ Mrs. Stoke was -in the habit of saying to me; and though Mrs. Stoke was not a great -authority in most matters, she knew what she was saying on this point. I -said to myself, ‘Of course she will send it back,’ but I had a very -chill sensation of doubt about my heart.</p> - -<p>All the morning I sat still over the fire, with a longing to go and talk -to some one. For more than a week now, I had not exchanged a word with -my neighbours, and this was terrible to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145"></a>{145}</span> a person like me, living -surrounded by so many whose lives had come to be a part of mine. But I -had not the courage to take the initiative. I cannot tell how I longed -for some one to come, for the ice to be broken. And it was only natural -that people should be surprised and offended, and even have learned to -distrust me. For who could they suppose I was hiding away like -that—some mysterious sinner belonging to myself—some one I had a -special interest in? And then she had been recognized by Everard Stoke!</p> - -<p>At about twelve o’clock my quietness was disturbed by the sound of some -one coming; my heart began to beat and my face to flush, but it was only -old White with his fellow-servant, Mississarah, as he called her, -pronouncing the two words as if they were one. Their visit put me in -possession of the whole miserable story. It was like a tale of -enchantment all through. The man had been a mature man of forty or more, -buried in science and learning, when he first saw the beautiful creature -who since seemed to have been the curse of his life. She was an -innkeeper’s daughter, untaught and unrefined. He had tried to educate -her, married her, done everything that a man mad with love could do to -make her a lady—nay, to make her a decorous woman—but he had failed -and over again failed. They did not tell me, and I did not wish to hear, -what special sins she had done against him. I suppose she had done -everything that a wicked wife could do. She had been put into honourable -retirement with the hope of recovery again and again. Then she had been -sent away in anger. But every time the unfortunate husband had fallen -under her personal influence—the influence of her beauty—she had been -taken back.</p> - -<p>‘She hates him,’ poor White said, almost crying, ‘but he can’t resist -her. He’s mad, ma’am, mad, that’s what it is. He could kill hisself for -giving in, but he can’t help hisself. We’ve had to watch him night and -day as he shouldn’t hear her nor see her, for when her money’s done she -always comes back to him. He’ll kill her some day or kill hisself. -Mississarah knows as I’m speaking true.’</p> - -<p>‘As true as the Bible,’ said Mississarah; but she was softer than he -towards the wife. ‘He was too wise and too good for her, ma’am,’ she -said, ‘a fool and a wise man can’t walk together—it’s hard on the wise -man, but maybe it’s a bit hard too on the fool. Folks don’t make -themselves. She mightn’t have been so bad——’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, go along; go along, Mississarah, do,’ said White. ‘We’ll have to go -off from here where all was quiet and nice, and start again without -knowing no more than Adam. But he’ll kill her, some day, you’ll see, or -he’ll kill hisself.’</p> - -<p>Mississarah was a north-country woman, and had a little feeling that her -master was a foreigner, and therefore necessarily more or less guilty; -but White was half a foreigner himself and totally devoted to his -master. When they had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146"></a>{146}</span> poured forth their sorrows to me, they went away -disconsolate, and their fears about leaving East Cottage were so soon -justified that I never saw them more.</p> - -<p>And then came my melancholy luncheon, which was set on the table for me, -and which I loathed the sight of. To escape from it I went into the -drawing-room, from which all traces of last night’s confusion were gone. -I was so miserable, and lonely, and weary that I think I dropped asleep -over the fire. I had been up almost all night, and there seemed nothing -so comfortable in all the world as forgetting one’s very existence and -being able to get to sleep.</p> - -<p>I woke with the murmur of voices in my ears. Lady Denzil was sitting by -me holding my hand. She gave me a kiss, and whispered to me in her soft -voice,—‘We know all about it—we know all about it, my dear,’ patting -me softly with her kind hand. I’m afraid I broke down and cried like a -child. I am growing old myself, to be sure, but Lady Denzil, thank -Heaven, might have been even my mother—and if you consider all the -agitation, all the disturbance I had come through!</p> - -<p>I think everybody on the Green called that day, and each visitor was -more kind than the other. ‘I shall always consider it a special -providence, however, that none of us called or were introduced to her,’ -Mrs. General Perronet said solemnly. But she was the only one who made -any allusion to the terrible guest I had been hiding in my house. They -took me out to get the air—they made me walk to the Dell to see the -autumn colour on the trees. They carried me off to dine at the Lodge, -and brought me home with a body-guard. ‘You are not fit to be trusted to -walk home by yourself,’ Lottie Stoke said, giving me her arm. In short, -the Green received me back with acclamations, as if I had been a -returned Prodigal, and I found that I could laugh over the new and most -unexpected <i>rôle</i>, which I thus found myself filling, as soon as the -next day.</p> - -<p>Some time after, I received my shawl in a rough parcel, sent by railway. -It was torn in two or three places by the pins it had been fastened -with, and had several small stains upon it. It was sent without a word, -without any apologies, with Mrs. Reinhardt’s compliments written outside -the brown paper cover, in a coarse hand. And that was the only direct -communication I ever had with my strange guest. Before Christmas however -there was a paragraph in some of the papers that L. Reinhardt, Esq., had -volunteered to accompany an expedition going to Africa in order to make -some scientific observations. There was a great crowded, enthusiastic -meeting of the Geographical Society, in which his wonderful devotion was -dwelt on and the sacrifice he was making to the interests of science. -And he was even mentioned in the House of Commons, where some great -personage took it upon him to say that in the arrangement of the -expedition the greatest assistance had been received from Mr. Reinhardt, -who, himself a man of wealth and leisure, had generously devoted his -energies<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147"></a>{147}</span> to it, and smoothed away a great many of the difficulties in -the way—a good work for which science and his country would alike be -grateful to him, said the orator. Oh, me! oh, me! I looked up in Lady -Denzil’s face as Sir Thomas read out these words to us. Sir Thomas took -it quite calmly, and was rather pleased indeed that Mr. Reinhardt, by -getting himself publicly thanked in the House of Commons, had justified -the impulse which prompted himself, Sir Thomas Denzil, head as it were -of society on the Green, to call upon him. But my lady laid her soft old -hand on mine, and her eyes filled with tears. ‘Do not let us blame him, -my dear,—do not let us blame him,’ she said to me when we were alone. -She had known what temptation was.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148"></a>{148}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="LADY_ISABELLA" id="LADY_ISABELLA"></a>LADY ISABELLA</h2> - -<h3>CHAPTER I</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">There</span> was one house in our neighbourhood which was perfect and above -criticism. I do not mean to say that it was a great house; but the very -sight of it was enough to make you feel almost bitter if you were poor, -and much pleased and approving if you were well-off. Naturally it was -the very next house to Mrs. Merridew’s, who had heaps of children and a -small income, and could not have things so very nice as might have been -wished. Mrs. Spencer and Lady Isabella lived within sight of her, with -but two holly-hedges between; the hedge on the side of the Merridews’ -house was bristly and untidy, but on the other side it was trimmed and -clipped till it looked like a barrier-wall of dark green Utrecht velvet; -and inside that inclosure everything was in perfection; the lawn was -mown every other day; there was never an obtrusive daisy on it, and no -fallen leaf presumed to lie for half an hour. The flower-beds which -surrounded it were more brilliant than any I ever saw—not mere vulgar -geraniums and calceolarias, but a continual variety, and always such -masses of colour. Inside everything was just as perfect. They had such -good servants, always the best trained of their class; such soft -carpets, upon which no step ever sounded harsh; and Mrs. Spencer’s ferns -were the wonder of the neighbourhood; and the flowers in the two -drawing-rooms were always just at the point of perfection, with never a -yellow leaf or a faded blossom. We poorer people sometimes tried to -console ourselves by telling each other that such luxury was monotonous. -‘Nothing ever grows and nothing ever fades,’ said Lottie Stoke, ‘but -always one eternal beautifulness; I should not like it if it were I. I -should like to watch them budding, and pick off the first faded leaves.’ -This Lottie said with confidence, though she was notoriously indifferent -to such cares, and declared, on other occasions, that she could not be -troubled with flowers, they required so much looking after; but poor -little Janet Merridew used to shake her head and groan with an innocent -envy that would bring the tears to her eyes; not that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149"></a>{149}</span> she wished to -take anything from her neighbours, but she loved beautiful things so -much, and they were so far out of her reach.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Spencer and Lady Isabella lived together in this beautiful house; -they were two friends so intimately allied, that I was in the habit of -saying they were more like man and wife than anything else. It was a -wonder to us all at Dinglefield how they managed their money matters in -respect to housekeeping. Many a little attempt I have seen to find this -out, and heard many a speculation; whether the house was Mrs. Spencer’s, -whether Lady Isabella only paid for her board, which of them was at the -expense of the carriage, or whether they kept a rigid account of all -their expenditure and divided it at the end of the year, as some -thought—nobody could make out. When they first came to Dinglefield it -was universally prophesied that it would not last. ‘Depend upon it, -these arrangements never answer,’ was the opinion of old Mr. Lloyd, who -was Mrs. Damerel’s father, and lived with them at the rectory. ‘They -will quarrel in three months,’ the Admiral said, who was not very -favourable to ladies. But when seven years had come and gone, Mrs. -Spencer and Lady Isabella still lived together and had not quarrelled. -By this time Lady Isabella, who was really quite young when they came, -must have been nearly five-and-thirty, and people had made up their -minds she would not marry now, so that the likelihood was, as it had -lasted so long, it would last all their lives. They did not, at the -first glance, look like people likely to suit each other. Mrs. Spencer -was a woman overflowing with activity; she was thin, she could not have -been anything else, so energetic was she, always in motion, setting -everybody right. She was shortsighted, or said she was shortsighted, so -far as the outer world was concerned, but in her own house, and in all -that involved her own affairs, she had the eye of a lynx; nothing -escaped her. It was she who kept everything in such beautiful order, and -made the lawns and the flowers the wonder of the neighbourhood. Lady -Isabella’s part was the passive one; she enjoyed it. She did not worry -her friend by pretending to take any trouble. She was full ten years -younger than Mrs. Spencer, inclining to be stout, pretty, but undeniably -inactive. I am afraid she was a little indolent, or, perhaps, in such -close and constant contact with her friend’s more active nature, Lady -Isabella had found it expedient to seem more indolent than she was. She -left all the burdens of life on Mrs. Spencer’s shoulders. Except the one -habitual walk in the day, which it was said Mrs. Spencer compelled her -to take, lest she should grow fat, we at Dinglefield only saw Lady -Isabella in her favourite easy-chair in the drawing-room, or her -favourite garden-bench on the lawn. Indolent—but not so perfectly -good-tempered as indolent people usually are, and fond of saying sharp -things without perhaps always considering the feelings of others. Indeed -she seemed to live on such a pinnacle of ease<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150"></a>{150}</span> and wealth and comfort, -that she must have found it difficult to enter into the feelings of such -as were harassed, or careworn, or poor. She had a way of begging -everybody not to make a fuss when anything happened; and I am afraid -most of us thought that a selfish regard for her own comfort lay at the -bottom of this love of tranquillity. I don’t think now that we were -quite right in our opinion of her. She had to go through a great deal of -fuss whether she liked it or not; and I remember now that when she -uttered her favourite sentiment she used to give a glance, half-comic, -half-pathetic, to where Mrs. Spencer was. But she bore with Mrs. -Spencer’s ‘ways’ as a wife bears with her husband. Mrs. Spencer had all -the worry and trouble, such as it was. Plenty of money is a great -sweetener of such cares; but still, to be sure, it was easy for Lady -Isabella to sit and laugh and adjure everybody not to make a fuss, when -she herself had no trouble about anything, never had even to scold a -servant, or turn an unsatisfactory retainer away.</p> - -<p>We were never very intimate, they and I; but it happened, one autumn -evening, that I went in to call rather out of the regular order of calls -which we exchanged punctiliously. When I say we were not intimate, I -only mean that there was no personal and individual attraction between -us. Of course we knew each other very well, and met twice or thrice -every week, as people do at Dinglefield. I had been calling upon Mrs. -Merridew, and I cannot tell what fascination one found—coming out of -that full house, which was as tidy as she could make it, but not, alas! -as tidy as it might have been—in the next house, which was so wonderful -a contrast, where the regions of mere tidiness were overpast, and good -order had grown into beauty and grace. I suppose it was the contrast. I -found myself going in at the other gate almost before I knew it; and -there I found Lady Isabella alone, seated in the twilight, for it was -growing dark, in her favourite corner, not very far from the fire. She -was not doing anything; and as I went in, I fancied, to my great -surprise, that something like the ghost of a sigh came to greet me just -half a moment in advance of Lady Isabella’s laugh. She had a way of -laughing, which was not disagreeable when one came to know her, though -at first people were apt to think that she was laughing at them.</p> - -<p>‘Mrs. Spen is out,’ she said, ‘and I am quite fatigued, for I have been -standing at my window watching the Merridew babies in their garden. They -look like nice little fat puppies among the grass; but it must be damp -for them at this time of the year.’</p> - -<p>‘Poor little things! there are so many of them that they get hardy; they -are not used to being looked after very much. Some people’s children -would be killed by it,’ said I.</p> - -<p>‘How lucky for the little Merridews that they are not those people’s -children!’ said Lady Isabella; ‘and I think they must like it, for it is -a great bore being looked after too much.’ As<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151"></a>{151}</span> she spoke she leant back -in her chair with something that sounded like another sigh. ‘I was -rather fond of babies once,’ she added, with a laugh which quickly -followed the sigh. ‘Absurd, was it not? but don’t say a word, or Mrs. -Spen will turn me out.’</p> - -<p>‘It would take more than that to part you two,’ said I.</p> - -<p>‘Well, I suppose it would. I think sometimes it would take a great deal. -Mrs. Mulgrave, do you know I have been turning it over in my mind -whether I could ask you to do something for me or not? and I think I -have decided that I will—that is not to say that you are to do it, you -know, unless you please.’</p> - -<p>‘I think most likely I shall please—unless it is something very unlike -you,’ said I.</p> - -<p>‘Well, it is unlike me,’ said Lady Isabella; and though I could not make -out her face in the least, I felt sure, by the sound of her voice, and a -certain movement she made, and an odd little laugh that accompanied her -words, that she was blushing violently in the dark. ‘At least, it is -very unlike anything you know of me. You might not think it, perhaps,’ -she went on, with again that little constrained laugh, ‘but do you know -I was young once?’</p> - -<p>‘My dear, I think you are young still,’ said I.</p> - -<p>‘Oh dear, no; that is quite out of the question. When a woman is over -thirty, she ought to give up all such ideas,’ said Lady Isabella, with -an amount of explanatoriness which I did not understand; and she began -to fold hems in her handkerchief in a nervous way. ‘When a woman is -thirty, she may just as well be fifty at once for any difference it -makes.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t think even fifty is anything so very dreadful,’ said I. ‘One’s -ideas change as one gets older; but twenty years make a wonderful -difference, whatever you may think.’</p> - -<p>‘Perhaps, for some things,’ she said hastily. ‘And you must know, Mrs. -Mulgrave, in that fabulous time when I was young other marvels existed. -They always do in the fabulous period in all histories; and there was -once somebody who was—or at least he said he was—in love with me. -There, the murder is out,’ she said, pushing her chair a little further -back into the dark corner; and, to my amazement, her voice was full of -agitation, as if she had been telling me the secret of her life.</p> - -<p>‘My dear Lady Isabella,’ I said, ‘do you really expect me to be -surprised at that?’</p> - -<p>‘Well, no, perhaps not,’ she said, with another laugh. ‘Not at the -simple fact. They say every woman has such a thing happen to her some -time in her life. Do you think that is true?’</p> - -<p>‘The people in the newspapers say it can’t be true,’ said I, -‘now-a-days: though I don’t think I ever knew a woman who had not——’</p> - -<p>‘Mrs. Spen will be back directly,’ cried Lady Isabella, hastily, ‘and I -don’t want her to know. I need not tell you that it all came to nothing, -for you can see that; but, Mrs. Mulgrave, now<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152"></a>{152}</span> comes the funny part of -it. His regiment is coming to the barracks, and he will be within five -miles of us. Is it not odd?’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t think it is at all odd,’ said I. ‘I dare say it is just in the -natural order. If it will be painful to you to meet him, Lady -Isabella——’</p> - -<p>‘That is the funniest of all,’ she said. ‘It will not be in the least -painful to me to meet him. On the contrary, I want to meet him. It is -very droll, but I do. I should so like to see what he looks like now, -and if his temper is improved, and a hundred things. Besides, his sister -used to be a great friend of mine; and when we broke it off I lost -Augusta too. I want so much to know about her. Indeed, that is my chief -reason,’ she went on faltering, ‘for wishing to meet him.’ The words -were scarcely spoken when she burst into a little peal of laughter. -‘What a stupid I am,’ she cried, ‘trying to take you in. No, Mrs. -Mulgrave, let me be honest; it is not for Augusta I want to see him. I -should so like just to make sure—you know—if I was a very great fool, -or if he was worth thinking of after all. Now,’ with a little sigh, -‘when one is perfectly dispassionate—and cool——’</p> - -<p>‘To be sure,’ said I, glad that it was dark, and she could not see me -smile; ‘and now that we have settled all that, tell me what I am to do.’</p> - -<p>‘You are so very kind,’ she said; and then went off again in that -agitated laugh. ‘I am betraying myself frightfully; but I am sure you -will understand me, Mrs. Mulgrave, and not think anything absurd. You -are sure to get acquainted with him, you know; and if you would ask him -to the cottage—and ask us to meet him—— Good heavens! what a fool you -must think me,’ she cried: ‘but I should like it, I confess.’</p> - -<p>‘But, my dear, I never give dinners,’ I said; ‘and to ask a man, a -strange man, to tea——’</p> - -<p>‘He would be sure to come—to you,’ she said very quickly, as if her -breath had failed her.</p> - -<p>‘But, my dear, you are just as likely as I am—more likely—to meet him -at other houses. It would be impossible otherwise. Not that I should -mind asking him—though it is so odd to ask a man to tea.’</p> - -<p>‘Hush!’ she said, suddenly leaning forward and grasping my arm. ‘Mrs. -Spen has told Lady Denzil—she meant it for kindness—so we shall not be -asked to meet him. And I do wish it, just for once. Hush, here she is -coming. I don’t want her to know.’</p> - -<p>‘Then, my dear, I will do it,’ said I, grasping her hand. It trembled -and was hot, and she grasped mine again in an agitated, impetuous way. -Could this be Lady Isabella, who was always so calm and self-possessed? -I was rather afraid of her in general, for she had the name of being -satirical; and this was entirely a new light on her character. But just -then Mrs. Spencer came<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153"></a>{153}</span> in, and scolded us for sitting in the dark, and -rang for lights; and then no more could be said.</p> - -<p>It was curious to look at the two when the lamp came. Mrs. Spencer -seated herself on her side of the fire, like the husband coming in from -his day’s work. She was a clever woman, but she was matter-of-fact, and -notwithstanding the long years they had lived together, was never quite -sure what was the meaning of her friend’s jibes and jests. It was this -as much as anything that gave a sort of conjugal character to their -relationship. Friends who were merely friends, and were so different, -would, one was inclined to suppose, have got rid of each other years -ago. But these two clung together in spite of all their differences, as -if there were some bond between them which they had to make the best of. -Mrs. Spencer began talking the moment she came in.</p> - -<p>‘I met Mrs. Damerel on the Green and she was asking for you, Isabella; -in short, she was quite surprised to see me out alone. “I thought Lady -Isabella always walked once a day at least,” she said. “And so she -pretends to do,” said I. And I told her what I said to you before I went -out about your health. Depend upon it your health will suffer. A young -woman at your age getting into these chimney-corner ways! Mrs. Mulgrave, -don’t you agree with me that it is very wrong?’</p> - -<p>‘Don’t scold me, please,’ said Lady Isabella, out of her corner; ‘if you -both fall upon me, I am rather nervous to-night, and I know I shall -cry.’</p> - -<p>At this Mrs. Spencer laughed; just as a husband would have done, taking -it for the merest nonsense; yet somehow propitiated, for there was an -inference of superior wisdom, importance, goodness on his—I mean -her—part, such as mollifies the marital mind. No one could have been -more utterly bewildered than she, had she known that what her friend -said was literally true. Lady Isabella had drawn a little screen between -her and the fire, which sheltered her also from the modest light of the -lamp; and I felt by the sound of her voice, that though, no doubt, she -could restrain herself, it would have been a relief to her to have shed -the tears which made her eyes hot and painful. She would have laughed, -probably, while she was shedding them, but that makes no difference.</p> - -<p>‘You don’t do enough, and Lady Denzil does too much,’ said Mrs. Spencer. -‘She surprises <i>me</i>, and I think I am as active as most people. I can’t -tell why she does it, I am sure. She is an old woman; it can’t be any -pleasure to her. There is a dinner-party there to-night, and another on -Saturday; and on Monday the dance for those young Fieldings that are -staying there—enough to kill a stronger woman. But these little, -fragile beings get through so much. She keeps up through it all and -never looks a pin the worse.’</p> - -<p>‘Are you going there to-night?’ said I. I had scarcely said it when I -saw a little flutter behind the screen, and felt it was a foolish -question. But it was too late.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154"></a>{154}</span></p> - -<p>‘No,’ said Mrs. Spencer, pointedly; and she looked straight at Lady -Isabella’s screen with a distinctness of intimation that this abstinence -was on her account, which would have puzzled me much but for the -previous explanation I had had. Words would have been much less -emphatic. She nodded her head a great many times, and she gave me a look -which promised further information. She was fond of her companion, and I -am sure would have sheltered her from pain at almost any cost to -herself; but yet she enjoyed the mystery, and the story which lay below. -‘All the officers from the barracks will be there,’ she added, after a -pause. ‘There is a Captain Fielding, an empty-headed—but they are all -empty-headed. I don’t care much about soldiers in an ordinary way, and I -dislike guardsmen. So does Isabella.’</p> - -<p>And then there followed one of those embarrassing pauses which come -against one’s will when there is any secret undercurrent which everybody -knows and nobody mentions. Lady Isabella sat perfectly silent, and I, -who ought to have come to the rescue,—I, after running wildly in my -mind over every topic of conversation possible,—at last rose to take my -leave, not finding anything to say.</p> - -<p>‘Are you going, Mrs. Mulgrave?’ said Lady Isabella. ‘I will go to the -door with you. I must show you the new flowers in the hall.’</p> - -<p>‘Good gracious, something must be going to happen,’ said Mrs. Spencer, -‘when Isabella volunteers to show you flowers. Don’t catch cold in the -draught; but it is too dark: you can’t possibly see any colour in them -now.’</p> - -<p>‘Never mind,’ said Lady Isabella in an undertone; and she hurried out -leading the way,—a thing I had never seen her do before. She made no -pretence about the flowers when we got out to the hall. It was quite -dark, and of course I could see nothing. She grasped my hand in a -nervous, agitated way. She was trembling,—she, who was always so steady -and calm. It was partly from cold, to be sure, but then the cold was -caused by emotion. ‘His name is Colonel Brentford,’ she whispered in my -ear; and then ran up-stairs suddenly, leaving me to open the door for -myself. I have received a great many confidences in my life, but seldom -any so strange as this. I did not know whether to laugh or to be sorry, -as I walked home thinking over it. Lady Isabella was the last person in -the world to be involved in any romance; and yet this was romantic -enough. And it was so difficult to make out how I could perform my part -in it. Ask a guardsman, a strange colonel, a <i>man</i>, to tea! I could not -but reflect how foolish I was, always undertaking things that were so -difficult to perform. But I was pledged to do it, and I could not go -back.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155"></a>{155}</span></p> - -<h3>CHAPTER II</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">I was</span> to dine at Sir Thomas Denzil’s that same evening, and so no doubt -would Mrs. Spencer and Lady Isabella have done, but for that obstacle -which the elder lady had set up and in which the younger seemed -determined to foil her. I dressed to go out, with my heart beating a -little quicker than usual. For myself, as may be supposed, the officers -from the barracks were not very much to me; but the undertaking with -which I suddenly found myself burdened was very serious, and made me -nervous in spite of myself; and then the man’s very name was strange to -me. I thought over all my acquaintances, and everybody I had ever known; -but I could not remember any one of the name of Brentford. There were -the Brentwoods of Northam, and the Bentleys, and a great many names came -up to my mind which sounded like it at the first glance; but I could not -recollect a single Brentford among all my acquaintance. ‘I wonder who -his mother was?’ I said to myself; for, to be sure, there might be a -means of getting at him in that way; but it was impossible to find out -at so short a notice. I almost felt as if I were a designing woman when -I went into Lady Denzil’s drawing-room—and so I was, though I did not -want to marry any of those unconscious warriors either personally or by -proxy. Little did Lady Denzil suspect, as I went up to her—trying to -look as innocent as possible—and little did the men of war think, of my -evil projects, as they looked blandly at me, and set me down as that -harmless and uninteresting being—an old lady. The one who took me in to -dinner was an elderly, sober-looking, quiet gentleman. He was a Major -Somebody, and I don’t think he was so fine as the others. I drew breath -when I had seated myself under his wing. It was a comfort to me to have -escaped the young ones, who never forgive you, when they have to take -you in to dinner, for not being young and pretty. This was a man who had -no pretensions above me—a man, probably, with a wife of his own and a -large family, whom one could speak to freely and ask questions of. But -before I would go so far, I made what private inspection I could. It was -quite evident to me where the gap was which Mrs. Spencer and Lady -Isabella ought to have filled. It had been hastily filled up by Lottie -and Lucy Stoke, who were very much more to the taste of the guardsmen, I -don’t doubt, than if they had been their own grandmothers, ladies of -county influence and majesty. Lucy, whose blue eyes were dancing in her -head with mingled fright and delight to find herself in such a grand -party, sat by a handsome dark man, to whom my eyes returned a great many -times. He looked the kind of man whom a woman might be faithful to for -years. Could it be <i>him?</i> He was amused with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156"></a>{156}</span> Lucy’s excitement and her -fright; perhaps he was flattered by it as men so often are. After a -little while, I could see he took great pains to make himself agreeable; -and I felt quite angry and jealous, though I am sure I could not have -told why.</p> - -<p>‘Perhaps you recognize him?’ my companion said to me, as he caught me -watching this pair across the table. ‘He is one of the Elliots. His -father had a place once in this neighbourhood. I am sure you must -recollect his face.’</p> - -<p>‘No, indeed,’ said I, denying by instinct. ‘That gentleman opposite—is -his name Elliot? I was looking at the young lady by him. She is a little -friend of mine, and I am petrified to find her here. I did not think she -was out.’</p> - -<p>‘That is why she likes it so well, I suppose,’ said the Major with a -little sigh.</p> - -<p>‘I am afraid you don’t enjoy it much,’ said I. ‘Pray forgive me for -being so very stupid. I should like to know which of these gentlemen is -Colonel Brentford. I have heard his name—I should like to know which is -he.’</p> - -<p>‘He is sitting beside Lady Denzil,’ said my companion shortly; and he -said no more. His brevity startled me. I think Colonel Brentford from -that moment began to lose in my opinion. I grew more and more frightened -by the thought of what I had undertaken to do. I began to think it was a -great pity Lady Isabella, a sensible woman, should waste a thought upon -this soldier—and all for no reason in the world but that my Major -announced curtly, ‘He is sitting beside Lady Denzil,’ without adding a -word to say, ‘I like him,’ or ‘He is a very nice fellow,’ or anything -agreeable. I concluded he must be a bear or a brute, or something -utterly frivolous and uninteresting. It never occurred to me that it -might be my Major and not the unknown Colonel who was to blame. And I -had pledged myself to ask such a man as this to tea!</p> - -<p>We had gone back to the drawing-room before I got what I could call a -good look at him; and then I was even more disappointed to find that he -was as far from looking a brute or a bear as he was from looking a hero. -There was nothing remarkable about him; he was neither handsome nor -ugly; he was neither young nor old. He stood and talked a long time to -Lady Denzil, and his voice was pleasant, but the talk was about -nothing—it was neither stupid nor clever. He was a man of negatives it -seemed. I was dreadfully disappointed for Lady Isabella’s sake. I could -not help figuring to myself what her feelings would be. No doubt he had -been young when they had known each other, and youth has often a -deceiving glitter about it, which never comes to anything. Chance threw -my Major in my way again at that advanced period of the evening. He said -to me, ‘We have a long drive and the night is chilly, and I wish I could -get my young fellows into motion. These proceedings don’t always agree -with the taste of a man at my time<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157"></a>{157}</span> of life; and my wife is always -fidgety when I am out late—it is her way.’</p> - -<p>‘Mrs. Bellinger is not here to-night?’ I said.</p> - -<p>‘No, we are quite new to the place, and Lady Denzil has not had time to -call yet: my wife, I am sure, would be delighted if you would go and see -her. She is rather delicate, and far from her friends. Colonel Brentford -is the only one——’ And here he stopped short with an abruptness that -made me hate Colonel Brentford and repent my temerity more and more.</p> - -<p>‘I am so sorry you don’t seem to have a favourable opinion of him,’ I -said; ‘not that I know him, but I have heard some friends of mine—— -Oh, I am sure you did not mean to say a word against him——’</p> - -<p>‘Against him!’ said the Major, stammering; ‘why, he is my best friend! -He is the kindest fellow I know! He goes and sits with my wife when -nobody else thinks of her. I don’t want to find fault with any one; but -Brentford—he is the man I am most grateful to in all the world!’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, I beg your pardon!’ I cried. Good heavens! what a very bad manner -the man must have had to give one such a false idea. ‘I shall do myself -the pleasure of calling on Mrs. Bellinger early next week,’ I said; -after all, it did not seem so insane to ask a man who was in the habit -of going to sit with an invalid lady. And then a kind of inspiration -stole into my mind. Afternoon tea! that was the thing; not an evening -party, with all its horrors—which every man hates.</p> - -<p>I don’t know what Lady Denzil could think of me that evening; but I -stayed until everybody had gone, with a determination to hear something -more about him. I think she was surprised; but then she is one of those -women who understand you, even when they don’t in the least know what -you mean. That seems foolish, but it is quite true. She saw I had a -motive, and she forgave me, though she was tired, and Sir Thomas looked -surprised.</p> - -<p>‘The fly has never come back for me,’ I said. ‘I must ask you to let -George walk across the Green with me. I have got my big shawl, and I -don’t mind the cold.’</p> - -<p>‘Wait a little now they have all gone, and let us have a talk,’ said -Lady Denzil. What a blessing it is to have to do with a woman who -understands!</p> - -<p>‘Our new friends are very much like all the others, I think,’ said I. -‘Captain Fielding seems nice. Is he brother or cousin to those pretty -girls?’</p> - -<p>‘Brother, or I should not have him here,’ said Lady Denzil; ‘I have no -confidence in cousins. Colonel Brentford looks sensible. I should not -have thought him likely to do anything so foolish as that business you -know. I suppose Mrs. Spencer must have told you.’</p> - -<p>‘No,’ I said, with a little thrill running through me; for, of course, -it was something about Lady Isabella that was meant—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158"></a>{158}</span>and I was actually -an agent employed in the matter, and knew, and yet did not know.</p> - -<p>‘Lady Isabella and he were once engaged to be married,’ said Lady -Denzil, speaking low. ‘Don’t mention this, unless Mrs. Spencer tells -you; but she is sure to tell you. And they quarrelled about some silly -trifle. Mrs. Spencer says he flew into a passion, and that Lady Isabella -had to give him up on account of his temper. He does not look like it, -does he? Mrs. Spencer is most anxious that they should not meet.’</p> - -<p>‘Do you think it is right to prevent people meeting, if they wish it?’ -said I; ‘perhaps Lady Isabella might think differently.’</p> - -<p>‘It is best never to interfere,’ said Lady Denzil; ‘that is my -principle—unless I am sure I can be of real use. Are you going now? You -must wrap up well, for the night is rather cold.’</p> - -<p>‘So my Major thought,’ I said to myself, as I went across the Green; and -I could not but smile at the thought of the poor gentleman buttoning up -his great-coat as he drove with all those wild young fellows on their -drag. Very likely he felt they might upset him at any moment driving -through the dark—and it was a very dark night. My sympathies were much -attracted by this good man. He had to give in to them a great deal, and -put up with their foolish ways. I could not help wondering whether he -had ever had such a commission given to him as mine; and then I -reflected that Lady Isabella was not even young to be humoured and have -her fancies given in to. The Colonel looked a sensible, commonplace sort -of man, with whom nobody had any right to quarrel. And perhaps Mrs. -Spencer was right in doing her utmost to keep them apart. Perhaps Mrs. -Spencer was right; but then, on the other hand, Lady Isabella was old -enough to know her own mind and decide for herself. Such were the -various thoughts that passed through my mind as I took that little walk -through the dark with George behind me. It was a perplexing business -altogether. But that I should be mixed up in it! I could not but take -myself to task, and ask myself what call had I to be thus mixed up with -every sort of foolish business—a woman of my age?</p> - -<p>I saw Lady Isabella two days after. She came running in quite early, -before luncheon, to my extreme surprise, and gave me a wistful look of -inquiry which went to my very heart. She could not say anything however, -for the Fielding girls were with me, talking of nothing but the dance -which Lady Denzil was going to give for them. They assailed Lady -Isabella directly, the moment she entered.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, why are not you coming on Monday? Oh, Lady Isabella, do change your -mind and come. It will be such a pretty dance. And all the officers are -coming, so that there will be no want of partners. Lady Denzil says she -always asks more men than ladies. Oh, Lady Isabella, do come!’</p> - -<p>‘That is very wise of Lady Denzil,’ said Lady Isabella; ‘but I wonder -how the extra men like it. No; I don’t think I shall<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159"></a>{159}</span> go. I shall see -all the officers, perhaps, another time.’ And with that she gave me -another look which made me tremble, holding me to my word.</p> - -<p>‘Perhaps you don’t dance,’ said Emma Fielding. ‘Oh, it is such a pity -you won’t come.’</p> - -<p>‘My husband won’t let me,’ said Lady Isabella; ‘and, by the by, she will -be waiting for me now. I had something to ask, but never mind, another -time will do.’</p> - -<p>She asked the question all the same with her eyes. She looked at me -almost sternly, inquiring, as plainly as words, ‘Have you done it? Is my -commission fulfilled?’ which I could only answer by a deprecating, -humble look, begging her as it were to have patience with me. She shook -her head slightly as she shook hands with me, and smiled, and then she -sighed. That was the worst of all. I read a reproach in the sound of -that sigh.</p> - -<p>‘What does she mean by her husband?’ said Edith Fielding. ‘Is she -married, and does she call her husband “she”? Isn’t she very queer? That -sort of person always bewilders me.’</p> - -<p>I could not help saying, ‘I dare say she does,’ with a certain -irritation. As if it were within the bounds of possibility that -creatures like these should understand Lady Isabella. And yet, alas! if -she were entering into the lists with them, how could she ever stand -against them? She, five-and-thirty, and a little stout; they, eighteen -and nineteen. Is there a man in the world that would not turn to the -young ones, and leave the mature woman? That was the question I asked -myself. I don’t think I am cynical; I have not a bad opinion of my -fellow-creatures in general; but still there are some matters which one -knows beforehand. The first thing to be done however was to make -acquaintance with Colonel Brentford as soon as possible. I had promised -to go to the dance, to take Lottie and Lucy Stoke; but then he would be -dancing; he would not want to stand in a corner and talk to an old woman -like me. Lady Isabella, at five-and-thirty, had given up dancing; but -this man, though he was nearly five years older, of course did not think -of giving it up. Most likely he felt himself on the level of the -Fieldings and Stokes and the other girls, not on that of his old love. -Men and women are so different. But, at all events, I would do nothing -before Monday: and in the meantime, I had promised to go and call on -Major Bellinger’s invalid wife. There had been something about him that -pleased me. Not that he was attractive; but he had the look of a man who -was not always at his ease, who had cares and perplexities in his life, -and perhaps could not always make both ends meet. I always recognize -that look. I am not very rich now, and never will be; but I once was -poor, quite poor, and I know the look of it, and it goes to my heart.</p> - -<p>Accordingly, the first day I was at liberty I drove into Royalborough to -see Mrs. Bellinger. They were in a little house—one of the houses which -people take for the purpose of letting<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160"></a>{160}</span> them to the officers. It was -opposite to a tall church, a three-storied house, with two rooms on each -floor all the way up. There was a little oblong strip of garden in front -and another oblong strip behind; and everything about it gave evidence -that it was let furnished. But the little garden was rather pretty, and -there was a virginian creeper hanging in rich red wreaths upon the -walls. The drawing-room was the front room on the ground-floor. When I -was shown in, it seemed to me that I interrupted the prettiest domestic -scene. A lady, who looked very fragile and weak, though not ill, lay on -a sofa in the room. Of course, she was Mrs. Bellinger. She was about -forty, perhaps,—not much older than Lady Isabella. She had a lovely -invalid complexion, a soft, delicate flush which came and went with -every movement; her hair was beginning to get gray, and was partially -covered by a cap. She looked very weak, very worn, very sweet and -smiling, and cheerful. Near her, on a low chair, sat a gentleman with a -book in his hand. He had been reading aloud, and had just stopped when I -came to the door; and in front of him, at a little distance, seated on a -stool, just by her mother’s feet, sat a girl of seventeen or so, with -her head bent over her work. This was Edith, the Major’s favourite -child, the only one at home. And the gentleman who had been reading -aloud was Colonel Brentford, the man about whom my mind had been busy -night and day.</p> - -<p>I took the chair that was given me, and I began to talk, but all the -freedom and ease were taken out of me. I felt as if I had received a -blow. Poor Lady Isabella! I had already perceived that to put herself in -competition with the young girls would be a hopeless notion indeed; but -it was no longer the girls in general, some of whom were empty-headed -enough, but Edith Bellinger in particular. Poor Lady Isabella! If she -saw him once like this, I said to myself, she would not wish to see him -again!</p> - -<p>‘My husband told me you were going to be so good,’ said the invalid. ‘He -told me how kind you had been, asking for me. I am really quite well for -me, and I am sure I could do a great deal more if they would but let me. -Hush, Edie! I am dreadfully petted and spoiled, Mrs. Mulgrave. They make -a baby of me, and Colonel Brentford is so kind as to come and read——’</p> - -<p>‘It is very good of him, I am sure,’ I said mechanically; and then, -without knowing what I was doing, I looked at Edith. She was quite -unconscious of any meaning in my look. She smiled at me in return with -all the sweet composure yet shyness of a child. Would he be equally -unconscious? I raised my eyes and looked steadily at him. He bore my -scrutiny very well indeed. I knew there was an angry flush on my face -which I could not quite conceal, and an eager look of inquiry. It -puzzled him, there was no doubt. A vague sort of wonder came into his -eyes, and he smiled too. What could the old woman mean? I am sure he was -thinking. Edith was very pretty, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161"></a>{161}</span> then a great many girls are -pretty. What was particular about her was her sweet look, which moved me -even though I was so hostile to her. One saw she was ready to run -anywhere, to do anything, at the least little glance from her mother. -She was mending stockings—the homeliest work—and she looked such a -serviceable, useful creature—so different from those Fielding girls, -who thought of nothing but the dance. To be sure, the stockings and the -useful look were much more likely to please me than to attract a -guardsman; but I did not think of that in my sudden jealousy of her. -Poor, poor Lady Isabella!</p> - -<p>And he did not go away, as he would have done had this been a chance -visit. He kept his place, and joined in the conversation as if he -belonged to the house. When I asked Mrs. Bellinger to come and see me, -he seconded me quite eagerly. He was sure she was able, he said; while -Edith put her pretty head on one side, and looked very wise and very -doubtful.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Colonel Brentford, please don’t be so rash—please don’t!’ said -Edith. ‘It is very, very kind of Mrs. Mulgrave, but we must think it -over first—we must indeed.’</p> - -<p>‘I will send my pony,’ said I; ‘he is the steadiest little fellow, and -it is such a pretty drive. The weather is so mild that I am sure it -would do you good.’</p> - -<p>‘Now, Edith, please let me go,’ said the invalid. ‘Do not be such a -little hard-hearted inexorable—Colonel Brentford is the kindest of you -all. He is ready to let me have a little indulgence, and so is the -Major, Mrs. Mulgrave; but Edith is the most odious little tyrant——’</p> - -<p>‘Mamma dear, it is for your good,’ said Edith with the deepest gravity; -and the mother and the friend looked at each other and laughed. How -pretty it was to see her shaking her young head, looking so serious, so -judicious, so full of care! ‘No wonder if he is fond of her,’ I said to -myself. I felt my own heart melting; but, all the same, I steeled it -against her, feeling that I was on the other side.</p> - -<p>‘And I am sure,’ I said with an effort—for it seemed almost like -encouraging him—‘I shall be very glad to see Colonel Brentford too; if -you will take the trouble to come so far for a cup of tea?’</p> - -<p>He said it would give him the greatest pleasure, with a cordiality that -made me cross, and got up and took his leave, shaking hands with me in -his friendliness. Why was he so friendly, I wonder? When he was gone, -Mrs. Bellinger launched into his praises.</p> - -<p>‘You must not think it is only me he is good to,’ she said; ‘he is kind -to everybody. People laugh at the guardsmen, and make fun of them; but -if they only knew George Brentford! Because they see him everywhere in -society, they think he is just as frivolous as the rest. But if they -knew what kind of places he goes to when nobody sees him—as we do, -Edith?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, mamma,’ said Edith, as calm as any cabbage. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162"></a>{162}</span> mother was quite -moved by her gratitude and enthusiasm, but the daughter took it all very -quietly. ‘He means to be very kind, but he is rash,’ said the little -wise woman; ‘he gives the boys knives and things, though he knows they -always cut themselves. He thinks so much more of pleasing people than of -what is right. If Mrs. Mulgrave would leave it open, mamma dear, and -then we could see how you are.’</p> - -<p>This was how it was finally decided; indeed, before I left, even after -that first visit, I could see that things were generally decided as -Edith thought best. They were to come on Saturday—the Saturday before -the ball—if Mrs. Bellinger was well enough; and Colonel Brentford was -to come too. I asked myself all the way back what Lady Isabella would -think of the arrangement. That was not how she expected to meet him. She -had wanted to see her old love—a man whom (I could not but feel) she -had never quite put out of her heart—perhaps only to prove herself, -perhaps to try if any lingerings of the old tenderness remained in him. -And now that it was arranged, and she was really to see him, it was in -company of a young bright creature who, there could be little doubt, was -all to him that Lady Isabella had ever been. What a shock and bitter -dispelling of all dreams for her! but yet, perhaps, to do that at once -and at a blow was kindest after all.</p> - -<h3>CHAPTER III</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">As</span> I drove home, strangely enough, I met the ladies on their afternoon -walk. Mrs. Spencer was in advance as usual, talking rapidly and with -animation, while Lady Isabella lagged a step behind, pausing to look at -the ripe brambles and the beautiful ruddy autumn leaves.</p> - -<p>‘Just look what a bit of colour,’ she was saying when I came up; but -Mrs. Spencer’s mind, it was evident, was full of other things.</p> - -<p>‘I wonder how you can care for such nonsense,’ she said; ‘I never saw -any one so unexcitable. After me fussing myself into a fever, to -preserve you from this annoyance! and I knew it would be too much for -you——’</p> - -<p>‘Hush!’ said Lady Isabella, emphatically, and then Mrs. Spencer -perceived the pony carriage for the first time, and restrained herself. -She changed her tone in a moment, and came up to me with her alert step -when I drew the pony up.</p> - -<p>‘What a nice afternoon for a drive,’ she said; ‘have you been at -Royalborough?—is there anything going on? I have dragged Isabella out -for a walk, as usual much against her will.’</p> - -<p>‘I have been to make a call,’ I said, ‘on a poor invalid, the wife of -Major Bellinger.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, yes! I know, I know,’ said Mrs. Spencer; ‘he is to be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163"></a>{163}</span> the -barrack-master. He rose from the ranks, I think, or something—very -poor, and a large family. I know quite what sort of person she would be. -The kind of woman that has been pretty, and has quite broken down with -children and trouble—I know. It was very good of you; quite like -yourself.’</p> - -<p>‘If it was very good of me, I have met with a speedy reward,’ said I, -‘for I have quite fallen in love with her—and her daughter. They are -coming to me on Saturday—if Mrs. Bellinger is able—for afternoon tea.’</p> - -<p>‘I know exactly the kind of person,’ said Mrs. Spencer, nodding her -head. ‘Ah, my dear Mrs. Mulgrave, you are always so good, and so——’</p> - -<p>‘Easily taken in,’ she was going to say, but I suppose I looked very -grave, for she stopped.</p> - -<p>‘Is the daughter pretty, too?’ said Lady Isabella: a flush had come upon -her face, and she looked at me intently, waiting, I could see, for a -sign. She understood that this had something to do with the commission -she had given me. And I was so foolish as to think she had divined my -thoughts, and had fixed upon Edith, by instinct, as an obstacle in her -way.</p> - -<p>‘Never mind the daughter,’ I said hastily, ‘but do come on Saturday -afternoon, and see if I am not justified in liking the mother. I dare -say they are not very rich, but they are not unpleasantly poor, or, if -they are, they don’t make a show of it; and a little society, I am sure, -would do her all the good in the world.’</p> - -<p>This time Lady Isabella looked so intently at me, that I ventured to -give the smallest little nod just to show her that I meant her to come. -She took it up in a moment. Her face brightened all over. She made me a -little gesture of thanks and satisfaction. And she put on instantly her -old laughing, lively, satirical air.</p> - -<p>‘Of course we shall come,’ she said, ‘even if this lady were not sick -and poor. These qualities are great temptations to us, you are aware; -but even if she were just like other people we should come.’</p> - -<p>‘Well, Isabella!’ said Mrs. Spencer, ‘you who are so unwilling to go -anywhere!’ but of course she could not help adding a civil acceptance of -my invitation; and so that matter was settled more easily than I could -have hoped.</p> - -<p>I saw them the next day—once more by accident. We were both calling at -the same house, and Lady Isabella seized the opportunity to speak to me. -She drew me apart into a corner, on pretence of showing me something. -‘Look here,’ she said, with a flush on her face, ‘tell me, do you think -me a fool—or worse? That is about my own opinion of myself.’</p> - -<p>‘No,’ I said, ‘indeed I don’t. I think you are doing what is quite -right. This is not a matter which concerns other people, that you should -be guided by them, but yourself.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, it does not concern any one very much,’ she said, with a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164"></a>{164}</span> forced -laugh. ‘I am not so foolish as to think <i>that</i>. It is a mere piece of -curiosity—folly. The fact is, one does not grow wise as one grows old, -though of course one ought. And—he is—really to be there on Saturday? -Despise me, laugh at me, make fun of me!—I deserve it, I know.’</p> - -<p>‘He is really to come—I hope.’ I said it faltering, with a sense of -fright at my own temerity: and Lady Isabella gave me a doubtful, -half-suspicious look as she left me. Now that it had come so near I grew -alarmed, and doubted much whether I should have meddled. It is very -troublesome having to do with other people’s affairs. It spoiled my rest -that night, and my comfort all day. I almost prayed that Saturday might -be wet, that Mrs. Bellinger might not be able to come. But, alas! -Saturday morning was the brightest, loveliest autumn morning, all -wrapped in a lovely golden haze, warm and soft as summer, yet subdued -and chastened and sweet as summer in its heyday never is: and the first -post brought me a note from Edith, saying that her mamma felt so well, -and was so anxious to come. Accordingly, I had to make up my mind to it. -I sent the pony carriage off by twelve o’clock, that the pony might have -a rest before he came back, and I got out my best china, and had my -little lawn carefully swept clean of faded leaves, and my flower-beds -trimmed a little. They were rather untidy with the mignonette, which had -begun to grow bushy, but then it was very sweet; and the asters and red -geraniums looked quite gay and bright. My monthly rose, too, was covered -with flowers. I am very fond of monthly roses; they are so sweet and so -pathetic in autumn, remonstrating always, and wondering why summer -should be past; or at least that is the impression they convey to me. I -know some women who are just like them, women who have a great deal to -bear, and cannot help feeling surprised that so much should be laid upon -them; yet who keep on flowering and blossoming in spite of all, -brightening the world and keeping the air sweet, not for any reason, but -because they can’t help it. My visitor who was coming was, I think, -something of that kind.</p> - -<p>The first of the party to arrive were Major Bellinger and Colonel -Brentford; they had walked over, and the Major was very eloquent about -my kindness to his wife. ‘Nothing could possibly do her so much good,’ -he said. ‘I don’t know how to thank you, Mrs. Mulgrave. Brentford says -he made up his mind she must go the very first minute, whether she could -or not—he said he was so sure you would do her good.’</p> - -<p>‘I am very glad Colonel Brentford had such a favourable opinion of me,’ -I said.</p> - -<p>Then I stopped short, feeling very much embarrassed. If Lady Isabella -had only come in <i>then</i>, before the ladies arrived—but, of course, she -did not. She came only after Mrs. Bellinger was established on the sofa, -and Edith had taken off her hat. They looked quite a family party, I -could not but feel. Colonel<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165"></a>{165}</span> Brentford, probably, was very nearly as old -as the Major himself, and quite as old as the Major’s wife; but then he -had the unmarried look which of itself seems a kind of guarantee of -youth, and his face was quite free of that cloud of care which was more -or less upon both their faces. He was standing outside the open window -with Edith when Mrs. Spencer and Lady Isabella came in. He did not see -them. He was getting some of the monthly roses for her, which were high -up upon the verandah. It was so high that it was very seldom we were -able to get the flowers; but he was a tall man, and he managed it. Lady -Isabella perceived him at once, and I saw a little shiver run over her. -She gave Mrs. Bellinger, poor soul, but a very stiff salutation, and sat -down on a chair near the window. She did not notice the girl. She had -not thought of Edith, and no sort of suspicion as yet had been roused in -her. She sat down quietly, and waited until he should come in.</p> - -<p>How strange it was!—all bright full sunshine, no shadow or mystery to -favour the romance; the Bellingers and Mrs. Spencer talking in the most -ordinary way; the Colonel outside, pulling down the branch of pale -roses; and Edith smiling, shaking off some dewdrops that had fallen from -them upon her pretty hair. All so ordinary, so calm, so peaceable—but -Lady Isabella seated there, silent, waiting—and I looking on with a -chill at my very heart. He was a long time before he came in—talking to -Edith was pleasant out in that verandah, with all the brilliant sunshine -about, and the russet trees so sweet in the afternoon haze.</p> - -<p>‘You shall have some,’ he said; ‘but we must give some to your mother -first.’</p> - -<p>And then he came in with the branch in his hand. I don’t know whether -some sense of suppressed excitement in the air struck him as he paused -in the window, but he did stand still there, and looked round him with -an inquiring look. He had not left so many people in the room as were in -it now, and he was surprised. He looked at me, and then I suppose my -agitated glance directed him, in spite of myself, to Lady Isabella. He -gave a perceptible start when he saw her, and smothered an exclamation. -He recognized her instantly. His face flushed, and the branch of roses -in his hand trembled. All this took place quite unobserved by anybody -but me, and, perhaps, Edith, outside the window, who was coming in after -him, and now stood on tiptoe, trying to see what was going on and -wondering. Lady Isabella looked up at him with a face so uncertain in -its expression that my terror was great. Was she angry? Was she going to -betray herself, and show the nervous irritability which possessed her? -She was very pale—white to her lips; and he so flushed and startled. -She looked up at him, and then her lips parted and she smiled.</p> - -<p>‘I think <i>I</i> should like one of the roses,’ she said.</p> - -<p>Colonel Brentford did not say a word. He made her a bow, and with a -trembling hand (how it did tremble!—it made me<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166"></a>{166}</span> shake with sympathy to -see it) he detached a spray from the great branch, which was all pink -with roses, and gave it to her; and then he went away into the furthest -corner, throwing down his roses on a table as he passed, and stared out -of the window. To him the meeting was quite unexpected, I -suppose—something utterly startling and sudden. The talk went on all -the same. Edith, surprised, came in, and stood with her back to the open -window, looking after him in a state of bewilderment. He had gone in -smiling, to give her mother the flowers; and now he was standing with -his back to us, the flowers cast down anywhere. As for Lady Isabella, -she had buried her face in her roses, and sat quite silent, taking no -notice of any one. Such was this meeting, which I had brought about. And -all the time I had to talk to Major Bellinger, and look as if I were -attending to what he said.</p> - -<p>‘Does Edith sing?’ I asked in desperation. ‘I am so glad! Do sing us -something, my dear—oh, anything—and the simpler the better. How nice -it is of you not to want your music! My piano is not in very good order, -I play so seldom now; but it will not matter much to your young fresh -voice.’</p> - -<p>I said this, not knowing what I was saying, and hurried her to the -piano, thinking, if she sang ever so badly, it still would be a blessed -relief amid all this agitation and excitement.</p> - -<p>‘I only sing to mamma,’ said Edith. ‘I will try if you wish it; but papa -does not care for my singing—and Colonel Brentford hates it,’ she -added, raising her voice.</p> - -<p>There was a little spite, a little pique, in what Edith said. She was -confounded by his sudden withdrawal, and anxious to call him back and -punish him. This however was not the effect her words produced. Colonel -Brentford took no notice, and kept his back towards us; but on another -member of our little company the effect was startling enough.</p> - -<p>‘Colonel Brentford!’ said Mrs. Spencer with a little shriek; and her -nice comfortable commonplace talk with Mrs. Bellinger came to an end at -once. She got up and came to me, and drew me into another corner. ‘For -Heaven’s sake,’ she said, ‘tell me, what did the girl mean? Colonel -Brentford! He is the one man in all the world whom we must not meet. -That is not him surely at the window? Oh, good heavens! what is to be -done? I wanted to tell you, but I never had an opportunity. Mrs. -Mulgrave, he was once engaged to Isabella. They had a quarrel, and it -nearly cost her her life. I think I would almost have given mine to -preserve her from this trial. Has she seen him?—Oh, my poor dear! my -poor dear!’</p> - -<p>Let anybody imagine what was the scene presented in my drawing-room now. -Colonel Brentford at the other end, with his back to us all, gazing out -at the window: Major Bellinger at one side of the room, and his wife at -the other, suddenly deserted by the people they had been respectively -talking to, looking across at each other with raised eyebrows and -questioning<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167"></a>{167}</span> looks. Edith, confused and half-offended, stood before the -closed piano, where I had led her; and Mrs. Spencer holding me by the -arm in the opposite corner to that occupied by Colonel Brentford, was -discoursing close to my ear with excited looks and voluble utterance. -And these people were strangers to me, not like familiar friends, who -could wait for an explanation. I could only whisper in Mrs. Spencer’s -ear, ‘For heaven’s sake, do not let us make a scene now—let us keep -everything as quiet as possible now!’</p> - -<p>Just then Lady Isabella suddenly rose from her seat, and sat down beside -Mrs. Bellinger, and began to talk to her. I could not quite hear how she -began, but I made out by instinct, I suppose, what she was saying:</p> - -<p>‘I cannot ask Mrs. Mulgrave to introduce me, for I see she is occupied; -but I know who you are, and you must let me introduce myself. I am Lady -Isabella Morton, and I live here with a great friend of mine. Colonel -Brentford and I used to know each other long ago——’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ said Mrs. Bellinger, drawing her breath quickly; ‘I think I have -heard——’</p> - -<p>‘He was startled to see me,’ said Lady Isabella. ‘Of course, he did not -expect—but we are always meeting people we don’t expect. Your daughter -is going to sing. Hush! please hush! I want to hear it,’ she cried, -raising her hand with a little sign to the Major, who looked as though -he might be going to talk. Every word she said was audible through the -room, her voice was so clear and full.</p> - -<p>Colonel Brentford turned round slowly. He turned almost as if he were a -man upon a pedestal, which some pivot had the power to move. Either it -was her voice which attracted him, or he had heard what she said, or -perhaps he was recovering from the shock of the first meeting.</p> - -<p>It was at this moment that Edith began to sing. I do not know what her -feelings were, or if she cared anything about it; but certainly all the -rest of the party, with the exception of her father and mother, were -excited to such a strange degree, that I felt as if some positive -explosion must occur. How is it that fire and air, and all sorts of -senseless things, cause explosions, and that human feeling does not? -Edith’s girlish, fresh voice, rising out of the midst of all this -electrified one. It was a pretty voice singing one of the ordinary -foolish songs, which are all alike—a voice without the least passion or -even sentiment in it, sweet, fresh, guiltless of any feeling. Lady -Isabella leaned back in her chair, and listened with a faint smile upon -her face; Colonel Brentford stood undecided between her and the piano, -sometimes making a half-movement towards the singer, but turning his -eyes the other way; while Mrs. Spencer, on the other side of the room, -sat with her hands clasped, and gazed at her friend. The two Bellingers -listened as people listen to the singing of their child; a soft little -complacent smile was on the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168"></a>{168}</span> mother’s face. When Edith approached a -false note, or when she was a little out in her time, Mrs. Bellinger -gave a quick glance round to see if anybody noticed it, and blushed, as -it were, under her breath. The Major kept time softly with his finger; -and we—listened with our hearts thumping in our ears, bewildered by the -pleasant little song in its inconceivable calm, and yet glad of the -moment’s breathing time.</p> - -<p>‘Thank you, my dear,’ said I, when the song was done; and we all said -‘Thanks’ with more or less fervour, while the parents, innocent people, -looked on well pleased.</p> - -<p>And then I went to Edith at the piano, and asked all about her music, -what masters she had had, and a thousand other trifles, not hearing what -she answered me. But I did hear something else. I heard Colonel -Brentford speak to Lady Isabella, and took in every word. There was -nothing remarkable about it; but he spoke low, as if his words meant -more than met the ear.</p> - -<p>‘I knew you were living here,’ was all he said.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, I suppose so,’ said Lady Isabella. She had been quite calm before, -but I knew by her voice she was flurried now. And then there followed -that little agitated laugh, which in the last few days I had learnt to -know. ‘Most people know where everybody lives,’ she added, with an -attempt at indifference. ‘I too knew that your regiment was here.’</p> - -<p>‘But I did not expect to see you just then,’ he went on. ‘And that -rose—— Pardon me if I was rude. I was taken altogether by surprise.’</p> - -<p>‘That I should ask you for a rose?’ she said, holding it up. ‘It is but -a poor little thing, as these late flowers always are. Not much scent, -and less colour, but sweet, because it is over—almost a thing of the -past.’</p> - -<p>‘I was taken altogether by surprise,’ said Colonel Brentford.</p> - -<p>He did not make any reply to her. He was not clever, as she was. He -repeated his little phrase of confused no-meaning, and his voice -trembled. And while he was saying all this, Edith was telling me that -she had had a few—only a very few—lessons from Herrmannstadt, but her -mamma hoped that if they stayed at Royalborough, she might be able to -have some from Dr. Delvey or Miss de la Pluie.</p> - -<p>‘If, my dear?’ said I. ‘I thought it was quite settled that you were to -stay!’ And then her answer became unintelligible to me; for my ears were -intent upon what was going on behind us, and instead of listening to -Edith, I heard only Colonel Brentford’s feet shuffling uneasily upon the -carpet, and Mrs. Spencer asking Lady Isabella if she did not think it -was time to go.</p> - -<p>‘But you have not had any tea,’ said I, rushing to the front: though, -indeed, I was not at all sure that I wished them to stay.</p> - -<p>‘We never take any tea,’ said Mrs. Spencer, unblushingly; though she -knew that I knew she was the greatest afternoon<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169"></a>{169}</span> tea-drinker in all -Dinglefield; ‘and we have to call upon old Mrs. Lloyd, who is quite ill. -Did you know she was ill? We must not neglect the sick and the old, you -know, even for the pleasantest society. Isabella, my dear!’</p> - -<p>Colonel Brentford went after us to the door. He looked at them -wistfully, watching their movements, until he saw that Mrs. Spencer had -a cloak over her arm. Then he came forward with a certain heavy -alacrity.</p> - -<p>‘Let me carry it for you,’ he said.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, thanks! We are not going far; don’t take the trouble. I would not -for the world take you from your friends,’ cried Mrs. Spencer wildly.</p> - -<p>‘It is no trouble, if you will let me,’ he said.</p> - -<p>He had taken the cloak out of her astonished hand, and Lady Isabella, in -the meantime, with a smile on her face, had walked on in advance. Even -I, though I felt so much agitated that I could have cried, could not but -laugh to see Mrs. Spencer’s look of utter discomfiture as she turned -from my door, attended by this man whom she so feared. I stood and -watched them as they went away, with a mingled feeling of relief and -anxiety and wonder. Thus it was over. Was it over? Could this be a -beginning or an end?</p> - -<p>When I went back to the Bellingers they were consulting together, and I -fear were not quite well pleased. The Major and his daughter drew back -as I entered, but I saw it on their faces.</p> - -<p>‘I hope you will pardon me,’ I said, ‘for leaving you alone. My friends -are gone, and Colonel Brentford has kindly walked with them to carry -something. Now I know you must want some tea.’</p> - -<p>‘Indeed, mamma is a great deal too tired,’ said Edith, who naturally was -most nettled, ‘I am sure we ought to go home.’</p> - -<p>‘I think she is over-tired,’ said the Major doubtfully.</p> - -<p>He did not want to be dragged away so suddenly; but yet he was a little -surprised. Mrs. Bellinger, for her part, did not say anything, but she -looked pale, and my heart smote me. And then there appeared a line of -anxiety, which I had not noticed before, between her eyes.</p> - -<p>‘It is only that she wants some tea,’ said I; and the Stokes coming in -at the moment, to my infinite satisfaction, made a diversion, and -brought things back to the ordinary channel of talk. And then they -challenged the Major and Edith to croquet, for which all the hoops and -things were set out on the lawn. Mrs. Bellinger and I began to talk when -they went away: and presently Colonel Brentford came back and sat -silently by us for five minutes—then went out to the croquet-players. A -little silence fell upon us, as the sound of the voices grew merrier -outside. It may be thought a stupid game now-a-days, but it is pretty to -look at, when one is safe and out of it; and we two ladies sat in the -cool room and watched the players, no doubt with grave thoughts enough. -Colonel Brentford took Edith in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170"></a>{170}</span> hand at once. He showed her how to -play, advised her, followed her, was always by her side. What did it -mean? Was he glad that his old love had passed away like a dream, and -left him free to indulge in this new one—to throw himself into this -younger, brighter existence? Neither of us spoke, and I wondered whether -we were both busy with the same thought.</p> - -<p>At length Mrs. Bellinger broke the silence.</p> - -<p>‘I feel so anxious about our Colonel,’ she said; ‘he is so good and so -nice. And your friends came by chance, quite by chance, Mrs. Mulgrave? -How strange it is? Do you know that there was once—— But of course you -know. Oh, I hope this meeting will be for good, and not for harm.’</p> - -<p>‘For harm!’ I said, with words that did not quite express my thoughts. -‘They are both staid, sober people, not likely to go back to any -youthful nonsense. How could it do harm?’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Bellinger shook her head. There was a cloud upon her face.</p> - -<p>‘We shall see in time,’ she said, in a melancholy, prophetic way, and -sighed again.</p> - -<p>To whom could it be that she apprehended harm? Not to Lady Isabella, -whom she did not know. Was it to the child then, or to <i>him</i>?</p> - -<h3>CHAPTER IV</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Next</span> day I had a number of visitors. Mrs. Spencer had made it so well -known in Dinglefield that nobody was to invite Lady Isabella to meet the -new officers, that my unexampled temerity startled the whole -neighbourhood. ‘Of course they have met, notwithstanding all our -precautions—and fancy, at Mrs. Mulgrave’s! She was almost the only -person Mrs. Spencer had not told,’ my neighbours said; for the place is -so small, that of course everybody knows what everybody else is doing on -the Green. The Stokes were the first to call, and they were full of it.</p> - -<p>‘Fancy not telling us that Lady Isabella had been here?’ cried Lottie. -‘You must have known there was something, or you would have told us. And -what did you mean by it? Did you think they ought to have another -chance; or did you think——? Oh, I do so wish you would tell me what -you meant!’</p> - -<p>‘Another chance, indeed!’ said Lucy. ‘As if Colonel Brentford—a -handsome man, and just a nice age—would look twice at that old thing!’</p> - -<p>‘He is a good deal older than the old thing,’ said I; ‘and it is a poor -account of both men and women, Lucy, if everything is to give way to -mere youth. You yourself will not be seventeen always. You should -remember that.’</p> - -<p>‘Well, but then I shall be married,’ said Lucy; ‘and I sha’n’t mind if -nobody pays me any attention. I shall have my husband and my children of -course; but an old maid——’</p> - -<p>‘Be quiet, Lucy,’ said her sister angrily. ‘If you girls only<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171"></a>{171}</span> knew how -to hold your tongues, then you might have a chance; but please tell me, -Mrs. Mulgrave—you won’t say you did not mean anything, for of course -you knew——?’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t intend to say anything about it, my dear; and here is Mrs. -Spencer coming, if you would like to make any further inquiries,’ I -said. I was quite glad to see her, to get rid of their questionings. -Mrs. Spencer was very much flurried and disturbed, out of breath both of -mind and body.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, my dear Mrs. Mulgrave, what an unfortunate business!’ she said, the -moment the girls were gone. ‘I have nobody but myself to blame, for I -never told you. I thought as you did not give many parties—and then I -know you don’t care much for those dancing sort of men: and how was I to -suppose he would be thrown upon your hands like this? It has upset me -so,’ she said, turning to me, with her eyes full of tears; ‘I have not -slept all night.’</p> - -<p>Her distress was a great deal too genuine to be smiled at. ‘I am so -sorry,’ I said; ‘but, after all, I do not think it is serious. It did -not seem to disturb her much.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah, that is because she does not show it,’ said Mrs. Spencer. ‘She is -so unselfish. You might stab her to the heart and she would never say a -word, if there was any one near who could be made unhappy by it. She -would not let <i>me</i> see, for she knows it would make me wretched. And I -<i>am</i> quite wretched about her. If this were to bring up old feelings! -And you know she nearly died of it—at the time.’</p> - -<p>The tears came dropping down on poor Mrs. Spencer’s thin nose. It was -too thin, almost sharp in outline, but such tears softened all its -asperity away. I could not help thinking of those dreadful French -proverbs, which are so remorseless and yet so true; about ‘<i>l’un qui -aime, et l’autre qui se laisse aimer</i>;’ about ‘<i>l’un qui baise et -l’autre qui tend la joue</i>.’ Is it always so in this world? I could have -beaten myself for having interfered at all in the matter. Why should -anybody ever interfere? Life is hard enough without any assistance to -make it worse.</p> - -<p>Lady Isabella herself came in late, when, fortunately, I was alone; and -she was in a very different mood. She came in, and gave a curious, -humorous glance round the room, and then sat down in the chair by the -window, where she had sat the day before, and asked Colonel Brentford -for that rose.</p> - -<p>‘Is it possible it has been and is over,’ she said, in her mocking way; -‘that great, wonderful event, to which I looked forward so much? It -happened just here: and yet the place is exactly the same. How funny it -is when one remembers that it has happened, and yet feels one’s self -exactly like what one was before——’</p> - -<p>‘You are not sorry, then?’ I cried, not knowing what to say.</p> - -<p>‘Sorry? oh, no,’ she said with momentary fervour: and then blushed -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172"></a>{172}</span>scarlet. ‘On the contrary, I am very glad. It proved to me—— I got -all I wanted. I am quite pleased with myself. I can’t have been such a -fool after all; for—he is not clever, you know—but he is a man a woman -need not be ashamed to have been in love with: and that is saying a -great deal.’</p> - -<p>‘And is it only a “have been?”<span class="lftspc">’</span> said I; for after all when one had taken -so much trouble it was hard that nothing should come of it. I felt as if -I had taken a great deal of trouble, and all in vain.</p> - -<p>‘Indeed, I should hope so!’ cried Lady Isabella, getting up and drawing -her shawl round her hastily. ‘You surely did not think that I meant -anything more. I am in a great hurry, I have only a few minutes to -spare; and thanks to you, good friend, I have had my whim, and I am -satisfied. I don’t feel at all ashamed of having been fond of -him—once.’</p> - -<p>And with these words she ran away, silencing all questions. Was this -indeed all? Was it a mere whim? To tell the truth, when I tried to put -myself in her position, it seemed to me much wiser of Lady Isabella to -let it end so. She was very well off and comfortable: she had come to an -age when one likes to have one’s own way, and does not care to adopt the -habits of others; and what an immense <i>bouleversement</i> it would make if -she should marry and break up that pleasant house, and throw herself -upon the chances of married life, abandoning Mrs. Spencer, who was as -good as married to her, and who, no doubt, calculated on her society all -her life. I said to myself—if I were Lady Isabella! And then there was -the great chance, the almost certainty that he would never attempt to -carry it any farther. He was a young-looking man, and no doubt (though -it is very odd to me how they can do it) he felt himself rather on the -level of a girl of twenty than of a woman of thirty-five. He had been a -good deal startled and touched by the meeting, which was not wonderful: -but he had returned to Edith’s side all the same; and, no doubt, that -was where he would stay. Edith was very young, and her parents were -poor, and the best thing for her would be to marry a man who was able to -take care of her, and make her very comfortable, and to whom, in return, -she would be entirely devoted. Edith could consent to be swallowed up in -him altogether, and to have no life but that of her husband; and except -by means of a husband who was well off the poor child never was likely -to do anything for herself or her family, but would have to live a life -of hard struggling with poverty and premature acquaintance with care. -This was of course the point of view from which the matter should be -regarded. To Lady Isabella Colonel Brentford’s means or position were -unnecessary. She was very well off, very fully established in the world -without him. And she could not be swallowed up in him, and renounce -everything that was her own to become his wife. She was an independent -being, with a great many independent ways and habits. It was better for -him, better for her, better for Edith that nothing should come of this -meeting;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173"></a>{173}</span> and yet—how foolish one is about such matters: what vain -fancies come into one’s head!</p> - -<p>Everything sank into its ordinary calm however from that day. I did not -see Mrs. Spencer and Lady Isabella for a week after, and then they were -exactly as they had always been. Lady Isabella made no remark to me of -any kind on the subject, but Mrs. Spencer took me aside to give me her -opinion. ‘I am so glad to tell you,’ she said, ‘that your little -inadvertence has done no harm. Oh, I forgot: it was not an inadvertence -on your part, but my own fault for not telling you. It has done no harm, -I am so glad to say. Isabella seems to have quite settled down again. I -don’t believe she has given him another thought. Of course it was a -shock just at the moment. But you must not blame yourself, indeed you -must not. Probably she would have met him somewhere sooner or later. I -really feel quite glad that it is over; and it has done her no harm.’</p> - -<p>This was all I gained by my exertions; and I made a resolution that I -would certainly never be persuaded to do anything of the kind again. -For, indeed, it had complicated my relations with various people. What -could I do, for instance, about the Bellingers? In the meantime I simply -dropped them, after having rushed into such an appearance of intimacy. -If anybody else had done it, I should have been indignant; but how could -I help myself? I could not have Edith in my house and see him wooing -her, after having taken such an interest in the other side. I could not -insult Lady Isabella by letting that go on under her very eyes. And -though I wondered sometimes what the respectable Major would think, and -whether poor dear Mrs. Bellinger would be wounded, I had not the -fortitude to continue the acquaintance. I simply dropped them: it was -the only thing I could do.</p> - -<p>And then the winter came on all at once, which was a sort of excuse. -There was a week or two of very bad weather and I caught cold, and was -very glad of it, for, of course, nobody could expect me to drive to -Royalborough in my little open carriage with a bad cold, through the -rain and wind. A very dreary interval of dead quiet to me, and miserable -weather, followed this little burst of excitement. I felt sore about it -altogether, as a matter in which I had somehow been to blame, and which -was a complete failure—to say the least. One day when I had been out -for half an hour’s walk in the middle of the day, Colonel Brentford -called; but the card which I found on my table was the only -enlightenment this brought me, and my cold kept me away from all the -society on the Green for six weeks, during which time I had no -information on the subject. Sometimes, as usual, I saw Lady Isabella, -but there was no change in her. She had quite settled down again, was -the same as ever, and Mrs. Spencer had ceased to keep any watch upon -her. And so it was all over, as a tale that is told.</p> - -<p>The first time I was out after my influenza was at Lady<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174"></a>{174}</span> Denzil’s, -where, to my surprise, I found Edith Bellinger. She scarcely looked at -me, and it was with some difficulty I got our slender thread of -acquaintance renewed. Her mother, she thanked me, was better; her father -was quite well; they had been sorry to hear of my cold; yes, of course -it was a long way to drive. Such was the fashion of Edith’s talk; and I -acknowledged to myself that it was perfectly just.</p> - -<p>‘Your mamma must think it very strange that I have never gone to see her -again,’ I was beginning to say, feeling uncomfortable and guilty.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t suppose she has thought about it,’ Edith said hastily; and then -she stopped short and blushed. ‘I beg your pardon, I did not mean to be -rude.’</p> - -<p>‘You are quite right,’ I said—‘not in being rude, but in feeling as you -do. I seem to have been very capricious and unfriendly; but I have been -ill; and you do not look quite so well yourself as when I saw you last.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, I am well enough,’ said the girl; and then those quick youthful -tears of self-compassion which lie so near the surface came rushing to -her eyes. ‘It is nothing, I—I am not very strong; and Lady Denzil, who -is always kind, has asked me here for change of air.’</p> - -<p>‘Poor child,’ I said, ‘tell me what is the matter?’ But I was not to -learn at this moment at least. Colonel Brentford, whom I had not seen -till now, came forward and bent over her.</p> - -<p>‘They are going to sing something, and they want you to take a part. I -have come for you,’ he said.</p> - -<p>He looked down upon her quite tenderly, and held out his hand to help -her to rise. Yes, of course, that was how it must have ended. It was all -settled, of that I could have no doubt. I looked at them with, I fear, a -look that had some pain and some pity in it, as they left me; and when I -withdrew my eyes from them, my look met Lady Isabella’s, who was seated -at the other side of the room. She had her usual half-mocking, -half-kindly smile on her lips, but it looked to me set and immovable, as -if she had been painted so and could not change; and she was -pale—surely she was pale. It troubled me sadly, and all the more that I -dared not say a word to any one, dared not even make any manifestation -of sympathy to herself. She had chosen to renew her old acquaintance -with him, had chosen to break down the barrier which sympathizing -friends had raised round her, and to meet him with all freedom as if he -were totally indifferent to her. This had been her own choice; and now, -to be sure, she had to look on, and see all there might be to be seen.</p> - -<p>But he was very civil to me when he chanced to be thrown near me. He -said, in a much more friendly tone than poor Edith’s, that Mrs. -Bellinger had been sorry to hear of my cold; that he hoped I should soon -be able to go and see her; and when I said that Edith did not look -strong, he shook his head. ‘She is rather wilful, and does not know her -own mind,’ he said,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175"></a>{175}</span> and I thought he sighed. Was it that she could not -make up her mind to accept him? Was it—— But speculation was quite -useless, and there was no information to be got out of his face.</p> - -<p>A little after this I went to see Mrs. Bellinger, but was coldly -received. Edith was not quite well, she said; she had been doing too -much, and had gone away for a thorough change. Colonel Brentford? Oh, he -had gone to visit his brother Sir Charles Brentford, in Devonshire. -Edith was in Devonshire, too—at Torquay.</p> - -<p>‘They are a little afraid of her lungs,’ Mrs. Bellinger said. ‘Oh, not -I; I don’t think there is very much the matter; but still they are -afraid—and of course it is better to prevent than to cure.’</p> - -<p>It seemed to me a heartless way for a mother to speak, and I was -discouraged by my reception. When I came away I made up my mind not to -take any further trouble about the matter. Perhaps I had been mistaken -in them at first, or perhaps—— but then, to be sure, I had another -motive, and that existed no longer. It was my fault more than theirs.</p> - -<p>I heard no more of the Bellingers nor much more of Colonel Brentford for -a long time after this. He, to be sure, went and came, as the other -officers did, to one house and another, and I met him from time to time, -and exchanged three words with him, but no more. And Lady Isabella made -no reference whatever to that agitating moment when I, too, had a share -in her personal history. Even Mrs. Spencer seemed to have forgotten all -about it. Their house was more exquisite than ever that winter. They had -built a new conservatory, which opened from the ante-room, and was full -of the most bright, beautiful flowers—forced, artificial things to be -sure they were, blooming long before their season, but still very lovely -to look at in those winter days. The large drawing-room and the -ante-room, and the conservatory at the end of all, were as warm and -fragrant and soft and delicious as if they had been fairy-land—the -temperature so equable, everything so soft to tread on, to sit on, to -look at. It was a little drawing-room paradise—an Eden, with Turkey -carpets instead of turf, and the flowers all in pots instead of growing -free. And here Lady Isabella would sit, with that touch of mockery in -her laugh, with little gibes at most people and most things, not quite -so friendly or gentle as they once were. Now and then, I have thought, -she cast a wistful glance at the door; now and then her spirits were -fitful, her face paler than usual—but she had never been more lively or -more bright.</p> - -<p>It was past Christmas, and already a pale glimmer of spring was in the -air, when this little episode showed signs of coming to its conclusion. -I remember the day quite distinctly—a pale day in the beginning of -February, when everything was quite destitute of colour. The sky was -gray and so was the grass, and the skeletons of the trees stood bleak -against the dulness. It<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176"></a>{176}</span> was the kind of afternoon when one is glad to -hear any news, good or bad—anything that will quicken the blood a -little, and restore to the nervous system something like its usual tone.</p> - -<p>This stimulus was supplied by the entrance to the house of our two -neighbours Lucy Stoke—very important, and bursting with the dignity of -a secret. She kept it in painfully for the first two minutes, moved -chiefly by her reverential admiration for the fine furniture, the -beautiful room, the atmosphere of splendour about her. But I was there, -unfortunately, of whom Lucy was not afraid. It was to me, accordingly, -that the revelation burst forth.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Mrs. Mulgrave,’ she said, ‘you know her! Who do you think I met -going down to Lady Denzil’s, in a white bonnet,—though it’s such a -dismal day—and a blue dress—quite light blue—the dress she went away -in, I should think?’</p> - -<p>‘A bride, I suppose,’ I said; ‘but whom?—I don’t remember any recent -bride.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, yes, I <i>know</i> you know her! Young Mrs. Brentford—Edith Bellinger -that was.’</p> - -<p>‘Edith Bellinger!’ I cried, with a sudden pang. It was nothing to me. I -had no reason to suppose it was anything to anybody, but yet——</p> - -<p>‘It must have been the dress she went away in,’ said Lucy: ‘blue trimmed -with bands of satin and fringe, and a white bonnet with blue flowers. It -was very becoming. But fancy, only three weeks married, and coming to -see Lady Denzil alone!’</p> - -<p>‘And so she is Mrs. Brentford,’ said Mrs. Spencer, in a tone of genuine -satisfaction. She would have suffered herself to be cut in little pieces -for Lady Isabella, she would have done anything for her—but she was -glad, unfeignedly thankful and relieved, to feel that this danger was -past.</p> - -<p>And Lucy, well pleased, ran on for ten minutes or more. It felt like ten -hours. When she went away at last, Mrs. Spencer went with her to the -door, to hear further particulars. All this time Lady Isabella had never -said a word. She was in the shade, and her face was not very distinctly -visible. When they left the room, she rose all at once, pulling herself -up by the arms of her chair. Such a change had come upon her face that I -was frightened. Every vestige of colour had left her cheek; her lip was -parched, and tightly drawn across her teeth. She laughed as she got up -from the chair.</p> - -<p>‘We were all wishing for something to stir us up,’ she said; ‘but I -never hoped for anything so exciting as Mrs. Brentford’s blue dress.’</p> - -<p>‘Where are you going?’ I said, in sudden terror.</p> - -<p>‘Up-stairs—only up-stairs. Where should I go?’ she said, with that -short hard laugh. ‘Tell Mrs. Spencer—something. I have gone to -fetch—Mrs. Brentford’s blue dress.’</p> - -<p>Oh, how that laugh pained me! I would rather, a thousand times rather, -have heard her cry. She went away like a ghost,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177"></a>{177}</span> without any noise; and -Mrs. Spencer, full of thanksgiving, came back.</p> - -<p>‘Where is Isabella? Oh, Mrs. Mulgrave, I can’t tell you what a relief -this news is,’ she said. ‘I have always been so dreadfully afraid. Of -course, anything that was for her happiness I would have put up with; -but this would not have been for her happiness. She is no longer young, -you know—her habits are all formed—and, even though she was fond of -him once, how could she have taken up a man’s ways, and adapted herself? -It would never have done—it would never have done! I am so thankful he -is married, and that danger past.’</p> - -<p>For my part, I could not make any answer. Perhaps Mrs. Spencer was -right—perhaps, in the long run, it would be better so; but, in the -meantime, I could not forget Lady Isabella’s face. I went home, feeling -I cannot tell how sad. It was all so perfectly natural and to be -expected. The hardest things in this world are the things that are to be -expected. Of course, I had felt sure when I saw them together that it -was the little girl who would be the victor in any such struggle. And -Lady Isabella had not attempted any struggle. She had stood aside and -looked on; though, perhaps, she had hoped that the old love would have -counted for something in the man’s heart. But I said to myself that I -had always known better. What was old love, with all its associations, -in comparison with the little peachy cheek and childish ways of a girl -of seventeen? I despised the man for it, of course; but I thought it -natural all the same.</p> - -<h3>CHAPTER V</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">I was</span> sitting next day by myself, with my mind full of these thoughts, -when I was suddenly roused by a shadow which flitted across the light, -and then by the sound of some one knocking at the window which opened -into my garden. I looked up hurriedly, and saw Lady Isabella. She was -very pale, yet looked breathless, as if she had been running. She made -me a hasty, imperative gesture to open, and when I had done so, came in -without suffering me to shut the window. ‘Mrs. Mulgrave,’ she said, -panting between the words, ‘I have a very strange—request—to make. I -want to speak with—some one—for ten minutes—alone. May -we—come—here? I have nothing to conceal—from you. It is <i>him</i>;—he -has something—to say to me—for the last time.’</p> - -<p>‘Lady Isabella——’ I said.</p> - -<p>‘Don’t—say anything. It is strange—I know—but it must be; for the -last time.’</p> - -<p>She did not seem able to stand for another moment. She sank down into -the nearest chair, making a great effort to command herself. ‘Dear Mrs. -Mulgrave—please call him,’ she cried<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178"></a>{178}</span> faintly: ‘he is there. It will -only be for ten minutes—there is something to explain.’</p> - -<p>I went out into the garden, and called him. He looked as much agitated -as she did, and I went round the house, and through the kitchen-door -with a sense of bewilderment which I could not put into words. Edith -Bellinger’s bridegroom! What could he have to explain? What right had he -to seek her, to make any private communication? I felt indignant with -him, and impatient with her. Then I went into the dining-room and -waited. My dining-room windows command the road, and along this I could -see Mrs. Spencer walking in her quick, alert way. She was coming towards -my house, in search, probably, of her companion. There was something -absurd in the whole business, and yet the faces of the two I had just -left were too tragical to allow any flippancy on the part of the -spectator. Mrs. Spencer came direct to my door as I supposed, and I had -to step out and stop the maid, who was about to usher her into the -drawing-room where those two were. Mrs. Spencer was a little excited -too.</p> - -<p>‘Have you seen Isabella?’ she said. ‘She was only about half-a-dozen -yards behind me, round the corner at the Lodge; and when I turned to -look for her she was gone. She could not have dropped into the earth you -know, and I know she would never have gone to the Lodge. Is she here? It -has given me quite a turn, as the maids say. She cannot have vanished -altogether, like a fairy. She was too substantial for that.’</p> - -<p>‘She will be here directly,’ said I; ‘she is speaking to some one in the -other room.’</p> - -<p>‘Speaking—to some one! You look very strange, Mrs. Mulgrave, and -Isabella has been looking very strange. Who is she speaking to? I am her -nearest friend and I ought to know.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ I said, ‘you ought to know, that is certain—but wait, only wait, -ten minutes—that was the time she said.’</p> - -<p>And then we two sat and looked at each other, not knowing what to think. -I knew scarcely more than she did, but the little that I knew made me -only the more anxious. If his wife should hear of it—if Lady Isabella -were to betray herself, compromise herself! And then what was the good -of it all? No explanation could annul a fact, and the less explanation -the better between a married man and his former love. This feeling made -me wretched as the time went on. Time seems so doubly long when one is -waiting, and especially when one is waiting for the result of some -private, secret, mysterious interview. The house was so quiet, the maids -moving about the kitchen, the chirp of the sparrows outside, the -drip—drip of a shower, which was just over, from the leaves. All these -sounds made the silence deeper, especially as there was no sound from -that mysterious room.</p> - -<p>‘The ten minutes are long past,’ said Mrs. Spencer. ‘I don’t<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179"></a>{179}</span> understand -what all this mystery can mean. It is more like an hour, I think.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, do you think so?’ said I, though I fully agreed with her. ‘When one -is waiting time looks so long. She will be here directly. I hear her -now—that was her voice.’</p> - -<p>And so it certainly was. But everything became silent again the next -instant. It was a sharp exclamation, sudden and high; and then we heard -no more.</p> - -<p>‘I cannot wait any longer,’ said Mrs. Spencer. ‘I don’t know what this -can mean; I must have an explanation. Mrs. Mulgrave, if you will not -come with me, I will go myself to Isabella. I don’t understand what she -can mean.’</p> - -<p>‘I will go,’ said I; and we rose at the same moment and hurried to the -door. But we had not time to open it when a sudden sound was audible, -which arrested us both. The door of the other room was opened, voices -came towards us—two voices, and then a laugh. Was it Lady Isabella’s -laugh? Mrs. Spencer drew near me and pinched my arm violently. ‘Is it -Isabella? What, oh, what can it mean?’ she said with a look of terror. -And then the door was thrown suddenly open, driving us back as we stood -in our consternation within.</p> - -<p>It was Lady Isabella who stood before us, and yet it was not the Lady -Isabella I had ever known. When Mrs. Spencer saw her she gave a -suppressed groan and sat down suddenly on the nearest chair. This Lady -Isabella was leaning on Colonel Brentford’s arm. Her face was flushed -and rosy; her eyes shining like stars, yet full of tears; dimples I had -never seen before were in her cheeks and about her mouth. She was -radiant, she was young, she was running over with joy and happiness. In -her joy and triumph she did not notice, I suppose, the sudden despair of -her friend. ‘I have come to tell you,’ she said hastily, ‘he never meant -it. It is all over. Oh, do you understand? All this cloud that has -lasted for ten years, that has come between us and the skies—it is all -over, all over. He never meant it. Do you understand?’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Spencer stood up tottering, looking like a ghost. ‘Isabella! I -thought you had forgotten him. I thought it was this that was all over. -I thought you were content.’</p> - -<p>Lady Isabella gave her a look of that supreme happiness which is not -considerate of other people’s feelings. ‘I am content now,’ she said, -clasping her hands upon Colonel Brentford’s arm, ‘more than content.’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Spencer answered with a bitter cry. ‘Then I am nothing to her, -nothing to her!’ she said.</p> - -<p>It was at this moment that I interfered. I could keep silence no longer. -I put myself between the two who were so happy and the one who was so -miserable. ‘Before another word is said I must have this explained to -me,’ I said. ‘He is Edith Bellinger’s husband. And this is my house——’</p> - -<p>He interrupted me hurriedly: ‘I am no one’s husband but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180"></a>{180}</span> hers,’ he said. -‘You have been mistaken. Edith Bellinger has married my brother. There -is no woman to me in the world but Isabella—never has been—never could -be, though I lived a hundred years.’</p> - -<p>‘And it is you who have brought us together,’ cried Lady Isabella, -suddenly throwing her arms round me. ‘God bless you for it! I should -never have known, it would never have been possible but for you.’</p> - -<p>And he came to me and took both my hands. ‘God bless you for it, I say -too! We might have been two forlorn creatures all our lives but for -you.’</p> - -<p>I was overwhelmed with their thanks, with the surprise, and the shock. -If I had done anything to bring this about I had done it in ignorance; -but they surrounded me so with their joy and their gratitude, and the -excitement of the revolution which had happened in them, that it was -some minutes before I could think of anything else. And there was so -much to be explained. But when I recovered myself so far as to look -round and think of the other who did not share in their joy, I found she -was gone. She had disappeared while they were thanking me, while I was -expressing my wonder and my good wishes. None of us had either heard or -seen her departure, but she was gone.</p> - -<p>‘Was Mrs. Spencer to blame?’ I asked with some anxiety when the tumult -had subsided a little, and they had seated themselves like ordinary -mortals and begun to accustom themselves to their delight. ‘Had she -anything to do with the quarrel between you?’</p> - -<p>‘Nothing at all,’ said Lady Isabella. ‘She never saw George till she saw -him in your house.’</p> - -<p>‘When you asked me for that rose—’ said he. ‘The rose you used to be so -fond of; and I felt as if the skies had opened——’</p> - -<p>‘You turned your back upon me all the same,’ she said with the laugh -that had suddenly become so joyous. They had forgotten everything but -themselves and the new story of their reconciliation: which I suppose -the old story of their estrangement thus recalled and reconsidered made -doubly sweet.</p> - -<p>‘But about Mrs. Spencer?’ I said.</p> - -<p>‘Poor Mrs. Spen! She had got to be fond of me. She thought we were to -spend all our lives together,’ said Lady Isabella with momentary -gravity; and then the smile crept once more about the corners of her -mouth, and the dimples which had been hidden all these years disclosed -themselves, and her face warmed into sunshine as she turned to him. This -was my fate whenever I tried to bring back the conversation to Mrs. -Spencer, who, poor soul, had disappeared like a shadow before that -sunshine. I was glad for their sakes to see them so happy; but still I -could not but feel that it was hard to have given your life and love for -years and to be rewarded at the end by that ‘poor Mrs. Spen.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181"></a>{181}</span></p> - -<p>The news made a great commotion through all Dinglefield, and Mrs. -Spencer did not make so much difficulty about it as I fancied she would. -The marriage was from her house, and she took a great deal of trouble, -and no mother could have been more careful and tender about a bride. But -she made no fuss, poor soul—she had not the heart; and though I don’t -like fuss, I missed it in this case, and felt that it was a sign how -deep the blow had gone. Even Lady Isabella, pre-occupied as she was, -felt it. She had not realized it perhaps—few people do. We are all in -the habit of laughing at the idea of friendships so close and exacting, -especially when they exist between women. But to Mrs. Spencer it was as -if life itself had gone from her. Her companion had gone from her, the -creature she loved best. Next to a man’s wife deserting him, or a -woman’s husband, I know nothing more hard. Her pretty house, her -flowers, her perfect comfort and grace of life palled upon her. She had -kept them up chiefly, I think, for the young woman who, she had thought, -poor soul, was wedded to her for life. Perhaps it was a foolish thought, -perhaps it might be a little selfish to try to keep Colonel Brentford -away. I suppose to be married is the happiest; but still I was very, -very sorry, grieved more than I can say, for the woman who was forsaken; -though she was only forsaken by another woman and not by a man.</p> - -<p>However that, I fear, is a sentiment in which I should find few -sympathizers. The Brentfords took a place in the neighbourhood, and I -believe Lady Isabella was a very happy wife. As for poor little Edith -Bellinger, she had married the Colonel’s elder brother, Sir Charles, and -was Lady Brentford, to her great astonishment and that of everybody -about. It had been her doubt and reluctance, poor child, to marry a man -older than her father, which had made her ill. I think her mother missed -her almost as much as Mrs. Spencer missed Lady Isabella. For every new -tie that is made in this world some old ties must be broken. But what -does that matter? Is it not the course of nature and the way of the -world?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182"></a>{182}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="AN_ELDERLY_ROMANCE" id="AN_ELDERLY_ROMANCE"></a>AN ELDERLY ROMANCE</h2> - -<h3>CHAPTER I</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">There</span> is a house in Dinglefield, standing withdrawn in a mass of -shrubbery, and overshadowed by some fine trees, which has been called by -the name of Brothers-and-Sisters for a longer time than any one in the -village can recollect. It presents to the outside world who peep at it -over the palings, between the openings which have been carefully cut to -afford to its inmates pleasant glimpses of the lower part of the Green, -on which the cricket matches are played, the aspect of a somewhat low -white house, with no apparent entrance, and a great number of chimneys -of different heights, chimneys which I suppose suggested to some wag the -unequal stature of a family of children, and thus procured the house its -popular name. In the map or the estate on which Dinglefield stands it is -called Bonport House, and this is how the General’s letters, I need not -say, are addressed. But yet the common name sticks, all the more because -of the character of the family which now inhabits that hospitable place. -It is literally a house of brothers and sisters. General Stamford, the -head of the family, is a hale and ruddy old warrior of sixty, who has -seen a great deal of service, and who has been knocked about, battered, -and beaten from the age of sixteen until now: sent to every unfavourable -place where a soldier without money or influence has to go, and engaged -in every fierce little war in which it has been the pleasure of England -to indulge, without any consideration for the feelings of her fighting -men. He has been at Bermuda; he has been on the Gold Coast; he has -braved all the fevers and fought all the savages within our ken; and -outliving all this, has settled down with his sisters and brother in our -village, one of the most peaceable yet the most active of men. It is for -this last reason that General George (as we have all got to call him, -partly because there are other generals about, and to say General -Stamford every time you mention a man in a neighbourhood like ours is -fatiguing—and partly for kindness) has so many things on his hands. He -is one of the directors of our railway; he is on several boards in town, -where he goes almost every day punctual as clockwork, brushed to -perfection, and driven to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183"></a>{183}</span> station by Miss Stamford in the -pony-carriage, which always takes him there, and always meets him when -he comes back. Miss Stamford is the eldest sister of all. She is very -like her brother, and there never was such a tender brotherly sisterly -union as between these two old people. They have known each other so -long, longer than any husband and wife. They have the recollections of -the nursery quite fresh in their minds, as if it were yesterday—when it -was always Ursula who found George’s books for him, and gave him good -advice, and most of her pocket-money, and looked after his linen when he -was at home, and his pets when he went away. Miss Stamford knows all the -occurrences of her brother’s chequered life better than he does himself, -and recollects everything, and knows all his friends, even if she never -saw them, and can recall to him the exact relationship between the young -man who comes to him with an introduction, and old Burton who was killed -by his side among the Maoris; or Percival who died of the yellow fever -at Barbadoes. She is his remembrancer, his counsellor, half his heart, -and a good part of his mind; and indeed there is nobody among us who -ever thinks of the one without thinking of the other. What she was doing -with herself all those years when George was fighting on the outskirts -of civilization, or sweltering in the tropics, none of us know, but some -of us wonder now and then. Did nothing ever happen to Miss Stamford on -her own account? Has all her life been only a reflection of her -brother’s? But this is what nobody can tell.</p> - -<p>The next member of the family in due succession is Mrs. St. Clair, who -is the second sister, and who has been so long a widow that she has -forgotten that this is not the normal condition of women. I don’t think, -for my part, that she remembers much about her husband, though he did -exist, I have every reason to believe. Her married life was a little -episode, but the family is all her idea of ordinary existence. That -little sip of matrimony however has made her different from the rest. I -cannot quite tell how. There is a tone that is more mellow; she is a -little more—stout, if I may use such a word: her outlines are a little -fuller, both of mind and body. Miss Stamford takes care of the house and -the General, but Mrs. St. Clair takes care of the parish. She is the -Rector’s lay curate, and a most efficient one. It is she who watches -over, not only the poor, but the district visitors, and even the -curates, whose juvenile importance she makes very light of, keeping down -all rampant sacerdotalism. When a young man comes into a parish full of -very fine ideas of priestly state and dignity, and fortified besides by -all the talk in the newspapers about adoring ladies and worked slippers, -it is hard for him to find himself confronted by a lively middle-aged -woman who has no particular respect for him, and knows all his kind, and -all their little ways. Mrs. St. Clair was of the greatest use to us all -in this particular. She kept us from innovations. Our excellent Rector -has not a very<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184"></a>{184}</span> strong will, and how far he might have been induced to -go in respect to vestments, or candles, or even Gregorians, it would be -hard to say, but for Mrs. St. Clair, who kept the young men down. -Everybody who has ever been at Dinglefield has met her about the roads, -with her gray hair neatly braided, and her soft brown eyes smiling, yet -seeing everything, and a basket in her hand. She always had the basket; -and the basket, if it had been examined, would have been found always to -contain something which was to do somebody good.</p> - -<p>Miss Sophy, the third sister, was much younger than the others, and she -was one of those who are always young. Nothing had changed much with her -since she was eighteen. She lived quite the same sort of life as she had -done then, and wore the same kind of dresses; and felt, I believe, very -much the same. Life had never progressed into a second chapter with her, -and she felt no need of a second chapter. She did little commissions for -everybody, and carried little messages, and played croquet, and went out -to tea, and performed her little pieces on the piano with undiminished -and undiminishing satisfaction. She was as kind, as sweet, and as -innocent as any girl need be; and, in short, she was a girl—but of -forty-five. The reader may think this is a sneer; but nobody ever -thought of sneering at Miss Sophy; that malign amusement found no -encouragement in her simplicity. You smiled at her, perhaps, then -blushed for yourself, abashed at your own heartlessness in finding -anything absurd in a creature so guileless and true. She had no -particular <i>rôle</i> of her own in the family, except to be kind to -everybody, and to do what everybody wished, as far as a merely mortal -sister could. If there was one thing that she thought especially her -duty and privilege, it was to look after the faith and morals of the -other brother, who occasionally formed part of the household. He was a -barrister, an old bachelor like the rest, who had chambers in town and -came when he pleased to Brothers-and-Sisters. He spent the Sundays -there, and Miss Sophy took him to church. She would have made him say -the Collect if she could; and, indeed, always questioned him about his -opinions, and argued with him on the Sunday afternoons upon the points -on which he was astray. And when I add that Mr. Charles was a clever -lawyer and a man of the world, and astray upon a great many points, it -will be seen that Sophy had her hands full. She argued herself into -palpitations and headaches, but I fear her arguments were less potent -than her intention. This energetic effort to keep Charles right in -theology was, so far as any one knew, the only duty exclusively hers.</p> - -<p>These delightful people were only a small part of the family to which -they belonged. Behind them was a bodyguard of married brothers and -sisters, a sort of milky way of family plenitude, from which arose an -army of nephews and nieces who were always looming about, sure to come -down upon us in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185"></a>{185}</span> force when anything was going on. There were always men -to be had for a dance, and actors for theatricals on application to the -Stamfords. ‘Tell me how many you want and give me two or three days’ -notice,’ Mrs. St. Clair would say, and then Sophy would write the -letters, and after a while the air of Dinglefield would be thick with -nephews. There was room for an untold number of them in the old, -many-chimneyed house. When it was the time for garden parties, or when -there was a bazaar for some charity, it was the turn of the nieces, who -came like the swallows, with a skimming of wings, and a chirping and -chattering of pleasant voices. It was astonishing how soon we got to -know them all, discriminating Sophy Humphreys from Sophy Thistlethwaite, -and both from Sophy Stamford number one, called Soff, or Henry’s Sophy, -to distinguish her from Sophy Stamford number two, who was called Fia, -or William’s Sophy. Sophy was the pet name of the race; the mother’s -name from whom they all sprang.</p> - -<p>And it would be difficult to give any stranger an idea of the addition -they were to our limited society at Dinglefield. Go when you would the -genial house was always open, a pleasant party always to be found on the -lawn in summer, by the drawing-room fire in winter. They had their -anxieties and sorrows like other people, no doubt; but not so many as -other people: for the time was over with them for personal pangs and -trouble; and when one nephew out of twenty goes a little wrong, or one -niece (also out of twenty) makes a bad marriage, the pang is not so keen -or so lasting as when it is a son or a daughter who has broken down. And -this was the worst that could now befall the house. It was a house made -for the comfort and succour of every aching heart or troubled mind -within its range. There was nothing they would not do for their -neighbours and friends; how much more for their relations. General -George lent his kindly ear, a little, just a little, hard of hearing -(but no, not hard of anything, the word is unworthy to be used in his -connection), to every request. He would do his best to place your son, -or invest your money; or order early salmon or turbot for you when you -were going to have a dinner-party. I should not have liked to ask Mr. -Charles Stamford to order my fish, but I have no doubt he too would have -done it, had he been asked; and as for the sisters, they would, as the -poor people said, put their hand to anything.</p> - -<p>One day Sophy came into my cottage with an air of some excitement to -tell me that George had sent a telegram, and was bringing down a large -party of his fellow-directors to dinner. ‘Will you come, dear Mrs. -Mulgrave? Fancy! how shall we ever entertain these twelve business -gentlemen?’ said Sophy in a flutter. ‘If only some of the girls had been -here. Not that the girls would have cared for these old creatures. But -the worst is that Ursula herself is away. She went up to town this -morning to see her great friend, Mrs. Biddulph. And though<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186"></a>{186}</span> she will be -back for dinner, all the responsibility will be upon Frances and me. I -must run away now this moment to James the gardener, to see how many -strawberries he can give us. Don’t you think it was tiresome of George -to bring down so many upon us without warning? It is just like him: no, -he is not tiresome—never! he is a darling! But sometimes he does a -tiresome thing.’</p> - -<p>And Sophy tripped away, light-footed, light-hearted, with no greater -thought than the strawberries. She was still as slim as a girl, and -there was about her all the eagerness and breathless mixture of fright -and pleasure which are natural at eighteen. She <i>was</i> eighteen, -spiritually speaking. I watched her tripping along in her light summer -dress, and smiled; I could not help it. I saw her again three times that -day, and, indeed, I saw Mrs. St. Clair too, who was equally full of -business. ‘Twelve men!’ Mrs. St. Clair cried. ‘Is it not a nuisance? I -can’t think how George could do it. They have a nice bit of villainy in -hand; they are going to cut up all our pretty view, and take away the -poor people’s gardens; and then they expect us to give them dinner!’</p> - -<p>‘Did Sophy get the strawberries?’ I asked.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, yes; more than they deserve. But you are coming, and you shall -see.’ She went on, waving her hand, too busy to talk. A dinner of twelve -gentlemen, when you have made no arrangements, and provided nothing but -what was needed for the family, is a serious matter in a country place, -especially when the real housekeeper is out of the way.</p> - -<h3>CHAPTER II</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">All</span> this time Miss Stamford knew nothing of what was going on. She had -gone up to town early in the morning, and she had spent the day with her -friend, who was ailing; and in the afternoon she had missed the usual -dinner train by which General George always travelled, coming by the -next one, which was about half an hour later. She came down in the same -carriage with a gentleman who, she afterwards admitted, attracted her -attention at once. He was a tall man—well, not young, -certainly—oldish, elderly, ‘about the same age as other people’—with a -long face, like Don Quixote. She remarked him; and he remarked her, -apparently, showing her several little politenesses: opening and -shutting the window, &c. He was very like Don Quixote. This was the -chief remark Miss Stamford made.</p> - -<p>She was a little late for dinner, having been taken entirely by surprise -by the great preparations she found on her return. She had left -everything in the ordinary quiet, no company expected, and had ordered -the usual dinner for the family before<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187"></a>{187}</span> she went away; and the sight of -Williams the greengrocer, and Jones the verger, both in grand official -costume, on duty in her own hall when she got back, astonished her.</p> - -<p>‘Company, ma’am, as the General has brought home from town, unexpected,’ -Williams said, as he opened the door. Their own homely butler, Simms, -had been promoted to the rank of major-domo for the moment, and was a -very great personage with two men under him. Miss Stamford changed her -dress as quickly as possible, but dinner had begun before she got -down-stairs. Mrs. St. Clair had taken the head of the table, and Ursula -slid quietly into the vacant place which had been left for her. She -nodded to me across the table as she sat down. She had not even put on -her best cap, and her gown was anything but new. And it did not seem to -me that Ursula Stamford was by any means looking her best. She was a -little prim in appearance, though so liberal and generous in heart; and -she looked sixty, while to my knowledge she was only fifty-seven. You -will say that was not a difference which mattered much; but I assure you -we think a great deal of a year or two up here among the snows of life. -She sat down so quietly that the gentleman on one side did not at first -notice that the place was taken by his side, and she occupied herself -with the other, whom she happened to know. There was a great deal of -talk going on at the table. Mrs. St. Clair had picked up a few ladies in -haste to make the balance a little more even. Mrs. Stokes had sent Lucy, -who was going to be married, and Miss Woodroff had come from the -Rectory, and Mrs. Sommerville, the young widow who was living with her -brother, the curate. There were seven of us altogether to thirteen -gentlemen, for, by way of making the table a little more crowded, -Charles Stamford had thought proper to come, though it was not his day. -And we all talked as if our lives were at stake. The younger ones were -much amused to be on duty thus, to be called upon to take care of the -old gentlemen, and the rest of us understood the obligation we were -under to talk, and worked resolutely at the conversation. For my part, I -did very well, I had quite a pleasant neighbour; and, indeed, I have -found that a great many of the City gentlemen are very pleasant to talk -to. He told me all about the new railway it was intended to make, and -scarcely laughed at all when I declared myself an enemy to new -railroads, in our neighbourhood, at least.</p> - -<p>‘Why should you cut up our pleasant, smiling country?’ I said. ‘We have -all the railways we want, and more. I do not say anything against what -is necessary; but why make gashes across the country when it is not -wanted——’</p> - -<p>‘Gashes—I don’t think they are gashes,’ said my neighbour. ‘When I saw -the white steam flying along the valley just now, I thought it very -picturesque. I allow I do not like it too near; but Dinglefield is as -safe as if it were in Paradise. No railway will climb your peaceable -heights. If there was question<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188"></a>{188}</span> however of a railway into Paradise -itself, there is the man who would do it,’ he said, looking across the -table. ‘I am a mere innocent myself. I do what other people tell me: but -there is the dangerous man. I hope, for your sake, that he will give his -word against this, for he would survey the moon if he thought it likely -to answer.’</p> - -<p>I peeped between the little thickets of flowers with which Sophy had -covered the table, and looked at the man thus pointed out to me. He was -sitting by Ursula Stamford, but he was not talking to her—she, as I -have said, was occupied by her other neighbour at her right hand. He was -an old man, not far from seventy, according to appearance, with -snow-white hair, but a beard still almost black, a combination which is -always striking. His features were fine, his dark eyes deeply sunk under -eyebrows still dark like his beard. There was a gentleman on the other -side of him whom he did not seem to care to talk to, and he was sitting, -scarcely speaking, his face in repose.</p> - -<p>‘Do you mean that handsome old man?’ I said.</p> - -<p>‘Old,’ said my companion, slightly startled; he was about the same age -himself if I had thought of it. ‘Well, I suppose he is old,’ he added, -with a little laugh. ‘You should talk to him. I don’t know a more -interesting man; and, as I tell you, he is the man to whom, if there was -a railway to be made to the moon, everybody would turn. If he took the -Channel tunnel in hand he would carry it through.’</p> - -<p>‘But that must be impossible,’ said I. ‘I hate the crossing; but I would -not trust myself in a tunnel under the sea, not for—— But you are -laughing—it is impossible——’</p> - -<p>‘Impossible!—not in the very least—ask <i>him</i>. I think myself he’s too -speculative. But there is one thing certain. If Oakley took it up, it -would go through. He’d do it. He is a man who does not believe in -difficulties. There might be a great catastrophe next day, but one way -or other he’d drive it through.’</p> - -<p>I am a very quiet person myself, therefore it stands to reason that I -should like a man who drives things through. Besides, he was a handsome -old man. I looked at him again behind the flowers, while my companion -went on talking, and I saw something which interested me. Miss Stamford -came to a pause in her conversation with the man at her right hand, and -she seized the opportunity to turn to the man on her left. At the first -sound of her voice his abstract countenance lighted up. He turned -hastily round with a look of recognition. How could he know Ursula -Stamford, I said to myself? His face lighted up with a gleam of -intelligence and pleasure, and something which, not knowing any other -word, I can only call sweetness. He turned quite round to her, and began -to talk with an interest and warmth which roused my immediate sympathy. -I seemed to be looking on at an interesting scene in the theatre, seen -from so great a distance that it was only the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189"></a>{189}</span> dumb-show which made it -intelligible. And my neighbour carried on his discourse all the time.</p> - -<p>‘He has sprung from nothing,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if he ever had a -father. He began in the humblest way. The first time I heard of him was -about thirty years ago, when he was struggling into business. He was not -what you would call a young man then. (You ladies are hard upon age—you -don’t like it talked about when it concerns yourselves, but you stamp us -down as old men without a bit of fellow-feeling——)’</p> - -<p>Here I interrupted my instructor. ‘I thought it was a weakness of ours -only to dislike to be called old. I thought men were superior to such a -little vanity—as to so many others.’</p> - -<p>‘You are satirical now. You think we are not superior to any vanity, and -I shouldn’t wonder if you were right. I was saying old Oakley was not a -young man to start with. He was a sort of an engineer, self-taught, all -self-taught, and he was trying to get into business as a contractor. -Mrs. Mulgrave,’ said my companion solemnly, ‘have you any idea what that -man is worth now? I thought so, as you didn’t seem impressed. He is -worth more than a million, that is the fact—he is made of money; losses -don’t seem to touch him. I do not suppose,’ my friend added, with awe in -his voice, ‘that he knows how much he has.’</p> - -<p>This information did not excite me as he expected, but I looked again -between the geraniums at Mr. Oakley. I am afraid his handsome head -interested me more than his fortune. ‘And there are so many people who -have nothing at all!’ I said; ‘but to look at him he might be a -philosopher without a penny.’</p> - -<p>‘That is just like you ladies—you would think more of him if he were a -philosopher without a penny. What an extraordinary mistake!’ cried my -companion, ‘as if money were not a power, quite as interesting and a -great deal more tangible than philosophy.’</p> - -<p>His countenance flushed and changed. He was an enthusiast for money. I -have met many such among General George’s City friends: not in the -sordid way we think of, but really as a great power.</p> - -<p>When Mrs. St. Clair gave the sign to go away, I was quite sorry to break -off this conversation, which was so much more interesting than the -ordinary kind of talk. It was a beautiful June evening, and, instead of -going into the drawing-room, we all went out upon the lawn where Simms -had laid down the great lion-skin, of which they are all so proud, and -some rugs which the General brought from India; for it is unnecessary to -say that we elder people were a little afraid of the dew on the grass. -But nobody could have taken cold on such a night. The borders were all -red and white with roses standing out against the deep green of the -shrubberies behind, and the colours seemed to repeat themselves in the -sky, which was all one flush of rose above the blue, deepening into -crimson as it descended, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190"></a>{190}</span> burning like fire between the trees on the -horizon line. Dinglefield stands high, with the broad Thames valley -lying at its feet, of which you could get glimpses through the cuttings -on the western side, if your eyes were not dazzled with all that blaze -of gold. Miss Stamford was tired with her day in town, and established -herself at once in her favourite basket-chair on the lawn. She sat there -tranquil and happy while the rest walked about; her presence, her smile, -the rest that seemed to breathe about her, gave stability and meaning to -the whole place. She was only an old maid according to the vulgar, but -you could not look at her without feeling sure that where she was, there -was a home. I don’t know that it had ever occurred to me to think so -much about Ursula Stamford before. There was something in the air which -affected me, though I did not know how. We could see the lighted windows -of the dining-room, and hear the sound of the voices and laughter, -though at a distance; and we all laughed too in sympathy, though we did -not know what the jokes were. It was very pleasant and friendly, and -rather droll. None of us had any particular desire to be joined by the -gentlemen. We had done our duty by them, talked our very best to them, -and flattered ourselves that it had all gone off very well; but though -we were glad they were enjoying themselves, now that our part of the -entertainment was over, we were not very sorry to think that they must -all go away shortly by the last train. And no heart among us, I am safe -to say, beat one pulsation the quicker when they came out upon the lawn, -some of them slightly flushed with the laughter and the good cheer, to -take their coffee, and their leave. It had grown almost dark by that -time, and the white waistcoats (for they were in their morning dress, -and most of them wore white waistcoats) made a great show in the half -light. The greater part of them thanked us all for the delightful -evening, not being quite clear which were, and which were not, the -ladies of the house, but determined to fulfil all the duties of -politeness. We walked with them to the gate to see them go, and shook -hands with them all, though we did not know their names. I recollect the -whole scene as clearly as a picture, though I knew at the time no reason -why I should remember it: the dining-room brightly lighted, the table -with all its fruit and flowers, and the vacant chairs pushed away, -standing in all manner of groups: the drawing-room much more dim, just -showing a glimmer of newly-lighted candles: the table on the lawn with -Miss Stamford’s white cap and half visible figure close to it: and all -the rest of us standing about telling each other how well it had gone -off, and listening to the voices of the gentlemen getting fainter and -fainter as they streamed off behind the shrubberies along the road to -the station. If any one had told us what changes would come from that -visit! But how could any one have guessed the changes that were to come?</p> - -<p>It was not the next day, but the day after that I met General George in -the afternoon coming from the station. It was at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191"></a>{191}</span> least two hours before -his usual time, and he was walking. The sight of him gave me a little -shock. Something, I thought, must have happened. I ran over in my mind, -as one naturally does, as I went up to him, the things that were most -possible. There were nephews scattered about over all the world. Could -it be that there was bad news of George Thistlethwaite in Ceylon, or -Bertie Stamford at the Cape? or was it pleasanter intelligence from -young Mrs. Thurston (<i>née</i> Ursula Humphreys) or Lucy Thistlethwaite, or -one of the Lincolnshire girls? but that (I said to myself) would not be -enough to bring the General home so much sooner than usual. When he came -nearer however my mind became easier. He did not look unhappy, he looked -puzzled, and now and then a gleam like laughter came over his face. When -he saw me he came forward with an air of pleasure.</p> - -<p>‘You are the very person I wanted to see—if you will let me, I will -walk home with you; but let us go the back way,’ said General George to -my intense surprise, ‘for I don’t want to see my sisters till I have -taken your advice.’</p> - -<p>‘My advice! before you see your sisters, before you tell <i>Ursula</i>!’ I -cried, and then the General laughed and frowned, and looked angry and -amused all in one. ‘That is just where my difficulty lies,’ he said. A -difficulty about Ursula! it took away my breath.</p> - -<p>‘You will not believe it,’ he said, ‘but it is quite true. Charles came -to me this morning with the absurdest question. He came to ask me who it -was that sat next Mr. Oakley at dinner at Bonport on Tuesday—eh? what, -did you notice anything?’ he asked abruptly, for I had not been able to -restrain a little exclamation. I have never boasted of my penetration, -but from that moment I seemed to know exactly what he was going to say.</p> - -<p>‘I know who sat next Mr. Oakley at dinner,’ I said.</p> - -<p>‘Ursula, wasn’t it? we laid our heads together, and from all we could -make out—he went to Charles first to find out who it was, and Charles, -of course, made up his mind that it must have been one of the young -ladies that had made such an impression. He proposed first Miss Woodroff -and then the young widow: but no, no. Oakley said it was not a young -lady. It was a lady whose hair was turning gray, who wore a cap, and -used a double eye-glass. At last the conviction forced itself upon me. -By Jove! it was Ursula—<i>Ursula</i> the man was thinking of! We both burst -out laughing in his face—— But afterwards,’ the General added gloomily -with a flush of displeasure, ‘afterwards—I feel furious, Mrs. Mulgrave, -though I may not show it; and that is why I have come first to you.</p> - -<p>‘What did he want?’ I said, though I allow there was some hypocrisy in -my question.</p> - -<p>‘What did he want?—you may well ask. He is a man of sixty-five, older -than I am. He wants—to marry my sister,’ said the General, with a half -suppressed outcry of rage—‘a man <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192"></a>{192}</span>who has risen from the ranks—a -stranger—a—a confounded—— I beg you ten thousand pardons, Mrs. -Mulgrave; he wants to pay his addresses, if you please, to Ursula! God -bless us all—did you ever hear such a thing? I feel much more like -cursing than blessing, to tell the truth.’</p> - -<p>‘But, General, he is very rich—richer than any one ever was before.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah, you have got bitten too,’ he said, with a tone almost of disgust. -‘That is what Charles says; but what is his money to me? What is it to -any of us, Mrs. Mulgrave? You would not upset all the order of your life -and change your habits, and give up your own ways for a million of -money, would you? After all, when you have enough to be comfortable, -what does money matter? Even the most extravagant of women can’t put -more than a certain number of yards of stuff into her dress. When you -have enough, what does it matter whether the over-plus is counted by -hundreds or by thousands?’ said the General, with magnanimous but -new-born indifference. If he cared so little about it, why should he go -to the City every day, I could not help saying to myself; and, indeed, -it came to my lips before I knew.</p> - -<p>‘If we all thought that,’ I said, ‘it would save a great deal of -trouble. Perhaps you would not then have had these twelve gentlemen down -to dinner and made all the mischief, General.’</p> - -<p>General George laughed. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t,’ he said, ‘but that is -different. It is not for the money, but the occupation, Mrs. Mulgrave; -and of course when one has money invested one wants to make something by -it. However my opinion is that it would be much better to say nothing -about this folly to Ursula. To be sure,’ he added with a look of -half-defiant assurance which he belied by a suspicious glance of inquiry -at me,’ it might amuse her; but it could have no other effect. I don’t -see why I should take any notice to Ursula.’</p> - -<p>‘But Mr. Oakley—will he be satisfied?’</p> - -<p>‘Old Oakley? Upon my word, I don’t see why I should consider him or what -will satisfy him,’ said the General, growing red; but he was uneasy. He -paused, then turned to me again. ‘If you were in my position, what -should you do?’</p> - -<p>‘I should tell her, and let her judge; after all, it is she who must -decide.’</p> - -<p>‘Decide—judge! you speak,’ cried General George, ‘as if it were -possible—as if it might be within the bounds of—— Bah! do you suppose -that Ursula—<i>Ursula!</i> my sister—would, could hesitate one moment?’</p> - -<p>‘No.’ I said ‘no,’ half because I really thought so, but half because he -was so much excited, and it was necessary to calm him. ‘I do not suppose -she would; but still, a woman should be told when a man—— It is the -greatest compliment he can pay her, and it is always flattering even -when it is impossible!’</p> - -<p>‘Flattering—a compliment! What can you be thinking of?’ the General -cried in high disdain; ‘that an old fellow like that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193"></a>{193}</span> should propose to -appropriate and take possession of—a lady! I don’t say my sister, which -of course is the sting of it,’ he said with a laugh, calming down again, -‘but any lady——’</p> - -<p>‘Dear General, forgive me,’ I said; ‘you always talk, you gentlemen, of -marriage as the end of every woman’s ambition, and you are always ready -to jibe at those who have not attained that great end. Then how, when -this elevation is in her power, do you venture to think of keeping her -in ignorance of it?’</p> - -<p>He turned round upon me almost with violence. ‘Elevation!’ he cried; -then perceiving, I suppose, by something in my eyes what I meant, -laughed more uneasily than ever. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘we may say silly -things, I allow we all say silly things; but when you come to that—to -speak of elevation for my sister from any offer, or that she should -think it a compliment!—God bless us all!—there are a great many -foolish things that one says, but you know better than to take it all -for gospel. Of course when one speaks of women one does not think of—— -By Jove, I am only getting deeper. Don’t hit a man when he is down, but -be serious, and give me your advice.’</p> - -<p>‘One does not think of one’s own sisters,’ said I, for I did not mean to -spare him, ‘only of other people’s sisters, or of those who have nobody -to stand up for them; but I will not be ungenerous, General I will give -you my advice. Tell Ursula, and let her judge for herself.’</p> - -<p>‘Judge!—she can have but one opinion. But that is what Charlie says. I -suppose the two of you must be right,’ said the General grudgingly. He -walked on by my side in silence, cutting down the weeds by the roadside -ferociously with his stick; then repeated with a still more churlish -assent, ‘I suppose what you two people of the world say must be right.’</p> - -<p>I smiled within myself to be called a woman of the world; but one must -not take the words of an angry man to heart. When he came to the turn of -the road which led to Brothers-and-Sisters he muttered something about -getting it over, and took off his hat and left me without another word. -Poor General George! Under all his pretences at anger he was in a great -fright. Either he believed his own careless talk, and thought that a -husband was too fine a thing for any woman to refuse, or else—— But I -need not discuss the vague feeling of insecurity which had begun to -creep over him. For my part, I did not feel alarmed. I had more -confidence in Ursula’s faithfulness than he had. At the same time, the -crisis was exciting, and I thought the time very long until the evening -began to darken, and I felt myself at liberty—dinner being over—to run -over the corner of the Green which lay between us, as I often did in the -evening, and see what Ursula said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194"></a>{194}</span></p> - -<h3>CHAPTER III</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> family party was on the lawn as usual; Miss Stamford seated in her -own chair with her knitting and her feet upon the lion-skin; while Mrs. -St. Clair beside her, with a basket full of bright scraps, had been -dressing dolls for a bazaar. Sophy was cutting off the withered roses -with a large pair of garden scissors; all their occupations were quite -as usual. But there was an aspect about the family which was not usual. -In the distance the General’s step was audible pacing about; and there -was an odour of his cigar in the air; all as peaceful, as homelike as it -always was; but yet a something in the atmosphere which had not been -there yesterday. As I came up with my shawl over my head, the General -tossed his cigar away and came nearer, and Sophia put down the basket -with the dead roses, and Mrs. St. Clair got up to get me a chair. The -only one that had not changed in the least was Ursula, who raised her -head and her eyes and gave me a friendly nod as she always did. She went -on with her knitting without any intermission. It is work which does not -demand attention, nor so much light as doll-dressing. They were all very -glad to see me—more glad even than on ordinary occasions: for it was -clear that the situation was highly <i>tendu</i>, as the French say, and that -a new-comer was a relief.</p> - -<p>‘What a beautiful evening!’ we all said together, and then stopped -abashed, as people do who have rushed into the same commonplace speech.</p> - -<p>Then Ursula added, ‘Of course, that is the first thing we must say to -each other. I think there never was such a summer—so bright, so steady, -one fine day after another. Here is a fortnight, or nearly so, that we -have not had one drop of rain.’</p> - -<p>‘Quite wonderful,’ said I. ‘The hay, I hear, is a sight to see. A day or -two more, and we shall all begin to pray for rain. We are never content -whatever we have.’</p> - -<p>‘A little variety is always pleasant,’ Mrs. St. Clair said. Meanwhile, -while we talked about the weather, the General hung about over our -little group like a storm-cloud. He did not say anything, but he looked -tempestuous; he, who was always so calm. Presently he turned away, and -went off to say something to Simms, who appeared just then with a note -or a message.</p> - -<p>‘I suppose,’ said Mrs. St. Clair, turning to me, ‘<i>you</i> know all about -it. George told us that he had met you, and told you——’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, he told me;’ but I did not know what to say; they all wore a look -of agitation, except Ursula, who was as calm as usual—more calm than -usual, I should have said; but, no doubt, that was only in comparison -with the agitation of the rest.</p> - -<p>‘And I suppose you think like the rest, that I will jump at a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195"></a>{195}</span> husband -the moment one is offered to me,’ said Miss Stamford with a smile.</p> - -<p>‘We don’t think so, Ursula. We know it is not the first time. It is only -George that is so frightened, poor fellow.’</p> - -<p>‘Why should he be so frightened?’ Miss Stamford cried. ‘No; it is not -the first time. I may take that little credit to myself. I might have my -head turned, perhaps, if it had been the first time. But, after all, it -is not so much to brag of. I suppose he wants somebody to take care of -him when he gets old and feeble; but he ought to have somebody younger -than me.’</p> - -<p>Sixty-five is not what you would call young; but it was odd how we all -were of opinion that Mr. Oakley’s time for being old and feeble was -still a good way off, a thing to come. I acknowledged that I shared this -weakness. We were all about the same age, and it did not occur to us -that we were already old.</p> - -<p>‘He shows his sense,’ said I, taking the part of the absent to whom -nobody did any justice, ‘as well as his good taste. Poor man, though he -is so rich, I am very sorry for him. I wish Ursula had met him twenty -years ago when there would have been no harm——’</p> - -<p>‘No harm! do you know that he is a nobody—a man self-made?’ said Mrs. -St. Clair; ‘not a match for Ursula Stamford if he had been ever so -young!’</p> - -<p>‘But you did not think of that in Fia’s case,’ said Sophy; ‘he was rich -and you never said a word. You thought it quite reasonable. ‘What do his -grandfathers matter to us?’ you said. I am not sure myself whether it -does or not; but you said so, you know; and George proposed the bride -and bridegroom at the wedding, and everybody was pleased. Now this Mr. -Oakley is a very nice man, whatever you say, for I had a good deal of -talk with him myself; and if Ursula chose——’</p> - -<p>‘You should not interfere,’ said Mrs. St. Clair; ‘you are always -sentimental. Of course, if there is so much as a thought of a marriage, -Sophy is always in favour of it; but to think of Ursula at her time of -life!’</p> - -<p>‘You all talk very much at your ease about Ursula,’ said Miss Stamford. -‘I suppose Ursula may have a word, a little share in it, for herself. -The way my family consult over me’—she said, turning to me with a -slight blush and laugh. ‘I think George might have held his tongue; that -would have been the more satisfactory way.’</p> - -<p>‘It was my fault,’ I cried hurriedly: ‘he told me that he thought it -would be best not to tell you. You must forgive me, Ursula, if I gave -him bad advice; I thought you ought to know.’</p> - -<p>Before I had half said this, I saw I had made a mistake; but one must -finish one’s sentence, however foolish it may be. Ursula suspended her -knitting for a moment and looked at me with calm amazement.</p> - -<p>‘Not tell <i>me</i>!’ she said. ‘Why should he have kept it from <i>me</i>?’</p> - -<p>The emphasis was very slight, but it meant a great deal. It<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196"></a>{196}</span> never -occurred to her that a thing which concerned her so closely should have -been kept from herself; the question was why should we know; and I -confess I felt very much ashamed of having any say in it, when I met the -calm, astonished look of her eyes.</p> - -<p>‘It is getting a little chilly,’ she said, rising up. ‘I think it is -time to go indoors.’</p> - -<p>We all followed her quite humbly, and the General came stalking after -us, more like a thunder-cloud than ever. He had been talking to poor -Simms in a voice which was not pleasant, and he appeared at the -drawings-room window by which we all entered with the large lion-skin in -his arms.</p> - -<p>‘I can’t have this left out all night in those heavy dews,’ he said. I -do not think I ever saw those signs of suppressed irritation, which are -too common in families, among the Stamfords before.</p> - -<p>Next morning General George came in for a moment before I had -breakfasted, to tell me for my satisfaction that all was right. His face -was quite clear again. ‘I was a little cross last night. I fear you may -have supposed that I for a moment doubted my sister. Not a moment, Mrs. -Mulgrave. I have got to give him his answer, poor old fellow. I can’t -help feeling a little sorry for him all the same. What bad luck for the -poor old beggar! Of all the women there to hit upon the one who was -simply hopeless! Some men always have that sort of fate.’</p> - -<p>‘He showed his taste,’ said I; ‘but I heard he was the luckiest man in -the world, General; that he always succeeded in everything; that however -wild the project was, he was the man to carry it through.’</p> - -<p>I said this partly in malice, I am bound to admit, and I was very -successful. The General’s face clouded over again: he set his teeth. ‘He -shall not succeed this time;’ and he said something more in his -moustache, some stronger words which I was not intended to hear. It was -all over then, this odd little episode. I stood and watched him from my -door half relieved, half wondering. Was it all over? I did not feel so -satisfied or so certain as General George.</p> - -<p>A few days of perfect quiet ensued. When a week passed we all felt -really satisfied. It was over then? Mr. Oakley had accepted his refusal. -To be sure one did not see what else he could have done, though I -confess that I had not expected it for my part. However, on the Sunday -morning the moment I looked across to the Stamfords’ pew after getting -settled in my own, it seemed to me that I could see indications of a new -event. Both Mrs. St. Clair and Sophy were looking at me when I raised my -head; they could not restrain themselves. They gave me anxious, -significant glances with little hardly perceptible signs of the head and -hand. When the service was over, and we were going out, Sophy was at my -side in a moment. We were not actually out of church when I felt her arm -slide into mine and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197"></a>{197}</span> a whisper in my ear. ‘She has got a letter!’ Sophy -said, all in a tremble of eagerness. Mrs. St. Clair came up on the other -side as soon as we were clear of the stream of people. ‘It is getting -really serious,’ she said; ‘he will not take a refusal. It is quite -absurd, and George is dreadfully angry. <i>He</i> is just as absurd on the -other side.’</p> - -<p>‘And what does Ursula say?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Ursula does not say anything. Of course we could not help knowing -about the letter. It was very long and very much in earnest——’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, quite impassioned!’ cried Sophy. She had not encountered anything -so exciting for years. She was pale with interest and emotion, shaking -her head in intense seriousness. ‘He says that he appeals to her sense -of justice not to condemn him without a hearing. It is quite beautiful. -I am sure he is a nice man.’</p> - -<p>‘And then, you know, there is the other side of the question,’ said Mrs. -St. Clair seriously. ‘I did not quite understand when we spoke of it -last. Charlie says he is immensely rich—not just ordinarily comfortable -like so many people, but a true millionnaire. That changes the aspect of -the matter a little, don’t you think? Not that I am a mercenary person, -still less Ursula; but when you come to think of it, wealth to that -extent is something to be considered. Just fancy the good she might do,’ -cried the sensible sister, ‘and the number of young people we have -looking to us! I do think it is not exactly right to ignore that side of -the question.’</p> - -<p>‘Charlie thinks it is quite wrong,’ said Sophy, shaking her head.</p> - -<p>The General had not even stopped to say ‘Good morning’ outside the -church door as he usually did. It was his brother Charles who was with -Ursula. The General walked straight home, without looking to the right -hand or the left. I felt a great sympathy for him. It was he that would -feel it most <i>if anything happened</i>; and he was the only one of the -family who had that fantastic delicacy of sentiment which some of us -feel for those we love, so that the merest touch of anything that could -be called ridicule, seemed sacrilege and desecration to him.</p> - -<p>I must not attempt to go in detail into all that followed. Miss Stamford -wrote a very beautiful letter (they all told me) to her antiquated -lover, telling him how sorry she was to be the cause of any annoyance to -him, and hoping that the vexation would be but temporary, as indeed she -felt sure it must be—but that his proposals were quite out of the -question. This, of course, was what every woman would have said in the -circumstances. But neither did Mr. Oakley take this for an answer. There -was another letter by return of post in which they said he implored her -to believe that nothing about the matter was temporary—that it was a -question of life and death to him; that now was his only chance of -happiness. Happiness! for a man of sixty-five! For my part I could not -help laughing, but it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198"></a>{198}</span> was no laughing matter for the household at -Brothers-and-Sisters. A few days after this I met Mr. Oakley himself on -his way to the house. He recognized me at once, but naturally he did not -know who I was. He took me for one of the family, and came up to me -carrying his hat in his hand. He was a very handsome old man. His hair -was snow-white, a mass of it rising up in waves from his forehead, with -eyebrows still black and strongly marked, and the finest brilliant dark -eyes. I said to myself mentally: ‘If it had been I, I should have given -in at once.’ And his manners were beautiful—not the manners of -society—the deferential respect of a man who knows women chiefly -through books, and does not understand the free and easy modern way of -treating us. He kept his hat in his hand as he stood and spoke. ‘I do -not know,’ he said, ‘if I have the honour of speaking to a sister of -Miss Stamford’s, but I know I met you there.’</p> - -<p>‘Not a sister, but a very affectionate friend,’ I said. His face lighted -up instantly; he almost loved me for saying so. ‘Then if that is the -case we ought to be friends too,’ he said. I was so much interested that -I turned and walked with him, regardless of prudence. What would the -Stamfords say if they saw me thus identifying myself with the cause of -their assailant? but the interest of this strange little romance carried -me away.</p> - -<p>‘I must see her,’ he said. ‘Don’t you think I have a right to see her? -They need not surely grudge me one opportunity of pleading my own cause. -No, indeed, I don’t blame them. If I had such a treasure—nay,’ he went -on with a smile, ‘<i>when</i> I have that treasure, I will guard it from -every wind that blows. I don’t wonder at their precautions. But Stamford -does not treat me with generosity; he does not trust to my honour: that -is why I adopt his own tactics. I must try to effect an entrance while -he is away.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t think Ursula will have you, Mr. Oakley,’ I said.</p> - -<p>‘Perhaps not; but that remains to be seen. She has never seen me—that -is, she has never seen the real John Oakley, only a director of her -brother’s company, two different persons, Mrs. Mulgrave, if you will -allow me to say so.’</p> - -<p>‘But she saw you before she knew you were a director. She travelled with -you. You were the gentleman like Don Quixote——’</p> - -<p>How foolish I was! Of course I ought not to have said it. I felt that -before the words were out of my mouth. Such encouragement as this was -enough to counterbalance any number of severities. ‘Ah! I am like Don -Quixote, am I?’ he said; and once more, and more brightly than ever, his -handsome old face blazed into the brightest expression. Poor Mr. Oakley! -I threw myself heart and soul into his faction after this; for indeed, -as I afterwards heard, he had not at all a pleasant ‘time,’ as the -Americans say, that afternoon. When he sent in his name at -Brothers-and-Sisters he was told that the ladies<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199"></a>{199}</span> were out, and, though -he waited, all that he managed to obtain was a hurried interview with -Mrs. St. Clair, who conveyed to him Ursula’s entreaty that he would -accept her answer as final, and not ask to see her. Sophy told me after -(she must have hidden herself somewhere, for nobody but Frances was -supposed to be present) that his behaviour was beautiful. He bowed to -the ground, she said, and declared that no one could be so much -interested as he was in observing Miss Stamford’s slightest wish; that -he would not for the world intrude upon her, but wait her pleasure -another time. Mrs. St. Clair’s heart softened too, and she did not -protest, as perhaps she ought to have done, against this ‘other time.’ -He passed by my cottage as he went away, and I do not deny that I was in -my little garden looking out, ‘I have had no luck,’ he said, shaking his -head, but still with a smile, ‘no luck to-day; but another time I shall -succeed better.’</p> - -<p>I ran to the gate, I felt so much interested. ‘Do you really think, Mr. -Oakley,’ I said, ‘that it is worth your while to persevere?’</p> - -<p>‘Worth my while?’ he said; ‘certainly it is worth my while: for I am in -no hurry. I can bide my time.’</p> - -<p>Bide his time at sixty-five! I stood and looked at him as long as he was -in sight. There is nothing like courage for securing the sympathy of the -bystanders.</p> - -<p>After this the excitement ran very high both in the house of the -Stamfords and in the community in general. We all took sides: and while -General George made himself more and more disagreeable, and we all -watched and spied her every action, Ursula was subjected all the time to -a ceaseless assault from the other side. Letters poured upon her; -beautiful baskets of flowers arrived suddenly, secretly, so that no one -knew how they came. After a while, when the autumn commenced, there came -hampers of game and of fruit, all in the same anonymous, magnificent -way. And then the clever old man found out a still more effectual way of -siege. The Stamfords had always nephews who wanted appointments or who -required to be pushed. For instance, there was young Charley, of the -Inner Temple, sadly in want of a brief: when lo! all at once, briefs -began to tumble down from heaven upon the young man. In a week he had -more business than he knew what to do with. And Willie Thistlethwaite -had a living offered to him; and Cecil, whom they were so anxious to -place with an engineer, though the premium was so serious a matter, -suddenly found a place open to him with no premium at all. I believe in -my heart that it was Mr. Charles Stamford who helped the old lover to -recommend himself in this effectual, quiet way; for how should he have -found out all the nephews without help? But as one of these mysterious -benefits after another happened to the distant members of the family, -the feeling rose stronger and stronger among all their friends. We set -down everything, from the flowers to the living, unhesitatingly to Mr. -Oakley;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200"></a>{200}</span> and at last public sentiment on the Green got to such a pitch -that whereas people had laughed at the whole matter at first as little -more than a joke, everybody now grew indignant, and protested that -Ursula Stamford ought to be cut and sent to Coventry if she did not -marry Don Quixote. I don’t know who had betrayed this description which -she had herself given of him. But everybody now called him Don Quixote, -and the whole community took his cause to heart. While this feeling rose -outside, a wave of the same sentiment, but still more powerful, got up -within. Mr. Charles spoke out and declared (as, indeed, he had done from -the first) that to neglect such an opportunity of strengthening the -family influence would be a mere flying in the face of Providence; and -then something still more extraordinary happened. Frances herself—who -looked upon all married ladies in the light of prospective widows, and -regarded the one state only as a preparation for the other—Frances -herself suddenly threw off her allegiance to the General and went over -boldly to the other side. Sophy had been Mr. Oakley’s champion all -along. They began to turn upon Ursula, to accuse her of behaving badly -to her unwearied suitor—they accused her of playing fast and loose, of -amusing herself with his devotion. They raised a family outcry against -her, and brought down all the married sisters and the distant brothers -upon her, with a storm of disapproving letters. ‘The man that has -provided for my Cecil,’ one indignant lady wrote, ‘surely, <i>surely</i>, -deserves better at <i>my</i> sister’s hands;’ and ‘I really think, my dear -Ursula, that any petty objections of your own should yield before the -evident advantage to the family,’ was what the eldest brother of all, -the father of the young barrister, said. On the other side, with gloom -on his face, and a sneer upon his lip (where it was so completely out of -place), and a bitter jibe now and then about the falsity and weakness of -women, General George stood all alone, and kept a jealous watch upon -her. His love for his favourite sister seemed to have turned to gall. He -would have none of her usual services; he no longer consulted her about -anything—no longer told her what he was going to do. It is to be -supposed that by this cruel method the General intended to prove to his -sister how much kinder and better a master he was than any other she -could aspire to; but if this was the case, he took a very curious way of -showing his superiority. And Ursula stood between these two parties, her -home and her life becoming more and more unbearable every day.</p> - -<p>At last she took a sudden resolution. Sophy ran over to tell me of it -late one September evening. There were tears in Sophy’s eyes, and she -was full of awe. ‘Ursula has made up her mind, she said, almost below -her breath. ‘It is all over, Mrs. Mulgrave. She has written him a -<i>terrible</i> letter—it is quite beautiful, but it is something terrible -at the same time; and she is going off <i>abroad</i> to-morrow. She says she -cannot bear it any longer; she says we are killing her. She says she -must<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201"></a>{201}</span> make an end of it, and that she will go away. Poor Mr. Oakley!’ -Sophy said, and cried. As for me, I also felt deeply impressed and a -little awe-stricken, but I had a lingering faith in Don Quixote -notwithstanding all.</p> - -<h3>CHAPTER IV</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">There</span> had been very little time left for preparations, and hardly any -one, Sophy told me, was aware they were going away. Except myself, no -one of the neighbours knew. All the arrangements were hastily made. -Ursula wanted to be gone if possible before Mr. Oakley could take any -further step. I went over early next morning to see if I could be of any -use. Ursula was in her room, doing her packing. To see her in her old -black silk with her simple little cap covering her gray hair, and to -think she was being driven from her home by the importunities of a -too-ardent lover, struck me as more ridiculous than it had ever done -before. She saw it herself, and laughed as she stood for a moment before -the long glass, in which she had caught a glimpse of herself.</p> - -<p>‘I am a pretty sort of figure for all this nonsense,’ she said, -permitting herself for the first time an honest laugh on the subject; -but then her face clouded once more. ‘The truth is,’ she said, ‘it would -all be mere nonsense, but for George. It is he that takes it so much to -heart.’</p> - -<p>‘Indeed,’ said I. ‘I think it is not at all nice of the General; and I -don’t think it would be nonsense in any case. There is some one else I -acknowledge, Ursula, that I think of more than the General.’</p> - -<p>She did not say anything more. Her face paled, then grew red again, and -she went on with her packing. It is needless to say that I was of no -manner of use. I got rid of a little of my own excitement by going, that -was all. I went again in the evening to see the last of them. It was a -lovely September evening. There had been a wonderfully fine sunset, and -the whole horizon was still flaming, the trees standing out almost black -in their deep greenness, though touched with points of yellow, against -the broad lines of crimson and wide openings of wistful green blueness -in the sky. The days were already growing short. There is no time of the -year at which one gets so much good of the sunset. As I went across the -corner of the Green the gables and irregular chimneys of the old house -stood up among the heavy foliage against the lower band of colour where -the green and blue died into yellow the ‘daffodil sky’ of the poet. They -too looked black against that light, and there was a wistful look, I -thought, about the whole place, protesting dumbly against its -abandonment. Why should people go away from such a pleasant and peaceful -place to wander over the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202"></a>{202}</span> world? There was a solitary blackbird singing -clear and loud, filling the whole air with his song. I wonder if that -song is really much less beautiful than the nightingale’s. I was -thinking how blank and cold the house would be when they were all gone. -The chimneys and gables already looked so cold, smokeless, fireless, -appealing against the glare of the summer, which carried away the -dwellers inside, and extinguished the cheerful fire of home. As I went -in I saw the fly from the ‘Barleymow’ creeping along towards the house -to carry the luggage to the station. The old white horse came along -quite reluctantly, as if he did not like the errand. I suppose all that -his slow pace meant was that he had gone through a long day’s work, and -was tired; but it is so natural to convey a little of one’s own feelings -to everything, even the chimneys of the old house. There was nobody -down-stairs when I went in. Simms told me in a dolorous tone that Miss -Stamford was putting on her bonnet.</p> - -<p>‘And I don’t like it, ma’am—I don’t like it—going away like this, just -when the country’s at its nicest. If it was the General for his bit of -sport, his shooting, or that, I wouldn’t mind,’ said Simms; ‘but what -call have the ladies got away from home? They’ll go a-catching fevers or -something, see if they don’t. It’s tempting Providence.’</p> - -<p>‘I hope not, Simms,’ said I; but Simms took no comfort from my hoping. -He shook his head and he uttered a groan as he set a chair for me in the -centre of the drawing-room. No more cosy corners, the man seemed to -say—no more low seats and pleasant talk—an uncompromising chair in the -middle of the room, and a business object. These were all of which the -old drawing-room would be capable when the ladies were away. I set down -Simms along with the house itself, protesting with all its chimneys, and -the old white horse lumbering reluctantly along to fetch the luggage, -and the blackbird remonstrating loudly among the trees. They were all -opposed to Ursula’s departure, and so was I.</p> - -<p>The door opened, and Sophy came in more despondent than all of these -sundry personages and things put together. ‘They are rather late—the -boxes are just being put on to the fly. Will you come out here and bid -her good-bye?’ said Sophy, who was limp with crying. I never could tell -whether it was imagination or a real quickening of my senses, but at -that moment, as I rose to follow Sophy, I heard as clearly as I ever -heard it in my life the galloping of horses on the dry, dusty summer -road. I heard it as distinctly as I hear now the soft dropping of the -rain, a sound as different as possible from all the other sounds I had -been hearing—horses galloping at their very best, a whip cracking, the -sound of a frantic energy of haste. Then I went out into the hall, -following Sophy. It must have been imagination, for with all these lawns -and shrubberies round, one could not, you may well believe, hear passing -carriages like that. Ursula was standing at the foot of the stairs in -her travelling dress. It<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203"></a>{203}</span> was a large, long hall, more oblong than -square, into which all the rooms opened; the drawing-room was opposite -the outer door, and the General’s room (the library as it was called) -was further back nearer the stairs. He was inside, but the door was -open. Ursula stood outside talking to the cook, who was to be a kind of -housekeeper while they were away. ‘Don’t trouble Miss Sophy except when -you are perplexed yourself. On ordinary occasions you will do quite -nicely, I am sure; you will do everything that is wanted,’ she was -saying in her kind, cheerful voice, for Ursula did not show any -appearance of regret, though all of us who were staying behind were -melancholy. The men were hoisting up the trunks with which the hall was -encumbered on the top of the fly, which was visible with its old white -horse standing tired and pensive at the open door. And Mrs. St. Clair -appeared behind her sister, slowly coming down-stairs with a cloak over -her arm and a bag in her hand. There was nothing left but to say -good-bye and wish them a good journey and a speedy return.</p> - -<p>But all at once in a moment there was a change. The horses I had been -dreaming of, or had heard in a dream, drew up with a whirlwind of sound -at the gate. Then something darted across the unencumbered light beyond -the fly and came between the old white horse and the door. I think -he—for to use any neutral expressions about <i>him</i> from the first moment -at which he showed himself would be impossible—I think he lifted his -hand to the men who were putting up the trunks to arrest them; at all -events they stopped and scratched their heads and opened their mouths, -and stood staring at him, as did Sophy and I, altogether confounded, yet -with sudden elation in our hearts. He stepped past us all as lightly as -any young paladin of twenty, taking off his hat. His white hair seemed -all in a moment to light up everything, to quicken the place. Ursula was -the last to see him. She was still talking quite calmly to the cook, -though even Mrs. St. Clair on the stairs had seen the new incident, and -had dropped her cloak in amazement. He went straight up to her, without -a pause, without drawing breath. I am sure we all held ours in -spellbound anxiety and attention. When Ursula saw him standing by her -side she started as if she had been shot—she made a hasty step back and -looked at him, catching her breath too with sudden alarm. But he had the -air of perfect self-command.</p> - -<p>‘Miss Stamford,’ he said, ‘will you grant me half an hour’s interview -before you go?’</p> - -<p>For the first time Ursula lost her self-possession; she fluttered and -trembled like a girl, and could not speak for a moment. Then she -stammered out, ‘I hope you will excuse me. We shall be—late for the -train.’</p> - -<p>‘Half an hour?’ he said; ‘I only ask half an hour—only hear me, Miss -Stamford, hear what I have got to say. I will not detain you more than -half an hour.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204"></a>{204}</span></p> - -<p>Ursula looked round her helplessly. Whether she saw us standing gazing -at her I cannot tell, or if she was conscious that the General behind -her had come out to the door, and was standing there petrified, staring -like the rest of us. She looked round vaguely, as if asking aid from the -world in general. And whether her impetuous old lover took her hand and -drew it within his arm, or if she accepted his arm, I cannot say. But -the next thing of which we were aware was that they passed us, the two -together, arm in arm, into the drawing-room. He had noted the open door -with his quick eye, and there he led her trembling past us. Next moment -it closed upon the momentous interview, and the chief actors in this -strange scene disappeared. We were left all gazing at each other—Sophy -and I at one side of the hall, Mrs. St. Clair on the stairs, where she -stood as if turned to stone, her cloak fallen from her arm; and the -General at the door of his room with a face like a thunder-cloud, black -and terrible. We stared at each other speechless, the central object at -which we had all been gazing withdrawn suddenly from us. There were some -servants also of the party, Simms standing over Miss Stamford’s box, the -address of which he affected to be scanning, and the cabman scratching -his head. We all looked at each other with ludicrous, blank faces. It -was the General who was the first to speak. He took no notice of us. He -stepped out from his door into the middle of the hall, and pointed -imperiously to the box. ‘Take all that folly away,’ he said harshly, and -with another long step strode out of the house and disappeared.</p> - -<p>He did not come back till late that night, when all thoughts of the -train had long departed from everybody’s head. Before that time need I -say it was all settled? I had always been doubtful myself about Ursula. -She had been afraid of making a joke of herself by a late marriage. She -had shrunk, perhaps, too, at her time of life, from all the novelty and -the change; but even at fifty-seven a woman retains her imagination, and -it had been captivated in spite of herself by the bit of strange romance -thus oddly introduced into her life. Is any one ever old enough to be -insensible to the pleasure of being singled out and pursued with -something that looked like real passion? I do not suppose so; Ursula had -been alarmed by the softening of her own feelings; she had been -remorseful and conscience-stricken about her secret treachery to her -brother. In short, I had felt all along that she must have had very -little confidence in herself when she was driven to the expedient of -running away.</p> - -<p>They would not let me go, though I felt myself out of place at such a -moment, so that I had my share in the excitement as I had in the -suspense. And after all the struggle and the suspense it is -inconceivable how easy and natural the settlement of the matter seemed, -and what a relief it was that it should be decided.</p> - -<p>As soon as the first commotion was over Mrs. Douglas came<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205"></a>{205}</span> to me, took -my hands in hers, and led me out by the open window. ‘George!’ she said -to me with a little gasp. ‘What shall we do about George? How will <i>he</i> -take it? And if he comes in upon us all without any preparation, what -will happen? I don’t know what to do.’</p> - -<p>‘He must know what has happened,’ said I; ‘he saw there was only one -thing that could happen. He must know what he has to expect.’</p> - -<p>Mrs. St. Clair clasped her hands together. What with the excitement and -the pleasure and the pain the tears stood in her eyes. ‘Ursula was -always his favourite sister,’ she said; ‘how will he take it? and where -is he?—wandering about, making himself wretched this melancholy night.’</p> - -<p>It was not in reality a melancholy night. It was dark, and the colour -had gone out of the sky, which looked of a deep wintry blue between the -black tree-tops which swayed in the wind. Mrs. St. Clair shivered a -little, partly from the contrast with the bright room inside, partly -from anxiety. ‘Where can he be?—where can he be wandering?’ she said. -We had both the same idea—that he must have gone into the woods and be -wandering about there in wild resentment and distress. ‘And we must not -stay out here or Mr. Oakley will think something is wrong, and Ursula -will be unhappy,’ she said with a sigh.</p> - -<p>It was then I proposed that I should stay outside to break the news to -the General when he appeared—a proposal which, after a while, Mrs. -Douglas was compelled to accept, though she protested—for after all, my -absence would not be remarked, and it was easy to say that I had gone -home, as I meant to do. But I cannot say that the post was a pleasant -one. I walked about for some time in front of the house, and then I came -and sat down in the porch ‘for company.’ There was nothing, as I have -said, specially melancholy about the night, but the contrast of the -scene within and this without struck the imagination. When a door opened -the voices within came with a kind of triumph into the darkness where -the disappointed and solitary brother was wandering: and so absorbed was -I in thoughts of General George and his downfall that I almost missed -the subject of them, who came suddenly round the corner of the house -when I was not looking for him. It was he who perceived me, rather than -I who was on the watch for him. ‘You here, Mrs. Mulgrave!’ he said in -amazement. I believe he thought, as I started to my feet, that I had -been asleep.</p> - -<p>‘General!’ I cried then in my confusion. ‘Stop here a moment, do not go -in. I have something to say to you.’</p> - -<p>He laughed—which was a sound so unexpected that it bewildered me. ‘My -kind friend,’ he said, ‘have you stayed here to break the news to me? -But it is unnecessary—from the moment I saw Oakley arrive I knew how it -must be. Ursula has been going—she has been going. I have seen it for -three or four weeks past.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206"></a>{206}</span></p> - -<p>‘And, General! thank Heaven you are not angry, you are taking it in a -Christian way.’</p> - -<p>He laughed again—a sort of angry laugh. ‘Am I taking it in a Christian -way? I am glad you think so, Mrs. Mulgrave. When a thing cannot be cured -it must be endured, you know. I am out of court— I have no ground to -stand upon, and he is master of the field. I don’t mean to make her -unhappy whatever happens. Is he here still?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ I said trembling. He offered me his arm precisely as Mr. Oakley -had offered his to Ursula. ‘Then we’ll go and join them,’ he said.</p> - -<p>This was how it all ended. There was not a speck on his boots or the -least trace of disorder. Instead of roaming the woods in despair, as we -thought, he had been quietly drinking Lady Denzil’s delightful tea and -playing chess with Sir Thomas. They had seen nothing unusual about him, -we heard afterwards, and never knew that he ought to have been starting -for the Continent when he walked in that evening, warmly welcomed to -tea—which shows what sentimental estimates we women form about the -feelings of men.</p> - -<p>The marriage took place very soon after. Mr. Oakley bought Hillhead, the -finest place in the neighbourhood, very soon after; he was so rich that -he bought a house whenever he found one that pleased him, as I might buy -an old blue china pot. The one was a much greater extravagance to me -than the other was to him. And they lived very happy ever after, and -nobody, so far as I know, has ever had occasion to regret this love at -first sight at sixty—this elderly romance.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207"></a>{207}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="MRS_MERRIDEWS_FORTUNE" id="MRS_MERRIDEWS_FORTUNE"></a>MRS. MERRIDEW’S FORTUNE</h2> - -<h3>CHAPTER I</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">There</span> are two houses in my neighbourhood which illustrate so curiously -two phases of life, that everybody on the Green, as well as myself, has -been led into the habit of classing them together. The first reason of -this of course is, that they stand together; the second, that they are -as unlike in every way as it is possible to conceive. They are about the -same size, with the same aspect, the same green circle of garden -surrounding them; and yet as dissimilar as if they had been brought out -of two different worlds. They are not on the Green, though they are -undeniably a part of Dinglefield, but stand on the Mercot Road, a broad -country road with a verdant border of turf and fine trees shadowing over -the hedgerows. The Merridews live in the one, and in the other are Mrs. -Spencer and Lady Isabella. The house of the two ladies, which has been -already described, is as perfect in all its arrangements as if it were a -palace: a silent, soft, fragrant, dainty place, surrounded by lawns like -velvet; full of flowers in perfect bloom, the finest kinds, succeeding -each other as the seasons change. Even in autumn, when the winds are -blowing, you never see a fallen leaf about, or the least symptom of -untidiness. They have enough servants for everything that is wanted, and -the servants are as perfect as the flowers—noiseless maids and -soft-voiced men. Everything goes like machinery, with an infallible -regularity; but like machinery oiled and deadened, which emits no creak -nor groan. This is one of the things upon which Mrs. Spencer specially -prides herself.</p> - -<p>And just across two green luxuriant hedges, over a lawn which is not -like velvet, you come to the Merridews’. It is possible if you passed it -on a summer day that, notwithstanding the amazing superiority of the -other, you would pause longer, and be more amused with a glance into the -enclosure of the latter house. The lawn is not the least like velvet; -probably it has not been mown for three weeks at least, and the daisies -are irrepressible. But there, tumbled down in the midst of it,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208"></a>{208}</span> are a -bunch of little children in pinafores—‘<i>all</i> the little ones,’ as Janet -Merridew, the eldest daughter, expresses herself, with a certain soft -exasperation. I would rather not undertake to number them or record -their names, but there they are, a knot of rosy, round-limbed, -bright-eyed, living things, some dark and some fair, with an amazing -impartiality; but all chattering as best they can in nursery language, -with rings of baby laughter, and baby quarrels, and musings of infinite -solemnity. Once tumbled out here, where no harm can come to them, nobody -takes any notice of the little ones. Nurse, sitting by serenely under a -tree, works all the morning through, and there is so much going on -indoors to occupy the rest.</p> - -<p>Mr. and Mrs. Merridew, I need not add, had a large family—so large that -their house overflowed, and when the big boys were at home from school, -was scarcely habitable. Janet, indeed, did not hesitate to express her -sentiments very plainly on the subject. She was just sixteen, and a good -child, but full of the restless longing for something, she did not know -what, and visionary discontent with her surroundings, which is not -uncommon at her age. She had a way of paying me visits, especially -during the holidays, and speaking more frankly on domestic subjects than -was at all expedient. She would come in, in summer, with a tap on the -glass which always startled me, through the open window, and sink down -on a sofa and utter a long sigh of relief. ‘Oh, Mrs. Mulgrave!’ she -would say, ‘what a good thing you never had any children!’ taking off, -as she spoke, the large hat which it was one of her grievances to be -compelled to wear.</p> - -<p>‘Is that because you have too many at home?’ I said.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, yes, far too many; fancy, ten! Why should poor papa be burdened -with ten of us? and so little money to keep us all on. And then a house -gets so untidy with so many about. Mamma does all she can, and I do all -I can; but how is it possible to keep it in order? When I look across -the hedges to Mrs. Spencer and Lady Isabella’s and see everything so -nice and so neat I could die of envy. And you are always so shady, and -so cool, and so pleasant here.’</p> - -<p>‘It is easy to be neat and nice when there is nobody to put things out -of order,’ said I; ‘but when you are as old as I am, Janet, you will get -to think that one may buy one’s neatness too dear.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, I delight in it!’ cried the girl. ‘I should like to have everything -nice, like you; all the books and papers just where one wants them, and -paper-knives on every table, and ink in the ink-bottles, and no dust -anywhere. You are not so dreadfully particular as Mrs. Spencer and Lady -Isabella. I think I should like to see some litter on the carpet or on -the lawn now and then for a change. But oh, if you could only see our -house! And then our things are so shabby: the drawing-room carpet is all -faded with the sun, and mamma will never have the blinds<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209"></a>{209}</span> properly -pulled down. And Selina, the housemaid, has so much to do. When I scold -her, mamma always stops me, and bids me recollect we can’t be as nice as -you other people, were we to try ever so much. There is so much to do in -our house. And then those dreadful big boys!’</p> - -<p>‘My dear,’ said I, ‘ring the bell, and we will have some tea; and you -can tell Jane to bring you some of that strawberry jam you are so fond -of—and forget the boys.’</p> - -<p>‘As if one could!’ said Janet, ‘when they are all over the place—into -one’s very room, if one did not mind; their boots always either dusty or -muddy, and oh, the noise they make! Mamma won’t make them dress in the -evenings, as I am sure she should. How are they ever to learn to behave -like Christians, Mrs. Mulgrave, if they are not obliged to dress and -come into the drawing-room at night?’</p> - -<p>‘I dare say they would run out again and spoil their evening clothes, my -dear,’ I said.</p> - -<p>‘That is just what mamma says,’ cried Janet; ‘but isn’t it dreadful to -have always to consider everything like that? Poor mamma, too—often I -am quite angry, and then I think—perhaps she would like a house like -Mrs. Spencer and Lady Isabella’s as well as I should, if we had money -enough. I suppose in a nice big house with heaps of maids and heaps of -money, and everything kept tidy for you, one would not mind even the big -boys.’</p> - -<p>‘I think under those circumstances most people would be glad to have -them,’ said I.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t understand how anybody can like boys,’ said Janet, with -reflective yet contemptuous emphasis. ‘A baby-boy is different. When -they are just the age of little Harry, I adore them; but those great -long-legged creatures, in their big boots! And yet, when they’re nicely -dressed in their evening things,’ she went on, suddenly changing her -tone, ‘and with a flower in their coats—Jack has actually got an -evening coat, Mrs. Mulgrave, he is so tall for his age—they look quite -nice; they look such gentlemen,’ Janet concluded, with a little sisterly -enthusiasm. ‘Oh, how dreadful it is to be so poor!’</p> - -<p>‘I am sure you are very fond of them all the same,’ said I, ‘and would -break your heart if anything should happen to them.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, well, of course, now they are there one would not wish anything to -happen,’ said Janet. ‘What did you say I was to tell Jane, Mrs. -Mulgrave, about the tea? There now! Selina has never the time to be as -nice as that—and Richards, you know, our man—— Don’t you think, -really, it would be better to have a nice clean parlour-maid than a man -that looks like a cobbler? Mrs. Spencer and Lady Isabella are always -going on about servants,—that you should send them away directly when -they do anything wrong. But, you know, it makes a great difference -having a separate servant for everything. Mamma always says, “They are -good to the children, Janet,” or, “They<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210"></a>{210}</span> are so useful and don’t mind -what they do.” We put up with Selina because, though she’s not a good -housemaid, she is quite willing to help in the nursery; and we put up -with nurse because she gets through so much sewing; and even the -cook—— Oh, dear, dear! it is so disagreeable. I wish I were—anybody -but myself.’</p> - -<p>Just at this moment my maid ushered in Mrs. Merridew, hastily attired in -a hat she wore in the garden, and a light shawl wrapped round her. There -was an anxious look in her face, which indeed was not very unusual -there. She was a little flushed, either by walking in the sunshine or by -something on her mind.</p> - -<p>‘You here, Janet,’ she said, when she had shaken hands with me, ‘when -you promised me to practise an hour after luncheon? Go, my dear, and do -it now.’</p> - -<p>‘It is so hot. I never can play in the middle of the day; and oh, mamma, -please it is so pleasant here,’ pleaded Janet, nestling herself close -into the corner of the sofa.</p> - -<p>‘Let her stay till we have had some tea,’ I said. ‘I know she likes my -strawberry jam.’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Merridew consented, but with a sigh; and then it was that I saw -clearly she must have something on her mind. She did not smile, as -usual, with the indulgent mother’s smile, half disapproving, yet -unwilling to thwart the child. On the contrary, there was a little -constraint in her air as she sat down, and Janet’s enjoyment of the jam -vexed her, and brought a little wrinkle to her brow. ‘One would think -you had not eaten anything all day,’ she said with a vexed tone, and -evidently was impatient of her daughter’s presence, and wished her away.</p> - -<p>‘Nothing so nice as this,’ said Janet, with the frank satisfaction of -her age; and she went on eating her bread and jam quite composedly, -until Mrs. Merridew’s patience was exhausted.</p> - -<p>‘I cannot have you stay any longer,’ she said at length. ‘Go and -practise now, while there is no one in the house.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, mamma!’ said Janet, beginning to expostulate; but was stopped short -by a look in her mother’s eye. Then she gathered herself up reluctantly, -and left the paradise of my little tea-table with the jam. She went out -pouting, trailing her great hat after her; and had to be stopped as she -stepped into the blazing sunshine, and commanded to put it on. ‘It is -only a step,’ said the provoking girl, pouting more and more. And poor -Mrs. Merridew looked so worried, and heated, and uncomfortable as she -went out and said a few energetic words to her naughty child. Poor soul! -Ten different wills to manage and keep in subjection to her own, besides -all the other cares she had upon her shoulders. And that big girl who -should have been a help to her, standing pouting and disobedient between -the piano she did not care for, and the jam she loved.— Sometimes such a -little altercation gives one a glimpse into an entire life.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211"></a>{211}</span></p> - -<p>‘She is such a child,’ Mrs. Merridew said, coming in with an apologetic, -anxious smile on her face. She had been fretted and vexed, and yet she -would not show it to lessen my opinion of her girl. Then she sank down -wearily into that corner of the sofa from which Janet had been so -unwillingly expelled. ‘The truth is, I wanted to speak to you,’ she -said, ‘and could not while she was here. Poor Janet! I am afraid I was -cross, but I could not help it. Something has occurred to-day which has -put me out.’</p> - -<p>‘I hope it is something I can help you in,’ I said.</p> - -<p>‘That is why I have come: you are always so kind; but it is a strange -thing I am going to ask you this time,’ she said, with a wistful glance -at me. ‘I want to go to town for a day on business of my own; and I want -it to be supposed that it is business of yours.’</p> - -<p>The fact was, it did startle me for the moment—and then I reflected -like lightning, so quick was the process (I say this that nobody may -think my first feeling hard), what kind of woman she was, and how -impossible that she should want to do anything that one need be ashamed -of. ‘That is very simple,’ I said.</p> - -<p>Then she rose hastily, and came up to me and gave me a sudden kiss, -though she was not a demonstrative woman. ‘You are always so -understanding,’ she said, with the tears in her eyes; and thus I was -committed to stand by her, whatever her difficulty might be.</p> - -<p>‘But you sha’n’t do it in the dark,’ she went on; ‘I am going to tell -you all about it. I don’t want Mr. Merridew to know, and in our house it -is quite impossible to keep anything secret. He is on circuit now; but -he would hear of “the day mamma went to town” before he had been five -minutes in the house. And so I want you to go with me, you dear soul, -and to let me say I went with you.’</p> - -<p>‘That is quite simple,’ I said again; but I did feel that I should like -to know what the object of the expedition was.</p> - -<p>‘It is a long story,’ she said, ‘and I must go back and tell you ever so -much about myself before you will understand. I have had the most -dreadful temptation put before me to-day. Oh, such a temptation! -resisting it is like tearing one’s heart in two; and yet I know I ought -to resist. Think of our large family, and poor Charles’s many -disappointments, and then, dear Mrs. Mulgrave, read that.’</p> - -<p>It was a letter written on a large square sheet of thin paper which she -thrust into my hand: one of those letters one knows a mile off, and -recognizes as lawyers’ letters, painful or pleasant, as the case may be; -but more painful than pleasant generally. I read it, and you may judge -of my astonishment to find that it ran thus:—</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>‘<span class="smcap">Dear Madam</span>,—We have the pleasure to inform you that our late -client, Mr. John Babington, deceased on the 10th of May<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212"></a>{212}</span> last, has -appointed you by his will his residuary legatee. After all his -special bequests are paid, including an annuity of a hundred a year -to his mother, with remainder to Miss Babington, his only surviving -sister, there will remain a sum of about £10,000, at present -excellently invested on landed security, and bearing interest at -four and a half per cent. By Mr. Babington’s desire, precautions -have been taken to bind it strictly to your separate use, so that -you may dispose of it by will or otherwise, according to your -pleasure, for which purpose we have accepted the office of your -trustees, and will be happy to enter fully into the subject, and -put you in possession of all details, as soon as you can favour us -with a private interview.</p> - -<p class="c"> -‘We are, madam,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 5em;">‘Your obedient servants,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 14em;">‘<span class="smcap">Fogey, Featherhead & Down</span>.’</span><br /> -</p></div> - -<p>‘A temptation!’ I cried; ‘but, my dear, it is a fortune; and it is -delightful: it will make you quite comfortable. Why, it will be nearly -five hundred a year.’</p> - -<p>I feel always safe in the way of calculating interest when it is -anything approaching five per cent.; five per cent. is so easily -counted. This great news took away my breath.</p> - -<p>But Mrs. Merridew shook her head. ‘It looks so at the first glance,’ she -said; ‘but when you hear my story you will think differently.’ And then -she made a little uncomfortable pause. ‘I don’t know whether you ever -guessed it,’ she added, looking down, and doubling a new hem upon her -handkerchief, ‘but I was not Charles’s equal when we married: perhaps -you may have heard——?</p> - -<p>Of course I had heard: but the expression of her countenance was such -that I put on a look of great amazement, and pretended to be much -astonished, which I could see was a comfort to her mind.</p> - -<p>‘I am glad of that,’ she said, ‘for you know—I could not speak so -plainly to you if I did not feel that, though you are so quiet now, you -must have seen a great deal of the world—you know what a man is. He may -be capable of marrying you, if he loves you, whatever your condition -is—but afterwards he does not like people to know. I don’t mean I was -his inferior in education, or anything of that sort,’ she added, looking -up at me with a sudden uneasy blush.</p> - -<p>‘You need not tell me that,’ I said; and then another uneasiness took -possession of her, lest I should think less highly than was right of her -husband.</p> - -<p>‘Poor Charles!’ she said; ‘it is scarcely fair to judge him as he is -now. We have had so many cares and disappointments, and he has had to -deny himself so many things—and you may say, Here is his wife, whom he -has been so good to, plotting to take away from him what might give him -a little ease. But oh, dear Mrs. Mulgrave, you must hear before you -judge!’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213"></a>{213}</span></p> - -<p>‘I do not judge,’ I said; ‘I am sure you must have some very good -reason; tell me what it is.’</p> - -<p>Then she paused, and gave a long sigh. She must have been about forty, I -think, a comely, simple woman, not in any way a heroine of romance; and -yet she was as interesting to me as if she had been only half the age, -and deep in some pretty crisis of romantic distress. I don’t object to -the love stories either: but middle age has its romances too.</p> - -<p>‘When I was a girl,’ said Mrs. Merridew, ‘I went to the Babingtons as -Ellen’s governess. She was about fifteen and I was not more than twenty, -and I believe people thought me pretty. You will laugh at me, but I -declare I have always been so busy all my life, that I have never had -any time to think whether it was true: but one thing I know, that I was -a very good governess. I often wish,’ she added, pausing, with a half -comic look amid her trouble, ‘that I could find as good a governess as I -was for the girls. There was one brother, John, and one other sister, -Matilda; and Mr. Merridew was one of the visitors at the house, and was -supposed to be paying <i>her</i> attention. I never could see it, for my -part, and Charles declares he never had any such idea; but <i>they</i> -thought so, I know. It is quite a long story. John had just come home -from the University, and was pretending to read for the bar, and was -always about the house; and the end was that he fell in love with me.’</p> - -<p>‘Of course,’ said I.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know that it was of course. I was so very shy, and dreaded the -sound of my own voice; but he used to come after us everywhere by way of -talking to Ellen, and so got to know me. Poor John! he was the nicest, -faithful fellow—the sort of man one would trust everything to, and -believe in and respect, and be fond of—but not love. Of course Charles -was there too. It went on for about a year, such a curious, confused, -pleasant, painful—— I cannot describe it to you—but you know what I -mean. The Babingtons had always been kind to me; of course they were -angry when they found out about John, but then when they knew I would -not marry him, they were kinder than ever, and said I had behaved so -very well about it. I was a very lonely poor girl; my mother was dead, -and I had nowhere to go; and instead of sending me away, Mrs. Babington -sent <i>him</i> away—her own son, which was very good of her you know. To be -sure I was a good governess, and they never suspected Charles of coming -for me, nor did I. Suddenly, all at once, without the least warning, he -found me by myself one day, and told me. I was a little shocked, -thinking of Matilda Babington! but then he declared he had meant -nothing. And so—— When the Babingtons heard of it, they were all -furious; even Ellen, my pupil, turned against me. They sent me away as -if I had done something wicked. It was very, very hard upon me; but yet -I scarcely wonder, now I think of it. That was why we<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214"></a>{214}</span> married so early -and so imprudently. Mrs. Mulgrave, I dare say you have often wondered -why it was?’</p> - -<p>I had to put on such looks of wonder and satisfied curiosity as I could; -for the truth was, I had known the outlines of the story for years, just -as every one knows the outlines of every one else’s story; especially -such parts of it as people might like to be concealed. I cannot -understand how anybody, at least in society, or on the verge of society, -can for a moment hope to have any secrets. Charles Merridew was a cousin -of Mr. Justice Merridew, and very well connected, and of course it was -known that he married a governess; which was one reason why people were -so shy of them at first when they came to the Green.</p> - -<p>‘I begin to perceive now why this letter should be a temptation to you,’ -I said; ‘you think Mr. Merridew would not like——’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, it is not that,’ she said. ‘Poor Charles! I don’t think he would -mind. The world is so hard, and one makes so little head against it. No, -it is because of Mrs. Babington. I heard she lost all her money some -years ago, and was dependent on her son. And what can she do on a -hundred a year? A hundred a year! Only think of it, for an old lady -always accustomed to have her own way. It is horribly unjust, you know, -to take it from her, his mother, who was always so good to him; and to -give it to me, whom he has not seen for nearly twenty years, and who -gave him a sore heart when he did know me. I could not take advantage of -it. It is a great temptation, but it would be a great sin. And that is -why,’ she added, with a sudden flush on her face, looking at me, ‘I -should rather—manage it myself—under cover of you—and—not let -Charles know.’</p> - -<p>She looked at me, and held me with her eye, demanding of me that I -should understand her, and yet defying me to think any the worse of -Charles. She was afraid of her husband—afraid that he would clutch at -the money without any consideration of the wrong—afraid to trust him -with the decision. She would have me understand her without words, and -yet she would not have me blame Mr. Merridew. She insisted on the one -and defied me to the other; an inconsistent, unreasonable woman! But I -did my best to look as if I saw, and yet did not see.</p> - -<p>‘Then you want to see the lawyers?’ I said.</p> - -<p>‘I want to see Mrs. Babington,’ was her answer. ‘I must go to them and -explain. They are proud people, and probably would resist—or they may -be otherwise provided for. If that was the case I should not hesitate to -take it. Oh, Mrs. Mulgrave, when I look at all the children, and Janet -there murmuring and grumbling, don’t you think it wrings my heart to put -away this chance of comfort? And poor Charles working himself out. But -it could not bring a blessing. It would bring a curse; I cannot take the -bread out of the mouth of the old woman who was good to me, even to put -it into that of my own child.’</p> - -<p>And here two tears fell out of Mrs. Merridew’s eyes. At her age people -do not weep abundantly. She gave a little start as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215"></a>{215}</span> they fell, and -brushed them off her dress, with, I don’t doubt, a sensation of shame. -She to cry like a baby, who had so much to do! She left shortly after, -with an engagement to meet me at the station for the twelve o’clock -train next day. I was going to town on business, and had asked her to go -with me—this was what was to be said to all the world. I explained -myself elaborately that very evening to Mrs. Spencer and Lady Isabella, -when I met them taking their walk after dinner.</p> - -<p>‘Mrs. Merridew is so kind as to go with me,’ I said; ‘she knows so much -more about business than I do.’ And I made up my mind that I would go to -the Bank and leave my book to be made up, that it might not be quite -untrue.</p> - -<p>‘Fancy Mrs. Mulgrave having any business!’ said Lady Isabella. ‘Why -don’t you write to some man, and make him do it, instead of all the -trouble of going to town?’</p> - -<p>‘But Mrs. Merridew is going with me, my dear,’ I said; and nobody -doubted that the barrister’s wife, with so much experience as she had, -and so many things to do, would be an efficient help to me in my little -affairs.</p> - -<h3>CHAPTER II</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> house we went to was a house in St. John’s Wood. Everybody knows the -kind of place. A garden wall, with lilacs and laburnums, all out of -blossom by this time, and beginning to look brown and dusty, waving over -it; inside, a little bright suburban garden, full of scarlet geraniums, -divided by a white line of pavement, dazzlingly clean, from the door in -the wall to the door of the house; and a stand full of more scarlet -geraniums in the little square hall. Mrs. Merridew became very much -agitated as we approached. It was all that I could do to keep her up -when we had rung the bell at the door. I think she would have turned and -gone back even then had it been possible, but, fortunately, we were -admitted without delay.</p> - -<p>We were shown into a pretty shady drawing-room, full of old furniture, -which looked like the remnants of something greater, and at which she -gazed with eyes of almost wild recognition, unconsciously pressing my -arm, which she still held. Everything surrounding her woke afresh the -tumult of recollections. She was not able to speak when the maid asked -our names, and I was about to give them simply, and had already named my -own, when she pressed my arm closer to her, and interposed all at once—</p> - -<p>‘Say two ladies from the country anxious to speak with her about -business. She might not—know—our names.’</p> - -<p>‘Is it business about the house, ma’am?’ said the maid with some -eagerness.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, yes; it is about the house,’ said Mrs. Merridew, hastily. And then -the door closed, and we sat waiting, listening to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216"></a>{216}</span> soft, subdued -sounds in the quiet house, and the rustle of the leaves in the garden. -‘She must be going to let it,’ my companion said hoarsely; and then rose -from the chair on which she had placed herself, and began to move about -the room with agitation, looking at everything, touching the things with -her hands, with now and then a stifled exclamation. ‘There is where we -used to sit, Ellen and I,’ she said, standing by a sofa, before which a -small table was placed, ‘when there was company in the evenings. And -there Matilda—oh, what ghosts there are about! Matilda is married, -thank Heaven! but if Ellen comes, I shall never be able to face her. Oh, -Mrs. Mulgrave, if you would but speak for me!’</p> - -<p>At this moment the door was opened. Mrs. Merridew shrank back -instinctively, and sat down, resting her hand on the table she had just -pointed out to me. The new-comer was a tall, full figure, in deep -mourning, a handsome woman of five-and-thirty, or thereabouts, with -bright hair, which looked all the brighter from comparison with the -black depths of her dress, and a colourless, clear complexion. All the -colour about her was in her hair. Though she had no appearance of -unhealthiness, her very lips were pale, and she came in with a noiseless -quiet dignity, and the air of one who felt she had pain to encounter, -yet felt able to bear it.</p> - -<p>‘Pardon me for keeping you waiting,’ she said; and then, with a somewhat -startled glance, ‘I understood you wanted to see—the house.’</p> - -<p>My companion was trembling violently; and I cleared my throat, and tried -to clear up my ideas (which was less easy) to say something in reply. -But before I had stammered out half-a-dozen words Mrs. Merridew rose, -and made one or two unsteady steps towards the stranger.</p> - -<p>‘Ellen,’ she cried, ‘don’t you know me?’ and stopped there, standing in -the centre of the room, holding out appealing hands.</p> - -<p>Miss Babington’s face changed in the strangest way. I could see that she -recognized her in a moment, and then that she pretended to herself not -to recognize her. There was the first startled, vivid, indignant glance, -and then a voluntary mist came over her eyes. She gazed at the agitated -woman with an obstinately blank gaze, and then turned to me with a -little bow.</p> - -<p>‘Your friend has the advantage of me,’ she said; ‘but you were saying -something? I should be glad, if that was what you wanted, to show you -over the house.’</p> - -<p>It would be hard to imagine a more difficult position than that in which -I found myself; seated between two people who were thus strangely -connected with each other by bonds of mutual injury, and appealed to for -something meaningless and tranquillizing, to make the intercourse -possible. I did the best I could on the spur of the moment.</p> - -<p>‘It is not so much the house,’ I said, ‘though, if you wish to let it, I -have a friend who is looking for a house; but I think<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217"></a>{217}</span> there was some -other business Mrs. Merridew had; something to say——’</p> - -<p>‘Mrs. Merridew!’ said Miss Babington, suffering the light once more to -come into her eyes; and then she gave her an indignant look. ‘I think -this might have been spared us at least.’</p> - -<p>‘Ellen,’ said Mrs. Merridew, speaking very low and humbly—‘Ellen, I -have never done anything to you to make you so hard against me. If I -injured your sister, it was unwittingly. She is better off than I am -now. You were once fond of me, as I was of you. Why should you have -turned so completely against me? I have come in desperation to ask a -hearing from you, and from your mother, Ellen. God knows I mean nothing -but good. And oh, what have I ever done?—what harm?’</p> - -<p>Miss Babington had seated herself, still preserving her air of dignity, -but without an invitation by look or gesture to her visitor to be -seated; and in the silent room, all so dainty and so sweet with flowers, -with the old furniture in it, which reminded her of the past, the -culprit of twenty years ago stood pleading between one of those whom she -was supposed to have wronged and myself, a most ignorant and uneasy -spectator. Twenty years ago! In the meantime youth had passed, and the -hard burdens of middle age had come doubled and manifold upon her -shoulders. Had she done nothing in the meantime that would tell more -heavily against her than that girlish inadvertence of the past? Yet here -she stood—not knowing, I believe, for the moment, whether she was the -young governess in her first trouble, or the mother of all those -children, acquainted with troubles so much more bitter—among the ghosts -of the past.</p> - -<p>‘I would much rather not discuss the question,’ said Miss Babington, -still seated, and struggling hard to preserve her calm. ‘All the grief -and vexation we have owed to you in this house cannot be summed up in a -moment. The only policy, I think, is to be silent. Your very presence -here is an offence to us. What else could it be?’</p> - -<p>‘I should never have come,’ said Mrs. Merridew, moved by a natural prick -of resentment, ‘but for what I have just heard—— I should never have -returned to ask for pardon where I had done no wrong—had it not been -for this—this that I feel to be unjust. Your poor brother John——’</p> - -<p>‘Stop!’ cried the other, her reserve failing. ‘Stop, oh! stop, you cruel -woman! He was nothing to you but a toy to be played with—but he was my -brother, my only brother; and you have made him an undutiful son in his -very grave.’</p> - -<p>The tears were in her eyes, her colourless face had flushed, her soft -voice was raised; and Mrs. Merridew, still standing, listened to her -with looks as agitated—when all at once the door was again opened -softly. The aspect of affairs changed in a moment. To my utter -amazement, Mrs. Merridew, who was standing with her face to the door, -made a quick, imperative,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218"></a>{218}</span> familiar gesture to her antagonist, and -looked towards an easy-chair which stood near the open window. Miss -Babington rose quickly to her feet, and composed herself into a sudden -appearance of calm.</p> - -<p>‘Mamma,’ she said, going forward to meet the old lady, who came slowly -in; ‘here are some ladies come upon business. This is—Mrs. Merridew.’ -She said the name very low, as Mrs. Babington made her way to her chair, -and Mrs. Merridew sank trembling into her seat, unable, I think, to bear -up longer. The old lady seated herself before she spoke. She was a -little old woman, with a pretty, softly-coloured old face, and had the -air of having been petted and cared for all her life. The sudden change -of her daughter’s manner; the accumulation of every kind of convenience -and prettiness, as I now remarked, round that chair; the careful way in -which it had been placed out of the sun and the draught, yet in the air -and in sight of the garden, told a whole history of themselves. And now -Mrs. Merridew’s passionate sense that the alienation of the son’s -fortune from the mother was a thing impossible, was made clear to me at -once.</p> - -<p>‘Whom did you say, Ellen?’ said the old lady, when she was comfortably -settled in her chair. ‘Mrs.——? I never catch names. I hope you have -explained to the ladies that I am rather infirm, and can’t stand. What -did you say was your friend’s name, my dear?’</p> - -<p>Her friend’s name! Ellen Babington’s face lightened all over as with a -pale light of indignation.</p> - -<p>‘I said—Mrs. Merridew,’ she repeated, with a little emphasis on the -name. Then there was a pause; and the culprit who was at the bar -trembled visibly, and hid her face in her hands.</p> - -<p>‘Mrs. Merridew!—— Do you mean——? Turn me round, Ellen, and let me -look at her,’ said the old lady with a curious catching of her breath.</p> - -<p>It was a change which could not be done in a moment. While the daughter -turned the mother’s chair, poor Mrs. Merridew must have gone through the -torture of an age; her hands trembled, in which she had hidden herself. -But as the chair creaked and turned slowly round, and all was silent -again, she raised her white face, and uncovered herself, as it were, to -meet the inquisitor’s eye. It might have been a different woman, so -changed was she: her eyes withdrawn into caves, the lines of her mouth -drawn down, two hollows clearly marked in her cheeks, and every particle -of her usual colour gone. She looked up appalled and overcome, -confronting, but not meeting, the keen, critical look which old Mrs. -Babington fixed upon her; and then there was again a pause; and the -leaves fluttered outside, and the white curtains within, and a gay -child’s voice, passing in the road without, suddenly fell among us like -a bird.</p> - -<p>‘Ah!’ said the old lady, ‘that creature! Do you mean to tell me, Ellen, -that she has had the assurance to come here?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219"></a>{219}</span> Now look at her and tell -me what a man’s sense is worth. That woman’s face turned my poor boy’s -head, and drove Charles Merridew out of his wits. Only look at her: is -there anything there to turn anybody’s head now? She has lost her figure -too; to be sure that is not so wonderful, for she is forty if she is a -day. But there are you, my dear, as straight as a rush, and your sister -Matilda as well. So that is Janet Singleton, our governess: I wonder -what Charles thinks of his bargain now? I never saw a woman so gone off. -Oh, Ellen, Ellen, why didn’t she come and show herself, such a figure as -she is, before my poor dear boy was taken from us? My poor boy! And to -think he should have gone to his grave in such a delusion! Ellen, I -would rather now that you sent her away.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, mamma, don’t speak like this,’ cried Ellen, red with shame and -distress; ‘what does it matter about her figure? if that were all!—but -she is going away.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, yes, send her away,’ said the old lady. ‘You liked her once, but I -don’t suppose even you can think there could be any intercourse now. My -son left all his money to her,’ she added, turning to me—past his -mother and his sister. You will admit that was a strange thing to do. I -don’t know who the other lady is, Ellen, but I conclude she is a friend -of yours. He left everything past us, everything but some poor pittance. -Perhaps you may know some one who wants a house in this neighbourhood? -It is a very nice little house, and much better furnished than most. I -should be very glad to let it, now that I can’t afford to occupy it -myself, by the year.’</p> - -<p>‘Mamma, the other lady is with Mrs. Merridew,’ said Ellen; ‘I do not -know her——’ and she cast a glance at me, almost appealing to my pity. -I rose up, not knowing what to do.</p> - -<p>‘Perhaps, my dear,’ I said, I confess with timidity, ‘we had better go -away.’</p> - -<p>‘Unless you will stay to luncheon,’ said the old lady. ‘But I forgot—I -don’t want to look at that woman any more, Ellen. She has done us enough -of harm to satisfy any one. Turn me round again to my usual place, and -send her away.’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Merridew had risen to her feet too. She had regained her senses -after the first frightful shock. She was still ghastly pale, but she was -herself. She went up firmly and swiftly to the old lady, put Ellen aside -by a movement which she was unconscious of in her agitation, and -replaced the chair in its former place with the air of one to whom such -an office was habitual. ‘You used to say I always did it best,’ she -said. ‘Oh, is it possible you can have forgotten everything! Did not I -give him up when you asked me, and do you think I will take his money -now? Oh, never, never! It ought to be yours, and it shall be. Oh, take -it back, and forgive me, and say, “God bless you” once again.’</p> - -<p>‘Eh, what was that you said? Ellen, what does she say?’ said the old -woman. ‘I have always heard the Merridews were<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220"></a>{220}</span> very poor. Poor John’s -fortune will be a godsend to them. Go away! I suppose you mean to mock -me after all the rest you have done. I don’t understand what you say.’</p> - -<p>Yet she looked up with a certain eagerness on her pretty old face—a -certain sharp look of greed and longing came into the blue eyes, which -retained their colour as pure as that of youth. Her daughter towered -above her, pale with emotion, but still indignant, yielding not a jot.</p> - -<p>‘Mamma, pay no attention,’ she said; ‘Mrs. Merridew may pity us, but -what is that? surely we can take back nothing from her hands.’</p> - -<p>‘Pity! I don’t see how Janet Merridew can pity <i>me</i>. But I should like,’ -Mrs. Babington went on, with a little tremble of eagerness, ‘to know at -least what she means.’</p> - -<p>‘This is what I mean,’ said Mrs. Merridew, sinking on her knees by the -old lady’s chair: ‘that I will not take your money. It <i>is</i> your money. -We are poor, as you say; but we can struggle on as we have done for -twenty years; and poor John’s money is yours, and not mine. It is not -mine. I will not take it. It must have been some mistake. If he had -known what he was doing he never would have left it to any one but you.’</p> - -<p>‘So I think myself,’ said the old lady, musing; and then was silent, -taking no notice of any one—looking into the air.</p> - -<p>‘Mamma,’ said Ellen, behind her chair, ‘I can work for you, and Matilda -will help us. It cannot be. It may be kind of—her—but it cannot, -cannot be. Are we to take charity?—to live on charity? Mamma, she has -no right to disturb you.’</p> - -<p>‘She is not disturbing me, my dear,’ said the old lady; ‘on the -contrary. Whatever I might think of her, she used to be a girl of sense. -And Matilda always carried things with a very high hand, and I never was -fond of her husband. But I am very fond of my house,’ she added, after a -pause; ‘it is such a nice house, Ellen. I think I should die if we were -to leave it. I shall die very soon, most likely, and be a burden on -nobody; but still, Ellen, if she meant it, you know——’</p> - -<p>‘Mamma, what does it matter what she means? you never can think of -accepting charity. It will break my heart.’</p> - -<p>‘That is all very well to say,’ said Mrs. Babington. ‘But I have lived a -great deal longer than you have done, my dear, and I know that hearts -are not broken so easily. It would break my heart to leave my nice -house. Janet, come here, and look me in the face. I don’t think you were -true to us in the old times. Matilda did carry things with a very high -hand. I told her so at the time, and I have often told her so since; but -I don’t think you were true to us, all the same.’</p> - -<p>‘I did not know—I did not mean——’ faltered Mrs. Merridew, leaning -her head on the arm of the old lady’s chair.</p> - -<p>It was clear to me that the story had two sides, and that my friend was -perhaps not so innocent as she had made herself out to be. But there was -something very pitiful in the comparison<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221"></a>{221}</span> between the passion of anxiety -in her half-hidden face, and the calm of the old woman who was thus -deciding on her fate.</p> - -<p>‘My dear, I am afraid you knew,’ said Mrs. Babington. ‘You accepted my -poor boy, and then, when I spoke to you, you gave him up, and took -Charles Merridew instead. If I had not interfered, perhaps it would have -been better; though, to be sure, I don’t know what we should have done -with a heap of children. And as for poor John’s money, you know you have -no more real right to it, no more than that other lady, who never saw -him in her life.’</p> - -<p>‘She has the best possible right to it, mamma—he left it to her,’ said -Ellen anxiously, over her shoulder. ‘Oh, why did you come here to vex -us, when we were not interfering with you? I beg of you not to trouble -my mother any more, but go away.’</p> - -<p>Then there was a moment of hesitation. Mrs. Merridew rose slowly from -her knees. She turned round to me, not looking me in the face. She said, -in a hoarse voice, ‘Let us go,’ and made a step towards the door. She -was shaking as if she had a fever; but she was glad. Was that possible? -She had delivered her conscience—and now might not she go and keep the -money which would make her children happy? But she could not look me in -the face. She moved as slowly as a funeral. And yet she would have -flown, if she could, to get safely away.</p> - -<p>‘Janet, my dear,’ said the old lady, ‘come back, and let us end our -talk.’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Merridew stopped short, with a start, as if a shot had arrested -her. This time she looked me full in the face. Her momentary hope was -over, and now she felt for the first time the poignancy of the sacrifice -which it had been her own will to make.</p> - -<p>‘Come back, Janet,’ said Mrs. Babington. ‘As you say, it is not your -money. Nothing could make it your money. You were always right-feeling -when you were not aggravated. I am much obliged to you, my dear. Come -and sit down here, and tell me all about yourself. Now poor John is -dead,’ she went on, falling suddenly into soft weeping, like a child, -‘we ought to be friends. To think he should die before me, and I should -be heir to my own boy—isn’t it sad? And such a fine young fellow as he -was! You remember when he came back from the University? What a nice -colour he had! And always so straight and slim, like a rush. All my -children have a good carriage. You have lost your figure, Janet; and you -used to have a nice little figure. When a girl is so round and plump, -she is apt to get stout as she gets older. Look at Ellen, how nice she -is. But then, to be sure, children make a difference. Sit down by me -here, and tell me how many you have. And, Ellen, send word to the -house-agent, and tell him we don’t want now to let the house; and tell -Parker to get luncheon ready a little earlier. You must want something, -if you have come from the country. Where<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222"></a>{222}</span> are you living now? and how is -Charles Merridew? Dear, dear, to think I should not have seen either of -you for nearly twenty years!’</p> - -<p>‘But, mamma, surely, surely,’ cried Ellen Babington, ‘you don’t think -things can be settled like this?’</p> - -<p>‘Don’t speak nonsense, Ellen; everything <i>is</i> settled,’ said the old -lady. ‘You know I always had the greatest confidence in Janet’s good -sense. Now, my dear, hold your tongue. A girl like you has no right to -meddle. I always manage my own business. Go and look after -luncheon—that is your affair.’</p> - -<p>I do not remember ever to have seen a more curious group in my life. -There was the old lady in the centre, quite calm, and sweet, and -pleasant. A tear was still lingering on her eyelash; but it represented -nothing more than a child’s transitory grief, and underneath there was -nothing but smiles, and satisfaction, and content. She looked so pretty, -so pleased, so glad to find that her comforts were not to be impaired, -and yet took it all so lightly, as a matter of course, as completely -unconscious of the struggle going on in the mind of her benefactress as -if she had been a creature from a different world. As for Mrs. Merridew, -she stood speechless, choked by feelings that were too bitter and -conflicting for words. I am sure that all the advantages this money -could have procured for her children were surging up before her as she -stood and listened. She held her hands helplessly half stretched out, as -if something had been taken out of them. Her eyes were blank with -thinking, seeing nothing that we saw, but a whole world of the -invisible. Her breast heaved with a breath half drawn, which seemed -suspended half way, as if dismay and disappointment hindered its -completion. It was all over then—her sacrifice made and accepted, and -no more about it; and herself sent back to the monotonous struggle of -life. On the other side of the pretty old lady stood Ellen Babington, -pale and miserable, struggling with shame and pride, casting sudden -glances at Mrs. Merridew, and then appealing looks at me, who had -nothing to do with it.</p> - -<p>‘Tell her, oh, tell her it can’t be!’ she cried at last, coming to me. -‘Tell her the lawyers will not permit it. It cannot be.’</p> - -<p>And Mrs. Merridew, too, gave me one pitiful look—not repenting, but -yet—— Then she went forward, and laid her hand upon the old lady’s -hand, which was like ivory, with all the veins delicately carved upon -it.</p> - -<p>‘Say, God bless us, at least. Say, “God bless you and your children,” -once before I go.’</p> - -<p>‘To be sure,’ said the old lady cheerfully. ‘God bless you, my dear, and -all the children. Matilda has no children, you know. I should like to -see them, if you think it would not be too much for me. But you are not -going, Janet, when it is the first time we have met for nearly twenty -years?’</p> - -<p>‘I must go,’ said Mrs. Merridew.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223"></a>{223}</span></p> - -<p>She could not trust herself to speak, I could see. She put down her face -and kissed the ivory hand, and then she turned and went past me to the -door, without another word. I think she had forgotten my very existence. -When she had reached the door she turned round suddenly, and fixed her -eyes upon Ellen. She was going away, having given them back their -living, without so much acknowledgment as if she had brought a nosegay. -There was in her look a mute remonstrance and appeal and protest. Ellen -Babington trembled all over; her lips quivered as if with words which -pride or pain would not permit her to say; but she held, with both hands -immovable, to the back of her mother’s chair, who, for her part, was -kissing her hand to the departing visitor. ‘Good-bye; come and see us -soon again,’ the old lady was saying cheerfully. And Ellen gazed, and -trembled, and said nothing. Thus this strangest of visits came to an -end.</p> - -<p>She had forgotten me, as I thought; but when I came to her side and my -arm was within her reach, she clutched at it and tottered so that it was -all I could do to support her. I was very thankful to get her into the -cab, for I thought she would have fainted on the way. But yet she roused -herself when I told the man to drive back to the station.</p> - -<p>‘We must go to the lawyer’s first,’ she said; and then we turned and -drove through the busy London streets, towards the City. The clerks -looked nearly baked in the office when we reached it, and the crowd -crowded on, indiscriminate and monotonous. One feels one has no right to -go to such a place and take any of the air away, of which they have so -little. And to think of the sweet air blowing over our lawns and lanes, -and all the unoccupied, silent, shady places we had left behind us! Such -vain thoughts were not in Mrs. Merridew’s head. She was turning over and -over instead a very different kind of vision. She was counting up all -she had sacrificed, and how little she had got by it; and yet was going -to complete the sacrifice, unmoved even by her thoughts.</p> - -<p>I confess I was surprised at the tone she took with the lawyer. She said -‘Mr. Merridew and myself’ with a composure which made me, who knew Mr. -Merridew had no hand in it, absolutely speechless. The lawyer -remonstrated as he was in duty bound, and spoke about his client’s will; -but Mrs. Merridew made very little account of the will. She quoted her -husband with a confidence so assured that even I, though I knew better, -began to be persuaded that she had communicated with him. And thus the -business was finally settled. She had recovered herself by the time we -got into the cab again. It is true that her face was worn and livid with -the exertions of the day, but still, pale and weary as she was, she was -herself.</p> - -<p>‘But, my dear,’ I said, ‘you quoted Mr. Merridew, as if he knew all -about it; and what if he should not approve?’</p> - -<p>‘You must not think I have no confidence in my husband,’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224"></a>{224}</span> she said -quickly; ‘far from that. Perhaps he would not see as I do now. He would -think of our own wants first. But if it comes to his ears afterwards, -Charles is not the man to disown his wife’s actions. Oh, no, no; we have -gone through a great deal together, and he would no more bring shame -upon me, as if I acted when I had no right to act—than—I would bring -shame upon him; and I think that is as much as could be said.’</p> - -<p>And then we made our way back to the station; but she said nothing more -till we got into the railway-carriage, which was not quite so noisy as -our cab.</p> - -<p>‘It would have been such a thing for us,’ she said then, half to -herself. ‘Poor Charles! Oh, if I could but have said to him, “Don’t be -so anxious; here is so much a year for the children.” And Jack should -have gone to the University. And there would have been Will’s premium at -once’ (<i>i.e.</i>, to Mr. Willoughby, the engineer). ‘The only thing that I -am glad of is that they don’t know. And then Janet; she breaks my heart -when she talks. It is so bad for her, knowing the Fortises and all those -girls who have everything that heart can desire. I never had that to -worry me when I was young. I was only the governess. Janet’s talk will -be the worst of all. I could have made the house so nice too, and -everything. Well!—but then I never should have had a moment’s peace.’</p> - -<p>‘You don’t regret?’ I said.</p> - -<p>‘No,’ said Mrs. Merridew with a long sigh. And then, ‘Do you think I -have been a traitor to the children?’ she cried suddenly, ‘taking away -their money from them in the dark? Would Charles think me a traitor, as -<i>they</i> do? Is it always to be my part?—always to be my part?’</p> - -<p>‘No, no,’ I said, soothing her as best I could; but I was very glad to -find my pony-carriage at the station, and to drive her home to my house -and give her some tea, and strengthen her for her duties. Thus poor John -Babington’s fortune was disposed of, and no one was the wiser, except, -indeed, the old lady and her daughter, who were not likely to talk much -on the subject. And Mrs. Merridew walked calmly across to her house in -the dusk as if this strange episode of agitation and passion had been -nothing more solid than a dream.</p> - -<h3>CHAPTER III</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">We</span> did not meet again for some days after this, and next time I saw her, -which was on Sunday at church with her children, it seemed impossible to -me to believe in the reality of the strange scene we had so recently -passed through together. The calm curtain of ordinary decorums and -ordinary friendliness had risen for a moment from Mrs. Merridew’s -unexcited existence, revealing a woman distracted by a primitive sense -of justice,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225"></a>{225}</span> rending her own soul, as it were, in sunder, and doing, in -spite of herself and all her best instincts, what she felt was right. -That she should have any existence separate from her children had never -occurred to anybody before. Yet, for one day, I had seen her resist and -ignore the claims of her children, and act like an independent being. -When I saw her again she was once more the mother and nothing more, -casting her eyes over her little flock, cognizant, one could see, of the -perfection or imperfection of every fold and line in their dresses, -keeping her attention upon each, from little Matty, who was restless and -could not be kept quiet, up to Janet, who sat demure, and already caught -the eye of visitors as one of the prettiest girls of Dinglefield. Mrs. -Merridew remarked all with a vigilant mother’s eye, and as I gazed -across at her in her pew, it was all but impossible for me to believe -that this was the same woman who had clung so convulsively to my arm, -whose face had been so worn and hollowed out with suffering. How could -it be the same woman? She who had suffered poor John Babington to love -her—and then had cast him off, and married her friend’s lover instead; -who had established so firm an empire over a man’s heart, that, after -twenty years, he had remembered her still with such intensity of -feeling. How Janet would have opened her big eyes had it been suggested -to her that her mother could have any power over men’s hearts; or, -indeed, could be occupied with anything more touching or important than -her children’s frocks or her butcher’s bills! I fear I did not pay much -attention to the service that morning. I could not but gaze at them, and -wonder whether, for instance, Mr. Merridew himself, who had come back -from circuit, and was seated respectably with his family in church, -yawning discreetly over Mr. Damerel’s sermon, remembered anything at -all, for his part, of Matilda Babington or her brother. Probably he -preferred to ignore the subject altogether—or, perhaps, would laugh -with a sense of gratified vanity that there had been ‘a row,’ when the -transference of his affections was discovered. And there she sat by his -side, who had—had she betrayed his confidence? was she untrue to him in -being this time true to her friends? The question bewildered me so that -my mind went groping about it and about it. Once, I fear, she had been -false to those whose bread she ate, and chosen love instead of -friendship. Now was she false to the nearest of ties, the closest of all -relationships, sitting calmly there beside him with a secret in her mind -of which he knew nothing? ‘Falsely true!’—was that what the woman was -who looked to the outside world a mere pattern of all domestic virtues, -without any special interest about her, a wife devoted to her husband’s -interest, a mother wrapped up, as people say, in her children? I could -not make up my mind what to think.</p> - -<p>‘I hope you got through your business comfortably,’ Mrs. Spencer said to -me as we walked home from church.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226"></a>{226}</span></p> - -<p>‘With Mrs. Merridew’s assistance,’ said Lady Isabella, who was rather -satirical. And the Merridews heard their own name, and stopped to join -in the conversation.</p> - -<p>‘What is that about my wife?’ he said. ‘Did Mrs. Mulgrave have Mrs. -Merridew’s assistance about something? I hope it was only shopping. When -you have business you should consult me. She is a goose, and knows -nothing about it.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t think she is a goose,’ said I.</p> - -<p>‘No, perhaps not in her own way,’ said the serene husband, laughing; -‘but every woman is a goose about business—I beg your pardon, ladies, -but I assure you I mean it as a compliment. I hate a woman of business. -Shopping is quite a different matter,’ he added, and laughed. Good -heavens! if he had only known what a fool he looked, beside the silent -woman, who gave me a little warning glance and coloured a little, and -turned away her head to speak to little Matty, who was clinging to her -skirts. A perfect mother! thinking more (you would have said) of Matty’s -little frills and Janet’s bonnet-strings than of anything else in life.</p> - -<p>And that was all about it. The summer went on and turned to autumn and -to winter and to spring again, with that serene progression of nature -which nothing obstructs; and the children grew, and the Merridews were -as poor as ever, managing more or less to make both ends meet, but -always just a little short somewhere, with their servants chosen on the -same principle of supplementing each other’s imperfect service as that -which Janet had announced to me. For one thing, they kept their servants -a long time, which I have noticed is characteristic of households not -very rich nor very ‘particular.’ When you allow such pleas to tell in -favour of an imperfect housemaid as that she is good to the children, or -does not mind helping the cook, there is no reason why Mary, if she does -not marry in the meantime, should not stay with you a hundred years. And -the Merridews’ servants accordingly stayed, and looked very friendly at -you when you went to call, and did their work not very well, with much -supervision and exasperation (respectively) on the part of the mother -and daughter. But the family was no poorer, though it was no richer. The -only evidence of our expedition to town which I could note was, that it -had produced a new pucker on Mrs. Merridew’s brow. She had looked -sufficiently anxious by times before, but the new pucker had something -more than anxiety in it. There was a sense of something better that -might have been; a sense of something lost—a suspicion of bitterness. -How all this could be expressed by one line on a smooth white forehead I -cannot explain; but to me it was so.</p> - -<p>Now and then, too, a chance allusion would be made which recalled what -had happened still more plainly. For instance, I chanced to be calling -one afternoon, when Mr. Merridew came home earlier than usual from town. -We were sitting over our five-o’clock tea, with a few of the children -scrambling about the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227"></a>{227}</span> floor and Janet working in the corner. He took up -the ordinary position of a man who has just come home, with his back to -the fire, and regarded us with that benevolent contempt which men -generally think it right to exhibit for women over their tea; and -everything was so ordinary and pleasant, that I for one was taken -entirely by surprise, and nearly let fall the cup in my hand when he -spoke.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know whether you saw John Babington’s death in the <i>Times</i> -three or four months ago, Janet,’ he said, ‘did you? Why did you never -mention it? It is odd that I should not have heard. I met Ellen to-day -coming out of the Amyotts, where I lunched, in such prodigious mourning -that I was quite startled. All the world might have been dead to look at -her. And do you know she gave me a look as if she would have spoken. All -that is so long past that it’s ridiculous keeping up malice. I wish you -would call next time you are in town to ask for the old lady. Poor -John’s death must have been a sad loss to them. I hear there was some -fear that he had left his property away from his mother and sister. But -it turned out a false report.’</p> - -<p>I did not dare to look at Mrs. Merridew to see how she bore it; but her -voice replied quite calmly without any break, as if the conversation was -on the most ordinary subject—</p> - -<p>‘Where did you manage to get so much news?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, from the Amyotts,’ he said, ‘who knew all about it. Matilda, you -know, poor girl’ (with that half laugh of odious masculine vanity which -I knew in my heart he would be guilty of), ‘married a cousin of -Amyott’s, and is getting on very well, they say. But think over my -suggestion, Janet. I think at this distance of time it would be graceful -on your part to go and call.’</p> - -<p>‘I cannot think they would like to see me now,’ she said in a low voice. -Then I ventured to look at her. She was seated in an angular, rigid way, -with her shoulders and elbows squared to her work, and the corners of -her mouth pursed up, which would have given to any cursory observer the -same impression it did to her husband.</p> - -<p>‘How hard you women are!’ he said. ‘Trust you for never forgiving or -forgetting. Poor old lady, I should have thought anybody would have -pitied her. But however it is none of my business. As for Ellen, she is -a very handsome woman, though she is not so young as she once was. I -should not wonder if she were to make a good marriage even now. Is it -possible, Janet, after being so fond of her—or pretending to be, how -can I tell?—that you would not like to say a kind word to Ellen now?’</p> - -<p>‘She would not think it kind from me,’ said Mrs. Merridew, still rigid, -never raising her eyes from her work.</p> - -<p>‘I think she would: but at all events you might try,’ he said. All her -answer was to shake her head, and he went away to his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228"></a>{228}</span> dressing-room -shrugging his shoulders and nodding his head in bewildered comments to -himself on what he considered the hard-heartedness of woman. As for me, -I kept looking at her with sympathetic eyes, thinking that at least she -would give herself the comfort of a confidential glance. But she did -not. It seemed that she was determined to ignore the whole matter, even -to me.</p> - -<p>‘I wish papa would take as much interest in us poor girls at home as he -does in people that don’t belong to him,’ said Janet. ‘Mamma, I never -can piece this to make it long enough. It may do for Marian’ (who was -her next sister), ‘but it will never do for me.’</p> - -<p>‘You are so easily discouraged,’ said Mrs. Merridew. ‘Let me look at it. -You girls are always making difficulties. Under the flounce your -piecing, as you call it, will never be seen. Those flounces,’ she added, -with a little laugh, which I knew was hysterical, ‘are blessings to poor -folks.’</p> - -<p>‘I am sure I don’t think there is anything to laugh at,’ said poor -Janet, almost crying: ‘when you think of Nelly Fortis and all the other -girls, with their nice dresses all new and fresh from the dressmaker’s, -and no trouble; while I have only mamma’s old gown, that she wore when -she was twenty, to turn, and patch, and piece—and not long enough after -all!’</p> - -<p>‘Then you should not grow so,’ said her mother, ‘and you ought to be -thankful that the old fashion has come in again, and my old gown can be -of use.’ But as she spoke she turned round and gave me a look. The tears -were in her eyes, and that pucker, oh, so deeply marked, in her -forehead. I felt she would have sobbed had she dared. And then before my -eyes, as, I am sure, before hers, there glided a vision of Ellen -Babington in her profound mourning, rustling past Mr. Merridew on the -stairs, with heaps of costly crape, no doubt, and that rich black silk -with which people console themselves in their first mourning. How could -they take it all without a word? The after-pang that comes almost -inevitably at the back of a sacrifice, was tearing Mrs. Merridew’s -heart. I felt it go through my own, and so I knew. She had done it -nobly, but she could not forget that she had done it. Does one ever -forget?</p> - -<p>And then as I went home I fell into a maze again. Had she a right to do -it? To sit at table with that unsuspicious man, and put her arm in his, -and be at his side continually, and all the time be false to him? -Falsely true! I could not get the words out of my mind.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229"></a>{229}</span></p> - -<h3>CHAPTER IV</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">I do</span> not now remember how long it was before I saw in the <i>Times</i> the -intimation of old Mrs. Babington’s death. I think it must have been -about two years: for Janet was eighteen, and less discontented with -things in general, besides being a great deal more contented than either -her friends or his desired, with the civilities of young Bischam from -the Priory, who was always coming over to see his aunt, and always -throwing himself in the girl’s way. He had nothing except his commission -and a hundred and fifty a year which his father allowed him, and she had -nothing at all; and, naturally, they took to each other. It is this that -makes me recollect what year it was. We had never referred to the matter -in our frequent talks, Mrs. Merridew and I. But after the intimation in -the <i>Times</i>, she herself broke the silence. She came to me the very next -day. ‘Did you see it in the papers?’ she asked, plunging without preface -into the heart of the subject: and I could not pretend not to -understand.</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I saw it;’ and then stopped short, not knowing what to -say.</p> - -<p>She had got a worn-out look in these two years, such as all the previous -years in which I had known her had not given. The pucker was more -developed on her forehead; she was less patient and more easily fretted. -She had grown thin, and something of a sharp tone had come into her -soft, motherly voice. By times she would be almost querulous; and nobody -but myself knew in the least whence the drop of gall came that had so -suddenly shown itself in her nature. She had fretted under her secret, -and over her sacrifice—the sacrifice which had never been taken any -notice of, but had been calmly accepted as a right. Now she came to me -half wild, with the look of a creature driven to bay.</p> - -<p>‘It was for her I did it,’ she said; ‘she had always been so petted and -cared for all her life. She did not know how to deny herself; I did it -for her, not for Ellen. Oh, Mrs. Mulgrave, I cannot tell you how fond I -was of that girl! And you saw how she looked at me. Never one word, -never even a glance of response: and I suppose now——’</p> - -<p>‘My dear,’ I said, ‘you cannot tell yet; let us wait and see; now that -her mother is gone her heart may be softened. Do not take any steps just -yet.’</p> - -<p>‘Steps!’ she cried. ‘What steps can I take now? I have thrown altogether -away from me what might have been of such use to the children. I have -been false to my own children. Poor John meant it to be of use to us——’</p> - -<p>And then she turned away, wrought to such a point that nothing but tears -could relieve her. When she had cried she was better; and went home to -all her little monotonous cares<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230"></a>{230}</span> again, to think and think, and mingle -that drop of gall more and more in the family cup. Mr. Merridew was -again absent on circuit at this time, which was at once a relief and a -trouble to his wife. And everybody remarked the change in her.</p> - -<p>‘She is going to have a bad illness,’ Mrs. Spencer said. ‘Poor thing, I -don’t wonder, with all those children, and inferior servants, and so -much to do. I have seen it coming on for a long time. A serious illness -is a dangerous thing at her age. All her strength has been drained out -of her; and whether she will be able to resist——’</p> - -<p>‘Don’t be so funereal,’ said Lady Isabella; ‘she has something on her -mind.’</p> - -<p>‘I think it is her health’ said Mrs. Spencer; and we all shook our heads -over her altered looks.</p> - -<p>I had a further fright, too, some days after, when Janet came to me, -looking very pale. She crept in with an air of secrecy which was very -strange to the girl. She looked scared, and her hair was pushed up -wildly from her forehead, and her light summer dress all dusty and -dragging, which was unlike Janet, for she had begun by this time to be -tidy, and feel herself a woman. She came in by the window as usual, but -closed it after her, though it was very hot. ‘May I come and speak to -you?’ she said in a whisper, creeping quite close to my side.</p> - -<p>‘Of course, my dear; but why do you shut the window?’ said I; ‘we shall -be suffocated if you shut out the air.’</p> - -<p>‘It is because it is a secret,’ she said. ‘Mrs. Mulgrave, tell me, is -there anything wrong with mamma?’</p> - -<p>‘Wrong?’ I said, turning upon her in dismay.</p> - -<p>‘I can’t help it,’ cried Janet, bursting into tears. ‘I don’t believe -mamma ever did anything wrong. I can’t believe it: but there has been a -woman questioning me so, I don’t know what to think.’</p> - -<p>‘A woman questioning you?’</p> - -<p>‘Listen,’ said Janet hastily. ‘This is how it was: I was walking down to -the Dingle across the fields—oh! Mrs. Mulgrave, dear, don’t say -anything; it was only poor Willie Bischam, who wanted to say good-bye to -me—and all at once I saw a tall lady in mourning looking at us as we -passed. She came up to us just at the stile at Goodman’s farm, and I -thought she wanted to ask the way; but instead of that, she stopped me -and looked at me. “I heard you called Janet,” she said; “I had once a -friend who was called Janet, and it is not a common name. Do you live -here? is your mother living? and well? and how many children are there? -I should like to know if you belong to my old friend.”<span class="lftspc">’</span></p> - -<p>‘And what did you say?’</p> - -<p>‘What could I say, Mrs. Mulgrave? She did not look cross or -disagreeable, and she was a lady. I said who I was, and that mamma was -not quite well, and that there were ten of us; and then she began to -question me about mamma. Did she go out<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231"></a>{231}</span> a great deal? and was she tall -or short? and had she pretty eyes “like mine?” she said; and was her -name Janet like mine? and then, when I had answered her as well as I -could, she said, I was not to say a word to mamma; “perhaps it is not -the Janet I once knew,” she said; “don’t say anything to her;” and then -she went away. I was so frightened, I ran home directly all the way. I -knew I might tell you, Mrs. Mulgrave; it is like something in a book, is -it not, when people are trying to find out—— oh, you don’t think I can -have done any harm to mamma?’</p> - -<p>Janet was so much agitated that it was all I could do to quiet her down. -‘And I never said good-bye to poor Willie, after all,’ she said, with -more tears when she had rallied a little. I thought it better she should -not tell her mother, though one is very reluctant to say so to a girl; -for Willie Bischam was a secret too. But he was going away, poor fellow, -and probably nothing would ever come of it. I made a little compromise -with my own sense of right.</p> - -<p>‘Forget it, Janet, and say nothing about it; perhaps it was some one -else after all; and if you will promise not to meet Mr. Bischam -again——’</p> - -<p>‘He goes to-night,’ said Janet, with a rueful look; and thus it was -evident that on that point there was nothing more to be said.</p> - -<p>This was in the middle of the week, and on Saturday Mr. Merridew was -expected home. His wife was ill, though she never had been ill before in -her life; she had headaches, which were things unknown to her; she was -out of temper, and irritable, and wretched. I think she had made certain -that Ellen would write, and make some proposal to her; and as the days -went on one by one, and no letter came—— Besides, it was just the -moment when they had decided against sending Jack to Oxford. To pay -Willie’s premium and do that at the same time was impossible. Mrs. -Merridew had struggled long, but at last she was obliged to give in; and -Jack was going to his father’s chambers to read law with a heavy heart, -poor boy; and his mother was half distracted. All might have been so -different; and she had sacrificed her boys’ interests, and her girls’ -interests, and her own happiness, all for the selfish comfort of Ellen -Babington, who took no notice of her: I began to think she would have a -brain fever if this went on.</p> - -<p>She was not at church on Sunday morning, and I went with the children, -as soon as service was over, to ask for her. She was lying on the sofa -when I went in, and Mr. Merridew, who had arrived late on Saturday, was -in his dressing-gown, walking about the room. He was tired and irritable -with his journey, and his work, and perennial cares. And she, with her -sacrifice, and her secret, and perennial cares, was like tinder, ready -in a moment to catch fire. I know nothing more disagreeable than to go -in upon married people when they are in this state of mind, which can -neither be ignored nor concealed.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t understand you, Janet,’ he was saying, as I entered;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232"></a>{232}</span> ‘women -are vindictive, I know; but at least you may be sorry, as I am, that the -poor old lady has died without a word of kindness passing between us: -after all, we might be to blame. One changes one’s opinions as one gets -on in life. With our children growing up round us, I don’t feel quite so -sure that we were not to blame.’</p> - -<p>‘<i>I</i> have not been to blame,’ she said, with an emphasis which sounded -sullen, and which only I could understand.</p> - -<p>‘Oh no, of course; you never are,’ he said, with masculine disdain. -‘Catch a woman acknowledging herself to be in fault! The sun may go -wrong in his course sooner than she. Mrs. Mulgrave, pray don’t go away; -you have seen my wife in an unreasonable mood before.’</p> - -<p>‘I am in no unreasonable mood,’ she cried. ‘Mrs. Mulgrave, stay. You -know—oh, how am I to go on bearing this, and never answer a word?’</p> - -<p>‘My dear, don’t deceive yourself,’ he said, with a man’s provoking calm, -‘you answer a great many words. I don’t call you at all a meek sufferer. -Fortunately the children are out of the way. Confound it, Janet, what do -you mean by talking of what you have to bear? I have not been such a -harsh husband to you as all that; and when all I asked was that you -should make the most innocent advances to a poor old woman who was once -very kind to us both——’</p> - -<p>‘Charles!’ said Mrs. Merridew, rising suddenly from her sofa, I can’t -bear it any longer. You think me hard, and vindictive, and I don’t know -what. You, who ought to know me. Look here! I got that letter, you will -see by the date, more than two years ago; you were absent, and I went -and saw her: there—there! now I have confessed it; Mrs. Mulgrave -knows—— I have had a secret from you for two years.’</p> - -<p>It was not a moment for me to interfere. She sat, holding herself -hysterically rigid and upright on the sofa. Whether she had intended to -betray herself or not, I cannot tell. She had taken the letter out of -her writing-desk, which stood close by; but I don’t know whether she had -resolved on this step or whether it was the impulse of the moment. Now -that she had done it a dreadful calm of expectation took possession of -her. She was afraid. He might turn upon her furious. He might upbraid -her with despoiling her family, deceiving himself, being false, as she -had been before. Such a thing was possible. Two souls may live side by -side for years, and be as one, and yet have no notion how each will act -in any sudden or unusual emergency. He was her husband, and they had no -interest, scarcely any thought, that one did not share with the other; -and yet she sat gazing at him rigid with terror, not knowing what he -might do or say.</p> - -<p>He read the letter without a word; then he tossed it upon the table; -then he walked all the length of the room, up and down, with his hands -thrust very deeply into his pockets; then<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233"></a>{233}</span> he took up the letter again. -He had a struggle with himself. If he was angry, if he was touched, I -cannot tell. His first emotions, whatever they were, he gulped down -without a word. Of all sounds to strike into the silence of such a -moment, the first thing we heard in our intense listening was the abrupt -ring of a short excited laugh.</p> - -<p>‘How did you venture to take any steps in it without consulting me?’ he -said.</p> - -<p>‘I thought—I thought——’ she stammered under her breath.</p> - -<p>‘You thought I might have been tempted by the money,’ he said, taking -another walk through the room, while she sat erect in her terror, afraid -of him. It was some time before he spoke again. No doubt he was vexed by -her want of trust, and wounded by the long silence. But I have no clue -to the thoughts that were passing through his mind. At last he came to a -sudden pause before her. ‘And perhaps you were right, Janet,’ he said, -drawing a long breath. ‘I am glad now to have been free of the -temptation. It was wrong not to tell me—and yet I think you did well.’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Merridew gave a little choked cry, and then she fell back on the -sofa—fell into my arms. I had felt she might do it, so strange was her -look, and had placed myself there on purpose. But she had not fainted, -as I expected. She lay silent for a moment, with her eyes closed, and -then she burst into tears.</p> - -<p>I had no right to be there; but they both detained me, both the husband -and wife, and I could not get away until she had recovered herself, and -it was evident that what had been a tragical barrier between them was -now become a matter of business, to be discussed as affecting them both.</p> - -<p>‘It was quite right the old lady should have it,’ Mr. Merridew said, as -he went with me to the door, ‘quite right. Janet did only what was -right; but now I must take it into my own hands.’</p> - -<p>‘And annul what she has done?’ I asked.</p> - -<p>‘We must consult over that,’ he said. ‘Ellen Babington, who has been so -ungrateful to my wife, is quite a different person from her mother. But -I will do nothing against Mrs. Merridew’s will.’</p> - -<p>And so I left them to consult over their own affairs. I had been thrust -into it against my own will; but still it was entirely their affair, and -no business of mine.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Spencer and Lady Isabella called to me from their lawn as I went -out to ask how Mrs. Merridew was, and shook their heads over her.</p> - -<p>‘She should have the doctor,’ said Mrs. Spencer.</p> - -<p>‘But the doctor would not pay her bills for her,’ said Lady Isabella.</p> - -<p>And I had to answer meekly, as if I knew nothing about it, ‘I don’t -think it is her bills.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234"></a>{234}</span></p> - -<p>This conversation detained me some time from my own house; and when I -reached my cottage, my maid stood by the gate, looking out for me, -shading her eyes with her hands. It was to tell me there was a lady -waiting for me in the drawing-room: ‘A tall lady in mourning.’ And in a -moment my heart smote me for some hard thoughts, and I knew who my -visitor was.</p> - -<p>I found her seated by my table, very pale, but quite self-possessed. She -rose when I went in, and began to explain.</p> - -<p>‘You don’t know me,’ she said. ‘I have no right to come to you; but once -you came to—us—with Mrs. Merridew. Perhaps you remember me now? I am -Ellen Babington. I want to speak to you about—my brother’s will. You -may have heard that I have just lost——’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I am very sorry. If there is anything I can do——’</p> - -<p>‘You can do all that I want from any one,’ she said. ‘Janet will never -believe that I wanted to keep the money—now. I have seen all her -children to-day at church; and I think, if she had been there, I should -perhaps have been able—but never mind. Tell her I should like—if she -would give her daughter Janet something out of the money—from me. She -is a little like what her mother was. I am sure you are kind to them. I -don’t even know your name.’</p> - -<p>‘Mrs. Mulgrave,’ I said; and she gave a little bow. She was very -composed, very well-bred, terribly sad; with a look of a woman who had -no more to do in the world, and who yet was, Heaven help her! in the -middle of her life, full of vigour, and capability, and strength.</p> - -<p>‘Will you tell Janet, please, that it is all settled?’ she said. ‘I -mean, not the girl Janet, but her mother. Tell her I have settled -everything. I believe she will hear from the lawyers to-morrow; but I -could not let it come only from the lawyers. I cannot forgive her, even -now. She thinks it is Matilda she has wronged; but it is me she has -wronged, taking my brother from me, my only brother, after all these -years. But never mind. I kissed the little child instead to-day—the -quiet little one, with the gold hair. I suppose she is the youngest. -Tell her I came on purpose to see them before I went away.’</p> - -<p>‘But why send this message through me?’ I said; ‘come and see <i>her</i>. I -will take you; it is close by. And the sight of you will do her more -good—than the money. Come, and let her explain.’</p> - -<p>I thought she hesitated for a moment, but her only answer was a shake of -her head.</p> - -<p>‘What could she explain?’ she cried, with strange impetuosity. ‘He and I -had been together all our lives, and yet all the while he cared nothing -for his sister and everything for her. Do you think I can ever forgive -her? but I never forgot her. I don’t think I ever loved any one so well -in my life.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, come and tell her so,’ said I.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235"></a>{235}</span></p> - -<p>Again she shook her head. ‘I loved her as well as I loved him; and yet I -hate her,’ she said. ‘But tell her I spoke to her Janet, and I kissed -her baby; and that I have arranged everything with the lawyers about -poor John’s will. I am sure you are a good woman. Will you shake hands -with me for the children’s sake before I go?’</p> - -<p>Her voice went to my heart. I had only seen her once in my life before, -but I could not help it. I went up to her and took her two hands, and -kissed her; and then she, the stranger, broke down, and put her head on -my shoulder and wept. It was only for a moment, but it bound us as if -for our lives.</p> - -<p>‘Where are you going?’ I asked, when she went away.</p> - -<p>‘I am going abroad with some friends,’ she said hurriedly.</p> - -<p>‘But you will come to us, my dear, when you come back?’</p> - -<p>‘Most likely I shall never come back,’ she said hastily; and then went -away alone out of my door, alone across the Green, with her veil over -her face, and her black dress repulsing the sunshine. One’s sympathies -move and change about like the winds. I had been so sorry for Mrs. -Merridew an hour ago; but it was not for her I was most sorry now.</p> - -<p>And this was how it all ended. I was always glad that Mrs. Merridew had -told her husband before the letter came next morning. And they got the -money; and John went to the University, and Janet had new dresses and -new pleasures, and a ring, of which she was intensely proud, according -to Ellen’s desire. I dare say Ellen’s intention was that something much -more important should have been given to the child in her name; but then -Ellen Babington, being an unmarried woman, did not know how much a large -family costs, nor what urgent occasion there is for every farthing, even -with an addition so great as five hundred a year.</p> - -<p>I am afraid it did not make Mrs. Merridew much happier just at first. -She wrote letters wildly, far and near, to everybody who could be -supposed to know anything about Ellen; and wanted to have her to live -with them, and to share the money with her, and I don’t know how many -other wild fancies. But all that could be found out was that Ellen had -gone abroad. And by degrees the signs of this strange tempest began to -disappear—smoothed out and filled up as Nature smooths all traces of -combat. The scars heal, new verdure covers the sudden precipice—the old -gets assimilated with the new. By degrees an air of superior comfort -stole over the house, which was very consolatory. Selina, the housemaid, -married, and Richards retired to the inevitable greengrocery. And with a -new man and new maids, and so much less difficulty about the bills, it -is astonishing how the puckers died away from Mrs. Merridew’s -forehead—first one line went, and then another, and she grew younger in -spite of herself. And with everything thus conspiring in her favour, and -habit calmly settling to confirm all, is it wonderful if by and by she -forgot that any accident had ever<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236"></a>{236}</span> happened, and that all had not come -in the most natural way, and with the most pleasant consequences in the -world?</p> - -<p>The other day I saw in a chance copy of <i>Galignani</i>, which came to me in -a parcel from Paris, the marriage of Ellen Babington to a Frenchman -there; but that is all we have ever heard of her. Whether it is a good -marriage or a bad one I don’t know; but I hope, at least, it is better -for her than being all alone, as she was when she left my house that day -in June, having made her sacrifice in her turn. If things had but taken -their natural course, how much unnecessary suffering would have been -spared: Mrs. Merridew is, perhaps, happier now than she would have been -without that five hundred a year—but for two years she was wretched, -sacrificing and grudging the sacrifice, and making herself very unhappy. -And though I don’t believe Ellen Babington cared for the money, her -heart will never be healed of that pang of bitterness which her -brother’s desertion gave her. His companion for twenty years! and to -think his best thoughts should have been given all that time to a woman -who had only slighted him, and refused his love. Mrs. Merridew does not -see the sting of this herself—she thinks it natural. And so I dare say -would half the world beside.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237"></a>{237}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_BARLEY_MOW" id="THE_BARLEY_MOW"></a>THE BARLEY MOW</h2> - -<h3>CHAPTER I</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">There</span> was but one little harmless house of public entertainment at -Dinglefield, a place not without its importance among us, with its -little farm, and the fly with the old white horse which was an -institution on the Green, and very serviceable when there was luggage to -be carried to the railway, or any party going on in bad weather when our -pony carriages could not be used.</p> - -<p>This was the Barley Mow, a favourite and picturesque little village -public-house, the most inoffensive article of the kind, perhaps, which -was to be found for miles and miles around. The Green itself was not -like the trim and daintily-kept greensward, with orderly posts and -railings, which is to be seen in many suburban hamlets. It was long, -irregular, and just wild enough to be thoroughly natural. The lower end, -near the Barley Mow, was smooth and neat, the best cricket ground that -you could find in the neighbourhood. But the upper part was still wild -with gorse bushes, and bordered by a little thicket of rhododendrons, -which had strayed thither from the adjacent park. Many a cricket match -was played upon the lower Green, and on the bright summer Saturdays, -when the cricket parties came, there was often quite a pretty little -company from the surrounding houses to watch them, and a great traffic -went on at the Barley Mow. It was an irregular old house, partly red -brick, partly whitewashed, with a luxuriant old garden warm and sunny, -opening through a green wicket set in a great hedge on the right hand. A -signpost stood in the open space in front, where the road widened out, -and by the open door you could see through a clean, red-tiled passage -into the garden at the back, where the turf was like velvet, and the -borders full of all kinds of bright and sweet old-fashioned flowers. -There were neither standard rose-bushes nor red geraniums to be seen -there, not that Widow Aikin, good woman, had any whim of taste that -prompted her to despise these conventional inmates of the modern garden, -but that the pinks and gilliflowers, the rockets and larkspurs, and -great straggling rose-bushes were cheaper<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238"></a>{238}</span> and gave less trouble, having -established themselves there, and requiring no bedding out. The room -which looked out upon this garden was where the strangers and -gentlefolks who came from far were entertained, and there was a parlour, -with a bow window in front, for humbler persons. But the favourite place -in summer for that kind of ‘company’ was the bench outside the door, -looking out upon the Green. There was little traffic of any kind in -winter, but the summer aspect of the Barley Mow was a pleasant one. It -had no air of stale dissipation about it, no heavy odour of spilt beer -or coarse tobacco, but looked wholesome and sweet-smelling, a place of -refreshment, not of indulgence. Anyhow, it was the fashion about the -Green to think and say this of Widow Aikin’s clean, honest, respectable -house. She was a favourite with all the ‘families.’ She served them with -milk as well as beer, and fresh eggs, and sometimes fruit. She had all -sorts of little agencies in hand, found servants for the ladies on the -Green, and executed little commissions of many kinds. She was a -personage, privileged and petted: everybody had a smile and a kind word -for her, and she for everybody. She was always about, never standing -still, glancing in and out of the red-tiled passage, the bow-windowed -parlour, the sunny garden, the noisy stable-yard. You saw her -everywhere—now this side, now that—an ubiquitous being, so -quick-footed that she was almost capable of being in two places at once.</p> - -<p>It was a favourite subject with Mrs. Aikin to talk of her own -loneliness, and incapacity to manage ‘such a house as this.’ She liked -to dwell upon the responsibilities of the position and the likelihood -that a lone woman would be imposed upon; and the Green generally -considered this a very proper strain of observation, and felt it to be -respectable that a widow should so feel and so express herself. But it -was very well known that things had gone much better at the Barley Mow -since Will Aikin managed very opportunely to be carried off by that -vulgar gout which springs from beer, and has all the disadvantages with -none of the distinctions belonging to its kindred ailment. There was no -saying what might not have happened had he lived a year longer, for the -creditors were urgent and the business paralyzed. It was this which made -his death opportune, for the brewers were merciful to the widow, and -gave her time to redeem herself; and when she was relieved from the -necessity of nursing him and studying his ‘ways,’ which were as -difficult as if the landlord of the Barley Mow had been a prince of the -blood, the widow blossomed out into another woman. It is but a poor -compliment to the lamented husband, but widows continually do this, it -must be allowed, giving the lie practically to their own tears. Happily -however Mrs. Aikin, like many others in her position, took her own -desolation for granted, and attributed her increase of prosperity to -luck or the blessing of God, which is the better way of stating it. ‘Oh! -that poor<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239"></a>{239}</span> Will had but lived to see it!’ she would say with kindly -tears in her eyes, and never whispered even to herself that had poor -Will lived it would never have been. She never missed an opportunity, -good soul, of bringing him into her conversation, telling stories of his -excellence, his good looks (he was one of the plainest men in the -county), his good jokes (he was as dull as ditch-water) and his -readiness in all encounters. She would stand in the doorway, with her -apron lifted in her hand, ready to dry the tear which out of grief for -his loss, or tremulous traditionary laughter over one of his -pleasantries, was always ready to spring up in the corner of her eye. -What did it matter to her that the poor old jokes were pointless? She -never inquired into their claims, but accepted them as laughter-worthy -by divine right.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Aikin had but one child, Jane, a modest, dark-eyed girl, with -pretty fair curling hair, which gave her a certain distinction among the -rustic prettinesses about. Her mother professed to be annoyed by the -mingling of two complexions, protesting that Jane was always -‘contrairy,’ that such light hair should have gone with blue eyes, and -that she was neither one sort nor another; but in her heart she was -proud enough of her daughter’s uncommon looks—and Jane was an uncommon -girl. Next to the Barley Mow stood the smallest house on the Green, a -little place half wooden, half brick, which would have been tumbledown -and disreputable had it not been so exquisitely neat and well cared for. -This was the poorest little place of all the gentry’s houses, but it was -not by any means the humblest of the inhabitants of the Green who lived -at the Thatched Cottage. Old Mrs. Mowbray was a very great person, -though she was a very small person. She was the tiniest woman on the -Green, and she had the tiniest income, but she was related to half the -peerage, and considered herself as great a lady as if she had been a -grand duchess. Nor did any one dispute her claim. The greatest people in -the county yielded the <i>pas</i> to old Mrs. Mowbray, partly no doubt because -she was very old and her magnificent pretensions were amusing, but -partly also because they were well founded. There was not one house on -the Green that had such visitors as she had. She was grand-aunt to a -duke, and nobody would have been surprised to hear that in her own -person she had a far-away right to the Crown—a right, let us say, -coming by some side-wind from the Plantagenets, leaping over the other -families who are of yesterday. Many people at Dinglefield called her the -fairy queen. She had the easy familiarity of royalty with all her -surroundings. What could it matter to her what were the small gradations -of social importance among her neighbours and friends? She could afford -to be indifferent to such trifling distinctions of society. Widow Aikin -was not appreciably further out of the reach of this splendid little old -poor patrician than Lady Denzil. Education was in favour of the latter, -it is true, but there was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240"></a>{240}</span> this against her, that it was possible for -her to entertain some delusive idea of equality, of which Mrs. Aikin was -guiltless. Mrs. Mowbray accordingly made no secret of the fact that she -entertained a great friendship for the landlady of the Barley Mow, and -was very fond of Jane. She had the girl with her a great deal, and -taught her those pretty manners which were so unlike others of her -class. When Jane was a growing girl of twelve or thirteen she used to -wait upon the old lady’s guests at tea as a maid of honour might have -waited. It was done for love for one thing, which always confers a -certain grace; and it was not possible to move awkwardly or act -ungracefully under the eye of such a keen critic.</p> - -<p>It was the general opinion of the ladies on the Green that this -patronage might not be an advantage to Jane as she grew older, and it -became necessary to choose what was to be her occupation in the world; -but in this respect Mrs. Mowbray behaved with great wisdom. It was, -indeed, against not only all her traditions, but all the habits of her -mind to ‘put nonsense in the girl’s head,’ and disgust her with her -natural position, which was what the other ladies feared. It mattered -nothing to Mrs. Mowbray whether the girl became a pupil-teacher; or -pushed upward in the small scale of rank, as understood at the Barley -Mow, to be a nursery governess and call herself a lady; or remained what -she was by nature, her mother’s right hand and chief assistant? Parties -ran very high on the Green on this subject. It was fought over in many a -drawing-room as hotly as if it had been a branch of the Eastern -Question. Ought Jane Aikin to stay at the parish school with Mrs. -Peters, whose favourite pupil she was, and become her aid and probable -successor? Ought she, being so refined in her manners, and altogether -such a nice-looking girl, to learn a little music and French, and become -a governess? The ladies who were liberal, who believed in education, and -that everybody should do their best to improve their position and better -themselves, upheld the latter idea; but the strongest party was in -favour of the pupil-teacher notion, which was considered a means of -utilizing Jane’s good manners and excellent qualities, without moving -her out of ‘her own sphere of life’—and this set was headed, by the -Rector, who was very hot and decided on the subject. A third party, to -which nobody paid much attention, and which consisted chiefly of Mrs. -Aikin herself, the only real authority, intended Jane to remain where -she was, head-waiter and superintendent at the Barley Mow. The question -between the two first projects had already been warmly discussed in the -drawing-rooms before it occurred to anybody that it could be Mrs. -Aikin’s intention to do such injustice to her daughter, or indeed that -the good landlady had any particular say in the matter. What! make a -barmaid of Jane! The Rector was, it is to be feared, very injudicious in -his treatment of the question. He attempted to carry matters with a very -high hand, and went so<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241"></a>{241}</span> far as to say that no modest girl could be -brought up in ‘an alehouse,’ as he was so foolish as to call it, an -opprobrious epithet which Mrs. Aikin did not forgive for years. She was -so desperately offended, indeed, that she went to chapel for four -Sundays after she heard of it, walking straight past the church doors, -and proclaiming her defection to the whole world. Mrs. Mowbray was the -person who was employed to set this matter right. She was waited upon by -representatives of the two different parties, both of them feeling -secure of her sympathy, but both anxious at all events to bring that -foolish woman, Jane’s mother, to her senses. Mrs. Stoke was at the head -of the governess set, and good Mr. Wigmore, our excellent church-warden, -represented the Rector’s views. They met at the gate of the Thatched -Cottage upon this mission. ‘I have not spoken to dear Mrs. Mowbray on -the subject, because I feel so sure that she will be on our side—so -fond as she is of Jane,’ said Mrs. Stoke. ‘Mrs. Mowbray is not the -person to advocate any breaking up of the divisions which mark society,’ -said Mr. Wigmore. ‘<i>She</i> knows the evil of all such revolutionary -measures.’ And thus they went in, each confident in his and her own -cause.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Mowbray sat by the fire in the big old carved ebony chair, which -made her look more than ever a fairy queen. She had a handsome old ivory -face, with a tinge of colour on the cheeks, which looked as if it might -once have been rouge. Strangers considered that this peculiarity of -complexion gave an artificial and even improper look to the old lady, -but on the Green it was considered one of the evidences of that supreme -aristocratism which would not take the trouble to disguise anything it -pleased to do, but would rouge, if rouge was necessary, in a masterful -and magnificent way, making no secret of it. However, as a matter of -fact it was not rouge, but perfectly real, as was the fine ivory yellow -of her old nose, a stately and prominent feature, evidently belonging to -the highest rank. She would not have budged from her ebony chair to -receive any one less than the Queen; but she permitted Mrs. Stoke to -kiss her, and Mr. Wigmore to shake her hand, with serene graciousness. -When they had both seated themselves she looked at them across her -knitting with a smile. ‘This looks likes a deputation,’ she said. ‘What -do you want, good people? If it is to settle about my funeral there is -no hurry—for my cold is much better, and I have a good many things to -see after before I can think of such luxuries.’ This distressed both her -visitors, who did not like to hear an old lady speak of such serious -matters in this light-minded way.</p> - -<p>‘Indeed, indeed, dear Mrs. Mowbray, it was nothing of the kind. When -such a dreadful event occurs there will be weeping and wailing on the -Green; and we all know very well that though you always talk so -cheerfully, and so amusingly——’</p> - -<p>‘You regard such subjects with the melancholy which becomes<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242"></a>{242}</span> -right-thinking people,’ said Mr. Wigmore; ‘but we came—or to speak for -myself, I came——’</p> - -<p>‘To speak of Jane Aikin,’ cried Mrs. Stoke, feeling the importance of -having the first word, ‘and her mother’s inconceivable foolishness in -keeping her at home; and the still more foolish step she has taken in -separating herself from all her true friends.’</p> - -<p>‘Frequenting the Dissenters’ services,’ said Mr. Wigmore. ‘Few things -more sad have come under my observation in this very distressing -parish—which is really such a mixture of everything that is -unsatisfactory——’</p> - -<p>‘The parish is just like other parishes,’ said Mrs. Stoke, ‘only much -better, I should say—so many educated people in it, and so few poor -comparatively. But I am sure our dear old friend will agree with me that -Jane is quite out of place——’</p> - -<p>‘Now, my good people,’ said the old lady, ‘think a moment—what do you -mean by out of place?—Everybody is out of place now-a-days. I see -people in this room calmly sitting down by me whose fathers and mothers -would have come to the kitchen door fifty years ago; but if I made a -fuss what would any one say?’</p> - -<p>This made Mr. Wigmore very uncomfortable, whose father had been a -cheesemonger in a good way of business; but as for Mrs. Stoke she did -not care, being very well born, as she supposed. Mrs. Mowbray, however, -took them both in quite impartially. ‘Unless people really belong to the -old nobility,’ she continued, ‘I don’t see that it matters about their -place. It does not mean anything. Even in what we call the old nobility, -you know, there’s not above half-a-dozen families that are anything like -<i>pur sang</i>. I know dukes that are just as much out of place as Jane -Aikin would be at Windsor Castle. The only place any one has a right to -is where their ancestors are born and bred—if they have any. And when -you have not rank,’ said the old lady, looking keenly at Mr. Wigmore, -‘you had much better be <i>peuple</i>, as the French say. We haven’t got an -English word for it. No, it doesn’t mean lower classes—it means -<i>peuple</i>, neither less nor more. And Jane Aikin is pure <i>peuple</i>. She -can’t be out of place where she is.’</p> - -<p>‘But you forget her education, dear Mrs. Mowbray—and you yourself that -have given her such a taste for beautiful manners, and spoiled her for -her own common class.’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Mowbray did not say anything, but she put on her spectacles and -stared at her reprover. ‘I never spoil any one,’ she said; ‘out of my -own condition—I make no secret of it—one girl is very much like -another to me. They should all be pretty-mannered—I never knew <i>that</i> -to spoil any one, small or great.’</p> - -<p>‘Dear Mrs. Mowbray, no; but if we could raise her to a position in which -she would be appreciated. She has taken such a step out of her own class -in associating with you.’</p> - -<p>‘Associating—with me!’ Mrs. Mowbray took off her spectacles<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243"></a>{243}</span> again -after she had gazed mildly with a wonder beyond speech in the speaker’s -face. Then she shrugged her shoulders slightly and shook her head. ‘I -can’t recall at this moment any one in this neighbourhood who does that. -I have a great many friends, if that is what you mean, and I am not so -particular as most people about the little subdivisions—but associates! -I don’t know any. Yes, Mr. Wigmore? you were going to speak.’</p> - -<p>‘I am one of those who agree with you that the poor should be kept in -their own place,’ said Mr. Wigmore. As he spoke the old lady took up her -spectacles again, and deliberately put them on, looking at him as if -(Mrs. Stoke said) he was a natural curiosity, which somewhat discomfited -the excellent man—‘but, as our friend says, her manners and breeding -are quite above her station.’</p> - -<p>‘Jane Aikin has no station,’ said Mrs. Mowbray promptly. ‘She is -<i>peuple</i>, as I told you. I know nothing of your aboves and belows. Let -her stay where she is, in her natural place, and do her duty. Do your -duty in that condition to which God has called you: that’s what the -Catechism says. There’s nothing about being above or below. Very lucky -for her she’s got a natural place and her duty plain before her. If one -had not one’s own rank, which of course one does not choose, that’s what -I should prefer for myself: a distinct place and a clear duty—and -that’s what Jane Aikin has.’</p> - -<p>‘In a public-house!’ cried Mr. Wigmore, aghast.</p> - -<p>‘In her mother’s house, sir,’ said old Mrs. Mowbray.</p> - -<p>Thus the Green was routed horse and foot; but the old lady on further -talk accepted the position of mediatrix to bring back the Widow Aikin to -her allegiance, and to show her her duty as a churchwoman. She sallied -forth for that purpose the very next morning in her old quilted white -satin bonnet and great furred cloak. She never changed the fashion of -her garments, having had abundant time to discover what was most -becoming to her, as she frankly said. Mrs. Aikin was standing at her -front door, looking out upon the bright morning, when the old lady -appeared. There was very little doing at the Barley Mow. The parlour -with the bow window was full of a dazzling stock of household linen, -which Jane and a maid were looking over, and putting in order. Jane -herself had the task of darning the thin places, which she did so as to -make darning into a fine art. This had been taught her by Mrs. Peters at -the parish school. Perhaps it was not, after all, such a valuable -accomplishment as it looked, but certainly Jane’s darning had a -beautiful appearance on the tablecloths, after they had passed their -first perfection of being, at the Barley Mow.</p> - -<p>‘The sunshine’s a pleasure,’ said Mrs. Aikin, making her best curtsey, -‘and I hope I see you well, ma’am, this bright morning. It shows us as -how spring’s coming. Might I be so bold as to ask you to step in and -take a chair?’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244"></a>{244}</span></p> - -<p>‘Not this morning,’ said Mrs. Mowbray in her frank voice, not unduly -subdued in tone, ‘though I’ve come to scold you. They tell me you’ve -gone off from your church, you that were born and bred in it, and Jane, -though I taught her her Catechism myself. Do you mean to tell me you’ve -got opinions—you?—with a nice child like Jane to thank God for, and -everything going well——’</p> - -<p>‘Well, ma’am,’ said Mrs. Aikin, growing red and smoothing her apron, ‘I -don’t say as I’m one for opinions—more than doing your duty, and -getting a bit of good out of a sermon when you can.’</p> - -<p>‘That’s very pious and right,’ said the old lady, ‘but your church that -you were christened in is more than a sermon. I don’t pretend to get -much good of them myself: but you’ll not tell me that you have left your -church for that.’</p> - -<p>‘Well, ma’am!’ said Mrs. Aikin, reluctant to commit herself. She put out -her foot, and began to trace patterns with her shoe in the sand on the -doorstep, and fixed her eyes upon the process. She could not meet the -little old lady’s decided gaze. ‘Mr. Short at the chapel do preach -beautiful, he do. You should just hear him for yourself. He’ll make you -come all over in a tremble, when you’re sitting quite quiet like, -thinking of nothing; and then he’s real comforting to poor folks and -them as is put upon. It’s almost a pleasure to feel as you’ve had your -troubles with the quality too.’</p> - -<p>‘Quality! Where do you find any quality to have troubles with?’ said -Mrs. Mowbray. ‘You and I have always been good friends. You don’t -consider that you’re put upon, as you call it, because the Duke sent me -my Christmas turkey. That was no offence to you.’</p> - -<p>‘No, ma’am, never—not you. There is them that shall be nameless—not -but what <i>they</i> call names a plenty.’</p> - -<p>‘The woman’s thinking of the Rector, I declare. Quality!’ said Mrs. -Mowbray with an accent of mingled amazement and amusement. ‘No, my dear -woman, he’s not quality. But he meant no harm. He was thinking of the -girl and her good. They think they know, these men; and we must submit, -you know, to our clergy. It was because of his interest in Jane.’</p> - -<p>‘Interest in Jane!’ said Widow Aikin (she pronounced the name something -like <i>Jeyeyn</i>; but the peculiarities of Berkshire are too much for even -phonetic spelling), ‘if that shows an interest! telling her mother to -her face as she wasn’t fit to bring her up decent and respectable, and -showing no more confidence than that in the girl herself.’</p> - -<p>‘It was his mistake,’ said Mrs. Mowbray, ‘he wants tact, that is what it -is. He hasn’t the right way of doing a thing, my dear woman. That is how -these middling sort of people always break down. My nephew, the Duke, if -he had to send you to prison, would do it as if it were the greatest -kindness in the world. But the middling classes have no grace about -them. That’s not to say that you’re to give up your church that you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245"></a>{245}</span> -were christened in and married in. Who’s to bury you, woman? Do you -never think of that? Not your Mr. Short at the chapel, I hope. At least -I know he would never do for me. There ought to be more in your church -than a sermon, or even than a pleasant word.’</p> - -<p>‘Well, ma’am, I don’t say but what that’s true; and I never thought of -the burying,’ said the widow, hanging her head. She was subdued and -awe-stricken at the turn which the discussion had taken, and, indeed, -had never intended to forsake ‘her church,’ but only to make a -demonstration of her independence. Jane had come out from the parlour, -leaving her work to listen to this argument, with great anxiety and -interest, for her heart was in it. She was hovering in the passage -behind her mother, now and then giving her a little touch or pull to -enforce something the old lady said. During the pause that followed she -came forward very anxiously, and put forward a plea of her own, in which -there did not seem much point or applicability.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, mother,’ she said softly, pulling her sleeve, ‘and Johnny in the -choir!’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, go along with your Johnnys,’ said the landlady of the Barley Mow. -But it was clear enough that the victory was won.</p> - -<h3>CHAPTER II</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> is full time that John should be spoken of, who was the other member -of the family, and a very important one. He was Mrs. Aikin’s nephew, the -son of a brother who was very poorly off and had been taken in by his -good aunt as a miserable stunted child when he was but six or seven. The -brother was a soldier, who had been discharged, and whose character it -is to be supposed did not recommend him sufficiently to get any interest -made for him, or to establish him anywhere in one of the occupations -which seem made for old soldiers. Instead of this he had fallen into a -kind of vagabondism, wandering from place to place, and as his wife was -dead this only child had been miserably neglected, and was in a bad way -when Mrs. Aikin took him to her kindly care. He had never been a -prepossessing boy, and he did not at all share with Jane in the interest -of the Green. He was heavy and lowering in his looks, quiet to outward -appearance, though tales were told of him which were not consistent with -this subdued aspect. Both the women however were devoted to John, either -because they had no one else to be fond of, or because he possessed some -qualities at bottom which made up for his faults of exterior. He -certainly did not seem at any time to give himself much trouble to -secure their affections. All that he did seemed to be done -unwillingly—the very sound of his voice was churlish—and except Mrs. -Aikin and her daughter nobody cared for the boy. From his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246"></a>{246}</span> very first -coming he had showed himself in an unfavourable light. He was then a boy -of about eight years old, and little Jane, a delightful child, -everybody’s favourite, was a year younger. One summer evening he was -standing with his hands in his pockets staring at the waggons with their -big horses, when she came running up to him.</p> - -<p>‘Come and play, Johnny,’ she said in her soft little voice.</p> - -<p>‘I won’t,’ he said, pushing her out of his way with his shoulder.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Johnny, come and have tea in the garden,’ said little Jane, ‘mother -says we may. I’ve got some cake and some gooseberries, and my own little -tea-things, and all the best shall be for you. Oh, Johnny, come!’</p> - -<p>‘I won’t,’ he said again, though he faltered when he heard of the cake.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Johnny, come to please me,’ cried the poor little woman, already as -foolish in her expectations as if she had been twenty years older.</p> - -<p>‘To please you! I’d a deal rather please myself,’ cried the boy, once -more thrusting her aside with a push of his shoulder. Little Jane was -ready to cry, but the mother coming out full of business called to the -children in her hasty way to go at once to the garden, and get out of -her road. Upon which the boy shrugged his shoulders, and obeyed with -brutish unwillingness and display of yielding to superior force. This -was how he had been ever since. The little girl would coax and entreat, -the kind mother give cheerful orders, never so much as seeing the -lowering looks of rebellion.</p> - -<p>‘Poor boy!’ Mrs. Aikin would say, ‘he ain’t got no mother, and I can see -by his solemn face many a day as he’s thinking and thinking of his poor -father, which was never one as would settle down to anything. We has to -do all we can to keep him cheerful, Jane and me.’</p> - -<p>Thus from the very first they made up their minds to spoil the loutish, -unpleasant boy. The widow was continually praising him, and holding him -up to the admiration of her neighbours. When it was found that he had a -good voice, this gave them as much delight and triumph as if they had -inherited a fortune, and when he made his appearance for the first time -with the choir in his white surplice, the faces of the two were a sight -to see, so glowing were they with satisfaction and delight. In this way -the two cousins had grown up—the boy always sullen and downlooking, -resisting rather than responding to the kindnesses heaped upon him, the -girl always ready to smooth away every cloud, to say the best for him, -to explain his moodiness and backwardness.</p> - -<p>‘It is only his way,’ Jane would say in her soft voice, and <i>her</i> way -was so ingratiating and conciliatory that no one could stand against it. -His aunt, too, was foolish in her affection for this unattractive hero. -He was the son of the house, the young master, though he had not a -penny. His opinion was always<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247"></a>{247}</span> asked about everything, and his judgment -constantly relied upon. It was true that the advice he gave was not -always taken, for Mrs. Aikin was very active, and liked to manage -everything her own way; but when it happened that he agreed with her, -she would trumpet forth his praises and give him all the credit.</p> - -<p>‘I should never have thought of that but for Johnny. There’s no telling -the sense of him,’ the good woman would say admiringly. All this special -pleading however could not give the Green any interest in John. Nobody -cared for him except the two who cared so much for him, and nobody -believed in him, notwithstanding his imposing appearance in the choir -and his beautiful voice. As he grew up this voice changed from its -angelical soprano to a big melodious baritone. He was the chief singer -at Dinglefield, and kept up the character of the place, which had always -been noted for its choir, and indeed he was the only man in it to whom a -solo could be entrusted. This made the Rector and Mr. Wigmore tolerant -of the alehouse so far as he was concerned.</p> - -<p>Thus the little family at the Barley Mow were happy enough when the -difficulty was got over about Jane. Of course Mrs. Aikin had the best -right to settle what her daughter was to do, and whatever they might -advise, neither the clergy nor the ladies could interfere on their own -account in the matter. So that when Mrs. Aikin gave up chapel and came -back to her own pew all was forgiven and forgotten, and Jane, though the -maid of the inn, became a greater favourite than ever. She was liked as -much as her cousin was disliked. Even the contact which she could not be -altogether saved from, in her position, with the roughest and coarsest -class did not seem to affect her. She went about and served the beer, -and waited on the summer visitors as softly and as neatly as she used to -serve the ladies at tea in old Mrs. Mowbray’s tiny drawing-room. She -never took any notice of foolish things that might be said to her, and -did not even seem to hear or see the squabbles and noisy talk that must -always go on more or less about such places. In the cricketing time they -were always very busy, and Jane no doubt had the additional temptation -of the gentlemen who would have talked and flirted had she allowed them -to do so: but she passed through everything like a humble Una, with a -smile for everybody, but not a word that could have been objected to, -had all the ladies in the Green sat in committee on her. Perhaps however -her lout of a cousin did more for Jane than the ladies could have done. -She was very modest and shy, and did not betray herself except to the -keenest observation; but it was apparent enough to those who were -chiefly interested that all her thoughts were for John. She was -constantly doing his work for him in her quiet way, undertaking this and -that to let him have a holiday, or go to a choral meeting, or have his -innings at cricket.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248"></a>{248}</span></p> - -<p>‘Girls don’t want so much play as boys,’ she would say with a smile. And -he took her at her word, and accepted everything she did for him as if -it had been the most natural thing in the world. Strangely enough, her -mother did not object to this. She spoiled and petted the clumsy fellow -just as much as Jane did, and took it for granted that he should have -all kinds of indulgences as if he had been a favourite son. The great -terror of both of them was his vagabond father, who appeared now and -then, a scandal to their respectability, and a standing danger to John. -The two women were always in a fright lest this undesirable relative -should lead their darling astray.</p> - -<p>‘He is such a good boy now—he has always been such a good boy,’ Mrs. -Aikin said, with an uncomfortable sense that nobody accepted this -statement as gospel, which made her more and more hot in giving it -forth. And when old Mrs. Mowbray stopped in her walk to inquire after -Jane and the poultry, the widow fairly wept over this one danger which -threatened the family peace.</p> - -<p>‘Why do you let him come at all?’ the old lady asked peremptorily. ‘If I -were in your place, I would order him off the premises. You have done -too much for him already, my dear woman. When a man becomes a vagabond -he has no more claim on his friends.’</p> - -<p>This did not at all please the landlady of the Barley Mow. Her honest -face flushed, and she dried her eyes indignantly.</p> - -<p>‘Nature is nature, ma’am,’ she said; ‘good or bad, you can’t deny your -own flesh and blood.’</p> - -<p>‘But I could keep my own flesh and blood at a distance,’ said the old -lady, ‘especially if it has got more harm in it, and could do me an -injury still.’</p> - -<p>‘That is all that troubles me,’ said Mrs. Aikin. ‘I’d be as happy a -woman as steps the Green, but for that. Nature is nature, and a father’s -a father. And if so be as he was to put wild thoughts in our Johnny’s -head—what would me and Jane do? La, bless you, it would break that -girl’s heart.’</p> - -<p>‘And that is just what I am thinking of,’ said Mrs. Mowbray briskly. -‘You are a silly woman. What has Jane’s heart got to do with it? You -keep this boy by her side year after year. And now they’re growing man -and woman, and what’s to come of it? What do you mean by it? That’s what -I say!’</p> - -<p>‘La, ma’am, what could come of it? They’ve been brought up like brother -and sister,’ the widow said with a laugh, and she went about with a -smile on her face for the rest of the day. The other ladies made -remonstrances of the same kind with equally little use. Of course it was -very clear that this was what she had made up her mind to—that the two -should marry and succeed her when she grew old, and carry on the -business. It was all suitable enough and natural enough. And, of course, -the fact that Jane was above her position made no difference. When a -woman is above her position the best thing for her to do is to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249"></a>{249}</span> conceal -it carefully, and make the best of the circumstances. And she herself -was not conscious of the fact of her superiority. Whether Mrs. Aikin had -been so foolish as to communicate her ideas to Jane no one knew, but -there could be little doubt that the poor girl took the arrangement for -granted as much as her mother did. It was so natural! She had been fond -of her cousin all her life, loving him with that most powerful of all -kinds of love, the close tie of tender habit, the affection one has for -the being whom one has protected, excused, and been good to all one’s -life. If she had not pushed him softly through his work, coaxed him -through his lessons, made the best of him to everybody, how could poor -Johnny ever have got on at all? He wanted her backing up so perpetually, -that it might be permitted to Jane to believe that he could not have got -on without her. It is common to say that the love of a woman for a man -has often a great deal that is motherly in it, and certainly this was -the case here. It had been her duty to be kind to him, to make him feel -himself at home, he who had no other home. All her own little pleasures, -almost ever since she could remember, had been made secondary to -Johnny—and what so natural as that this should go on? She took it for -granted, poor girl. She scarcely expected to be courted as other girls -were who ‘fall in love’ with strangers. It had not been necessary for -her to fall in love. She had always been fond of her cousin. She had -never thought of any other man.</p> - -<p>And poor Jane was as delicate in her love as any lady of romance. She -had none of the romping ways of country girls of her class. Neither was -she sentimentally disposed. Her modest look dwelt upon him now and then -with a tender pleasure, especially when he was singing, which was the -only thing about him which seemed to justify that delusion. But even -this look was so modest and so momentary that only careful observation -surprised it now and then. She held her somewhat embarrassing position -with a serious grace which was almost dignity—making no advances on her -part, though she was the crown princess, and had everything to bestow, -yet never doubting, I think, poor girl, what the course of affairs was -to be. Was it not natural that he should love her best as she loved him -best? and that their life should go on as it had always done, with -something added but nothing taken away? Such was the simple, happy tenor -of Jane’s maiden thoughts.</p> - -<p>Whether John divined what the women took for granted it would be -difficult to say. Perhaps he saw the advantages of being master at the -Barley Mow, and the homage he received no doubt increased his natural -loutish self-complacency—that stolid vanity which so often dwells in -the minds of those who have nothing in the world to be vain of. He took -it for granted on his side that he was the sun of this little world, and -accepted everything as a natural homage to his fine deservings. He -thought the more of himself for all they did for him, not of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250"></a>{250}</span> them. As -for Jane, her pretty looks, her superiority, her grace and good breeding -were nothing to the lout. He would have liked her a great deal better -had she been a noisy, laughing, romping girl. He accepted all the little -sacrifices she made, and allowed her to do his work, with that satisfied -consciousness that she liked it, which gave him the feeling of doing -rather than receiving a favour. And very likely he might go on, and -carry out the programme, and marry her in the same lordly way. For there -could be no doubt that it was very much to his advantage, and that his -position as Jane’s husband would be much more assured than that of Mrs. -Aikin’s nephew. So things went on, day gliding into day, and summer into -winter. They were both young—there was no hurry; and to quicken the -settlement or alter anything from the pleasant footing on which it at -present stood was not at all the widow’s wish.</p> - -<p>The picture would have been incomplete however had there not been -something on the other side. When one man is indifferent to the goods -the gods provide him it is almost certain there is another somewhere to -whom these gifts would seem divine. Jane had always kept up her -friendship with Mrs. Peters, the schoolmistress, who had trained her, -and whose assistant the ladies on the Green had wished her to be. She -was fond of going to see her in the winter afternoons when there was not -much doing, and always found something to do among the girls, work to -set right, or a class to look after which had wearied the -schoolmistress: and she got on so well with them that it was clear the -ladies on the Green had not been wrong in their idea of her powers. But -while she thus came and went about the good schoolmistress whom she -loved, another person had come into the little circle, of whom Jane took -little notice. This was a brother-in-law of Mrs. Peters, who had been -lately appointed schoolmaster, and was very highly thought of in the -parish. He was ten years at least older than Jane, and appeared to her a -middle-aged man, though he was scarcely over thirty. He was a good -schoolmaster and a good man, a little precise in speech perhaps, and -rigid in his ways, but true and honest and kind, anxious to be of real -service to his pupils and everybody round him. It was not wonderful that -his serious eye should be caught by the serious, gentle girl who was so -sweet and so kind to his sister-in-law, so much at home in the school, -so helpful, and so understanding. After he had taken tea half a dozen -times in her company the good young man’s head became full of Jane. And -he was not so instructed in the ways of the place as to be aware of Mrs. -Aikin’s understood plans, or the kind of tacit arrangement by which -everything seemed settled. He did not even know of John’s existence at -first—and when he did become aware of him there seemed nothing alarming -in the loutish lad, whose appearance and manners were not attractive to -the outward eye. Mr. Peters, though the very name of a public-house was -obnoxious to him, began to come out in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251"></a>{251}</span> evenings, when that first -winter was over, and would sit down in the shade on a bench outside the -door of the Barley Mow, sometimes for hours together, within reach of -all the noises, and of the smoking and beer-drinking, which were a -horror to him, and not respectable even, or becoming in his position. To -see him seated there in his black coat, with that air of respectability -half ashamed of itself, was both comical and touching. It was said that -the Rector spoke to him about it, pointing out that the Barley Mow, -however respectable in itself, was not a place where an instructor of -youth ought to spend his evenings, a reproach which cut to the -schoolmaster’s very heart. But he was so far gone that he stood up in -defence of the place where his beloved spent her life.</p> - -<p>‘Sir,’ he stammered, reddening and faltering, ‘I see a—person there: -who is an example to—every one round.’</p> - -<p>‘You mean Mrs. Aikin,’ the Rector said. ‘Yes, yes, Peters, she is very -respectable, I don’t say anything against her; but it is not a place for -you to be seen at, you know.’</p> - -<p>And this was true, there could be no doubt. The schoolmaster after this -would come late. He would be seen going out for a walk, passing the -Barley Mow with wistful looks after his tea-time, casting glances aside -at the cheerful bustle; and when the darkness was falling, and -everything had grown indistinct in the twilight, some keen eye would see -him steal to his accustomed seat and stay there, neither drinking nor -talking, except to Jane when she passed him. He watched her taking the -tray from her cousin’s hand, letting him go free for his cricket or his -practice, sometimes even sending him indoors to take a hand at whist, -and had begun to be angry with the young man for letting her do his work -for him before he surprised the gleam of soft love and kindness in -Jane’s pretty eyes which revealed the whole story. Was that what it -meant? It was such a shock to him that the schoolmaster fell ill, and -was not about the place for weeks. But at last he came back again, as -people constantly do, to gaze at sights that break their hearts. The -front of the Barley Mow was a cheerful place in these summer evenings. -Mrs. Aikin allowed no rioting or excess of drinking on her benches, and -she was as imperative as a little queen. And all the travellers who -passed stopped there to get water for their horses and beverages not -quite so innocent for themselves. The horses alone were a sight to see. -The whole hierarchy of rank on four legs might be seen at the door. The -beautiful riding-horses, slim and dainty, with their shy, supercilious -looks; the carriage horses just a trifle less fine—the large, florid, -highly-fed brutes in the drays, that made no stand on their quality, but -looked calmly conscious of unlimited corn at home—the saucy little -pony, ready for any impertinence—the shabby, poor gentleman in the fly -who had seen better days, meek beast, broken-spirited, and -unfortunate—the donkey, meeker still, but with a whole red revolution, -if he could only but once get the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252"></a>{252}</span> upper hand, in his eye. It was -curious to sit there in the darkening of the soft summer night, and see -the indistinct vehicles gliding past, and all the dim figures of men, -while the stars came out overhead, and the heat of the day sank into -grateful coolness. And what a dramatic completeness the humble, bustling -scene took, when one perceived the little human drama, tragedy or -comedy, who could tell which, that was going on in the midst, Jane -regarding the loutish cousin who was not her lover with those soft eyes -of tenderness as the stars regarded the earth: he altogether -indifferent, caring nothing, taking a vulgar advantage of her weakness -to save himself trouble; and the spectator in the corner, hidden in the -shadows, who did not lose a look or a word, whose very heart was burning -to see the wasted affection, and made furious by the indifference. Mr. -Peters would have given all he had in the world could he have purchased -that soft look from Jane; but the lout thought nothing of it, except so -far as it ministered to his own rude self-satisfaction. Perhaps he had -his grievance too. He would have liked to escape from this propriety and -quiet to the noisy revels on the other side of the Green, where there -was always some nonsense going on at the Load-o’-Hay, a kind of rival, -but much inferior place, which was the one place in the world which Mrs. -Aikin regarded with feelings of hatred, and which moved even Jane to -something like anger. He would have liked to have had ‘a bit of fun’ -there, and left the steady business of the Barley Mow to take care of -itself. How it was that neither Jane nor her mother perceived or guessed -the discrepancy between his thoughts and theirs is past divining. The -girl, at least, one would have thought, must have had some moments of -distrust, some wondering doubts: but if so she never showed them, and as -for Mrs. Aikin, she was too busy a woman to think of anything that did -not come immediately under her eyes.</p> - -<h3>CHAPTER III</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">This</span> state of calm, so full of explosive elements, could scarcely go on -without some revelation, sooner or later, of the dangers below; and, -again, the little old fairy queen, Mrs. Mowbray, had a hand in the -revelation. Though she was so old, there was no more clear-sighted or -keen observer in all the county; and, as her interest in Jane was great, -it cannot be supposed that she had not seen through the complications -about her. But as yet there had been no opening—nothing which could -justify her in speaking particularly on this subject; and all that could -be said in a general way had been already said. Her mind however was -very much set upon it; and she had taken in with an eager ear all the -gossip of her old maid about Mr. Peters, whose visits to the Barley Mow -had been naturally<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_253" id="page_253"></a>{253}</span> much commented upon. Mrs. Mowbray, as has been -already said, had a royal indifference to the particular grade of the -people about her. They were all her inferiors; and, whether the -difference seemed small or great to the common eye, it was one of kind, -and therefore unalterable, in her impartial judgment. Acting on this -principle, the loves of Jane and John at the Barley Mow were just as -interesting as the loves of the young ladies and gentlemen on the Green, -who thought much more highly of themselves.</p> - -<p>This being the case, it will be less surprising to the reader to hear -that, when Mrs. Mowbray in her walks encountered the schoolmaster, she -managed to strike up an acquaintance with him; and ere long had so -worked upon him with artful talk of Jane, that poor Mr. Peters opened -his heart to the kind old lady, though he had never ventured to do so to -the object of his love. The way in which this happened was as follows. -It was summer—a lovely evening, such as tempted everybody out of doors. -The schoolmaster, poor man, had gone out to walk the hour’s walk which -he imposed upon himself as a necessary preface to his foolish vigil in -front of the Barley Mow, which had settled down into a regular routine. -He made believe to himself, or tried to make believe, that when he sat -down on that bench at the door it was only because he was tired after -his long walk; it was not as if he went on purpose—to do that would be -foolishness indeed. But he was no moth, scorching his wings in the -flame—he was an honest, manly pedestrian, taking needful rest in the -cool of the evening. This was the little delusion he had wrapped himself -in. When he was setting out for his walk, he met Mrs. Mowbray, and took -off his hat with that mixture of conscious respect and stiff propriety -which became his somewhat doubtful position—that position which made -him feel that more was expected from him than would be expected from the -common people round. He was in his way a personage, a representative of -education and civilization; but yet he did not belong to the sphere -occupied by the ladies and gentlemen. This made poor Mr. Peters doubly -precise. But as the old lady—whose lively mind was full of Jane, and of -a little plan she had in her head—turned to look at him instead of -looking where she stepped, she suddenly knocked her foot against a -projecting root, and would have fallen had not the schoolmaster, almost -too shy to touch her, and wondering much in his own mind what a -gentleman would do in such an emergency, rushed forward to give his -assistance. Mrs. Mowbray laid hold of him with a very decided clutch. -She was not shy—she threw her whole weight (it was not much) upon his -arm, which she grasped to save herself. ‘I was nearly over,’ she said, -panting a little for breath, with a pretty flush rising into her pale -old delicate cheeks. The shock stirred her old blood and made her heart -beat, and brought a spark to her eyes. It did not frighten and trouble, -but excited her not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_254" id="page_254"></a>{254}</span> unpleasantly, so thorough-bred was this old woman. -‘No, I am not hurt, not a bit hurt: it was nothing. I ought to look -where I am going, at my age,’ she said; and held Mr. Peters fast by the -arm, and panted, and laughed. But even after she had recovered herself -she still leant upon him. ‘You must give me your arm to my house,’ she -said; ‘there’s the drawback of being old. I can’t help trembling, as if -I had been frightened or hurt. You must give me your arm to my house.’</p> - -<p>‘Certainly, madam,’ said Mr. Peters. He did not like to dispense with -any title of civility, though (oddly enough, and in England alone) the -superior classes do so; but he would not say ‘Ma’am,’ like a servant. It -seemed to him that ‘Madam’ was a kind of stately compromise; and he -walked on, himself somewhat tremulous with embarrassment, supporting -with the greatest care his unexpected companion; and though she -trembled, the courageous old lady laughed and chattered.</p> - -<p>‘You were going the other way?’ she said. ‘I am wasting your time, I -fear, and stopping your walk.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, no, madam, not at all,’ said Mr. Peters; ‘I am very glad to be of -use. I am very happy that I was there just at the moment—just at the -fortunate moment——’</p> - -<p>‘Do you call it a fortunate moment when I hurt my foot—not that I have -really hurt my foot—and got myself shaken and upset like this—an old -woman at my age?’</p> - -<p>‘I meant—the unfortunate moment, madam,’ said Mr. Peters, colouring -high, and feeling that he had said something wrong, though what he -scarcely knew.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, fie! that looks as if you were sorry that you have been compelled -to help me,’ said the old lady, laughing.</p> - -<p>Poor Mr. Peters had not the least idea how to take this banter. He -thought he had done or said something wrong. He coloured up to the -respectable tall hat that shaded his sober brows; but she stopped his -troubled explanations summarily.</p> - -<p>‘Where were you going? It does not matter? Well, you shall come in with -me, and Morris will give you some tea. You can tell me about your -school—I am always interested in my neighbours’ concerns. You pass this -way most evenings, don’t you? I see you passing. You always take a walk -after your day’s work—a very wholesome custom. And then your -evenings—where do you spend your evenings? Are there any nice people -who give you a cup of tea? Do you go and see your friends? Yes, I am -interested, always interested, to learn how my fellow-creatures get -through their life; I don’t do much myself but look on, now-a-days. And -you know life’s a strange sort of thing,’ said the old lady. ‘Nothing -interests me so much. It isn’t a line of great events, as we think in -our youth—the intervals are more important than the events. Are you -dull, eh? You are a stranger in this place. How do you spend your -evenings after you go in?’</p> - -<p>‘Madam, there is always plenty to do,’ said Mr. Peters; ‘a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_255" id="page_255"></a>{255}</span> master can -never be said to have much leisure.’ And then he unbent from that high -seriousness and said, with a mixture of confused grandeur and -wistfulness, ‘In the circles to which I have admission there is not much -that can be called society. I have to spend my evenings at home, or——’</p> - -<p>‘Or——?’ said Mrs. Mowbray. ‘Just so, that is the whole business; -alone, or—— But where is the ‘or’? So am I. I am alone (which I -generally like best), or—I have friends with me. Friends—I call them -friends for want of a better word—the people on the Green. They bore -me, but I like them sometimes. Now, you are a young man. Tell me what -‘or’ commends itself to you.’</p> - -<p>Thus exhorted, Mr. Peters hung down his head; he stammered in his reply. -‘I am afraid, madam, you would think but badly of me if you knew: -without knowing why. I go and sit down there—in front of Mrs. Aikin’s -house.’</p> - -<p>‘In front of the Barley Mow! Dear me!’ she said, with well-acted -surprise; ‘that is not the thing for a schoolmaster to do!’</p> - -<p>‘I know it, madam,’ said Mr. Peters with a sigh.</p> - -<p>‘Ah!’ said Mrs. Mowbray, with the air of one who is making an important -discovery; ‘ah! I divine you at last. It is a girl that beguiles you to -the Barley Mow! Then it must be a good girl, for they allow no one else -there. Bless me! I wonder if it should be Jane!’</p> - -<p>‘You know her, madam?’</p> - -<p>‘Ah, it is Jane then? Mr. Schoolmaster—I forget your name—you are a -man of penetration and sense; I honour you. A man who chooses the best -woman within his knowledge—that’s the sort of man I approve of. It -happens so seldom. Men are all such fools on that point. So it is Jane!’</p> - -<p>Mr. Peters breathed a long sigh. ‘She never looks at me, madam—she -never knows I am there. You must not think she has anything to do with -it.’</p> - -<p>‘Ay, ay, that’s always the way. When the men show some sense the women -are fools; or else it’s the other thing. Now, listen to me. You say, Do -I know Jane? Yes, I know her from her cradle. Why, I brought her up! -Can’t you see the girl has the manners of a lady? I gave them to her. -There is nothing Jane will not do for me. And I like the looks of you. -You’re stiff, but you’re a man. Do you think I should have come out of -my way, and hurt my foot (oh, it is quite well now!) to speak to you, if -I hadn’t heard all about this? I want to help you to marry Jane.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, madam, what can I say to you?’ cried Mr. Peters, not knowing in his -bewilderment what might be going to happen. He was shocked in his sense -of propriety by being told that he was stiff, and by the old lady’s -frank avowal that she knew all about him after she had wormed his secret -out of him; and he was excited by this promise of aid, and by the bold -jump of his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_256" id="page_256"></a>{256}</span> patroness to the last crown of success. To <i>marry</i> Jane! To -get a word from her, or a kind look, seemed enough in the meantime; and -he did not know on the spot whether he was ready to marry any one, even -this queen of his affections.</p> - -<p>He led Mrs. Mowbray to her door, and listened to her talk, divided -between alarm and eagerness. She made everything so easy! She was -willing to be his plenipotentiary—to explain everything. She would see -no obstacle in the way—all he had to do was to put himself in her -hands. The old lady herself got very much excited over it. She said more -than she meant, as people have a way of doing when they are excited, and -sent Mr. Peters away in the most curious muddle of hope and fear—hope -that the way might be opened for him to Jane, fear lest he might be -driven along that path at a pace much more rapid and urgent than he had -meant to go.</p> - -<p>Next morning Mrs. Mowbray had made up her mind to send for Jane and open -the subject at once—merely to represent to her how much more -satisfactory this man was than such a lout as John. What a suitable -union it would be! just her own quiet tastes and ways. And a man able to -sustain and help her, instead of a lad of her own age, whom she would -have to carry on her shoulders, instead of being guided by. The pleas in -his favour were so strong, that the old lady could not see what pretence -Jane could find for declining to listen to the schoolmaster. But she was -not so certain about it next morning—and she neither went to the Barley -Mow nor sent for Jane—but gave herself, as she said, time to think. And -but for an accident that happened that very evening, prudence might have -overcome the livelier impulse in her mind.</p> - -<p>That evening however Mrs. Mowbray went out again to see the sunset, -taking a short turn down the lane from her house. The lane ran between -her house and the Barley Mow, and a back door from Mrs. Aikin’s garden -opened into it. It was a very green, very flowery bit of road, leading -nowhere in particular except due west; and as the ground was high -here—for Dinglefield stood on a gentle eminence raised above the rest -of the valley—this lane of an evening, when the sun was setting, seemed -to lead straight through into the sunset. It was an exceptional evening: -the sunset glowed with all the colour that could be found in a tropical -sky, and the whole world was glorified. It drew Mrs. Mowbray out in -spite of herself; she had thrown a scarf over her cap and about her -shoulders, being so near home, and was ‘stepping westward,’ like the -poet, but with the meditative step of age which signifies leisure from -everything urgent, and time to bestow upon this great pageant of Nature. -To be so at leisure from everything in thought as well as in life is a -privilege of the aged and solitary. And there is nobody who enjoys the -beauty of such a scene or dwells upon it with the same delight. But the -privilege has its drawbacks, like most human things. Those busy folks -who give but a glance, and are gone,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_257" id="page_257"></a>{257}</span> have perhaps a warmer, because -accidental pleasure: the more deliberate enjoyment is a little sad. Mrs. -Mowbray however was one to feel this as little as could well be. She -walked briskly, and her mind, even in the midst of this spectacle, was -full of her plans. She was half-way down the lane, with all the light in -her face, when she suddenly perceived two figures black against the -light in front of her, standing out like black <i>silhouettes</i> on the glow -of lovely colour. She saw them dimly; but they, having their backs to -the dazzling light, and being totally unmindful of the sunset, saw her -very clearly, and were much alarmed by her appearance. They had been so -much occupied with each other that the sound of the old lady’s step upon -some gravel was the first thing that roused them. The girl gave a -frightened exclamation, and sprang apart from her companion, who for his -part backed into the hedge, as if with the hope of concealing himself -there. Though Mrs. Mowbray’s attention and curiosity were immediately -roused, she did not even then recognize them, and they might have -escaped her if they had not been so consciously guilty. The girl was the -first to be detected. She ran off after that startled look, with a -half-laughing cry, leaving the other to bear the consequences.</p> - -<p>‘Bless me! Ellen Turner. The little flirt! She is after some mischief,’ -Mrs. Mowbray said to herself; and even then she thought nothing of the -young man. But he was not aware of this. He did not know that her eyes, -which had been fixed on the glow in the sky, were dazzled by it, and -unable to see him; and feeling himself detected, it seemed to John safer -to take the matter into his own hands. He made a step into the middle of -the road, in front of her. He could not have done anything less wise. -Mrs. Mowbray was thinking only of Ellen, and nothing at all of the man -she was fooling. This was the way she put it to herself: What did it -matter who the silly fellow was? If he put any dependence on such a -little coquette as that, he was to be pitied, poor fellow. The old lady -had half a mind to warn him. But she was much surprised to find him -confront her like this, and even a little frightened. And it was only -now that she recognized who he was.</p> - -<p>He had forgotten what little manners he had, and all his awe of ‘the -quality’ in the excitement of the moment. ‘You’ll go telling of us!’ he -cried, in sudden excitement, almost with a threat of his clenched hand.</p> - -<p>A thrill of apprehension ran through the old lady’s frame, but she stood -still suddenly, confronting him with the courage of her nature. ‘How -dare you speak to me so, with your cap on your head?’ she said.</p> - -<p>John’s hand stole to his hat in spite of himself. He fell back a step. -‘I beg your pardon, my lady; but I was a-going to say—You won’t say -nothing to <i>them</i>?—It was a—accident—it wasn’t done a-purpose. You -won’t tell—about <i>her</i> and me?’</p> - -<p>‘Whom am I to tell?’ The old lady had seized the position<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_258" id="page_258"></a>{258}</span> already, and -it made her herself again. She perceived in a moment the value of the -incident. And he had taken his hat off by this time, and stood crushing -it in his hands. ‘I don’t mean nothing,’ he said. ‘It’s only a lark. I -don’t care nothing for her, nor I don’t suppose she do for me.’</p> - -<p>‘That I’ll answer for,’ said Mrs. Mowbray briskly; ‘neither for you nor -any one else, you vain blockhead! But if it’s only a lark, as you say, -what are you frightened for? And what do you want of me?’</p> - -<p>He stared at her for a moment with his mouth open, and then he said, -‘Haunt and Jeyeyne thinks a deal of you.’</p> - -<p>‘I dare say they do,’ said the old lady; ‘but what of that? And they -think a deal of you, you booby—more’s the pity. If you have a fancy for -Ellen Turner, why don’t you let them know? Why don’t you marry her, or -some one like her, and have done with it? I don’t say she’s much of a -girl, but she’s good enough for you.’</p> - -<p>His hand gripped his hat with rising fury; the very dullest of natures -feels the keen edge of contempt. And then he laughed; he had a sharp -point at his own command, and could make reprisals.</p> - -<p>‘They’d kill her,’ he said, ‘if they knew it. They’re too sweet upon me -to put up with it. They think as I don’t see what they’re after; but I -see it fast enough.’</p> - -<p>‘And what are they after, if you are so clear-sighted?’</p> - -<p>‘They mean as I’m to settle down and marry Jeyeyne—that’s what they -mean. They think, ‘cos I’m a quiet one, that I can’t see an inch from my -nose. They think a fellow is to be caught like that afore he’s had his -fling, and seen a bit of the world.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh,’ said the old lady; ‘so you want to have your fling, and see the -world?’</p> - -<p>‘That is just about it, my lady,’ said the lout, taking courage. ‘I -talks to <i>her</i> just to pass the time; but what I wants is to see the -world. I won’t say as I mightn’t come back after, and settle down. -Jeyeyne’s a good sort of girl enough—I’ve nothing to say against her; -and she knows my ways—but a man isn’t like a set of women. I must have -my fling—I must—afore I settle down.’</p> - -<p>‘And who is to do your work, Mr. John, while you have your fling? Or are -you clever enough to see that you are not of the least use at the Barley -Mow?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, ain’t I of use! See what a fuss there will be when they think I’m -going! But Haunt can afford a good wage, and there’s lots of fellows to -be had.’</p> - -<p>‘You ungrateful cub!’ cried the old lady; ‘is this all your thanks for -their kindness, taking you in, and making a man of you! You were glad -enough to find a home here when you were a wretched, hungry little boy.’</p> - -<p>‘Begging your pardon, my lady, I never was,’ said John, with a gleam of -courage. ‘I’d have been a deal better with father if<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_259" id="page_259"></a>{259}</span> they’d let me -alone. He’d a got me into the regiment as a drummer, and I’d have been -in the band afore this. And that’s the sort of life to suit me. I ain’t -one of your dull sort—I likes life. This kind of a dismal old country -place never was the place for me.’</p> - -<p>‘You ungrateful, unkind, impertinent’!—</p> - -<p>Mrs. Mowbray stopped short. She could not get out all the words that -poured from her lips, and the sight of him there opposite silenced her -after all. Mrs. Aikin’s goodness to this boy had been the wonder and -admiration of everybody round. They had considered her foolishly -generous—Quixotic, almost absurd, in her kindness; and now to hear his -opinion of it! This bold ingratitude closes the spectator’s mouth. -Perhaps, after all, it is better to leave the bramble wild, and the -street boy in the gutter, and give up all attempts to improve the one or -the other. But there is nothing which so silences natural human -sentiment and approval of charity and kindness. Mrs. Mowbray was struck -dumb. Who could tell that he had not even some show of justice in his -wrong—something that excused his doubt, if nothing to excuse his -unkindness? This strange suggestion took away her breath.</p> - -<p>‘They’ve had their own way,’ said John; ‘they did it to please -themselves; and that’s what they’d like to do again—marry me right -off—a fellow at my age, and stop my fun! But I’m not the sort to have a -girl thrust down my throat. I’ll have my fling first, or else I’ll have -nothing to say to it. Now, my lady,’ he added, lowering his voice, and -coming a step nearer,’ if you’ll stand my friend! There’s nobody as -Haunt and Jeyeyne thinks so much of as you. If you says it they won’t -oppose. I don’t want to quarrel with nobody; but I <i>will</i> have my fling, -and see the world!’</p> - -<p>‘And so you shall!’ cried Mrs. Mowbray; ‘if I can manage it. So you -shall, my man! Get out of Jane’s way—that’s all I want of you. And I -think better of you since you proposed it! Yes, yes! I’ll take it all -upon me! There’s nothing I wish for more than that you should take -yourself out of this. Have your fling! And I hope you’ll fling yourself -a hundred miles out of reach of the Barley Mow!’</p> - -<p>John looked at her with dull amazement. What did she mean? His thanks -were stopped upon his lips. For, after all, this was not a pleasant way -of backing up. ‘Get out of Jane’s way!’ His heavy self-complacency was -ruffled for the moment. ‘I don’t mind how far I go,’ he said, with a -suspicious look.</p> - -<p>‘Nor I, I assure you,’ cried Mrs. Mowbray briskly; ‘I’ll plead your -cause;’ and with that she turned round and went back again, forgetting -all about the sunset. Nature is hardly treated by the best of us; we let -her come in when we have nothing else in hand, but forget her as soon as -a livelier human interest claims our attention. This was how even the -old lady, who had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_260" id="page_260"></a>{260}</span> been so meditatively occupied by Nature, treated the -patient mother now.</p> - -<p>Next day was Sunday, and of course Mrs. Mowbray could not enter upon the -business which she had undertaken then. But when there is any -undercurrent of feeling or complication of rival wishes in a family, -Sunday is a very dangerous day, especially when the family belongs to -the lower regions of society, and the Sunday quiet affords means of -communication not always to be had on other days. This, of course, was -scarcely the case among the household at the Barley Mow, but the habit -of their class was upon them, and the natural fitness of Sunday for an -important announcement, joined, it is to be supposed, with the fact that -he had already unbosomed himself to one person, drew John’s project out. -When Mrs. Mowbray accordingly took her way to Mrs. Aikin’s on the Monday -morning, more and more pleased as she thought of it, with the idea of -getting John out of the way, she saw at once by the aspect of both -mother, and daughter that her news was no news. The two women had a look -of agitation and seriousness which on Mrs. Aikin’s part was mingled with -resentment. She was discoursing upon her chickens when Mrs. Mowbray -found her way into the barn-yard. ‘They don’t care what troubles folks -has with them, not they,’ she was saying with a flush on her cheek. ‘The -poor hen, as has sat on her nest all day, and never got off to pick a -bit o’ food. What’s that to them, the little yellow senseless things? -And them as we’ve brought up and cared for all our lives, and should -know better, is just as bad.’ Jane was putting up a setting of -Brahmapootra eggs for somebody. She was very pale, and made no reply to -her mother, but her hand trembled a little as she put them into the -packet. ‘What is the matter?’ said the old lady as she came in. Jane -gave her a silent look and said nothing. ‘La, bless us, ma’am, what -should be the matter?’ said Mrs. Aikin. They were so disturbed that Mrs. -Mowbray did a thing which she was not at all in the habit of doing. She -departed from her original intention, and said nothing at all of her -mission, concluding, as was the fact, that John himself had spoken. No -later than that afternoon however her self-denial was rewarded, for Mrs. -Aikin came to the Thatched Cottage, curtseying and apologetic. ‘I saw as -you didn’t believe me, ma’am,’ she said. ‘There is nobody like you for -seeing how things is. A deal has happened, and I don’t know whether I’m -most pleased or unhappy. For one thing it’s all settled between Johnny -and Jane.’</p> - -<p>‘All settled!’ the old lady was so much surprised that she could -scarcely speak.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, ma’am, thank you, the poor dears! I always said that as soon as he -knew his own mind—There ain’t a many lads as one can see through like -our John.’</p> - -<p>‘You didn’t wish it then?’ said Mrs. Mowbray. ‘I should have thought -this morning that something bad had happened. You<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_261" id="page_261"></a>{261}</span> didn’t wish it! Then -we’ve all been doing you injustice, my dear woman, for I thought you had -set your heart on this all along.’</p> - -<p>‘And so I have; and I’m as happy—<i>that</i> happy I don’t know what to do -with myself,’ said Mrs. Aikin, putting her apron to her eyes.</p> - -<p>‘Happy! nobody would think it to look at you—nor Jane. I thought I knew -you like my A, B, C, but now I can’t tell a bit what you mean.’</p> - -<p>‘Jane, she’s all of a flutter still, and she’s that humble-minded, all -her thought is, will she make him happy? But you don’t suppose, ma’am, -as I think any such nonsense—lucky to get her, I say, and so does -everybody. It ain’t that. But he’s been seeing his father, and his -father’s put nonsense in the lad’s head. I always said as he’d do it. -Johnny’s the best of boys; he’d never have thought of such a thing if it -hadn’t been put in his head. He says he wants to go out into the world -and see a bit of life afore he settles down.’</p> - -<p>‘And that is what troubles you? If I were you I should let him go,’ said -the old lady. ‘Lucky! I should think he was lucky. A young fellow like -that! He is not half good enough for Jane.’</p> - -<p>‘Well, ma’am,’ said Mrs. Aikin, half ruffled, half pleased, ‘it is well -known who was always your pet, and a great honour for her and me -too—and I don’t know how it is as folks do such injustice to our John. -It’s all the father, well I know; leave him to himself and a better boy -couldn’t be. But I’ve written him a letter and given him a piece of my -mind. It’s him as always puts fancies in the boy’s head. See the world! -Where could he see the world better than at the Barley Mow! Why there’s -a bit of everything at our place. There’s them gentlemen cricketers in -the summer, and the best quality in the kingdom coming and going at -Ascot time, and London company in the best parlours most every Sunday -through the season. All sorts there is. There was never a week, summer -or winter, so long as I can remember, but something was going on at the -Barley Mow. Summer, it’s nothing but taking money from morning to night. -I don’t mean to say,’ said Mrs. Aikin, suddenly recollecting that this -sounded like a confession of large profits such as no woman in trade -willingly acknowledges—‘I don’t mean to say as the expenses ain’t -great, or as it’s all profit, far from it. But what I says to Johnny I -don’t deny anywhere—it’s a living—and it’s the amusingest living and -the most variety of any I know.’</p> - -<p>‘And yet he wants to see the world; there’s no accounting for men’s -depravity. Do you mean to let him go?’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Aikin laughed. ‘I ain’t a good one to deceive,’ she said; ‘this -morning I was all in a way, but now I’ve had time to think. You know -yourself, ma’am, that to say “No” is the way to make a boy more -determined than ever. Seemingly I’m a giving in, but I don’t mean to -take no steps one way or other. I’ll let<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_262" id="page_262"></a>{262}</span> things take their course. And -now that Jane and him understands one another, and the summer trade’s so -brisk, who can say? Maybe it’ll go out of his head if he ain’t opposed. -I’ve give my consent—so far as words goes—but I tell him as there’s no -hurry. We can wait.’</p> - -<p>She laughed again in thorough satisfaction with her own tactics. And -Mrs. Mowbray, with a different sentiment, echoed the laugh. ‘Yes, we can -wait,’ the old lady said; ‘my poor little Jane!’ That was all, but it -made Mrs. Aikin angry, she could not tell why.</p> - -<p>Mr. Peters at this period kept putting himself perpetually in Mrs. -Mowbray’s way. He went past her house for his walk, he came back again -past the Thatched Cottage. She could scarcely go out in the evening that -he did not turn up in her path: and for some days the old lady was cruel -enough to say nothing to him. At last one evening she called the poor -schoolmaster to her. ‘You must make up your mind to it like a man,’ she -said, ‘Jane is going to marry her cousin. It is all settled. The mother -told me, like a fool.’</p> - -<p>‘All settled!’ Poor Mr. Peters grew so pale that she thought he was -going to faint. ‘I saw him,’ he gasped, ‘only yesterday, with——’</p> - -<p>‘Never mind, yes; that’s quite true,’ said the old lady. ‘That woman has -settled it like a fool. They are going to throw the girl away among -them. But we cannot do anything. You must make up your mind to it like a -man.’</p> - -<p>The schoolmaster’s stiffness and embarrassment all melted away under the -influence of strong feeling. He took off his hat unconsciously, showing -a face that was like ashes. ‘Then God bless her,’ he said, ‘and turn -away the evil. If she is happy, what does it matter about me!’</p> - -<p>‘She will never be happy,’ said the old lady, ‘never, with that lout; -and the thing for us to do is to wait. I tell you, what you’ve got to do -is to wait. After all, the devil seldom gets things all his own way.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Peters put on his hat again, and went away with a heavy heart. He -did not go near the Barley Mow. He went home to his room, and sat there -very desolate, reading poetry. He could bear it, he thought; but how -could she bear it when she came to hear of Ellen Turner and those -meetings in the lane?</p> - -<p>At present however nothing was known of Ellen Turner at the Barley Mow. -The very next Sunday after that the women had forgotten all the dangers -of John’s perversity, and remembered only the fact of the engagement, -and that all doubt was over on the point which they thought so essential -to their happiness. Mrs. Aikin had a new bonnet on, resplendent in red -ribbons, and the happiness in Jane’s face was better than any new -bonnet. As it happened, there was a solo in the anthem that day which -John sang standing up in his white surplice, and rolling out Handel’s -great notes so that they filled<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_263" id="page_263"></a>{263}</span> the church. He had a beautiful voice, -and while he sang poor Jane’s face was a sight to see: her countenance -glowed with a kind of soft rapture. She clasped her hands unawares with -the prayer-book held open in them, her eyes were raised, her lips apart, -her nostrils slightly dilated. She had the look of a votary making a -special offering. Poor simple Jane! There was no consciousness in her -mind of any elevation above the rest, as she lifted that ineffable look, -and praised God in a subdued ecstasy, offering to Him the voice of her -beloved. For the moment Jane was as the prophets, as the poets, raised -up above everything surrounding her, triumphing even over the doubt that -was too ready to invade her mind at other times. She was but a country -girl, the maid of the inn, occupying the most unelevated and most -unelevating of positions, but yet no lady of romance could have stood on -a higher altitude, for the time.</p> - -<h3>CHAPTER IV</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">This</span> however was the last time that Jane’s look of modest, silent -happiness could touch any heart. Whether she caught sight of some -private telegraphing which passed between her newly-betrothed and Ellen -Turner in the very church that very day, is not known, but other people -saw it with wonder and forebodings. Mr. Peters, who had seen the rapture -in Jane’s upturned face with a mingled pity and sympathy and pain which -made him, too, heroic for the moment, perceived the nod and look of -intelligence which passed between the baritone in the surplice and the -little dressmaker in the free seats with an impulse of suppressed wrath -which it took all the moral force he could command to resist. It was the -first time the betrothed pair had appeared, as it were, in public, since -it was known that ‘all was settled.’ And was it for this, for a vulgar -reprobate who betrayed her at the moment of union, while the first -happiness ought still to have been in delicate blossom, that she had -overlooked altogether the far more worthy love of the other? He could -not help wondering over that any more than Jane herself, a little while -later, could help wondering. The best thrown aside, the worst chosen—is -not this a far more poignant and wonderful evil than the tyrannies of -parents or hindrances of fate which keep lovers apart? But no more from -that day did Jane’s celestial content wound any sufferer. She grew -grave, pale, almost visibly older from that moment. She withdrew herself -from everybody. Even the old lady at the Thatched Cottage, who depended -upon her for so many things, did not see her for weeks together. And -their next meeting was a chance one, and took place on an August -evening, about a month after these events. How Jane could have kept out -of sight for so long was a mystery which nobody could have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_264" id="page_264"></a>{264}</span> explained; -but she had managed it somehow, sending respectful messages of regret by -her mother. This time they met face to face without warning, as Mrs. -Mowbray was returning in the cool of the evening from Sir Thomas -Denzil’s, where she had been dining. The old lady sent her maid away -instantly, so anxious was she to have a conversation with her favourite. -Jane for her part would fain have escaped, but she could not be rude to -her kind old patroness, and Mrs. Mowbray took her arm quite eagerly. -‘You may go home, Morris,’ she said; and almost without waiting till the -maid was gone, ‘What has become of you, Jane? Where have you been -hiding? Is it because you are so happy, my dear, or for some other -reason, that you run away from me?’ A nervous quiver went over poor -Jane; she said with a trembling voice, ‘For another reason.’ She did not -even look her old friend in the face.</p> - -<p>‘Then what is it, my dear? Come, tell me. Don’t you know, whatever it -is, you can’t hide it from me?’</p> - -<p>To this Jane made answer by drooping her head and turning away her face; -and then she pressed the old lady’s hand, which was on her arm, to her -side, and said hastily, ‘I was coming—I wanted you to speak for me—oh! -ma’am, if you would speak to mother! about—about——’</p> - -<p>‘What! my poor little Jane! What, dear? Tell me, tell me freely,’ said -the old lady, almost crying. There could be but one subject that could -excite the poor girl so.</p> - -<p>‘About John’s going away. Oh, he’s sick of this quiet place! I can see -it—and mother takes no notice. Men are not like us women. He’s dying to -get away, and mother she can’t see it. She humours him in words, but she -will not do anything. Oh, ma’am, speak for us! He’s had all we have to -give him, and he’s tired of it, and he will never be happy till he gets -away.’</p> - -<p>‘Do you wish him to go?—You, Jane?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ she cried passionately, ‘I wish it too!—it will make me happier. -I mean not so—miserable. Oh, ma’am, that’s not what I mean. I am all -confused like. I know—I know it’s for his good to go away——’</p> - -<p>‘But it’s your good I think of—and your mother, too,’ said Mrs. -Mowbray. ‘We care for you, and not for him. You’ve avoided me, Jane, and -never told me if you were happy—now that you’re engaged, you and he.’</p> - -<p>‘It was a mistake,’ she said, ‘all a mistake! We didn’t know our own -minds. Don’t you know, ma’am, that happens sometimes? I always felt it -was a mistake: but mother deceived herself. It’s so easy to believe what -you wish. And he deceived himself. But now that he’s done it it drives -him wild—— Oh, he must go—that’s the only thing that will do any -good. If she would only see it, and let him go!’</p> - -<p>‘Do you want to break it off, Jane?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh,’ she cried, with a moan, ‘break it off! Am I one to break <span class="pagenum"><a name="page_265" id="page_265"></a>{265}</span>it off? -But he can’t abide the place, and he wants to go.—— If he has any -true—respect—for me—he’ll feel it when he’s gone. That’s what I -think. Oh! ma’am, speak a word to mother, and tell her to let him go.’</p> - -<p>‘There is more in your mind,’ said the old lady: ‘but if it is as -serious as this—I’ll go there straight, my dear. I’ll go straight and -speak to your mother. I know you’ve got more in your mind.’</p> - -<p>Jane did not make any reply, but quickened her steps to keep up with the -active old woman as she hurried on. Poor Jane was past all make-believe. -‘Think!’ she said, almost under her breath, ‘what it is when he comes -and pretends to be fond of me—— Oh, ma’am! pretends as if he loved -me—after all I know!’ She wrung her hands, and there was a suppressed -anguish in her voice, such as only a tender creature outraged could have -been driven to. Then Mrs. Mowbray, who knew all the gossip of the place, -remembered to have heard that Ellen Turner, who was a dressmaker, had -been working at Mrs. Aikin’s—no doubt that was the cause. She went -along quickly, almost dragging the girl with her. It was a beautiful -evening, soft and cool after a hot day. The lights were beginning to -twinkle about the Barley Mow. There were people sitting out on the -bench, and people visible at the open windows with the lights behind -them, and a murmur of cheerful voices. The scene was very homely, but -the night was so soft, the shadows so grateful upon the refreshed earth, -the dews so sweet, and nothing but rest and refreshment in the air. -Overhead the sky was veiled, a few modest stars peeping from the edges -of the clouds, nothing bright to jar upon the subdued quiet. All this -went to Jane’s heart. She began to cry softly, as she looked with -wistful eyes at her home. The sensation subdued her. So peaceful and -quiet, with the vague, half-dim figures about, the cheerful lights in -the windows, was it possible that there could be such trouble there?</p> - -<p>But all at once there came a jarring note into this tranquillity—the -sound of a woman’s voice raised in anger. They were going towards the -garden door, but before they reached it somebody was pushed out -violently, and, half falling forward, came stumbling against Jane, who -was straight in the way. ‘Get out of my sight, you little baggage, you -treacherous, wicked, lying creature, you bad girl!’ cried Mrs. Aikin in -a furious voice. Jane clutched at Mrs. Mowbray’s arm, and shrank back, -while the girl who had stumbled against her gave a sudden scream of -dismay. It was Ellen Turner, her cheeks blazing red with anger, though -the sight of Jane cowed her. ‘What have you been doing, you little -flirt?’ cried old Mrs. Mowbray. ‘If a man speaks to me, ain’t I to give -him a civil answer?’ cried the girl, standing still, and preparing to -give battle. Jane did not say a word. She shook herself free of the old -lady without knowing what she did, and went in to her mother, without as -much as a look at the other. As soon as she had disappeared John showed -himself out of the darkness like a spectre. ‘Run, Nell, run,’ he said. -‘She’s to-morrow. She’s in Jane’s hands,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_266" id="page_266"></a>{266}</span> I’ll see you safe now. Run. -Nell, run.’ And he darted back again among the guests, and threw himself -into his work with devotion. Never before had John been seen so busy and -so civil. Who could interfere with him in the middle of his work? He was -as safe as if he had been at church.</p> - -<p>What had happened was that Mrs. Aikin had found her nephew and the -little dressmaker together, on very affectionate terms, and her outburst -of sudden wrath was very hot and violent. But after the first moment it -was entirely against Ellen that her anger was directed, and she was as -little willing as before to listen to Mrs. Mowbray’s suggestion that he -should be sent away. She was, like most women of her class, perhaps like -most women of all classes, furious against the girl, half sorry for, -half contemptuous of, the man. ‘Lord, what could Johnny do against one -of them artful things?’ she said, when she had calmed down. ‘It’s Jane’s -fault, as don’t talk to him enough, nor keep him going. That minx shall -never set foot in my house again.’ Jane said very little while her -mother talked thus. She was very pale, and her breath came quickly, but -she betrayed no emotion either of grief or anger. She stood still by her -mother’s side while Mrs. Aikin cried and sobbed. Jane was past all that. -She said, ‘He don’t know his own mind, mother. Let him go as he wishes.’ -They were both made incapable of work by this sudden incident. But -John—John had turned into a model of industry and carefulness. While -the two women retired into their little parlour with the door shut, he, -safe from all interference, kept everything going. He ran about here and -there, attending to everybody, civil and thoughtful. When he was asked -what was the matter, he answered carelessly, ‘Some row among the women,’ -as if that was too trifling and too everyday a matter for his notice. He -had never shown so much cleverness in all his life before.</p> - -<p>Even after this however the widow still temporized. Yes, she said in -words, she would let him go, but after the bustle was over—after the -summer work was done with. She gave a hundred excuses, and invented new -reasons constantly for her delay. Jane said little, having said all she -could. A new reserve crept over her, she talked to nobody—went no more -to talk to Mrs. Peters, and never saw her old friend at the Thatched -Cottage when she could help it. She was sick of her false position, as -well as of those pangs which she told to nobody, which were all shut up -in her own heart. No more in church or otherwise did the look of -happiness come back to her face. When John sang she would stand with her -eyes fixed on her book, or else would cover her face with her hand. The -beautiful song was no longer hers to be offered up to God’s praise. But -sometimes during the sermon her eyes would turn unconsciously to that -foolish pretty face in the free seats—the pink and white countenance of -Ellen Turner, inferior in beauty as in everything else to herself. ‘What -is there in her that is better than me? Why should she be preferred to -me?’ was what Jane<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_267" id="page_267"></a>{267}</span> was asking herself, with a wondering pain that was -half self-abasement and half indignation. Just so good Mr. Peters, in -the school pew, gazed from her to the loutish baritone in his surplice -and back again. Why should fate be so contradictory and hearts so -bitterly deceived?</p> - -<p>This state of affairs however could not go on very long—and it came to -a conclusion quite suddenly at last. There was an agricultural show in -the neighbourhood some twenty miles off from Dinglefield, to which all -the rural people of the neighbourhood, and John among them, went at the -end of August. In other circumstances Jane would have gone with her -cousin; but she had no heart for shows of any kind. In the evening most -of the Dinglefield people came home, but not John. Mrs. Aikin was -evidently frightened by his non-appearance, but she made the best of it. -‘He had gone off with some of his friends,’ she said, ‘and of course he -had missed his train. He was always missing trains. He was the -carelessest lad!’ But when next day came, and the next, with no news of -John, the mother and daughter could no longer disguise their alarm. The -widow ‘was in such a way’ that her friends gathered round her full of -condolence and encouragements; and Mrs. Mowbray herself put on her -bonnet, and went to tell her not to be a fool, and to bid her remember -that young men cannot be held in like girls. ‘I know that, ma’am, I know -that,’ said Mrs. Aikin, soothed. The rest of her consolers had -encouraged her by telling her they had always foreseen it, and that this -was what over-indulgence always came to at last. The widow turned her -back upon these Job’s comforters, and clutched at Mrs. Mowbray’s shawl. -‘I’ve held him too tight, ma’am, and I should have taken your advice,’ -she said. They had sent expresses in all directions in search of him, -and that very evening they had information that he had enlisted in the -regiment to which his father had formerly belonged, and which was at the -time quartered in the town where the show had been held. This is always, -though it is hard to say why, terrible news for a decent family. -‘<span class="lftspc">’</span>Listed!’ do not all the vagabonds, the good-for-nothings, ’list? It -was Mr. Peters who brought this news to the two anxious women. He had -been in Castleville ‘by accident,’ he said; the truth being that he had -given the children a holiday on purpose to offer this humble service to -the woman who had his heart. It was good news, though it was such bad -news, for the widow’s imagination had begun to jump at all sorts of -fatal accidents, and he was made kindly welcome, and allowed to remain -with them until Mrs. Aikin’s first fit of distress and relief, and shame -and vexation, and content was over. ‘It’s his father, it’s all his -father,’ she said. ‘Such a thought would never, never have come into our -Johnny’s head.’ Mr. Peters, with trembling anxiety, observed that Jane -did not say a word. She was moving about with her usual quickness, -preparing tea, that the kind visitor who had taken so much trouble -should have some refreshment<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_268" id="page_268"></a>{268}</span> after his long walk. She was full of -suppressed excitement, her cheek less pale than usual, her eyes shining. -But she said nothing till her mother’s outburst was over. Mrs. Aikin was -a foolish, softhearted, sanguine woman. As soon as she knew the worst -her mind leapt at a universal mending and making up. She had no sooner -dried her eyes and swallowed a cup of tea, after protesting that she -‘could not touch it,’ than she began with a certain timidity in another -tone.</p> - -<p>‘It’s well known what most families do when such a thing happens,’ she -said with a sigh, ‘folks as has more money than we have. And I’ve heard -say as it was a foolish thing; but when you consider all things—— lads -is so silly, they never see what they’re doing till after it’s done, and -past changing—past their changing I mean.’</p> - -<p>Jane did not say anything, but she stood still suddenly in the middle of -the room to listen, with a startled look.</p> - -<p>‘I dare to say he’s repented long before this,’ said the widow, ‘him as -never was put to hard work nor ordered about, him as had most things his -own way, though he mightn’t know it. It might have been better for -Johnny if you and me hadn’t been so fond of him, Jane—and it will all -tell upon him now. We’ve spoiled him, and we’re leaving him to bear it -by himself! Oh! Jane! Jane!’</p> - -<p>‘What is it, mother? You are thinking of something,’ said Jane with a -harsh tone, quite unusual to her, in her voice.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Jane, you’re hard-hearted, you ain’t forgiving, you’re not like -me,’ cried the widow. ‘If you were the girl folks think you, you would -come to me on your knees, that’s what you would do, to get me to buy him -off.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, mother, mother, I knew that was what you were coming to. Don’t do -it! I cannot bear it. I cannot go on with it. You may save him, but -you’ll kill me.’</p> - -<p>‘Kill you!—what has it got to do with you?’ said Mrs. Aikin, drying her -eyes. ‘Thank the Lord, it ain’t so bad but what it can be mended—when -one comes to think of it! I’ll write to the lawyer this very night.’</p> - -<p>‘If I can be of any use—’ said Mr. Peters, faltering. The more he felt -it was against himself, the more he was anxious to do it to show, if -only to himself, that it was Jane and not his own interest that was -nearest to his thoughts. But the poor man felt chilled to the heart as -he made his offer. He did not understand Jane. It was only an impulse of -anger, he thought, against the lover for whom, no doubt, she was longing -in her heart.</p> - -<p>‘You’re very kind, Mr. Peters—very kind. I’ll never forget it—and you -think it’s the right thing, don’t you now? He ain’t fit for the army, -isn’t Johnny. He was always delicate in the chest, and needs to be taken -a deal of notice of. And to give him up all for one thing—all for a -minute’s foolishness.’</p> - -<p>‘Mother!’ said Jane, with a shrill tone of passion in her voice, ‘he is -not to come back here again; let him be!’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_269" id="page_269"></a>{269}</span></p> - -<p>‘No—no—no. You’ll be the first to thank me, though you’ve lost your -temper now. The fright will do him a deal of good,’ Mrs. Aikin said, -getting up with all her cheerfulness restored. ‘We’ll leave him a week -or so just to see the error of his ways, and then we’ll buy him off, and -have him back, and settle everything. Poor lad! You may take my word -he’s miserable enough, thinking of you and me, and wondering what we are -thinking of him. Poor John! We won’t go on shilly-shallying any longer, -but we’ll have it all settled when he comes home.’</p> - -<p>She was still speaking with the smile on her face which these pleasant -anticipations had brought there when a sudden commotion got up -outside—loud voices, and something like a scuffle. Sounds of this kind -are not so rare or so alarming even at the best regulated of taverns as -they are in a private house, and the widow paid but little attention. -She went across the room and opened her big, old-fashioned chest. Her -heart was warmed and her face brightened by her resolution. Jane gave a -glance of despair at Mr. Peters (which he no more understood than if he -had not seen it). She went across the room after her mother, and laid -her hand on her shoulder. ‘Mother,’ she said, ‘don’t do it—don’t do it; -let him have his choice.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah! what was that?’ cried Mrs. Aikin with a start.</p> - -<p>The disturbance outside continued, and just at this moment the words -became audible, along with the sound of steps rushing to the door. ‘My -‘usband, my ‘usband!’ cried the voice; ‘what have you done with my -‘usband?’ The mother and daughter turned round by a common impulse, and -looked at each other—then stood as if stiffened into stone, with their -faces to the door. Without another word said they knew what it meant. -They needed no further explanation, nor the sight of Ellen Turner, all -in disorder, with her hair hanging about her neck, and her face swollen -with tears, who suddenly dashed the door open and came wildly in. ‘John, -John! I want my ‘usband!’ the poor creature cried, half demented. Jane -shrank back against her mother, leaning on her heavily, then cast a -wondering gaze around, appealing, as it were, to earth and heaven. Could -it be true? She put out one hand to the girl to silence her, and turned -round and leant against the wall, with a gasp for breath and a low moan. -This was all the demonstration she made. She was not even conscious of -the altercation that followed, the crying, and questioning, and denying. -Jane turned her face to the wall. People have died and broken their -hearts with less pain. The world seemed to go round with her, and all -truth and sense to fail.</p> - -<p>When she was seen again, which indeed was next day, moving about her -work as if nothing had happened, Jane was like a ghost in the first -morning light. All the blood seemed to have been drained out of her. She -was like a marble woman, moving unconsciously, not touched by anything -she did. ‘I am quite well,’ she said when people asked, ‘quite well, and -quite right,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_270" id="page_270"></a>{270}</span> there is nothing the matter.’ As for the poor -schoolmaster, he went home that night sobbing in the great pity of his -heart. Though he loved her so, the good fellow felt that if anything -could have brought back to her the wretched lout whom she had loved he -would have done it had it cost him his life: but Mr. Peters had to go -away helpless, unable to save her a single pang, as most of us one time -or other have to do.</p> - -<p>When and how John had found means and ways to make himself Ellen -Turner’s husband, or whether he had really done so at all, remained -always a mystery to the Green. But she went off to him, and became a -wretched hanger-on of the regiment, from which Mrs. Aikin no longer -thought of buying him off. Nothing else could have settled the question -so summarily, and but for Jane’s stony face all the neighbourhood would -have been glad. Her misery, which was so patient and sweet, and of which -she talked to no one, lasted a great deal longer than it ought to have -done, everybody felt. But it could not last for ever. Bad enough that -such a girl should waste the first sweetness of her life on such a -delusion, but the delusion must come to an end some time. After a longer -interval than pleased the Green, an interval of which old Mrs. Mowbray -was very impatient, declaring pettishly a hundred times that she would -marry off the faithful Peters to some one if Jane did not mind, Jane -came to herself. She is now the mistress of the school-room, if not the -schoolmistress, with too many children of her own to be able to take -charge of those of the parish, but so ‘comfortable,’ with what the -Barley Mow affords, that the schoolmaster’s income requires no eking out -from her work. She is far better off, and in circumstances much more -congenial to her than if she had been able to carry out the plan which -had been her early dream, and which she and her mother had so -passionately wished. And Jane is happy: but the scar of the old wound -has never departed, and never will depart. It is unforgettable for the -sake of the pain, more than for the sake of the love. As for the -faithful Peters, he is as happy as ever schoolmaster was, and very -proper and mindful of his position, and would not sit on a bench outside -a village inn now-a-days night after night, as he once did, not for any -inducement in the world.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Aikin held out, and kept her place after Jane was married as long -as that was practicable, but has sold the business now (and it brought -in a pretty penny), and lives very happily with a cow of her own and a -poultry yard, and half-a-dozen grandchildren. Happy woman! She has no -scar upon her comfortable soul, and knows of no mistake she ever made: -but she feeds the hungry mouths of her wretched nephew and his wretched -family, and does not grumble, for, after all, she says, ‘Nature is -Nature, and it was all his father’s fault.’</p> - -<p class="c"><small>THE END.</small><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_271" id="page_271"></a>{271}</span></p> - -<h1><a name="MY_FAITHFUL_JOHNNY" id="MY_FAITHFUL_JOHNNY"></a>MY FAITHFUL JOHNNY</h1> - -<p class="c">DEDICATED TO F. W. C. AND B. C.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_272" id="page_272"></a>{272}</span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_273" id="page_273"></a>{273}</span> </p> - -<p class="cb"><span class="eng">My Faithful Johnny</span></p> - -<h3>CHAPTER I</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Everybody</span> knows the charming song which is called by this name. I hear -it sometimes in a young household full of life and kindness and music, -where it is sung to me, with a tender indulgence for my weakness and -limited apprehension of higher efforts, by the most sympathetic and -softest of voices. A kind half-smile mingles in the music on these -occasions. Those dear people think I like it because the translated -‘words’ have a semblance of being Scotch, and I am a Scot. But the words -are not Scotch, nor is this their charm. I don’t even know what they -are. ‘I will come again, my sweet and bonnie.’ That, or indeed the name -even is enough for me. I confess that I am not musical. When I hear -anything that I like much, at least from an instrument, I instantly -conceive a contempt for it, feeling that it must be inferior somehow to -have commended itself to me. I wander vainly seeking an idea through -fields and plains of sonatas. So do a great many other lowly people, -like me, not gifted with taste or (fit) hearing; but, if you will only -suggest an idea to me, I will thankfully accept that clue. I don’t -understand anything about dominant sevenths or any mathematical -quantity. ‘How much?’ I feel inclined to say with the most vulgar. -Therefore ‘My Faithful Johnny’ charms me because this is a suggestion of -which my fancy is capable. I don’t know who the faithful Johnny was, -except that he is to come again, and that somebody, presumably, is -looking for him; and, with this guide, the song takes a hundred tones, -sorrowful, wistful and penetrating. I see the patient waiting, the doubt -which is faith, the long vigil—and hear the soft cadence of sighs, and -with them, through the distance, the far-off notes of the promise—never -realized, always expected—‘I will come again.’ This is how I like to -have my music. I am an ignorant person. They smile and humour me with -just a tender touch of the faintest, kindest contempt. Stay—not -contempt; the word is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_274" id="page_274"></a>{274}</span> far too harsh; let us say indulgence—the meaning -is very much the same.</p> - -<p>I do not think I had ever heard the song when I first became acquainted -with the appearance of a man with whom, later, this title became -completely identified. He was young—under thirty—when I saw him first, -passing my house every morning as regular as the clock on his way to his -work, and coming home in the evening swinging his cane, with a book -under his arm, his coat just a little rusty, his trousers clinging to -his knees more closely than well-bred trousers cling, his hat pushed -back a little from his forehead. It was unnecessary to ask what he was. -He was a clerk in an office. This may be anything, the reader knows, -from a lofty functionary managing public business, to numberless -nobodies who toil in dusty offices and are in no way better than their -fate. It was to this order that my clerk belonged. Every day of his -life, except that blessed Sunday which sets such toilers free, he walked -along the irregular pavement of the long suburban road in which I lived -at nine o’clock in the morning were it wet or dry; and between five and -six he would come back. After all, though it was monotonous, it was not -a hard life, for he had the leisure of the whole long evening to make up -for the bondage of the day. He was a pale man with light hair, and a -face more worn than either his years or his labours warranted. But his -air of physical weakness must have been due to his colourless -complexion, or some other superficial cause, for his extreme and -unbroken regularity was inconsistent with anything less than thoroughly -good health. He carried his head slightly thrown back, and his step had -a kind of irregularity in it which made it familiar to me among many -others; at each half dozen steps or so his foot would drag upon the -pavement, giving a kind of rhythm to his progress. All these particulars -I became aware of, not suddenly, but by dint of long unconscious -observation, day after day, day after day, for so many years. Never was -there a clerk more respectable, more regular. I found out after a while -that he lodged about half a mile further on in one of the little houses -into which the road dwindled as it streamed out towards the chaos which -on all sides surrounds London—and that when he passed my house he was -on his way to or from the omnibus which started from a much-frequented -corner about a quarter of a mile nearer town. All the far-off ends of -the ways that lead into town and its bustle have interests of this kind. -I am one of the people, I fear somewhat vulgar-minded, who love my -window and to see people pass. I do not care for the dignity of -seclusion. I would rather not, unless I were sure of being always a -happy member of a large cheerful household, be divided from the common -earth even by the trees and glades of the most beautiful park. I like to -see the men go to their work, and the women to their marketing. But no; -the latter occupation is out of date—the women go to their work too; -slim,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_275" id="page_275"></a>{275}</span> young daily governesses, hard-worked music-mistresses, with the -invariable roll of music. How soon one gets to know them all, and have a -glimmering perception of their individualities—though you may see them -every day for years before you know their names!</p> - -<p>After I had been acquainted (at a distance) with him for some time, and -had got to know exactly what o’clock it was when he passed, a change -came upon my clerk. One summer evening I saw him very much smartened up, -his coat brushed, a pair of trousers on with which I was not familiar, -and a rosebud in his button-hole, <i>coming back</i>. I was thunderstruck. It -was a step so contrary to all traditions that my heart stopped beating -while I looked at him. It was all I could do not to run down and ask -what was the matter. Had something gone wrong in the City? Was there a -panic, or a crisis, or something in the money-market? But no; that could -not be. The spruceness of the man, the rose in his coat, contradicted -this alarm; and as I watched disquieted, lo! he crossed the road before -my eyes, and turning down Pleasant Place, which was opposite, -disappeared, as I could faintly perceive in the distance, into one of -the houses. This was the first of a long series of visits. And after a -while I saw <i>her</i>, the object of these visits, the heroine of the -romance. She also was one of those with whom I had made acquaintance at -my window—a trim little figure in black, with a roll of music, going -out and in two or three times a day, giving music lessons. I was quite -glad to think that she had been one of my favourites too. My clerk went -modestly at long intervals at first, then began to come oftener, and -finally settled down as a nightly visitor. But this was a long and slow -process, and I think it had lasted for years before I came into actual -contact with the personages of this tranquil drama. It was only during -the summer that I could see them from my window and observe what was -going on. When at the end of a long winter I first became aware that he -went to see her every evening, I confess to feeling a little excitement -at the idea of a marriage shortly to follow; but that was altogether -premature. It went on summer after summer, winter after winter, -disappearing by intervals from my eyes, coming fresh with the spring -flowers and the long evenings. Once passing down Pleasant Place towards -some scorched fields that lay beyond—fields that began to be invaded by -new houses and cut up by foundation digging, and roadmaking, and -bricklaying, but where there was still room for the boys, and my boys, -among others, to play cricket—I had a glimpse of a little interior -which quickened my interest more and more. The houses in Pleasant Place -were small and rather shabby, standing on one side only of the street. -The other was formed by the high brick wall of the garden of a big -old-fashioned house, still standing amid all the new invasions which had -gradually changed the character of the district. There were trees -visible over the top of this wall, and it was believed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_276" id="page_276"></a>{276}</span> in the -neighbourhood that the upper windows of the houses in Pleasant Place -looked over it into the garden. In fact, I had myself not long before -condoled with the proprietor of the said garden upon the inconvenience -of being thus overlooked. For this hypocrisy my heart smote me when I -went along the little street, and saw the little houses all gasping with -open windows for a breath of the air which the high wall intercepted. -They had little front gardens scorched with the fervid heat. At the open -window of No. 7 sat my clerk with his colourless head standing out -against the dark unknown of the room. His face was in profile. It was -turned towards some one who was singing softly the song of which I have -placed the name at the head of this story. The soft, pensive music came -tender and low out of the unseen room. The musician evidently needed no -light, for it was almost twilight, and the room was dark. The -accompaniment was played in the truest taste, soft as the summer air -that earned the sound to our ears. ‘I know!’ I cried to my companion -with some excitement, ‘that is what he is. I have always felt that was -the name for him.’ ‘The name for whom?’ she asked bewildered. ‘My -faithful Johnny,’ I replied; which filled her with greater bewilderment -still.</p> - -<p>And all that summer long the faithful Johnny went and came as usual. -Often he and she would take little walks in the evening, always at that -same twilight hour. It seemed the moment of leisure, as if she had -duties at home from which she was free just then. When we went away in -August they were taking their modest little promenades together in the -cool of the evening; and when we came back in October, as long as the -daylight served to see them by, the same thing went on. As the days -shortened he changed his habits so far as to go to Pleasant Place at -once before going home, that there might still be light enough (I felt -sure) for her walk. But by and by the advancing winter shut out this -possibility: or rather, I could not see any longer what happened about -six o’clock. One evening however, coming home to dinner from a late -visit, I met them suddenly, walking along the lighted street. For the -first time they were arm-in-arm, perhaps because it was night, though no -later than usual. She was talking to him with a certain familiar ease of -use and wont as if they had been married for years, smiling and -chattering and lighting up his mild somewhat weary countenance with -responsive smiles. ‘I will come again, my sweet and bonnie——’ I -smiled at myself as these words came into my head, I could not tell why. -How could he come again when, it was evident, no will of his would ever -take him away? Was she fair enough to be the ‘sweet and bonnie’ of a -man’s heart? She was not a beauty; nobody would have distinguished her -even as the prettiest girl in Pleasant Place. But her soft, bright face -as she looked up to him: a smile on it of the sunniest kind; a little -humorous twist about the corners of the mouth; a pair of clear, honest -brown eyes; a round cheek with a dimple<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_277" id="page_277"></a>{277}</span> in it—caught my heart at once -as they must have caught his. I could understand (I thought) what it -must have been to the dry existence of the respectable clerk, the -old-young and prematurely faded, to have this fresh spring of life, and -talk, and smiles, and song welling up into it, transforming everything. -He smiled back upon her as they walked along in the intermittent light -of the shop windows. I could almost believe that I saw his lips forming -the words as he looked at her, ‘My sweet and bonnie.’ Yes; she was good -enough and fair enough to merit the description. ‘But I wish they would -marry,’ I said to myself. Why did not they marry? He looked patient -enough for anything; but even patience ought to come to an end. I chafed -at the delay, though I had nothing to do with it. What was the meaning -of it? I felt that it ought to come to an end.</p> - -<h3>CHAPTER II</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> was some months after this, when I took the bold step of making -acquaintance on my own account with this pair; not exactly with the -pair, but with the one who was most accessible. It happened that a -sudden need for music lessons arose in the family. One of the children, -who had hitherto regarded that study with repugnance, and who had been -accordingly left out in all the musical arrangements of her brothers and -sisters, suddenly turned round by some freak of nature and demanded the -instruction which she had previously resisted. How could we expect -Fräulein Stimme, whose ministrations she had scorned, to descend to the -beggarly elements, and take up again one who was so far behind the -others? ‘I cannot ask her,’ I said; ‘you may do it yourself, Chatty, if -you are so much in earnest, but I cannot take it upon me;’ and it was -not until Chatty had declared with tears that to approach Fräulein -Stimme on her own account was impossible, that a brilliant idea struck -me. ‘Ten o’clock!’ I cried; which was an exclamation which would have -gone far to prove me out of my senses had any severe critic been -listening. This was the title which had been given to the little -music-mistress in Pleasant Place, before she had become associated in -our minds with the faithful clerk. And I confess that, without waiting -to think, without more ado, I ran to get my hat, and was out of doors in -a moment. It was very desirable, no doubt, that Chatty should make up -lost ground and begin her lessons at once, but that was not my sole -motive. When I found myself out of doors in a damp and foggy November -morning, crossing the muddy road in the first impulse of eagerness, it -suddenly dawned upon me that there were several obstacles in my way. In -the first place I did not even know her name. I knew the house, having -seen her, and especially him, enter it so often; but what to call her,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_278" id="page_278"></a>{278}</span> -who to ask for, I did not know. She might, I reflected, be only a -lodger, not living with her parents, which up to this time I had taken -for granted; or she might be too accomplished in her profession to teach -Chatty the rudiments—a thing which, when I reflected upon the song I -had heard, and other scraps of music which had dropped upon my ears in -passing, seemed very likely. However I was launched, and could not go -back. I felt very small, humble, and blamably impulsive however when I -had knocked at the door of No. 7, and stood somewhat alarmed waiting a -reply. The door was opened by a small maid-servant, with a very long -dress and her apron folded over one arm, who stared, yet evidently -recognized me, not without respect, as belonging to one of the great -houses in the road. This is a kind of aristocratical position in the -suburbs. One is raised to a kind of personage by all the denizens of the -little streets and terraces. She made me a clumsy little curtsey, and -grinned amicably. And I was encouraged by the little maid. She was about -fifteen, rather grimy, in a gown much too long for her; but yet her foot -was upon her native heath, and I was an intruder. She knew all about the -family, no doubt, and who they were, and the name of my clerk, and the -relations in which he stood to her young mistress, while I was only a -stranger feebly guessing, and impertinently spying upon all these -things.</p> - -<p>‘Is the young lady at home?’ I asked, with much humility.</p> - -<p>The girl stared at me with wide-open eyes; then she said with a broad -smile, ‘You mean Miss Ellen, don’t ye, miss?’ In these regions it is -supposed to be complimentary to say ‘Miss,’ as creating a pleasant -fiction of perpetual youth.</p> - -<p>‘To tell the truth,’ I said, with a consciousness of doing my best to -conciliate this creature, ‘I don’t know her name. It was about some -music lessons.’</p> - -<p>‘Miss Ellen isn’t in,’ said the girl, ‘but missus is sure to see you if -you will step into the parlour, miss;’ and she opened to me the door of -the room in which I had seen my faithful Johnny at the window, and heard -her singing to him, in the twilight, her soft song. It was a commonplace -little parlour, with a faded carpet and those appalling mahogany and -hair-cloth chairs which no decorative genius, however brilliant, could -make anything of. What so easy as to say that good taste and care can -make any house pretty? This little room was very neat, and I don’t doubt -that Miss Ellen’s faithful lover found a little paradise in it; but it -made my heart sink foolishly to see how commonplace it all was; a -greenish-whitish woollen cover on the table, a few old photographic -albums, terrible antimacassars in crochet work upon the backs of the -chairs. I sat down and contemplated the little mirror on the mantelpiece -and the cheap little vases with dismay. We are all prejudiced now-a-days -on this question of furniture. My poor little music-mistress! how was -she to change the chairs and tables she had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_279" id="page_279"></a>{279}</span> been born to? But, to tell -the truth, I wavered and doubted whether she was worthy of him when I -looked round upon all the antimacassars, and the dried grasses in the -green vase.</p> - -<p>While I was struggling against this first impression the door opened, -and the mistress of the house came in. She was a little woman, stout and -roundabout, with a black cap decorated with flowers, but a fresh little -cheerful face under this tremendous head-dress which neutralized it. She -came up to me with a smile and would have shaken hands, had I been at -all prepared for such a warmth of salutation, and then she began to -apologize for keeping me waiting. ‘When my daughter is out I have to do -all the waiting upon him myself. He doesn’t like to be left alone, and -he can’t bear anybody but me or Ellen in the room with him,’ she said. -Perhaps she had explained beforehand who he was, but in the confusion of -the first greeting I had not made it out. Then I stated my business, and -she brightened up still more.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, yes; I am sure Ellen will undertake it with great pleasure. In the -Road at No. 16? Oh, it is no distance; it will be no trouble; and she is -so glad to extend her connection. With private teaching it is such a -great matter to extend your connection. It is very kind of you to have -taken the trouble to come yourself. Perhaps one of Ellen’s ladies, who -are all so kind to her, mentioned our name?’</p> - -<p>‘That is just where I am at a loss,’ I said uneasily. ‘No; but I have -seen her passing all these years, always so punctual, with her bright -face. She has been a great favourite of mine for a long time, though I -don’t know her name.’</p> - -<p>The mother’s countenance brightened after a moment’s doubt. ‘Yes,’ she -said, ‘she is a good girl—always a bright face. She is the life of the -house.’</p> - -<p>‘And I have seen,’ said I, hesitating more and more, ‘a gentleman. I -presume there is to be a marriage by and by. You must pardon my -curiosity, I have taken so much interest in them.’</p> - -<p>A good many changes passed over the mother’s face. Evidently she was not -at all sure about my curiosity, whether perhaps it might not be -impertinent.</p> - -<p>‘Ah!’ she said, with a little nod, ‘you have remarked John. Yes, of -course, it was sure to be remarked, so constantly as he comes. I need -not make any secret of it. In one way I would rather he did not come so -often; but it is a pleasure to Ellen. Yes; I may say they are engaged.’</p> - -<p>Engaged? After all these years! But I remembered that I had no right, -being an intruder, to say anything. ‘I have seen them in the summer -evenings——’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, yes,’ she said; ‘yes,’ with again a nod of her head. ‘Perhaps it -was imprudent, for you never can tell whether these things will come to -anything; but it was her only time for a little pleasure. Poor child, I -always see that she gets that hour.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_280" id="page_280"></a>{280}</span> They go out still, though you would -not say it would do her much good in the dark; out there is nothing she -enjoys so much. She is the best girl that ever was. I don’t know what I -should do without her;’ and there was a glimmer of moisture in the -mother’s eyes.</p> - -<p>‘But,’ I said, ‘surely after a while they are going to be married?’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know. I don’t see how her father can spare her.’ The cheerful -face lost all its brightness as she spoke, and she shook her head. ‘He -is so fond of Ellen, the only girl we have left now; he can’t bear her -out of his sight. She is such a good girl, and so devoted.’ The mother -faltered a little—perhaps my question made her think—at all events, it -was apparent that everything was not so simple and straightforward for -the young pair as I in my ignorance had thought.</p> - -<p>But I had no excuse to say any more. It was no business of mine, as -people say. I settled that Ellen was to come at a certain hour next day, -which was all that remained to be done. When I glanced round the room -again as I left, it had changed its aspect to me, and looked like a -prison. Was the poor girl bound there, and unable to get free? As the -mother opened the door for me, the sound of an imperious voice calling -her came down-stairs. She called back, ‘I am coming, James, I am -coming;’ then let me out hurriedly. And I went home feeling as if I had -torn the covering from a mystery, and as if the house in Pleasant Place, -so tranquil, so commonplace, was the scene of some tragic story, to end -one could not tell how. But there was no mystery at all about it: When -‘Miss Harwood’ was announced to me next day, I was quite startled by the -name, not associating it with any one; but the moment the little -music-mistress appeared, with her little roll in her hand, her trim -figure, her smiling face, and fresh look of health and happiness, my -suspicions disappeared like the groundless fancies they were. She was -delighted to have a new pupil, and one so near, whom it would be ‘no -trouble’ to attend; and so pleased when I (with much timidity, I -confess) ventured to tell her how long I had known her, and how I had -watched for her at my window, and all the observations I had made. She -brightened, and laughed and blushed, and declared it was very kind of me -to take such an interest; then hung her head for a moment, and laughed -and blushed still more, when my confessions went the length of the -faithful lover. But this was nothing but a becoming girlish shyness, for -next minute she looked me frankly in the face, with the prettiest colour -dyeing her round cheek. ‘I think he knows you too,’ she said. ‘We met -you once out walking, and he told me, “There is the lady who lives in -the Road, whom I always see at the window.” We hoped you were better to -see you out.’ And then it was my turn to feel gratified, which I did -unfeignedly. I had gone through a great deal of trouble, cheered by my -spectatorship of life-out-of-doors from<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_281" id="page_281"></a>{281}</span> that window. And I was pleased -that they had taken some friendly notice of me too.</p> - -<p>‘And I suppose,’ I said, returning to my theme, ‘that it will not be -long now before you reward his faithfulness. Must Chatty leave you then? -or will you go on, do you think, taking pupils after—?’</p> - -<p>She gave me a little bewildered look. ‘I don’t think I know what you -mean.’</p> - -<p>‘After you are married,’ I said plumply. ‘That must be coming soon now.’</p> - -<p>Then she burst out with a genial, pretty laugh, blushing and shaking her -head. ‘Oh, no; we do not think of such a thing! Not yet. They couldn’t -spare me at home. John—I mean, Mr. Ridgway—knows that. My father has -been ill so long; he wants attendance night and day, and I don’t know -what mother would do without me. Oh dear no; we are very happy as we -are. We don’t even think of that.’</p> - -<p>‘But you must think of it some time, surely, in justice to him,’ I said, -half indignant for my faithful Johnny’s sake.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, I suppose so, some time,’ she said, with a momentary gravity -stealing over her face—gravity and perplexity too: and a little pucker -came into her forehead. How to do it? A doubt, a question, seemed to -enter her mind for a moment. Then she gave her head a shake, dismissing -the clouds from her cheerful firmament, and with a smiling decision set -down Chatty to the piano. Chatty had fallen in love with Miss Harwood, -her own particular music-mistress, in whom no one else had any share, on -the spot.</p> - -<p>And after a while we all fell in love, one after another, with Miss -Ellen. She was one of those cheerful people who never make a fuss about -anything, never are put out, or make small troubles into great ones. We -tried her in every way, as is not unusual with a large, somewhat -careless, family, in whose minds it was a settled principle that, so -long as you did a thing some time or other, it did not at all matter -when you did it—and that times and seasons were of no particular -importance to any one but Fräulein Stimme. <i>She</i>, of course—our natural -disorderliness had to give way to her; but I am afraid it very soon came -to be said in the house, ‘Ellen will not mind.’ And Ellen did not mind; -if twelve o’clock proved inconvenient for the lesson, she only smiled -and said, ‘It is no matter; I will come in at three.’ And if at three -Fräulein Stimme’s clutches upon Chatty were still unclosed, she would do -anything that happened to be needed—gather the little ones round the -piano and teach them songs, or go out with my eldest daughter for her -walk, or talk to me. How many talks we had upon every subject -imaginable! Ellen was not what is called clever. She had read very few -books. My eldest daughter aforesaid despised her somewhat on this -account, and spoke condescendingly of this or that as ‘what Ellen says.’ -But it was astonishing, after all, how often<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_282" id="page_282"></a>{282}</span> ‘what Ellen says’ was -quoted. There were many things which Ellen had not thought anything -about; and on these points she was quite ignorant; for she had not read -what other people had thought about them, and was unprepared with an -opinion; but whenever the subject had touched her own intelligence, she -knew very well what she thought. And by dint of being a little lower -down in the social order than we were, she knew familiarly a great many -things which we knew only theoretically and did not understand. For -instance, that fine shade of difference which separates people with a -hundred and fifty pounds a year from people with weekly wages was a -thing which had always altogether eluded me. I had divined that a -workman with three pounds a week was well off, and a clerk with the -same, paid quarterly, was poor; but wherein lay the difference, and how -it was that the latter occupied a superior position to the former, I -have never been able to fathom. Ellen belonged, herself, to this class. -Her father had been in one of the lower departments of a public office, -and had retired with a pension of exactly this amount after some thirty -years’ service. There was a time in his life, to which she regretfully -yet proudly referred as ‘the time when we were well off,’ in which his -salary had risen to two hundred and fifty pounds a year. That was the -time when she got her education and developed the taste for music which -was now supplying her with work which she liked, and a little provision -for herself. There was no scorn or <i>hauteur</i> in Ellen; but she talked of -the working classes with as distinct a consciousness of being apart from -and superior to them as if she had been a duchess. It was no virtue of -hers; but still Providence had placed her on a different level, and she -behaved herself accordingly. Servants and shopkeepers, of the minor kind -at least, were within the same category to her—people to be perfectly -civil to, and kind to, but, as a matter of course, not the kind of -people whom in her position it would become her to associate with. When -I asked myself why I should smile at this, or wherein it was more -unreasonable than other traditions of social superiority, I could not -give any answer. We are not ourselves, so far as I know, sons of the -Crusaders, and it is very difficult to say what is the social figment of -rank by which we hold so dearly. Ellen Harwood exhibited to us the -instinct of aristocracy on one of its lower levels; and one learned a -lesson while one smiled in one’s sleeve. Never was anything more -certain, more serious, than her sense of class distinctions, and the -difference between one degree and another; and nobody, not a prince of -the blood, would have less understood being laughed at. This serene -consciousness of her position and its inherent right divine was a -possession inalienable to our music-mistress. She would have -comprehended or endured no trifling or jesting with it. One blushed -while one laughed in an undertone. She was holding the mirror up to -nature without being aware of it. And there<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_283" id="page_283"></a>{283}</span> were various fanciful -particulars also in her code. The people next door who let lodgings were -beneath her as much as the working people—all to be very nicely behaved -to, need I say, and treated with the greatest politeness and civility, -but not as if they were on the level of ‘people like ourselves.’ Lady -Clara Vere de Vere could not have been more serenely unconscious of any -possible equality between herself and her village surroundings than -Ellen Harwood. Fortunately, Mr. John Ridgway was ‘in our own position in -life.’</p> - -<p>These and many other vagaries of human sentiment I learned to see -through Ellen’s eyes with more edification and amusement, and also with -more confusion and abashed consciousness, than had ever occurred to me -before. These were precisely my own sentiments, you know, towards the -rich linendraper next door; and no doubt my aristocratical repugnance to -acknowledge myself the neighbour of that worthy person would have seemed -just as funny to the Duke of Bayswater as Ellen’s pretensions did to me. -It must not be supposed however that Ellen Harwood was in a state of -chronic resistance to the claims of her humbler neighbours. She was an -active, bright, cheerful creature, full of interest in everything. Her -father had been ill for years; and she had grown accustomed to his -illness, as young people do to anything they have been acquainted with -all their lives, and was not alarmed by it, nor oppressed, so far as we -could tell, by the constant claims made upon her. She allowed that now -and then he was cross—‘which of us would not be cross, shut up in one -room for ever and ever?’ But she had not the least fear that he would -ever die, or that she would grow tired of taking care of him. All the -rest of her time after lessons she was in attendance upon him, excepting -only that hour in the evening when John’s visit was paid. She always -looked forward to that, she confessed. ‘To think of it makes everything -smooth. He is so good. Though I say it that shouldn’t,’ she cried, -laughing and blushing, ‘you can’t think how nice he is. And he knows so -much; before he knew us he had nothing to do but read all the -evenings—fancy! And I never met any one who had read so much; he knows -simply everything. Ah!’ with a little sigh, ‘it makes such a difference -to have him coming every night; it spirits one up for the whole day.’</p> - -<p>‘But, Ellen, I can’t think how it is that he doesn’t get tired——’</p> - -<p>‘Tired!’ She reddened up to her very hair. ‘Why should he get tired? If -he is tired, he has my full permission to go when he likes,’ she said, -throwing back her proud little head. ‘But nobody shall put such an idea -into my mind. You don’t know John. If you knew John that would be quite -enough; such a thing would never come into your mind.’</p> - -<p>‘You should hear me out before you blame me. I was going to say, tired -of waiting, which is a very different sentiment.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_284" id="page_284"></a>{284}</span></p> - -<p>Ellen laughed, and threw aside her little offence in a moment. ‘I -thought you could not mean that. Tired of waiting! But he has not waited -so very long. We have not been years and years like some people—No; -only eighteen months since it was all settled. We are not rich people -like you, to do a thing the moment we have begun to think about it: and -everything so dear!’ she cried, half merry, half serious. ‘Oh, no; he is -not the least tired. What could we want more than to be together in the -evening? All the day goes pleasantly for thinking of it,’ she said, with -a pretty blush. ‘And my mother always manages to let me have that hour. -She does not mind how tired she is. We are as happy as the day is long,’ -Ellen said.</p> - -<p>I have always heard that a long engagement is the most miserable and -wearing thing in the world. I have never believed it, it is true; but -that does not matter. Here however was a witness against the popular -belief. Ellen was not the victim of a long engagement, nor of a peevish -invalid, though her days were spent in tendance upon one, and her youth -gliding away in the long patience of the other. She was as merry and -bright as if she were having everything her own way in life; and so I -believe she really thought she was, with a mother so kind as, always, -however tired she might be, to insist upon securing that evening hour -for her, and a John who was better than any other John had ever been -before him. The faithful Johnny! I wondered sometimes on his side what -he thought.</p> - -<h3>CHAPTER III</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">One</span> day Ellen came to me, on her arrival, with an air of suppressed -excitement quite unusual to her. It was not, evidently, anything to be -alarmed about, for she looked half way between laughing and crying, but -not melancholy. ‘May I speak to you after Chatty has had her lesson?’ -she asked. I felt sure that some new incident had happened in her -courtship, about which I was so much more interested than about any -other courtship I was acquainted with. So I arranged with all speed—not -an easy thing when there are so many in a house, to be left alone, and -free to hear whatever she might have to say. She was a little hurried -with the lesson, almost losing patience over Chatty’s fumbling—and how -the child did fumble over the fingering, putting the third finger where -the first should be, and losing count altogether of the thumb, which is -too useful a member to be left without occupation! It appeared to me -half a dozen times that Ellen was on the eve of taking the music off the -piano, and garotting Chatty with the arm which rested nervously on the -back of the child’s chair. However she restrained these impulses, if she -had them, and got through the hour <i>tant bien que mal</i>. It was even with -an air of extreme<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_285" id="page_285"></a>{285}</span> deliberation, masking her excitement, that she stood -by and watched her pupil putting away the music and closing the piano. -Chatty, of course, took a longer time than usual to these little -arrangements, and then lingered in the room. Generally she was too glad -to hurry away.</p> - -<p>‘Go, Chatty, and see if the others are ready to go out for their walk.’</p> - -<p>‘They have gone already, mamma. They said they would not wait for me. -They said I was always so long of getting my things on.’</p> - -<p>‘But why are you so long of getting your things on? Run away and see -what nurse is about; or if Fräulein Stimme would like——’</p> - -<p>‘Fräulein isn’t here to-day. How funny you are, mamma, not to remember -that it’s Saturday.’</p> - -<p>‘Go this moment!’ I cried wildly, ‘and tell nurse that you must go out -for a walk. Do you think I will permit you to lose your walk, because -the others think you are long of putting your things on? Nothing of the -sort. Go at once, Chatty,’ I cried, clapping my hands, as I have a way -of doing, to rouse them when they are not paying attention, ‘without a -word!’</p> - -<p>To see the child’s astonished face! She seemed to stumble over herself -in her haste to get out of the room. After the unusual force of this -adjuration I had myself become quite excited. I waved my hand to Ellen, -who had stood by listening, half frightened by my vehemence, pointing -her to a chair close to me. ‘Now, tell me all about it,’ I said.</p> - -<p>‘Is it really for me that you have sent Chatty away in such a hurry? How -good of you!’ said Ellen. And then she made a pause, as if to bring -herself into an appropriate frame of mind before making her -announcement. ‘I could not rest till I had told you. You have always -taken such an interest. John has got a rise of fifty pounds a year.’</p> - -<p>‘I am very glad, very glad, Ellen.’</p> - -<p>‘I knew you would be pleased. He has been expecting it for some time -back; but he would not say anything to me, in case I should be -disappointed if it did not come. So I should, most likely, for I think -he deserves a great deal more than that. But the best people never get -so much as they deserve. Fifty pounds a year is a great rise all at -once, don’t you think? and he got a hint that perhaps about Midsummer -there might be a better post offered to him. Isn’t it flattering? Of -course I know he deserves it; but sometimes those who deserve the most -don’t get what they ought. That makes two hundred and twenty; an -excellent income, don’t you think? He will have to pay income-tax,’ -Ellen said, with a flush of mingled pride and gratification and -grievance which it was amusing to see.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know that I think much of the income-tax; but it is very -pleasant that he is so well thought of,’ I said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_286" id="page_286"></a>{286}</span></p> - -<p>‘And another rise at Midsummer! It seems more than one had any right to -expect,’ said Ellen. Her hands were clasped in her lap, her fingers -twisting and untwisting unconsciously, her head raised, and her eyes -fixed, without seeing anything, upon the blue sky outside. She was rapt -in a pleasant dream of virtue rewarded and goodness triumphant. A smile -went and came upon her face like sunshine. ‘And yet,’ she cried, ‘to -hear people speak, you would think that it was never the right men that -got on. Even in sermons in church you always hear that it is rather a -disadvantage to you if you are nice and good. I wonder how people can -talk such nonsense; why, look at John!’</p> - -<p>‘But even John has had a long time to wait for his promotion,’ said I, -feeling myself the devil’s advocate. I had just checked myself in time -not to say that two hundred and twenty pounds a year was not a very -gigantic promotion; which would have been both foolish and cruel.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, no, indeed!’ cried Ellen; ‘he looks a great deal older than he is. -He lived so much alone, you know, before he knew <i>us</i>; and that gives a -man an old look—but he is not a bit old. How much would you give him? -No, indeed, thirty; he is only just thirty! His birthday was last week.’</p> - -<p>‘And you, Ellen?’</p> - -<p>‘I am twenty-four—six years younger than he is. Just the right -difference, mother says. Of course I am really a dozen years older than -he is; I have far more sense. He has read books and books till he has -read all his brains away; but luckily as long as I am there to take care -of him——’ Then she made a pause, looked round the room with a half -frightened look, then, drawing closer to me, she said in a hurried -undertone, ‘He said something about that other subject to-day.’</p> - -<p>‘Of course he did; how could he have done otherwise?’ I said with a -little momentary triumph.</p> - -<p>‘Please, <i>please</i> don’t take his part, and make it all more difficult; -for you know it is impossible, impossible, quite impossible; nobody -could have two opinions. It was that, above all, that I wanted to tell -you about.’</p> - -<p>‘Why is it impossible, Ellen?’ I said. ‘If you set up absurd obstacles, -and keep up an unnatural state of things, you will be very sorry for it -one day. He is quite right. I could not think how he consented to go on -like this, without a word.’</p> - -<p>‘How strange that you should be so hot about it!’ said Ellen, with a -momentary smile; but at the bottom of her heart she was nervous and -alarmed, and did not laugh with her usual confidence. ‘He said -something, but he was not half so stern as you are. Why should it be so -dreadfully necessary to get married? I am quite happy as I am. I can do -all my duties, and take care of him too; and John is quite happy——’</p> - -<p>‘There you falter,’ I said; ‘you dare not say that with the same -intrepidity, you little deceiver. Poor John! he ought to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_287" id="page_287"></a>{287}</span> have his life -made comfortable and bright for him now. He ought to have his wife to be -proud of, to come home to. So faithful as he is, never thinking of any -other pleasure, of any amusement, but only you.’</p> - -<p>Ellen blushed with pleasure, then grew pale with wonder and alarm. ‘That -is natural,’ she said, faltering. ‘What other amusement should he think -of? He is most happy with me.’</p> - -<p>‘But very few men are like that,’ I said. ‘He is giving up everything -else for you; he is shutting himself out of the world for you; and -you—what are you giving up for him?’</p> - -<p>Ellen grew paler and paler as I spoke. ‘Giving up?’ she said aghast. -‘I—I would give up anything. But I have got nothing, except John,’ she -added, with an uneasy little laugh. ‘And you say he is shutting himself -out of the world. Oh, I know what you are thinking of—the kind of world -one reads about in books, where gentlemen have clubs, and all that sort -of thing. But these are only for you rich people. He is not giving up -anything that I know of.’</p> - -<p>‘What do the other young men do, Ellen? Every one has his own kind of -world.’</p> - -<p>‘The other young men!’ she cried indignant. ‘Now I see indeed you don’t -know anything about him (how could you? you have never even seen him), -when you compare John to the other clerks. <i>John!</i> Oh, yes, I suppose -they go and amuse themselves; they go to the theatres, and all those -wrong places. But you don’t suppose John would do that, even if I were -not in existence! Why <i>John</i>! the fact is, you don’t know him; that is -the whole affair.’</p> - -<p>‘I humbly confess it,’ said I; ‘but it is not my fault. I should be very -glad to know him, if I might.’</p> - -<p>Ellen looked at me with a dazzled look of sudden happiness, as if this -prospect of bliss was too much for her—which is always very flattering -to the superior in such intercourse as existed between her and me. ‘Oh! -would you?’ she said, with her heart in her mouth, and fixed her eyes -eagerly upon me, as if with some project she did not like to unfold.</p> - -<p>‘Certainly I should.’ Then, after a pause I said, ‘Could not you bring -him to-morrow to tea?’</p> - -<p>Ellen’s eyes sparkled. She gave a glance round upon the room, which was -a great deal bigger and handsomer than the little parlour in Pleasant -Place, taking in the pictures and the piano and myself in so many -distinct perceptions, yet one look. Her face was so expressive that I -recognized all these different details of her pleasure with the -distinctest certainty. She wanted John to see it all, and to hear the -piano, which was much better than her little piano at home; and also to -behold how much at home she was, and how everybody liked her. Her eyes -shone out upon me like two stars. And her big English ‘Oh!’ of delight -had her whole breath in it, and left her speechless for the moment. -‘There is nothing in the world<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_288" id="page_288"></a>{288}</span> I would like so much,’ she cried at -last: then paused, and, with a sobered tone, added, ‘If mother can spare -me’—a little cloud coming over her face.</p> - -<p>‘I am sure your mother will spare you. You never have any parties or -amusements, my good little Ellen. You must tell her I will take no -denial. You never go anywhere.’</p> - -<p>‘Where should I go?’ said Ellen. ‘I don’t want to go anywhere, there is -always so much to do at home. But for this once—And John would so like -to come. He would like to thank you. He says, if you will not think him -too bold, that you have been his friend for years.’</p> - -<p>‘It is quite true,’ I said; ‘I have looked for him almost every day for -years. But it is not much of a friendship when one can do nothing for -the other——’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, it is beautiful!’ cried Ellen. ‘He says always we are in such -different ranks of life. We could never expect to have any intercourse, -except to be sure by a kind of happy accident, like me. It would not do, -of course, visiting or anything of that sort; but just to be friends for -life, with a kind look, such as we might give to the angels if we could -see them. If there only could be a window in heaven, here and there!’ -and she laughed with moisture in her eyes.</p> - -<p>‘Ah!’ I said, ‘but windows in heaven would be so crowded with those that -are nearer to us than the angels.’</p> - -<p>‘Do you think they would want that?’ said Ellen in a reverential low -tone; ‘don’t you think they must see somehow? they would not be happy if -they could not see. But the angels might come and sit down in an idle -hour, when they had nothing to do. Perhaps it would grieve them, but it -might amuse them too, to see all the crowds go by, and all the stories -going on, like a play, and know that, whatever happened, it would all -come right in the end. I should not wonder a bit if, afterwards, some -one were to say, as you did about John, “I have seen you passing for -years and years——”<span class="lftspc">’</span></p> - -<p>I need not repeat all the rest of our talk. When two women begin this -kind of conversation, there is no telling where it may end. The -conclusion however was that next evening John was to be brought to make -my acquaintance; and Ellen went away very happy, feeling, I think, that -a new chapter was about to begin in her life. And on our side we -indulged in a great many anticipations. The male part of the household -assured us that, ‘depend upon it,’ it would be a mistake; that John -would be a mere clerk, and no more; a man, perhaps, not very sure about -his <i>h’s</i>; perhaps over-familiar, perhaps frightened; that most likely -he would feel insulted by being asked to tea—and a great deal more, to -all of which we, of course, paid no attention. But it was not till -afterwards that even I realized the alarming business it must have been -to John to walk into a room full of unknown people—dreadful critical -children, girls and boys half grown<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_289" id="page_289"></a>{289}</span> up—and to put to the test a -friendship of years, which had gone on without a word spoken, and now -might turn out anything but what it had been expected to be. He was a -little fluttered and red when Ellen, herself very nervous, brought him -in, meeting all the expectant faces, which turned instinctively towards -the door. Ellen herself had never come in the evening before, and the -aspect of the house, with the lamps lighted, and the whole family -assembled, was new to her. She came in without saying a word, and led -her love, who for his part moved awkwardly and with shy hesitation, -through the unknown place, threading his way among the tables and -chairs, and the staring children, to where I sat. I have always said my -little Chatty was the best bred of all my children. There was no one so -much interested as she; but she kept her eyes upon her work, and never -looked up till they were seated comfortably and beginning to look at -their ease. John faltered forth what I felt sure was intended to be a -very pretty speech to me, probably conned beforehand, and worthy of the -occasion. But all that came forth was, ‘I have seen you often at the -window.’ ‘Yes, indeed,’ I said hurriedly, ‘for years; we are old -friends: we don’t require any introduction,’ and so got over it. I am -afraid he said ‘ma’am.’ I see no reason why he should not say ma’am; -people used to do it; and excepting us rude English, everybody in the -world does it. Why should not John have used that word of respect if he -chose? You say ma’am yourself to princesses when you speak to them, if -you ever have the honour of speaking to them; and he thought as much of -me, knowing no better, as if I had been a princess. He had a soft, -refined voice. I am sure I cannot tell whether his clothes were well -made or not—a woman does not look at a man’s clothes—but this I can -tell you, that his face was well made. There was not a fine feature in -it; but He who shaped them knew what He was about. Every line was -good—truth and patience and a gentle soul shone through them. In five -minutes he was at home, not saying much, but looking at us all with -benevolent, tender eyes. When Chatty brought him his tea and gave him -her small hand, he held it for a moment, saying, ‘This is Ellen’s -pupil,’ with a look which was a benediction. ‘I should have known her -anywhere,’ he said. ‘Ellen has a gift of description—and then, she is -like you.’</p> - -<p>‘Ellen has a great many gifts, Mr. Ridgway—the house is sure to be a -bright one that has her for its mistress.’</p> - -<p>He assented with a smile that lit up his face like sunshine; then shook -his head, and said, ‘I wish I could see any prospect of that. The house -has been built, and furnished, and set out ready for her so long. That -is, alas! only in our thoughts. It is a great pleasure to imagine it; -but it seems always to recede a little further—a little further. We -have need of patience.’ Then he paused, and added, brightening a little, -‘Fortunately we are not impatient people, either of us.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_290" id="page_290"></a>{290}</span></p> - -<p>‘Forgive me,’ I said. ‘It is a great deal to take upon me—a stranger as -I am.’</p> - -<p>‘You forget,’ he said, with a bow that would not have misbecome a -courtier, ‘that you were so kind as to say that we were not strangers -but old friends.’</p> - -<p>‘It is quite true. Then I will venture to speak as an old friend. I wish -you were not so patient. I wish you were a hot-headed person, and would -declare once for all that you would not put up with it.’</p> - -<p>He reddened, and turned to me with a look half of alarm, half, perhaps, -of incipient, possible offence. ‘You think I am too tame, too easy—not -that I don’t desire with my whole heart—’</p> - -<p>‘Not that you are not as true as the heavens themselves,’ I said, with -the enthusiasm of penitence. His face relaxed and shone again, though -once more he shook his head.</p> - -<p>‘I think—I am sure—you are quite right. If I could insist I might -carry my point, and it would be better. But what can I say? I understand -her, and sympathize with her, and respect her. I cannot oppose her -roughly, and set myself before everything. Who am I, that she should -desert what she thinks her duty for me?’</p> - -<p>‘I feel like a prophet,’ I said. ‘In this case to be selfish is the -best.’</p> - -<p>He shook his head again. ‘She could not be selfish if she tried,’ he -said.</p> - -<p>Did he mean the words for himself, too? They were neither of them -selfish. I don’t want to say a word that is wicked, that may discourage -the good—they were neither of them strong enough to be selfish. -Sometimes there is wisdom and help in that quality which is so common. I -will explain after what I mean. It does not sound true, I am well aware, -but I think it is true: however in the meantime there was nothing more -to be said. We began to talk of all sorts of things; of books, with -which John seemed to be very well acquainted, and of pictures, which he -knew too—as much, at least, as a man who had never been out of England, -nor seen anything but the National Gallery, could know. He was -acquainted with that by heart, knowing every picture and all that could -be known about it, making me ashamed, though I had seen a great deal -more than he had. I felt like one who knows other people’s possessions, -but not his own. He had never been, so to speak, out of his own house; -but he knew every picture on the walls there. And he made just as much -use of his <i>h’s</i> as I do myself. If he was at first a little stiff in -his demeanour, that wore off as he talked. Ellen left him entirely to -me. She went off into the back drawing-room with the little ones, and -made them sing standing round the piano. There was not much light, -except the candles on the piano, which lighted up their small fresh -faces and her own bright countenance; and this made the prettiest -picture<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_291" id="page_291"></a>{291}</span> at the end of the room. While he was talking to me he looked -that way, and a smile came suddenly over his face—which drew my -attention also. ‘Could any painter paint that?’ he said softly, looking -at them. As the children were mine, you may believe I gazed with as much -admiration as he. The light seemed to come from those soft faces, not to -be thrown upon them, and the depth of the room was illuminated by the -rose-tints, and the whiteness, and the reflected light out of their -eyes. ‘Rembrandt, perhaps,’ I said; but he shook his head, for he did -not know much of Rembrandt. When they finished their little store of -songs I called to Ellen to sing us something by herself. The children -went away, for it was their bedtime; and all the time the good-nights -were being said she played a little soft trill of prelude, very sweet, -and low, and subdued. There was a harmonizing influence in her that made -everything appropriate. She did things as they ought to be done by -instinct, without knowing it; while he, with his gaze directed to her, -felt it all more than she did—felt the softening of that undertone of -harmonious accompaniment, the sweet filling up of the pause, the -background of sound upon which all the little voices babbled out like -the trickling of brooks. When this was over Ellen did not burst into her -song all at once, as if to show how we had kept her waiting; but went on -for a minute or two, hushing out the former little tumult. Then she -chose another strain, and, while we all sat silent, began to sing—the -song I had heard her sing to him when they were alone that summer -evening. Was there a little breath in it of consciousness, a something -shadowing from the life to come—‘I will come again?’ We all sat very -silent and listened: he with his face turned to her, a tender smile upon -it—a look of admiring pleasure. He beat time with his hand, without -knowing it, rapt in the wistful, tender music, the longing sentiment, -the pervading consciousness of her, in all. I believe they were both as -happy as could be while this was going on. She singing to him, and -knowing that she pleased him, while still conscious of the pleasure of -all the rest of us, and glad to please us too; and he so proud of her, -drinking it all in, and knowing it to be for him, yet feeling that he -was giving us this gratification, making an offering to us of the very -best that was his. Why was it, then, that we all, surrounding them, a -voiceless band of spectators, felt the hidden meaning in it, and were -sorry for them, with a strange impulse of pity—sorry for those two -happy people, those two inseparables who had no thought but to pass -their lives together? I cannot tell how it was; but so it was. We all -listened with a little thrill of sympathy, as we might have looked at -those whose doom we knew, but who themselves had not yet found out what -was coming upon them. And at the end, Ellen too was affected in a -curious sympathetic way by some mysterious invisible touch of our -sympathy for her. She came out of the half-lit room behind, with -trembling,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_292" id="page_292"></a>{292}</span> hurried steps, and came close to my side, and took in both -hers the hand I held out to her. ‘How silly I am!’ she cried, with a -little laugh. ‘I could have thought that some message was coming to say -he must go and leave me. A kind of tremor came over me all at once.’ -‘You are tired,’ I said. And no doubt that had something to do with it; -but why should the same chill have crept over us all?</p> - -<h3>CHAPTER IV</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> time passed on very quietly during these years. Nothing particular -happened; so that looking back now—now that once more things have begun -to happen, and all the peaceful children who cost me nothing but -pleasant cares have grown up and are setting forth, each with his and -her more serious complications, into individual life—it seems to me -like a long flowery plain of peace. I did not think so then, and no -doubt from time to time questions arose that were hard to answer and -difficulties that cost me painful thought. But now all seems to me a -sort of heavenly monotony and calm, turning years into days. In this -gentle domestic quiet six months went by like an afternoon; for it was, -I think, about six months after the first meeting I have just described -when Ellen Harwood rushed in one morning with a scared face, to tell me -of something which had occurred and which threatened to break up in a -moment the quiet of her life. Mr. Ridgway had come again various -times—we had daily intercourse at the window, where, when he passed, he -always looked up now, and where I seldom failed to see him and give him -a friendly greeting. This intercourse, though it was so slight, was also -so constant that it made us very fast friends; and when Ellen, as I have -said, rushed in very white and breathless one bright spring morning, -full of something to tell, my first feeling was alarm. Had anything -happened to John?</p> - -<p>‘Oh, no. Nothing has happened. At least, I don’t suppose you would say -anything had happened—that is, no harm—except to me,’ said Ellen, -wringing her hands, ‘except to me! Oh, do you recollect that first night -he came to see you, when you were so kind as to ask him, and I sang that -song he is so fond of? I took fright then; I never could tell how—and -now it looks as if it would all come true——’</p> - -<p>‘As if what would come true?’</p> - -<p>‘Somebody,’ said Ellen, sitting down abruptly in the weariness of her -dejection, ‘somebody from the office is to go out directly to the -Levant. Oh, Chatty, dear, you that are learning geography and -everything, tell me where is the Levant? It is where the currants and -raisins come from. The firm has got an establishment, and it is -likely—oh, it is very likely: they all<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_293" id="page_293"></a>{293}</span> think that John, whom they -trust so much—John—will be sent——’</p> - -<p>She broke off with a sob—a gasp. She was too startled, too much excited -and frightened, to have the relief of tears.</p> - -<p>‘But that would be a very good thing, surely—it would be the very best -thing for him. I don’t see any cause for alarm. My dear Ellen, he would -do his work well; he would be promoted; he would be made a partner——’</p> - -<p>‘Ah!’ She drew a long breath: a gleam of wavering light passed over her -face. ‘I said you would think it no harm,’ she said mournfully, ‘no -harm—except to me.’</p> - -<p>‘It is on the Mediterranean Sea,’ said Chatty over her atlas, with a -great many big round ‘Oh’s’ of admiration and wonder, ‘where it is -always summer, always beautiful. Oh, Ellen, I wish I were you! but you -can send us some oranges,’ the child added philosophically. Ellen gave -her a rapid glance of mingled fondness and wrath.</p> - -<p>‘You think of nothing but oranges!’ she cried (quite unjustly, I must -say); then putting her hands together and fixing her wistful eyes upon -me, ‘I feel,’ she said in the same breath, ‘as if the world were coming -to an end.’</p> - -<p>‘You mean it is just about beginning—for of course he will not go -without you—and that is the very best thing that could happen.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, how can you say so? it cannot happen; it is the end of everything,’ -Ellen cried, and I could not console her. She would do nothing but wring -her hands and repeat her plaint, ‘It is the end of everything.’ Poor -girl, apart from John her life was dreary enough, though she had never -felt it dreary. Music lessons in the morning, and after that continual -attendance upon an exacting fiery invalid. The only break in her round -of duty had been her evening hours, her little walk and talk with John. -No wonder that the thought of John’s departure filled her with a terror -for which she could scarcely find words. And she never took into account -the other side of the question, the solution which seemed to me so -certain, so inevitable. She knew better—that, at least, whatever other -way might be found out of it, could not be.</p> - -<p>Next day in the evening, when he was going home, John himself paused as -he was passing the window, and looked up with a sort of appeal. I -answered by beckoning to him to come in, and he obeyed the summons very -rapidly and eagerly. The spring days had drawn out, and it was now quite -light when John came home. He came in and sat down beside me, in the -large square projecting window, which was my favourite place. There was -a mingled air of eagerness and weariness about him, as if, though -excited by the new prospect which was opening before him, he was yet -alarmed by the obstacles in his way, and reluctant, as Ellen herself -was, to disturb the present peaceful conditions of their life. ‘I do not -believe,’ he said, ‘that they<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_294" id="page_294"></a>{294}</span> will ever consent. I don’t know how we -are to struggle against them. People of their age have so much stronger -wills than we have. They stand to what they want, and they have it, -reason or no reason.’</p> - -<p>‘That is because you give in; you do not stand to what you want,’ I -said. He looked away beyond me into the evening light, over the heads of -all the people who were going and coming so briskly in the road, and -sighed.</p> - -<p>‘They have such strong wills. What can you say when people tell you that -it is impossible, that they never can consent? Ellen and I have never -said that, or even thought it. When we are opposed we try to think how -we can compromise, how we can do with as little as possible of what we -want, so as to satisfy the others. I always thought that was the good -way, the nobler way,’ he said with a flush coming over his pale face. -‘Have we been making a mistake?’</p> - -<p>‘I fear so—I think so; yes, I am sure,’ I cried. ‘Yours would be the -nobler way if—if there was nobody but yourself to think of.’</p> - -<p>He looked at me with a wondering air. ‘I think I must have expressed -myself wrongly,’ he said; ‘it was not ourselves at all that we were -thinking of.’</p> - -<p>‘I know; but that is just what I object to,’ I said. ‘You sacrifice -yourselves, and you encourage the other people to be cruelly selfish, -perhaps without knowing it. All that is virtue in you is evil in them. -Don’t you see that to accept this giving up of your life is barbarous, -it is wicked, it is demoralizing to the others. Just in so much as -people think well of you they will be forced to think badly of them.’</p> - -<p>He was a little startled by this view, which, I confess, I struck out on -the spur of the moment, not really seeing how much sense there was in -it. I justified myself afterwards to myself, and became rather proud of -my argument; but for a woman to argue, much less suggest, that -self-sacrifice is not the chief of all virtues, is terrible. I was half -frightened and disgusted with myself, as one is when one has brought -forward in the heat of partisanship a thoroughly bad, yet, for the -moment, effective argument. But he was staggered, and I felt the thrill -of success which stirs one to higher effort.</p> - -<p>‘I never thought of that; perhaps there is some truth in it,’ he said. -Then, after a pause, ‘I wonder if you, who have been so good to us all, -who are fond of Ellen—I am sure you are fond of Ellen—and the children -like her.’</p> - -<p>‘Very fond of Ellen, and the children all adore her,’ I said with -perhaps unnecessary emphasis.</p> - -<p>‘To me that seems natural,’ he said, brightening. ‘But yet what right -have we to ask you to do more? You have been as kind as it is possible -to be.’</p> - -<p>‘You want me to do something more? I will do whatever I can—only speak -out.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_295" id="page_295"></a>{295}</span></p> - -<p>‘It was this,’ he said, ‘if you would ask—you who are not an interested -party—if you would find out what our prospects are. Ellen does not want -to escape from her duty. There is nothing we are not capable of -sacrificing rather than that she should shrink from her duty. I need not -tell you how serious it is. If I don’t take this—in case it is offered -to me—I may never get another chance again; but, if I must part from -Ellen, I cannot accept it. I cannot; it would be like parting one’s soul -from one’s body. But I have no confidence in myself any more than Ellen -has. They have such strong wills. If they say it must not and cannot -be—what can I reply? I know myself. I will yield, and so will Ellen. -How can one look them in the face and say, ‘Though you are her father -and mother, we prefer our own comfort to yours?’</p> - -<p>‘Do not say another word. I will do it,’ I said, half exasperated, half -sympathetic—oh, yes! more than half sympathetic. They were fools; but I -understood it, and was not surprised, though I was exasperated. ‘I will -go and beard the lion in his den,’ I said. ‘Perhaps they will not let me -see the lion, only his attendant. But remember this,’ I said -vindictively, ‘if Ellen and you allow yourselves to be conquered, if you -are weak and throw away all your hopes, never come to me again. I have -made up my mind. You must give up me as well as all the rest. I will not -put up with such weakness.’ John stared at me with alarm in his eyes; he -was not quite comfortable even when I laughed at my own little bit of -tragedy. He shook his head with a melancholy perplexity.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t see clearly,’ he said; ‘I don’t seem able to judge. To give in -is folly; and yet, when you think—supposing it were duty—suppose her -father were to die when she was far away from him?’</p> - -<p>‘If we were to consider all these possibilities there never would be a -marriage made—never an independent move in life,’ I cried. ‘Parents die -far from their children, and children, alas! from their parents. How -could it be otherwise? But God is near to us all. If we were each to -think ourselves so all-important, life would stand still; there would be -no more advance, no progress; everything would come to an end.’</p> - -<p>John shook his head; partly it was in agreement with what I said, partly -in doubt for himself. ‘How am I to stand up to them and say, “Never mind -what you want—<i>we</i> want something else?” There’s the rub,’ he said, -still slowly shaking his head. He had no confidence in his own power of -self-assertion. He had never, I believe, been able to answer -satisfactorily the question, why should he have any special thing which -some one else wished for? It was as natural to him to efface himself, to -resign his claims, as it was to other men to assert them. And yet in -this point he could not give up—he could not give Ellen up, come what -might; but neither could he demand that he and she should be permitted -to live their own life.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_296" id="page_296"></a>{296}</span></p> - -<p>After long deliberation I decided that it would not be expedient to rush -across to Pleasant Place at once and get it over while John and Ellen -were taking their usual evening walk, which was my first impulse; but to -wait till the morning, when all would be quiet, and the invalid and his -wife in their best humour. It was not a pleasant errand; the more I -thought of it, the less I liked it. If they were people who could demand -such a sacrifice from their daughter, was it likely that they would be -so far moved by my arguments as to change their nature? I went through -the little smoky garden plot, where the familiar London ‘blacks’ lay -thick on the grass, on the sweetest May morning, when it was a pleasure -to be alive. The windows were open, the little white muslin curtains -fluttering. Up-stairs I heard a gruff voice asking for something, and -another, with a querulous tone in it, giving a reply. My heart began to -beat louder at the sound. I tried to keep up my courage by all the -arguments I could think of. Nevertheless, my heart sank down into my -very shoes when the little maid, with her apron folded over her arm, and -as grimy as ever, opened to me—with a curtsey and a ‘La!’ of delighted -surprise—this door of fate.</p> - -<h3>CHAPTER V</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">I had</span> a long time to wait before Mrs. Harwood came. The morning sun was -shining into the room, making everything more dingy. No doubt it had -been dusted that morning as well as the little maid could dust it; but -nothing looked pure or fresh in the brightness of the light, which was -full of motes, and seemed to find out dust in every corner. The dingy -cover on the table, the old-fashioned Books of Beauty, the black -horsehair chairs, stood out remorselessly shabby in the sunshine. I -wondered what kind of house Ellen would have when she furnished one for -herself. Would John and she show any ‘taste’ between them—would they -‘pick up’ pretty things at sales and old furniture shops, or would they -buy a drawing-room suite for twenty-five pounds, such as the cheap -upholsterers offer to the unwary? This question amused me while I -waited, and I was sorry to think that the new household was to be -planted in the Levant, and we should not see how it settled itself. -There was a good deal of commotion going on overhead, but I did not pay -any attention to it. I pleased myself arranging a little home for the -new pair—making it pretty for them. Of her own self Ellen would never, -I felt sure, choose the drawing-room suite in walnut and blue rep—not -now, at least, after she had been so much with us. As for John, he would -probably think any curtain tolerable so long as she sat under its -shadow. I had been somewhat afraid of confronting the mother, and -possibly the father; but these thoughts put my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_297" id="page_297"></a>{297}</span> panic out of my head. -These horsehair chairs! was there ever such an invention of the evil -one? Ellen could not like them; it was impossible. When I had come this -length my attention was suddenly attracted by the sounds up-stairs; for -there came upon the floor over my head the sound of a foot stamped -violently in apparent fury. There were voices too; but I could not make -out what they said. As to this sound however it was easy enough to make -out what it meant: nothing could be more suggestive. I trembled and -listened, my thoughts taking an entirely new direction; a stamp of -anger, of rage, and partially of impotence too. Then there was a woman’s -voice rising loud in remonstrance. The man seemed to exclaim and -denounce violently; the woman protested, growing also louder and louder. -I listened with all my might. It was not eavesdropping; for she, at -least, knew that I was there; but, listen as I might, I could not make -out what they said. After a while there was silence, and I heard Mrs. -Harwood’s step coming down the stairs. She paused to do something, -perhaps to her cap or her eyes, before she opened the door. She was in a -flutter of agitation, the flowers in her black cap quivering through all -their wires, her eyes moist, though looking at me with a suspicious -gaze. She was very much on her guard, very well aware of my motive, -determined to give me no encouragement. All this I read in her vigilant -eyes.</p> - -<p>‘Mrs. Harwood, I came to speak to you—I promised to come and speak to -you—about Mr. Ridgway, who is a great friend of mine, as perhaps you -know.’</p> - -<p>The poor woman was in great agitation and trouble; but this only -quickened her wits. ‘I see John Ridgway every day of my life,’ she said, -not without a little dignity. ‘He might say whatever he pleased to me -without asking anybody to speak for him.’</p> - -<p>‘Won’t you give your consent to this marriage?’ I asked. It seemed -wisest to plunge into it at once. ‘It is my own anxiety that makes me -speak. I have always been anxious about it, almost before I knew them.’</p> - -<p>‘There are other things in the world besides marriages,’ she said. ‘In -this house we have a great deal to think of. My husband—no doubt you -heard his voice just now—he is a great sufferer. For years he has been -confined to that little room up-stairs. That is not a very cheerful -life.’</p> - -<p>Here she made a pause, which I did not attempt to interrupt; for she had -disarmed me by this half-appeal to my sympathy. Then suddenly, with her -voice a little shaken and unsteady, she burst forth: ‘The only company -he has is Ellen. What can I do to amuse him—to lead his thoughts off -himself? I have as much need of comfort as he has. The only bright thing -in the house is Ellen. What would become of us if we were left only the -two together all these long days? They are long enough as it is. He has -not a very good temper, and he is weary with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_298" id="page_298"></a>{298}</span> trouble—who wouldn’t be -in his case? John Ridgway is a young man with all the world before him. -Why can’t he wait? Why should he want to take our only comfort away from -us?’</p> - -<p>Her voice grew shrill and broken; she began to cry. Poor soul! I believe -she had been arguing with her husband on the other side; but it was a -little comfort to her to pour out her own grievances, her alarm and -distress, to me. I was silenced. How true it had been what John Ridgway -said: How could he, so gentle a man, assert himself in the face of this, -and claim Ellen as of chief importance to him? Had not they a prior -claim?—was not her duty first to her father and mother? I was put to -silence myself. I did not know what to say.</p> - -<p>‘The only thing is,’ I said timidly at last, ‘that I should think it -would be a comfort to you to feel that Ellen was settled, that she had a -home of her own, and a good husband who would take care of her when—She -ought to outlive us all,’ I added, not knowing how to put it. ‘And if it -were to be always as you say,’ I went on, getting a little courage, -‘there would be no marriages, no new homes. We have all had fathers and -mothers who had claims upon us. What can it be but a heartbreak to bring -up a girl for twenty years and more, and think everything of her, and -then see her go away and give her whole heart to some one else, and -leave us with a smile on her face?’ The idea carried me away—it filled -my own heart with a sort of sweet bitterness; for had not my own girl -just passed that age and crisis? ‘Oh! I understand you; I feel with you; -I am not unsympathetic. But when one thinks—they must live longer than -we; they must have children too, and love as we have loved. You would -not like, neither you nor I, if no one cared—if our girls were left out -when all the others are loved and courted. You like this good John to be -fond of her—to ask you for her. You would not have been pleased if -Ellen had just lived on and on here, your daughter and nothing more.’</p> - -<p>This argument had some weight upon her. She felt the truth of what I -said. However hard the after consequences may be, we still must have our -‘bairn respectit like the lave.’ But on this point Mrs. Harwood -maintained her position on a height of superiority which few ordinary -mortals, even when the mothers of attractive girls, can attain. ‘I have -never made any objection,’ she said, ‘to his coming in the evening. -Sometimes it is rather inconvenient; but I do not oppose his being here -every night.’</p> - -<p>‘And you expect him to be content with this all his life?’</p> - -<p>‘It would be better to say all my life,’ she replied severely; ‘no, not -even that. As for me, it does not matter much. I am not one to put -myself in anybody’s way; but all her father’s life—which can’t be very -long now,’ she added, with a sudden gush of tears. They were so near the -surface that they flowed at the slightest touch, and besides, they were -a great help to her argument. ‘I don’t think it is too much,’ she cried, -‘that she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_299" id="page_299"></a>{299}</span> should see her poor father out first. She has been the only -one that has cheered him up. She is company to him, which I am not. All -his troubles are mine, you see. I feel it when his rheumatism is bad; -but Ellen is outside: she can talk and be bright. What should I do -without her! What should I do without her! I should be nothing better -than a slave! I am afraid to think of it; and her father—her poor -father—it would break his heart; it would kill him. I know that it -would kill him,’ she said.</p> - -<p>Here I must acknowledge that I was very wicked. I could not but think in -my heart that it would not be at all a bad thing if Ellen’s marriage did -kill this unseen father of hers who had tired their patience so long, -and who stamped his foot with rage at the idea that the poor girl might -get out of his clutches. He was an old man, and he was a great sufferer. -Why should he be so anxious to live? And if a sacrifice was necessary, -old Mr. Harwood might just as well be the one to make it as those two -good young people from whom he was willing to take all the pleasure of -their lives. But this of course was a sentiment to which I dared not -give utterance. We stood and looked at each other while these thoughts -were going through my mind. She felt that she had produced an -impression, and was too wise to say anything more to diminish it—while -I, for my part, was silenced, and did not know what to say.</p> - -<p>‘Then they must give in again,’ I said at last. ‘They must part; and if -she has to spend the rest of her life in giving music lessons, and he to -go away, to lose heart and forget her, and be married by any one who -will have him in his despair and loneliness—I hope you will think that -a satisfactory conclusion—but I do not. I do not!’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Harwood trembled as she looked at me. Was I hard upon her? She -shrank aside as if I had given her a blow. ‘It is not me that will part -them,’ she said. ‘I have never objected. Often it is very -inconvenient—you would not like it yourself if every evening, good or -bad, there was a strange man in your house. But I never made any -objection. He is welcome to come as long as he likes. It is not me that -says a word——’</p> - -<p>‘Do you want him to throw up his appointment?’ I cried, ‘his means of -life.’</p> - -<p>She looked at me with her face set. I might have noticed, had I chosen, -that all the flowers in her cap were shaking and quivering in the shadow -cast upon the further wall by the sunshine, but did not care to remark, -being angry, this sign of emotion. ‘If he is so fond of Ellen, he will -not mind giving up a chance,’ she said; ‘if some one must give in, why -should it be Harwood and me?’</p> - -<p>After this I left Pleasant Place hurriedly, with a great deal of -indignation in my mind. Even then I was not quite sure of my right to be -indignant; but I was so. ‘If some one must give in, why should it be -Harwood and me?’ I said to myself that John<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_300" id="page_300"></a>{300}</span> had known what he would -encounter, that he had been right in distrusting himself; but he had not -been right in trusting me. I had made no stand against the other side. -When you come to haggle about it, and to be uncertain which should give -in, how painful the complications of life become! To be perfect, -renunciation must be without a word; it must be done as if it were the -most natural thing in the world. The moment it is discussed and shifted -from one to another, it becomes vulgar, like most things in this -universe. This was what I said to myself as I came out into the fresh -air and sunshine, out of the little stuffy house. I began to hate it -with its dingy carpets and curtains, its horsehair chairs, that shabby, -shabby little parlour—how could anybody think of it as home? I can -understand a bright little kitchen, with white hearth and floor, with -the firelight shining in all the pans and dishes. But this dusty place -with its antimacassars! These thoughts were in my mind when, turning the -corner, I met Ellen full in the face, and felt like a traitor, as if I -had been speaking ill of her. She looked at me, too, with some surprise. -To see me there, coming out of Pleasant Place, startled her. She did not -ask me, Where have you been? but her eyes did, with a bewildered gleam.</p> - -<p>‘Yes; I have been to see your mother,’ I said; ‘you are quite right, -Ellen. And why? Because I am so much interested; and I wanted to see -what mind she was in about your marriage.’</p> - -<p>‘My—marriage! there never was any question of that,’ she said quickly, -with a sudden flush.</p> - -<p>‘You are just as bad as the others,’ said I, moved by this new -contradiction. ‘What! after taking that poor young man’s devotion for so -long, you will let him go away—go alone, break off everything.’</p> - -<p>Ellen had grown pale as suddenly as she had blushed. ‘Is that -necessary?’ she said, alarmed. ‘Break off everything? I never thought of -that. But, indeed, I think you are making a mistake. If he goes, we -shall have to part, but only—only for a time.’</p> - -<p>‘How can you tell,’ I cried, being highly excited, ‘how long he may be -there? He may linger out his life there, always thinking about you, and -longing for you—unless he gets weary and disgusted, and asks himself -what is the use, at the last. Such things have been; and you on your -side will linger here, running out and in to your lessons with no longer -any heart for them; unable to keep yourself from thinking that everybody -is cruel, that life itself is cruel—all because you have not the -courage, the spirit——’</p> - -<p>She put her hand on mine and squeezed it suddenly, so that she hurt me. -‘Don’t!’ she cried; ‘you don’t know; there is nothing, not a word to be -said. It is you who are cruel—you who are so kind; so much as to speak -of it, when it cannot be! It cannot be—that is the whole matter. It is -out of the question. Supposing even that I get to think life cruel, and -supposing he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_301" id="page_301"></a>{301}</span> should get weary and disgusted. Oh! it was you that said -it, you that are so kind. Supposing all that, yet it is impossible; it -cannot be; there is nothing more to be said.’</p> - -<p>‘You will see him go away calmly, notwithstanding all?’</p> - -<p>‘Calmly,’ she said, with a little laugh, ‘calmly—yes, I suppose that is -the word. I will see him go calmly. I shall not make any fuss if that is -what you mean.’</p> - -<p>‘Ellen, I do not understand. I never heard you speak like this before.’</p> - -<p>‘You never saw me like this before,’ she said with a gasp. She was -breathless with a restrained excitement which looked like despair. But -when I spoke further, when I would have discussed the matter, she put up -her hand and stopped me. There was something in her face, in its fixed -expression, which was like the countenance with which her mother had -replied to me. It was a startling thought to me that Ellen’s soft fresh -face, with its pretty bloom, could ever be like that other face -surmounted by the black cap and crown of shabby flowers. She turned and -walked with me along the road to my own door, but nothing further was -said. We went along side by side silent till we reached my house, when -she put out her hand and touched mine suddenly, and said that she was in -a hurry and must run away. I went in more disturbed than I can say. She -had always been so ready to yield, so cheerful, so soft, independent -indeed, but never harsh in her independence. What did this change mean? -I felt as if some one to whom I had turned in kindness had met me with a -blow. But by and by, when I thought better of it, I began to understand -Ellen. Had not I said to myself, a few minutes before, that -self-renunciation, when it had to be, must be done silently without a -word? better perhaps that it should be done angrily than with -self-demonstration, self-assertion. Ellen had comprehended this; she had -perceived that it must not be asked or speculated upon, which was to -yield. She had chosen her part, and she would not have it discussed or -even remarked. I sat in my window pondering while the bright afternoon -went by, looking out upon the distant depths of the blue spring -atmosphere, just touched by haze, as the air, however bright, always is -in London, seeing the people go by in an endless stream without noticing -them, without thinking of them. How rare it is in human affairs that -there is not some one who must give up to the others, some one who must -sacrifice himself or be sacrificed! And the one to whom this lot falls -is always the one who will do it; that is the rule so far as my -observation goes. There are some whom nature moves that way, who cannot -stand upon their rights, who are touched by the claims of others and can -make no resistance on their own account. The tools are to him that can -handle them, as our philosopher says; and likewise the sacrifices of -life to him who will bear them. Refuse them, that is the only way; but -if it is not in your nature to refuse them, what can you do?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_302" id="page_302"></a>{302}</span> Alas! for -sacrifice is seldom blessed. I am saying something which will sound -almost impious to many. Human life is built upon it, and social order; -yet personally in itself it is seldom blessed; it debases those who -accept it; it harms even those who, without wilfully accepting it, have -a dim perception that something is being done for them which has no -right to be done. It may, perhaps—I cannot tell—bear fruit of -happiness in the hearts of those who practise it. I cannot tell. -Sacrifices are as often mistaken as other things. Their divineness does -not make them wise. Sometimes, looking back, even the celebrant will -perceive that his offering had better not have been made.</p> - -<p>All this was going sadly through my mind when I perceived that some one -was passing slowly, endeavouring to attract my attention. By this time -it was getting towards evening—and as soon as I was fully roused I saw -that it was John Ridgway. If I could have avoided him I should have done -so, but now it was not possible; I made him a sign to come up-stairs. He -came into the drawing-room slowly, with none of the eagerness that there -had been in his air on the previous day, and it may easily be believed -that on my side I was not eager to see him to tell him my story. He came -and sat down by me, swinging his stick in his usual absent way, and for -a minute neither of us spoke.</p> - -<p>‘You do not ask me if I have any news for you; you have seen Ellen!’</p> - -<p>‘No; it is only because I have news on my side. I am not going after -all.’</p> - -<p>‘You are not going!’</p> - -<p>‘You are disappointed,’ he said, looking at me with a face which was -full of interest and sympathy. These are the only words I can use. The -disappointment was his, not mine; yet he was more sympathetic with my -feeling about it than impressed by his own. ‘As for me, I don’t seem to -care. It is better in one way, if it is worse in another. It stops any -rise in life; but what do I care for a rise in life? they would never -have let me take Ellen. I knew that even before I saw it in your eyes.’</p> - -<p>‘Ellen ought to judge for herself,’ I said, ‘and you ought to judge for -yourself; you are of full age; you are not boy and girl. No parents have -a right to separate you now. And that old man may go on just the same -for the next dozen years.’</p> - -<p>‘Did you see him?’ John asked. He had a languid, wearied look, scarcely -lifting his eyes.</p> - -<p>‘I saw only her; but I know perfectly well what kind of man he is. He -may live for the next twenty years. There is no end to these tyrannical, -ill-tempered people; they live for ever. You ought to judge for -yourselves. If they had their daughter settled near, coming to them from -her own pleasant little home, they would be a great deal happier. You -may believe me or not, but I know it. Her visits would be events; they -would be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_303" id="page_303"></a>{303}</span> proud of her, and tell everybody about her family, and what a -good husband she had got, and how he gave her everything she could -desire.’</p> - -<p>‘Please God,’ said John, devoutly; his countenance had brightened in -spite of himself. But then he shook his head. ‘If we had but got as far -as that,’ he said.</p> - -<p>‘You ought to take it into your own hands,’ cried I in all the fervour -of a revolutionary. ‘If you sacrifice your happiness to them, it will -not do them any good; it will rather do them harm. Are you going now to -tell your news?’</p> - -<p>He had got up on his feet, and stood vaguely hovering over me with a -faint smile upon his face. ‘She will be pleased,’ he said; ‘no -advancement, but no separation. I have not much ambition; I think I am -happy too.’</p> - -<p>‘Then, if you are all pleased,’ I cried, with annoyance which I could -not restrain, ‘why did you send me on such an errand? I am the only one -that seems to be impatient of the present state of affairs, and it is -none of my business. Another time you need not say anything about it to -me.’</p> - -<p>‘There will never be a time when we shall not be grateful to you,’ said -John; but even his mild look of appealing reproach did not move me. It -is hard to interest yourself in people and find after all that they like -their own way best.</p> - -<h3>CHAPTER VI</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">He</span> was quite right in thinking Ellen would be pleased. And yet, after it -was all over, she was a little wounded and disappointed, which was very -natural. She did not want him to go away, but she wanted him to get the -advancement all the same. This was foolish, but still it was natural, -and just what a woman would feel. She took great pains to explain to us -that it was not hesitation about John, nor even any hesitation on the -part of John in going—for Ellen had a quick sense of what was desirable -and heroic, and would not have wished her lover to appear indifferent -about his own advancement, even though she was very thankful and happy -that in reality he was so. The reason of the failure was that the firm -had sent out a nephew, who was in the office, and had a prior claim. ‘Of -course he had the first chance,’ Ellen said, with a countenance of great -seriousness; ‘what would be the good of being a relation if he did not -have the first chance?’ And I assented with all the gravity in the -world. But she was disappointed, though she was so glad. There ought not -to have been any one in the world who had the preference over John! She -carried herself with great dignity for some time afterwards, and with -the air of a person superior to the foolish and partial judgments of the -world; and yet in her heart how thankful she was! from what an abyss of -blank<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_304" id="page_304"></a>{304}</span> loneliness and weary exertion was her life saved! For now that I -knew it a little better I could see how little that was happy was in her -home. Her mother insisted that she should have that hour’s leisure in -the evening. That was all that any one thought of doing for her. It was -enough to keep her happy, to keep her hopeful. But without that, how -long would Ellen’s brave spirit have kept up? Perhaps had she never -known John, and that life of infinite tender communion, her natural -happy temperament would have struggled on for a long time against all -the depressing effects of circumstances, unaided. But to lose is worse -than never to have had. If it is</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Better to have loved and lost,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Than never to have loved at all,<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">yet it is at the same time harder to lose that bloom of existence out of -your lot, than to have struggled on by mere help of nature without it. -She had been so happy—making so little go such a long way!—that the -loss of her little happiness would have been appalling to her. And yet -she was dissatisfied that this heartbreak did not come. She had strung -herself up to it. It would have been advancement, progress, all that a -woman desires for those belonging to her, for John. Sacrificing him for -the others, she was half angry not to have it in her power to sacrifice -herself to his ‘rise in life.’ I think I understood her, though we never -talked on the subject. She was dissatisfied, although she was relieved. -We have all known these mingled feelings.</p> - -<p>This happened at the beginning of summer; but all its agitations were -over before the long sweet days and endless twilights of the happy -season had fully expanded upon us. It seems to me as I grow older that a -great deal of the comfort of our lives depends upon summer—upon the -weather, let us say, taking it in its most prosaic form. Sometimes -indeed to the sorrowful the brightness is oppressive; but to all the -masses of ordinary mortals who are neither glad nor sad, it is a -wonderful matter not to be chilled to the bone; to be able to do their -work without thinking of a fire; without having a sensation of cold -always in their lives never to be got rid of. Ellen and her lover -enjoyed that summer as people who have been under sentence of banishment -enjoy their native country and their home.</p> - -<p>You may think there is not much beauty in a London suburb to tempt any -one: and there is not for those who can retire to the beautiful fresh -country when they will, and surround themselves with waving woods and -green lawns, or taste the freshness of the mountains or the saltness of -the sea. We, who go away every year in July, pined and longed for the -moment of our removal; and my neighbour in the great house which shut -out the air from Pleasant Place, panted in her great garden (which she -was proud to think was almost unparalleled for growth and shade in -London), and declared herself incapable of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_305" id="page_305"></a>{305}</span> breathing any longer in such -a close and shut up locality. But the dwellers in Pleasant Place were -less exacting. They thought the long suburban road very pleasant. Where -it streamed off into little dusty houses covered with brown ivy and -dismal trellis work, and where every unfortunate flower was thick with -dust, they gazed with a touch of envy at the ‘gardens,’ and felt it to -be rural. When my pair of lovers went out for their walk they had not -time to go further than to the ‘Green Man,’ a little tavern upon the -roadside, where one big old elm tree, which had braved the dust and the -frost for more years than any one could recollect, stood out at a corner -at the junction of two roads, with a bench round it, where the passing -carters and cabmen drank their beer, and a trough for the horses, which -made it look ‘quite in the country’ to all the inhabitants of our -district. Generally they got as far as that, passing the dusty cottages -and the little terrace of new houses. A great and prolonged and most -entertaining controversy went on between them as they walked, as to the -kind of house in which they should eventually settle down. Ellen, who -was not without a bit of romance in her, of the only kind practicable -with her upbringing, entertained a longing for one of the dusty little -cottages. She thought, like all inexperienced persons, that in her hands -it would not be dusty. She would find means of keeping the ivy green. -She would see that the flowers grew sweet and clean, and set blacks and -dust alike at defiance. John, for his part, whose lodging was in one of -those little houses, preferred the new terrace. It was very new—very -like a row of ginger-bread houses—but it was very clean, and for the -moment bright, not as yet penetrated by the dust. Sometimes I was made -the confidante of these interminable, always renewed, always delightful -discussions. ‘They are not dusty yet,’ Ellen would say, ‘but how long -will it be before they are dusty? whereas with the villas’ (they had a -great variety of names—Montpellier Villas, Funchal Villas, Mentone -Mansions—for the district was supposed to be very mild) ‘one knows what -one has to expect; and if one could not keep the dust and the blacks out -with the help of brushes and dusters, what would be the good of one? I -should sow mignonette and Virginia stock,’ she cried with a firm faith; -‘low-growing flowers would be sure to thrive. It is only roses (poor -roses!) and tall plants that come to harm.’ John, for his part, dwelt -much upon the fact that in the little front parlours of the terrace -houses there were shelves for books fitted into a recess. This weighed -quite as much with him as the cleanness of the new places. ‘The villas -are too dingy for her,’ he said, looking admiringly at her fresh face. -‘She could never endure the little gray, grimy rooms.’ That was his -romance, to think that everything should be shining and bright about -her. He was unconscious of the dinginess of the parlour in Ellen’s home. -It was all irradiated with her presence to him. These discussions -however all ended<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_306" id="page_306"></a>{306}</span> in a sigh and a laugh from Ellen herself. ‘It is all -very fine talking,’ she would say.</p> - -<p>And so the summer went on. Alas! and other summers after it. My eldest -girl married. My boys went out into the world. Many changes came upon -our house. The children began to think it a very undesirable locality. -Even Chatty, always the sweetest, sighed for South Kensington, if not -for a house in the country and a month in London in the season, which -was what the other girls wished for. This common suburban road, far from -fashion, far from society—what but their mother’s inveterate -old-fashionedness and indifference to appearances could have kept them -there so long? The great house opposite with the garden had ceased to -be. The high wall was gone from Pleasant Place, and instead of it stood -a fresh row of little villakins like the terrace which had once been -John Ridgway’s admiration. Alas! Ellen’s forebodings had been fully -realized, and the terrace was as dingy as Montpellier Villas by this -time. The whole neighbourhood was changing. Half the good houses in the -road—the houses, so to speak, of the aristocracy, which to name was to -command respect from all the neighbourhood—had been built out and -adorned with large fronts of plate glass and made into shops. Omnibuses -now rolled along the dusty way. The station where they used to stop had -been pushed out beyond the ‘Green Man,’ which once we had felt to be -‘quite in the country.’ Everything was changing; but my pair of lovers -did not change. Ellen got other pupils instead of Chatty and her -contemporaries who were growing up and beyond her skill, and came out at -ten o’clock every morning with as fresh a face as ever, and her little -roll of music always in her hand. And every evening, though now he was -set down at his lodgings from the omnibus, and no longer passed my -window on his way home, John made his pilgrimage of love to Pleasant -Place. She kept her youth—the sweet complexion, the dew in her eyes, -and the bloom upon her cheek—in a way I could not understand. The long -waiting did not seem to try her. She had always his evening visit to -look for, and her days were full of occupation. But John, who had -naturally a worn look, did not bear the probation so well as Ellen. He -grew bald; a general rustiness came over him. He had looked older than -he was to begin with: his light locks, his colourless countenance, faded -into a look of age. He was very patient—almost more patient than Ellen, -who, being of a more vivacious temper, had occasioned little outbursts -of petulant despair, of which she was greatly ashamed afterwards; but at -the same time this prolonged and hopeless waiting had more effect upon -him than upon her. Sometimes he would come to see me by himself for the -mere pleasure, it seemed to me, though we rarely spoke on the subject, -of being understood.</p> - -<p>‘Is this to go on for ever?’ I said. ‘Is it never to come to an end?’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_307" id="page_307"></a>{307}</span></p> - -<p>‘It looks like it,’ said John, somewhat drearily. ‘We always talk about -our little house. I have got three rises since then. I doubt if I shall -ever have any more; but we don’t seem a bit nearer——’ and he ended -with a sigh—not of impatience, like those quick sighs mixed up with -indignant, abrupt little laughs in which Ellen often gave vent to her -feelings—but of weariness and despondency much more hard to bear.</p> - -<p>‘And the father,’ I said, ‘seems not a day nearer the end of his -trouble. Poor man, I don’t wish him any harm.’</p> - -<p>This, I fear, was a hypocritical speech, for in my heart I should not -have been at all sorry to hear that his ‘trouble’ was coming to an end.</p> - -<p>Then for the first time a gleam of humour lighted in John’s eye. ‘I am -beginning to suspect that he is—better,’ he said; ‘stronger at least. I -am pretty sure he has no thought of coming to an end.’</p> - -<p>‘All the better,’ I said; ‘if he gets well, Ellen will be free.’</p> - -<p>‘He will never get well,’ said John, falling back into his dejection, -‘and he will never die.’</p> - -<p>‘Then it will never come to anything. Can you consent to that?’ I said.</p> - -<p>He made me no reply. He shook his head; whether in dismal acceptance of -the situation, whether in protest against it, I cannot tell. This -interview filled me with dismay. I spent hours pondering whether, and -how, I could interfere. My interference had not been of much use before. -And my children began to laugh when this lingering, commonplace little -romance was talked of. ‘My mother’s lovers,’ the boys called them—‘My -mother’s turtle-doves.’</p> - -<p>The time had almost run on to the length of Jacob’s wooing when one day -Ellen came to me, not running in, eager and troubled with her secret as -of old, but so much more quietly than usual, with such a still and fixed -composure about her, that I knew something serious had happened. I sent -away as quickly as I could the other people who were in the room, for I -need not say that to find me alone was all but an impossibility. I gave -Chatty, now a fine, tall girl of twenty, a look, which was enough for -her; she always understood better than any one. And when at last we were -free I turned to my visitor anxiously. ‘What is it?’ I said. It did not -excite her so much as it did me.</p> - -<p>She gave a little abstracted smile. ‘You always see through me,’ she -said. ‘I thought there was no meaning in my face. It has come at last. -He is really going this time, directly, to the Levant. Oh, what a little -thing Chatty was when I asked her to look in the atlas for the Levant; -and now she is going to be married! What will you do,’ she asked -abruptly, stopping short to look at me, ‘when they are all married and -you are left alone?’</p> - -<p>I had asked myself this question sometimes, and it was not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_308" id="page_308"></a>{308}</span> one I liked. -‘<span class="lftspc">“</span>Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,”<span class="lftspc">’</span> I said; ‘the two little -ones of all have not so much as thought of marrying yet.’</p> - -<p>Ellen answered me with a sigh, a quickly drawn impatient breath. ‘He is -to sail in a fortnight,’ she said. ‘Things have gone wrong with the -nephew. I knew he never could be so good as John; and now John must go -in a hurry to set things right. What a good thing that it is all in a -hurry! We shall not have time to think.’</p> - -<p>‘You must go with him—you must go with him, Ellen!’ I cried.</p> - -<p>She turned upon me almost with severity in her tone. ‘I thought you knew -better. I—go with him! Look here,’ she cried very hurriedly, ‘don’t -think I don’t face the full consequences—the whole matter. He is tired, -tired to death. He will be glad to go—and after—after! If he should -find some one else there, I shall never be the one to blame him.’</p> - -<p>‘Ellen! you ought to ask his pardon on your knees—he find some one -else! What wrong you do to the faithfullest—the truest——’</p> - -<p>‘He is the faithfullest,’ she said; then, after a moment, ‘but I will -never blame him. I tell you beforehand. He has been more patient than -ever man was.’</p> - -<p>Did she believe what she was saying? It was very hard to know. The -fortnight flew by like a day. The days had been very long before in -their monotony, but now these two weeks were like two hours. I never -quite knew what passed. John had taken his courage in both hands, and -had bearded the father himself in his den: but, so far as I could make -out, it was not the father but the mother with her tears who vanquished -him. ‘When I saw what her life was,’ he said to me when he took leave of -me, ‘such a life! my mouth was closed. Who am I that I should take away -her only comfort from her? We love each other very dearly, it is our -happiness, it is the one thing which makes everything else sweet: but -perhaps, as Ellen says, there is no duty in it. It is all enjoyment. Her -duty is to them; it is her pleasure, she says, her happiness to be with -me.’</p> - -<p>‘But—but you have been engaged for years. No doubt it is your -happiness—but surely there is duty too.’</p> - -<p>‘She says not. My mind is rather confused. I don’t seem to know. Duty, -you know, duty is a thing that it is rather hard to do; something one -has to raise one’s self up to, and carry through with it, whether we -like it or whether we don’t like it. That’s her definition; and it seems -right—don’t you think it is right? But to say that of us would be -absurd. It is all pleasure—all delight,’ his tired eyelids rose a -little to show a gleam of emotion, then dropped again with a sigh; ‘that -is her argument; I suppose it is true.’ -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_309" id="page_309"></a>{309}</span> -‘Then, do you mean to say——’ I cried, and stopped short in sheer -bewilderment of mind, not knowing what words to use.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t think I mean to say anything. My head is all confused. I don’t -seem to know. Our feeling is all one wish to be together; only to see -one another makes us happy. Can there be duty in that? she says. It -seems right, yet sometimes I think it is wrong, though I can’t tell -how.’</p> - -<p>I was confused too and silenced. I did not know what to say. ‘It -depends,’ I said faltering, ‘upon what you consider the object of life.’</p> - -<p>‘Some people say happiness; but that would not suit Ellen’s theory,’ he -said. ‘Duty—I had an idea myself that duty was easily defined; but it -seems it is as difficult as everything is. So far as I can make out,’ he -added with a faint smile, ‘I have got no duties at all.’</p> - -<p>‘To be faithful to her,’ I said, recollecting the strange speech she had -made to me.</p> - -<p>He almost laughed outright. ‘Faithful! that is no duty; it is my -existence. Do you think I could be unfaithful if I were to try?’</p> - -<p>These were almost the last words he said to me. I suppose he satisfied -himself that his duty to his employer required him to go away. And Ellen -had a feverish desire that he should go away, now that the matter had -been broached a second time. I am not sure that when the possibility of -sacrifice on his part dawned upon her, the chance that he might -relinquish for her this renewed chance of rising in the world, there did -not arise in her mind a hasty impatient wish that he might be -unfaithful, and give her up altogether. Sometimes the impatience of a -tired spirit will take this form. Ellen was very proud; by dint of -having made sacrifices all her life, she had an impetuous terror of -being in her turn the object for which sacrifices should be made. To -accept them was bitterness to her. She was eager to hurry all his -preparations, to get him despatched, if possible, a little earlier than -the necessary time. She kept a cheerful face, making little jokes about -the Levant and the people he would meet there, which surprised -everybody. ‘Is she glad that he is going? Chatty asked me, with eyes -like two round lamps of alarmed surprise. The last night of all they -spent with us—and it seemed a relief to Ellen that it should be thus -spent, and not <i>tête-à-tête</i> as so many other evenings had been. It was -the very height and flush of summer, an evening which would not sink -into darkness and night as other evenings do. The moon was up long -before the sun had gone reluctantly away. We sat without the lamp in the -soft twilight, with the stream of wayfarers going past the windows, and -all the familiar sounds, which were not vulgar to us, we were so used to -them. They were both glad of the half light. When I told Ellen to go and -sing to us, she refused at first with a look of reproach; then, with a -little shake of her head, as if to throw<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_310" id="page_310"></a>{310}</span> off all weakness, changed her -mind and went to the piano. It was Chatty who insisted upon Mr. -Ridgway’s favourite song, perhaps out of heedlessness, perhaps with that -curious propensity the young often have to probe wounds and investigate -how deep a sentiment may go. We sat in the larger room, John and myself, -while behind, in the dim evening, in the distance, scarcely visible, -Ellen sat at the piano and sang. What the effort cost her I would not -venture to inquire. As for him, he sat with melancholy composure -listening to every tone of her voice. She had a very sweet refined -voice—not powerful, but tender, what people call sympathetic. I could -not distinguish his face, but I saw his hand beat the measure -accompanying every line, and when she came to the burden of the song he -said it over softly to himself. Broken by all the babble outside, and by -the music in the background, I yet heard him, all tuneless and low, -murmuring this to himself: ‘I will come again, I will come again, my -sweet and bonnie.’ Whether his eyes were dry I cannot tell, but mine -were wet. He said them with no excitement, as if they were the words -most simple, most natural—the very breathing of his heart. How often, I -wonder, would he think of that dim room, the half-seen companions, the -sweet and tender voice rising out of the twilight? I said to myself, -‘Whoever may mistrust you, I will never mistrust you,’ with fervour. But -just as the words passed through my mind, as if Ellen had heard them, -her song broke off all in a moment, died away in the last line, ‘I will -come a——’ There was a sudden break, a jar on the piano—and she -sprang up and came towards us, stumbling, with her hands put out, as it -she could not see. The next sound I heard was an unsteady little laugh, -as she threw herself down on a sofa in the corner where Chatty was -sitting. ‘I wonder why you are all so fond of that old-fashioned -nonsense,’ she said.</p> - -<p>And next day the last farewells were said, and John went away.</p> - -<h3>CHAPTER VII</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">We</span> left town directly after this for the autumn holidays. The holidays -had not very much meaning now that all the boys had left school, and we -might have gone away when we pleased. But the two youngest girls were -still in the remorseless hands of Fräulein Stimme, and the habit of -emancipation in the regular holiday season had clung to me. I tried very -hard to get Ellen to go with us, for at least a day or two, but she -resisted with a kind of passion. Her mother, I am sure, would have been -glad had she gone; but Ellen would not. There was in her face a secret -protestation, of which she was perhaps not even herself aware, that if -her duty bound life itself from all expansion, it must also bind her in -every day of her life.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_311" id="page_311"></a>{311}</span> She would not accept the small alleviation, -having, with her eyes open and with a full sense of what she was about, -resigned everything else. She would have been more perfect, and her -sacrifice more sweet, had she taken sweetly the little consolations of -every day; but nobody is perfect, and Ellen would not come. I had gone -to Pleasant Place to ask her, and the scene was a curious one. The -mother and daughter both came to the parlour to receive me, and I saw -them together for the first time. It was about a fortnight after John -went away. Ellen had not been ill, though I had feared she would; but -she was pale, with dark lines under her eyes, and a worn and nervous -look. She was bearing her burden very bravely, but it was all the harder -upon her that she was evidently determined not to complain. When I told -my errand, Mrs. Harwood replied eagerly. ‘You must go, Ellen. Oh, yes! I -can do; I can do very well. It will only be for a week, and it will do -you so much good; you must go.’ Ellen took scarcely any notice of this -address. She thanked me with her usual smile. ‘It is very, very good of -you—you are always good—but it is impossible.’ ‘Why impossible, why -impossible?’ cried her mother. ‘When I tell you I can do very well—I -can manage. Your father will not mind, when it is to do you good.’ I saw -that Ellen required a moment’s interval of preparation before she looked -round.</p> - -<p>‘Dear mother,’ she said, ‘we have not any make-believes between us, have -we? How is it possible that I can go? Every moment is mapped out. No, -no; I cannot do it. Thank you all the same. My mother wants to give me a -pleasure, but it cannot be. Go away for a week! I have never done that -in all my life.’</p> - -<p>‘But you think she can, you think she ought,’ I said, turning to her -mother. The poor woman looked at her child with a piteous look. I think -it dawned upon her, then and there, for the first time, that perhaps she -had made a mistake about Ellen. It had not occurred to her that there -had been any selfishness in her tearful sense of the impossibility of -parting with her daughter. All at once, in a moment, with a sudden gleam -of that enlightenment which so often comes too late, she saw it. She saw -it, and it went through her like an arrow. She turned to me with another -piteous glance. What have I done? what have I done? her looks seemed to -say.</p> - -<p>‘Two or three days,’ the poor woman said, with a melancholy attempt at -playfulness. ‘Nothing can happen to us in that time. Her father is ill,’ -she said, turning to me as if I knew nothing, ‘and we are always -anxious, he thinks it will be too much for me by myself. But what does -it matter for a few days? If I am overdone, I can rest when she comes -back.’</p> - -<p>Was it possible she could suppose that this was all I knew? I was afraid -to catch Ellen’s eye. I did not know what might come after such a -speech. She might break forth with some<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_312" id="page_312"></a>{312}</span> sudden revelation of all that I -felt sure must be in her heart. I closed my eyes instinctively, sick -with terror. Next moment I heard Ellen’s clear, agreeable voice.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t want you to be overdone, mother. What is the use of all that is -past and gone if I am to take holidays and run away when I like for two -or three days? No, no; my place is here, and here I must stay. I don’t -want you to be overdone.’</p> - -<p>And looking at her, I saw that she smiled. But her mother’s face was -full of trouble. She looked from Ellen to me, and from me to Ellen. For -everything there is a beginning. Did she only then for the first time -perceive what had been done?</p> - -<p>However, after this there was nothing more to say. We did not see Ellen -again till the days were short and the brilliant weather over. She -changed very much during that winter. Her youth, which had bloomed on so -long unaltered, seemed to leave her in a day. When we came back, from -looking twenty she suddenly looked thirty-five. The bloom went from her -cheeks. She was as trim as ever, and as lightfooted, going out alert and -bright every morning to her lessons; but her pretty little figure had -shrunk, and her very step on the pavement sounded different. Life and -all its hopes and anticipations seemed to have ebbed away from her. I -don’t doubt that many of her neighbours had been going on in their dull -routine of life without knowing even such hopes or prospects as hers, -all this time by Ellen’s side, fulfilling their round of duty without -any diversions. Oh, the mystery of these myriads of humble lives, which -are never enlivened even by a romance manqué, a story that might have -been; that steal away from dull youth to dull age, never knowing -anything but the day’s work, never coming to anything! But Ellen had -known a something different, a life that was her own; and now she had -lost it. The effect was great: how could it be otherwise? She lost -herself altogether for a little while, and when she came to again, as -all worthy souls must come, she was another Ellen; older than her age as -the other had been younger, and prepared for everything. No longer -trying to evade suffering; rather desirous, if that might be, to -forestall it, to discount it—if I may use the word—before it was due, -and know the worst. She never told me this in words, but I felt that it -was so. It is not only in a shipwreck that the unfortunate on the verge -of death plunge in to get it over a few hours, a few minutes, sooner. In -life there are many shipwrecks which we would forestall, if we could, in -the same way, by a plunge—by a voluntary putting on of the decisive -moment. Some, I suppose, will always put it off by every expedient that -despair can suggest; but there are also those who can bear anything but -to wait, until slowly, surely, the catastrophe comes. Ellen wanted to -make the plunge, to get it over, partly for John’s sake, whose -infidelity she began to calculate upon—to (she believed) wish for. ‘He -will never be able to live without a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_313" id="page_313"></a>{313}</span> home to go to, without a woman to -speak to, now,’ she said once, in a moment of incaution—for she was -very guarded, very reticent, about all this part of her mind, and rarely -betrayed herself. It is curious how little faith women in general, even -the most tender, have in a man’s constancy. Either it is because of an -inherent want of trust in their own power to secure affection, which -might be called humility; or else it is quite the reverse—a pride of -sex too subtle to show, in any conscious way—overweening confidence in -the power over a man of any other woman who happens to be near him, and -want of confidence in any power on his part to resist these -fascinations. Ellen had made up her mind that her lover when he was -absent from her would be, as she would have said, ‘like all the rest.’ -Perhaps, in a kind of wild generosity, she wished it, feeling that she -herself never might be free to make him happy; but, anyhow, she was -persuaded that this was how it would be. She looked out for signs of it -in his very first letter. She wanted to have it over—to cut off -remorselessly out of her altered being all the agitations of hope.</p> - -<p>But I need not say that John’s letters were everything a lover’s, or -rather a husband’s letters should be. They were more like a husband’s -letters, with very few protestations in them, but a gentle continued -reference to her, and to their past life together, which was more -touching than any rhapsodies. She brought them to me often, folding -down, with a blush which made her look like the blooming Ellen of old, -some corner of especial tenderness, something that was too sacred for a -stranger’s eye, but always putting them back in her pocket with a word -which sounded almost like a grudge, as who should say, ‘For this once -all is well, but next time you shall see.’ Thus she held on to her -happiness as by a strained thread, expecting every moment when it would -snap, and defying it to do so, yet throbbing all the time with a passion -of anxiety, as day after day it held out, proving her foreboding vain. -That winter, though I constantly saw her, my mind was taken up by other -things than Ellen. It was then that the children finally prevailed upon -me to leave the Road. A row of cheap advertising shops had sprung up -facing us where had been the great garden I have so often mentioned, and -the noise and flaring lights were more than I could put up with, after -all my resistance to their wishes. So that at last, to my great regret, -but the exultation of the young ones, it was decided that we must go -away.</p> - -<p>The removal, and the bustle there was, the change of furniture—for our -old things would not do for the new house, and Chatty, Heaven save us! -had grown artistic, and even the little ones and Fräulein Stimme knew a -great deal better than I did—occupied my mind and my time; and it took -a still longer time to settle down than it did to tear up our old roots. -So that there was a long interval during which we saw little of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_314" id="page_314"></a>{314}</span> Ellen; -and though we never forgot her, or ceased to take an interest in -everything that concerned her, the distance of itself threw us apart. -Now and then she paid us a visit, always with John’s letter in her -pocket, but her time was so limited that she never could stay long. And -sometimes I, and sometimes Chatty, made a pilgrimage to the old district -to see her. But we never could have an uninterrupted long talk in -Pleasant Place. Either Ellen was called away, or Mrs. Harwood would come -in and sit down with her work, always anxiously watching her daughter. -This separation from the only people to whom she could talk of her own -private and intimate concerns was a further narrowing and limitation of -poor Ellen’s life. But what could I do? I could not vex my children for -her sake. She told us that she went and looked at the old house almost -every day, and at the square window in which I used to sit and see John -pass. John passed no longer, nor was I there to see. But Ellen remained -bound in the same spot, seeing everything desert her—love, and -friendship, and sympathy, and all her youth and her hope. Can you not -fancy with what thoughts this poor girl (though she was a girl no -longer) would pause, as she passed, to look at the abandoned place so -woven in with the brightest episode of her life, feeling herself -stranded there, impotent, unable to make a step—her breast still -heaving with all the vigour of existence, yet her life bound down in the -narrowest contracted circle? Her mother, who had got to watch her -narrowly, told me afterwards that she always knew when Ellen had passed -No. 16; and indeed I myself was rather glad to hear that at length No. -16 had shared the general fate, that my window existed no longer, and -that a great shop with plate-glass windows was bulging out where our -house had been. Better when a place is desecrated that it should be -desecrated wholly, and leave no vestige of its old self at all.</p> - -<p>Thus more than a year glided away, spring and winter, summer and autumn, -and then winter again. Chatty came in one November morning, when London -was half invisible, wrapped in mist and fog, with a very grave face, to -tell me that she had met Ellen, and Ellen had told her there was bad -news from John. ‘I can’t understand her,’ Chatty said. ‘I couldn’t make -out what it was; that business had been bad, and things had gone wrong; -and then something with a sort of laugh that he had got other thoughts -in his mind at last, as she knew all along he would, and that she was -glad. What could she mean?’ I did not know what she could mean, but I -resolved to go and see Ellen to ascertain what the change was. It is -easier however to say than to do when one is full of one’s own affairs, -and so it happened that for a full week, though intending to go every -day, I never did so. It was partly my fault. The family affairs were -many, and the family interests engrossing. It was not that I cared for -Ellen less, but my own claimed me on every hand. When one afternoon, -about a fortnight<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_315" id="page_315"></a>{315}</span> after, I was told that Miss Harwood was in the -drawing-room and wished to speak to me, my heart upbraided me with my -neglect. I hurried to her and led her away from that public place where -everybody came and went, to my own little sitting-room, where we might -be alone. Ellen was very pale; her eyes looked very dry and bright, not -dewy and soft as they used to be. There was a feverish look of unrest -and excitement about her. ‘There is something wrong,’ I cried. ‘What is -it? Chatty told me—something about John.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know that it is anything wrong,’ she said. The smile that had -frightened Chatty came over her face—a smile that made one unhappy, the -lip drawn tightly over the teeth in the most ghastly mockery of -amusement. ‘No; I don’t know that it is anything wrong. You know I -always expected—always from the moment he went away—that between him -and me things would soon be at an end. Oh, yes, I expected it, and I did -not wish it otherwise; for what good is it to me that a man should be -engaged to me, and waste his life for me, when I never could do anything -for him?’</p> - -<p>Here she made a little breathless pause, and laughed. ‘Oh, don’t, Ellen, -don’t!’ I cried. I could not bear the laugh; the smile was bad enough.</p> - -<p>‘Why not?’ she said with a little defiance; ‘would you have me cry? I -expected it long ago. The wonder is that it should have been so long -coming. That is,’ she cried suddenly after a pause, ‘that is if this is -really what it means. I took it for granted at first; but I cannot be -certain. I cannot be certain! Read it, you who know him, and tell me, -tell me! Oh, I can bear it quite well. I should be rather glad if this -is what it means.’</p> - -<p>She thrust a letter into my hand, and going away with a rapid step to -the window, stood there with her back to me, looking out. I saw her -standing against the light, playing restlessly with the tassel of the -blind. In her desire to seem composed, or else in the mere excitement -which boiled in her veins, she began to hum a tune. I don’t think she -knew herself what it was.</p> - -<p>The letter which she professed to have taken so easily was worn with -much reading, and it had been carried about, folded and refolded a -hundred times. There was no sign of indifference in all that—and this -is what it said:—</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>‘I got your last letter, dear Ellen, on Tuesday. I think you must -have written in low spirits. Perhaps you had a feeling, such as we -used to talk about, of what was happening here. As for me, nobody -could be in lower spirits than this leaves me. I have lost heart -altogether. Everything has gone wrong; the business is at an end: I -shut up the office to-day. If it is in any way my fault, God -forgive me! But the conflict in my heart has been so great that I -sometimes fear it must be my fault. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_316" id="page_316"></a>{316}</span> had been low enough before, -thinking and thinking how the end was to come between you and me. -Everything has gone wrong inside and out. I had such confidence, -and now it is all going. What I had most faith in has deceived me. -I thought I never was the man to change or to fail, and that I -could have trusted myself in any circumstances; but it does not -seem so. And why should I keep you hanging on when all’s wrong with -me? I always thought I could redeem it; but it hasn’t proved so. -You must just give me up, Ellen, as a bad job. Sometimes I have -thought you wished it. Where I am to drift to, I can’t tell; but -there’s no prospect of drifting back, or, what I hoped for, sailing -back in prosperity to you. You have seen it coming, I can see by -your letters, and I think, perhaps, though it seems strange to say -so, that you won’t mind. I shall not stay here; but I have not made -up my mind where to go. Forget a poor fellow that was never worthy -to be yours.—<span class="smcap">John Ridgway.</span>’</p></div> - -<p>My hands dropped with the letter in them. The rustle it made was the -only sign she could have had that I had read it, or else instinct or -inward vision. That instant she turned upon me from the window with a -cry of wild suspense: ‘Well?’</p> - -<p>‘I am confounded. I don’t know what to think. Ellen, it looks more like -guilt to the office than falsehood to you.’</p> - -<p>‘Guilt—to the office!’ Her face blazed up at once in scorching colour. -She looked at me in fierce resentment and excitement, stamping her foot. -‘Guilt—to the office! How dare you? How dare you?’ she cried like a -fury. She clenched her hands at me, and looked as if she could have torn -me in pieces. ‘Whatever he has done,’ she cried, ‘he has done nothing he -had not a right to do. Do you know who you are speaking of? John! You -might as well tell me I had broken into your house at night and robbed -you. <i>He</i> have anything to blame himself for with the office?—never! -nor with any one. What he has done is what he had a right to do—I am -the first to say so. He has been wearied out. You said it once yourself, -long, long before my eyes were opened; and at last he has done it—and -he had a good right!’ She stood for one moment before me in the fervour -of this fiery address; then, suddenly, she sank and dropped on her knees -by my side. ‘You think it means that? You see it—don’t you see it? He -has grown weary, as was so natural. He thought he could trust himself; -but it proved different; and then he thought he could redeem it. What -can that mean but one thing?—he has got some one else to care for him. -There is nothing wrong in that. It is not I that will ever blame him. -The only thing was that a horrible doubt came over me this morning—if -it should not mean what I thought it did! That is folly, I know; but -you, who know him—put away all that about wrong to the office, which is -out<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_317" id="page_317"></a>{317}</span> of the question, and you will see it cannot be anything but one -thing.’</p> - -<p>‘It is not that,’ I said.</p> - -<p>She clasped her hands, kneeling by my side. ‘You always took his part,’ -she said in a low voice. ‘You will not see it.’ Why did she tremble so? -Did she want to believe it, or not to believe it? I could not understand -Ellen. Just then, from the room below, there came a voice singing. It -was Chatty’s voice, the child whom she had taught, who had been the -witness of their wooing. She knew nothing about all this; she did not -even know that Ellen was in the house. What so natural as that she -should sing the song her mistress had taught her? It was that which -Ellen herself had been humming as she stood at the window.</p> - -<p>‘Listen!’ I said. ‘You are answered in his own words—“I will come -again.”<span class="lftspc">’</span></p> - -<p>This was more than Ellen could bear. She made one effort to rise to her -feet, to regain her composure; but the music was too much. At that -moment I myself felt it to be too much. She fell down at my feet in a -passion of sobs and tears.</p> - -<p>Afterwards I knew the meaning of Ellen’s passionate determination to -admit no meaning but one to the letter. She had taken him at his word. -In her certainty that this was to happen, she had seen no other -interpretation to it, until it was too late. She had never sent any -reply; and he had not written again. It was now a month since the letter -had been received, and this sudden breaking off of the correspondence -had been so far final on both sides. To satisfy myself, I sent to -inquire at the office, and found that no blame was attached to John; but -that he had been much depressed, unduly depressed, by his failure to -remedy the faults of his predecessor, and had left as soon as his -accounts were forwarded and all the business details carefully wound up: -and had not been heard of more. I compelled, I may say, Ellen to write, -now that it was too late; but her letter was returned to her some time -after. He had left the place, and nothing was known of him there; nor -could we discover where he had gone.</p> - -<h3>CHAPTER VIII</h3> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">This</span> little tragedy, as it appeared to me at the time, made a great -impression on my mind. It did not make me ill; that would have been -absurd. But still it helped, I suppose, to depress me generally and -enhance the effect of the cold that had hung about me so long, and for -which the elder ones, taking counsel together, decided that the desire -of the younger ones should be gratified, and I should be made to go to -Italy for the spring. The girls were wild to go, and my long-continued<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_318" id="page_318"></a>{318}</span> -lingering cold was such a good excuse. For my own part, I was not -willing at all; but what can one woman, especially when she is their -mother, do against so many? I had to give in and go. I went to see Ellen -before we started, and it was a very painful visit. She was still -keeping up with a certain defiance of everybody. But in the last two -months she had changed wonderfully. For one thing, she had shrank into -half her size. She was never anything but a little woman; but now she -seemed to me no bigger than a child. And those cheerful, happy brown -eyes, which had so triumphed over and smiled at all the privations of -life, looked out from two hollow caverns, twice as large as they had -ever been before, and with a woeful look that broke one’s heart. It was -not always that they had this woeful look. When she was conscious of -inspection she played them about with an artificial activity as if they -had been lanterns, forcing a smile into them which sometimes looked -almost like a sneer; but when she forgot that any one was looking at -her, then both smile and light went out, and there was in them a woeful -doubt and question which nothing could solve. Had she been wrong? Had -she misjudged him whom her heart could not forget or relinquish? Was it -likely that she could give him up lightly even had he been proved -unworthy? And oh, Heaven! was he proved unworthy, or had she done him -wrong? This was what Ellen was asking herself, without intermission, for -ever and ever; and her mother, on her side, watched Ellen piteously with -much the same question in her eyes. Had she, too, made a mistake? Was it -possible that she had exacted a sacrifice which she had no right to -exact, and in mere cowardice, and fear of loneliness, and desire for -love and succour on her own part, spoiled two lives? This question, -which was almost identical in both, made the mother and daughter -singularly like each other; except that Ellen kept asking her question -of the air, which is so full of human sighs, and the sky, whither so -many ungranted wishes go up, and the darkness of space, in which is no -reply—and the mother asked hers of Ellen, interrogating her countenance -mutely all day long, and of every friend of Ellen’s who could throw any -light upon the question. She stole into the room when Ellen left me for -a moment, and whispered, coming close to me, lest the very walls should -hear—</p> - -<p>‘How do you think she is looking? She will not say a word to me about -him—not a word. Don’t you think she has been too hasty? Oh! I would -give everything I have if she would only go with you and look for John, -and make it up with him again.’</p> - -<p>‘I thought you could not spare her,’ I said with perhaps some cruelty in -my intention. She wrung her hands, and looked piteously in my face.</p> - -<p>‘You think it is all my fault! I never thought it would come to this; I -never thought he would go away. Oh, if I had only<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_319" id="page_319"></a>{319}</span> let them marry at -first! I often think if she had been happy in her own home, coming to -see her father every day, it would have been more of a change for him, -more company than having her always. Oh! if one could only tell what is -going to happen. She might have had a nice family by this time, and the -eldest little girl big enough to run in and play at his feet and amuse -her grandpa. He always was fond of children. But we’ll never see Ellen’s -children now!’ cried the poor woman. ‘And you think it is my fault!’</p> - -<p>I could not reproach her; her black cap with the flowers, her little -woollen shawl about her shoulders, grew tragic as she poured forth her -trouble. It was not so dignified as the poet’s picture, but yet, like -him, she</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Saw the unborn faces shine<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Beside the never lighted fire;<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">and with a groan of misery felt herself the slayer of those innocents -that had never been. The tragic and the comic mingled in the vision of -that ‘eldest little girl,’ the child who would have amused her grandpa -had she been permitted to come into being; but it was all tragic to poor -Mrs. Harwood. She saw no laugh, no smile, in the situation anywhere.</p> - -<p>We went to Mentone, and stayed there till the bitterness of the winter -was over, then moved along that delightful coast, and were in Genoa in -April. To speak of that stately city as a commercial town seems -insulting—and yet so it is now-a-days. I recognized at once the type I -had known in other days when I sat at the window of the hotel and -watched the people coming and going. It reminded me of my window in the -Road, where, looking out, I saw the respectable City people—clerks like -John Ridgway, and merchants of the same cut though of more substantial -comfort—wending their way to their business in the morning, and to -their suburban homes in the evening. I do not know that I love the -commercial world; but I like to see that natural order of life—the man -‘going forth unto his work and to his labour until the evening.’ The -fashion of it is different in a foreign town, but still the life is the -same. We changed our quarters however after we had been for some time in -that city, so-called of palaces, and were lodged in a suite of rooms -very hard to get up to (though the staircase was marble), but very -delightful when one was there; rooms which overlooked the high terrace -which runs round a portion of the bay between the inns and the quays. I -forget what it is called. It is a beautiful promenade, commanding the -loveliest view of that most beautiful bay and all that is going on in -it. At night, with all its twinkling semicircle of lights, it was a -continual enchantment to me; but this or any of my private admirations -are not much to the purpose of my story. Sitting at the window, always -my favourite post, I became acquainted with various individual figures -among those who haunted this terrace. Old<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_320" id="page_320"></a>{320}</span> gentlemen going out to sun -themselves in the morning before the heat was too great; children and -nursemaids, Genoese women with their pretty veils, invalids who had got -up the stairs, I cannot tell now, and sat panting on the benches, -enjoying the sea air and the sunshine. There was one however among this -panorama of passing figures, which gave me a startled sense of -familiarity. It was too far off to see the man’s face. He was not an -invalid; but he was bent, either with past sickness or with present -care, and walked with a dropping head and a languid step. After watching -him for a time, I concluded (having always a great weakness for making -out other people’s lives, how they flow) that he had some occupation in -the town from which he escaped, whenever he had leisure, to rest a -little and refresh himself upon the terrace. He came very regularly, -just at the time when Italian shops and offices have a way of shutting -up, in the middle of the day—very regularly, always, or almost always, -at the same hour. He came up the steps slowly and languidly, stopped a -little to take breath, and then walked half way round the terrace to a -certain bench upon which he always seated himself. Sometimes he brought -his luncheon with him and ate it there. At other times, having once -gained that place, he sat quite still in a corner of it, not reading, -nor taking any notice of the other passers-by. No one was with him, no -one ever spoke to him. When I noticed him first he startled me. Who was -he like? His bent figure, his languid step, resembled no one I could -think of; but yet I said to myself, He is like somebody. I established a -little friendship with him, though it was a friendship without any -return; for though I could see him he could not see me, nor could I -distinguish his face; and we never saw him anywhere else, neither at -church, nor in the streets, not even on the <i>festas</i> when everybody was -about; but always just there on that one spot. I looked for him as -regularly as the day came. ‘My mother’s old gentleman,’ Chatty called -him. Everybody is old who is not young to these children; but though he -was not young he did not seem to me to be old. And he puzzled as much as -he interested me. Who was he like? I never even asked myself, Who was -he? It would be no one I had any chance of acquaintance with. Some poor -<i>employé</i> in a Genoa office; how should I know him? I could not feel at -all sure, when I was cross-examined on the subject, whether I really -remembered any one whom he was like; but yet he had startled me more -than I can say.</p> - -<p>Genoa, where we had friends and family reasons for staying, became very -hot as the spring advanced into early summer, and we removed to one of -the lovely little towns on the coast at a little distance, Santa -Margherita. When we had been settled there for a few days, Chatty came -in to me one evening with a pale face. ‘I have just seen your old -gentleman,’ she said. ‘I think he must live out here; but I saw by the -expression of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_321" id="page_321"></a>{321}</span> her eyes that there was more to say. She added after a -moment, ‘And I know who he is like.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah! you have seen his face,’ I said; and then, before she had spoken, -it suddenly flashed on myself in a moment, ‘John Ridgway!’ I cried.</p> - -<p>‘Mother,’ said Chatty, quite pale, ‘I think it is his ghost.’</p> - -<p>I went out with her instantly to where she had seen him, and we made -some inquiries, but with no success. When I began to think it over, he -was not like John Ridgway. He was bent and stooping, whereas John was -erect; his head drooped, whereas how well I recollected poor John’s head -thrown back a little, his hat upon the back of it, his visionary outlook -rather to the skies than to the ground. No, no, not like him a bit; but -yet it might be his ghost, as Chatty said. We made a great many -inquiries, but for the moment with no success, and you may suppose that -I watched the passers-by from my window with more devotion than ever. -One evening in the sudden nightfall of the Italian skies, when darkness -comes all at once, I was seated in my usual place, scarcely seeing -however the moving figures outside, though all the population of the -place seemed to be out, sitting round the doors, and strolling leisurely -along enjoying the heavenly coolness and the breeze from the sea. At the -further end of the room Chatty was at the piano, playing to me softly in -the dark which she knows is what I like, and now and then striking into -some old song such as I love. She was sure to arrive sooner or later at -that one with which we now had so many associations; but I was not -thinking of the song, nor for the moment of Ellen or her faithful (as I -was sure he was still) lover at all. A woman with so many children has -always plenty to think of. My mind was busy with my own affairs. The -windows were open, and the babble of the voices outside—high pitched, -resounding Italian voices, not like the murmur of English—came in to us -as the music floated out. All at once, I suddenly woke up from my -thinking and my family concerns. In the dusk one figure detached itself -from among the others with a start, and came forward slowly with bent -head and languid step. Had he never heard that song since he heard Ellen -break off, choked with tears unshed, and a despair which had never been -revealed? He came quite close under the window where I could see him no -longer. I could not see him at all; it was too dark. I divined him. Who -could it be but he? Not like John Ridgway, and yet John; his ghost, as -Chatty had said.</p> - -<p>I did not stop to think what I was to do, but rose up in the dark room -where the child was singing, only a voice, herself invisible in the -gloom. I don’t know whether Chatty saw me go; but, if so, she was -inspired unawares by the occasion, and went on with her song. I ran -down-stairs and went out softly to the open door of the inn, where there -were other people standing about. Then I saw him quite plainly by the -light<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_322" id="page_322"></a>{322}</span> from a lower window. His head was slightly raised towards the -place from which the song came. He was very pale in that pale, doubtful -light, worn and old and sad; but as he looked up, a strange illumination -was on his face. His hand beat the air softly, keeping time. As she came -to the refrain his lips began to move as if he were repeating after his -old habit those words, ‘I will come again.’ Then a sudden cloud of pain -seemed to come over his face—he shook his head faintly, then bowed it -upon his breast.</p> - -<p>In a moment I had him by the arm. ‘John,’ I said in my excitement; ‘John -Ridgway! we have found you.’ For the moment, I believe, he thought it -was Ellen who had touched him; his white face seemed to leap into light; -then paled again. He took off his hat with his old formal, somewhat shy -politeness—‘I thought it must be you, madame,’ he said. He said -‘madame’ instead of the old English madam, which he had always used: -this little concession to the changed scene was all the difference. He -made no mystery about himself, and showed no reluctance to come in with -me, to talk as of old. He told me he had a situation in an office in -Genoa, and that his health was bad. ‘After that <i>fiasco</i> in the Levant, -I had not much heart for anything. I took the first thing that was -offered,’ he said, with his old vague smile; ‘for a man must live—till -he dies.’ ‘There must be no question of dying—at your age,’ I cried. -This time his smile almost came the length of a momentary laugh. He -shook his head, but he did not continue the subject He was very silent -for some time after. Indeed, he said nothing, except in reply to my -questions, till Chatty left, the room and we were alone. Then all at -once, in the middle of something I was saying—‘Is she—married again?’ -he said.</p> - -<p>‘Married—again!’</p> - -<p>‘It is a foolish question. She was not married to me; but it felt much -the same: we had been as one for so long. There must have been -some—strong inducement—to make her cast me off so at the end.’</p> - -<p>This he said in a musing tone, as if the fact were so certain, and had -been turned over in his mind so often that all excitement was gone from -it. But after it was said, a gleam of anxiety came into his half-veiled -eyes. He raised his heavy, tired eyelids and looked at me. Though he -seemed to know all about it, and to be resigned to it when he began to -speak, yet it seemed to flash across him, before he ended, that there -was an uncertainty—an answer to come from me which would settle it, -after all. Then he leaned forward a little, in this sudden sense of -suspense, and put his hand to his ear as if he had been deaf, and said -‘What?’ in an altered tone.</p> - -<p>‘There is some terrible mistake,’ I said. ‘I have felt there was a -mistake all along. She has lost her hold on life altogether because she -believes you to be changed.’</p> - -<p>‘Changed!’ His voice was quite sharp and keen, and had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_323" id="page_323"></a>{323}</span> lost its languid -tone. ‘In what way—in what way? how could I be changed?’</p> - -<p>‘In the only way that could matter between her and you. She thought, -before you left the Levant, that you had got to care for some one -else—that you had ceased to care for her. Your letter,’ I said, ‘your -letter!’—half frightened by the way in which he rose, and his -threatening, angry aspect—‘would bear that interpretation.’</p> - -<p>‘My letter!’ He stood before me for a moment with a sort of feverish, -fierce energy; then he began to laugh, low and bitterly, and walk about -as if unable to keep still. ‘My letter!’ The room was scarcely -lighted—one lamp upon the table, and no more; and the half-darkness, as -he paced about, made his appearance more threatening still. Then he -suddenly came and stood before me as if it had been I that had wronged -him. ‘I am a likely man to be a gay Lothario,’ he cried, with that laugh -of mingled mockery and despair which was far more tragical than weeping. -It was the only expression that such an extreme of feeling could find. -He might have cried out to heaven and earth, and groaned and wept; but -it would not have expressed to me the wild confusion, the overturn of -everything, the despair of being so misunderstood, the miserable sum of -suffering endured and life wasted for nothing, like this laugh. Then he -dropped again into the chair opposite me, as if with the consciousness -that even this excitement was vain.</p> - -<p>‘What can I say? What can I do? Has she never known me all -along?—Ellen!’ He had not named her till now. Was it a renewal of life -in his heart that made him capable of uttering her name?</p> - -<p>‘Do not blame her,’ I cried. ‘She had made up her mind that nothing -could ever come of it, and that you ought to be set free. She thought of -nothing else but this; that for her all change was hopeless—that she -was bound for life; and that you should be free. It became a fixed idea -with her; and when your letter came, which was capable of being -misread——’</p> - -<p>‘Then the wish was father to the thought,’ he said, still bitterly. ‘Did -she show it to you? did you misread it also? Poor cheat of a letter! My -heart had failed me altogether. Between my failure and her slavery—— -But I never thought she would take me at my word,’ he went on piteously, -‘never! I wrote, don’t you know, as one writes longing to be comforted, -to be told it did not matter so long as we loved each other, to be -bidden come home. And there never came a word—not a word.’</p> - -<p>‘She wrote afterwards, but you were gone; and her letter was returned to -her.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah!’ he said, in a sort of desolate assent. ‘Ah! was it so? then that -was how it had to be, I suppose; things were so settled before ever we -met each other. Can you understand that?—all settled that it was to end -just so in misery, and confusion, and folly, before ever we met.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_324" id="page_324"></a>{324}</span></p> - -<p>‘I do not believe it,’ I cried. ‘There is no need that it should end so, -even now; if—if you are unchanged still.’</p> - -<p>‘I—changed?’ He laughed at this once more, but not so tragically, with -sham ridicule of the foolishness of the doubt. And then all of a sudden -he began to sing—oh, it was not a beautiful performance! he had no -voice, and not much ear; but never has the loveliest of music moved me -more—‘I will come again, my sweet and bonnie: I will come——’ Here he -broke down as Ellen had done, and said, with a hysterical sob, ‘I’m ill; -I think I’m dying. How am I, a broken man, without a penny, to come -again?’</p> - -<p>Chatty and I walked with him to his room through the soft darkness of -the Italian night. I found he had fever—the wasting, exhausting ague -fever—which haunts the most beautiful coasts in the world. I did my -best to reassure him, telling him that it was not deadly, and that at -home he would soon be well; but I cannot say that I felt so cheerfully -as I spoke, and all that John did was to shake his head. As we turned -home again through all the groups of cheerful people, Chatty with her -arm clasped in mine, we talked, it is needless to say, of nothing else. -But not even to my child did I say what I meant to do. I am not rich, -but still I can afford myself a luxury now and then. When the children -were in bed I wrote a short letter, and put a cheque in it for twenty -pounds. This was what I said. I was too much excited to write just in -the ordinary way:—</p> - -<p>‘Ellen, I have found John, ill, heart-broken, but as faithful and -unchanged as I always knew he was. If you have the heart of a mouse in -you come out instantly—don’t lose a day—and save him. It may be time -yet. If he can be got home to English air and to happiness it will still -be time.</p> - -<p>‘I have written to your mother. She will not oppose you, or I am much -mistaken. Take my word for all the details. I will expect you by the -earliest possibility. Don’t write, but come.’</p> - -<p>In less than a week after I went to Genoa, and met in the steamboat from -Marseilles, which was the quickest way of travelling then, a trembling, -large-eyed, worn-out creature, not knowing if she were dead or alive, -confused with the strangeness of everything, and the wonderful change in -her own life. It was one of John’s bad days, and nobody who was not -acquainted with the disease would have believed him other than dying. He -was lying in a kind of half-conscious state when I took Ellen into his -room. She stood behind me clinging to me, undistinguishable in the -darkened place. The flush of the fever was going off; the paleness as of -death and utter exhaustion stealing over him. His feeble fingers were -moving faintly upon the white covering of his bed; his eyelids half -shut, with the veins showing blue in them and under his eyes. But there -was a faint smile on his face. Wherever he was wandering in those -confused fever dreams, he was not unhappy. Ellen held by my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_325" id="page_325"></a>{325}</span> arm to keep -herself from falling. ‘Hope! you said there was hope,’ she moaned in my -ear, with a reproach that was heart-rending. Then he began to murmur -with his almost colourless yet smiling lips, ‘I will come again, my -sweet and bonnie; I will come—again.’ And then the fingers faintly -beating time were still.</p> - -<p>But no, no! Do not take up a mistaken idea. He was not dead; and he did -not die. We got him home after a while. In Switzerland, on our way to -England, I had them married safe and fast under my own eye. I would -allow no more shilly-shally. And, indeed, it appeared that Mrs. Harwood, -frightened by all the results of her totally unconscious domestic -despotism, was eager in hurrying Ellen off, and anxious that John should -come home. He never quite regained his former health, but he got -sufficiently well to take another situation, his former employers -anxiously aiding him to recover his lost ground. And they took -Montpellier Villa after all, to be near Pleasant Place, where Ellen goes -every day, and is, Mrs. Harwood allows, far better company for her -father, and a greater relief to the tedium of his life, than when she -was more constantly his nurse and attendant. I am obliged to say however -that the mother has had a price to pay for the emancipation of the -daughter. There is nothing to be got for nought in this life. And -sometimes Ellen has a compunction, and sometimes there is an unspoken -reproach in the poor old lady’s tired eyes. I hope for my own part that -when that ‘eldest little girl’ is a little older Mrs. Harwood’s life -will be greatly sweetened and brightened. But yet it is she that has to -pay the price; for no argument, not even the last severe winter, and -many renewed ‘attacks,’ will persuade that old tyrant, invisible in his -upper chamber, to die.</p> - -<p>A song needs no story perhaps; but a story is always the better for a -song: so that after all I need not perhaps apologize to Beethoven and -his interpreters as I meant to do for taking their lovely music as a -suggestion of the still greater harmonies of life.</p> - -<p class="c"><small> -THE END<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_326" id="page_326"></a>{326}</span><br /> -<br /> -<span class="smcap">Richard Clay and Sons, Limited</span>,<br /> - -LONDON AND BUNGAY.</small></p> - -<hr class="full" /> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Neighbours on the Green; My Faithful -Johnny, by Mrs. Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NEIGHBOURS ON THE GREEN *** - -***** This file should be named 54106-h.htm or 54106-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/4/1/0/54106/ - -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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